Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 (25 page)

 
          
"I
was doing it
again
last night,"
I say, remembering now at last, in awe of that previous self, that mad, busy,
energetic, straining, scheming previous self.
“All over
again."

 
          
“That's
right, Mr. Pine," O'Connor says. “You followed the same method for
disposing of the body as you did so many years ago with Wendy. You stuffed the
body in the trunk of the car."

 
          
“Yes.
I remember."

 
          
“Wendy's
final resting place was deep water."

 
          
“The lake."

 
          
“You
dropped her there, in her father's car, from high on a cliff."

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“That
was the pattern you repeated last night."

 
          
I
rub my face with both hands. I'm so tired. No matter what you do, you can never
do enough. I say, “I still only get bits and pieces of it. I was so stoned last
night, I couldn't ... I don't even know how I got home."

 
          
“Oh,
you had no trouble," O'Connor says, mysteriously.

           
But there's another mystery, I
suddenly realize. Sitting up straighter, frowning at O'Connor, I say,
"Wait a minute. I was wasted. I don't remember a thing. And nobody else
was there. If I dumped Buddy and the car in the ocean, how come
you
know all about it?"

 
          
"Because
it wasn't the ocean, Mr. Pine," he tells me. "You're
right,
you were very heavily influenced by drugs last
night."

 
          
"Not
the ocean? But—" I try to remember. I get bits of it, all so similar to
Wendy: the car heaving in neutral with the weight on the accelerator, the
gleaming Mercedes trunk in the bright moonlight, the moonlight sparkling off
the water far below . . . "It's all there," I say, trying to piece it
together. "Car—water—edge of the cliff
— "

 
          
"Edge,
all right," O'Connor says, "
but
not of any
cliff. And in the state you were in, you couldn't tell one body of water from
another. Besides, you do hate to leave the property."

 
          
Hate
to leave the property? No trouble getting home? For the first time today, I
turn full about and look over at the swimming pool.

 
          
Frogmen
and scuba divers are standing there, beside the pool. Something lies on the
lawn under a sheet. A police- department wrecker, its back to the pool, is
slowly winching my beautiful Mercedes back up onto dry land.

 
          
The Mercedes.
In the swimming pool.

 
          
I
look at O'Connor. "Did I really do that?" I say.

 
          
"Yes, sir."

 
          
What
could I say? "Silly me," I said

 
          
O'Connor
gets to his feet, putting his pen and notepad away, smoothing out the gray
knees of his trousers. "Shall we go, Mr. Pine?" he asks.

 
          
Hoskins
bows toward me. "Shall I pack your bag, sir?"

 
          
I
look again at the Mercedes, then at O'Connor. "Good idea, Hoskins," I
say.

 
          
"For how long a stay, sir?"

 
          
"Oh,
about twelve years, Hoskins, I would guess."

 
          
"Very good, sir.
May 1 help you to your feet?"

 
          
"Excellent, Hoskins."

           
He helps me to my feet. I modestly
close the robe about myself. Glancing over at the pool, I remember something
else; too late. “I forgot to get my lighter'back," I say.

           
“Ready, Mr. Pine?" asks
O'Connor.