John Gapper - A Fatal Debt

I thought of what Nathan had just told me and tried to piece it together with the rest of what I’d learned. I’d taken it on trust for so long that Harry had killed Greene-everyone had. He’d confessed to the crime, not just to the police but also to my face. But what if he’d been lying? Anna’s complaint about psychs not checking on whether their patients were telling the truth had stuck with me since she’d said it. To us, truth is something to be found inside a patient, and only he can dig it out from his subconscious. We assume they are trying to be truthful, apart from the things they don’t even know about themselves. That was why they have paid us money to talk.

Yet most of what I’d found since I’d met Harry were half truths and deceptions-not the distortions with which people comfort themselves, but blatant lies. I’d found that out only when I’d broken my profession’s rules. The biggest deception of all was the one thing I’d never thought to doubt-that Harry was the boss. He had been the CEO, the banker who’d ruled Wall Street. Those around him were, as Felix had insisted, helpers and servants. I hadn’t realized that one of them was in charge.

I got back in the car and drove down the lane, on alert for any human presence, but the white gates and the trees did their work, screening the lawns and houses from scrutiny. At the foot of the Shapiros’ drive, I halted the car and looked from my side window at the property. Still nothing. I eased the car up the drive, this time taking the slope at a steady speed, and halted on the square of gravel by the house. A few yards past the service sign, I tapped on the kitchen door and put up my hand to shelter my eyes from the glare coming off the sea, peering through the glass into the empty room. Then I stepped onto the lawn at the rear to gaze through the conservatory windows at the living room. The contractors had done their work well, and the scene of the death shone in fresh colors, like a frosted cake.

I heard a whirring sound behind and turned sharply, but it was only a bird washing itself in the pool and shaking off the water in a spray. My ankle was bothering me and I limped around the house, emerging next to my car. I rested a hand on its roof and gazed down at the gravel beneath my feet, as if I might see all past tire marks if I looked hard enough.

Squatting, I passed a hand over the surface, feeling a prickle from the sharp stones as they rubbed across my palm. I looked down the slope toward a row of flowers. As I did it, I noticed from the corner of my eye the curtains move in a window of the single-story house across the lane: the Shapiros’ guesthouse. When I looked again, the fabric was still, but I knew I hadn’t been mistaken. I made my way slowly down the drive, leaving my car behind and gazing at the window. At the bottom, I crossed the lane and opened the small wooden gate guarding the entrance. It was a white clapboard cottage, not as intricate as their house but pretty all the same. The lawn was neatly trimmed and rhododendron bushes were set into oval beds, wood chips scattered around their roots.

As I paused, with the top of the gate still in my hand, the cottage door opened and Anna stood there. She was wearing a pink dress, with mother-of-pearl buttons on scalloped material running to the waist between her breasts, and the same black flip-flops in which I’d met her. There were five yards between us and we both stood in place, looking at each other. Her neck and cheeks were flushed and she twisted the strap of one flip-flop between the toes of one red-nailed foot.

“Why are you limping?” she said.

“Your boyfriend caught up with me. He talked to me, after he stopped throttling me. He told me a lot of things.”

“That bastard,” she said. “Don’t believe a word he says.”

We both stayed where we were, still frozen.

“Why did you run away?” I said.

“I was scared.” Her lip trembled and she pinched one side between her teeth, the top ones shining white in the light.

“You told me to work it out myself. I’ve done that.”

I walked along the path toward her. She was only five or six paces away, but they went very slowly and the gap hardly seemed to close until I was right by her. I took in her scent and felt the warmth of her body under the thin cotton. I reached through her dense hair, my fingers searching for the back of her head, and as I pulled her toward me, she stood on her toes so that our lips touched. Her tongue brushed against mine and I felt the softness of her mouth. We stayed together for several seconds and then she pulled back, looking up at me.

“This isn’t very professional,” she said.

“Fuck my profession,” I said.

I pulled her to me, and as we kissed again, I could feel her draw back. She kept her arms slung around my shoulders as she moved, leading me back toward the open door. I walked along with her and caught her by the small of her back as she almost stumbled passing over the threshold. She pulled me to my right, her back against the hallway wall, as we got inside and reached under my arm to push the door closed. It swung toward the latch but failed to click and I kicked backward with my heel. My foot missed, tipping me to one side and making her giggle. She ducked under my arm and shoved the door with both hands, ramming it closed, then turned to face me again.

I took her face in my hands and kissed her slowly, and then I reached down to the top of her dress and felt for the first of the mother-of-pearl buttons. It was small and thick and I could not catch it at first, wrapped against a scallop of cloth. Then I pushed at it with my thumb and felt it slip through the buttonhole. The next five went faster, and as I got to the last, she pulled away from me, glancing down.

“Keep going,” she said.

“Shut up,” I said.

I pushed her dress off one shoulder and then slipped one bra strap after it and bent my head to kiss her shoulder. Squeezing her body between my hips and the door, I reached down to gather her dress up her legs. I could feel the tiny hairs on her thigh brush past my palm as she wriggled to free herself from the fabric.

She gazed at me, her eyes alight. “Don’t stop,” she said, and I pushed myself into her, hoisting her up the door. She raised one leg to hook it around my hips and moved with me until I came, feeling her quiver and, as she did, all of my pent-up bitterness and sorrow evaporated. We stayed like that, not moving, for a minute and then she lifted her other leg off the ground with a screech, toppling us over. We slid together down the crevice of door and wall and landed in a heap on the floorboards, banging my bad ankle.

“Oww. Why’d you do that?” I said.

“Didn’t want to let you go.”

After a few minutes, we gathered ourselves together and shuffled to a bedroom at the back of the house, dragging our discarded clothes with us. Anna stretched out on the bed and I lay next to her-she was so beautiful, I couldn’t keep my eyes from her. She looked at me, both amused and affectionate, as I ran my fingertips down the slope of her body. There was a lot to be said between us, but in the aftershock of our coupling, it could wait.

The room was sparsely furnished, like a ship’s cabin, with a glass full of white seashells on a table next to the bed and a tapestry hung on a wall. Her yoga mat was unrolled at the foot of the bed, and some of her clothes were gathered in a neat pile on a chest. Through the window, I could see a field of rushes bordering a pond that stretched out to the bay side of the lane. The sky glowed as the sun faded over the water, purples and reds mixing with the dark blue of dusk. I wanted never to move.

“Is this your Goldilocks bed?” I said.

“This is the one.” She reached to brush a strand of hair from my forehead.