Line of Vision Page 7

  Jesus. They’re talking like it’s a given Rachel had a guy on the side. I swallow hard and try to keep my voice steady. “I highly doubt Rachel is capable of adultery.” Rachel, not Mrs. Reinardt. Now I’m calling the person I hardly know by her first name. “Listen, I would love to help you guys. The Reinardts are good people who have done a lot for this city. But I couldn’t possibly think of anyone who would want to hurt them.” I look at Nicholaos, then Cummings. I pray that we are done. “I mean, we were talking about that. They’re such nice people. Who would want to hurt them?”

  “Who’s we?” Cummings asks.

  Fuck me. “Just some friends.”

  “Friends with names?”

  “Well, I mean, I was talking to Jerry Lazarus”—Nicholaos scribbles the name—“and Nate Hornsby.” I watch the detective write these names.

  The junior detective looks up. “How do you spell Hornsby?”

  “H-O-R—you should already have his name. He’s in the foundation.”

  “H-O-R . . .”

  “N-S-B-Y.”

  “Anyone else? Besides Jerry Lazarus and Nate—Hornsby?”

  “Umm. No. That’s about it.”

  Nicholaos nods his head. He claps his hands down on his knees and stands up. “Okay, Mr. Kalish. We appreciate your time.”

  Cummings is still seated. “You’ll let us know if you think of anything.” It is not a request.

  “Of course,” I say as I stand up. “I wish I could’ve been more help.” I wonder just how much help I’ve been.

  8

  SATURDAY NIGHT CONSISTS OF MICROWAVE POPCORN and movies I taped off cable, a typically pathetic weekend night. I start with an old comedy to take my mind off more sober matters, but I can’t shake the overall tension. The cops shook me up today. I try to put myself in their shoes, imagine what they thought of me.

  I turn off the tape and start watching a late-night police show. The lead detectives are two handsome guys with expensive haircuts and inane dialogue. They pull up to the killer’s house with a paddy wagon full of cops. The sirens are blazing all around.

  The first siren had come much earlier than I expected. I was off the Reinardts’ estate and in the woods when I heard it. I stopped in my tracks and turned, at least as much as I could turn with Dr. Reinardt’s body slumped over my shoulder.

  I listened for a moment. Just one siren. Just one police car.

  How had they gotten here so fast?

  Run.

  I took off through the woods again, through the branches that smacked me in the face, over the rough earth littered with tree roots and rocks, even a stray toy wagon some kid left here all winter that I kicked about ten feet in the air. The doctor’s arms flopped lifelessly against my back, his chin bobbing on my shoulder as I ran. I wanted to stop and listen but didn’t dare. My head was bent down; through the wind, I tried to keep my eyes on the narrow dirt path that spiraled through the woods. I ran as hard as I could, trying to keep my balance but too afraid to slow down enough to be careful.

  The wind slammed against my chest, blowing down through my shirt onto my skin. My leather coat was now being worn by the corpse on my shoulder, and all I had on was a thin flannel. The doctor was sliding off my shoulder. I jumped up and lifted him back over my shoulder. He was so heavy.

  I’ve got to find a place to dump him, I thought. Where?

  There was a clearing up ahead. It was the one I used to get to my house, a block over. Couldn’t leave him there. Keep running. The people who lived by the woods here had a bright light on the back of their house, which shone in my face momentarily.

  Keep running.

  The woods were thinner here, and I could see all the houses as I ran. My legs were giving out, but I had to keep on. It was too well lit here.

  But I couldn’t. I stopped and listened. No sirens.

  Where was I?

  I didn’t recognize the house I was behind. But the one next door to it . . .

  Yes. Mrs. Krannert’s house. A sweet old widow. She wouldn’t be awake now.

  I carried Dr. Reinardt behind her house. I slipped my way through the trees. She had a brightly lit backyard, but so did everyone else living by these woods, and I was running out of options.

  I climbed the hill and dropped the doctor by a row of hedges that separated her yard from the neighbors’. I squatted next to the doctor and listened again for the sirens.

