93.

Chapter 5

 

Richard intended to go out to the canoe rental on his lunch break before Betty's voice came over the radio instructing him to pick up Guidry at Swindel's Station in Kaleville.  He glanced at his watch in irritation, wondering if he would still have time to run his errand.  When he pulled under the once white overhang that jutted from the concrete block station to cover the three pumps, Guidry limped through the cracked glass door, a scowl on his face.  He got in and slammed the door.

"What's wrong?" asked Richard.

"Starter won't even click.  Son of bitch probably won't fix it any time soon even if he can figure it out.  He blames us for getting his place knocked over last night.  Real Einstein pulled the job.  Used a crowbar to force the back door, pried open the empty cash register to, then broke into the vending machines.  He scooped up the tobacco products and took a case of scotch---I think that's what really ticked the old man off.  And, oh yeah, he took an unregistered S and W, .357 mag."

He lit a cigarette.

"What's the damage?" asked Richard keying down the window to bleed in fresh air.

"Hell, I don't know.  Burn the whole damned place down---maybe save the guy money once the insurance comes in.  He claims they took maybe a hundred fifty in coin and cash from the machines, and about five hundred in cigarettes, booze and---oh yeah, condoms.  He let the part about the pistol slip.  I think he'd just as soon we forget that.  Will they prosecute him for the unregistered piece?"

"I seriously doubt it.  So where are we going?"

"Take me back to the department.  I got paperwork to clear."

"Mind if I run out to the creek first?  I'm on lunch break."

"I'm in no hurry," he said, scowling out the window at the rural poverty passing by.  "I wish Blue Creek would annex this slum.  Minor stuff like this should be handled by the municipal police."

"Road duty suit you better?"

"I'm getting the hang of it, especially that part about burning my crotch with thermos coffee bumping over mud puddles."

 

"Think that'll be enough to finish the job?" asked Richard, handing the bag of deck screws to Shane.

"Sure.  Only have about six or eight steps left, but I'll have to use the rest of the treated lumber.  I found two more boards that need replacing.  Sorry I had you come out here.  Raven has the afternoon off and I forgot.  I could've gone in for these myself."

"I wanted to see how it was coming along anyway.  You're doing a good job."

A gust of wind banged shut the door, as Raven came out hugging a denim jacket to her.

"Mr. Carter," she said, stopping several feet away.  "I've fixed soup.  Do you want to join us for lunch?"

"We need to get back," he said.  "By the way, you two haven't met my colleague.  This is Ron Guidry.  He's new to the department.  Ron, this is Shane Sanders and Raven Bliss."

The separate names brought a slight raise of the eyebrow.

Shane stepped forward, extending a hand and mumbling a quick "Glad to meet you," but Raven only nodded from where she stood.

"Sure you won't stay," she said, addressing Richard.  "I can make ham and cheese sandwiches."

"That's nice of you Miss Bliss," said Guidry, not quite successful in hiding his bemusement at her name, "but I got paperwork to catch up on, and my buddy has to get back to making the county roads safe for wayfaring travelers."

Raven returned a decidedly cool smile.

 

"What's with those two?" asked Guidry when they were back on the blacktop to town.  "I mean, I know they're shacking up, but they don't seem real well matched---or is he her little step-brother or something?"

"Complicated situation, Ron.  They're good kids.  Jill and I are trying to help them out."

"She's too much woman for that boy.  Know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do," said Richard.  "But watch what you say.  She's a friend, and she's not exactly had the best of things so far."

"What the hell's wrong with you?  A guy can't even admire a good-looking woman without getting his head bit off?

Richard didn't intend to betray Raven's privacy, but cop etiquette required some explanation.

"Sorry, but I cut you off before you said something that really made me angry.  She's the one I . . . rescued from Paget.  Her life's been kind of messed up even before that, and none of it her fault."

"You ever gonna tell me how all that went down---Paget I mean?"

Richard shook his head.  "You know how it is."

"I can respect that.  So, how does the kid fit in?"

"They're kind of engaged."

"Yeah, right!  And we both know what they're engaged in," laughed Guidry.  "Lucky bastard.  What I wouldn't give to be around something like that."

"Someone," he murmured Richard in irritation.  "Someone, she's not a thing."

