The Sign of the Book (16 page)

I wasn't aware I had looked judgmental and said so. “I'm sure it isn't easy for you, Mrs. Marshall.”

I thought hard about my next question before I asked it: I didn't want to scare her more than I already had, but it had to be asked.

“Have there been any signs of anybody around the house?”

“What signs? You mean like a prowler?”

“No, I didn't mean that. Never mind, it's a silly thought.”

But it wasn't a silly thought and, yes, it had frightened her. Something had certainly scared Jerry. Maybe it was just a nightmare after all: God knew the kid was entitled to a bad dream if he had seen something.

“What is it you're trying to find out? What do you want from us?”

Perhaps I hadn't known until that moment, but hearing the question hurled at me in that tense voice, suddenly I did know.
I want to know he's safe,
I thought, but could not quite bring myself to say. I didn't like that bruise on his shoulder and I didn't like the old woman's evasive eyes. To call his safety into question would disrupt them all, maybe for no good reason. But the fact remained: if Jerry hadn't killed Marshall, somebody else had. I looked across the road at the gathering dusk, at the trees now deep in gloom. Somebody, I thought: maybe someone he saw, maybe someone who saw him.

I walked back to town and ate in the Main Street café. I didn't want to go back to Parley's; didn't want to talk to anybody about what I had seen or what its significance might be; most of all I didn't want to be talked out of what I knew I was about to do. After a mediocre meal I walked out to the edge of town where I had seen a bar called the Red Horse Tavern. I went in, blended with the dark, and sat in a corner nursing a beer.

Two hours later there I was again, hiking back on the road to the grandparents' house. My feet made soft crunching noises in the frozen snow and I felt the stinging air around my eyes and nose. I had just a trace of a low moon lighting my way around a thin, circular cloud that hung in my face like a halo. This wasn't much help: the tall hills on both sides blotted out most of the deeper countryside and I could only see the road, and nothing past the ditch, for thirty yards ahead. Beyond that it was all hope-and-grope, a shadow world broken by the dim and very occasional light of a cabin off in the trees. In the woods away from the road the night was as black as I had ever seen it, murk that couldn't be penetrated without a light.

I had bought a penlight at the five-and-dime and this I clutched in my fist as I walked, keeping my hands in my pockets and letting the moon show me the way for as long as it would. I could think of a thousand places I'd rather be than out here tonight, but I had a hunch and I couldn't shake it. I psyched myself up for another long watch.

I trudged over a rise, vaguely remembering the terrain from my trek up here a few hours before. The night was bleak and a wind whistled down through the pines, chilling even through my heavy coat. I started down the long incline to the arroyo at the bottom where the creek ran through. The air wasn't yet cold enough to freeze the creek over, and I could hear the trickle about sixty yards away, so much louder here in the pitch-dark night than it had been in the daytime. I remembered a small bridge where the creek curled around from the foot of the mountain and darted across the road. Beyond that, far back in the trees, was the house. I still couldn't see the place: it was fairly early yet, nine o'clock would be a good guess, but there were no lights anywhere.

I crossed the bridge and a few minutes later reached the driveway, a long, looping dirt road where I could finally see a faint light from the front room. It flickered through the trees. No
Tonight Show
back there. No TV to lull them into some nightly catatonic state of mind. I had a feeling that the old Marshalls would be going stir-crazy after less than two weeks of it. I stood on the road, lost in the shadows of the trees around me, and I stared at the light from the cabin and wondered what to do next.

I did nothing for a while. At some point I stepped into the drive and groped my way along it. The sound of the creek got louder as the house emerged in a tiny ring of light. I could see a partial outline of the porch, only from the front door to the living room window, but it was hard to get better bearings in the deep mountain night. How close did I dare go, what would I say if someone popped up and demanded answers, what was I looking for anyway?—these were questions that defied easy answers. I stood there for at least another ten minutes and nothing got any clearer.

The answer I wanted was inside the house, not out here.

I didn't trust the Marshalls with that kid's welfare.