  So much for taking my mind off things. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my shirt. I wander to the kitchen and grab a bottle of Jack and a glass.

  I pass the bathroom on the way to the living room and stop at my reflection in the mirror. It’s dark enough that the finer features aren’t apparent. My face is drawn from lack of sleep; the skin has that almost leathery look that first appeared sometime after my twenty-ninth birthday. The eyes are set back, hollow, my hair falling lifelessly to my eyes.

  It’s going to be like this from now on, I realize. Everything is going to remind me of that night. Any flashing light, siren, popping sound, scream, bruise, cut, blood. Bottle of scotch, long black hair, belt, flannel, sweatshirt, carpet, window, curtain, wind, cold.

  Dirt, shovel, plastic.

  The whiskey is warm in my throat. I sit back on my couch and stare at the dark TV set, at my ghoulish reflection.

  The doctor looked at me as he lay on the carpet, his eyes wide open, intense, searching my face. I realized after a moment that he didn’t see me at all. He was looking through me. His chest, split open and bloody, heaved slowly and deeply. His mouth, which was parted slightly, let out a low sound. A muffled sound. A gurgling sound. A trickle of blood spilled from his lip and down his cheek. His hands gripped the long hairs of the carpet. His right knee raised up; his foot pushed against the carpet. But it didn’t catch. It just slipped, and his leg went flat.

  I raised the gun up again so he could see it one last time. But his eyes were still.

  I bring down the glass with a clank on the table and pour a second drink. My throat is raw now, and the whiskey ain’t helping.

  I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have killed someone. Not the feeling of committing the act—that never really interested me—but after. Of carrying that little secret, wondering who knows what, playing the little games with everyone.

  I always thought that this would be something I could never live with. That in the end, the better part of myself would force me to come clean. That some inner spirit, some force within that I have never known, would rise up and take hold of me.

  Now I know. I can live with this. There will be no thumping heart calling to me from the floorboards. No voice tormenting me. No ghosts.

  I have crossed over that line, that infinitely thin, often shifting line that separates the acceptable and the unacceptable, the line that so many approach, fantasize about, flirt with—don’t we all flirt with these thoughts?—maybe even want to cross, but don’t. Don’t dare. That one moment, that exhilirating, split-second surrender to impulse, and I have crossed the line, never to look back. I will always be a criminal now. My actions may or may not ever come to light—I may or may not be judged—but either way, this is who I am now. And after a day and a half, after getting through Friday and a visit from Highland Woods’s finest, I review my new position. The first day of the rest of this life.

  Everything is different.

  My senses are heightened. The air is clearer. The colors are brighter. The smells are more delicious, or more foul. There is no such thing as calm now, maybe a dulled awareness at times, but not calm. Because inside me, I have this knowledge, this little pilot light, that is waiting to be fanned by any reminder of the doctor, of Rachel, of that night.

  I will live with Dr. Reinardt the rest of my life. I will remember November 18 every day, maybe every hour, that I live. I will hear the shattering of the glass door as I hurled the picnic bench against it. I will see the flash from the gun that first knocked Dr. Reinardt to the carpet. I will feel the gun itself, heavy in m
y hand. I will smell the gunpowder, the putrid odor coming from the doctor’s ripped chest. I will see Rachel, cowering against the oak cabinets, pale, trembling, not knowing what I would do, but not stopping me, either.

  I look back at the blank television. I move the bottle of Jack so it blocks my reflection.

  In the end, my instinct will be the same. Survival. I will resume my typical mortal concerns. Food, sleep, sex, work. (Not in that order.) I will make partner at McHenry Stern. I will continue my modest bachelor ways and save up, so I can retire at forty-five and move to some island. I will still send money every month to my sister and tell myself that I have done my part for her. I will make my goal of running the marathon. And eventually, someday, I will move on. The memories will be there, but they will be diluted.

  The third drink goes down much smoother. I put the glass down and grab the bottle by the neck, then raise it in a toast to Rachel. This is our bond now. However we may be apart in the end, however many years will separate our lives, we will always have this. We will always share this moment. This is our bond, Rachel. For better or worse.