Richard wouldn't tell Guidry about the hell of Raven's childhood.  What she had been forced to do should have produced a prostitute or, at best, a woman with such low self-esteem that she would be a perpetual victim, the kind who were attracted to and became dependent upon a succession of abusive men.  That she hadn't was something of a miracle, something that he doubted his cynical friend would appreciate.

Guidry, for once, was silent, not because he was cowed or ashamed, but because there really didn't seem to be anything he could think of to say.  He didn't understand Carter's relationship with the icy hot young thing, and he couldn't reconcile the things Carter was supposed to have done with the oversensitive bit he had just witnessed.  The guy had major soft spots, and if a guy lacked the full armor, he couldn't let stuff just bounce off, and then he was finished.  A cop like that would end up in one of two places---in a bottle or in a box.

 

In Blue Creek that night, a man stood in the shadows, having lost a battle with himself.  His mouth was dry, his nerves on edge.  It was like hunting when the prey finally came into your sights.  He tried to ignore the voice in his head telling him that what he was doing was wrong, even pathetic---something a pimply-faced loser would do.  But all that was forgotten when she came fully into view, glowing in the yellow light of the bedroom window.

He talked to her in hushed whispers, willing her to do his bidding, and thrilling when occasionally her actions meshed with his urgent instructions.

He stood for a long time after the window went dark.

Okay, he thought.  Now you've done it.  Feel better?

Of course he didn't.  He was on a path he had vowed never to go down.  He had taken the first tiny step, but already he had surrendered to the dark impulse.

I'm in control, he insisted.  I can quit any time I want.

Right, a voice in his head mocked him.  You won't quit.  You'll keep sneaking around until you get caught, and then what?

He walked away, keeping to the shadows.

This was the one and only time.  Over.  You've done your dirty little thing.  Now you've got it out of your system.  What you need is a real girl, one who cares about you, not the kind you can buy with stuff.

If he could just see that look in her eyes then he wouldn't have to be bothered with this sort of thing.  His thoughts returned to the girl in the window.

You knew what you were doing, didn't you?  Why else leave the curtains open like that?  You were posing, teasing whatever man might be looking in.  Most of you are like that, aren't you?

He opened the car door slowly and slipped into the darkened interior.  A small hole drilled into the doorframe held a screw fitted with a large washer to depress the light switch.  He would remove it when he got home.  Before he could close the door, he heard something off to his left.  He held his breath as a man in stocking feet stood on the stoop of the nearest house squinting directly at him.

"What is it, John," a woman called from inside.  "Is someone out there?"

"Probably just a stray dog."

The man continued to scan the twilight suspiciously.  After a long moment, he withdrew inside, pulling the door shut loudly as if it were ill fitting and needed forcing.

Too close, the watcher said to himself.

He pulled the door only partially shut, started the engine, and drove away.  He turned on the lights when he reached the corner.

 

 

Hamm Kinder had arrived in Poplar Bluff early, taking a table near, but not too near the bar, making sure he was in the section of tables worked by the blonde girl he had met on previous trips.  They had exchanged pleasantries, and she seemed a definite possibility, not that he had any illusions about getting what he wanted without paying.  Handsome enough, he still had to remember his age.  A man had to be realistic as well as discreet.

A woman in her late twenties stood near the entrance scanning the nearly empty dining room---his prospective recruit.  A sigh welled up.  Why did they all have to look like old maid schoolteachers?  He rescued her from her uncertainty and showed her to his table.  When the waitress came he kept his eyes on her face as he ordered.  At the third glance up from her pad, she returned him a smile. 

Dinner was an ordeal.  The woman was obviously scared she would be turned down, reminding him of a dog who had been kicked too many times to approach with anything but craven hope that the next blow wouldn't hurt too much.  After encouraging her to talk of her approach to the job, he regretted it.  Hamm smiled tolerantly while his dinner companion droned enthusiastically about the job at the New Life Academy.  She was one of those unfortunate women born with slightly masculine features that would only harden as she aged.  Horse-faced.  The term came quickly, followed rapidly by guilt at the unkind thought.

"I'm sure you'll fit right in, Miss James," he said, committing too quickly and exceeding his authority.

He had no doubt that he could push her through the committee, however.  She was inexperienced, but competent enough, on paper anyway.

"You mean I've got the job?" she gushed pathetically.

"The board has to make the decision, but they usually listen to my recommendation.  A contract should arrive within a week."

