Dannon was waiting for them in the front driveway by the open door to his car. The TV crews had vanished, looking for other carrion.
"Mrs. Meyer," Dannon said politely, "there was just one other thing I wanted to ask you. Your husband mentioned something about a note your sister left." He didn't look at Paine.
Paine took the note from his pocket and handed it to Dannon. "It was a business matter between her and me. Not a suicide note, if that makes you feel better."
Dannon ignored Paine and took the note. He read it over quickly, then brought his eyes level with Paine's. "Mrs. Meyer's husband said something about some other papers, too." He pointed at the note. "What's this about something for you at the Mallard Hotel?"
Paine handed Dannon the agency contracts and the check. "The Mallard Hotel thing didn't exist," he said evenly. "They had nothing for me there. Look into it if you want."
"Are you fucking with me?" Dannon spat. Immediately he turned to Rebecca Meyer to apologize.
"No," Paine said. "Check it if you want. Ask the afternoon clerk if there was anything for a shithead named Paine."
"Don't fuck with me."
"Farthest thing from my mind.”
Dannon’s ears turned red, and he put out his balled fists, but Rebecca Meyer intervened.
"Please, Inspector," she said, "Mr. Paine told you the truth." She glanced toward the open door of the car. "Is there anything else you wanted?"
"I guess not."
Paine said, “Let me have that note back.”
"No way." Dannon got quickly into his car and closed the door.
He gunned the accelerator and slipped the car into gear. Suddenly he reached out through the open window and grabbed Paine by the arm.
"Don’t fuck with me," he whispered. His eyes were tight and hard, and he released the brake, making Paine stumble a few steps along with the car before giving his arm back to him. The car slammed ahead, squealing around the circular driveway, and then was gone through the gates.
Paine stood rubbing his arm as Rebecca Meyer came up to him.
"I had some trouble with that guy once," he explained, his eyes on the gates, the place where the car no longer was.
FIVE
Paine was in one of the bad places.
It wasn’t bad to begin with, but it would get bad very soon. He was back with his father, after the long dark space that he didn’t want to think about, and his brother, Tom, was there, too. They were all in the house together, just like they had always been, and thought it didn’t feel the same, though that dark place was just behind him, he knew that this was as close to good as it would ever get again. His father was smiling. They sat around the nicked-up kitchen table and his father made them waffles like he always had on Saturdays. This wasn’t Saturday, it was Friday, but that didn’t matter because only the waffles mattered. He had slept in his own bed the night before, and he had slept well though there were times during the night when he had come awake clutching the mattress right through the covers, and breathing hard. He had rubbed his wrists, feeling not manacles but only their receding, sore marks. That had happened three or four times, but by late into the night, when it was almost morning, his body had finally realized where it was and he had slept. He must have gotten the good sleep because when he woke he felt as if he had been out for two days. And then he had smelled waffles, and coffee and bacon.
His father served it up on the big plates their mother had bought on sale, the ones that had lasted for years and never got chipped or cracked, even when he or Tom dropped them while washing and cleaning. The coffee smelled good. He saw that his father had put a coffee cup in front of his own plate for him. That had never happened before. Tom was looking at him strangely, but he was smiling, and the strangeness was there only because he was younger and didn't know what was happening.
"Can I have coffee, too, Pop?" Tom asked his father.
"Just sit and shut it," the old man said, but he was smiling even though his hands shook a little on the bacon skillet.
"Damn!" he suddenly blurted out as the skillet tipped back and a dip of bacon grease caught him on the knuckles. Reflexively, he dropped the skillet, and half the bacon slid off to land sizzling on top of the stove. "Goddamn!" he said, holding his hand to his side and at the same time trying to fork the bacon slices back onto the pan. "Got to keep your mind on what you're doing all the time," he said, and then he finally had all the bacon back in place, the heat turned down, and he ran some cold water over his hand and swore once more, though softer.
"Hope you boys are hungry," he said, though he didn't look at Tom. He was looking at Jack. "You hungry?" Pop asked again. Jack nodded, and something passed between them. What it was he didn't know, but suddenly he was afraid again, as he hadn't been since he had come home.
But then they were eating waffles, and bacon saved from the ruins of the grease, and he was drinking coffee with his old man and he was happy. He was wearing one of his clean shirts, from his own bureau, and a pair of clean chinos, and his Sunday shoes, and his father was bending over his plate and putting more on it as soon as it was empty.
"Must be hungry," his father said, and he even filled his coffee cup again when it was empty, though the strong-tasting stuff had gone down hard.
"Hurry up now," Pop said, "we got to leave soon."
"Where to?" Tom asked, but Pop turned to him and said, "Not you. You stay here and clean your brother's room. Me and him's got to go out."
Once more, fear took hold of him, but his father reached his big hand over and put it on top of his own and he said softly, "Don't you ever worry again." He took his hand away, suddenly self-conscious, and there was that slight tremble in it again and he got up from the table.
"I'll get the coats," he said.
They went out into the sunshine, and the day was warm and the trees smelled like they should when spring is coming. There were still patches of March snow in the corners, out away from the sun, but the sun was getting high and by the end of the day all the snow would disappear. By the smell of the world they would see no more snow this year. He had never smelled spring like this before, and suddenly it was all through him, in his arms and legs, and he turned to his father.
"Can we go to a ball game soon, Pop?"
His father looked down, from far away. He looked through him for a moment, and then he heard. His mouth smiled and then he laughed.
"Sure. How 'bout opening day at Yankee Stadium?"
"Could we?"
"You bet." And then his father held his hand, very tight, and opened the car door for him and closed it after him.
They drove through the new spring, with the windows down, and then they came to a place that looked familiar, but not the same. He knew he had seen it before, but he knew that this wasn't the way he had seen it; it looked similar, and yet it was different. Nothing was where it was supposed to be, the doors, the windows, but they were the same kinds of doors and windows and the brick was the same color and there was the same kind of green moss between the cracks in the bricks. They parked the car and there was a long ramp leading down, and his father smiled and they walked down it and opened a swinging door and went in.
It was bright inside, and there were people and there was noise. He saw a few men with cameras and large coats. His father pushed his head gently down and made him walk through. His father kept his head down, too. He started to protest but his father hushed him and soon the men and some of the noise were behind them.
"Stand here," his father said softly. They stopped by a bulletin board, large and rectangular. Next to it was a water fountain. He saw the men with the cameras down the hallway. They were all looking away from him, toward the outside ramp and the door leading in. He turned the other way and saw a desk down at the other end. It looked empty, though there were voices off to the right, around a corner. He saw someone's hand reach for a telephone on the desk as it rang, but he only saw the arm and then his father was speaking to him.