“I had the sound off to hear her leave,” Burlson said. He tossed the remote on a chair. “What’s your thinking?”
“A fall. Something painless.”
“Good, painless, certainly.” Burlson nodded. “Go ahead.”
“The dog.” Burlson kept nodding. “When she realizes it’s not with her, she goes looking.”
“Go ahead, I understand.”
Rivera motioned for him to follow. Burlson hiked up his pants and shuffled up the hall behind him. “It could be a game with the dog,” Rivera said. “It doesn’t have to hurt, it can happen fast.”
“You sure she won’t feel pain? I don’t want anything rough, she—”
“No, nothing rough, you’ll see.” When they reached the foyer, he stopped to listen. Stuckey was already watching television. Rivera motioned for Burlson to follow, and they crossed the living room’s chessboard squares. “What’s the word from the people doing your tile work?” he asked.
“Next week sometime they’re coming back.”
Rivera moved to the glass wall and looked out. “Push the button.”
It gave him satisfaction, making the old man follow him and take orders. Burlson stepped to his right, reached behind a furled curtain and touched the control. The glass began sliding back in both directions. “Stop it there.” Burlson reached again and the panels stopped. The opening was slightly wider than a yard. “She could push the button, but she wouldn’t think to stop it the way you just did,” Rivera said. “The glass would open all the way. You’d have wind, curtains blowing. The nurse would see her and bring her in. But with workers here—”
Stepping out, Rivera glanced to the left, at the adjacent high rise. He felt a sense of mastery. The night air was cool, and he saw no one out on a balcony. The crew doing the terrace had left equipment, a plastic case of drill bits, a second case containing the diamond saw used to cut tile. Centered in the middle was the unfinished fountain. A pair of leather work gloves had been left on the stone lip.
“This is good.” He stepped to the fountain and pulled on the gloves. “Everything we need is right here.”
Burlson stepped outside. He hesitated several seconds before crossing. “Having second thoughts?” Rivera asked. “You said it had to be soon.”
“I don’t want details,” Burlson said. “Whatever I said, I don’t remember.”
“You said if she could think to do it, she’d ask to go.”
“It’s true.”
“Are you saying to forget it?” The old man looked behind to the opening. He turned back and shook his head. “Okay,” Rivera said. “The workers move in and out. This is the only access. They know to watch for Mrs. Fenton, but they take breaks. Lunch, whatever. There’s a lot of coming and going.”
As was his way, to be familiar and to manipulate others, Burlson came over and took Rivera by the upper arm. He began walking him toward the end of the terrace. The nylon ropes hung loose from days in the sun. “You said a fall,” he whispered. “You don’t mean—”
“Not that. There’s going to be food out here. Pinky loves Mexican.” Rivera smiled. “I see him out here sometimes with your crew. They give him tortillas, he likes the beans. I know the men, they live in Immokalee like me. I’m out here talking to them in Spanish, they leave. They forget to close the glass. Even if they don’t, how can they be sure later, when someone asks? Now, here comes Pinky—”
He reached out to the top band of nylon, grabbed it and pulled it to him. He had plenty to work with. Glancing a last time at the adjacent high rise, in a single motion he looped the rope over Burlson’s head twice at the neck, jerked him by his belted trousers and threw him off the edge.
Rivera jumped back as the rope clattered and raked down both sides of the deck. Now it made a sound like a single note played on a bass viol. But it held, strained on the sharp stone ledge but held, secured to solid mounts waiting for the terrace railing.
He removed the leather gloves and placed them back on the lip of the fountain. Work had stopped last week, and no rain had fallen since. Footprints led from all directions, into and out of the house. He slipped off his shoes and reentered, leaving the panels open. Opened by a touch from Burlson’s finger. Rivera heard music and moved quickly toward the foyer. Star Wars, he thought. Stuckey had brought the whole series to get him through the night.
Now the Christmas tree.
Sweeney stood and reached out for her glass. Brenda handed it up to him.
As he walked into the kitchen, she thought of Charlie in his Minnesota cabin. She had been there just once, for less than fifteen minutes. But she remembered the stone fireplace, the light fixture made from an old wagon wheel, the painting of an Indian over the hearth.
Right now, he might be microwaving something for dinner, a meal that came in a box. Or repairing or painting, making use of his time. There were things to learn about everything, even how to use a paint roller. He had shown her how to train work lights on drywall. If you didn’t do that, you ended up with uneven coverage.
Still she saw him in her condo’s drab, characterless living room, using the paint roller. Each sticky pass changed another swath of gray wall to dusty rose. He was wearing a flannel shirt, his broad shoulders in motion. Brenda pinched her eyes shut. You loved him, she
