Undercurrent

begun to foment further destruction, and you knew with a kind of fatalistic insight just what to expect before it was finally ended…

After a time Quartermain came over and said, 'We'll be going now; there's nothing more for us here. We've got other things to do.'

'All right,' I said. I did not ask him what it was we had to do, because the answer was obvious. And it was nothing I cared to put into words just then; the contemplation of it was bitterly cheerless enough.

She opened the door and looked out at the three of us standing there under the bougainvilleaed arbor-and she knew. It was all there in our faces, unmistakable and irrefutable. Her right hand went out and clawed whitely at the doorjamb, supporting her weight there; her left hand came up to her throat, clutching at the neck of her quilted housecoat in that pathetic little gesture women involuntarily seem to make at such times. Her face was the color of winter slush and her eyes were sick little animals hiding in caves formed by ridges of bone and taut, purplish skin; she was no longer ethereal, no longer hauntingly beautiful, she was on old woman facing the loss of the only real loved one she had in the world. I could not look at her directly any longer. I turned my head away, with emptiness and helplessness heavy inside me; it was the way I had felt facing Judith Paige's grief and the way I would feel facing any grief at all. And I wondered why I had come, knowing what it would be like-why I had not stayed in the car, why I had not asked them to let me off at City Hall, why I did not get out of it and go the hell home.

Quartermain said gently, 'May we come in, Miss Winestock?'

She just stood there, motionless, a chunk of gray stone wrapped in bright-colored quilt. Then her mouth and her throat worked, and she got the words free. She said, 'It's Brad, isn't it? He's dead, isn't he?'

Hesitation. You never know what to say, or how to say it. So you pause-and when the pause becomes awkward you say it as Quartermain said it; you say, softly 'I'm sorry.'

'Oh God,' she said. 'Oh my God.' She was still standing absolutely still: no hysterics, no tears. Just 'Oh God, oh my God.' And somehow, there in the cold dawn, it was worse than if she had fainted or cried or broken down completely.

There was more heavy silence, and then Quartermain said again, 'May we come in, Miss Winestock? It would be better than trying to talk out here.'

In mute answer she pushed herself away from the door-jamb and moved stiff-legged down the hall-an animated figurine, brittle and graceless. Favor, Quartermain, and I followed her through the archway and into the parlor. It was dark in there, with the curtains closed, and I touched the wall switch to chase away some of the shadows with suffused light from an overhead fixture. Beverly sat down on one of the chairs, her arms flat on the chair arms; her eyes seemed to be seeing inward instead of outward, glistening like rain puddles under a streetlamp.

We took seats here and there, and the silence grew and became awkward again. Quartermain cleared his throat, and she said 'How did it happen?' in a flat, dull voice.

Quartermain answered simply, 'He was shot.'

The eyes closed, briefly. 'Murdered, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'Who did it? This bald man you keep asking about?'

'We don't know yet, Miss Winestock.'

'But you think it might have been that man.'

'There's a good chance of it, yes.'

'Where did you find him-Brad?'

'Spanish Bay. In his car.'

'I see. And you say he was shot?'

'Yes.'

'Did he seem to have had much pain, can you tell me that?'

'No, I don't think he did. No.'

'That's good,' she said. 'That's something anyway.'

'Miss Winestock…'

'Can I see him? I'd like to see him.'

'I'll have a car take you to Monterey. But there are some questions first. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?'

'Yes. All right'

'Were you telling the truth last night-that you didn't know where your brother had gone?'

'Yes.'

'And about the bald man?'

'I don't know who he is. I'd tell you if I had any idea.'

'Before he left, did your brother make any phone calls?'

She nodded. 'One. Just after you'd gone.'

'Did you hear any of the conversation?'

'No. I was out of the room and he spoke too softly.'

'Then you don't know who he called, or what number?'

'No.'

'He said nothing to you before he went out?'

'I asked him where he was going, I begged him to stay home. He wouldn't talk to me.'

'Did he talk to you when he came home yesterday afternoon?'

'No. He was very nervous-afraid. He told me to leave him alone and then he started drinking, just sitting in here drinking by himself.'

'Was he mixed up in the killing of Walter Paige?'

'I… I'm not sure. He didn't kill Walt, he wasn't capable of killing anyone. And he was home on Saturday; he told you that. I overheard part of your conversation with him.'

'Do you think he knew who did kill Paige?'

'He might have. He was very afraid.'

'He was involved in something, wasn't he? Something to do with Paige.'

'Yes. Yes.'

'What?'

'I don't know.'

'You're holding something back,' he said. 'You've been holding something back all along. I think you'd better tell what it is, Miss Winestock.'

She exhaled tremulously, and there were deep, shadowed hollows in her cheeks and her eyes seemed ringed in black in the room's pale light; she was a century old, sitting there, and aging more rapidly with each passing minute. 'There's no point in not telling you now. It's too late now, isn't it?' She sighed again. 'Brad let himself get talked into some kind of scheme of Walt Paige's; he was like a little boy, you could talk him into anything once you got him to listen to you. Walt called him on the phone several weeks ago-out of the blue, after six years-and Brad met him somewhere later on. I think he saw him on other occasions after that.'

'Here in Cypress Bay?'

'Yes, as far as I know.'

'Then you knew Paige had come back to the area, that he had been here off and on for several weeks.'

'I suspected it.'

'But you never saw Paige yourself?'

'No.'

'Did you ask your brother what Paige wanted, why he had called after all those years?'

'Yes. Brad wouldn't tell me. But he talked about going away, about having enough money to buy a boat down in Florida and go island-hopping. That was always his dream, to have a boat of his own in the Florida Keys.' She laughed emptily. 'I think he got the idea from reading Hemingway.'

'That's all he would tell you?'

'Yes. He seemed constantly excited, constantly on edge. It worried me. Brad was never… well, never too bright in addition to being easily swayed. I was afraid for him, knowing Walt Paige as I did.'