Silent Witness (16 page)

‘You're a good person, Sue.'

‘Why do people always tell me that?' she said in mock complaint. ‘What if I wanted to be really, really wicked?'

‘If I were you, I'd start by leaving town.'

This seemed to make her thoughtful, though the smile lingered. They sat together in silence.

‘Tony!'

This time it was his mother, hurrying across the yard with an envelope. ‘Mail for you,' she said. ‘From
Harvard
.'

Tony could see the anxiety on her face; for all that she could annoy him, he knew that what she was feeling was not much different from the sudden, clenched-fist tightness in his stomach. As Helen Lord slipped the envelope into his hand, waiting expectantly for him to open it, Sue looked from Tony to his mother. ‘I should go,' she said.

Tony shook his head, mute, already fumbling with the cream-colored envelope. He barely felt his mother and Sue watching as he read the first line.

Tony kept reading until he reached the word ‘scholarship.'

‘God . . .'

‘What is it?' his mother asked.

‘I'm
in
.' He looked up at her in wonder. ‘They gave me a
scholarship
, Mom. I can go. . . .

It was the thought of the county prosecutor, not Helen Lord's hug, that cut off his elation. But he let her enjoy this; he could feel all her hope, all her fears, in the fierceness of the way she held him.

‘Okay, Mom,' he said in a husky voice. ‘Please, I can't breathe. . . .'

His mother backed away, giving a shaky laugh. She still looked as if she did not believe it. ‘It's so wonderful. Sue, isn't this
wonderful
?'

Sue smiled. ‘Yes. It is.'

Helen Lord took the letter from Tony's hand. ‘I'll go tell your father . . . ,' she began, and then hurried to the house, calling for him. Tony was far too moved to smile at this.

‘Well,' Sue Cash said softly. ‘You made it.'

‘Yeah. I made it. At least so far.'

Smiling, Sue shook her head, as if refusing to believe that anything would stop him now. Half facetiously, she looked to see if Helen Lord was there, and then kissed Tony softly, warmly, on the mouth. When she leaned back, her eyes were filled with pleasure for him.

‘There,' she said. ‘Now I've kissed a Harvard man.'

That evening, Saul Ravin returned Tony's call.

‘I got into Harvard,' Tony told him.

‘Hey, Tony, that's great.' For that moment Saul sounded genuinely pleased, and then the good humor faded from his voice. ‘I guess you called for a status report.'

‘Yeah. Can you tell me anything?'

‘Not much. “No change I know of” is about the best I can do.'

There was a reserve in Saul's tone. Since Alison's death, Tony had become more sensitive to nuance, particularly when that left unsaid was bad. ‘What is it?' he asked.

There was a long silence. ‘They've still got the coroner's report under lock and key. But what's more unusual is they won't even tell me anything about it. It's been nearly five months now.'

Tony felt his apprehension grow. ‘What does that mean?'

‘I'm not sure.' In the silence, Tony imagined Saul exhaling. ‘Maybe that there's something unusual in the report itself. I'm afraid they're still thinking about how to trap you, not clear you.'

‘Is that the only reason you think so?'

There was another silence. ‘All right, Tony . . . I don't want to worry you, but I guess you've earned the right to be treated like an adult.

‘There's a meeting on Thursday. Morelli, the county prosecutor,
and
the Taylors. The pressure's on – you've seen the local paper. Morelli won't tell me what, but they seem to think they have more on you.'

Tony felt the excitement of his letter from Harvard come crashing down around him. ‘Isn't there something we can do? At least find out what it is?'

‘Not really . . . at this meeting, we don't get a vote. But I'll take a last run at Morelli.' Saul's voice was softer now. ‘All you can do, Tony, is what you've done too damn much of: wait.'

With his acceptance to Harvard, all that remained for Tony – were it not for Alison's murder – would have been the hope of winning Athlete of the Year. But for the five days between his conversation with Saul and Thursday evening, when Saul would report back, the specter of prosecution became Tony's sole obsession.

