Bill Pronzini - Mourners

“Sure. Worry mode tonight.”

“Go ahead then?”

“Go. Let me know when you’re finished.”

I sat fidgeting, paying too much attention to the time, thinking that I ought to call home again and telling myself to quit worrying for no good reason. Eight thirty wasn’t late; if Kerry and Emily weren’t home by ten or eleven, that was the time to start fingering the panic button.

Less than half an hour dribbled away before Troxell trudged back to his car. Too cold on the beach tonight even for him. Go home now, brother, I thought, when he headed out of the lot.

And that was what he did.

They were at the condo when I got there, both of them. Relief didn’t hang around long; as soon as I knew they were safe, it gave way to a simmer of other emotions, one of them being low-grade anger. I had a headache, I was hungry, I wanted a beer and some aspirin and some food and some explanations. I got all of that, more or less, but none of it made me feel any better.

Kerry was sitting in her recliner in the living room, in the dark, alone except for Shameless curled up in her lap, the drapes open over the picture window and the lights of the city shining hard and bright in the distance. Emily was in her room with the door shut; I could see the light under the door. I called out to Kerry, got a lackluster response, and detoured into the kitchen. No dinner waiting, hot or cold. So I washed down three aspirin with a long draught from a bottle of Sierra Nevada, ate a cold chicken leg and a couple of carrots out of the refrigerator. Elegant dining in the bosom of home. Then, bottle in hand, I went into the living room to have a little fireside chat with my mate.

As far as I could tell she hadn’t shifted position. When I switched on one of the table lamps I saw that she was sitting half-slouched, a sloppy posture she almost never adopts, and that she had a glass of white wine in one hand. She glanced up, favored me with a skeletal smile, and refocused her attention on the city lights below.

I said, “So?”

“So what?”

“You haven’t been home long. Where were you tonight?”

“Emily and I went out to dinner.”

“Uh-huh. How come I didn’t get invited?”

“It wasn’t planned. I didn’t get home until after six and I didn’t feel like cooking.”

“I have a cell phone now. You gave it me last Christmas, remember?”

“You said you’d be working tonight. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I was a lot more bothered not hearing from you.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I should have called.”

“Yes, you should have. How was work today?”

“Work?”

“You know, the daily grind at the city’s leading ad agency.”

“I took most of the day off,” she said.

“I know. I called your office before I left the agency.”

She glanced at me again, but only briefly; the city lights and the contents of her wineglass seemed to hold more appeal for her than I did. I sat down in my chair. The cat opened one eye for the first time, closed it again almost immediately. He wasn’t interested in me tonight, either.

“I had a lunch date with Cybil,” she said.

“Must’ve been some marathon lunch.”

“And some things to do afterward.”

“Such as?”

“Things,” she said. “Are you interrogating me?”

“I’d have to suspect you of something for it to be an interrogation.”

“Do you suspect me of something?”

“Nope. I’m just making conversation. Or trying to.”

Silent communion with her wineglass.

“How’s Cybil?” I asked her.

“All right.”

“What did the two of you talk about?”

“What do you think we talked about?”

That pushed the wrong button, turned up the heat under my frustration. “Kerry, dammit, what’s the matter with you? Talk to me. Please.”

Some time went by. She still wasn’t looking at me. Shameless got up, stretched, yawned, turned around twice and settled down again with a little trilling sigh.

Kerry matched the sigh. “I’m not angry with you, you know.”

“Angry with me?”

“I ought to be, but I’m not. With you or with Cybil.”

“Oh, Christ. So that’s it.”

“I understand the two of you were only trying to protect me, but I have the right to know the truth. More right than anybody in this world. More reason, too.”

“Cybil told you, then. All of it?”

“All of it. I dragged it out of her at lunch.”

“How long have you suspected?”

“Since Dancer died. Even before that. Something about the way the two of them interacted the few times I saw them together, as if there was a secret between them… it always made me uneasy.”

“You never said anything-”

“We don’t tell each other everything. No matter how much we pretend otherwise.”

“Kerry, I’m sorry. I promised Cybil-”

“I know. I also know you figured it out and confronted her with it. Would you have told me if you hadn’t promised?”

“… I’m not sure. I hate keeping secrets, but I didn’t want to hurt you without reason. Keeping quiet seemed the lesser of the two evils.”

Two swallows of wine before she said, “Without reason? Dancer’s child, rape child.”

“No. He wasn’t your father, Ivan was. Cybil’s convinced of that.”

“But I’m not. Not as long as there’s even the remotest chance.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Have a DNA test done. Cybil has a lock of Ivan’s hair.”

“It’s that important to you to know for sure?”

“Yes. It’s that important.”

“Why now, all of a sudden?”

“What do you mean, all of a sudden?”

“It’s been three months since Dancer died. If you suspected then, why didn’t you say something? Why wait so long to get it out into the open?”

“You’re interrogating me again,” she said.

“I’m not. I’m only-”

“Denial, all right? It took me a long time to face up to it, make up my mind.”

Logical answer, but I had the feeling it was only a half-truth, an evasion. She wasn’t looking at me when she gave it, and there was a flat, defensive quality in her voice. Her face, lamplit in profile, seemed tight-set, little white ridges of muscle showing around her mouth.

I said, “When are you going to have the test done?”

“Right away. I’ve already made arrangements.”

“Well, that’s good. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can all get past this.”

“If Ivan’s DNA is a match with mine.”

“It will be.”

“We’ll see.”

“All right, suppose it isn’t. What then?”

“I’ll deal with it,” she said.

“Would it change how you feel about your life, yourself?”

“I said I’d deal with it.” Snappish now. “One way or another.”

An uncomfortable little silence built between us. I could feel the tension radiating out of her; it was strong enough to prickle the hairs on my neck. The cat felt it, too. He got up, gave her a sideways look, made a noise in his throat, and jumped down.

“Kerry,” I said, “what is it you’re not telling me?”

Her head turned briefly, turned away again.

“You’re holding something back, hiding something.”

“Like you did the past three months?”

“Punishing me, is that it?”

“No. Don’t be silly.”

“All right, then. Why? What is it?”

No answer.

“Is there some other reason you’re in a rush for that DNA test?”

No answer.

“Kerry, please, no more secrets. Just talk to me.”

She looked at me again, locked her gaze onto mine. Slowly her face lost some of its tautness, and her eyes softened and she wet her lips and started to say something And my goddamn cell phone went off.