Dessert came, and he thought the meal would never end.  In her enthusiasm and gratefulness, Marva James almost made him regret his impulsive promise.  He tuned her out while maintaining the pretense of polite conversation.  Studying her face, he decided that it wouldn't take much to make her a passably attractive woman.  Her nose needed just a slight trim, and with the right makeup application---an art at which she had no expertise---her looks would approach the interesting aspect of a gaunt fashion model, the kind who looked strung out on heroine.  Like the face, her figure was just enough wrong to irritate, hard edged and softly curved in too many inappropriate ways.  When she made excuses for having to leave, he feigned regret to mask his relief.

The waitress came back with the check.  "Do you need anything else?" she said as she handed it to him.  She maintained eye contact, a slight smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.

Do I ever? he thought.

"I think so.  Could you bring me your wine list?"

The wine list was printed on the bottom of the plastic covered menu, and consisted of pedestrian brands of mass-produced dinner and dessert wines, replete with pretentious descriptions.  It didn't matter.  Hamm was being pretentious himself.  What he knew of wines was that ordering them was a way of telling these small town girls that he was worldly, sophisticated and, above all, wealthy.

She arched her eyebrow and smiled, seeming to drop five years, which would make her at least thirty years his junior.

Even as the first feelers were being exchanged between them, he wondered what would happen when the inevitable happened and Pam found out about his indiscretions.  Surprisingly, he realized that he didn't really care.  Kelly was a different story.  The woman in front of him was probably younger than his daughter.  Only the young ones interested him.

One of these days they'll all find you out.  Then what?

 

It was nearly two in the morning when Hamm flicked on the lights, and saw the damage.  Somehow it didn't surprise him.  Pausing only a moment, he walked through the debris of his ransacked living room to the phone.  He started to dial, pushed the off button, and restarted, this time calling the sheriff's office.  He didn't want the city buffoons handling this.  While he waited for them he went to his den, careful not to disturb anything.

 

Richard went through the house taking photos, while Guidry took Hamm's statement.  A forced French door opening onto the rear deck had been the point of entry.  Large holes in the sheet rock exposed the concrete into which the wall safe was embedded.  The shiny strongbox was dinged and dented, and the combination dial had been knocked off, but the thieves had been unable to open it.  Walking slowly through the house, he surveyed the rest of the damage.  Drawers had been dumped, picture frames broken, chests overturned, and books strewn about, but there was little deliberate vandalism.  Neither electronic equipment nor silverware had been taken, but a jewelry box in the bedroom had been emptied.

"What was in the jewelry box, sir?" Richard called.

"I don't know," said Kinder, walking into the room.  "My wife will be home tomorrow---later today that is.  You'll have to ask her.  When can we get this cleaned up?"

"Any time you wish.  I've taken photos of everything."

.

On her way back from the college, Jill took Vine Street.  As she passed the courthouse she thought of Richard.  The flashback she had witnessed in the Irish Wilderness worried her.  Ever since then she had watched him carefully, fearful that he would slide back into the dark hole.  She sighed, resigning herself to the truth:  the birth of Mirabelle had not exorcised the demons of Somalia as she had dared to hope.  The depression wasn't back, but could it be far away if the dreams were returning?

How long has it been going on?  Why hasn't he confided in me before this?

She shook her head to dispel the gloom threatening to settle on her too.  Jill was having none of that.

As she pulled across the three lane main street, she noticed an unmarked following her, definitely a sheriff's department vehicle.  She could tell by the stiff suspension and the drab color.  Behind the totally unnecessary sunglasses---it was an overcast day---she recognized the face of Ron Guidry.  There was something about the man that she didn't like, and it wasn't just his abrupt and sometimes coarse behavior.  He had been presumptuous and overly familiar with her.  One way in which she judged men quickly was by the length of time they maintained eye contact, or, during introductions, by the duration of the handshake.  She had seldom been wrong---with one notable exception.

She pulled in to the pumps at Waylen's, and he pulled to the pump behind her.  She knew without looking that he was watching her, but he filled his tank without a word of greeting.  Finishing simultaneously, they walked into the station, he behind.  While she paid, he waited silently behind her.  She resisted the urge to turn around.

Suddenly, she felt his hand on her waist.

