empty chambers as the cylinder rotated. The mechanism sounded precisely the same each time-a muted, substantial metallic click.
This is one of the few things in life that works as it should, each time, every time, until time itself wears it out.
The gun was such an impersonal instrument-heavy for its size, precise in design and construction, oiled, smooth, efficient and deadly in its purpose. It didn’t know shooter from victim, right from wrong, justice from injustice. It simply fulfilled its purpose. Mechanical, irrevocable, it promised a trip to eternity, one-way, nonrefundable.
Eternity was where Quinn belonged, if for no other reason than that it was somewhere else. Somewhere Anna was not.
She climbed out of bed again, got the box of bullets down from the closet shelf, and carefully loaded the gun.
It felt better loaded, even heavier and more potent.
It felt serious.
Holding its cool bulk in both hands was definitely reassuring. She decided to start carrying it in her purse, or tucked in her belt beneath her blouse or raincoat. She knew it was illegal to carry a gun without a permit, but it made her feel safer. And it wasn’t just a feeling. Anna was sure that with it she was safer.
She reluctantly put the gun and the box of cartridges in the drawer of her nightstand. In doing so, she looked at the clock radio and saw that it was almost midnight. She wouldn’t get much sleep before subwaying into the city tomorrow morning. She wouldn’t be at her best for her lessons.
But that didn’t have to matter. Anna decided to get up at the usual time, dress, and go into the city, but she’d skip Juilliard tomorrow. She’d take a walk and enjoy the park or the city streets. When she went out now, she usually wore sunglasses so people wouldn’t recognize her. Not that most of them would, anyway. But if they did, she knew what they must be thinking, how they must be seeing her.
Her mind was made up; there would be no music tomorrow. She’d take a walk.
She’d find something to do.
She switched off her reading lamp, fluffed her pillow, and rolled onto her stomach.
If only I could switch off my mind!
She closed her eyes in the dark and found more darkness.
After a while she dozed off, hearing the music she wasn’t going to play, terrified of sleep.
41
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
Oh, Christ! I killed them! I killed them both!
Cara!
Christ! Christ! Christ!
Luther pressed his back hard against the kitchen wall, scooting and digging in his heels, as if he might make himself a part of the wall, or be somewhere or something else.
Still with his shoulders against the wall, he slowly worked his way to a standing position. He was unable to look at Cara or Milford. The bloody knife he’d been gripping lay at his feet and kept drawing his gaze, as if by some kind of unnatural force. The kitchen was so hot it was dizzying. And there was the blood with its coppery sweet scent, the vomit on the floor, on Milford’s white T-shirt. And already the stench of the dead, Luther was sure.
The dead!
Hearing himself whimper, Luther carefully found his way across the kitchen without stepping in any blood. Trembling, he worked his body around Cara and through the doorway to the hall. He went to the bathroom and stripped off his bloody Jockey shorts and T-shirt and let them lie in a heap in a corner. Then he stepped into the claw-footed iron tub and turned the shower on cold, then warmer. He began to scrub with the soap, cleansing the blood from his face and neck, his arms and chest and stomach, his hands, his hands, his hands. He scrubbed his hands with a stiff-bristled brush until they were chafed and sore, long after the blood of Cara and Milford had disappeared from his reddened flesh.
Then he toweled dry, naked and shivering, and went up to the attic.
If only I could lie down here, be safe here forever.
But he knew better. He was thinking that clearly.
Quickly he dressed in his jeans, sneakers, and a blue pullover shirt with a collar, a recent gift from Cara. His mind and body seemed oddly detached from each other. He only knew he had to get out of the house, to get far away.
After leaving the attic, he went into the master bedroom on the second floor and found Milford’s wallet on the dresser. And there were Milford’s keys alongside some loose change. His car key! Luther slipped the bills-a little over $50-into his own wallet, then slid the change and keys into his jeans’ tight side pocket.
It was almost four A.M., in the still moonlight, when he opened the garage door and backed Milford’s midnight blue Ford Fairlane, with its headlights off, down the long gravel driveway and out into the street.
At first he had a little trouble getting used to the car, but it was an automatic shift and he was soon comfortable enough driving. A block away from the house, he turned on the car’s lights.
Luther understood he was in trouble-major trouble-and that even beginning to cope with it was beyond him. He was making one mistake after another; he was aware of it but knew nothing else to do. He was running on fear and instinct, and not reason. Soon Milford and Cara’s bodies would be discovered, and everyone would be searching for Luther. Everyone!
He knew only that he had to gain distance as fast as possible. Distance might somehow make him safe. At least give him time to think. Distance, in time and miles, had always been his ally. It might save him again.
Careful not to drive too fast and draw the attention of any sheriff’s car or highway patrol cruiser that might be prowling the deserted streets, he rolled down Main toward the highway out of town. The highway he wanted to drive forever.
Luther wasn’t much worried about the sheriff; he was probably at that all-night truck stop, if he wasn’t home in bed asleep. But Nester, that creepy deputy, might be driving around town, working the graveyard shift.
When Luther was passing Wilde’s Painting Company, he saw that the lights were on in the office and storeroom.
Wilde! Tom might know what to do! Tom Wilde might help him! The one person he trusted!
Help close to home!
Luther slowed the big Ford, turned the corner, and pulled into the rear drive, where the van was backed close to the overhead door. He parked tight alongside the van, then got out of the car. The small passage door near the overhead was unlocked. Luther looked up and down the dark street before he ducked inside.
Tom Wilde was standing at his workbench, going through his familiar routine of assembling materials: paint cans, buckets, and scrapers. Getting ready for today’s job, which would start later this morning. Luther knew the job would be a long drive’s distance; Tom meant to get an early start and use the morning light.
He stood watching Wilde from behind, feeling an unexpected flood of affection for him. The familiar, slightly round-shouldered figure in comfort-cut baggy jeans and a speckled white paint shirt, with a bush of unkempt hair and ears that stuck out a bit too far, somehow inspired confidence and trust.
Wilde sensed someone was there and turned, startled.
“Luther! God, boy, you scared the crap outta me.” Wild looked more closely at him. “What are you doing here at this hour? Something wrong?”
“Something’s plenty wrong, Tom!”
Luther tried to explain everything to Wilde, but he soon began to cry. Ashamed, embarrassed, afraid, he sat down on a five-gallon paint pail and sobbed.
Wilde let him cry. He placed a hand gently on Luther’s shoulder, a reminder that he was there, that he cared, and waited patiently, giving Luther all the time and tears in the world.
When Luther’s raking sobs became less violent and frequent, Wilde walked over to a cabinet above the
