Spencerville (15 page)

As Keith pulled away from the church. Obviously, he thought, there was nothing simple about a simple rural community. In fact, life was simpler in the big city. Here, they cared about your soul and made you think about it, too, and that really got complicated.

Keith drove along the dark country road. He knew that the police could stop him anytime, anyplace, on any pretext, and he'd resigned himself to that. He'd been in the hands of the police in other countries, and he knew the drill, knew when they just wanted to scare you and when they intended to knock you around. He'd never had the experience of being really tortured and obviously hadn't faced a firing squad, though there was one time in Burma, years ago, when he knew they were talking about it.

Being a veteran of a few arrests, he couldn't imagine that the Spencerville police station could hold many terrors for him, but you never knew what they had on their minds until you got there and saw how they were acting. A more unsettling scenario than the unlikely possibility of dying in police custody was the more likely possibility of dying trying to escape arrest, which was far more common in the civilized countries. Keith didn't imagine that there'd be much of an inquiry if he was shot on a country road, especially if the police put a weapon in his hands after he was dead. But they'd have to supply their own weapon to plant, because he didn't have his with him, though he wished he did.

But was this police force that far down the road toward criminality and viciousness? He thought not, but Cliff Baxter certainly was, especially after being baited by Keith Landry.

He glanced in his rearview mirror but didn't see any headlights. He turned onto a series of farm roads and took an indirect way back to his house. The bottom line, though, was that there was only one road that passed his farm and one way in. If they were at all bright, they'd simply wait for him at either end of that road.

As he drove, he thought about what he'd heard in the church and in the parsonage, not to mention what happened outside. It all came down to Cliff Baxter, this sort of evil fog that covered the once sunny and happy countryside.

Enter the hero, the savior. "No. Exit the hero. Everyone here will get what they deserve, for better or worse." Wilkes was right. Leave it to God, or to Annie, or to the Porters, whoever acted first. "Do not get ego-involved in this."

"Here's the question, Landry — if Annie were not the wife of Cliff Baxter, would you take on this fight in the interest of justice?"

Well, he thought, he'd done that often enough, though he'd gotten paid for it. But there wasn't enough money involved for the risks he'd taken. Obviously, he'd been motivated by patriotism and a sense of justice. But when that waned, he'd been motivated by a selfish desire for adventure and career advancement, and that wasn't enough. Here, in Spencerville, he found he could accomplish several objectives with one act: By killing Baxter, he could do the town and himself a favor, free Annie, and then perhaps have Annie. But that didn't seem like the right thing for the right reasons, no matter how he dissected it.

He found himself on the road that led to Route 28, his road. Rather than get onto 28, he swung the Blazer off the road and followed a dirt tractor path that crossed the Mullet farm through the cornfields. He put the Blazer into four-wheel drive and navigated by the dashboard compass, eventually making his way onto his property, which was planted with the Mullets' corn, and within ten minutes, he came out into the clearing of his own farmyard near the barn.

He shut off his headlights, turned toward the house, and parked near the back door.

Keith got out, unlocked the door, and went into the dark kitchen. Feeling both foolish and angry, he left the lights off and listened. He knew he wouldn't be doing much night driving anymore, and if he did, he'd take the Glock or the M-16 with him.

He considered going upstairs and getting his pistol, but his instincts told him it was safe, or if it wasn't, he'd be better off here in the kitchen, near the door. He opened the refrigerator and got a beer.

"So, should I turn the other cheek and leave, as Wilkes suggested?" But this was not what his life had been about.

He opened the beer and, still standing, took a long drink. "Or do I stalk Baxter instead of the other way around? I catch him coming out of one of his girlfriends' houses and cut his throat. A little wet stuff, one more time. Yeah, people think I did it, but there're a thousand other suspects, and no one's going to look too closely at it."

Sounded good, but that left a widow and two fatherless children, and maybe you didn't kill a man for being a bad husband, a corrupt cop, and a bully. "But why not? I've killed better men for less reason."

He finished the beer and got himself another one. "No, I can't murder the son-of-a-bitch. I just can't do it. So I have to leave." He went to the kitchen table and, by the faint light from the back door and window, he looked for the letter he'd left on the table, but didn't see it. He turned on the light hanging over the table and searched the chairs and the floor, but the letter was gone.

Alert now, he shut off the light and put the beer can down. He listened, but there was no sound. It occurred to him that Aunt Betty or any of that crowd may have come by to clean or deliver food. They'd seen the letter, took it, and mailed it. But that didn't seem likely.

If there was anyone still in the house, they knew he was there. He could forget about the guns upstairs, because even if he made it that far, the guns wouldn't be there any longer.

He moved quietly toward the back door and put his hand on the knob.

He heard a familiar squeak from the direction of the living room, then heard it again. He turned from the back door, went into the hallway, which was empty, and entered the living room, where the constant squeak came from. He turned on the floor lamp and said, "How long have you been here?"

"About an hour."

"How did you get in?"

"The key was in the toolshed, under the workbench, where it's been for a hundred years."

He looked at her, sitting in the rocker, wearing jeans and a pullover. The letter was in her lap.

She said, "I thought you'd be home, but you weren't, and I almost left, then I remembered the key, and I decided to surprise you."

"I'm surprised." But somehow he'd known it was her in the living room.

"Do you mind that I came into the house?"

"No."

"It still feels like my second home."

Keith had the distinct feeling this was not real, that it was a dream, and he tried to remember when he'd gone to sleep.

She asked, "Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"I thought I heard you talking in the kitchen, so I just sat here, quiet as a mouse."

"I'm alone. I talk to myself. Where's your car?"

"In the barn."

"Good thinking. Where is Mr. Baxter?"

"At a city council meeting."

