“You’ve got a rain check on that steak, remember.”
“I won’t forget.” Hank smiled quickly at him and left the office.
Half an hour later Hank crossed the porch of the lodge and fitted his key into the lock. He hesitated then, glancing over his shoulder at the dark shadows that crowded the house. The parking light on his car was a futile yellow gleam against the night; he could just see the white curve of the gravel road, and the uneven silhouettes of fir trees against the black skyline. The woods were quiet and unmoving; the faint wash of the water and the far-off cry of a hunting owl were harsh sounds against the unstirring silence.
Hank stared around, listening; it would be like this for a long time, he realized. When he came up here he would be watching for movement in the shadows beside the porch, cocking his head toward a snapping twig or the sudden rustle of a bird in the trees. Finally he opened the door and went inside. The silence in the house struck him as unnatural; he became aware that he was holding his breath, listening for a soft footstep on the stairs, the sound of whispering, conspiring voices in the kitchen.
Someone had put everything in order. Probably Sheriff Davis had sent a woman out, he thought. The floor was scrubbed clean, the lamps and chairs had been straightened, embers glowed faintly in the fireplace. But you couldn’t get rid of ghosts with soap and water, he thought; the house was like a big empty stage, ready and waiting for actors to make their entrances.
Hank rubbed both hands over his face. There would be no entrances; he was letting his nerves run riot. Duke wouldn’t saunter in from the kitchen, a grin on his dark face, his eyes alert for trouble. Duke was dead. And Belle and Grant were gone. He might write Belle’s son some day, he thought. Soften it a little. She had helped at the end.
Hank walked slowly across the room and put another log on the hot ashes. With a hand resting on the mantel he watched smoke curl around the log, and the little spears of fire attacking the dry bark. Finally the wood crackled and burst into flames, and the draft shot up the chimney with a breathless roar. He stood watching the fire, not knowing what to do next; he was hungry but he didn’t want to eat, he was exhausted but he couldn’t sleep. After a while he sighed and took Duke’s wallet from his pocket. He turned it around in his hands, examining the dry cracks along the fold, the broken stitches in the seams. Inside there was a five-dollar bill, and a collection of business cards under a celluloid shield. Five dollars... a bottle and a package of cigarettes. The cards were without significance; a liquor store that promised night and day deliveries, a garage, a men’s clothing shop with a salesman’s name printed in the right-hand comer.
One compartment of the wallet was zippered shut. Hank opened it and removed a carefully wrapped packet that was about the size of a playing card. A faint memory tugged at him. Turning toward the light, he saw that the packet contained a snapshot protected by layers of fine tissue paper. He had seen this before... he remembered the look of the blurred features through the paper. He had found this picture in Duke’s drawer, rummaging about with a child’s pointless curiosity. And Duke had caught him. Unconsciously Hank’s fingers moved up to trace the scar on his forehead. What had Duke hit him with? A tennis racket...
Hank removed the layers of silk-smooth paper, and studied the snapshot of Duke’s mother. She had been in her middle twenties when this picture was taken, more girl than woman, awkward and shy, pretty, with long, dark hair and a thin, animated face. The print was hazy and blurred, but he could see her clear, direct eyes and the little smile pulling at her full lips. She wore a print housedress with a soft, round collar. She looked friendly but somewhat tentative, as if she might be uncomfortable with people until she got used to them. She had only completed one year of high school. His mother had told him that, he remembered.
Duke had been eight when she died, and he had carried her picture for more than thirty years, hiding it from everyone else, guarding this relic of her with sullen, passionate jealousy. What did that tell you about him? Nothing...
There was no way to know — no way to guess at what this shyly smiling woman had meant to him, or what her death had destroyed in him. Had he tried to revenge himself on the world for taking her from him?
Guessing was futile. What had the Inspector said? Someone might understand him. Someone with perfect understanding. Staring at the picture, he remembered what an army chaplain had once said to him: “I believe in hell, certainly. But if you were to ask me if anyone is in hell — well, I might give you an argument. Who am I to put a limit on God’s mercy?”
The phone began to ring then, and the sound was clear and welcome in the silent house. He turned toward it, a smile touching his lips. She had said she would call...
He stared around the room, seeing the firelight on the smooth pine flooring, hearing the wind pressing against the windowpanes. The phone called to him again, and he let the faded snapshot slip from his hand into the fire. He didn’t wait to see the flames take it. This was the closing of a door, the final goody-bye. He went quickly to the phone and lifted the receiver. His movements were sure and confident, and a smile came on his face as he heard her voice.