Nelson DeMille - Spencerville

"Dangerous? That fucking guy is not dangerous... well, I suppose he could have been. I didn't know when I went out there what to expect. But I knew I had to settle this thing, man-to-man."

"Please promise me you won't go out there again."

"I'm goin' out there to make sure he listened."

"Don't. Send someone else."

He pinched her cheek. "Don't worry about it. The guy must've lost his balls in 'Nam. Lucky you didn't marry him."

"He never asked."

"What the fuck do I care?"

She reached out and took a plate from the table. "I'll clean up here."

"Later. You go on upstairs." He added, "I'll be right up. You be ready."

"Cliff."

"Yeah?"

She wanted to say to him, "I fucked Keith last night, and I don't want you near me." She wanted to say that more than she wanted to plunge the carving knife in his heart. "Cliff... I..."

"Yeah? Got a headache? Upset? Havin' your period? What's your problem?"

"Nothing."

She walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She wanted to run out the front door, but she wouldn't get far. She wanted to scream, to go upstairs and cut her wrists, to drop a lamp on his head when he came up, to set the house on fire, to do anything except have sex with Cliff Baxter.

She steadied herself on the banister and tried to think clearly. The only thing she could do was to pretend that everything was all right. She did that easily enough when she spoke to him, but in bed she could never pretend. He didn't seem to care or notice as long as she submitted. But this time she couldn't do even that. She came back into the kitchen.

He was at the table, finishing his beer and looking at the newspaper. He glanced up at her. "Yeah?"

"I'd like a drink."

He laughed. "Yeah? Why? You can't fuck me sober?"

"Sometimes a drink helps get me in the mood."

"Then have a bunch of drinks. God knows you ain't been in the mood for some time now."

She went to the cupboard, took down a bottle of peach brandy, got a glass, and walked toward the hallway.

Cliff glanced at her over his newspaper and said, "Get yourself in the mood for some things you ain't done in a while, darlin'."

She went into the hallway, up the stairs, and into their bedroom. She poured a tumbler full of brandy, closed her eyes, and drank it. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She poured another, drank half of it, and sat on the bed and cried.

She barely remembered taking off her clothes, but remembered when he came into the room. After that, she remembered nothing.

The phone rang at the Landry farm at twenty minutes past eight on Saturday morning. Keith was in the kitchen making coffee, and he answered it. "Hello."

"Keith, I have to speak to you."

He shut off the coffeepot. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm at a pay phone in town. Can you meet me someplace?"

"Of course. Where?"

"I thought maybe the fairgrounds. There'll be no one there today."

"Then we don't belong there. Listen, you remember Reeves Pond, south of my place?"

"Where we used to skate."

"Yes. Get some bread or something and go feed the ducks. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Is everything okay?"

"Yes. No." She said, "You have a rifle. I saw it..."

"Yes, okay. Are you safe now?"

"Yes, I'm all right. I'm sorry. I'm just worried about you. He's suspicious..."

"Twenty minutes." He added, "If you've been followed, go feed the ducks anyway, but leave your car door open as a signal. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Take it easy." He hung up, went upstairs, and opened the wardrobe. He found his binoculars, then took two full magazines and put one in his pocket. The other he slammed into his M-16 rifle, pulled back on the charging handle, and chambered a round.

He slung the rifle and the binoculars, went downstairs and out the front door. He crossed the road and ran to the Jenkins barn.

Within five minutes, he'd saddled and mounted the mare, gave her a slap, and rode her out through the open paddock gate, across the road, and into the woods.

He ducked as the mare picked her way through the trees and down the slope toward the shallow streambed. He reined her around, and they headed south downstream, toward the pond.

A hundred yards from where the stream came out of the trees, he reined her in, dismounted, and tied her to a sapling.

Keith continued on along the bank and stopped in the shadows of the last trees, a few yards from the sunlit shore of the big pond. There was no car parked on the grassy slope that descended to the pond on the far shore, and, in fact, there was no one in sight.

The only road was a few hundred yards further to the south, and he couldn't see it because it lay on the opposite side of the rise, but now and then he saw the top of a big rig go by.

He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. He wondered what had happened between the time he'd seen her two nights ago and now.

At a few minutes to nine, he saw the nose of a car crest the rise, then descend through the high grass toward the pond. But it wasn't a Lincoln, it was a Ford Fairlane, which was what the Spencerville police used for their marked and unmarked vehicles, purchased no doubt from Baxter Motors.

The car, which bore no police markings, stopped at the edge of the grass where the muddy shore began, and Keith raised his binoculars. The driver's-side door opened, and Annie got out, wearing a red skirt and white blouse. She stood beside the open door a moment, looked around, then closed the door.

She walked down to the water's edge, carrying a loaf of bread. Keith watched her as she absently ripped open the wrapper and threw whole slices into the water. A few dozen ducks and geese swam toward the floating bread. Every few seconds, she looked over her shoulder.

Keith let a few minutes pass, then walked out of the tree line and waved to her.

She saw him, threw the loaf down, and hurried along the shore toward him as he came around to meet her.

As they drew closer, he saw by her expression that she was anxious but not terrified. She smiled and sprinted the last ten yards and literally jumped into his arms, wrapping her arms and legs around him. "Hello, Mr. Landry."

They kissed, then she slid down and took his hands. She said, "It's good to see you." She glanced at the barrel of the rifle rising above his shoulder and said, "Maybe you didn't need that."

"I'm just out varmint shooting. Let's walk into the woods."

They walked side by side along the shore, and she glanced back a few times. She said, "I don't think I was followed. I brought my Lincoln in to Baxter Motors this morning and said I had a knock in the engine. They gave me a loaner. The damned Lincoln sticks out like a sore thumb around here. I think that's why Cliff's father gave it to me."

He smiled and said, "Sounds to me like you have had a few affairs."

"No, sir, but I've given some serious thought to how I would go about it. How about you, wise guy? Leave the car door open if you've been followed."

"That was my vocation. My avocation was tennis." He asked her, "Did Aunt Louise blow it?"

"Sort of. But it wasn't her fault. Cliff made it his business to stop by and see her and, for some reason, she told him I had dinner with her, and he asked me what I had for dinner."

"The devil is in the details."

"You can say that again. I'm just not good at this, Keith. Anyway, he's suspicious. He's always suspicious. This time, he's right."

They reached the trees and walked along the bank of the stream. It was cooler out of the sunlight, and the trees, mostly birch and willow, were just starting to turn. Keith had always liked autumn in the country, the trees ablaze with color, pumpkins and cider, the hunting season, and the harvest. He hadn't seen anything like it anywhere else in the world, and perhaps more than summer, it was the autumn that he thought of when he thought of home.