"And where are you?"

"At Aunt Louise's."

"I see... did you hear what I was saying?"

I could only hear the tone. "Are you angry about something?"

"No, I just argue with myself."

"Who won?"

"The good angel."

"But you looked troubled."

"That's because the good angel won."

She smiled. "Well, I argued with myself about coming here. This is not a chance meeting on the street."

"No, it's not."

She held up the letter. "It was addressed to me, so..."

"Yes, that's all right. Saved me a stamp."

She stood and came toward him. "And, yes, I do understand. You're right. We can't... you remember that poem we both liked? 'Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind."

She added, "I think we liked it because we knew we were going to be star-crossed lovers, and that poem was our comfort..." She hesitated, then leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek, saying, "Goodbye, darling." She walked past him and into the hallway.

He heard her go into the kitchen and heard the back door open and close. Be strong, be noble, be brave. But don't be a complete idiot. He turned and moved quickly into the kitchen as the screen door shut. "Wait!"

She turned as he came out the door and she said, "No, Keith. Please. You're right. This won't work. We can't... it's too complicated... we've been fooling ourselves..."

"No, listen... we have to... we need to understand... I have to know what happened... I mean..." He couldn't find any of the words he wanted or needed, then said, "Annie, we're not going to just walk away again."

She took a deep breath and said, "I can't stay here. I mean outside."

"Come in. Please."

She thought a moment, then came back into the kitchen.

He said, "Can you stay awhile?"

"Yes, all right... we'll finally have that cup of coffee. Where's the pot?"

"I don't want coffee. I need a drink." He turned on the small light over the sink, went to the cupboard, and took his bottle of Scotch down. "Want one?"

"No, and neither do you."

"Right." He put the bottle back. "You make me nervous."

"You're nervous? I can hear my heart beating, and my knees are shaking."

"Me, too. Do you want to sit?"

"No."

"Well... look, I know the risk you took coming here..."

"I took two risks, Keith. One, that I wasn't followed, the other, that I wouldn't get my heart broken. No, I'm sorry, I can't put that on you."

"Don't be sorry. I'm glad you came. I'm more than glad. Look, I wrote that letter..."

"Don't explain. I understand. Really."

They stood looking at each other across the kitchen, then Keith said, "This is not the way I pictured this."

"How did you picture it?"

He hesitated, then walked to her and took her in his arms. "Like this."

They embraced and kissed, and he remembered exactly how she felt in his arms, how she smelled, how she tasted, and how her mouth and body moved against his.

She pulled away, then buried her face in his shoulder. She was crying, he realized, her body trembled, then shook convulsively. She couldn't stop crying, and he didn't know what to do, but he held her close against him.

Finally, she backed away and pulled a tissue out of her jeans, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then laughed. "Oh, God... look at me... I knew this would happen... don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing." He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her cheeks. "My God, you're beautiful."

"Sure. My nose is running." She wiped her nose, then looked up at him. "Well..." She cleared her throat. "Well, Mr. Landry, I enjoyed seeing you again. Will you walk me to my car?"

"Don't leave."

"I have to."

"Will he call your aunt's house after the meeting?"

"Yes."

"What will she say?"

"That I'm on the way home. I told Cliff my car phone wasn't working, so he can't call me. My aunt will call here."

"She knows where you are?"

"Yes. Please answer it and tell her I'm on the way home."

"Why don't we just wait for her phone call?"

"Because I want to leave now."

"Why?"

"Because... I mean, we can talk another time... we have to talk, but I don't want anything to happen tonight."

He smiled. "That's exactly what you said to me when you were sixteen, the night we lost our virginity."

"Well, this time I mean it." She laughed. "God help me, I can't keep my hands off you."

They embraced again and kissed. She put her cheek on his chest and said, "Just hold me."

He held her and ran his fingers through her hair.

Her face still against his chest, she said, "I was going to go up into your bedroom and really surprise you."

He didn't reply.

"Then I thought to myself, what if he brings someone home? What if he has someone up there?"

"No. No one up there, and no one since I came back."

"Not for lack of admirers, from what I hear."

"Well, I don't hear anything, and I'm minding my own business."

"Good." She added, "You don't have to... I mean, it's all right if you... this is silly, you know, because it's none of my business..."

"Annie, there's only you."

She hugged him tighter, then stood on her toes and began kissing him on the cheeks, on the lips, on his forehead and neck. She said, "I guess I'm not good at hiding my feelings. I should be a little less obvious. How should I play this, Keith?"

"Let's try honesty this time."

"Okay. I love you. I've always loved you."

"I love you and always have. That's why I came back. I can't get you out of my mind."

"I curse the day I let you go."

"You didn't. I left. I should have asked you to marry me." He looked at her. "What would you have said?"

"I'd have said no."

"Why?"

"Because you wanted to go. You were bored, Keith. You watched your friends go off to war, you were obsessed with the war news on TV. I saw that. And you wanted other women."

"No."

"Keith."

"Well... wanting and doing are two different things."

"I know, and you would never have cheated on me, and you'd resent a life without some sexual adventure. God, Keith, everyone else was doing it with everyone else, except us."

He tried to make a joke and said, "I'm not too sure about you."

She smiled, then said, "Can I be honest? I wanted to try other men. We both wanted to experiment, but we couldn't because we had an understanding, a commitment. We were two country kids, crazy in love, having sex and feeling guilty about it, but wanting other people and feeling even more guilty about that. I mean, in some ways, we were more than married."

"I think you're right." He smiled. "So you wanted other men?"

"Sometimes. Am I blushing?"

"A little." He thought a moment, then asked, "What should we have done?"

"We didn't have to do anything. The world did it for us. To us."

"I suppose. But why didn't we get together again?"