On the Loose (23 page)

"Yes, you do, Floyd."

A little later, all smiles, Meg O'Brien rambled in,
came around his desk, and rumpled his hair, something she had not done in years. "Don't you feel
nice inside now?"

"No," he said, "I feel I'm out on a limb."

Trish Becker was toiling over a manuscript when
the doorbell rang. The midmorning visitor was
Belle Sawhill. Her black hair brushed severely to
one side, Belle was wearing a trench coat, which
she kept on. Trish wore a fisherman's sweater,
jeans, athletic socks, and no shoes.

"Coffee, Belle?"

"Nothing." Belle sat at the table, her shoulders
straight, her hands in her coat pockets, and gazed
at the manuscript. "Ben got you this job, didn't
he?"

"Yes."

A cigarette burned in an ashtray. Others had
quit smoking, Trish had taken it up. She put the
cigarette out. Belle's eyes ground into her.

"You got your way, didn't you?"

She flinched and didn't try to deny anything.
"What did Ben tell you?"

"He didn't tell me anything, but did you think I
wouldn't guess?"

"Belle, I'm sorry."

Belle seemed offended by the apology, and the
air hardened between them. "It doesn't excuse
him, but you took advantage."

"I did."

"Break it off," Belle said, her voice full of weight.

"He'll soon be doing that himself. I can feel it
coming."

"The sooner the better. For all of us." Belle rose.

"Should I tell him you've been here?"

"You do as you like."

Trish walked her to the door and paused before
opening it. "I do love him. Pity he doesn't love me."

Belle's face was blank and drawn. "More of a
pity you don't love yourself."

Both hands on the wheel, Ben Sawhill kept to the
left, eased onto the Interstate, and immediately
picked up speed. Trish, her head thrown back and
her eyes closed, said, "They want me full-time.
They want to make me an editor."

Ben switched to the passing lane. "Grab it."

"I intend to."

They said nothing more until they reached Bensington. He mentioned his dislike of November. No
finish on its surface. No tapestry on its walls.

"December's no fun either," she said.

He sped up the drive to her house and came to a
swift stop. She reached in the back for her briefcase. His fingers played on the steering wheel.

"It's over, isn't it, hen?"

He nodded.

She said, "Good."

Bobby Sawhill and Mr. Grissom strolled the
grounds. The sun was bright, but frost-bound
nights had grayed the grass. A breeze delivered a
false hint of rain. Mr. Grissom spoke out of the hood of his sweatshirt. "You're getting to be a
short-timer, Sawhill. You excited yet?"

"I think of other things," Bobby said. "Who'll
take my place in the library? I was thinking maybe
Jason."

"Jason reads comic books, not real ones." They
were passing the softball field, which had a forlorn
look. Weather had expunged the chalk lines. The
bases were gone. "You never played ball, did you?"

"I wasn't much good. Dibs was."

"Dibble was a natural. I don't forget what he
did, but I can forgive. I care for you boys."

They were walking now in the tattered shadow
of the high fence, chain-link, razor wire at the top.
Beyond was woodland, and beyond that, unseen,
was the other world.

"Who's going to take my place, Mr. Grissom?
Who's going to be your eyes and ears?"

"That's nothing for you to worry about."

"Not Jason?"

"I don't think Jason can fill your sneakers, do
you?"

"I filled Dib's. Why shouldn't he fill mine?"

Mr. Grissom smiled. "Maybe he will, who
knows?"

As they moved away from the shadow of the
fence, the sun pinched Bobby's eyes shut. Opening
them, blinking, he watched the flight of a crow. "I
wish I wasn't leaving," he said.

"Nothing I can do about that. You leave here, it
means you'regrown up."

"It means I'm a man."

"Yes, it's supposed to."

They headed back to the main building, at a fast
clip, their shadows in pursuit. Mr. Grissom had
telephone calls to return before day's end, one of
them to Bobby's uncle. Before they parted in the
reception area, Bobby said, "Do you have Sharon's
address?"

