He reached over and squeezed her arm. "You said it right before he hung up, try to remember."
"You're hurting me, Mark."
He let go. "I'm sorry."
Did she believe him? She tried to act natural, stalling for time. "Why don't you take off your slicker? I'll hang it in the bathroom."
He took off the wet coat and gave it to her. "Try to remember what was impossible," he urged softly.
Taking the slicker she shrugged. "I just can't think now." The ankle hurt terribly, but she made it to the bathroom, where she hung up the coat. When she turned around Mark was standing in the doorway. Startled, she drew in her breath. "I didn't know you were following me," she explained.
He looked at her coolly. "I think there's something you don't understand, Annie."
"Like what?"
"It's about Colin."
Limping, she maneuvered past him to the kitchen and turned on a burner. "I'm having some cocoa. Want some?"
"Jesus, Annie, what the hell's going on? I'm trying to tell you something and you're making cocoa like we're in some goddamn commercial or something."
"I feel like cocoa," she said lamely.
"Is he coming here, Annie? Did he tell you he was going to come here?"
"No. You want some, Mark?" She held out a mug.
He swung his hand knocking the mug to the floor, where it shattered. "Will you shut the fuck up about the cocoa?" he screamed. Then he grabbed her by both shoulders. "Colin has killed eight people, Annie. Five people in Seaville. Three in Chicago. Who knows how many others we never heard about? He's dangerous, a killer. Do you understand?"
His face was almost touching hers; she felt his breath on her cheek. "Please, Mark," she begged.
He shook her. "Listen to me. I know what I'm talking about. This morning when I confronted him he attacked me, ran away. He's been in hiding ever since. Did he tell you that? Did he?"
She didn't want to cry, swore she wouldn't. "No," she answered.
"I'll bet he didn't." He released her. "I'm telling you the truth, Annie."
What if Mark was telling the truth? What if Colin was the killer, not Mark? But maybe Mark was just saying that to get her to tell him where Colin was. And when she did he'd…
Mark said, "I know it's hard to believe. It's hard for me, too. I've known the guy for a long time. We've been friends. I… I loved him. But I can't let that stand in my way, cloud my vision. And neither can you."
The kettle began to whistle.
They stared at one another. Then she limped to the stove and turned off the flame.
"Annie, I'm telling you the truth," he said again.
She leaned against the stove. "He couldn't have killed Babe Parkinson," she said flatly.
"Why not?"
"I was with him all night."
"From when to when?"
"About eight until six-thirty this morning." Was it only this morning?
"The autopsy came down just a little while ago. Babe could have been killed from any time after six p.m. He had two hours before you saw him."
His words felt like blows.
"Tell me where he is, Annie."
Looking at Mark, she realized he'd been her friend for over a year. She knew a lot about him. And there were the bruises on his face. Why had Colin attacked him if he wasn't guilty? What did she really know about Colin? She prided herself on being astute about people. Could she be so wrong about him? Had she trusted once again only to be betrayed? She had to face the facts: She knew Mark a great deal better than Colin.
"Annie," Mark pleaded, "he might kill someone else if he isn't caught. Tell me."
"All right," she said.
– -
Hallock couldn't see a goddamn thing. His wipers were virtually useless. He'd just passed the traffic circle in Riverhead. On a clear day it would take him about twenty-five minutes, but with this kind of weather it might take an hour. Caution told him he should pull off the road until it was over. But he had to get to Maguire, he couldn't afford the luxury of waiting out the storm. Besides, it didn't look like it was going to stop. He tried the radio for a weather report. There was nothing but static.
The sign warning drivers of flooding wasn't visible to him, but he knew it was there. He knew this road like he knew his own house. Slowing to five miles an hour he felt the car press through knee-high water. The backwash splashed the windows. When the deep water was behind him he accelerated, pushing the car up to fifteen.
The first place he'd go was Annie Winters'. He was sure Maguire would be there. But if he wasn't he'd have to go back to the motel, pick up his collection of keys, and try to get into the Gazette that way One or another of them usually worked, and he guessed the lock on the Gazette building wasn't anything fancy.
Another flooding area came up fast, surprising him. He shouldn't be drifting. Although he slowed he wasn't quick enough. The car skidded out of control, turning sideways, water washing up over the hood. Hallock tried to steer into the skid but the car made a 180-degree turn, bouncing over to the shoulder, then kept going across the cinders before it came to a stop.
Hallock said, "Shit!"
– -
Rain wasn’t the worst of it as far as Colin was concerned. It was the wind. Realizing there was no place for him to go and his best bet was to stick close to the motel in case Hallock came back, he’d climbed a tree. Something he hadn’t done for about twenty-five years. And it wasn’t easy.
The tree was a large maple. Standing right next to the motel, it afforded Colin a perfect view of Hallock's room. He stood in the crotch of two large branches, leaves giving him plenty of cover. His palms and fingers were scraped raw from dragging his hands over the bark as he'd tried to gain purchase.
Soaked to the skin, he wrapped both arms around a thick branch, the wind threatening to blow him out of the tree. The gun pressed painfully into his stomach but he couldn't shift it. And then he saw the rotating red light of a police car coming down the hill toward the motel. It stopped at the office for a moment, then continued on down the road. Just below him it came to a stop, and all four doors opened at once.
Colin could see them illuminated in the headlights of the car: Schufeldt, Wiggins, Copin, and Liz Wood, all in rain gear. Their voices, altered some by the wind, nevertheless drifted up to him.
"This it?" Schufeldt shouted above the storm.
"Yeah. He's probably sleeping. Looked like a wreck when I saw him. I just knew he was trouble. You can always tell."
"Is there a back way out?"
"No, only this here door and this window."
"Go ahead, Wiggins, knock."
Al Wiggins, gun in hand, standing to the right of the door, gave it three raps. "Open up, Maguire, this is the police!"
Schufeldt and Copin, guns drawn, were to the left of the door, Liz Wood behind them.
Schufeldt yelled, "We'll give you a count of three to come out, Maguire, hands on your head. One. Two. Three. Okay, we're coming in." To Liz he said, "Give me the key."
She reached in her raincoat pocket and gave it to him. He handed the key to Copin, who inserted it in the lock, then kicked open the door.
After a moment Schufeldt shouted, "Listen, Maguire, you can't get away. "We've got you covered, so don't go trying anything. Come out with your hands on your head."
Colin watched, fascinated in a bizarre way, as if he were a witness to his own funeral. The three men below hovered on either side of the door, their guns ready.
"Okay, Maguire," Schufeldt said, "this is it. Let's go, boys." He stepped into the doorway, two hands on his gun, and began shooting. Charlie Copin and A1 Wiggins were behind him, but only Schufeldt's gun flashed. The report of each shot spiraled upwards to where Colin, hugging the tree, observed the action in horror.
"Jesus," he said out loud. But no one heard.
"Hold your fire!" Schufeldt yelled. He reached inside the door and snapped on the overhead light. Crouching, he entered the room, the others behind him. Then they were gone from Colin's line of vision.
A strong wind swept through the tree. Colin's branch swayed, pulling him downward. He clung fiercely to the branch as it flipped back up, but his feet slipped and he slid down, crashing into the crotch, sending a jolting pain up through his body. He cried out, but the rain covered his yelp. Trying to regain his hold he tilted sideways; his gun fell from his belt down through the tree, hitting the ground with a splat.