Hard Case Crime: Witness To Myself (8 page)

Coincidentally, he would learn something exciting that same day that he would never be able to share with her. By now he had been approved for the board of the Foundation, and that evening he got a call at his apartment from Elsa Tomlinson. She didn’t ask him any questions; she simply stated a fact.

“I didn’t want to call you about this at your office. But I want you here working with me. Right under me, as executive vice president or whatever title I can figure out. I want to groom you to take over, though it’ll depend on you how that works out. Now don’t say yes, no, maybe. Come in and let’s talk.”

He saw her the following day, and the upshot was that he was to start in a month.

When Alan woke at the Stephan House he felt strangely refreshed, as though nothing of importance was on his mind. But then the realization that this was the last leg of his trip sent a quick hot beating through his chest. It was still dark out, and he turned on the lamp on the night table and picked up his wristwatch and glanced at it. It was twenty of six.

It was only when he was walking back from the bathroom and saw the open newspaper over on the chair that he remembered the Elizabeth Harmann murder. He felt the urge to rush over and stuff the paper in the wastebasket; didn’t even want it in the room.

Whoever did that to her, whoever committed all of those horrendous rapes and murders he’d tried to avoid knowing about over the years, those people were different from him, weren’t they? Weren’t they?

By the time he went down to the lobby he had calmed himself considerably. If a murder in Philly could be reported way up here near the Cape, wouldn’t an unsolved murder on the Cape have been reported at some time in Philly?

He drove away from the hotel slowly, filled with doubts again but telling himself he was going to do this today, finish what he had started, find out once and for all. But every so often he had to take a deep breath. Then, when he was about twenty miles into Cape Cod on Route 6, he almost froze in panic. A police car was parked angled on this side of the road, its lights glittering.

A short line of cars had slowed ahead of him. He could see an officer standing next to a car, apparently talking to the driver. Occasionally, as the line moved forward, the officer would lean toward a window, then motion ahead with his arm. But it was only when Alan got much closer that he could see that he was directing traffic around a two-car accident.

About an hour later Alan was driving between a thick line of trees on either side of the road that told him across the years that he either was approaching a turnoff to South Minton or had possibly already passed it. All he knew for sure was that the ocean was to his right; other than that, his mind had gone blank. Then he saw a sign by an intersection, perhaps the same one that was there that day fifteen years ago:
SOUTH MINTON
.

The lane his father had turned into had to be one of these several lanes he was now beginning to pass. And then, about a mile or so away, would be that other lane where.

He turned into one of them at random, thinking as he did of the old saying about a criminal returning to the scene of his crime. All he knew was that he wanted to go back through the years, to look, to see.

The trees were skeletal in the cold, the ground hard and uneven, some of the limbs layered with snow. He came to the top of the dune, as if to an old nightmare, and stopped with a heavy foot on the brake. The ocean lay ahead, bright blue, with just a slight curve of waves at the fringe. He kept the motor running, the heater of course on. He couldn’t believe he had pulled in here and was actually remaining even though he was aware that someone might have seen him turn in. And that a face might suddenly appear at his window.

What are you doing here, sir, and who are you?

Still, he couldn’t make himself turn around or back out. Not yet, not yet.

Which lane was this, if either of the two? He couldn’t tell for sure, but soon he began thinking of it as the one where they’d parked the motor home, the seats facing the dune, though at a slight angle. His father was still behind the wheel, his mother in her usual seat next to him, and he in one of the seats behind them, though sometimes he’d sit next to his father, hungering with a teenager’s hunger to be able to take that wheel.

He thought of the coziness of that motor home, of his bunk along the side and their little room in back with its accordion-like doorway. And how they would all watch TV at night, or read under the lamps or play gin rummy.

Soon he saw two people, a man and a woman, materialize in the distance on the beach. They wore heavy coats and woolen caps down over their ears in the cold and wind. He hadn’t seen a single person that time they’d been here, and for a few moments he just sat watching them walking closer. And then he came out of it and back into the icy reality that no one must see him. He backed away from the dune fast, then made a U-turn and headed toward the road, the car bumping over the hard ruts. When he came to the road he stopped just long enough to make sure no cars were in sight in either direction. Then he drove to the intersection that led to South Minton.

He remembered how he had pleaded with his father not to go there, and then how he’d sprawled across the sofa not wanting to be seen through the windows. He hadn’t seen a second’s worth of the town. Now he saw that the turn-off led, after a couple of miles of cottages and woods, to a frozen-looking bay fronted by shops, houses and eateries, quite a few of the places art shops and many with the look of being closed for the winter. He drove through a tangle of streets, some with much larger houses, past a firehouse, then — almost startling him — a small police station, and now what announced itself to be the Municipal Building. He was looking for whatever building might house the
Breeze
but he couldn’t find it. However, he did find the library, a long low building that still had several strings of Christmas lights dangling, darkened, from the roof.

He parked at the curb across the street and looked over at it. The enormity of what he hoped to do was becoming overwhelming. How could he, a stranger, go in there and ask for God-knows-how-many old issues without stirring suspicion, without someone asking what’re you looking for, can I help? What would he answer? He’d assumed he could get away with some kind of generality, but that was stupid, stupid.

Though it seemed as if he’d been thinking about this forever, he had to think it out more, he just couldn’t —

He pulled away from the curb. He drove slowly, telling himself this was just to give him time to think; but when he came to the street that led back to Route 6, he took it — and drove faster. And once out on the road he almost floored the pedal.

