Лоуренс Блок - Ariel

If he was her father, why did David think he was sleeping with Roberta?

If he was Roberta’s lover, why was he following Ariel?

She couldn’t begin to make sense of it.

The argument left Roberta drained, exhausted. It ended inconclusively, of course, with David returning to his study while she stationed herself in front of the television set and waited for him to go upstairs to bed. When he finally did she gave him time to pass out, then made herself watch another reel or two of the late movie. She was tired, could have fallen asleep at any time after the argument, but the longer she stayed awake the greater the chance of sleeping uninterrupted until dawn.

Just for insurance, she took an extra Valium before retiring.

And woke up in the middle of the night in spite of everything. Woke from a sound sleep, woke with no warning, and saw the woman in the corner of the room.

Her features were a little more sharply drawn this night, as they had been on her second appearance before Caleb’s death. And she was carrying something, and just before she vanished she turned toward Roberta, and the object she was holding flashed. Roberta couldn’t tell what it was, only that it flickered brightly at her.

Then the woman was gone.

Roberta felt herself drawn back into sleep. She was tired, had awakened incompletely, and still had the drug circulating in her bloodstream. She wanted to lie down and drift off.

Something made her get out of bed. She walked to Caleb’s room and stood outside the closed door. Her hand was reaching for the doorknob when she glanced to her left and saw the sliver of light underneath Ariel’s door.

She strode the length of the hallway, flung the door open. Ariel was sitting stark naked on the edge of her bed, her hands folded in her lap. A candle was burning on her night table below the portrait she’d dragged down from the attic.

The child seemed to be in a trance. It took her a long moment to react. Then she recoiled, folding her arms in front of her little breasts, shrinking away from Roberta.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Roberta said. “What’s the matter with you? What do you think you’re doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“What’s this crap with a candle?”

“I—”

“And you’re naked. You’ll freeze, Ariel. What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Put out that candle. Get some pajamas on and go to sleep. Do you hear me?”

The child stared at her. She looked helpless and confused, Roberta thought, and for a moment the impulse came to reach out to her, to hold her and hug her and tell her everything would be all right. But she couldn’t do it and the moment passed.

“Put out that candle,” she said. She swept out of the room, drawing the door shut after her. On the way back to her own room she paused just long enough to take a pill. Just one pill this time.

Six years earlier there had been a rash of break-ins in Charleston Heights and environs. Somewhere in its course Elaine Channing had become nervous about being home alone at night, and Jeff had decided she ought to have a gun around the house. He didn’t suppose she’d be very likely to use it, but felt it might give her a feeling of security.

The gun he’d bought was a .25-caliber automatic, nickel- plated, a tiny gun that could slip easily into a pocket or evening bag without causing a bulge. Elaine had refused to have anything to do with it, and it had stayed ever since, fully loaded, in the bottom left-hand drawer of the leather-topped kneehole desk in the living room, along with the original box of shells and a spare clip. The drawer was locked to keep the gun out of the children’s hands — Greta had been only three when it was purchased — and the key in turn was kept in the center drawer, in a little box with postage stamps and paper clips.

That morning Jeff was drawn to the gun like iron filings to a magnet. There was no conscious thought involved. He rose, showered, ate a good breakfast, and the next thing he knew he was unlocking the bottom drawer, scooping up the little gun and dropping it into his jacket pocket. He stowed the spare clip in another pocket, closed the drawer then opened it again and retrieved the box of shells, placing it in his briefcase.

He drove to work and was at his desk by nine. He went through a stack of letters, glanced over his list of calls. None of it made any sense.

After a while he drew the gun from his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands. Funny how he’d taken it from the desk without even thinking about it, as if he’d been led to it by some force or will stronger than his own.

How cool the metal was.

He took the clip out, put it back in, flicked the safety catch off and on, jacked a round into the chamber. He laid the barrel of the weapon alongside his forehead, noting again how cool it felt. Like a cold cloth on his forehead. Like his mother’s hand, checking to see if he were running a fever.

It was hard to believe such a little gun was truly lethal. He took experimental aim at the wall calendar, at a glass ashtray on top of one of the filing cabinets, at the silver-framed photograph of Elaine and the girls. Each time his finger gave the trigger a tentative caress.

He placed the gun on the desk and sat looking at it. Something had led him to it, and not so that he might cool his brow with it. The gun was a machine for killing. Whom, he wondered, was he supposed to kill?

He sat for several moments, considering this question. Then, with a sigh, he got to his feet and returned the gun to his jacket pocket.

“Don’t look now, Jardell, but we’re being followed.”

“Huh?”

“He’s just creeping along behind us. Our favorite Buick. Good old DWE-628. Why don’t you turn around and give him the famous Jardell stare?”

“I don’t want to.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s creepy,” she said. “Why’s he following us?”

“He always follows us. Especially since we turned up at his house.”

“Maybe it was a mistake, going to his house.”

“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, who expected him to turn up there?”

She frowned. “Maybe I’ll just go home to my house today.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s following us because he heard you were a musical genius. He wants to sign you to a recording contract.”

“Sure.”

“Or he’s a white slaver. He’s going to chloroform you and fuck you five hundred times and ship you to Argentina where they’ll make you do it with Shetland ponies.”

“Or he’s from the Legion of Decency and he heard that there’s a gross pig named Erskine Wold who ought to be arrested.”

“ He could probably get arrested for what he’s doing, as far as that goes. It’s against the law, isn’t it?”

“What, following people?”

“Well, bugging little kids. We could call the cops from my house.”

“And tell them what?”

“That this man keeps following us all the time. I could tell them the license number. I wouldn’t have to say that we know who he is because we did a little investigating. They might not like that part. But if we gave them the license number they could pick him up and give him a hard time.”

“Roberta would have a fit.”

“Roberta?” He stared at her. “What’s she got to do with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Ariel. Why’d you say that?”

She shook her head. “No reason,” she said...

When the two children entered the Wold house, Jeff circled the block and parked five houses down the street. He shut off the motor, left the key in the ignition. After a moment he took the gun from his pocket and gazed at it as if he were seeing it for the first time. It seemed to him to be an object of considerable artistic merit, its proportions mathematically perfect, the angle of butt and barrel evidence of its designer’s brilliance. With a fingertip he stroked its gleaming nickel surface. He tilted it in his palm, seeing himself reflected in its mirror surface.