By then Pete was checking up on Mo all the time. Sometimes he’d pretend to go to a game with Sammy Biltmore or Tony Hale but he’d come home early and find that she was gone too. Then she’d come home at eight or nine and look all flustered, not expecting to find him, and she’d say she’d been working late, even though she was just an office manager and hardly ever worked later than five before she met Doug. Once, when she claimed she was at the office, Pete called Doug’s number in Baltimore and the voice-mail message said he’d be out of town for a couple of days.
Everything was changing. Mo and Pete would have dinner together but it wasn’t the same. They didn’t have picnics and they didn’t take walks in the evenings. And they hardly ever sat together on the porch anymore, looking out at the fireflies and making plans for trips they wanted to take.
“I don’t like him,” Pete said. “Doug, I mean.”
“Oh, quit being so jealous. He’s a good friend, that’s all. He likes both of us.”
“No, he doesn’t like me.”
“Of course he does. You don’t have to worry.”
But Pete did worry, and he worried even more when he found a piece of paper in her purse last month. It said: D. G.-Sunday, motel 2 P.M.
Doug’s last name was Grant.
That Sunday morning Pete tried not to react when Mo said, “I’m going out for a while, honey. ”
“Where you going?”
“Shopping. I’ll be back by five.”
He thought about asking her exactly where she was going but he didn’t think that was a good idea. It might make her suspicious. So he said cheerfully,
“Okay, see you later. ”
As soon as her car had pulled out of the driveway he’d started calling motels in the area and asking for Douglas Grant.
The clerk at the Westchester Motor Inn said, “One minute, please, I’ll connect you.”
Pete hung up fast.
He was at the motel in fifteen minutes and, yep, there was Mo’s car parked in front of one of the doors. Pete snuck up close to the room. The shade was drawn and the lights were out, but the window was partly open. Pete could hear bits of the conversation.
“I don’t like that.”
“That.?” she asked.
“That color. I want you to paint your nails red. It’s sexy. I don’t like that color you’re wearing. What is it?”
“Peach.”
“I like bright red,” Doug said.
“Well, okay.”
There was some laughing. Then a long silence. Pete tried to look inside but he couldn’t see anything. Finally Mo said, “We have to talk. About Pete.”
“He knows something,” Doug said. “I know he does.”
“He’s been like a damn spy lately,” she said, with that edge to her voice that Pete hated. “Sometimes I’d like to strangle him.”
Pete closed his eyes when he heard Mo say this. Pressed the lids closed so hard he thought he might never open them again.
He heard the sound of a beer can opening.
Doug said, “So what if he finds out?”
“So what? I told you what having an affair does to alimony in this state. It eliminates it. We have to be careful. I’ve got a lifestyle I’m accustomed to.”
“Then what should we do?” Doug asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it. I think you should do something with him.”
“Do something with him?” Doug had an edge to his voice too. “Get him a one-way ticket.”
“Come on.”
“Okay, sorry. But what do you mean by ‘do something’?”
“Get to know him.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Prove to him you’re just a friend.”
Doug laughed and said in a soft, low voice, “Does that feel like a friend?”
She laughed too. “Stop it. I’m trying to have a serious talk here.”
“So, what? We go to a ball game together?”
“No, it’s got to be more than that. Ask him to come visit you.”
“Oh, that’d be fun.” With the same snotty tone that Mo sometimes used.
She continued. ”No, I like it. Ask him to come down. Pretend you’ve got a girlfriend or something.”
“He won’t believe that. ”
“Pete’s only smart when it comes to computers and baseball. He’s stupid about everything else.”
Pete wrung his hands together. Nearly sprained a thumb-like the time he jammed his finger on the basketball court.
“That means I have to pretend I like him.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what it means. It’s not going to kill you.”
“You come with him. ”
“No,” she said. “I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”
A pause. Then Doug said, “Oh, hell, all right. I’ll do it.”
Pete, crouching on a strip of yellow grass beside three discarded soda cans, curled into a ball and shook with fury. It took all his willpower not to scream.
He hurried home, threw himself down on the couch in the office, and turned on the game.
When Mo came home-which wasn’t at five at all, like she promised, but at six- thirty-he pretended he’d fallen asleep.
That night he decided what he had to do and the next day he went to the used-book store and stole the copy of Triangle.
On Saturday Mo drove him to the airport.
“You two gonna have fun together?” In the car she lit a cigarette. She’d never smoked before she met Doug.
“You bet,” Pete said. He sounded cheerful because he was cheerful. “We’re gonna have a fine time.”
On the day of the murder, while his wife and her lover were sipping wine in a room at the Mountain View Lodge, Roy had lunch with a business associate. The man, who wished to remain anonymous, reported that Roy was in unusually good spirits. It seemed his depression had lifted and he was happy once more.
Fine, fine, fine…
At the gate Mo kissed him and then hugged him hard. He didn’t kiss her but he hugged her back. But not hard. He didn’t want to touch her. Didn’t want to be touched by her.
“You’re looking forward to going, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I sure am,” he answered. This was true.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” he responded. This was not true. He hated her. He hoped the plane left on time. He didn’t want to wait here with her any longer than he had to.
But the flight left as scheduled.
The flight attendant, a pretty blond woman, kept stopping at his seat. This wasn’t unusual for Pete. Women liked him. He’d heard a million times that he was cute. Women were always leaning close and telling him that. Touching his arm, squeezing his shoulder. But today he answered her questions with a simple “Yes” or “No.”
And kept reading Triangle. Reading the passages he’d underlined. Memorizing them.
Learning about fingerprints, about interviewing witnesses, about footprints and trace evidence. There was a lot he didn’t understand, but he did figure out how smart the cops were and that he’d have to be very careful if he was going to kill Doug.
“We’re about to land,” the flight attendant said. “Could you put your seat belt on, please?”
She squeezed his shoulder and smiled at him.
He put the seat belt on and went back to his book.
Hank Gibson 's body had fallen one hundred and twelve feet. He 'd landed on his right side, and of the more than two hundred bones in the human body, he'd broken seventy- seven of them. His ribs had pierced all his major internal organs and his skull was flattened on one side.
“Welcome to Baltimore, where the local time is twelve-twenty-five,” the flight attendant said. “Please remain in your seat with the seat belt fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop and the pilot has turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign. Thank you. ”