collapsing just at the thought of it. There was nothing I wanted of life. I’d seen through it, and there was nothing but Fred’s evil and Katie’s greed and even Eric’s mindless drifting.
I changed back into the clothes from Sunday.
“I’m leaving,” I said to Pamela. “I won’t be back today.”
“Please be careful.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
I drove. Storm clouds piled above the road, and mid afternoon was twilight in their shadow. At three o’clock I was at the marina. I hadn’t decided to come here. It was reflex.
The sky was thick and heavy gray and the wind was hard out of the west. I could see whitecaps in the bay beyond the inlet. I put out; the sail caught a gust and went stiff as plywood and yanked the boat out into the turmoil.
I let it run. We fled the land, the boat and I, caught in the wind’s vise and with no thought of escaping it. The spray was heavy as rain, stinging my eyes. The open water of the bay was rough and confused against the boat and against my skin.
Clear of the bay were real waves, and I outran them. I would mount one, the deck inclined steep enough to fall from if I didn’t hold on, and then the boat passed over the crest and hung and then fell itself into void, slamming the water six feet down.
Black was soaking the clouds just like the salt water was soaking my clothes. I was freezing cold and wet, but I was flying and putting ever more miles between me and everything that was back there. There was no going back against that wind. Behind me was a red flare of sunset flat on the horizon.
Hours passed, and miles. I’d been blown north of Martha’s Vineyard and into Nantucket Sound. Before me was pitch black. I would have to choose to not race into it. Despair was driving me harder than the gale, and I’d have to overcome them both to turn away from the night’s empty chaos. I had no reason to try.
“What am I doing here?” I screamed it into the screaming wind, and the clouds answered with a downpour. “Why should I live?” The Atlantic ahead of me had an answer, a dark answer and an ending. I flew toward it. The storm took me and held me, and my boat became an eagle in the night rain and I was soaring into blackness.
When I did turn, it was almost too late. For a while I thought it was. I was almost out of Nantucket Sound and I thought about just grounding on Monomoy Point, but I cut the corner in time. It was a steep tack. The waves were almost straight on portside, Monomoy Island was leeward, and the boat was bucking like a bull. Then I saw buoy lights bobbing wild, and I got between them. The water flattened, I fought the sails down and started the motor, and threaded the needle into Chatham on Cape Cod.
Then I was walking on firm ground. I had to talk to Katie. There must be some way out.
I rented a car. It was after nine o’clock.
The rain on the windshield was the same rain I’d stood in on the deck, but on the road it was not an element, just an annoyance. Here in the car I could oppose the forces against me. The roads didn’t toss and the wind didn’t touch me.
The radio had come on when I started the engine. I forced myself to listen to the news.
“… took the oath of office with just his wife in attendance. Governor Malden has given no sign what actions he will take to restore order to either the statehouse or his own agencies. He begins his administration with only seven of Harry Bright’s cabinet members still in office.
“Yet even the momentous events in the capitol today have been nearly overshadowed by the startling news of a split in the powerful Boyer family, itself rocked by scandal and murder. In a widely watched television interview Saturday, Jason Boyer had positioned himself as a rising power in state politics and business. Now, two days after their flawless appearance, Boyer and his wife of three years, Katherine, are headed for divorce amidst a storm of lawsuits.
“Neither was available for comment. Speculation has been wild, however, after sources in police headquarters confirmed that Mrs. Boyer met late this afternoon with investigators assigned to the inquiry into the murders of Melvin and Angela Boyer and Clinton Grainger. While Police Commissioner Miguel DeAngelo had previously denied that Jason Boyer was a suspect, this evening he back-pedaled, stating that Mr. Boyer was, quote, ‘obviously a person of great interest to us, including his movements at the times of the murders.’
“Jason Boyer inherited his father Melvin Boyer’s estate, including
…”
These were the forces more difficult to oppose. But I had to.
I was in my driveway before eleven. The front of the house was dark. I let myself in. I was hungry.
Lights were on in the back hall and the kitchen, and I found Rosita unpacking grocery bags.
“Mr. Jason!” She didn’t know if I was friend or enemy.
“Is Katie still up?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Jason. I have only come back from the grocery store.”
“It’s late.”
“Yes. There is still so much to do in the new kitchen.”
I climbed the stairs. The upstairs hall light was also on. I stopped at the closed bedroom door.
What will I say to her? I had to bring some end to this war. Somehow. Was there any way? I could compromise. She could have the house and enough money. It would be better for her to break loose; she’d never understand me.
But the bed was empty, unused. I went back to the kitchen.
“Would she have gone out?” I asked Rosita.
“She was here when I left.”
“I’d like to find her.”
I went back up the stairs and opened doors. What was the point of sitting in the big, wonderful house all alone? She’d find someone else. A couple years from now she’d be over it. I came to my office door and pushed it open.
I didn’t touch her. I couldn’t move. She was in my reading chair, slouched sideways, glass eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her mouth was fallen open and blood covered half her face and had dribbled across the black and purple of her dress. But her hair was still loose and untouched.
I don’t know how long I was there.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. Neither of us could.
And then I touched her unmoving hand. It was cool and limp. Something pressed against my shoe-I looked down. How natural to see a handgun on the floor.
I held it. It was familiar. It was probably mine. I didn’t really remember what mine had looked like.
I looked back at her and I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. It was just Katie, cold and quiet, terrible. I knew she wouldn’t speak to me, or move, but that was all I could comprehend.
Finally, sound! Harsh, abrupt; I’d been holding the gun too tight. Now there was a bullet in the ceiling, too.
The echoes circled and died away, and we were back to silence and not moving. Forever not moving.
Then there was screaming. I turned to the door. Rosita was the one screaming. Her hands were on her cheeks, her mouth open in a circle. I held up the gun to show her what had made the sound, and she left. I heard her running, down the hall, down the stairs, screaming, screaming.
In the jumble and ruin of my thoughts, something stirred. I was still just looking at her face. I would have straightened her up in the chair, but I couldn’t bear to touch her again. I heard Rosita’s screams from outside the window. She was running down the driveway.
The thought pushed up from under the debris and formed itself. I had to get away.
It was not from rational process. It was instinct, and only that growing primal urgency uprooted my feet from the floor and made them carry me to my desk and open the drawer and reach for the thick envelope in the back.
The first thing that came out in my hand was the picture from Melvin’s bedroom. I set it back in the drawer and tried again and found what I was looking for, the cash envelope I kept for whatever reason I might need it. I hadn’t known why I might need it.
I dropped it. Twenty- and hundred-dollar bills scattered across the carpet. Suddenly I was moving fast. Fear