There it was: I didn't trust them. I had only that bruise to hang this on, a strange place, I thought, for a bruise to be, from a fall off the swing.

As if anything is ever that plain and that simple in this life. I hadn't yet met the old man but there was something about the old woman, some kind of fear of her own. For the moment that was plain and simple enough, and that's why I was out here tonight.

Oh, God, Erin: Am I about to screw your case beyond redemption?
I hoped not, but I remembered Jerry's Alfalfa face and I couldn't just walk away from him.

I was now no more than twenty yards from the front porch. The house was deadly quiet. Nothing moved except that rushing stream somewhere beyond the shed in the backyard. I felt desolate. It boggled my mind that anyone would consign three children to this after what had just happened to their father. Those kids needed music and light and whatever good cheer there might be in the world. But this was what they got from a system that never had enough time, never enough people.

I stood just outside the tiny circle of light cast by the living room lamp. I stood there for another twenty minutes. Didn't move at all until I saw a shadow pass across the front room window.

It was the grandfather. He had turned and was now standing with a drink in his hand staring out at the yard. I dropped back a step and saw him look over his shoulder and say something. He took a deep hit from his drink, emptying the glass, then he poured another. I could see the Seagram's label clearly in the lamplight, and he was taking it straight-up from a tall highball glass, enough to put him on the short list for a liver transplant if he wasn't there already.

I stood in the dark and watched him drink.

I stood in the dark.

After a while he moved across the room. There was a narrow side window and I eased over that way, one step at a time. The light was dimmer there, probably all of it coming from the one lamp near the front of the room. Here we go, I thought.

Here we go.

I walked boldly across the lighted space and slipped around the edge. Flattened myself against the dark wall, as I'd done at the Preacher's place, and felt my way along until I could take a quick look inside.

The two of them sat facing each other. He was slumped on the sofa, a big man with slate gray hair and mean eyes. Okay, now I had seen him. Now I could be fair about it and say I had seen the bastard and I didn't like him. Good objective judgment. I didn't like his ass. I had the uneasy feeling that either of them would gladly sell Laura Marshall down the river, guilty or not.

She was in a chair staring beyond him at the wall: a picture of two people going mad, just as I had imagined it. She said something but I couldn't make out what. He took another swig of whiskey and that was his response. She said something else or perhaps again and his head snapped up. He yelled, “Shut up, goddammit, shut up!” His booming voice carried easily through the wall. The kids would sleep well through that, I thought. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his head down and the drink in his hands, and what he said then was inaudible, but when he looked up, I could fry an egg in the hate on his face.

There's trouble in Paradise,
I thought. These were not happy campers.

Not happy with the kids. Not happy with each other or themselves.

Then why are they here?

Why face three months in hell if it wasn't for the love of the children?

I backtracked into the woods, away from the light, and stood watching. I stood there thinking. Brooding.

I circled the house, carefully getting the lay of the land. A back porch opened from the kitchen, and I could see through the screen, on through the room into a short hallway. I saw the light from the front reflecting off a stove and a refrigerator, and on either side were the two bedrooms. One for the old folks, one for all three kids. I moved away from the porch and looked into a window, pale with the distant light. Again the door was open and there was enough light from the front to make out a few objects. I saw what was probably a dresser with a mirror and a small table and a double bed, empty. This was where the old people slept. I didn't dare look in the other window: I had a vision of Jerry lying in that room, staring at the glass, ready to be scared out of his wits if a face suddenly popped up.

At least I knew where things were. I circled the house and stood in the dark.

Time passed and the light from the window was hypnotic.

Eventually it went out and I stood trapped by the night, sealed in a drippy world of uncertain blindness.