"Jill," he said, feigning surprise and letting his hand drop away from her.  "How are you doing today?"

She turned.  "Uh---fine, Mr. Guidry.  And how are you?"

"Just fine and dandy."

He stared too long, stood too close.

"Actually I am not so fine.  Do you think we could have a few words in private?  I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Sure," he said, smiling broadly.  "When?"

"Right now if you don't mind.  I need something for sandwiches.  I think they have lunchmeat back there.  Come along, we can talk while I'm looking for it."

"Glad to," he said, following her to the display case.

Once they were safely out of earshot of the clerk, she turned to face him, neither frowning nor smiling.

"Mr. Guidry," she began.

"Ron," he corrected.

"Mr. Guidry," she continued with emphasis.  "I find you coarse, rude, vulgar, and not in the least attractive.  I'm not going to tell you how much I love my husband, because neither that nor I am any of your business.  My husband has to work with you, so I will not make a scene.  Now, unless you are just feeble minded, you will leave me alone."

"What did I ever do---" he began.

"Even one with no parenting at all knows better than to put his hands on a woman---especially another man's wife.  You have done it twice---in public.  It is embarrassing and offensive.  It will stop."

She raised her chin.  "Now you will leave me alone."

"I never meant to do . . . what you are accusing me of."

"Then you will be more aware of what you are doing, and it will never happen again."

Jill brushed past him and went straight to her car.  On the way home she wondered if she had been too forceful, but shook her head to dispel her doubts.

"I have enough problems without worrying about your feelings!"

 

He turned for a peak back at the corner to make certain that no one was following, then hurried down the broken sidewalk away from what he had almost done.  He felt as if he had barely escaped a trap.  Humiliation and self-loathing possessed him as if he had actually been caught and was about to be put on public display.  It would have been so easy, pathetically easy.  At the last moment that was what stopped him.  It was like a baited trap.  Yet, even now the memory tempted him to go back.

She came through the gate just as he turned the corner.  He watched entranced as she swayed with childish gait in front of him, her hips undulating beneath her sweat pants---an athlete, maybe a cheerleader.  But he didn't follow.  Like a fool, he turned and went through her yard to the door.  As he knew it would be the door was unlocked.  How could he have known?  The door opened at his touch almost of its own accord.  The warmth of the darkened interior lured him inside.

Now he felt like a fool for passing up the opportunity.

"No!  I did the right thing," he murmured as he turned toward home.

 

October 14

When she answered the tentative knock, Jill found Harold Porter standing with his back to her, looking out toward his truck in the driveway.  She wondered if there was some problem with the garbage.  Maybe he came to inform her of a rate hike, something they didn't need at the moment.

"Yes, Mr. Porter," she said as she opened the door, leaving the screen latched.

He turned, glanced quickly at her then away.  "I come to apologize---for last week, ma'am.  I'm awful sorry . . . I mean . . . I didn't know that you was . . . uh . . . taking care of your little baby."

"It's okay, Harold.  It was just one of those things that happened before either of us could help it," she said.

Jill had put the incident behind her, but now was embarrassed again because of his obvious embarrassment. 

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"I just don't want you to think that I---"

His face was bright red now, his eyes no longer just downcast, but squeezed shut.  How anyone could think the poor man was, or ever had been a danger to anyone was beyond Jill's comprehension.

"Do me a favor, Mr. Porter," she said.  "If you're not too busy, come in and have a cup of coffee."

"I couldn't do that, ma'am," he said quickly.  "It wouldn't be fitting for a good woman like you to . . ."  Again he trailed off.

"It's a nice day," she observed.  "What if we sat out here on the porch and had our coffee?  Do you have time for that?"

"I guess."

Jill went to get the coffee, sweetening Harold's with three spoonfuls of sugar as per his apologetic request.  Perhaps in his prison time he had learned to indulge himself in such innocuous and limited ways as were available.  On the way outside, she examined her own motives.  Why was she so concerned with the man?  That was easy.  The broken little man exuded misery and hopelessness.  Harold Porter seemed to be apologizing for still being alive.

