'Did you know she was killed with your gun, a Smith and Wesson nine millimeter registered in your name?'
Archie felt a funny pull in his guts. Then an awful sinking. I thought for a moment he was going to slide back under the warm dark water to hover just below the surface, looking up at these people. But no-Gwen had told him she was up, not down. He tried to elevate above all this, above the room and the cops. Up to where she was Into the blue. Nothing doing.
'No.'
'Your prints were on it. And on the cartridges inside. And on the empty casings found at the scene. Nobody else's prints were on them. Just yours.'
He said nothing.
'In fact, we've only identified two sets of prints from your home and your entire property, so far. Yours and hers.'
'Someone wearing gloves?' he asked.
'Maybe,' said the detective. 'But that leaves us with just about zero evidence of a third person ever being at your house. We've got a set of footprints that might belong to the gardener. We've got a black Cadillac that may or may not have anything to do with this case. And that's it. No physical evidence of another person being on your property that night. No witness. Just your gun with your prints on it.'
He said nothing. It hadn't occurred to him until just now that he would be a suspect. If it weren't for Gwen, it would be comical. He actually laugh. But, ridiculous as this was, it was about Gwen, too and Gwen was murdered, and nothing about the murder of Gwen would ever, ever be funny.
Archie stared back at Rayborn and felt an almost blinding anger spreading through his body. Like something boiling out from his heart.
He'd felt this before and he'd always believed he was capable of murder on anger like this. He'd learned to hide it. And along with the anger came an overwhelming wave of guilt.
I couldn't protect her.
He blinked. He smelled a draft of his own body odor swelling up around him. 'I couldn't have killed her, Detective. I loved her. I don't kill people I love.'
She was watching him hard. Archie thought she knew he was furious, thought he saw a look of impressed understanding cross her features. Maybe she's got the temper, too, he thought.
'Answer this,' she said.
He waited.
'Our lab pulled enough barium and antimony off your hand to establish that you'd fired a gun very recently. That would be your gun hand. So, when did you shoot and what did you shoot at?'
Archie had to think. First, to let that anger settle down a little. When the temper hit, it was like something heavy and smooth starting downhill. It just pulled you along.
But even with his fury tamped down, it took him a while to turn around and wade backward into time, past what had happened that night. It was extremely hard for him to get beyond that point. It lay back there behind him like a dam on a river. It was huge and black and heavy and absolutely immovable. On the far side of it lay memory, Gwen and strong feelings. On the near side there were just spotty images with no emotion attached to them at all.
'I went to the Sheriff's range recently. If I had my calendar I could tell you when.'
'That day?'
'No.'
'The day before?'
'No. Two weeks before. Maybe three or four. I'm not clear on some things.'
She looked straight at him again and those eyes rooted around inside him like they were hungry. 'I guess you wouldn't be, Deputy.'
'No. I'm not.'
'Barium and antimony usually wash off in a day or two. Just with regular showers.'
'I can't explain it.'
'Maybe you fired the gun and don't remember doing it. That happens in brain injuries, Archie. Parts of your memory get taken away
'That doesn't seem possible.'
'What doesn't?'
'That I could remember loving her but not remember shooting her.'
He didn't say that he also remembered loving her but could not remember exactly what she looked like the last time he'd seen her. Except that it must be something like Sergeant Rayborn looked, because he'd twice wondered if Rayborn was Gwen. He looked at the picture and saw a slight resemblance.
She looked back at Zamorra, then at Archie again. 'That's not hard to understand. One memory is ruined. But another stays.'
Archie realized that, based on this theory, he could have done just about anything on Earth in his life but not remember it now. It was like having a cage lowered over you.
'Did you shoot her, Archie?'
Again, that hot rush of fury moving through him. A fury with its roots in the old Archie, the part of his life on the far side of the dam.
'No. Am I under arrest?'
'No,' she said. Then she exhaled slowly, like she'd been waiting a long time to do it.
Archie watched Zamorra move closer to his bed. Zamorra looked like a man who could hurt you, and people said he could. But right now, this furious, Archie knew he could rise from his bed and yank the man's head off before he could make a sound.
'Do you know what suiseki is, Archie?' he asked.
'No.'
'Tell me, did Gwen ever write music?'
'Yes.' He remembered some words from a song she'd written many years ago, right after they'd met. She'd been sixteen. She'd given him a tape of it, with her playing guitar. He still had that tape in cigar box in his closet.
Don't speak, don't say a word
We 're just dreaming
Words get in the way
He wondered how he could remember those words from ten years ago, but not her face from the last time he'd seen her. It was starting to drive him crazy.
'When was it?' Archie asked.
'When was what, Archie?'
'When did she die?'
'It was early Wednesday. The day before yesterday. Today's Friday.'
Archie tried to find somewhere to put this information. But he couldn't remember much of that day. Or the day before. And even less of the two days since, here in this bed-just a seamless stretch of sleep and dreams and voices underscored by raw, physical fear and deep dread. But he clearly remembered shutting out Cal State Fullerton in a pre-league game in April of 1993, scattering three hits in seven innings, and clubbing a home run to left center. Could still see that ball sailing over the 385 mark. He clearly remembered the white hairs that grew between the toes of his boyhood black lab, Clunker, when he got old. Could clearly see the face of his father while he reeled in a smallie on one of his hand-carved plugs: whiskers on his chin, a hard glint of pride in his eyes, mouth in a tight smile with a cigarette in one side and the smoke welling up under the brim of his hat.
And he could clearly, effortlessly see the face of Gwen Kuerner, age sixteen, when he knocked on the door of her house for the first time and she and all three of her sisters answered it.
He closed his eyes. 'I'm very tired.'
'Thanks for talking with us,' said Zamorra. 'Is there anything we can get for you?'
'Please bring me another picture of Gwen.'
Zamorra paused and looked at the picture on the bed tray before he answered. 'Okay. Anything else?'
