“I do. I also believe it’ll be proven eventually.”
“Not soon enough to keep him out of jail.”
“Life and justice aren’t always fair, Trisha.”
“Tell me about it. I figured that out a long time ago.”
We stood there for a while. Then I said, “I owe you an apology, Ms. Sixkiller,” and saying it was easier than I’d thought it would be. “About your bathroom window and your boat and everything. I feel... you know, wrong about messing with stuff the way I did.”
“Can I count on you to use better judgment in the future?”
“Yeah. I won’t do anything like that again.”
“Then your apology is accepted.”
“I’ll pay for the window and fixing the damage—”
“I don’t want your money,” she said. “Tell you what I would like from you, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Three or four hours of your time next summer. You obviously know how to drive a powerboat, but you can use some lessons in how to dock one. Lessons in general boat safety, too.”
I didn’t laugh or smile and neither did she. We stood quiet again, and when the wind gusted and I shivered she put her arm around my shoulders and kind of hugged me. I didn’t pull away. I guess maybe we both needed somebody to lean on, right then.
Zenna Wilson
When Helen Carter and I arrived at Park Street, quite a crowd had already gathered. There must have been more than a hundred people standing and milling around. No wonder we hadn’t been able to find a parking space any closer than three blocks away. I saw four television vans, and there were reflector lamps and handheld spotlights that turned the mist swirling in off the lake white and shiny, like crystallized smoke, and half a dozen men and women carrying portable microphones and those bulky cameras with lights jutting from their tops — Minicams, I think they’re called. I recognized a roving reporter from Channel 5 in San Francisco, too. Everybody was talking in keyed-up voices, but other than that, the crowd was really very well behaved. I’d been concerned about that, the presence of rowdies looking to start trouble, and there was a noisy group of teenagers by the park bandstand, but uniformed policemen and sheriff’s deputies, bless them, seemed to have everything under control.
Still, it was exciting. That was the word for it. You could actually feel the excitement in the air, like electricity. If it hadn’t been the end of a terrible tragedy, I think I might even have been thrilled.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” I told Helen as we made our way to the parking lot on the near side of the station. She agreed. And if Howard doesn’t like it, I thought but didn’t say, well, that’s just too bad. I’d asked him to come along, but he wouldn’t even consider it. He’d been in such a strange and irksome mood lately — critical, even cruel at times. When I first heard that that evil man Faith was still alive and had been arrested, I took the news straight to Howard and he said nastily, “You must be really disappointed he’s not burning in hell.” I was, yes, as any good Christian would be to find out that one of Satan’s own is still among us, but I didn’t appreciate having it flung at me in a tone that made it sound like an accusation. Well, he could sit home and sulk or whatever. Helen was much more pleasant company. Much more agreeable, too. She’s a member of my church and her worldview is a lot closer to mine than Howard’s.
There was hardly room for one person, much less two, up close to where most of the media people were congregated. But we were determined and we made room. One of the men I accidentally jostled turned and gave me a piercing look. I was about to answer him in kind when I recognized him. Douglas Kent.
I altered my expression to a smile and said to him, “You remember me, don’t you, Mr. Kent? Zenna Wilson.”
He leaned closer, squinting. I drew back. His breath... well, he simply reeked of liquor. He wasn’t very steady on his feet, either. Really quite intoxicated, to the point where he hadn’t bothered to shave today, or, for that matter, to bathe. I find public drunkenness disgusting; uncleanliness, too. There is no excuse for either one. Even so, I decided that Christian charity was called for in Mr. Kent’s case. Everyone knew the poor man had a drinking problem. And after all, he had written that inspiring editorial based on what I’d told him about the stranger in our midst.
“Ah, Mrs. Wilson,” he said. “Of course I remember you.”
“We’ve spoken several times, but only met in person two or—”
“In tongues, eh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Spoken in viper tongues.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Not to worry, dear lady. What’s your opinion of all this?”
“Well, it’s very exciting, isn’t it?”
“Exciting. Oh, yes. But it will be a good deal more exciting once the gladiators arrive.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know so. Absolutely positive of it. The Romans had the right idea, by cracky.”
“Romans?”
“Death struggles on the floor of the coliseum. All thumbs down. Blood spilled while the hungry legions roar.”
I glanced at Helen. She had no more idea of what he was talking about than I did.
Richard Novak
The ride from Pomo General to the police station takes a little less than fifteen minutes. I talked Thayer into riding up front with Verne, and I sat in back with the prisoner. I kept watching Faith, but for his part, I wasn’t even there. He sat with that ramrod posture, his big, shackled hands between his thighs, and stared straight ahead in stony silence. None of us had anything to say. The quiet in the cruiser had an odd, stagnant quality, like a pocket of dead air just before heat lightning.
When we neared the center of town the media lights were visible from a distance, a wash of brightness against the restless banks of tule fog. I could tell from the cars packing Main and the side streets that the waiting crowd had grown even larger. I tensed as Verne turned down Water Street, toward the municipal pier. The crowd seemed orderly enough, but that didn’t mean it would stay that way.
“Look at that, will you,” Verne said as we reached Park. “Must be a hundred and fifty people, maybe more.”
Thayer muttered, “Damn three-ring circus,” but he didn’t sound worried or unhappy. If anything, he was eager. Anticipating the grinding cameras and exploding flashbulbs, probably.
Faith sat forward, his hands balling into fists. I sensed rather than saw the trapped-animal desperation in him again.
Verne made the swing onto Park. Heads and bodies had swiveled in our direction; arms lifted, fingers pointed. I could see mouths moving as though in an exaggerated pantomime.
“Pull up even with the entrance,” I said to Verne. “You and I get out first and come around front and back. Leo, you stay inside until we’re on your side.”
“You don’t have to tell me procedure, Novak.”
“I’m not telling you anything. I’m reminding you.”
“You’re the one who needs reminders, not me.”
“Don’t start up again.”
“It’s not a dead issue,” he said, “just remember that. I don’t care what Seeley says.”
We rolled past the gawking faces, into the outspill from all the lights. The glare seemed unnaturally bright. Half a dozen Minicams were on us like huge, hungry eyes. Thayer had his head turned toward the window glass, toward the cameras; I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was wearing his official expression, the one with flared nostrils and upward-jutting jaw.
The cruiser stopped. The door beside me clicked as Verne flipped the toggle to unlock.