 

This was infinitely more depressing than the stakeout on the ridge. Then I knew that dawn could not be far off: now I had no faith that the sun would ever come up again. Now I couldn't see the house, I couldn't use my light. I couldn't see the trees or even a hint of anything out there in the black. I knew from my police days how these stakeouts could weigh down the spirit. Too many nights just sitting and watching got to everybody eventually. Even in the old days, with a partner to talk to, with food and light and the steady chatter of the police radio, the negative effects tended to accumulate. Too much of it made reality slip away. But I stood leaning against a tree, hanging in there, struggling to count to ten but seldom making it past four.

I don't know when the shock came—it was well after midnight, maybe much later. Suddenly a light went on in the kids' room. I must have been asleep on my feet. I felt it first—sight came later, like an exploding galaxy—and I jerked back, lost my balance, and fell facedown on the rocky earth. I rolled over and the vision of that yellow-white window hit me again. My heart leaped into fast-forward and I felt my hands, slick with blood. I felt a stinging pain where I had tried to break my fall and had hit the rocks. I rolled over and got to my feet, pressed my hands against my pants, and held them there just as Jerry appeared in the window. With a jerky, frantic look he pushed up the sash and stuck his hand through the crack, flailing at the cold air. I heard a child's voice from inside the house: “Gramma, Jerry's being bad again!” Jerry leaped back from the window. Almost immediately the door flew open and he came running out wearing only his pajamas. He rushed across the yard and into the trees toward the road.

A minute later the woman appeared on the porch, dressed in a nightie with a coat thrown over her shoulders. In another minute the man loomed up beside her. “I am getting
god
damn tired of this shit!” he bellowed at the darkness.

He screamed at the night: “
Jerry!
Goddammit, you get back in here!”

“Ralph,” the old woman said.

“Don't Ralph me.” He came to the edge of the porch. “Boy, you better knock this off! If I've gotta come find you again, it'll be too damn bad!” He waited a moment, then yelled, “
Jerry!
I'm not kiddin', you get your ass back in here,
right now
!”

Nothing happened: no sounds above the constant noise of the creek, no movement in the woods where Jerry had disappeared.

“That goddamn little fucker!” the old man said. “I oughta leave him out there.”

“You can't do that,” the woman said. “Jesus, Ralph, he'll freeze to death.”

“Let him freeze, the little bastard. I didn't sign on here to put up with this.”

“Ralph, stop this and go find that boy before something awful happens to him.”

“I'll find him, all right.”

“Don't you hit him again.”

“Don't you hit him again,” he mimicked.

Ralph disappeared into the house and a minute later he came out fully dressed. He charged off the wrong way into the woods, yelling and kicking at the undergrowth.

Gradually his voice began to fade as he went back toward the creek.

I headed down the other way, toward the road. A path cut through the trees and at the end of it I found the kid shivering and huddled in the ditch. I reached out my hand to him and he cringed.

“Hey, Jerry. You don't want to stay down there, kid.” I opened my coat and held out my hand to him. “Come on up here. Come get warm.”

I shined the little light in my own face. “I met you this afternoon, remember? Come here, I won't hurt you.”

I got down on my knees and handed him the light.

“You musta been having a bad dream, son.”

Yeah, a dream called life.

I knew he was cold, I could hear his teeth chattering, but I didn't try to rush him. I sat on the ground and let him touch my hand, and after a while he did crawl into my lap and I pulled the coat tight and held him against me till he stopped shivering. I could feel his heartbeat, his breath against my neck, both hands clutching my shirt.

“It's okay, kid.” I touched his head. “It's okay now.”

This was something to say and it filled the moment. But in real life I had no idea what was okay, and in that moment I couldn't imagine what to do next.

Follow your heart, Janeway. That's what got you here.

My heart was full of anger.

I didn't know what Ralph's problem was and didn't care. Right now, at this moment, I only wanted to kick him a new asshole.

Do that and explain it to the judge.

Ralph had custody and I had only a bad attitude, which grew worse every minute.

But in the heat of that moment I didn't care about the judge or the old man's custody. I sat on the edge of the ditch and Ralph's voice got louder as his search widened. In the same time my own choices winnowed downward from almost nothing.

I could take the kid home with me, the riskiest and craziest thing to do.