Thomas Perry: Dead Aim

“I know. That’s the way I came.”

“Is your car up there?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I walked from town.”

He clenched his jaw. He had never before seen any sense in driving somewhere to go for a walk. Now he did, and he could also see that never bringing a telephone with him had been stupid. He didn’t tell her he had no car with him, because he was afraid to upset the fragile hold he still had on her.

He kept walking, moving steadily to get to the stairway. He had a very strong intuition that if he got her off the beach, she would be out of immediate danger and his responsibility would end.

At last they reached the wider stretch of beach, where the cliffs were lower and the steps zigzagged upward to street level. He stood by the first of the wooden railroad ties that had been set into the cliff. Trying to keep his hands from shaking, he took his walking shoes out of his pack, slipped them on, and waited for her to go ahead of him. He knew he had to get her up and away from the ocean, but he also sensed that if he rushed her, she would resist. Finally, she stepped on the first railroad tie, and he quickly moved in behind her. When she stepped to the second, he followed. She climbed slowly, not as though she was physically tired but as though she was reluctant to leave the ocean. She would climb a dozen steps, then turn and look over her shoulder at it with a silent resignation.

When they were at the top, he set off across the grass to the road without hesitating to give her a chance to resist or even think about where he was leading her. They walked silently until they were at the long, curving road that led between two dry hills toward the part of town he wanted to reach.

She said, “You don’t have a car?”

He smiled. “Sure I do. It’s just not where I’d like it to be at the moment. I always walk here.”

“What for?”

“I’m an old guy. I need the exercise.”

“You didn’t have any trouble swimming out there and dragging me out of the ocean,” she said. “You must be okay.”

“You’re not very heavy,” he said, but he allowed himself to feel good about the faint compliment. She was right. He had saved a drowning person’s life. That was not a minor thing. He judged its value by looking at the girl, her small, appealing face wreathed in stringy wet hair, her trim, small body: yes, he noted, even now, in this circumstance, he couldn’t help it. He imagined how he would have felt to see her dead, and made the comparison. No, saving her had not been a negligible accomplishment. If she used her life well, saving her might be the most important thing he had ever done. Certainly this extra chance was the best thing he had ever given anyone.

He had to preserve it by never letting his attention flag, had to be sure that everything he did now was exactly right, because he could feel that it was like a puzzle solved in the dark, with answers that would help her live, and others that would kill her. He knew he needed to keep the means of suicide away from her. He constructed a mental image of the area ahead and designed a course, so they could walk the two miles to town on streets that never came within sight of the ocean. He sensed in himself the human compulsion to say things, but he resisted. There were too many chances to make a mistake, trigger a painful memory, or offend her. He also had an exact destination in mind, and as it drew nearer, he wanted to avoid the charge that he had spoken just to keep her occupied, to hide the most important information from her.

He approached the county hospital with a feigned casualness, feeling grateful that they had built it at the end of a long, curving driveway that made it look small and unthreatening. When she saw that he was turning to go up the driveway, she said, “What are you doing?”

“You almost drowned.” He tried to make his throat relax, so she would not detect his tension. “You need to be checked over.”

“No.” She said it over her shoulder as she walked away. “I’m not going in there.”

He walked quickly to catch up with her. “You’re making a mistake.” He meant that he had no other place in mind. He had to find somebody to share this responsibility with him, some figure of authority who would know how to keep her alive. He had to keep her alive.

She walked more quickly. “Then I’m making a mistake.” She was not going to let him get her in there. Maybe she had been locked up before for trying to kill herself. Maybe she had only heard of it, but she knew.

He said, “If you’d rather go to your own doctor, we can stop at my place and I’ll drive you there. But you really should get an exam.” A desperate hope that he had simply missed an obstacle that was easy to overcome flashed across his consciousness: maybe she couldn’t afford a doctor. “I’ll be happy to pay for it.”

She only moved her head enough to turn a half-lidded eye on him. His own voice had sounded false to him.

He said, “Where would you like to go? Does your family live in town?”

“No. You’re the only one I know here. I drove in this morning.”

“From where?”

“New York.”

“Is there anybody you can call?”

She turned to him with a frown of annoyance. “Of course. Millions of them. I don’t want to call anyone.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help you. What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

“I think you need help.”

“I don’t.”

She walked along for a few paces, and the defiant, angry posture of her body had a kind of liveliness that made him less careful.

“You tried to kill yourself.”

“I did kill myself. You came after me and dragged me back. I don’t have the energy right now to hate you. I think I need to sleep.”

“Right.” He brightened. “Things will look different to you when you wake up.”

“Sure.”

“My house is right up ahead. I’ll get my car and drive you to a good hotel. And don’t worry about the cost. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll walk.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of you? No.”

“Of anyone. Are you running from something?”

“I have nothing to run from.” She walked ahead quickly and then across the street. After a few more steps on the sidewalk, she turned to see him behind her.

“I don’t think being alone will make you feel better right now,” he explained. “Want to get something to eat?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you look like a very nice young woman who shouldn’t kill herself. Are you dying of cancer or something-in a lot of pain?”

She shook her head. “Nope. No sickness. I had my reasons for what I did, and it’s nothing you can talk me out of with your kindness and wisdom. Thanks for your concern and everything.”

“Then you’ll get through this. Someday you’ll be really glad you didn’t die. Something wonderful will be happening and you’ll look back and be amazed that you might have died and missed out on it.”

She kept walking. He began to follow as usual, but she stopped. “Don’t. I’m fine now and I’m over it. I don’t want you to be with me. I can make a fuss and make you look like a creep. I don’t want to reward your kindness like that, but I will if you make me. So go.”

He stopped and took a step backward. “If you decide you need help, I live in that house right up there.” He pointed. “My name is Robert Mallon.” He saw her look at the house. It was a two-story brick colonial with white shutters and a green, well-tended lawn. He hoped it looked respectable to her, and that the front windows he had enlarged for light made it seem open enough to be safe. “Come inside,” he said. It was irrational, desperate.

“All right.” She followed him up his driveway, while he marveled at the exchange: why he had dared to say it, why she had acquiesced.