he said.
"That's what I like to hear."
"What do you think?"
Stevens 'chuckled, a low mellifluous comforting sound. "I'll make my decision once I talk to my client."
At the police station, they were searched, then led into a small room empty save for three chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor.Hobie was brought in, handcuffed, and remained silent until his guard left the room. He looked even worse, even crazier, than he had last night, and Doug had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been hopingHobie would make a good impression on the lawyer.
"Okay," Doug said. "Now we can talk."
Hobieglanced furtively around. He looked under the table, felt under the chair, as if searching for electronic listening devices. Under other circumstances, the paranoia ofHobie's reaction would have been funny. But nothing seemed funny anymore.
"There're no bugs," Doug said. "Our police department can't afford any."
"And even if there were," Stevens said, "evidence gathered through their use would not be admissible in court."
"This is your lawyer," Doug said. "Yard Stevens."
The lawyer held out a thick pink hand. "How do you do?"
"How do you think? I'm in jail for murder."
"Did you do it?"
"Hell, no."
Doug felt a little better.Hobie still looked awful, but the shocked incoherence of last night and the dissolution of the past few weeks seemed to have disappeared. He seemed more confident now, closer to his normally abrasive self.
"Doug?" Stevens turned toward him. "I would like to speak to my client alone from here on. I may need your testimony in court, and I don't want to jeopardize its validity by allowing you access to privileged information."
Doug nodded. "Okay. I'll be waiting right outside."
"Fine."
"Thanks,"Hobie said.
"I'll be by to see you later." Doug knocked on the closed door and it was opened from the outside. He was walking down the hall toward the front office when he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Mr.Albin ? Can I talk to you for a moment?"
He turned to see Mike Trenton beckoning him from the doorway of an office.
"Doug. I thought I told you to call me Doug."
"Doug?"
He followed Mike into a small room dominated by a huge desk. Two walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with textbooks and bound case studies. "This used to be the police library," Mike explained, noticing his glance. "Well, it still is, but now it doubles as my office."
"What did you want to talk to me about?"
"Mr. Beecham."
"I thought you were off all mailman cases."
Mike shrugged. "It's a small department. A lot's been happening. We're shorthanded. Besides, this is not a 'mailman case.' "
"It is too, and you know it."
"I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Mr. Beecham."
Doug began pacing up and down the length of the tiny crowded room. "Come on, Mike. You know damn well thatHobie didn't kill that girl."
"I know no such thing. I'd like to help you, I really would, but Mr.
Beecham's fingerprints -- bloody fingerprints, I might add -- were found all over the murder weapon and all over the room. And those photos on the wall . .
." He shook his head. "They're not proof of anything, but they're certainly a sign of a sick mind --"
"Those photos were sent to him by his brother."
"His dead brother?"
"What's the matter with you, Mike? What's happened? A week ago you had an open mind about this, now you're just . . ." He groped for the right word.
"Facing the facts," the policeman finished for him.
"Hiding," Doug said. "Grasping at any answer that fits into your police logic, that can be easilycatagorized and catalogued and filed away and forgotten. I know you're scared. Hell, we're all scared. But you're looking for reassurance, and you're not going to find it. You want to believe that we're crazy, that none of this is happening, that life is going to go on as normal.
But it's not going to go on as normal. People are dying here, Mike. You might not want to admit it, but everyone knows it. I know it, you know it, everyone in town knows it. People are dying because of the fucking mailman. Call it supernatural, call it whatever you want, but it's real, it's happening."
"His prints were on the weapon," Mike repeated tiredly.
"Be serious with me, Mike. Level with me. Don't hand me that official line crap. Be straight with me."
"It's an open-and-shut case --"
"Come on. I'm not your enemy here, Mike. Jesus, if we all just spent a little more time working together and a little less time trying to keep all of our goddamn roles so virginal and separate, we'd get a hell of a lot more done."
The policeman smiled slightly. "You were always a good talker. That's why you were one of my favorite teachers."
"I'm not just talking here."
"As far as I'm concerned, you are. We have proof, Mr.Albin . His prints are on the weapon. Blood was found under his fingernails, on his clothing, in his hair."
Doug opened the door. "Fine," he said, pointing an accusing finger at the young policeman. "Toe the party line, hide your head in the goddamn sand. But the next one's on your head. You could've done something about it. You want to talk to me aboutHobie ? Get yourself a subpoena." He slammed the door behind him, strode through and out of the police office, and stood in the open air, breathing deeply, trying to calm down. The warm morning air filled his lungs, tasting clean and fresh and good, reminding him of happier, far more different summers. His eyes scanned the small parking lot and found the shiny metal mailbox standing on a post at the juncture of the parking lot and the road, next to the low ranch fence. Sunlight glinted off the box's curved top.
He hated those aluminum pieces of shit.
He waited for Stevens by the car.
38
"Let me in! Let me in,goddammit !" Tritia stood on Irene's front porch alternately ringing the doorbell and banging on the door itself. She knew the old woman was home. The car was in the driveway and she had seen movement behind the lace curtains. Irene just didn't want to talk to her.
The cooler weather of the past few days was gone, and the hot afternoon sun beat at her back. She was already sweating, dying of thirst, and that gave her another idea. She decided to try a different tack. "Just let me in for a minute!" she called through the closed door. "All I want is a glass of iced tea!
Then I'll be out of your hair for good!"
She waited a moment and was getting set to launch another pounding barrage when she heard the metal jingle of the chain being unhooked from inside, the sound of the deadbolt drawing out. A few seconds later the knob rattled as the lock was undone. The door was slowly pulled open.
Tritia barely recognized her friend. Irene appeared to have shrunk three or four inches and to have lost at least ten or fifteen pounds since the last time she'd seen her. She had never been a big woman, but now she appeared definitely small, shriveled. Her thin wiry hair was uncombed and spread out from her head in tangled wisps. Her face looked frighteningly gaunt, and she was wearing what looked like her pajamas. She glared at Tritia accusingly. "I told you not to tell anyone," she said.
"I'm sorry," Tritia apologized. "But I was worried about you. I knew what was happening, and I wanted to help --"
"You made it worse," the old woman said. She jumped suddenly with a cry of fright, whirling around, looking behind her as though searching for someone, but there was no one there. She turned nervously back toward Tritia , her eyes haunted. "Leave me alone," she said. "Please."
"I'm your friend," Tritia said. "I care."
Irene closed her eyes and sighed. She stepped aside, pulling the door open, and Tritia walked into the house. It was a shambles. Closet doors were open, their contents tossed into the center of the living room, cardboard boxes overturned on the Oriental carpet. Broken glassware could be seen through the doorway of the kitchen. Irene, cheeks sunken, staring eyes hollow, backed quickly away from the door, her hands nervously folding and unfolding.