me out of this. I’m gonna be there whether you like it or not. Martin is mine.”
“Fine,” Paul barked in irritation. “Find him on your own. If I see you, or if Thorne or Joe see you, you’ll be arrested and warehoused until it’s over.”
“My way or the… highway?” Rainey said, dropping the volume on the word highway. “This is a revenge exercise, Paul. Nobody deserves revenge like I do. Dammit, I paid for my ticket to the execution!” Rainey’s eyes lit up like bulbs, and he squeezed his fingers into a fist and rapped the conference table so hard, an electric pencil sharpener flew off and bounced on the floor. “This was all your doing. Just stay away from me, or I’ll kill you.” Rainey slammed the door as he left the room.
Off the fuckin’ wall. Rainey had no business whatever being out of the hospital, and the prospect of his running around with a loaded weapon sent a wave of chills up Paul’s neck. He ran a finger over his scar where the bullet had travelled. He knew what the promise of revenge tasted like. He couldn’t even force himself to think of taking Martin alive… It ain’t going to happen. Anyhow, Martin Fletcher would never allow himself to be captured by Paul-or by anyone else, for that matter. He would be carried off the field. They might all be carried off the field.
Paul walked to the elevator, and as he waited, he looked at his face reflected in the mirrored wall. He pushed his cigarette into the sand in the ashtray beside the elevator door and stepped in, fresh anger radiating in waves, his eye filling with hot tears.
Rainey’s Cherokee was gone from his slot. Paul climbed into his rented Taurus and drove out West End Boulevard. He ate a cheeseburger on French bread at a place near the replica of the Parthenon. It was a student hangout, and Paul took a booth with his wound toward the wall.
After he finished, around eight-thirty, he drove to Rainey’s house, parked across the street, and settled against the car door to wait He hadn’t felt tired, but he went out almost immediately.
When Paul woke, the sun was coloring the bottom edge of the night sky, and every muscle in his body felt as if it had been chewed on. He got out, stretched, and tried to put himself in Rainey’s head. Where would I go if I was Rainey Lee? Suddenly he knew. He started the car.
Paul sat in the car and watched his old friend perched like a vulture on a gravestone, reading his Bible. Rainey was facing the twin mounds of dirt that covered the caskets of his wife and son. Paul finished his cigarette and pressed the remains into the bottom of the ashtray. Then he stepped out, slammed the door, walked up, and stood beside him. Rainey didn’t turn his head so much as an inch from the Old Testament text he was open to.
The Bible was open in his lap. There was a third grave where the grass had grown over the remains of his daughter. Eleanor’s grave had a dark granite stone. The inscription said:
ELEANOR ANN LEE
O CT. 17, 1987-D EC. 12, 1995
SLEEP WITH THE ANGELS
Rainey closed the book and looked out over the graveyard and then turned back toward Paul.
“I came to a funeral here a few years back, and I liked the way this place felt. I could have buried them in the graveyard back home where my father is, but I decided we should all be here. You believe in heaven, Paul?”
“Did once, I guess.”
Rainey looked over at the graves. “I guess most deaths are senseless to someone. But none are as senseless as these three. I feel… I keep thinking if I had just paid closer attention.”
“You didn’t know,” Paul said. “Any man who could murder a child is a demon.”
“I’d feel better about it all if I could kill Martin myself. I know I would.”
“For a few minutes. Maybe like you’d been underwater struggling to get to the surface with your lungs about to explode and you get there and you take that breath. Then you look around and you’re in the middle of the ocean and for three hundred sixty degrees there’s nothing but the horizon and a few fins circling. No wind and no birds. You’re lost. Would you remember how good that breath felt for very long?”
Rainey smiled. “Christ, Paul. I’d forgotten. Where do you get those… analogies? You got a book somewhere with ’em listed out?” He looked at Paul. “Man wants to take revenge, see shark story page twelve. Man wants to poke the baby-sitter, page eight. God, I hate him,” Rainey said. “I hate him so… I didn’t know my emotions ran so deep. It’s like a fire in my chest.”
“I’m no grief counselor, Rainey. I’ve hated him because of what he did to me, and I realize it’s a speck of nothing compared to what he’s done to you and Greer and McLean.”
“The day George was killed, I just wanted to die myself. After Martin called, I forgot all about that. I started burning after that. All I could think about was my hands digging into his chest and jerking his heart out before his eyes went dark. I could take him. God would help me do it.”
“That’s no answer, Rainey. It won’t stop the pain.”
“I don’t think I can live without them, Paul. I can, maybe, but I just don’t know as I want to.” He looked at Paul, and tears ran down his cheeks. He nodded his head and wiped at his eyes. “The Bible says God will punish Martin-but I can’t be sure.”
“Help me, Rainey. I need you. The reason I agreed to let you in was the thought that the four of us are the only people who won’t mess up the chase-won’t give up until we have him in our hands. It’ll be four hundred percent with us. But I need you solid. I can’t do this if I have to keep my eyes on you, too. You’ve got to maintain.”
Rainey was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “Okay, Coach, it’s your game. You put me where you want me. God’ll make sure I get to see what I need to see.”
Paul looked at the three graves and wondered if three like them were in his future. The thought struck hard, making him shudder.
Then Rainey looked back down at the graves and smiled. “I believe in heaven. I know what heaven will look like.” He looked out over the cemetery as though he were seeing something beautiful in the distance.
11
Laura found a stopping place around six as the shadows OF the foliage outside were softening. Her eyes were tired of looking at paint strokes, her arm was tired from holding a brush, and her mind was tired from thinking about what her arm was tired of executing. She put the brush in the cleaner, and because she never abandoned a dirty brush, she cleared it of color and then went out to the kitchen. Her children were there waiting; Erin in the glassed-in miniden, lying across the couch with the phone receiver against her ear, and Reb reading a book. They reminded her of cows responding to the inner voice that whispers to them to stand at the gate until the farmer comes.
Reb lost interest in the book when his mother entered the room. He went over to sit at the counter on a director’s stool, watching as she removed the skins of spicy Italian sausage and began to brown them in a skillet. Then she added a can of spaghetti sauce, sprinkled in a few spices, and started the flame under the stainless steel pot of water at the rear of the stove. Erin was still talking on the telephone with her hand cupped around the mouthpiece for privacy. She giggled and rolled her eyes. Laura was warmed by having her well-growing children in sight. She thought about how Erin would be going to college in three years and how Reb would be joining her in nine more. It made her feel a twang of guilt that she was painting while they were growing. What had she missed while she was locked in her studio and they were fresh from a day at school? They had grown to the point where they usually didn’t disturb her. Once they had come to her with questions whenever the telephone rang, but they had stopped that after a thousand discussions. They had just wanted attention, and it bothered them that they couldn’t get her attention when she was working, while anyone who had use of a telephone could.
“Talking to a new boy at school-Eric something,” Reb said, explaining Erin’s behavior. “Doesn’t know what a jerk she is yet.” He leaned on the counter with his chin in his hands, watching his mother. The bird perched on Reb’s shoulder whistled.
“Time twelve minutes, Reb,” she said as she snapped a bundle of pasta in half and dropped it into the now boiling water. “Put Biscuit in his cage before you eat. That bird’s unsanitary.”
Reb set his Casio for twelve minutes and pressed the button. He watched the numbers fly in reverse for a couple of seconds and then turned his attention to his mother, who was adjusting the tomato sauce with creole seasoning.
