Retnick couldn’t think clearly; his thoughts circled hopelessly in a despairing maze. But he knew precisely what he was going to do. It was a simple, inevitable choice. There was only one more thing for him to lose.
When he reached the wide doors that led to the open wharf he hesitated and stopped in the last few feet of darkness. Ahead of him was the bright arena; he could see the oil-soaked plankings, the stubby iron mooring posts, and a length of frayed rope that trailed down into the river. He glanced at his watch. Ten: five. She was airborne now, settling comfortably in the deep reclining seat, leafing through a magazine or smoking a cigarette and watching the pinpoints of light on the ground.
The one who had brought him kindness and warmth and love was gone forever. Retnick was suddenly aware of a terrible knowledge; he was a stranger to himself, a stranger to this man who stood in the darkness waiting to die. This was a stalking animal who had reveled in the wrong done to him, putting that wrong above every other right. And Retnick saw him clearly now, studied him with eyes he had closed five years ago.
He hesitated no longer. With the gun hanging at his side he stepped onto the open wharf. The cold wind struck his body, chilling the tears on his face and then above the noise of it, he heard Joe Lye shout: “Don’t move, Retnick!”
Retnick turned toward the shrill voice. Lye stood against the wall of the warehouse on his left, his body thin and black in the pale light. The sight on the barrel of his gun gleamed like a splinter of ice.
“You can try shooting if you want,” he cried.
“I’m through shooting,” Retnick said in a weary, hopeless voice. “Somebody else will have to kill you, Joe. A dozen cops are on the way. Any of them will enjoy the job.” The gun fell from his limp fingers.
From the darkness behind him a voice shouted his name and he heard the sound of running footsteps.
“Pick up that gun!” Lye screamed.
For a turbulent instant, Retnick regretted his decision; perhaps he could have paid the price if he lived. But it was too late to think of it.
“You get it in the stomach,” Lye shouted at him. “Pick up your gun.”
And Retnick knew then that Lye wanted to be killed, too. They were both looking for the easy way out. “You’re wasting your time, Joe,” he said. “You might as well toss your gun into the river.”
“They won’t take me back,” Lye yelled, and put the gun to his temple. For an instant that seemed frozen in time he swayed back and forth, while his lips twisted into a helpless frenzied smile. And then he began to sob terribly; the gun dropped from his fingers and he went slowly down to his knees. The strength seemed to have been squeezed from his body. He fell over onto his side, and the sound of his weeping was like that of a lost and frightened child.
There were three uniformed patrolmen behind Lieutenant Neville when he came out of the terminal onto the wharf. He gave a short order, and two of them hauled Lye to his feet while a third picked up the gun that had fallen from his hand. Then he glanced at Retnick, who was staring at the river. “You okay?” he said, still breathing hard.
“Sure.”
Neville looked at Lye and said, “You’re going back to the death house, clever boy.”
Lye’s face was blank as an idiot’s. “I never left there,” he said in a soft wondering voice, as if this were something Neville should realize.
Neville nodded at the cops who held his arms. “Get him out of here.” When they had gone he looked at Retnick and then at his own gun which was lying on the thick planking of the wharf. Picking it up, he studied it with a little frown. “You didn’t mean to use it, I guess,” he said.
“That’s right,” Retnick said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He shrugged heavily, staring at the dancing lights on the water. “Like most good ideas it didn’t work.”
“We got an earful from Amato,” Neville said, watching Retnick’s face with a frown. “Glencannon, Dixie Davis, the works. Aren’t you interested?”
“Sure, it’s great,” Retnick said heavily.
“And Joe Ventra. Amato killed him, Steve. That will be part of the newspaper story. You’re in the clear. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I was in the clear when I went to jail,” Retnick said. “Now that I’m clear I’m guilty. That’s a cute twist, isn’t it?” The moment of dual perception was gone; there were no longer two men in his mind, there was only one. Retnick, who had taken what he wanted and couldn’t pay the price. The moral bankrupt. That was the man he had to live with; the man who could hold him in judgment had died five years ago.
“Steve, part of what you accomplished was good,” Neville said, seeing the pain in Retnick’s eyes.
“Part of it,” Retnick said bitterly. “How’s Kleyburg?”
“One of the boys in the squad heard a report. He’s got a better than even chance. The old man lived a healthy life and that’s working for him now.”
Retnick looked at him. “They think he’ll live?”
“It looks good,” Neville said. “I said you couldn’t help him a while ago. But I could be wrong. Will you go to see him tomorrow?”
This would be the start of it, Retnick knew. The payment. “Yes, I’ll see him,” he said slowly.
Neville glanced at his watch and said awkwardly, “Well, I’ve got work to do, Steve. We can talk about this later.”
“Sure, let’s go.”
Neville caught his arm. In the moonlight Retnick saw the little smile on his lips. “I meant that. You know where I am. I’ll expect to see you.”
“Sure,” Retnick said, in a different voice. The lieutenant’s words reminded him of what Kleyburg had said: Most people are decent. They want to help. “I’ll see you around, Lieutenant.”
It was almost eleven o’clock when Retnick let himself into the hallway of his rooming house. He had walked here from Pier 17, simply because he had had nowhere else to go; even the thought of stopping for a drink had left him without enthusiasm. What was there to celebrate? And getting drunk wouldn’t help. There were no easy outs. He had learned that much.
Mrs. Cara looked out of her room at him and said, “You got a phone call to make.” She came down the hallway, holding her blue flannel robe tightly about her throat. In the soft overhead light her olive-dark eyes were bright with excitement. “It’s important. It’s from your wife.”
“My wife?” Retnick said, and a little chill went through him. “You’re sure?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Did she call from the airport?”
“No, she was home.” Mrs. Cara watched him with frank curiosity. “You going to call her?”
Retnick couldn’t answer her; his throat was suddenly tight. Turning he went quickly down the hall to the telephone. Marcia answered the first ring and said, “Yes? Hello?”
She’d been waiting at the phone, he thought, and a hope that was sharper than pain went through him. “This is Steve,” he said. “You called me.”
“I switched over to an early morning flight,” she said. “You told me your job might be over and — I wanted to be sure you were all right.”
“Everything is over,” he said thickly. She’d switched flights, that was all. Hearing her voice now was almost more than he could bear.
“You don’t sound too cheerful about it.”
“It’s—” His fist suddenly tightened on the receiver. “I need you, baby,” he said, in a harsh and desperate voice. “I need you,” he said again feeling a tremor shake his body. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s the other way around. And I can’t pay you back. Ever. But let me see you before you go.”