He could not shut it off. In the middle of physics class, he imagined calling the Taylors, begging them to believe him innocent. Reviewing that night – as he had every day since Alison's death – Tony again tried to imagine who could have done this. He could not think of anyone in town: the fact that Alison and he had walked through the park was a fluke, caused by the frosted windows of his car, and someone watching her home would have waited by the driveway, not the back porch. Tony had seen her in the porch light; no one else could have known she would come out again. This left a murder of haunting randomness – a transient, near the grove of trees by happenstance. But the night had been cold, and the scene of Tony's imagining required three people in the dark: two lovers unaware, a stranger so malevolent that, overhearing Alison and Tony, he had decided to lie in wait for her. None of this was plausible; nor, Tony was quite certain, could anyone have followed them to the park. Which brought Tony face-to-face with the conclusion he long ago had reached, all the more terrible because of Thursday's meeting: that if he were the police, or the Taylors, he would believe that Tony Lord had strangled his girlfriend.

On Thursday afternoon, Tony was scheduled to pitch against Stratford. The game crept up on him, almost unnoticed; when Tony walked on to the field, tired from a night without sleep, the cop Dana was watching from the bleachers.

From the first warm-up pitch, Tony wondered if Dana would arrest him.

Johnny D'Abruzzi was the catcher. Tony entered a twilight state of consciousness; he threw the ball to Johnny, caught it, threw again. It was as though he and Johnny were in a tunnel; Sam was playing first, as always, but Tony barely saw him. Some superstitious part of Tony felt that if he pretended Dana was not there, the detective would not come for him.

For the first six innings, Tony did not talk to anyone, and Dana did not move.

The game was nothing to nothing. Tony was not an overpowering pitcher; his success depended on throwing where Johnny held the catcher's mitt, low and at the edges of the plate. Doing this again and again was all that kept Tony from going crazy; his focus was so complete, so desperate, that he had seldom pitched so well. He ignored the chatter of his team-mates, their encouragement between innings; like Dana, they were part of a larger reality he needed to ignore. He did not give a damn about the team.

When Sam hit a home run in the last half of the sixth, crossing the plate with the nonchalance that comes from deep self-pleasure, all that Tony thought of was that in one more inning the game – his last protection – would end, and Doug Dana would still be waiting.

‘Are you all right?'

Johnny D'Abruzzi was standing over him. Only then did Tony realize that everyone else had rushed from the bench and begun to pummel Sam. The catcher gave him a puzzled look, then glanced at Ernie Nixon, their right fielder, standing at the edge of the celebration.

‘Sorry about the Lancers thing, Tony. I guess I started a lot of trouble.'

‘Not for me.'

His tone was so indifferent that Johnny looked troubled. ‘One more inning,' he said awkwardly, and went to join the others.

In the seventh inning, Tony took the mound again.

He was aware of his surroundings – the bleachers filled with spectators; the factory-like high school to one side; the backstop and foul screen behind Johnny D'Abruzzi; the green wire fence behind the outfield – in the same way an actor might be aware of the artificial backdrop of a play. Then, at the edge of his vision, he saw someone move. He did not need to look to know it was Doug Dana.

As the first hitter stepped into the batter's box, Dana appeared behind Johnny D'Abruzzi on the other side of the foul screen. For Tony, it was like double vision – Johnny, the means of his escape; Dana, the symbol of his fears. And then Alison's father was standing next to Dana.

Together, they watched Tony through the screen. They must already know the county prosecutor's decision, Tony was certain. Only Tony, unable to reach his lawyer, did not.

The home plate umpire crouched behind Johnny D'Abruzzi, ready to call balls and strikes. Like an automaton, Tony focused again, threw his first pitch.

‘
Ball one
,' the umpire called. Turning, Dana said something to John Taylor.

Tony walked the batter on four pitches, then walked the next.

‘Come on, Tony. Just get it over.'

Sam's voice.

Fuck them. Fuck them all.

Tony's third pitch, a slow curve, fooled the batter so completely that he did not swing until the pitch was by him.