"My daughter is sleeping," she said as she handed him the cup and sat down in a plastic lawn chair beside him.  "So I'll just leave the door open so that I can hear her if she awakens,"

Harold sat with feet wide apart, elbows on knees and head down, alternately sipping at his coffee and staring into it as if trying to divine the future.  Now that she had captured him, so to speak, Jill was at a loss as how to begin a conversation.  What could they talk about?  Family?  He had none.  Work?  What could he say about hauling trash?  The subject dearest to her heart was, of course, Mirabelle, but that seemed too much like rubbing salt in the wounds of a man who would probably never have children.

"What do you know about the canoe rental business, Mr. Porter?" she asked.

Well, she had to start somewhere.

"What?  Oh---Mr. Carter bought the old Slinkard place," he replied.

"Slinkard?  I didn't know that," she said.  "I hope we can do enough business next year to at least make the payments.  What's your opinion?"

"Don't know nothing about business.  I never finished high school."

"I probably shouldn't worry.  My husband is a hard worker, and he thinks it's a good opportunity for us," she said, wondering why she was revealing as much about her personal life and also wondering what Richard think about her inviting Harold Porter up for coffee.

"That young couple living down there renting the place from you all?" asked Harold after a long pause. 

"Not exactly.  You've met Raven, my baby-sitter.  We need someone to keep an eye on things, and she and her fiancé need a place to stay, so we're letting them live there at least until we open in the spring."

"I thought they was married."

The muted criticism surprised her.  "No . . . uh.  No, they're not."

He nodded without looking up.

"Ain't proper," he announced.  "You don't think so neither.  But I ain't got no right to pass judgment, I guess."

"No, and neither do I, Mr. Porter."

"Yes ma'am, you do.  You're a good woman . . . a good wife and mama.  You know what's proper ‘cause you live right."

Surprised by the boldness of his statement, Jill replied, "I don't know if that's true, but I don't think I've ever had a better compliment, Harold.  Thank you."

Suddenly he stood.  "I better get going if I'm gonna get my run done today," he said, thrusting his empty cup toward her.  "Thanks for the coffee."

"You're welcome."

He paused half way down the steps, turned and look back up at her.  "I probably shouldn't say this, Mrs. Carter, but . . . never mind."

"What, Harold?"

"I was going to say that . . . I just wish I had met someone like you . . . you know, before---"

He looked away uncomfortably.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have said that."

Turning away quickly, Harold stumbled and almost fell as he made his escape.  Jill watched him leave, wondering how the poor little man could ever live a normal life.  The conversation she had forced on him had ended as awkwardly as it had begun.

He probably wishes I'd just leave him alone.

 

Oct. 14 Blue Creek, late night

Granger Holman turned away from the tight feeling in his chest and looked at the window.  No light at all, so it was still the middle of the night.  He was too tired to even read, but unable to do more than slip in and out of sleep.  Despair crept stealthily toward him, but he pushed it away impatiently.  Mattie had given him wonderful years, more than he ever deserved, and she hadn't left him alone entirely.  He still had the children, even if he did only see them on the occasional holiday.

Still, the unthinkable had come, the evil days when he could truly say, I have no pleasure in them.  Odd, that life could teach one so many lessons, hard to learn, and harder to accept.  Not that he had any choice.  So he lay awake, longing for oblivion and trying to ignore the ghosts of regret.

He heard something.  A mouse?  No---a shuffling, furtive sound.  Not imagination.  Someone was in the house.  Holman got out of bed and went to the closet for his shotgun.  As the cold steel of the barrel touched his palm, he remembered his basic training all those years ago at Fort Leonard Wood.  Weapons are for killing.  In Korea he had seen plenty of that, but had never fired his rifle---a fact for which he had thanked God uncounted times since.  Clerk typists were about as rear echelon as one could get.

The shotgun seemed heavy as he made his way barefoot across the hardwood floor toward the living room.

What if it's a kid?  He asked himself.  Most of these burglaries are kids, aren't they?

No one with mature judgment would think of robbing as humble a home as he had.  Granger Holman was sure that it had to be a teenager.  As if it had already happened, he saw himself turning on the lights to see a child of thirteen or so splayed on the front room carpet, bleeding with a huge untreatable wound in the middle of his chest.  He couldn't let that happen.

"I don't know who you are," he said impulsively, "but there ain't no need of somebody getting hurt.  I've got a shotgun in my hands, but I don't want to have to shoot you.  So you just go on and leave before something bad happens.  I won't come after you."

