Needful Things (47 page)

Oh, son of a bitch, it
hurt!
He grabbed at the tissue, which hung down in a wrinkled ribbon, and tore it free. What he revealed was a large Victory rat-trap. Someone had armed it, stuck it in a box, put tissue-paper over it to hide it, and then wrapped it in pretty blue paper. Now it was clamped on the first three fingers of his right hand. It had torn the nail of his index finger right off, he saw; all that remained was a bleeding crescent of raw flesh.

“Whoremaster!”
Norris cried. In his pain and shock, he at first beat the trap against the side of John LaPointe's desk instead of just prying back the steel bar. All he managed
to do was bang his hurt fingers against the desk's metal corner and send a fresh snarl of pain up his arm. He screamed again, then grabbed the trap's bar and pulled it back. He released his fingers and dropped the trap. The steel bar snapped down again on the trap's wooden base as it fell to the floor.

Norris stood trembling for a moment, then bolted back into the men's room, turned on the cold water with his left hand, and thrust his right hand under the tap. It throbbed like an impacted wisdom tooth. He stood with his lips drawn back in a grimace, watching thin threads of blood swirl down the drain, and thought of what Sandy had said:
Mr. Keeton was by . . . maybe it's a kiss-and-make-up present.

And the card:
JUST A REMINDER
.

Oh, it had been Buster, all right. He didn't doubt it a bit. It was just Buster's style.

“You son of a bitch,” Norris groaned.

The cold water was numbing his fingers, damping down that sick throbbing, but he knew it would be back by the time he arrived home. Aspirin might dull it a little, but he still thought he could forget getting any real sleep tonight. Or any fishing tomorrow, for that matter.

Oh yes I will—I'll go fishing even if my fucking hand falls fucking off. I had it planned, I've been looking forward to it, and Danforth Fucking Buster Keeton isn't going to stop me.

He turned off the water and used a paper towel to blot his hand gently dry. None of the fingers which had been caught in the trap were broken—at least he didn't think so—but they were already beginning to swell, cold water or no cold water. The arm of the trap had left a dark red-purple weal which ran across the fingers between the first and second knuckles. The exposed flesh beneath what had been the nail of his index finger was sweating small beads of blood, and that sick throbbing was already beginning again.

He went back into the deserted bullpen and looked at the sprung trap, lying on its side by John's desk. He picked it up and went over to his own desk. He put the trap inside the gift-box and put it in the top drawer of his desk. He took his aspirin out of the lower drawer and shook
three of them into his mouth. Then he got the tissue-paper, the wrapping paper, the ribbon, and the bow. These he stuffed into the trash basket, covering them with balls of discarded paper.

He had no intention of telling Alan or anyone else about the nasty trick Buster had played on him. They wouldn't laugh, but Norris knew what they would think . . . or thought he did:
Only Norris Ridgewick would fall for something like that—stuck his hand right into a loaded rat-trap, can you believe it?

It must be your secret lover . . . Mr. Keeton was by tonight . . . maybe it's a kiss-and-make-up present.

“I'll take care of this myself,” Norris said in a low, grim voice. He was holding his wounded hand against his chest. “In my own way, and in my own time.”

Suddenly a new and urgent thought came to him: what if Buster hadn't been content with the rat-trap, which, after all, might not have worked? What if he had gone up to Norris's house? The Bazun fishing rod was there, and it wasn't even locked up; he had just leaned it in the corner of the shed, next to his creel.

What if Buster knew about it and had decided to break it in two?

“If he did that, I'd break
him
in two,” Norris said. He spoke in a low, angry growl Henry Payton—nor many of his other law-enforcement colleagues, for that matter—would not have recognized. He forgot all about locking up when he left the office. He had even temporarily forgotten the pain in his hand. The only thing that mattered was getting home. Getting home and making sure the Bazun rod was still all right.