‘Strike three.'

Tony kept staring at Johnny D'Abruzzi's mitt, his salvation. The next batter swung at the first pitch, a low fastball.

The ground ball bounced toward Tony. It surprised him; so total was his focus on pitching that he had forgotten to crouch for grounders. He snagged the ball off balance, looked back at the runners, and threw the batter out at first.

One more out.

‘
Killer
 . . .'

The Stratford crowd was small, the catcall ragged, with no gym to echo it. But Tony flinched; against his will, he looked through the foul screen at John Taylor.

Silent, Alison's father nodded. Not at Tony, but at the word, repeating now.

‘
Killer
 . . .'

Her father must be here to watch Dana take him in.

Clayton Pell, the Stratford clean-up hitter, stepped up to the plate.

‘Tony!' Sam shouted.

Startled, he turned and saw that the Stratford runners were stealing second and third. Tony started to throw toward second. Years of practice stopped him; all that he could do was risk a wild throw – the runners were almost there. Tony had forgotten them.

From the Stratford stands came jeers and laughter. ‘
Time out
,' Tony heard Sam call.

Sam came running up to him, his eyes filled with disbelief. ‘What the fuck are you doing, man? We've got a one-run lead.'

Tony put his hand on Sam's shoulder, trying to control his voice. ‘Just tell me it doesn't matter to you. That would help a lot.'

Sam's face became suffused with blood. His voice was tight when he spoke. ‘This
does
matter. I'd still like to have some respect for you.'

He turned his back abruptly and trotted back to first.

‘
Play ball
,' the umpire shouted. Across the diamond, Tony stared at Sam; when he willed himself to face the plate, Dana and Alison's father were studying him, with their arms folded, as if watching his conscience reveal itself at last.

‘
Killer
 . . .'

At the plate, Clayton Pell waggled his bat in a left-handed stance, a study in controlled impatience. Tony's head pounded with fury.

When Johnny called for a curve ball, his mitt held low and inside, Tony shook his head in defiance.

Through the catcher's mask, Johnny gave a look of bewilderment. Then he signaled for a fastball, away from Pell's strength.

Tony reached back and threw the ball as hard as he could down the middle of the plate.

Clayton Pell's swing had a strange beauty. Uncoiling smoothly, his arms extended, it caught the ball on the fat part of the bat. Tony did not have to watch it. Only at the last minute did he turn, see Ernie Nixon in right field sprinting to the fence, then watching as the ball bounced twenty feet beyond his reach. A full-throated cry rose from the Stratford stands.

The rest was fragments: the last Stratford batter, out on a streaking liner that Sam Robb speared as it headed for right field; the silence on the bench during the last half inning no one had wanted, Tony Lord's unwelcome gift; the desperate two-out rally, when Ernie Nixon and Johnny D'Abruzzi scratched out hits. Then, in a haze, Tony struck out on four pitches.

It was over. Tony sat hunched on the bench, waiting for Dana. A few team-mates came by; Tony was faintly aware of Sam, looking back at him as the rest of their team left the field.

When Tony turned at last, Dana and John Taylor were gone.

Tony was still there, a half hour later, when Ernie Nixon wandered out in street clothes.

Ernie sat down next to him. ‘Tough luck,' he said.

Tony turned to him. He could not remember ever talking to Ernie alone, or even studying him for the simple purpose of doing that. Now it struck him that Ernie had a somewhat pensive, philosophical appearance: his one remarkable feature – startling green eyes – suggested genetic ironies that Tony had never contemplated. ‘I tried to do something I can't,' he answered at length. ‘Blow the ball by the other team's best hitter. No luck about that.'

Ernie did not answer. Together, they watched the baseball field; without players, it had the stillness of a photograph. After a time, Ernie said, ‘I heard about the fraternity. You didn't need to do that.'

Tony felt surprised, then uncomfortable. ‘It was more about me than you. I just couldn't stand how stupid it was.'

‘It's how they are, man. It's just how they are.'