it's time for me to go too.
Six sharp raps at the door to make sure somebody hears and comes quick. Because the truth is the better I know my client the more he puts me off. And it's not the fear he creates in me but what I see of it in him that does it.
'' 'When shall we three meet again?' '' he says when the guard comes to let me out, and although I could answer the line with the one that comes after there's no way I'm going to play along.
Outside the air smells like rain again, sour as burned peat. I half jog back down Ontario Street and manage to jump through the front doors of the Empire just as the first drops splash off my shoulders.
''Ah! Now, that's a piece of good timin'!'' the front desk clerk calls out from the dark. ''Message for you.''
He bends down to find the note but I'm ready for him, closing my eyes to avoid the sight of his thin-skinned head. When I open them again an arm's stuck out with a quivering slip of three-lined paper in its hand.
''Mr. Goodwin from the Crown's office. Says you ought to call as soon as you can. Sounds kind of excited.''
I bound up to the honeymoon suite and dial Goodwin's office without taking off my coat.
''Crown Attorney's Office. Peter Goodwin speaking.''
''Goodwin. It's Barth Crane.''
''Ah. Hello, Barth.''
''So?''
''Beg pardon?''
''You have some news?''
''Oh, yes. Certainly do. There's new materials to be added to the Crown's previous disclosure.''
''New materials?''
''I advise you to come round and have a look yourself because--''
''What is it?''
''It may not be appropriate over the--''
''Tell me what you've got, Goodwin.''
''Perhaps--''
''
There's a pause as the big man at the other end takes a labored breath of savored pleasure.
''The DNA results are in. The blond hair in the Volvo, Krystal's hairbrush, and the backseat bloodstains,'' he says, taking another full breath to deliver the next two words.
''They match.''
part 3
chapter 22
I think of the single photograph in my space in the city. How its details are more distinct here than if held directly to my eyes, the faces assuming a life they've been denied in their time spent behind the frame's glass. The smiles turning to laughter in the moment after the shutter closes, my mother's high and breathless, my father's a regular series of quarter notes, the same rattling string plucked on a stand-up bass. What caused them to laugh this way, to fall into each other's arms, dizzy from its release? It's the recognition of their own foolishness, the spectacle they're making --married adults made giddy by posing for a vacation snapshot--this is the fun part. Otherwise serious people whose company could still wipe all seriousness away, a shared joke passing wordlessly between them.
Slide my hand over the papered walls of the honeymoon suite and work my way back. My mother first, the chances always better with her. But the effort only yields the same jittery super-8 clips, over and over: sitting behind the wheel of a station wagon, turning to face me while she talked and me wishing she'd just keep her eyes on the road; raising a glass of white wine to her lips with one hand while lowering dirty plates into the dishwasher with the other after the dinner-party guests had finally left; lifting the lid of a mother-of-pearl jewelry box to pull out a pair of earrings while inspecting her wrinkles in the bureau mirror. What else? Her mouth. Thin, but generous with kisses.
At least with my father I've got the facts. All the handed-down accounts and loving testimonials from various peripheral Cranes, the caretakers for the remaining years of preadult purgatory that followed my parents' death. With them I was brought up on sighed repetitions of how great my father was and how kind, examples of the infinite extent of his patience, and always, in hushed wonder, a word about his renowned devotion to his wife. Always, too, a hand placed on my cheek. The same cheek, the very same
For all the years I spent at boarding school I refused to look at myself in mirrors. Wore my hair in a crew cut so I never needed to find where to part it. When I was old enough to shave I did so in the dark, feeling for the missed patches with my fingertips. Through these habits I came to forget my own face. I wanted enough time to pass so that when I looked again I would see neither father nor mother, and only myself. They were gone now, and what little they'd left me with was slipping away. And if I couldn't know enough to make them whole, I would know nothing at all.
When I looked again in the mirror I saw all the same things I thought I'd forgotten, except now less distinct, anonymous, a face made up of used parts.
The next time I looked I was a man.
chapter 23
As soon as Goodwin told me that the blond hair and bloodstains found in the back of Tripp's Volvo had matched, I hung up on him. Not a very professional response, I suppose, but sometimes an inclination for spontaneity can get the better of me. This is regrettable for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that now I'm not certain what the test results actually are.
Later I call Goodwin's office back but his secretary tells me he's out for the rest of the day, so I make an appointment for the next morning. And when the morning comes I'm out early. A little too early as it turns out, as I have to wait outside the courthouse doors in the rain for half an hour before they're opened. This is still preferable to any extra time spent alone in my room surrounded by the Incredible Grinning Wallpaper, yet to be removed for reasons unclear even to myself. Every time I reach out to hitch a finger under the corner of one of the pages my arm freezes before it gets there and only a double-barreled whack from the thermos permits the full use of my limbs again. I'd rather stand in the rain.
When the doors are finally opened I settle myself in Goodwin's office and wait for his arrival. By the time he shifts his gut around the corner of his desk I've thoroughly drenched the chair I sit in, drops of water plinking onto the waxed tiles underneath.
''You need a towel?'' Goodwin gusts, a regretful grin visible beneath overhanging cheeks.
''That won't be necessary. I prefer evaporation.''
''I'm not one to tell another man his business, but you really should get your hands on an umbrella.''
''I'll take it under advisement.''
Goodwin shrugs, extends his thick arms out over the stacked papers on his desk, finding what he was looking for and lifting it back in front of him. All of this is done with such deliberate movements, one can feel the man's concentration, his struggle to animate a body that, if left to its own devices, would choose inertia and continued enlargement over action and purpose.
''This is the full text of the DNA test results,'' he says, patting the file's cover with his palm. ''My secretary is assembling your copy right now.''
''That's fine. In the meantime, however, could you give me an idea of precisely what the results
