Nelson Demille Page 3
A forgotten war, a forgotten man, a forgotten sacrifice. Keith recalled that his father had cried when they got the news, but oddly, Ned's name was never mentioned again.
Perhaps, Keith thought, the last man to die in World War II had made the last meaningful sacrifice; since then, it was all politics and power freaks playing with people's lives and families. Perhaps now, he thought, we're starting to figure it out. He looked at Uncle Ned's place, empty now for over forty years, and belatedly, but with sincerity, he said, I miss you. '
Keith finished his Scotch and made another. He looked out the screen door into the dark garden. The wind blew harder now, and in the west he saw lightning, followed by a clap of thunder.
He smelled the rain before he heard it, and heard it before he saw it. A lot of memory circuitry—sights, sounds, smells—were deeply imprinted before a person turned eighteen, Keith thought. A lot of who you were in middle age was determined before you had a chance to manipulate, control, or even understand the things around you. It was no mystery, he thought, why some old people's minds returned to their youth; the wonder of those years, the discoveries, the first experience with the dirty secret of death, and the first stirrings of lust and love were indelible, drawn in luminous colors on clean canvas. Indeed, the first sex act was so mind-boggling that most people could still remember it clearly twenty, thirty, sixty years later.
Annie.
So, he thought, his journey of discovery had led home. On the way he had seen castles and kings, golden cities and soaring cathedrals, wars and death, starvation and disease. Keith wondered if old Pastor Wilkes was still alive, because he wanted to tell him that he'd actually met the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and knew more about them than their names; he knew who they were, and obviously they were us.
But Keith had also seen love and compassion, decency and bravery. And here, alone with himself, sitting in his place at the table, he felt the journey was not ended, but was about to get interesting again.
So here it was, twenty-five years since he'd stepped off his front porch into the world, and he'd put a million miles on his trip meter since then, and he'd had so many women he couldn't remember half their names if his life depended on it. Yet, in the dark times, in the mornings and in the evenings, on long plane rides to scary places, in the jungles of Asia, in the back streets of Eastern Europe, and in those moments when he thought he was going to die, he remembered Annie.
CHAPTER FOUR
Annie Baxter lay sleepless on her bed. Brief, incandescent flashes of lightning lit the dark room, and thunder shook the house to its foundations. A burglar alarm, triggered by the storm, wailed somewhere, and dogs barked in the night.
The dream she'd had crept into her consciousness. It was a sexual dream, and it disturbed her because it was about Cliff, and it should have been about Keith. In the dream, she was standing naked in front of Cliff, who was fully dressed in his uniform. He was smiling—no, leering at her, and she was trying to cover her nakedness with her hands and arms.
The Cliff Baxter in her dream was younger and better built than the Cliff Baxter she was married to now. More disturbing still was that, in the dream, she was sexually aroused by Cliff's presence, and she'd awakened with the same feeling.
Keith Landry and the other men she'd been with before Cliff were more sensitive and better lovers in the sense that they were willing to experiment and to give her pleasure. Cliff, on the other hand, had been, and still was, into sexual dominance. She had been turned on by this initially, she admitted, like in the dream; but Cliff's rough sex and selfishness now left her feeling unsatisfied, used, and sometimes uneasy. Still, she remembered a time when she was a willing and aroused partner.
Annie felt guilty that she'd once enjoyed that sado-sexual relationship with Cliff and guilty that she still thought and dreamed about it with no revulsion or loathing. In fact, it was quite the opposite, like now, awakening from that dream, moist between her legs. She realized she had to kill that dream and those thoughts once and for all.
She looked at the clock beside the bed: 5:16 A.M. She rose, put on her robe, went down to the kitchen, and poured herself an iced tea. After some hesitation, she picked up the wall phone and called police headquarters.
Sergeant Blake speaking, Mrs. Baxter.
