Katie Battenkill made a list of things for which she had forgiven Arthur, or overlooked, because he was a judge and being married to a judge was important. The inventory included his annoying table manners, his curtness to her friends and relatives, his disrespect for her religion, his violent jealousy, his cheap and repeated adulteries, his habit of premature ejaculation and of course his rancid choice of cologne.
These Katie weighed against the benefits of being Mrs. Arthur Battenkill Jr., which included a fine late-model car, a large house, invitations to all society events, an annual trip to Bermuda with the local bar association, and the occasional extravagant gift, such as the diamond pendant Katie was now admiring in the vanity mirror.
She hadn't thought of herself as a shallow or materialistic woman, but the possibility dawned upon her. Art was quite the unrepentant sinner, yet for eight years Katie had put up with it. She'd spent little time trying to change him, but allowed herself to be intimidated by his caustic tongue and mollified by presents. Ignoring what he did became easier than arguing about it. Katie told herself it wasn't a completely loveless marriage, inasmuch as she honestly loved being the wife of a circuit court judge; it was Arthur himself for whom she had no deep feelings.
Many Sundays she'd gone to church and asked God what to do, and at no time had He specifically counseled her to start an illicit affair with an itinerant newspaperman. But that's what had happened. It had caught Katie Battenkill totally by surprise and left her powerless to resist like one of her uncontrollable cravings for Godiva chocolate, only a hundred times stronger. The moment she'd laid eyes on Tom Krome, she knew what would happen ...
She was in a walkathon for attention-deficit children when all of a sudden this good-looking guy came jogging down James Street in the opposite direction, weaving through the phalanx of T-shirted marchers. As he approached Katie, he slowed his pace just enough to smile and press a five-dollar bill in her palm. For the kids, he'd said, and kept running. And Katie, to her astonishment, immediately turned and ran after him.
Tom Krome was the first man she'd ever seduced, if that's what you call a hummer in the front seat.
Now, looking back on those wild and guilt-ridden weeks, Katie understood the purpose. Everything happens for a reason a divine force had brought Tommy jogging into her life. God was trying to tell her something: that there were good men out there, decent and caring men whom Katie could trust. And while He probably didn't intend for her to have torrid reckless sex with the first one she met, Katie hoped He would understand.
The important thing was that Tom Krome made her realize she could get by without Arthur, the lying snake. All she needed was some self-confidence, a reordering of priorities and the courage to be honest about the empty relationship with her husband. There hadn't been enough time to fall in love with Tommy, but she certainly likedhim better than she liked Arthur. The way Tom had apologized for forgetting to call that night from Grange Katie couldn't remember hearing Arthur say he was sorry for anything. Tom Krome wasn't special or outstanding; he was just a kind, affectionate guy. That's all it took. The fact that Katie Battenkill was so easily drawn astray portended a dim future for the marriage. She decided she had to get out.
Katie recalled a line from an Easter sermon: "To tolerate sin is to abet it, and to share in the sinning." She thought of Arthur's many sins, including Dana, Willow and others whose names she never knew. That was bad enough, the adultery, but now the judge had commissioned an arson and a man was dead.
Not an innocent man, to be sure; an evil little shit. Yet still precious in the eyes of a benevolent God.
That was a sin Katie could not tolerate, if she hoped to save herself. What to do now?
In the mirror the diamond necklace glinted like a tiny star among her many freckles. Of course it was nothing but a bribe to ensure her silence, but dear God, was it gorgeous.
The bathroom door opened and out came her husband with The Registerfolded under one arm.
"Art, we need to talk."
"Yes, we do. Let's go to the kitchen."
Katie was relieved. The bedroom was no place to drop the bomb.
She noticed her hands fluttering as she filled the coffeemaker. Over her shoulder she heard Arthur say, "Katherine, I've decided to retire from the bench. How would you like to live in the islands?"
Slowly she turned. "What?"
"I've had enough. The job is killing me," he said. "I'm up for reelection next year but I don't have the stomach for another campaign. I'm burned out, Katie."
All she could think to say was: "We can't afford to retire, Art."
"Thank you, Ms. Dean Witter, but I beg to differ."
In that acid tone of voice that Katie had come to despise.
"Shocking as it may seem," the judge went on, "I made a few modest investments without consulting you. One of them's paid off very handsomely, to the tune of a quarter-million dollars."
Katie gave no outward sign of being impressed, but it was a struggle to remain composed. "What kind of investment?"
"A unit trust. It's a bit complicated to explain."
"I bet."
"Real estate, Katherine."
She made the coffee and poured a cup for Arthur.
"You're forty-three years old and ready to retire."
"The American dream," said the judge, smacking his lips.
"Why the islands? And which islands?" Katie, thinking: I can't even get him to take me to the beach.
Arthur Battenkill said, "Roy Tigert has offered to loan us his bungalow in the Bahamas. At Marsh Harbour, just to see if we like it. If we don't, we'll try someplace else the Caymans or Saint Thomas."
Katie was speechless. Bungalow in the Bahamas it sounded like a vaudeville song.
Awkwardly her husband reached across the table and stroked her cheek. "I know things haven't been perfect around here we need to make a change, Katherine, to save what we've got. We'll go away and start over, you and me, with nobody else to worry about."
Meaning Tom Krome or Art's secretaries?
Katie asked, "When?"
"Right away."
"Oh."
"Remember how much you liked Nassau?"
"I've never been there, Arthur. That must've been Willow."
The judge sucked desperately at his coffee.
Katie said, "This isn't about saving our marriage, it's about Tommy's house burning down with a dead body inside. You're scared shitless because it's your fault."
Arthur Battenkill Jr. stared blankly into his cup. "You've developed quite an imagination, Katherine."
"You're running away. Admit it, Arthur. You stole some getaway money, and now you want to leave the country. Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No," said the judge, "I think you're practical."
On that same Monday morning, the fourth of December, the real estate office of Clara Markham received an unexpected visitor: Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. He'd flown to Florida on a private Gulfstream jet, chartered for him by Richard "The Icepick" Tar-bone. The mission of Bernard Squires was to place a large deposit on the Simmons Wood property, thereby locking it up for the union pension fund from which the Tarbone crime family regularly stole. After driving through Grange, Bernard Squires felt more confident than ever that the shopping mall planned for Simmons Wood could be devised to fail both plausibly and exorbitantly.
"We spoke on the phone," he said to Clara Markham.
"Yes, of course" she said, "but I'm afraid I've got nothing new to report."
"That's why I'm here."
Clara Markham asked if Squires could come back later, as she had an important closing to attend.
Squires was courteous but insistent. "I doubt it's as important as this," he said, and positioned a black eelskin briefcase on her desk.
The real estate agent had never seen so much cash; neat, tight bundles of fifties and hundreds. Somewhere among the sweet-smelling stacks, Clara knew, was her commission; probably the largest she'd ever see.