  9

  FAR AS I CAN TELL, THE COPS HAVE LITTLE TO show after the first full week following Dr. Reinardt’s disappearance. The Sunday paper ran a big article on it. Actually, there were two stories. One was on home security, how the break-in at the Reinardt house was opening some eyes. No neighborhood is safe, if not one in Highland Woods. The other piece was on just the Reinardt case. The police were beginning to rule out kidnapping, the paper said, given the lack of a ransom demand. Interesting.

  The Monday Watch didn’t discuss the case. On Tuesday, there was another good-sized article. The police were shooting blanks, and the reaction from the community was less than tolerant. Dr. Reinardt was one of the most celebrated people in the area. More to the point, this was a respectable doctor who was attacked in a white upper-class suburb. Rich folks don’t like the thought of being vulnerable in their own homes. Elected mayors and prosecutors don’t like their rich constituents feeling unsafe.

  The police chief has been on the news every night, looking grave and increasingly exasperated. At first, the County Attorney, Phillip Everett, played to the cameras as well. Everett is a handsome, fair-haired man in his late thirties who first ran for public office immediately after graduating law school. After a couple of two-year terms in the state legislature, he ran for County Attorney with the backing of the outgoing guy. He was elected in a surprising landslide, immediately fueling speculation of higher ambitions. He is now serving his second term as the county’s top prosecutor and, by all accounts, is ready to go higher. A high-profile murder two years before the next U.S. Senate seat opens up is quite an opportunity. The current senator is widely expected to retire after one question too many about his personal finances, and no successor has jumped out of the pack, just a bunch of formers and saps with family names, circling the ring with hat in hand and one eye on the other guys. Everett will be the hero who makes the rich folks feel safe again.

  But as the investigation has worn on with little progress, Everett has played hide-and-seek. He’ll be there if a lead breaks, but will lay low until—if—that happens.

  The media as a whole is beginning to pay less attention to the investigation. The blood has dried, there are better and more gruesome stories to cover. The less I read in the paper and hear on the tube, the stronger I feel. By today, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I have decided that I am up to making my annual trip to my sister’s.

  I lean back in my recliner and kick my feet up, letting the scotch settle in my gut.

  My visit to my sister will be tomorrow. Tonight is for Rachel. Tonight Rachel will be dressed in a long fur coat. She will enter the house without invitation, will find me here in the family room. She will take the remote from my hand and kill the television. Then she will turn on the stereo for soft jazz. She will take the bottle from my hands and bring it to her lips. She will take a sip, close her eyes, and wet her lips, savoring the liquor. She will raise a heel on the recliner, revealing for the first time her long, naked leg through the full-length coat.

  Do you want to touch me?

  I will start to answer, but she’ll bring a finger to her lips.

  Where?

  Where do you want to touch me?

  I will show her. I will show her, over and over again, where I want to touch her.

  10

  JAMISON KALISH LEYDEN LIVES IN EVEREST PARK, A good ten hours away, with her two children. She and her husband divorced just over a year ago. The kids are four and eight now, real bundles of energy, and the apple of Jamie’s eye.

  I drove, believing for some reason that it would be therapeutic. And like my father used to, I honk as I pull into the driveway. Jeannette, the little one, is out the door before anyone. A little ball of fire with red pigtails and pink-and-white overalls, she dutifully holds the railing as she comes down the concrete steps to the driveway. I pop out of the car to meet her. She yells, I yell. I gather her in my arms. She squeals and gives me a big kiss, complete with a trace of jelly left over from lunch. I carry her up the steps to the porch and see a boy with a red-and-black basketball T-shirt. Tommy has grown an inch or two since this time last year. At eight, his height has outrun his weight; he is as skinny as I was at that age but with much curlier hair. He throws me a high five, and I pull him against me for a brief hug. He’s glad to see me, but by his ripe age is too cool to show much outward affection for an adult. “Mom!” Tommy calls out. “Uncle Marty’s here!”

