”Why not?“
I jerk my head around to find Caitlin staring down at me, looking half amused and half angry. She raises her eyebrows and says, ”You were a little slow to tell the babysitter she shouldn’t be rubbing your neck.“
”I was asleep!“ I protest, getting to my feet.
Caitlin gives me a look of mock suspicion. ”Were you?“
”How the hell did you get here?“
”Hug first, then talk.“
I walk around the sofa and crush her body against mine. Only after I sense her having difficulty breathing do I pull back and look at her. No matter how much time I spend with Caitlin, I can’t get accustomed to the luminous green of her eyes. They seem almost incongruous in her face, which is porcelain pale, while her hair is jet black and very fine.
”Where’s Mia?“ I ask.
”She’s gone home, where she belongs. I slipped through the back door and saw her in the kitchen. She left that way.“
”That’s some timing.“
A little color comes into Caitlin’s cheeks. ”I watched the two of you from the porch for a little bit.“
”Spying?“
”A girl has to protect her investment.“
I maintain my smile, but the thought that came into my head was,
”Are you all right?“ Caitlin asks. ”I know you were at the Wilson scene.“
”How do you know that?“
”I’ve been in touch with my reporters all the way down.“
I pull her over to the couch and sit beside her. ”Down from where? Explain yourself.“
She laughs at my puzzlement. ”I was flying down to Wilmington to see my father. He wanted to talk to me about an acquisition for the chain. Face time, not phone time.“
Wilmington, North Carolina, is the home base of Caitlin’s father, the owner of one of the fastest-growing and most successful newspaper chains in the South. They’re at eighteen papers and counting. Daddy’s company owns the Cessna jet that allows Caitlin to change her flight destination on a whim.
”Ann Denny called me after Sonny Cross was shot,“ Caitlin goes on. Denny is the editor of the
”Well…I’m glad you did.“
Her lovely eyes narrow. ”Are you?“
”Of course.“
She gives me a long and searching look. ”Then why aren’t you raping me?“
Her eyes flash invitingly, but I feel no reaction other than anxiety. If I make love with Caitlin now, and then tomorrow vent the feelings that have been building up while she’s gone, she will feel betrayed. Besides, the truth is, I don’t feel like having sex right now. What I most want now is sedation. General anesthesia.
”You’re upset, aren’t you?“
”Yes,“ I concede.
”I heard the Wilson scene was bad. Was it?“
Even this simple question causes resentment in me. Is she asking me out of curiosity, or out of professional interest? ”It was a murder scene.“
”You don’t want to talk about it?“
”Not tonight.“
”What do you want to do?“
”I know this sounds bad, but I think I need sleep more than anything else.“
Caitlin shakes her head and smiles. ”No, I understand completely. Do you want me to stay here?“
”Can you stay all night?“
She seems to steel herself, then says, ”I promised Ann I would go over to the paper at two-thirty for a strategy meeting. She’s working through the night.“
I shake my head. ”Don’t worry about it.“
”Penn, that still gives us almost two hours. I can tuck you in and watch you sleep.“
A year ago I would have loved hearing this. Not now. ”I don’t think I’m very good company tonight. I’ll have my resources back in the morning. We can start over then.“
Caitlin stands. ”Okay. I need to air my house out anyway. I’m going to open all the doors and windows and drink a gimlet. Maybe two.“
”I wish I was up to joining you. Sorry.“
She looks down at me, silently imploring me for some explanation, but she must already know the truth of the situation.
”Caitlin…you wouldn’t even be in Natchez if it weren’t for these murders, would you?“
She bites her lip and thinks this over. ”That’s probably true. But I was coming back in two weeks no matter what, and staying for a whole week.“
”Were you?“
”Yes. Penn, what’s wrong? Please talk to me.“
”We should talk before we slip back into our old routine.“
”Let’s talk now.“
”No. I’m too exhausted. I’ve seen too much tonight. I’m happy to see you, and Annie will be ecstatic. Let’s leave it at that for now.“
Caitlin starts to reply, then thinks better of it. She steps forward and gives me a soft kiss on the lips, then turns and walks out of the study. She’s never been slow on the uptake.
One way or another, change is coming.
Chapter 25
The St. Stephen’s high school gymnasium sounds like a Broadway theater before the lights go down. Four hundred students ranging from fifth-graders to the senior classmates of Kate Townsend and Chris Vogel have been crowded into the bleachers on both sides of the gleaming basketball court. Most teachers are sitting with their classes, trying in vain to keep the anticipatory energy under control. About fifty adults from the community-many of them St. Stephen’s parents, but some teachers and coaches from other schools-stand against the wall by the large double entrance doors. Coach Wade Anders, our athletic director, stands by the smaller door to his office, glaring at the loudest of the students to quiet them down.
A podium has been placed at the center of the tip-off circle, with chairs on both sides of it. In the chairs sit Jan Chancellor; Holden Smith; Dean Herrick, minister of the Presbyterian church Kate attended; Roger Mills, minister of the Methodist church Chris Vogel attended; and Charles Martin, the school chaplain. There’s no chair for Jenny Townsend, Kate’s mother, but she must be here somewhere. Likewise, the Vogel family.
Jan Chancellor stands and walks to the microphone, a folded piece of paper in her hand. On any other occasion, it would require some effort to obtain quiet, but not today. Today the room goes still as though everyone has suddenly held his breath. Death retains its power to awe.
”We have gathered here,“ Jan says in a strong voice, ”to remember two of the most distinguished students ever to attend this school: Kate Townsend and Chris Vogel. Because St. Stephen’s is such a small institution, we are truly a family. And today we all grieve the loss of two family members.“
As Jan goes on, I realize she is an even better speaker than I thought. She doesn’t distance herself from the kids by being too formal; neither does she condescend to them. She paints a brief picture of each dead student that brings home their special qualities and avoids all mention of the manner in which they died. I suppose that subject