He waited, listening and hoping to hear the retreating footsteps of the youthful burglar going to the door.  Not a sound.  Still he waited, hearing only his own labored breathing and feeling only the weight of the gun in his hands.  His legs cramped with cold.  He had to change positions.  After a while he thought he must have only imagined it, but he knew he hadn't.  Whoever had been going through his things had either made the most silent of escapes or was still in the house.

This is ridiculous, he said to himself as he took first one, then another hesitant step into the front room.  He congratulated himself on his stealth.  Pretty good for an old man.  But he was tiring of the adventure.  Holman never suspected that he was perfectly silhouetted in the meager light of his bedroom window.  Eyes much younger than his own saw him clearly.  The only blow he felt was the first, and with it came the realization that he had made a stupid mistake.  Mercifully, he felt none of the following blows.

 

"Old folks living alone are easy targets for punk burglars," said Guidry as he examined the back door jimmy marks.

"You make it a kid?" asked Richard.

A nod.  "A juvie . . . or one of your meth scumbags.  No pro, that's for sure . . . too much risk for very little payoff.  Drug fog or youthful stupidity.  Take your pick."

"What did the guy think he had to beat the old man like that?"

"Come on Carter.  Like this shit's supposed to make sense?"

Richard mumbled his agreement.  Experienced burglars avoided occupied houses, but most violent crime sprang from stupidity that was maddening in its lack of logic.  A distinctive characteristic of the violent criminal was his unwillingness to assess consequences.  The typical armed robbery, for instance, netted less than a thousand dollars, for which the perp risked three to five years in jail.  Get caught and you make yourself a cool dollar a day.

"Wonder how close the old man got to popping him?"  mumbled Guidry.

"Let's take a look inside."

From the looks of things, the old man had interrupted the burglar early in his search.  Only one of the two chests of drawers in the front room had been thoroughly searched.  Guidry nodded toward the second.  Only its bottom drawer had been pulled out.

"What's that tell you?"

"Some experience," replied Richard.  "He's examining the drawers from the bottom up so that he won't have to totally remove them or force them back closed to examine the next.  Do I pass the test?"

"Still a youthful offender . . . but old enough to beat the hell out of the old guy.  See how many times he hit him with that poker?"

"Overkill.  Was he just scared and got carried away?"

"My guess is he liked it.  Think the old guy will pull through?"

"I'm treating it like it's a homicide already," said Richard.  "I'll get the camera and shoot everything.  Could you string up the tape and keep everyone out of the house and off the yard?  I'll have Shug send the print guy down and we'll process the scene."

"Small town crime fighting," said Guidry shaking his head.  "Wouldn't waste a lot of time on this in the city.  Old geezer probably cashed his social security check and carried it home in his shirt pocket.  Some burn out follows him and waits for dark, something like that."

"And they killed him for a piddling amount of money.  It's a shame."

"When ain't it?"

 

Throughout supper Jill tried to engage Richard in an extended conversation with little success.  His answers were forced and distracted.  His manner reminded her of the depression she had dared to hope had disappeared forever with the conception of their daughter.  She couldn't help feeling that his occupation contributed to it.  If only she could get him to quit the sheriff's department, he might be able to leave it all behind him.  But if he quit, it would have to be because he had decided to do it on his own, not because she had forced him to.  So, she would just have to do what she could to help him fight the dark moods when they came.  She could do that, and she would.

Thinking about depression reminded her of Harold Porter.

"It's really a shame about Mr. Porter isn't it?"

He nodded absently, thinking that the shame was that the man had been released from prison.

"Strange sad little man," she continued.  "I wonder how things would be if he had decided not to go with his cousin that day."

Marie Preslar would still be alive---be married---have a family, he thought, but didn't say anything.

"He told me that his whole life might have been different if he had met someone like . . . someone who cared for him . . . a good woman, he said."

Richard's head snapped up, but Jill, whose eyes were on the cup of coffee she had been swirling idly, didn't notice.

"He said that---"

"When did you talk to him?" demanded Richard harshly.

She flinched.  Richard had never used that tone with her.

"Today.  But it was just a few minutes.  However long it takes to have a cup of coffee."

"You brought him into the house?"

"No," she said, resisting the urge to return his harsh tone, though it angered her to be on the defensive.  "I took it out to him on the porch and---we talked for awhile."

He shook his head slowly.