The shape under the blankets didn't move when Alan eased into the room, and he thought Polly was asleep—probably with the help of a Percodan at bedtime. He undressed quietly and slid into bed beside her. As his head settled on the pillow, he saw that her eyes were open,
watching him. It gave him a momentary start and he jerked.

“What stranger comes to this maiden's bed?” she asked softly.

“Only I,” he replied, smiling a little. “I apologize for waking you, maiden.”

“I was awake,” she said, and put her arms around his neck. He slipped his own about her waist. The deep bed-warmth of her pleased him—she was like a sleepy furnace. He felt something hard against his chest for a moment, and it almost registered that she was wearing something under her cotton nightgown. Then it shifted, tumbling down between her left breast and her armpit on its fine silver chain.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

She pressed the side of her face against his cheek, still holding him. He could feel her hands locked together at the nape of his neck. “No,” she said. The word came out in a trembling sigh, and then she began to sob.

He held her while she cried, stroking her hair.

“Why didn't she tell me what that woman was doing, Alan?” Polly asked at last. She drew away from him a little. Now his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could see her face—dark eyes, dark hair, white skin.

“I don't know,” he said.

“If she'd told me, I would have taken care of it! I would have gone to see Wilma Jerzyck myself, and . . . and . . .”

It was not the moment to tell her that Nettie had apparently played the game with almost as much vigor and malice as Wilma herself. Nor was it the moment to tell her that there came a time when the Nettie Cobbs of the world—and the Wilma Jerzycks, too, he supposed—could no longer be fixed. There came a time when they went beyond anyone's ability to repair.

“It's three-thirty in the morning,” he said. “That's a bad time to talk about should-haves and would-haves.” He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “According to John LaPointe, Nettie said something to you about Wilma this morning—yesterday morning, now. What was it?”

Polly thought it over. “Well, I didn't know it was about Wilma—not
then, anyway. Nettie brought over a lasagna. And my hands . . . my hands were really bad. She saw it right away. Nettie is—was—may have been—
I
don't know—vague about some things, but I couldn't hide a thing from her.”

“She loved you very much,” Alan said gravely, and this brought on a fresh spate of sobbing. He had known it would, just as he knew that some tears have to be cried no matter what the hour—until they are, they simply rave and burn inside.

After a while, Polly was able to go on. Her hands crept back around Alan's neck as she spoke.

“She got those stupid thermal gloves out, only this time they really helped—the current crisis seems to have passed, anyway—and then she made coffee. I asked her if she didn't have things to do at home and she said she didn't. She said Raider was on guard and then she said something like, ‘I think she'll leave me alone, anyway. I haven't seen her or heard from her, so I guess she finally got the message.' That isn't exact, Alan, but it's pretty close.”

“What time did she come by?”

“Around quarter past ten. It might have been a little earlier or a little later, but not much. Why, Alan? Does it mean anything?”

When Alan slid between the sheets, he felt that he would be asleep ten seconds after his head hit the pillow. Now he was wide awake again, and thinking hard.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I don't think it means anything, except that Nettie had Wilma on her mind.”

“I just can't believe it. She seemed so much better—she really did. Remember me telling you about how she got up the courage to go into Needful Things all on her own last Thursday?”

“Yes.”

She released him and rolled fretfully onto her back. Alan heard a small metallic
chink!
as she did so, and again thought nothing of it. His mind was still examining what Polly had just told him, turning it this way and that, like a jeweller examining a suspect stone.

“I'll have to make the funeral arrangements,” she said. “Nettie has got people in Yarmouth—a few, anyway—but they didn't
want to have anything to do with her when she was alive, and they'll want to have even less to do with her now that she's dead. But I'll have to call them in the morning. Will I be able to go into Nettie's house, Alan? I think she had an address book.”

“I'll bring you. You won't be able to take anything away, at least not until Dr. Ryan has published his autopsy findings, but I can't see any harm in letting you copy down a few telephone numbers.”

“Thank you.”

A sudden thought occurred to him. “Polly, what time did Nettie leave here?”

