Colin laughed. "You don't make a good Mata Hari, Babe."
"Fuck you," she said.
"Oh, is that what this is about?"
She dropped the cigarette in the metal ashtray and wiped her eyes with her napkin. A trail of mascara streaked one cheek. "What this is all about," she snarled, "is that for the first time in its history, the North Fork has had a rash of unexplained killings and among its citizens is a man who, in his past, was involved in three murders. Coincidence? Maybe."
Rage worked its way up from Colin's gut to his chest. "Are you implying that I not only killed my family but I've killed the four people here as well?"
She picked up the chopsticks, caught some moo shu pork between them, popped it into her mouth, and began to chew, a slight smile playing around her lips.
"Babe, answer my question," he demanded.
"Let's put it this way, Colin: it makes a damn good story."
He was grateful that they were in a public place. He'd never felt this kind of rage before. The anger he'd experienced over his family being murdered was different. That was laced with abandonment, helplessness, the fury free-floating. But this anger was clear and pointed. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Babe."
"Really? Why?"
Colin breathed deeply, trying to ward off the beginning of a panic attack. "A good story for whom?" he asked softly.
"Well, I was thinking about the Seaville Gazette, but since Mark knows who he's got working for him I guess that's out. But I'd bet Newsline wouldn't be above using it."
Under the table he could feel his legs shaking. "So why have you told me, if that's what you plan to do?"
"I thought maybe we could make a deal?"
"Like what?"
"I want your job, Colin. And I deserve your job. I've worked for Mark since the beginning. We had a tacit agreement that I'd be the next managing editor, at least I thought we had. Then you got the job. It wasn't fair."
"What is?" he interjected.
"So how about it?"
Colin's breathing was accelerating; he was beginning to feel lightheaded. "How about what?"
"Your job. Aren't you listening?"
"You expect me to hand over my job to you? Don't be stupid. Even if I were to leave, what makes you think Mark would give my job to you?"
"He would. He'd have to."
Colin laughed. "You have stuff on Mark, too?"
Her eyes were cold. "The reason Mark gave you my job was because he was an old friend, and you were having some kind of breakdown in New Jersey. He thought a job on a country paper might help you. That wasn't hard to find out. But if you left there's no doubt the job would be mine."
The shakes were beginning to crawl up his body into his arms. He had to get out of there. "And if I don't leave?"
She shrugged. "I guess I'll have to give out the story."
Colin pushed back his chair, got unsteadily to his feet. "You know what you are, Babe?"
"Before you tell me, let me say one more thing. I don't think Annie Winters would really like going out with a murder suspect, do you?"
He wanted to throttle her, instead he clutched the back of the chair.
"Steady there, big guy."
There was no use trying to hang on so he could tell her what a shit she was. He forced himself to walk through the restaurant and out. When he got to his car he grabbed the handle, wrenched open the door, and fell inside.
Leaning back, head against the seat, he tried to regulate his breathing. But the roof began to crumble and crack, the doors closing in on him. He shut his eyes. Immediately Nancy's cut and bleeding face swam round in the blackness, the sounds of his children calling for help surrounding him. He opened his eyes. Black and yellow spots danced in his line of vision. Dizziness overcame him and he gripped the wheel for support, his knuckles growing white.
A knock made him jump. He turned to see Babe bent down, her face separated from his by the window. "I'm not fooling around," she said. "If you don't quit I'm giving this story to Newsline. You have until noon tomorrow." She left.
Slowly Colin's breathing became regular, the car interior returning to its original shape. He felt exhausted. He had no doubts that Babe would carry out her threat and that once the story appeared he'd have to leave Seaville. Despite the murders he'd grown fond of the town and wanted to stay. Most of all he wanted to get to know Annie better. If ever he needed Mark to be there for him, he needed him now, he thought. And then he wondered why that made him uneasy.
LOOKING BACK-75 YEARS AGO
Elisha Congdon of Seaville, who claims to have great power from the Almighty, is in the public eye again. He returned recently from Atlanta, Ga., where he went to the federal authorities in a vain attempt to secure the release of Mr. M. Silver, who is in the federal prison there, serving a term for his religious acts. Elisha says Mr. Silver is all right except for a dent in his forehead.
TWENTY-FOUR
Fran said, "What're you doing, Waldo?" She was watching him throw socks and underwear into his beat-up old suitcase.
"I'm packing," he answered. He was wearing a green polo shirt she'd given him for his birthday, worn jeans, and high-topped Keds. His gun was on the bed next to the suitcase.
"Packing for what?"
"I'm leaving." He opened a drawer and pulled out some shirts.
"I went down to the station looking for you when you didn't come home. I wanted to be with you. I was driving around looking for you, hon'."
He slapped the shirts into the case. "We've had it, Fran."
"Meaning?" She put a hand on the suitcase lid.
Hallock glanced at her hand, went back to the bureau, grabbed a bunch of T-shirts. "It means just what it says." He wouldn't look at her.
"I don't understand. Explain."
"Ha!"
"Ha?"
"Yeah, ha! I should explain? That's a good one."
She slammed the suitcase shut and sat on it. "Waldo, what the hell is this? Are you leaving because of what happened today at the meeting?"
"Now you're getting smart. Get off the goddamn suitcase." For the first time he looked at her, the grooves under her slanting, sad eyes deeper.
"Oh, Waldo, that didn't have anything to do with me."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Then what the hell were you doing there with those gals, right in the row with Julia Dorman and the rest?"
"I came to support you, Waldo."
"Funny way of showing it."
"I had no idea Julia was going to do what she did."
"I've put up with your being on this committee and that, marching here, there, everywhere, embarrassing the bejesus out of me, but this time you've gone too far. Get off the goddamn suitcase, Fran."
"Waldo, you're not listening."
"I hear you. Get off."
"No, I won't get off, not until you listen."
Hallock suddenly had a sense of deja vu, then remembered that fight years before when he'd threatened to leave. But this time he was serious. "What do I have to listen to, huh? More bullshit?"
"It's not bullshit. I came down to the meeting to support you, Waldo. Naturally I sat with my friends. Nobody said anything to me about speaking against you because nobody knew. Julia did that on her own, and you can bet we've had it with her."
"It's too late, Fran."
"That's just dumb." She reached out to touch his cheek and he pushed her hand away, hard. She was knocked off balance and slipped from the suitcase to the bed, then onto the floor, cracking her head against the wood.
Hallock was beside her in a second. "You okay?"
"I think so," she answered, sitting up, rubbing the side of her head.
"Jesus, Fran, I didn't mean to-"
"I know. Don't worry about it."
He helped her up. They stood close to one another.
She put her arms around his neck. "Waldo, you've been hurt bad, and you've got to take it out on somebody. Don't make me the enemy."
"Can't help it, Fran." He pulled her arms from around his neck and went back to his packing.