She knew that her phone number, name, and address appeared on some sort of screen when she dialed, and that annoyed her. Cliff wasn't comfortable with a lot of new technology, but he intuitively recognized the possibilities of the most sinister, Orwellian gadgets available to the otherwise Stone Age police force of Spencerville.
Everything okay, Mrs. Baxter?
Yes. I'd like to speak to my husband.
Well . . . he's out making the rounds.
Then I'll call him on the car phone. Thank you.
Well, hold on, let's see, he might be . . . I had some trouble raising him before. The storm, you know? I'll try to get him on the radio and tell him to call you. Anything we can do?
No, you've done enough. She hung up and dialed his car phone. After four rings, a recorded voice said the call could not be completed. She hung up and went into the basement. Part of the basement was the laundry room, another part was Cliff's den, carpeted, and finished in pine paneling. On his escorted house tours, he liked to point to the laundry room and say, Her office, then to his den and say, My office.
She went into his office and turned on the lights. A dozen mounted animal heads stared down at her from the walls, glassy-eyed, with the trace of a smile around their mouths, as though they were happy to have been killed by Cliff Baxter. The taxidermist, or her husband, had a sick sense of humor; probably both of them did.
The police radio crackled on a countertop, and she heard a patrol car talking clearly to headquarters with not much storm static. She didn't hear Sergeant Blake inquiring about Chief Baxter.
She contemplated the wall-mounted gun rack. A braided metal cord ran through the trigger guards of the dozen rifles and shotguns, through an angle iron, and ended in a loop secured by a heavy padlock.
Annie went into the workshop, took a hacksaw, and returned to the gun rack. She pulled the metal cord taut and began sawing. The braided wire began to fray, then the cord separated, and she pulled it loose from the trigger guards. She chose a 12-gauge double-barreled Browning, found the boxes of shotgun shells in a drawer, and slid a heavy-load, steel-shot shell into each of the two chambers.
Annie shouldered the shotgun and went up the stairs into the kitchen. She put the shotgun on the kitchen table and poured herself another glass of iced tea.
The wall phone rang, and she answered it. Hello.
Hello, baby doll. You lookin' for me?
Yes.
So, what's cookin', good-lookin?
She could tell by the static that he was calling from his car phone. She replied, I couldn't sleep.
Well, hell, time to rise and shine anyway. What's for breakfast?
I thought you'd stop at Park 'n' Eat for breakfast. She added, Their eggs, bacon, potatoes, and coffee are better than mine.
Where'd you get that idea?
From you and your mother.
He laughed. Hey, I'm about five minutes away. Put on the coffee.
Where were you tonight?
There was a half-second pause, then he replied, I don't ever want to hear that kind of question from you or nobody. He hung up.
She sat at the kitchen table and laid the shotgun in her lap. She sipped her iced tea and waited.
The minutes dragged by. She said aloud, So, Mrs. Baxter, you thought it was an intruder?
She replied, Yes, that's right.
But there was no forced entry, ma'am, and you knew the chief was on his way home. You had to have cut the cord, ma'am, long before you heard a noise at the door, so it kinda looks premeditated. Like you was layin' in wait for him.
Nonsense. I loved my husband. Who didn't love him?
Well, ain't nobody I know who did love him. Least of all you.
Annie
smiled grimly. That's right. I waited for him and blew his fat ass into the next county. So what?
Annie thought about Keith Landry, about the possibility of him being dead, laid out at Gibbs Funeral Home. Excuse me, Mrs. Baxter, that's Parlor B, a Mr. Landry. Mr. Baxter is in Parlor A, ma'am.
But what if Keith wasn't dead? Did that make a difference? Maybe she should wait to hear for sure. And how about Tom and Wendy? This was their father. She vacillated and considered putting the shotgun back in the basement, and would have, except he'd see the cut cord and know why.
The police car pulled into the gravel drive, and she heard the car door open and shut, then his footsteps coming up the porch, and she saw him at the back door window, putting the key in the lock.