He could never go into that building. Never!

But then, about ten miles away, he pulled into an abandoned service station and parked, the motor running.

He had to think harder. As if he hadn’t all these years! As if he hadn’t gone back and forth in his head a million times — do this, don’t do that, you must find out, but why? — you must, but you didn’t
kill
her, yet you’ve got to know!

He tried to focus on what had finally come together to bring him here.

One was another call, about month ago, from Elsa Tomlinson. “Alan, I hate to rush you, but can you start next week? The week after at the latest? It’s very important, I need you here.”

He hadn’t even told his firm yet he would be leaving.

The second was a message on his answering machine. From Anna. It was a simple one:

“I’m going to sleep, honey, but I just want to say I miss you.”

He stood there, staring at the machine. There was nothing special about the message, but it made him feel hollowed out. They’d never said they loved each other, but he never wanted to more than right now. But he couldn’t — not until he learned the truth.

The firm he was with was a large one though far from the largest — thirty-two lawyers. He said good morning to his secretary at her desk in front of his office: He shared her with an associate in the adjoining office. His office overlooked much of downtown and the Delaware River, ten stories below, which reflected his fast-rising status in the firm. He looked at a few just-delivered letters on his desk, then put them down without opening them. He took a deep breath and walked to the managing partner’s office.

“I just want to let you know,” he told him, “that I’m going to be leaving the firm.”

“Oh?” Just that, with almost no change of expression. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is it rude of me to ask where you’ll be going?”

“Not at all.” He told him about the Foundation.

“Well, you were on the move here and we’ll miss you. What can I say but good luck?”

“Thanks. Look, I won’t be leaving for two weeks if necessary, so —”

The man smiled. “Try for tomorrow. Or even today if you can clear things up.”

That night, sitting with Anna on her sofa, Alan told her about his resigning and moving on. She hugged him tight and said how happy she was for him, but afterward there was something obviously sad about her. She was frowning, seemed to be deep within herself.

“Anna, what’s wrong?”

She looked startled, began to shake her head and then stopped. It was a few moments before she looked at him.

“Why did you really call me that time?”

“What time?”

“The first time. Why did you call me?”

“Because I wanted to. I had the feeling you were someone special. Why did you agree to go out with me?”

She didn’t answer. Then she said, “What do you think of me now?”

“I think you’re wonderful.”

“Not just easy?”

“Oh Christ, Anna, you’ve got to be kidding.”

She seemed close to tears. “I’m sorry. But there are so many creeps. I think I met most of them the first year I was here. They think because you’re a nurse and you’re young.”

He put his arms around her.

“You think you won’t fall for it, you think you’re too smart, but then you do. You think they love you. And then it turns out you had no idea at all what was going on in their heads. It was all a lie.”

Her body was rigid at first, but then softened a little and she let herself come against him, her head on his shoulder. He wanted to say things to her, things that would help, but somehow he knew that words would never do it, that just holding her was the better way, the only way.

“Alan?”

“Yes, Anna.”

But she just shook her head against him, without looking up, and then seemed to creep into him even more. He rubbed her back, her shoulders, put his cheek on her hair.

She said, “Thank you.” It was muffled against his chest.

He wanted to say how can you thank me, I should be thanking you. But he didn’t. Instead he brushed at the hair that had fallen over her forehead. She raised her head and he kissed her lips, softly. Her lips opened and for moments they just breathed into each other, just breathed. And now he was unbuttoning her blouse and she made a few quick attempts at trying to help him. They didn’t even go to the bedroom. Not then anyway, later yes, but not then in their haste. And now they were part of each other, joined and yet trying to get even closer, and then collapsing, finally lying in each other’s arms so still except for the beating of their hearts.

And it was then, lying against her, that he knew —
really
knew — he couldn’t put off learning the truth.

Easing his car onto Route 6 again, he began heading slowly back to South Minton. He still wasn’t sure he would do it, could make himself do it. Nor did he know as he drove on the turnoff to the town; he was even glad for a delay when he realized he was confused about where the library was. He began taking different streets at random, found himself at the bay again, saw a few people walking against the wind, kept making turns; and then he saw the building looming just ahead.

He pulled up along the curb, behind two or three other cars. He sat there looking at the library building. Though the heater was on, he felt a chill go through him and he took hold of his hands to keep them from trembling. He rubbed them warm, then almost on impulse turned off the motor, pushed open the door and walked quickly to the front steps.

Two people were behind the front desk, a woman who turned out to be the librarian, and a young man in his twenties who was lifting books out of a cart. A woman was sitting at one of the tables toward the back of the library while another woman was looking at the stacks.

The librarian, a woman who looked to be in her fifties, smiled as he came up to the desk.

“Hello there. Can I help you?”

Afraid that his voice would shake, he said, “I hope so. Do you carry old back copies of the
Breeze
?”

“Yes we do. What issue are you looking for?”

“Problem is I’m not sure. It would be somewhere from May ’89 to November ’91.”

“Oh my, that is old. Let me see. I want to make sure of something.”

He watched tensely as she went to a computer. When she came back she said, “I wanted to double-check how far it goes back online. And so far it’s only to ’92. But we should have all the earlier issues stored downstairs. Sam here will start bringing them up if you’d like.”