  My sister, Jamie, comes out of the kitchen, and despite myself I see my mother. Jamie has inherited her slim build and striking green eyes, Dad’s red hair. She smiles sweetly and gives me a big hug. I hold her for a long time. It’s always good to see my little sister, but this time seems especially powerful. I stifle the instinct to cry. Times are tough for her, and I haven’t exactly enjoyed the past few weeks myself. I am instantly glad I made the trip.

  After settling in, I help Jamie in the kitchen. As much as I can, anyway; I slice potatoes. Jeannette, feeling left out, wants to help, too. She’s put in charge of folding the napkins.

  “So how’s the life of a high-powered investment banker?” Jamie asks, as she works on the stuffing. She is petite and athletic, still looking pretty toned after two kids and a nightmare schedule. Her red hair, with new strands of gray, is up in a ponytail.

  “Glamorous,” I say. “There really is nothing more fulfilling than knowing I helped a millionaire buy a few thousand more acres of land. How ’bout here?”

  Jamie smiles. “We’re doing okay,” says my little sister, as if she’s trying to convince herself. “He’s doing better.” Tommy had a rough go of it when his father left. The school year—first grade—started for him just after his dad moved out, and he would have been better off with a little adjustment before he began.

  “I’m in nursery school,” Jeannette announces.

  I turn to her. “You are? What do you do in class?”

  She straightens up. “We paint, and we build, and we draw, and, and we color, and we have story time.” I am visibly impressed.

  “What does Mrs. Terry say about your drawing, Jeannette?” Mom asks.

  “Mrs. Terry says I’m a good artist.” She is glowing. Oh, this little kid.

  I reach for her nose. “Maybe you could draw something for me.” This lights her up. She looks just like her mother, I realize, not just the red hair but her big green eyes. The Kalish women, striking features and luminous hair, all of them. She climbs down from the chair all by herself and runs upstairs to compose her masterpiece.

  “Maybe after dinner,” Mom says.

  Thanksgiving dinner is the first real home-cooked meal I have eaten since—well, since the last time I was here. The menu at chez Marty is, I suppose, your basic bachelor fare. Mac-and-cheese, frozen pizza, pasta with red sauce, Chinese ordered in. Tonight we dine in the small living room next to the kitchen. The table isn’t big enough to hold all the foo
d, so Jamie leaves some of it in the kitchen after everyone is served. This house is quite a bit smaller than the one they lived in before Billy left. I am filled with pity and admiration for Jamie, watching her make due with these rather cramped quarters, trying so hard and wanting so much for her children.

  Tommy eats sparingly, picking at his plate and humming a song to himself. He participates in the conversation when required, throwing standard one-liners to every query I throw him. What’s he been up to? Not much. School? It’s fine. His favorite subject? Geography is okay. The only hint of animation he shows is when we talk basketball, so we talk about his team and college ball. Tommy looks like his father, watery blue eyes, sandy, curly hair, and the lean build. He has his dad’s sour outlook, too, though I suspect this is less inherited than experiential. He’s seen a lot more than many eight-year-olds. He took the brunt of his parents’ marital difficulties in a way that Jeannie, then three years old, couldn’t. This time last year when I saw him, he was brash and moody, an attention-getter. Now he’s reserved, more mature, and maybe more troubled.

  Even for kids as well behaved as these, your basic dinner is a chore for Mom. Jamie serves and cuts all of Jeannette’s food, which consists of white meat and a roll with brown gravy spilled over it. She wipes Jeannie’s mouth, cleans her up when something spills on her lap and she starts crying. I swear, Jamie spends more time watching her children eat than she does eating her own food. No wonder she’s so thin.

  Tommy and I have dishes detail, while Mommy helps Jeannie with her artwork for my review. I hand Tommy the dishes, he loads.

  “Got a girlfriend?” I ask. Now that the girls are away, we can get down to it.

  “Gross.”

  Or maybe not. “Play some one-on-one tomorrow?”