“I’ll be down as soon as I can get dressed,” he said, turning on the lamp on his night table.
“I knew I could count on you,” Gault said. After a few more words, they hung up.
David’s head was ringing. He’d had too much to drink, but that was becoming routine. He took a deep breath and made his way to the bathroom. The glare from the lightbulbs hurt his eyes, and his image in the mirror caused a different type of pain. His complexion was pale and his flesh doughy. The features were beginning to run together. When he removed his pajamas, he saw the erosion of clear lines on the other parts of his body.
David had not exercised, or done much else that humans do, since Larry Stafford’s conviction three months before. The day after the trial he had backpacked into the wilderness to try to sort out the events of the preceding days, but the silence of the shadowy woods had trapped him alone with thoughts he did not want to encounter. He had scurried home.
Jenny had phoned while he was away, but he did not return the calls. He tried to work but could not concentrate. Once, in the solitude of his office, he broke into tears. In the course of representing Larry Stafford, he had betrayed the trust of the court, sold out his principles, and given up on himself. In the ruins of the case he saw the wreckage of his career and the destruction of the carefully constructed fictions concerning truth and justice he had erected to hide from view the emptiness of the profession he had so zealously followed. Life was intolerable. He moved through the days like an automaton, eating little and drinking a great deal.
Gregory Banks had sensed his friend’s despair and had ordered him to spend two weeks away. The bright Hawaiian sun and the gaiety of the tourists at the small resort hotel where he had stayed only heightened David’s anguish. He tried to take part in conversations but lost interest. His one attempt at an affair had ended with humiliating impotence. Only drinking helped, but the surcease from pain was temporary, and the horrors were twice as vivid once the effects of the alcohol wore off.
David returned to Portland early and without notice. He stayed home, unwashed and unshaven, letting himself become as gross and disgusting physically as he felt he had become spiritually. In the silent ruin of his home, it became clear to David that he was breaking down. He did nothing to stop the process. Instead, he lay about drunkenly, like a spectator at his own funeral.
In the end it was the smell of his body that saved him. One morning he awoke sober enough to whiff the odor of his sheets and the stench from his underarms and crotch. He was overpowered and driven to the shower. A shave and a decent breakfast followed. The crisis had passed, but David was far from well.
Back at the office David appeared to be in control. Except that he was more likely to miss appointments and appear late for court. The effort it took to put up a front was taking its toll in stomach pains and sleepless nights. And there was the frequent lunchtime martini or two. And Monday began to run into Wednesday and feel like Friday, while David, stabilized in a state of functioning disrepair, ceased to see the meaning in anything anymore.
“What were you doing down there, anyway?” David asked. He was driving Gault home from the county jail.
Gault smiled, then winced. He was a mess. Harvey had taken his revenge on the unconscious writer before any of the patrons of The Dutchman had thought to stop him. A cut that had taken several stitches to close ran across the top of his right eyebrow, and his nose and a rib had been broken.
“I was lookin’ for a fight, old buddy,” Gault answered in a tired voice.
“What!?”
“I like to fight, and bars are as good a place as any to find one.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Sometimes. But life’s crazy. Don’t you read my books?”
They drove in silence for a while, which Gault appreciated. He was exhausted, but pleased with the night’s outing, even if he’d taken a few lumps. As they drove along the empty highway, he thought back over the fight and savored its good moments.
“Do you do this often?” David asked after a while.
“Curious, aren’t you?” Gault laughed. “Yeah, Dave, I do it often, only I usually don’t get suckered like I did tonight.
“It’s a good feeling when you fight. Even when you get hit. The pain makes you feel alive, and the hitting… there’s nothing like a solid punch. The feeling moves up your arm and through your body like electricity. No, there’s nothing like it, except maybe a kill.”
David stared at Gault in disbelief.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Completely. I’m too tired and sore to joke, old buddy.”
“You actually enjoy hurting people?”
“It’s not the hurting, it’s the not knowing how it will turn out. The fear when you start and the satisfaction when you win.”
“But, my God, you could get killed in one of those places.”
“Sure. And that makes it better. There’s no Marquis of Queensberry rules in the jungle. You play for keeps. We did that in the bush, old buddy. Played for keeps. So did the niggers. Hand to hand with no referee. It makes you feel alive, because when you’re near death or when you end someone else’s life, you realize the value of your own and how fragile that gift is.”
David was shaken. He knew from his association with Gault how volatile the writer’s personality was. And, of course, he knew about Gault’s soldiering. But he had never thought about the writer as a professional killer. He remembered the time when Gault had strung him along about killing his wife. Was this another joke, or had his confession been the truth, after all?
“Life is experience, Dave. Without adventure we die. War makes you alive. Fear makes you alive. You must know that. Why else do you handle murder cases? Come on. Admit it. There’s a vicarious thrill being that close to death and the person who caused it. Doesn’t a little bit of secret admiration ever worm its way into your heart, old buddy, when you sit next to a man who has had the courage to take another human’s life?”
“No, Tom. I’ve never felt that way,” David said.
“Yeah?” Gault answered skeptically. “Well, different strokes for different folks. Right, old buddy?”
David didn’t answer and Gault closed his eyes. The darkened countryside swept by in a blur. Neither man spoke again until they arrived at the lake.
A stone wall with an iron gate marked the boundaries of Gault’s property. A half-mile driveway led from the gate, through the woods, to an isolated hilltop overlooking a small lake. Gault’s home, with its wood-gabled roof and porous-stone exterior, was modeled after a French country house. David stopped in front and nudged Gault awake.
“Sorry I fell asleep on you,” Gault said. He sat up and stretched. “Why don’t you come on in and I’ll fix you a drink?”
“It’s almost fourA.M., Tom. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“You can sack out here. It’ll save you the trip home.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“Actually, there was a little legal matter I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Can’t it keep? I’m out on my feet.”
“I’ll get you some coffee. Besides, I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”
The house was dark inside and Gault turned on a few lights. He left David in a small study and went for the coffee. The oak woodwork and floors gave the room a Gothic quality that unsettled David. A grotesque mask, which Gault had collected in Africa, hung from the wall across from him, and a gray stone fireplace sat in the shadows to his rear.
“What’s new with Larry Stafford’s case?” Gault asked innocently the moment he entered the room. David felt his heart skip.
“I don’t know,” David answered. “Jerry Bloch is handling the appeal.”
“That was a tough break for you,” Gault said as he sat down across from David. “I thought you had that one, then that pimp testified.”
Gault paused; then a small smile turned up the corners of his lips.
