I couldn’t run and tackle him; there wasn’t enough cover between the vault and where he was standing.
Would he shoot me?
Maybe not; maybe. He was supposed to love me, after all. But what if he did shoot, and his shooting me didn’t give Martin enough time to grab him? Neither of us would be saved.
I had to hurt Paul.
And by God, I wanted to.
But I hadn’t anything except my hands, and I didn’t think they’d do enough damage to stop him long enough.
What if the knife was still in his car? The thought burst on me like a beautiful firework.
After a moment I realized it was a stupid idea, but it was all I had. As I began my approach to his car, slightly to the rear of Paul’s peripheral vision, I realized just how dumb it was. But I considered for a second: he’d had to leave it there during the investigation at the community center. He’d had to leave it in there this morning, when he’d been at the police station, presumably; and he’d had to leave it in there for the funeral, because he couldn’t withdraw it during the service or later at the cemetery. So our whole salvation depended on whether or not Paul Allison had been too exhausted the night before to withdraw the knife and clean its hiding place.
He’d parked facing south on the little drive, so I had to creep up the passenger side, and pray the door was unlocked. I was afraid to look toward Paul and Martin, afraid that I would see Martin get shot, afraid that if my eyes met Martin’s his face would change and Paul would turn to see me. I could hear Paul’s voice ranting on and on and I made my way closer, but I shut out what he was saying.
Finally, I had used all the available cover, including Early Lawrence’s angel. I had come to a point where I was blocked by graves or trees, and I had to cross the track that made a large figure eight within the cemetery, about at the cross-loop. I took off my shoes so they wouldn’t crunch on the gravel, and tried to think light so my feet wouldn’t make noise. I risked a glance; I had worked my way so close that I was nearly behind Paul now. Martin’s eyes were focused on Paul. I didn’t know if he’d seen me or not.
I had to chance it. I took a deep breath and stepped out into the open. I took one step across the gravel, then another, then I could regain the soft grass and walk quickly to the passenger side of the car.
I looked down at the door. I was so desperate that for a minute, my eyes refused to focus.
The door was unlocked.
Praise God, I thought: I gripped the handle. I had to look again now, and I fixed my gaze on Paul’s back, trying not to see Martin over his shoulder. It helped that Paul was the taller of the two by a couple of inches. I did not want to see Martin’s face, see the knowledge of my presence reflected in it. I willed Martin not to know I was here. And I pressed in the release button with my thumb.
It sounded like an explosion to me, but I knew the sound was small. I stopped breathing, the car door barely open, waiting to see if Paul would turn my way.
He didn’t. He kept on talking. I inhaled deliberately. I was light-headed with relief and oxygen deprivation.
Gently, gently, I pulled open the door. So slowly my thumb cramped, I eased it off the release knob. I unclenched my fingers from the handle. I wiggled them for a second or two, trying to restore circulation.
I crouched again, my sore knees protesting at a barely discernible level. The scabs had come off eons ago in the ditch; I could add blood to the list of items staining my skirt.
But I hadn’t made that tiny stain on the blue cloth of the car seat. You’d only see it if you were thinking about blood.
Maybe he’d had it covered with the little notepad that was almost on top of it now; maybe he’d jostled the pad when he’d gotten out of the car.
I looked at the police radio longingly; but I had not the slightest idea how to operate it, and I was scared to death someone would radio Paul while I was crouched here beside the car. I looked over the front seat quickly. If the knife was here, it would have to be around this small area.
The quickest and easiest place to hide the knife would have been to slip it in the crack in the seat.
I slid my hand down into the crack, where I could see the tiny stain. I felt stickiness. I felt a hard shape.
The knife was still there.
My fingers examined it with caution; I didn’t want to grab the blade. I gripped it and pulled it out. There was old, dark blood staining my fingers; the stickiness I’d felt. I stared at the knife, wishing I had time to be squeamish. There was dried blood on the little blade and on the hilt. Paul had driven it into Arthur as hard as he could.
It was just a little brown pocketknife, with handy attachments.
Unfortunately, the only one of use to me was the blade.
I stood. I had the knife gripped so the blade pointed upward; all the fictional crime I’d read told me that was the way to use it. I should try to come in under his ribs, I recalled.
I worked my way around the car and stood perhaps twelve feet behind Paul. I was curiously indecisive. Should I sneak up and stab him? Should I scream and run headlong over the grass? The nature of the ground, broken by headstones and footstones, pots of flowers, and a toddler’s grave heartbreakingly decorated with a tiny baseball mitt, forbade the scream-and-run approach.
So I began to step quietly over the grass, not daring to look at Martin, focusing on the spot low in Paul’s back where I would drive in the knife.
My bare feet made scarcely any sound, and Paul was still talking.
“You’ve never valued her enough, you can’t give her the devotion she needs,” he was telling Martin. “You go out of town all the time and leave her alone. A husband should stay with his wife. Leaving her with the hired help, you see now that couldn’t work! And you let people hurt her. If you really loved Aurora, you wouldn’t let these people hurt her!”
I was absolutely determined to kill this man and save Martin’s life, but now that I was close to him, I realized I should have run full-tilt after all. This creeping, this planning, was making my soul sick. I could feel sweat pop out on my forehead. My hands were shaking.
I was a yard behind Paul now, and I registered the fact that he’d taken off his suit coat after the funeral-one less layer to penetrate. This was so much harder than I’d ever imagined.
I bit down on my lip, took the last step. My left hand went up to grip his shoulder as my right hand drew back, then plunged in the knife.
Paul made a horrible sound, and his shirt became reddened in a widening circle. I let go of the knife and jumped back to be out of his way when he fell, and he said, “Walk around where I can see you or I’ll shoot him this second.”
I wanted to throw up.
I’d done it. I’d stabbed a man I knew. And there he stood, not falling, not defeated. I did as he said, though my legs were trembling so much I didn’t think I’d make it.
The knife, so much heavier at the handle than the blade, slid out of the wound and fell to the ground. I made a horrible noise, but not as horrible as the sound of that knife meeting the dirt.
For the first time I met Martin’s eyes. His face was unreadable. He might have been made of stone.
Paul’s face was more open. He’d been pouring himself out to Martin, and he hadn’t closed the emotional doors yet. He was anguished when he saw his attacker was me.
“Oh, Aurora, how could you do this?” he said wonderingly.
I was so shaken, I found myself on the verge of apologizing.
“You have to spare Martin,” I said to him, willing him to be swallowed up in my intensity.
“Look over there, Aurora,” Paul said gently. “See the bed of flowers I’ve got for you?”
The “bed of flowers” was the funeral arrangements spread neatly on the freshly turned dirt.
“I’ll kill him and we’ll share the bed of flowers. You deserve something that beautiful, that fragile. You’re so beautiful and fragile yourself.”
I shook my head hopelessly, not knowing what to say. Paul was crazy, but not so crazy he couldn’t function in his job. I didn’t think I could deceive him, since a large part of his work lay in detecting deception.
“Paul, I am willing to go with you if you’ll let Martin go,” I said. The seepage of blood had slowed, but not stopped. I felt as if a dog had ripped me up and left pieces of me all over the clipped green grass. I felt the tears beginning to flow. I might not be able to save my husband or myself. I had one more chance.
I held out my arms to Paul Allison and I stepped a little closer. “Paul, listen, you’re-I’m so sorry,” and I began to cry in earnest, but I didn’t cover my face, didn’t let my arms drop.