"She didn't stay in touch. People don't."

"Will you stay in touch?"

"Best I don't," Mr. Grissom said.

Jason was on his cot. He lay on his side with his
palm propping his jaw. He stayed silent for as long
as he could and then asked, "What did you and Mr.
Grissom talk about?"

Bobby was doing homework, trigonometry, at
the writing table. Without looking up, he said,
"About when I leave."

"That ain't yet."

"It's not far off."

"They gonna give you a party when you go?"

They don't do- that here."

Jason slowly swung his legs over the side of the
cot and sat up. "When you go, what if I can't handle it?"

"You learn to let things roll off you."

"But what if I can't, just can't?"

"I don't know."

A distant bell rang. It meant lights out in Dormitory C. Jason got up and stood behind Bobby.
He peered over his shoulder. "Will you miss me?"

Bobby turned a page in his book. "Sure I'll miss you, but the worst thing will be saying good-bye to
Dibs and Duck."

Mr. Grissom had been on the phone with Ben
Sawhill for nearly twenty minutes and was beginning to lose his patience. Doodling on a jotting
pad, "I don't know what else to tell you. I can't get
into the boy's mind."

"I want to know what I'm facing when he gets
out," Ben said. "I want to know if I'll be able to
sleep at night."

"You see him one way, Mr. Sawhill, I see him another. A gentle boy. He got love here. I'll tell you
something else, which I won't go into, he got
mothering. That's what I call therapy, the sort similar institutions don't offer. Could I be wrong
about him? Of course. What more can I say?"

"You can tell me he won't kill again."

Using the Parker pen Bobby didn't want, Mr.
Grissom drew lightning bolts on the pad. "I'm not
God, Mr. Sawhill."

The Dodge Colt swerved out of the cemetery and
bounded at alternating high speeds down Burnham Road, the yellow center line no matter of concern to Mrs. Perrault, nor the stop sign that lay
ahead. Chief Morgan pulled her over on Fieldstone
Road, just beyond the ice-cream stand. She
greeted his approach with a frown of relief.

"I'm glad it's you, not Floyd Wetherfield. He'd
likely shoot me." Her voice rose. "Why'd you stop
me?"

Morgan was distressed by her appearance, for
she had let herself go. Her hair was straggly, the
dyes worn away, the white tarnished by age. Her
blue eyes were milky. "You were all over the road,"
he said. "I'm worried about your safety."

"I wish you'd been more concerned with Claudia's. I was at the grave. I told her the boy who
killed her is a man now and walking free. Where's
he living, James? With his rich uncle?"

Two cars passed. Morgan waved to one of them. "His father's house, Mrs. Perrault. He's living there
alone."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing f can do." He placed both hands on
the window ledge. "I'm not sure you should be
driving."

"Are you going to ground me? Am I a child now?"

He listened to the Colt's idling engine. "How's it
running, Mrs. Perrault?"

"It'll outlast me. I'll leave it to you in my will,
James. Something of Claudia's. Is that a new car
you're driving?"

"Relatively. How are your sisters?"

"Being waited on hand and foot at the nursing
home. One's crazy, the other's demanding. Ida's
the worst. They're waiting for me to join them.
No way! I'll follow you home. I'm going to drive
by the Sawhill house, see if I can get a look at
him."

"Don't do that, Mrs. Perrault. It's only torturing
yourself."

"Will you see him?"

"Eventually."

Leaning away from the wheel, she suddenly
clamped her hands over Morgan's. "When nobody's looking, use your gun on him."

"I don't carry one," Morgan said.

Ben Sawhill sat in his brother's house, now his
nephew's, and tried to look relaxed. A cleaning
service had recently gone through each room and
left everything fresh and neat. Ben had stocked the refrigerator and cupboard. He gave a start when
he heard the toilet flush and forced his face back
into a smile when Bobby reappeared.

