Small Town

Even so, the Carpenter hoped he’d be able to open the door. And he listened as whatever the man was using scraped the metal, scraped it again, then caught and forced it free. The hatch came open, letting a little light into the cabin, but none that reached the corner where the Carpenter was waiting.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Until the man came in, and found the stacked cases of empty beer bottles, the cans of gasoline, the heaped strips of cloth. The man stiffened, and the Carpenter sensed he could tell what he was looking at. The man lifted one of the bottles from the top case, then put it back where he’d found it.

The Carpenter drew his pistol, took one step forward, pointed the gun at the back of the intruder’s neck. And squeezed the trigger.

Instead of a bang! he heard a dry click! The gun was broken, or improperly loaded. But not entirely useless. Even as the man started to spin around, the Carpenter drew the gun back and used it like a hammer, like a tire iron, swung it with all his strength against the back of the man’s head.

He fell to his knees, tried to brace himself, tried to rise, tried to turn.

The Carpenter hit him again, and this time he fell all the way and lay still.

thirty-nine

Susan had left around noon, telling him she had a million things to do, letters to answer, bills to pay, clothes to wash. And no, he didn’t have to go downstairs with her, there would be no end of cabs, or she could just hop on a bus up Eighth Avenue, or even walk, it wasn’t that hot out, it might be pleasant to walk. And she kissed him, and he got up from the couch and let her out, and she kissed him again, and he stood at the door until he heard her leave the building, then went to the window and watched her walk off down the street and disappear around the corner.

He liked her walk. A good no-nonsense athletic stride, but no less feminine for it. And her ass looked great in slacks.

He’d been glad she was going yet reluctant to see her go. This was the first time she’d stayed the night, and in fact he hadn’t had many women stay over since he’d moved back into the Bank Street apartment after the divorce. There’d been ladies he’d spent the night with, and one a couple of years ago he’d spent a whole lot of nights with, and had given some thought to spending all his days and nights with, until she’d announced out of the blue one day that this just wasn’t working out, and anyway she was moving back to Santa Cruz.

But with Jessica — that was her name, Jessica Duncan, and thank God she’d moved back to Santa Cruz — with her and the other less frequent overnight companions, he’d almost invariably gone to their apartments. They generally preferred it that way, given that he lived in one room and everything stank of cigarette smoke. (And what, incidentally, was he going to do about that? He seemed to have quit smoking, he was almost ready to start cutting the patches in half, and one symptom of his new status as a former smoker was that he was beginning to notice the way his place smelled. Not while he was in it, but when he came back from outdoors, the way you’d notice some cat lover’s litter box. Jesus, was he going to turn into one of those obnoxious ex-smokers who wrinkled their noses when someone two blocks away lit a Marlboro? Yeah, he thought, he probably was.)

It wouldn’t hurt to have the place painted. And he could get rid of the upholstered furniture, the couch and the comfortable chair, both of which should probably be replaced anyway. That wouldn’t eliminate odors entirely, but it was a start, and time would do the rest.

So many things to think about, just to keep from thinking about what he didn’t want to think about:

His hands on her throat.

He almost called her after he heard from Esther Blinkoff. She’d begun with an effusive apology for interrupting his holiday weekend, then told him it was only fair since he’d completely monopolized hers. She and her husband were at their house on the Jersey shore, spending their last long weekend there prior to closing it down for the season, and what had she done ever since they got there Friday? She’d ignored everybody and locked herself away with Darker Than Water, and it was all his fault that she’d been unable to stop reading.

Usually, she confessed, she’d wait until she got some other in-house readings before announcing her own reaction to a manuscript. But why wait? She knew everyone was going to love the book, knew Sales would go out of their minds for it, and all she had to do now was figure out just which month to publish. The sooner the better, of course, but not so soon that the book didn’t have all the groundwork laid for it.

And so on.

It was what Roz had told him to expect. Esther had three million reasons to love the book, so how could she not? But her enthusiasm moved him all the same, and he reached for the phone to share it with Susan, then decided it could wait.