"The rest of it you've seen in my records, I'm sure. I used to wonder what would have happened to me if Gerry Bruckner hadn't decided to volunteer one afternoon a week at the prison, or if he'd been an ignoramus about art, or if the prison's warden and governing board had been less cooperative. What if, what if… So many opportunities for that little game in a life like mine, aren't there? What if he hadn't thought to put a crayon in my hand, and what if two years later he hadn't had a good friend with a gallery in New York, and what if the pieces hadn't sold so well, and what if he hadn't been willing to fight for me…
"I owe him my life. I dedicated the show to him, last year, the one you saw." She drained the glass, her third, and set it carefully on the table. "He is the only person I've ever fully, wholeheartedly loved. And I've never even slept with him." She smiled at Kate, a crooked smile that touched her eyes. "Except, I suppose, that night at the hospital last week. God, I'm so tired. Will I ever feel rested again? And now I'm half drunk as well. I think I'll take my dreary self off to bed before I begin to weep crocodile tears on this nice sofa."
"May I ask you something?" Kate interrupted.
"Only one thing? Must be something of a record for a detective, only one question."
"Two somethings, then, but one of them I have no business asking, and you're welcome to tell me that."
"All right."
"Why didn't you make an appeal?"
"I—I didn't think there'd be much point. The jury was only out for a few hours before they returned the verdict, and the lawyer—"
"Come on," Kate chided. "You're far from stupid, and you certainly had plenty of time to think about it. Why didn't you appeal?"
Vaun sighed and looked faintly embarrassed.
"Because by then I wasn't sure that I hadn't done it. I only took acid twice, but it's strange stuff, like stirring your brains with a spoon. Even after the first time I had half a dozen flashbacks. Like hiccoughs of the brain. Things would shift, somehow, and go unreal for a few seconds, or minutes. And the second time, after I'd tried to strangle two or three people… Well, even during the trial I began to wonder if maybe I actually had done it while I was having a flashback or hiccough or whatever you want to call it, and it scared me. The whole thing scared me, the thought of having to go through all those leech-looks all over again. I crawled into prison and pulled it around me like a shell, and I found that it wasn't as awful as I'd thought it would be. When my uncle came to visit me he offered to begin an appeal, but I could see what it would do to him, and I think he was relieved when I told him that I couldn't see much point. It was easier to forget it, to just get on and deal with what was in front of me. That sounds so feeble now, so stupid, but—in some ways I was a very young eighteen."
Kate looked dubious, Lee waited, and Vaun fiddled with a small seashell from the table while something struggled to push its way to the surface. She opened her mouth, changed her mind, started again, and the third time got it out.
"And I… There was also the fact that I was guilty, if not of killing Jemma then of enough other things to make me feel that prison was the place for me. I know," she said, though Lee had not actually spoken, "Gerry and I spent a lot of time on free-floating guilt complexes. At the time, though, it seemed… appropriate, that I should be locked away from society." She put down the shell and seemed to push the subject away. "What was your other question?"
"You don't have to tell me—"
"I didn't have to tell you the other one either."
"True. And I'm glad to see that your ego has recovered." She grinned at Vaun, who grinned back. "It's curiosity. Why Andy Lewis? What did you see in him?"
"A lot of things. He was very attractive, sexy, dark and dangerous, aloof. He exuded an aura of secret power. And he was an outsider, but by choice, rather than being left out. That was a feeling I craved, that self-assurance. Together we could look down on everyone else. I felt chosen, powerful, unafraid—even pretty, for those few months. With Andy, the whole mess of my life made a kind of sense."
"But it didn't last."
"No, it didn't last. I couldn't paint, with Andy. There was no room for it around him, I couldn't pull away from him far enough to paint. It was tearing me apart, and when I realized that my work was becoming crap because of it, I had to choose, and I chose my brushes."
"What did he do when you told him?"
"That was frightening. It was a Saturday, and Red and Becky had taken the kids to town. I was in my studio trying to sketch in a canvas when he came by. I was preoccupied with what I was doing and disturbed by my realization that I had five months of garbage to make up for, and so I was abrupt with him—I just told him I couldn't go on, it was over, and went on sketching. When I turned around a minute later, he was still sitting on the bed, but he was so angry, so furious, it stunned me. His eyes… And he seemed to fill the whole room. I thought—I knew—that he was going to get up and come over and hit me, beat me up, but I couldn't move. I just waited for I don't know how long, and then all of a sudden his face changed and he started to smile, and it was like the smile he had when he was going to take me to bed but different— horrible, cruel. And he stood up, and I knew he was going to kill me, and he came over to me and he kissed me, with his teeth, and he said, 'If that's the way you want it, babe,' and he went out and got on his motorcycle and roared off. And every time I saw him after that he smiled that same way, like some brutish little boy pulling wings off a fly."
"How long before you began to think he'd had something to do with Jemma Brand's death?"
"I wondered, even during the trial, because of a look he gave me the first day—a satisfied, 'I told you so' kind of look.
But I decided it had to be my imagination. I couldn't believe Andy would do something so, so—pathological. He was very good to me; he could be gentle when he wanted. How could I imagine him doing such a thing? I still find it difficult." Sagging now with fatigue she looked at Kate. "Have I answered your questions?"
"Yes, thank you," said Kate, and she thought, which still leaves a hundred others, but not tonight.
Vaun rose like an old woman, and stood studying them.
"It occurs to me that I haven't thanked you for all that you've done for me. Not that any thanks could be adequate."
"It has been a great joy," said Lee simply.
"I agree," said Kate. "I'll be sorry when it's over, though I won't be sorry when it ends." She listened to her words, and scratched her head. "I think I need some coffee. Want some?"
"No thanks," said Vaun. "I just want to crawl into bed."
"Lee?"
"Yes, thanks. Make a whole pot, why don't you. Jon, my client, will probably want a cup. Maybe I should turn on the lights in the front rooms—he'll be here in a few minutes." She moved off down the hallway and Kate turned toward the kitchen. Vaun started up the stairs, and then stopped and turned back to follow Kate.
"All that talking," she explained as she reached for a glass. "I'm thirsty." She scooped some ice cubes into the glass, the bottle of spring water gurgled, and she drank gratefully.
Kate measured the beans into the grinder and switched it on just as the doorbell sounded. She turned off the grinder.
"I'll get it," Lee called. She sounded distracted, and Kate wondered how closely she would listen to the problems of Jon Samson, né Schwartz. Kate turned back to the coffee, and a sudden anxiety struck her. She moved quickly past Vaun towards the door.