The door opened, and Cliff Baxter entered the dark kitchen, silhouetted by the back porch light. He was wiping his face and hands with a handkerchief, then sniffed at his fingers and turned toward the sink.
Annie said, Good morning.
He swung around and peered into the dark alcove where she sat at the table. Oh . . . there you are. Don't smell no coffee.
I guess not, if you're smelling your fingers.
There was no reply.
Annie said, Turn on the light.
Cliff went back to the door, found the switch, and the kitchen fluorescents flickered on. He said, You got a problem, lady?
No, sir, you have the problem.
I ain't got no problem.
Where were you?
Cut the shit and put on the coffee. He walked a few steps toward the hallway.
Annie raised the shotgun from her lap and laid it on the table, pointed toward him. Stop. Back up.
Cliff stared at the gun, then said softly, Take your hand away from the trigger.
Where were you tonight?
On the job. On the goddamn job, tryin' to earn a goddamn livin', which is more than you do.
I'm not allowed to get a paying job. I have to do volunteer work at the hospital thrift shop down the street from the police station where you can keep an eye on me. Remember?
You hand me that shotgun, and we'll just forget this happened. He took a tentative step toward her and reached out with his hand.
Annie stood and raised the gun to her shoulder, cocking both hammers.
The loud metallic clicks caused Cliff to back up into the door. Hey! Hey! He put his hands to his front in a protective gesture. Now sweetheart . . . that's . . . that's dangerous. That's a hair trigger . . . you breathe and that's gonna go off . . . you point that away—
Shut up. Where were you tonight?
He took a deep breath and controlled his voice. I told you. Cars stuck and stalled, bridge over Hoop's Creek is out, panicky old widows callin' all night—
Liar.
Look . . . look at these wet clothes . . . see the mud on my shoes . . . ? I was helpin' people all night. Now, come on, honey, you just got yourself all worked up.
Annie glanced at his wet cuffs and shoes and wondered if he was telling the truth this time.
Cliff went on in a soothing tone, using every term of endearment he could think of. Now, sweetheart, darlin', that thing's gonna go off, baby, and I ain't done nothin', sugar . . .
Annie saw that he was truly frightened, but oddly, she wasn't enjoying this reversal of roles. In fact, she didn't want him to beg; she just wanted him dead. But she couldn't just kill him in cold blood. The shotgun was getting heavy. She said to him, Go for your gun, Cliff.
He stopped speaking and stared at her.
Go on. Do you want people to know you died with your gun in your holster?
Cliff took a shallow breath, and his tongue flicked across his dry lips. Annie . . .
Coward! Coward! Coward!
A clap of thunder exploded close by, startling Cliff Baxter, who jumped, then went for his gun.
Annie fired both barrels, and the recoil knocked her back against the wall.
The deafening blasts died away but still echoed in her ears. Annie dropped the shotgun. The room was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder, and plaster dust floated down from the gaping hole in the ceiling above where Cliff lay on the floor.
Cliff Baxter got up slowly, on one knee, knocking chunks of plaster and wood lathing off his head and shoulders. Annie saw that he'd wet his pants.
He checked to see that his pistol was in his holster, then glanced up at the ceiling. Still brushing himself off, he stood and walked toward her. She noticed he was trembling, and she wondered what was going to happen next, but she didn't much care.
He walked right past her, picked up the wall phone, and dialed. Yeah, Blake, it's me. He cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice. Yeah, had a little accident cleaning a gun. If you get any calls from the neighbors, you explain . . . Yeah, everything's fine. See ya. He hung up and turned to Annie. Well, now.
She had no trouble looking him right in the eye, but she noticed he had trouble maintaining eye contact. Also, she thought his order of priorities was interesting: control and contain the situation so as to protect himself, his image, his job. She had no delusions that he was protecting her from the wrath of the law. But that's what he'd say.
As if on cue, he said, You tried to kill me. I could arrest you.
Actually, I fired over your head and you know it. But go ahead and take me to jail.
