John Saul - The Manhattan Hunt Club

But instead of answering him, one of the orderlies hit him-hit him hard enough to knock him out. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room he was in now.

A room that didn't have any windows, and stunk of urine and shit and garbage. There were a couple of moldy mattresses on the floor and only one light-a naked bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling.

The only door was locked from the outside.

Jagger didn't have any idea how long he'd been in the room-didn't have any idea what time it was, or what day it was, or even if it was night or day. Every now and then the same guys who'd taken him out of the hospital opened the door and gave him some food. Mostly it was stale bread, but sometimes there was some meat, and they usually gave him an old tin can filled with water to wash it down.

Every time they came, he asked them what was going on, but they never told him. "You'll find out," was all they ever said. "And when you find out, you're going to like it-you're going to like it a lot."

Now he could hear them coming again, hear their footsteps outside the door. He heard the key working in the lock, and heard the bolt slide back.

The door swung open, a man was shoved inside, and then the door was pulled closed again.

Pulled closed, and bolted.

Jagger looked at the man. He was young-maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

Just about the same age Jimmy had been.

But he didn't have blue eyes like Jimmy's. He had brown eyes.

Brown, like his mother's.

And curly hair like his mother's, too.

And he looked scared. "You got a name?" Jagger asked. The man hesitated then nodded. "Jeff."

"Jeff," Jagger repeated softly, almost to himself. Then he nodded. "I like that. I like that a lot."

The silence between Mary and Keith during the drive back to Bridgehampton had none of the easy comfort that surrounds couples who have lived together for enough years so that each can sense the other's mood without a word being spoken. Rather, their silence was a gulf, a chasm that had widened over the years to the point that now, even with the tragedy that had mutually befallen them, they were unable to make any kind of connection.

Yet Mary felt she had to say something. Keith's pain was an almost palpable presence in the truck, and she knew that he didn't have the resource of faith to help him bear it alone. So at last, after having offered up every prayer she knew for the salvation of Jeff's soul, she turned her attention to the man who had been her husband for so many years. "I know how hard this is for you, Keith," she said softly, facing him directly. "But if you'll just let Him, the Lord will help you bear whatever burden He gives you." She bit her lip, knowing her next words would cause Keith pain, but knowing as well that they had to be spoken. "It's because of us," she said. "So many years ago, when I let you-" She fell silent, no longer willing even to speak the words out loud. "Well, you know what I'm talking about. It's our fault-all of it."

For a moment Keith made no reply at all, only glancing across at her and shaking his head sadly. "For God's sake, Mary," he sighed. "Why do you want to blame yourself? We didn't do anything wrong, no matter what Father Noonan says. And Jeff certainly didn't do anything wrong."

"If he didn't do anything-" Mary began, but Keith didn't let her finish.

"Don't give me any crap about the jury, or Cynthia Allen, or anything else," he growled. "Jeff didn't do a thing to that woman. No way." Finally looking straight at her, he said, "And that body in the morgue? That wasn't Jeff."

The words struck Mary like a punch in the stomach. Not Jeff? What was he talking about? But of course she understood-the pain of what had happened was too much for him to face. But to deny it-to try to pretend it hadn't happened-would only prolong the agony and make it worse when he finally had to accept it. Mary reached out and took her husband's hand in her own. "Keith, you were there-you saw him. It won't help to try to pretend-"

Keith jerked his hand away. "Pretend?" he cut in. "What are you talking about, pretend? I'm telling you, Mary-that wasn't Jeff we saw back there!"

Mary shrank back. "For Heaven's sake, what are you talking about? What are you saying?"

Keith took his eyes off the road long enough to throw her an angry glare. "I'm telling you that wasn't Jeff. When I was there this morning, that body was different."

Mary felt dizzy. Different? What was he talking about?

"The tattoo!" he said, his words coming in a harsh torrent. "Jeff had a tattoo, and that body didn't have one!"

"I know about Jeff's tattoo," Mary replied, trying to fathom what he was talking about. "But it was gone. It was-" She hesitated, shuddering as the image of Jeff's burned and disfigured body rose in her mind once more. "It was burned, Keith!" she finally managed to blurt. "That doesn't mean it wasn't there!"

"But it wasn't burned this morning," Keith shot back, his hands tightening on the steering wheel and his foot unconsciously pressing on the accelerator. "When I was there this morning, that part of that body wasn't burned." His voice rose. "And there was no tattoo, Mary! I'm telling you-"

"Look out!" Mary yelled as the truck threatened to smash into the back of the car ahead of them. "Will you calm down? Do you want to get us killed, too?"

Keith slowed the truck, then reached over to take Mary's hand. This time, though, it was she who pulled away, shrinking back against the door, moving as far from him as she could. "He's dead, Keith," she said, her voice trembling. "Jeff's dead, and you've got to face it."

"I don't have to face anything except the truth. And I'm telling you, that wasn't Jeff they showed us down there!"

An angry reply rose in Mary's throat, but she bit down on her lip-bit it hard, until the wave of anger ebbed away. When she spoke again, she kept her eyes straight ahead. "Take me home," she said. "Just take me home. I don't know what you're thinking, and I don't want to know."

"I'm thinking-" Keith began, but Mary cut him off.

"Our son died this morning," she told him. "I have to get used to that. I have to accept the burden that has been placed on me. I don't know how I can do it, but I have to. But I can't do it with you trying to pretend it didn't happen. So just drive me home, Keith. Just drive me home, and don't talk to me."

Another silence fell over them, and this time neither Mary nor Keith tried to break it.

Until that day, Jeff hadn't realized he was afraid of the dark. But until that day, he had never before experienced true darkness, the kind of darkness that makes you wonder whether you'll ever see again, that wraps around you like a shroud, that suffocates you as much as blinds you. He had no idea where he was-no idea how long he'd been there. All he knew was that the single dim lightbulb that hung from the ceiling had become his lifeline to sanity.

He'd made a mistake-he understood that now. When the man who'd guided him down the stairs into the Bowery subway station jumped off the platform and dashed into the shadowy darkness of the tunnel itself, he should have stayed where he was-should have waited for the police who were only seconds behind him. But he hadn't been thinking- hadn't had time to think. And so he'd followed his instincts.

And the instincts that had leaped up from deep within the most primitive part of his brain were those of a wild animal that was being pursued. He'd turned and fled into the subway tunnel, suddenly less afraid of the man who had led him down the stairs than of the people racing toward him on the platform. He'd pounded down the tracks, desperately trying to keep up with the figure ahead of him-a fleeting form made visible for only an occasional second or two by one of the tiny bulbs that were the tunnel's only illumination. He'd almost crashed into the running man, unaware that the man had stopped.