The Throat

I answered the telephone, and a voice I did not recognize asked to speak to Tim Underhill.

'Speaking,' I said.

The man on the other end of the line said he was Paul Fontaine.

5

When I didn't respond, he asked, 'Are you still there?' I said I was still there.

'Are you alone?'

'For about five minutes,' I said.

'We have to talk about a certain matter. Informally.'

'What did you have in mind?'

'I have some information you might be interested in, and I think you have some I could use. I want you to meet me somewhere.'

'This is a funny time for a meeting.'

'Don't believe everything you hear on television. You'll be okay as long as you stay away from Messmer Avenue. Look, I'm at a pay phone near Central Divide, and I don't have much time. Meet me across Widow Street from the St. Alwyn at two o'clock.'

'Why should I come?'

'I'll explain the rest there.' He hung up.

I put down the telephone and instantaneously found myself, as if by teleportation, seated again on the couch in front of the babbling television. Of course I had no intention of meeting Fontaine on a deserted street at two in the morning—he wanted to put me in a position where my death could be attributed to random violence.

John Ransom and I had to get out of Millhaven as soon as we could. If the fog lifted, we could get to the airport before Fontaine realized that I was not going to show up across from the St. Alwyn. In Quantico, the FBI had experts who did nothing but think about people like Paul Fontaine. They could look into every homicide Fontaine had handled in Allentown and wherever else he had worked before returning to Millhaven. What I most needed was what I didn't have—the rest of the notes.

Where were Fontaine's narratives of his murders? Now it seemed to me that Ransom and I had merely rushed in and out of the house on South Seventh Street. We should have pried up floorboards and punched holes in the walls.

Once Fontaine realized that I was not going to show up to be murdered, he'd check every flight that left Millhaven during the night. Then he'd go to South Seventh Street and make a bonfire in the old furnace.

My thoughts had reached this unhappy point when the front door opened on a loud burst of talk, and John came in, literally leading Alan Brookner by the hand.

6

Alan wore the wrinkled top of a pair of pajamas under a gray suit jacket paired with tan trousers. John had apparently dressed his father-in-law in whatever he had pulled first out of his closet. Alan's hair drifted around his head, and his wild, unfocused eyes communicated both belligerence and confusion. He had reached a stage where he had to express himself as much through gesture as verbally, and he raised his hands to his head, carrying John's hand along. John released him.

Alan smacked his forehead with the hand John had just released. 'Don't you get it?' He boomed this question toward John's retreating back. 'It's the answer. I'm giving you the solution.'

John stopped moving. 'I don't want that answer. Sit down, Alan. I'll get you a drink.'

Alan extended his arms and yelled, 'Of course you want it! It's exactly what you want.' He took in my presence and came through the foyer into the living room. 'Tim, talk sense to this guy, will you?'

'Come over here,' I said, and Alan moved toward the couch while keeping his eyes on John until he had passed through into the kitchen. Then he sat down beside me and ran both hands through his hair, settling most of it into place.

'He thinks he can solve everything by running away. You have to stay in place and face it.'

'Is that the answer you're trying to give him?' I asked. John had evidently told the old man of his plans to move abroad.

'No, no, no.' Alan shook his head, irritated by my inability to understand the matter all at once. 'I have an endowed chair, and all I have to do is make sure that John gets the chair, starting next term. I can give it to him.'

'Can you appoint your own successor?'

'Let me tell you something.' He gripped my thigh. 'For thirty-eight years, the administration has given me every single thing I ever asked for. I don't think they'll stop now.'

Alan addressed these last words to John, who had returned to set a dark brown drink in front of him.

'It's not that simple.' John took the chair at the end of the couch and turned to look at the television.

'Of course it is,' Alan insisted. 'I didn't want to admit what was happening to me. But I'm not going to pretend anymore.'

'I'm not going to carry on for you,' John said.

'Carry on for yourself,' Alan said. 'I'm giving you a way to keep yourself whole. What you want to do is run away. It's no good, kid.'

'I'm sorry you feel rejected,' John said. 'It isn't personal.'

'Of course it's personal,' Alan roared.

'I'm sorry I brought it up,' John said. 'Don't make me say any more, Alan.'

Alan overflowed with all he felt—he had been waving his arms while he spoke, splashing whiskey onto himself, the couch, and my legs. Now he gulped from the glass and groaned. I had to get John away from Alan and talk to him in private.

Alan came out of his sulk long enough to give me a way to do this.

'Talk to him, Tim. Make him see reason.'

I stood up. 'Let's go in the kitchen, John.'

'Not you, too.' He gave me a disbelieving glare.

I said John's name in a way that was like kicking him in the foot, and he looked sharply up at me. 'Oh,' he said. 'Okay.'

'Attaboy,' Alan said.

I set off for the kitchen. John trailed along behind me. I opened the door and stepped outside. What was left of the fog curled and hung above the grass. John came out and closed the door.

'Fontaine called,' I said. 'He wants to trade information. We're supposed to meet at two o'clock on Widow Street, across from the St. Alwyn.'

'That's great,' John said. 'He still thinks we trust him.'

'I want to get out of town tonight,' I said. 'We can go to the FBI and tell them everything we know.'

'Listen, this is our chance. He'll hand himself to us on a plate.'

'You want me to meet him on a deserted street in the middle of the night?'

'We'll go down early. I'll hide in that little alley next to the pawnshop and hear everything he says. Together, we can handle him.'

'That's crazy,' I said, and then I understood what he really intended to do. 'You want to kill him.'

Alan shouted our names from within the kitchen, and John bit his lip and checked to see how persuasive he had been. 'Running away won't work,' he said, unconsciously echoing what Alan had just said.

The door swung open, and Alan stood framed in a spill of yellow light. 'You getting him to see reason?'

'Give us a little more time,' I said.

'The rioting seems to be pretty much over,' Alan said. 'Looks like four people got killed.' When we said nothing, he backed away from the door. 'Well, I won't get in your way.'