You bitch. You— He made a threatening move toward her, and his face reddened, but Annie stood her ground, knowing that ironically it was his badge that kept her from a beating. He knew it, too, and she took a little pleasure in watching him bursting with impotent rage. But one day, she knew, he'd snap. Meanwhile, she hoped he would drop dead with a stroke.
He backed her into a corner, pulled open her robe, then put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed the spot where the shotgun had recoiled.
A blinding pain shot through her body, and her knees buckled. She found herself kneeling on the floor, and she could smell the urine on him. She closed her eyes and turned away, but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face toward him. See what you done? You proud of yourself, bitch? I'll bet you are. Now, we're gonna even the score. We're gonna stay right here like this until you piss your pants, and I don't care if it takes all goddamn day. So, if you got it in you, get it over with. I'm waitin'.
Annie put her hands over her face and shook her head, tears coming to her eyes.
I'm waitin'.
There was a sharp rap on the back door, and Cliff spun around. Officer Kevin Ward's face peered through the glass. Cliff bellowed, Get the hell out of here!
Ward turned quickly and left, but Annie thought he saw that his boss's pants were wet. For sure he saw the plaster dust covering Cliff's face and hair and her behind Cliff, kneeling on the floor. Good.
Cliff turned his attention back to his wife. You satisfied now, bitch? You satisfied!
She stood quickly. Get away from me, or so help me God, I'll call the state police.
You do, I'll kill you.
I don't care. She fastened her robe around her.
Cliff Baxter stared at her, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. From long experience, she knew it was time to end this confrontation, and she knew how to end it. She said nothing, just stood still, tears running down her face, then she dropped her head and looked at the floor, wondering why she hadn't blown a hole in him.
Cliff let a minute go by, then, satisfied that the pecking order was reestablished to his liking, that all was right with the world again, he put his finger under her chin and raised her head. Okay, I'm gonna let you off easy, sweetie pie. You clean up this here mess, and you make me a nice breakfast. You got about half an hour.
He turned to leave, then came back, took the shotgun, and left.
She heard his footsteps going up the stairs, then a few minutes later, heard the shower running.
She found some aspirin in the cupboard and took two with a full glass of water, then washed her face and hands in the kitchen sink, then went down into the basement.
Annie made coffee, heated the frying pan, added bacon, swept up the plaster and put it out into the trash can, then washed the kitchen counter and floor.
Cliff came down, dressed in a clean uniform, and she noticed that he entered the kitchen carefully, his gun belt and holster slung over his shoulder and his hand casually on the pistol grip. He sat at the table, his gun belt looped over the chair instead of on the wall peg. Before he could react, she grabbed the gun belt and put it on the peg. She said, No guns at my table.
The moment was not lost on Cliff Baxter, and, after an initial look of panic, he forced a stupid grin.
Annie poured him juice and coffee, then fried his eggs with potatoes and bacon, and put the toast in. She served him his breakfast, and he said, Sit down.
She sat across from him.
He smiled as he ate and said, Lose your appetite?
I ate.
He spoke as he chewed. I'm gonna leave the guns and the ammo and everything down there. More coffee.
She stood and poured him more coffee.
He continued, Because I don't think you got it in you to kill me.
If I did, I could buy a gun anywhere.
Yeah, true. But you can keep buyin' guns and stealin' guns and borrowin' guns, and it don't matter. I'm not afraid of you, darlin'.
She knew he was trying to reclaim his manhood after the pants wetting. She let him do what he had to do so he'd just get out of the house.
He continued, I went for my gun, didn't I? I didn't have a chance in hell, but I went for it.
Yes. True, she thought, he was more stupid than she'd imagined. An intelligent man knew he had at least a fifty-fifty chance of talking his wife out of shooting him, and less than a million-to-one chance of drawing against a pointed and cocked shotgun. But Cliff Baxter was short on brains and long on ego. One day, she hoped, that would get him killed.
He said, You're wonderin' if I'd of killed you.
I don't really care.