"You haven't said yet. How's it feel to be
home?"

"I don't know." Bobby flopped into an easy
chair. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and
stone-washed jeans, part of a wardrobe Ben had
bought for him. "You said you were going to have
me over for dinner."

"We are, but Aunt Belle isn't feeling well just
now."

"Why haven't the twins come to see me?"

"They're away, Bobby. They're at camp."

Bobby's eyes seemed overly clear. They made
Ben think of washed windows reflecting only sky.
"Have you given any more thought to what you
want to do?"

"No. When can I see my money?"

"I'll go over everything with you. We'll start a
checking account you can draw on. While you've
been away, your father's holdings have been making money for you. Conservative investments for
the most part, a few where the yields have been
higher."

"Am I rich?"

"No, but you're comfortable. It doesn't mean,
however, you shouldn't give thought to the future.
I still think you should consider college."

"I'm a graduate of Sherwood."

Ben kneaded his brow. Without warning he had
acquired a migraine, a splitting one, as if a ham mer had been laid to his head. "Maybe you'd like
to travel?"

"No," Bobby said, a touch of malaise in his
voice.

"What do you want to do?"

Bobby's expression was vague.

"I don't know how to help you," Ben said, still
pressing his brow. For some reason he remembered the canary he and Belle had given him, a
white one with a gray crest, a marvelous singer.
He wondered what had happened to it. He remembered showing him a coin trick, one hand
conniving with another to pull a quarter from
Bobby's ear.

Bobby said, "You hate me, don't you?"

"No. I simply don't understand you. I don't understand why you had to kill somebody. Maybe if I
knew that I could be of help."

"I don't need any."

Ben dropped his hand and spoke through pain.
"You could still be tried for what happened to old
Mrs. Bullard. It's not a closed case. That's what
Chief Morgan told me. Did you push her down the
stairs, Bobby?"

"I don't have to answer questions."

"No, you don't," Ben said, rising with effort.
"But you're back in the real world. This isn't Sherwood. The chief isn't Mr. Grissom."

Bobby smiled. "Is he scared of me?"

"We're all scared of you. We don't know what
the hell you're going to do."

Bobby said, "I'm going to ride my bike."

Gloria Eisner spent all of Sunday morning in a
continuing attempt to restore what was once a garden. Chief Morgan had stopped by to give her a
hand, but he was more hindrance than help, stepping where he shouldn't and pulling up what
wasn't necessarily a weed. She was glad he didn't
stay long.

At noon she went in to wash up and prepare
lunch for her and Trish Becker. Trish, who had invited herself, arrived a little after one. Gloria set
the table in the kitchen and served up salad, ravioli, and Italian bread. The ceiling fan moved at
half speed.

"I like what you've done with the place," Trish
said, "but are you happy here?"

"Do I look unhappy?"

"No, that's what bothers me. I thought you'd
miss me."

"I moved out of the Heights, not Bensington."

Trish ate sparingly, Gloria with appetite. Gloria
buttered another slice of bread.

"That's what I hate about you," Trish said. "You
stuff yourself and never gain an ounce. What's
with you and the chief?"

"Dear James is overprotective. He sent someone
to check all the locks and made a big deal about
the one on the bulkhead."

"That's understandable. Harry's kid is out."

"'That's more a problem for James. I'm not foolhardy, but I won't let my life be influenced by some
kid I don't know Besides, most nights James is here."

"So you two have become that thick, huh?"

"It's a life. It's what I want for now. So tell me
what's with you?"

"I love my job. I drive into Andover each morning and take Amtrak. Miss all the brutal traffic. I
have my own office and share a secretary. No men
in my life, and it doesn't bother me."

"So you're happy."

"I'mnot overjoyed, but I feel good about myself,
better than I have in years. I'm putting my house
on the market. I want to live in Boston, a condo on
the waterfront."