Night Chills

appeared to be fear and by anger as well. Her hands were curled into solid little fists in her lap. Beneath her summer tan she was ashen. Fine beads of perspiration were strung along her hairline. She pressed her lips together like the halves of a vise, partly to keep them from trembling, partly as a sign of her extreme anger, frustration, and determination to prove herself right.

Although she had never lied to him about anything serious, Paul couldn’t believe the story she had told them minutes ago. She had seen something odd at the Thorp house. He was fairly certain of that. However, she had surely misinterpreted what she had seen. When she burst in upon Sam, Jenny, and him at the store, her tears and horror had been genuine; of that there was absolutely no doubt. But Mark dead? Unthinkable. Beaten to death by Bob Thorp, the chief of police? Ridiculous. If she wasn’t lying — well, then she was at least terribly confused.

“It’s t-t-true, Daddy. It’s true. I swear to God it’s true. They… they k-k-killed him. They did. Mr. Thorp did. The other man t-told Mr. Thorp to k-kill, and he did. He kept b-b-banging Mark’s head… his head… banging it against the stove. It was awful. B-banging it… over and over again… and all the blood… Oh, God, Daddy, it’s crazy but it’s true!”

It was crazy.

And it couldn’t be true.

Yet when she first came into the store — breathing hard, half-choking and half-crying, babbling as if she were in a fever, so unlike herself — he felt an icy hand on the back of his neck. As she told her improbable story, the glacial fingers lingered. And they were still there.

He turned the comer onto Union Road. The police chief’s house was a quarter of a mile away, the last on the street, near the river. The garage, large enough for two cars and topped by a workman’s loft, lay fifty yards beyond the house. He pulled into the driveway and parked the station wagon in front of the garage.

“Where’s the canary cage?” he asked.

Rya said, “It was over there. Near the window. They’ve moved it.”

“Looks calm. Peaceful. Doesn’t seem like a murder took place half an hour ago.”

“Inside,” Rya said sharply. “They killed him inside.”

Jenny took hold of the girl’s hand and squeezed it. “Rya—”

“Inside.” Her face was set; she was resolute.

“Let’s have a look,” Paul said.

They got out of the car and crossed the freshly mown lawn to the back of the house.

Emma had evidently heard them drive up; for by the time they reached the kitchen stoop, she had the door open and was waiting for them. She wore a royal blue floor-length corduroy housecoat with a high neckline, round collar, and light blue corduroy belt at the waist. Her long hair was combed back and tucked behind her ears, held in place by a few bobby pins. She was smiling, pleased to see them.

“Hi,” Paul said awkwardly. He was suddenly at a loss for words. If even a tiny fraction of Rya’s tale were true, Emma would not be this serene. He began to feel foolish for having placed any faith whatsoever in such a bizarre story. He couldn’t imagine how he would ever tell Emma about it.

“Hi there,” she said cheerily. “Hello, Rya. Jenny, how is your father?”

“Fine, thanks,” Jenny said. She sounded quite as bewildered as Paul felt.

“Well,” Emma said, “I’m still in my robe. The breakfast dishes haven’t been washed. The kitchen’s a greasy mess. But if you don’t mind sitting down in a disaster zone, you’re welcome to visit.”

Paul hesitated.

“Something wrong?” Emma asked.

“Is Bob home?”

“He’s at work.”

“When did he leave?”

“Same as every day. A few minutes before nine.”

“He’s at the police station?”

“Or cruising around in the patrol car.” Emma no longer needed to ask if something was wrong; she knew. “Why?”

Why indeed? Paul thought. Rather than explain, he said, “Is Mark here?”

“He was,” Emma said. “He and Jeremy went over to the basketball court behind the Union Theater.”

“When was that?”

“Half an hour ago.”

It seemed to him that she had to be telling the truth, for her statement could be verified or disproved so easily. If her husband had killed Mark, what could she hope to gain by such a flimsy lie? Besides, he didn’t think she was the sort of woman who could take part in the cover-up of a murder — certainly not with such apparent equanimity, not without showing a great deal of stress and guilt.

Paul looked down at Rya.

Her face was still a mask of stubbornness — and even more pale and drawn than it had been in the car. “What about Buster?” she asked Emma. Her voice was sharp and too loud. “Did they take Buster over to the court so he could play basketball with them?”

Understandably bewildered by the girl’s uncharacteristic nastiness and her intense reaction to such a simple statement, Emma said, “The squirrel? Oh, they left him with me. Do you want the squirrel?” She stepped back, out of the doorway. “Come in.”

For a moment, recalling the tale of mindless violence that Rya had related just thirty minutes ago, Paul wondered if Bob Thorp was in the kitchen, waiting for him…

But that was absurd. Emma was not aware that supposedly a boy had been slain in her kitchen this morning; he would have wagered nearly any sum on that. And in the light of Emma’s innocence, Rya’s story seemed altogether a fantasy — and not really a very good one, at that.

He went inside.

The canary cage stood in one comer, next to the flip-top waste can. Buster sat on his hind feet and busily nibbled an apple. His tail flicked straight up, and he went stiff as a wooden squirrel when he became aware of the guests. He assessed Paul and Rya and Jenny as if he had never seen them before, decided there was no danger, and returned to his breakfast.

“Mark told me he likes apples,” Emma said.

“He does.”

The kitchen held no evidence that a violent and deadly struggle had taken place there. The dishes on the table were spotted with dried egg yolk, butter, and crumbs of toast. The clock-radio produced soft instrumental music, an orchestrated version of a pop tune. The new issue of the weekly newspaper, distributed that morning, was folded in half and propped against two empty juice glasses and the sugar bowl. A cup of steaming coffee stood beside the paper. If she had watched her husband murder a child, could Emma have sat down to read less than an hour after the killing? Improbable. Impossible. There was no blood on the wall behind the electric range, no blood on the range itself, and no blood, not even one thin smear, on the tile floor.

“Did you come to get Buster?” Emma asked. She was clearly perplexed by their behavior.

“No,” Paul said. “But we’ll take him off your hands. Actually, I’m ashamed to tell you why we did come.”

“They cleaned it up,” Rya said.

“I don’t want to hear—”

“They cleaned up the blood,” she said excitedly.

Paul pointed one finger at her. “You have caused quite enough trouble for one day, young lady. You keep quiet. I’ll talk to you later.”

Ignoring his warning, she said, “They cleaned up the blood and hid his body.”

“Body?” Emma looked confused. “What body?”

“It’s a misunderstanding, a hoax, or—” Paul began.

Rya interrupted him. To Emma she said, “Mr. Thorp killed Mark. You know he did. Don’t lie! You stood at that chair and watched him beat Mark to death. You were naked and—”

“Rya!” Paul said sharply.

“It’s true!”