“Get some tough cop to question that lawyer. I know there was a lockbox ’cause the old man told me.”
The old man told me.
Unexpected news. Pause to regroup.
Dave said, “Ever tell anyone that?”
“Nobody never asked me. Why would they? The poor old guy fell down his basement steps and died.”
“Maybe he had help.”
“You think maybe my kids...?” A stubby forefinger jabbed toward his face. “They were at the movies, mister. You remember that and you lay off my kids.”
“If I see them hanging around this end of the block again I’m calling the police.”
“Not... one... word... against my kids.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Howard.”
He backed away and closed the door.
He got the Fords’ number from Information and called Jan. She answered the phone on the second ring, her voice reserved but willing to be friendly.
He said abruptly, “I thought I’d found that damn lockbox. Don’t know why. Doesn’t even have a lock.”
It took her a moment to recognize his voice.
“... Oh. Dave.”
“And I talked with Mrs. Howard. She did an afternoon’s work for my grandfather the week before he died. She says he told her he had a lockbox. Odd thing to tell a near-stranger.”
Jan said, “Was there anything in the box you found?”
“A few mementoes, I guess. I’m surprised the old man kept them. Maybe he thought I’d want them someday, though I can’t think why. Couple of snapshots I think are of my mother.”
She said after a pause, “That’s a worthwhile find.”
“Am I interrupting dinner or anything?”
“Oh no. I was just about to mash the potatoes.”
“Could I invite you and your little girl out to dinner tomorrow? Somewhere with no dress code. I didn’t bring a tie.”
A longer pause this time. Then she said, “Um, I don’t...” and gave up. The silence resumed.
He said slowly, “Jan, are you housebound?”
He heard her release her breath with a rush.
“Not... quite. I can go down to the little market... and down to the school-bus stop to see Barbara safely aboard or pick her up... but anywhere else is... difficult.” Her voice became hurried, confidential. “It’s not just housebound. I’m irrationally afraid of people — strangers. Inviting you in for coffee was a sort of spur-of-the-moment experiment. You know how that turned out.”
He said awkwardly, “Inviting me in took guts. After all this time I’m at least a semi-stranger. It’s none of my business but I’ll ask anyway. Are you in therapy?”
“I was. That dimwit said I couldn’t stand to be touched because it would remind me how much I’d enjoyed being raped. He was afraid I might try to get raped again so I could enjoy it again and at the same time be punished for enjoying it. I couldn’t see it that way, so he said I was resisting him. I couldn’t see it that way even under drugs and hypnosis, so I told him to find work he might be good at. I guess I’m between therapists.”
“Don’t give up on it.” Was that good advice? — or just boilerplate encouragement? Could anything make therapy work? “Look, not to put pressure on you, but could we consider that dinner invitation open? In case you get experimental again.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She didn’t sound hopeful.
“Where could that lockbox be?”
“Buried in the basement? Maybe the box you found has a false bottom.”
“I’ll check. Talk to you later.”
The gray wooden box had no false bottom. The cement slabs of the basement floor were slightly uneven but looked untouched since the house was built.
He reset the gas furnace to low and went back upstairs and put on his jacket. Outside the fog had lifted and the evening had a vicious chill. He got into the Tercel and drove to a restaurant near the campus, had dinner, then found an open market where he bought a six-pack of good beer, half a pound of coffee, and a box of imported cookies.
Back on his grandfather’s block he parked in front of the MacDonald house. The doorless garage now sheltered a Ford clunker. Dim light came through curtained ground-floor windows. He got out with his sack of goodies and navigated the soggy parking strip and the broken cement walk to the front porch. No porch light. He couldn’t find a doorbell. He knocked. The front door rattled loosely under his knuckles.
He was ready to knock again when footsteps shuffled behind the door.
“Who is it?” A crabbed, uncongested female voice.
“David North from up the street, Mrs. Howard. Professor McLaren’s grandson.”
“Leave us alone!”
“Please, Mrs. Howard. I just need to ask one question.”
Vague whisperings inside. He waited. The door was snatched open and he stared into the muzzle of a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun. Held by Virg, of course, with a John Wayne air of careless confidence.
Dave’s skin crawled. His mouth and throat were dry as Death Valley and his insides felt loose. For long moments the gun was all he could see. Then a girl giggled and he became aware of Kathy and Mrs. Howard a step behind Virg in the hallway, and that Virg was wearing jeans and a ratty sweater the color of machine oil and the cocky grin of someone who likes being top dog.
Dave said, trying for nonchalance but almost stammering, “What’s the gun for?” Christ, I sound like a frightened kid. “I brought over a peace offering.”
Kathy giggled again.
Virg said, “Ask your question and get lost.”
“My question for you is, is that thing loaded?”
Virg’s grin widened. “Only one way you’ll ever find out.” He held the grin a moment longer, then his eyes peeled skin off Dave’s face. “Ask your question!”
Murmuring something, Mrs. Howard pushed past her son and stepped down onto the porch, put a hand on the shotgun, and eased it aside.
Without her beret and raincoat she was a squat, shapeless woman with a tired face and a stubborn child’s mouth. She waited.
Dave said, “My grandfather never told his friends he had a lockbox. How come he told you?”
Mrs. Howard shrugged. “He just did, when he was showing me that basement, all them packing crates and stuff. I said, just to be talking, ‘Boy, I bet you got some real old treasures down here,’ and he gave me that dumb old-man’s smile and said, ‘Naah, got all my treasures in a lockbox.’ All there was to it.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
Dave thanked her and held out the paper sack. Kathy came and took it, retreating quickly to open the sack and peer into it.
On impulse, Dave said, “The old man’s checkbook’s missing. So’s the spare front-door key.”
Virg said, “We ain’t got ’em.” The shotgun swung back into threatening position. “Get lost.”
Dave tried to grin. His facial muscles only clenched.
“I just want to know all about how my grandfather died, is all,” he said. “Good night.”
He turned back to the Tercel. Slow and easy. He couldn’t let them think they’d chased him off.
He got into the car and drove it up the block to his grandfather’s house.
He parked in the driveway and got out and braced himself against the car’s roof and trembled like a leaf. Of course they had chased him off. Virg Howard with a gun was pure nightmare. Dave felt impermanent, hanging by a thread.
Rain began falling, and he became aware of the tickle of distant anger. Its unfamiliarity braced him. Pushing away from the car, he found he could stand unaided. He slammed and locked the car door. He still hadn’t taken in his suitcase but it could wait.
He ran for the porch, let himself in, and snapped on the light as the desk phone began ringing. He snatched it up and barked, “Yes?”