Abby was taking charge. "You're not going in there. I will."
"We both will."
"That's crazy!"
"You're right."
My mind was made up. "You're staying put. I'm going in."
I was out of the car before she could argue. She got out, too, and just stood there, looking lost, as I walked with purpose in that direction. She did not come after me. She had too much sense to make a scene.
When I put my hand on the cold brass handle of the door, my heart was hammering. When I walked inside, I felt weak in the knees.
He was standing behind the counter, smiling and filling out a charge card receipt while a middle-aged woman in an Ultrasuede suit prattled on, "… That's what birthdays are for. You buy your husband a book you want to read…"
"As long as you both enjoy the same books, that's all right."
His voice was very soft, soothing; a voice you could trust.
Now that I was inside the shop, I was desperate to leave. I wanted to run. There were stacks of newspapers to one side of the counter, including the New York Times. I could pick one up, quickly pay for it, and be gone. But I did not want to look him in the eye.
It was him.
I turned around and walked out without glancing back.
Abby was sitting in the car smoking.
"He couldn't work here and not know his way to Sixty-four," I said, starting the engine.
She got my meaning precisely. "Do you want to call Marino now or wait until we get back to Richmond?"
"We're going to call him now."
I found a pay phone and was told Marino was on the street. I left him the message, "ITU-144. Call me."
Abby asked me a lot of questions, and I did my best to answer them. Then there were long stretches of silence as I drove. My stomach was sour. I considered pulling off somewhere. I thought I might throw up.
She was staring at me. I could feel her concern.
"My God, Kay. You're white as a sheet."
"I'm all right."
"You want me to drive?"
"I'm fine. Really."
When we got home, I went straight up to my bedroom. My hands trembled as I dialed the number. Mark's machine answered after the second ring, and I started to hang up but found myself mesmerized by his voice.
"I'm sorry, there's no one to answer your call right now…"
At the beep I hesitated, then quietly returned the receiver to its cradle. When I looked up, I found Abby in my doorway. I could tell by the look on her face that she knew what I had just done.
I stared at her, my eyes filling with tears, and then she was sitting next to me on the edge of the bed.
"Why didn't you leave him a message?" she whispered.
"How could you possibly know who I was calling?"
I fought to steady my voice.
"Because it's the same impulse that overwhelms me when I'm terribly upset. I want to reach for the phone. Even now, after all of it. I still want to call Cliff."
"Have you?"
She slowly shook her head.
"Don't. Don't ever, Abby."
She studied me closely. "Was it walking into the bookstore and seeing him?"
"I'm not sure."
"I think you know."
I glanced away from her. "When I get too close, I know it. I've gotten too close before. I ask myself why it happens."
"People like us can't help it. We have a compulsion, something drives us. That's why it happens," she said.
I could not admit to her my fear. Had Mark answered the phone, I didn't know if I could have admitted it to him, either.
Abby was staring off, her voice distant when she asked, "As much as you know about death, do you ever think about your own?"
I got off the bed. "Where the hell is Marino?"
I picked up the phone to try him again.
16
Days turned into weeks while I waited anxiously. I had not heard from Marino since giving him the information about The Dealer's Room. I had not heard from anyone. With each hour that passed the silence grew louder and More ominous.
On the first day of spring, I emerged from the conference room after being deposed for three hours by two lawyers. Rose told me I had a call.
"Kay? It's Benton. " "Good afternoon," I said, adrenaline surging.
"Can you come up to Quantico tomorrow?"
I reached for my calendar. Rose had penciled in a conference call. It could be rescheduled.
"What time?"
"Ten, if that's convenient. I've already talked to Marino."
Before I could ask questions, he said he couldn't talk and would fill me in when we met. It was six o'clock before I left my office. The sun had gone down and the air felt cold. When I turned into my driveway, I noticed the lights were on. Abby was home.
We had seen little of each other of late, both of us in and out, rarely speaking. She never went to the grocery store, but would leave a fifty-dollar bill taped to the refrigerator every now and then, which more than covered what little she ate. When wine or Scotch got low, I would find a twenty-dollar bill under the bottle. Several days ago, I had discovered a five-dollar bill on top of a depleted box of laundry soap. Wandering through the rooms of my house had turned into a peculiar scavenger hunt.
When I unlocked the front door, Abby suddenly stepped into the doorway, startling me.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I heard you drive in. Didn't mean to scare you."
I felt foolish. Ever since she had moved in, I had become increasingly jumpy. I supposed I wasn't adjusting well to my loss of privacy.
"Can I fix you a drink?" she asked. Abby looked tired.
"Thanks," I said, unbuttoning my coat. My eyes wandered into the living room. On the coffee table, beside an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, were a wineglass and several reporter's notepads.
Taking off my coat and gloves, I went upstairs and tossed them on my bed, pausing long enough to play back the messages on the answering machine. My another had tried to reach me. I was eligible to win a prize if I dialed a certain number by eight P.M., and Marino had called to tell me what time he would pick me up in the morning. Mark and I continued missing each other, talking to each other's machines.
"I've got to go to Quantico tomorrow," I told Abby when I entered the living room.
She pointed to my drink on the coffee table.
"Marino and I have a meeting with Benton," I said.
She reached for her cigarettes.
"I don't know what it's about," I continued. "Maybe you do."
"Why would I know?"
"You haven't been here much. I don't know what you've been doing."
"When you're at your office, I don't know what you're doing either."
"I haven't been doing anything remarkable. What would you like to know?"
I offered lightly, trying to dispel the tension.
"I don't ask because I know how private you are about your work. I don't want to pry."
I assumed she was implying that if I asked about what she was doing I would be prying.
"Abby, you seem distant these days."
"Preoccupied. Please don't take it personally."
Certainly she had plenty to think about, with the book she was writing, what she was going to do with her life. But I had never seen Abby this withdrawn.
"I'm concerned, that's all," I said.
"You don't understand what I'm like, Kay. When I get into something, I'm consumed by it. Can't get my mind off it."
She paused. "You were right when you said this book was my chance to redeem myself. It is."
"I'm glad to hear it, Abby. Knowing you, it will be a bestseller."
"Maybe. I'm not the only one interested in writing a book about these cases. My agent's already hearing rumors about other deals out there. I've got a head start, will be all right if I work fast."
"It's not your book I care about, it's you."
"I care about you, too, Kay," she said. "I appreciate what you've done for me by letting me stay here. And that won't go on much longer, I promise."