“Quarter of eleven, I guess. It might have been as late as eleven o'clock. She didn't stay a whole hour, I don't think. Why?”

“Nothing,” he said. He'd had a momentary flash: if Nettie had stayed long enough at Polly's, she might not have had time to go back home, find her dog dead, collect the rocks, write the notes, attach them to the rocks, go over to Wilma's, and break the windows. But if Nettie had left Polly's at quarter to eleven, that gave her better than two hours. Plenty of time.

Hey, Alan!
the voice—the falsely cheery one that usually restricted its input to the subject of Annie and Todd—spoke up.
How come you're trying to bitch this up for yourself, good buddy?

And Alan didn't know. There was something else he didn't know, either—how had Nettie gotten that load of rocks over to the Jerzyck house in the first place? She had no driver's license and didn't have a clue about operating a car.

Cut the crap, good buddy,
the voice advised.
She wrote the notes at her house—probably right down the hall from her dog's dead body—and got the rubber bands from her own kitchen drawer. She didn't have to carry the rocks; there were plenty of those in Wilma's back-yard garden. Right?

Right. Yet he could not get rid of the idea that the rocks had been brought with the notes already attached. He had no concrete reason to think so, but it just seemed right . . . the kind of thing you'd expect from a kid or someone who
thought
like a kid.

Someone like Nettie Cobb.

Quit it . . . let it go!

He couldn't, though.

Polly touched his cheek. “I'm awfully glad you came, Alan. It must have been a horrible day for you, too.”

“I've had better, but it's over now. You should let it go, too. Get some sleep. You have a lot of arrangements to make tomorrow. Do you want me to get you a pill?”

“No, my hands are a little better, at least. Alan—” She broke off, but stirred restlessly under the covers.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It wasn't important. I think I
can
sleep, now that you're here. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, honey.”

She rolled away from him, pulled the covers up, and was still. For a moment he thought of how she had hugged him—the feel of her hands locked about his neck. If she was able to flex her fingers enough to do that, then she really
was
better. That was a good thing, maybe the best thing that had happened to him since Clut had phoned during the football game. If only things would
stay
better.

Polly had a slightly deviated septum and now she began to snore lightly, a sound Alan actually found rather pleasant. It was good to be sharing a bed with another person, a real person who made real sounds . . . and sometimes filched the covers. He grinned in the dark.

Then his mind turned back to the murders and the grin faded.

I think she'll leave me alone, anyway. I haven't seen her or heard from her, so I guess she finally got the message.

I haven't seen her or heard from her.

I guess she finally got the message.

A case like this one didn't need to be solved; even Seat Thomas could have told you exactly what had happened after a single look at the crime-scene through his trifocals. It had been kitchen implements instead of duelling pistols at dawn, but the result was the same: two bodies in the morgue at K.V.H. with autopsy Y-cuts in them. The only question was why it had happened. He had had a few questions, a few vague disquiets, but they would no doubt have blown away before Wilma and Nettie had been seen into the ground.

Now the disquiets were more urgent, and some of them

(I guess she finally got the message)

had names.

To Alan, a criminal case was like a garden surrounded by a high wall. You had to get in, so you looked for the gate. Sometimes there were several, but in his experience there was always at least one; of course there was. If not, how had the gardener entered to sow the seeds in the first place? It might be large, with an arrow pointing to it and a flashing neon sign reading
ENTER HERE
, or it might be small and covered with so much ivy that you had to hunt for quite a while before you found it, but it was always there, and if you hunted long enough and weren't afraid of raising a few blisters on your hands from tearing away the overgrowth, you always found it.

Sometimes the gate was a piece of evidence found at a crime-scene. Sometimes it was a witness. Sometimes it was an assumption firmly based on events and logic. The assumptions he'd made in this case were: one, that Wilma had been following a long-established pattern of harassment and fuckery; two, that this time she had chosen the wrong person with whom to play mind-games; three, that Nettie had snapped again as she had when she'd killed her husband. But . . .