"If it's any comfort to you," she said, speaking quickly trying to forestall an argument, "it was extremely difficult to get him to say anything at all.  He's so ill at ease all . . . pathetic really.  He's like a lost little boy, Dear."

It angered him that she hadn't had better sense.  She was the with the intuition or perception or whatever to see danger, to read people.  The thought of the man in his home, near her and their daughter made him physically ill.

"Stay away from him, Jill.  Don't let him get close.  People like him---people who have no one---they latch on.  We don't need that."

"But, Richard, his life is so empty---"

"That's my point," he interrupted impatiently.  "It's so empty that anyone who comes into it will become way too important to him.  To you, it's just a kindness.  To him it could become some kind of . . . I don't know . . .  an obsession.  You, of all people, should know that."

"I think you're just blowing this all out of proportion."

"Well, I guess that's what us head cases do," he said sarcastically.

"Don't do that," she said.  "And don't you dare be angry with me because I feel sorry for that poor man."

He rose to rinse out his coffee cup.

Hanging his head, he leaned on the sink, staring out toward the woods.  The sudden silence was interrupted by a soft whump from the basement as the gas furnace kicked on. 

"I'm sorry," he said over his shoulder.

Jill went to him, encircled his waist with her arms and leaned her head on his shoulder.  "Me too.  I'll be careful.  And I promise not to invite him in the house when you're not here."

"Fair enough," he said.  "Sorry for snapping at you, but I meant what I said.  I don't want him near my family.  That's not going to change, Jill."

 

Jill awoke at three a.m.  Her hand slid toward his side of the bed.  Cold.  She slipped on her robe and went barefooted into the living room where she found Richard sitting in the dark.

"Are you still angry with me?" 

He shook his head without speaking.

"The dream again," she said.

His silence confirmed her suspicion.  She sat beside him and gathered him in her arms.  She could feel the accelerated beat of his heart.  He trembled slightly.  It had been bad.  The worst since before Mirabelle had come to them.

"It was just so real this time," he whispered.  "I hate it this."

He stood suddenly as if a change of position could banish his thoughts.

"You told me once that you can't explain to me what it's like, that I wouldn't understand.  I think you're right.  Maybe you should do what Doc says," she said gently.  "Why don't you give the group a chance?"

Richard didn't want to admit that he couldn't handle the problem by himself.  He shook his head, but not as vehemently as before.  Jill knew that something about the dream was different this time.  He was fully awake and still frightened.  That frightened her.

"Richard?"

"All right," he mumbled.  "All right.  I'll go.  Maybe somebody'll be able to uh . . . I'll go.  I'll go."

Jill put an arm around his waist and tugged gently.  "Come back to bed?"

He nodded distractedly and let her shepherd him back into the bedroom.  They lay together, his head on her breast as she gently stroked his forehead.

"Maybe it was seeing the old man," he said softly.  "Maybe that was it."

"Probably," she agreed.

"It just blindsides me, Jill.  I'm going along just fine, not thinking about it or anything.  Then . . . boom . . . just like that, it hits me from nowhere.  It's like being afraid of shadows or something.  I feel like a fool . . . and I'm scared to death . . . and it's of something that's absolutely nothing."

It's not nothing, she wanted to say, but stopped herself.  Richard couldn't forgive himself though he'd had no choice.  He had killed a child, a soldier perhaps, but still a child.  It conflicted with his ideas of what a man should be and what a man should feel.  But Jill knew they weren't just ideas, they were convictions---part of what made him who he was.  Now she knew that, for better and worse, he would never be able to accept and forget the choice he'd been forced into on that back street in Somalia.  He would never be free of the dream boy.

"This is foolish, isn't it?" he said weakly.

"No," she said as she rocked him in her arms.  "You were just too decent a man for such a thing to happen to."

"That's just it, Jill.  It didn't happen to me.  I did it!  Oh God!  I'll never . . . I laughed, Jill.  I was just so happy it was him instead of me," he said, his voice trailing off.

"It's why I don't hunt.  When I did it, I felt a thrill just like when I shot my first deer.  My God, who can save me from that?"

"Shhhh," she said, aching for him.  She had never felt so helpless, never so hopelessly sad since the day she knew that her Aunt Mirabelle was gone forever.  "Shhhh," she repeated, not knowing whether she were trying to still Richard's self-recriminations or the dream boy.