Needful Things Part 18

"Okay. Alan?"

"Hmmm?"

"You miss him, don't you?"

"Yeah," Alan agreed simply. "Every day." He was appalled to find himself suddenly on the verge of tears. He turned away and opened a cupboard at random, trying to get himself under control. The easiest way to do it would be to re-route the conversation, and fast. "How's Nettie?" he asked, and was relieved to hear that his voice sounded normal.

"She says she's better tonight, but it took her an awfully long time to answer the phone-I had visions of her lying on the floor, unconscious."

"Probably she was asleep."

"She said not, and she didn't sound sound like it. You know how people sound when the phone wakes them up?" like it. You know how people sound when the phone wakes them up?"

He nodded. It was another cop thing. He had been on both the giving and receiving end of a lot of telephone calls that broke someone's sleep.

"She said she was sorting through some of her mother's old stuff in the woodshed, but-"

"If she has intestinal flu, you probably called while she was on the throne and she didn't want to admit it," Alan said dryly.

She considered this, then burst out laughing. "I'll bet that was it. It's just like her."

"Sure," he said. Alan peered into the sink, then pulled the plug. "Honey, we're all washed up."

"Thank you, Alan." She pecked his cheek.

"Oh, say, look what I found," Alan said. He reached behind her ear and pulled out a fifty-cent piece. "Do you always keep those back there, pretty lady?"

"How do you do that?" she asked, looking at the half-buck with real fascination.

"Do what?" he asked. The fifty-cent piece seemed to float over the gently shuttling knuckles of his right hand. He pinched the coin between his third and fourth fingers and turned his hand over. When he turned it back the other way again, the coin was gone. "Think I ought to run away and join the circus?" he asked her.

She smiled. "No-stay here with me. Alan, do you think I'm silly to worry about Nettie so much?"

"Nope," Alan said. He stuck his left hand-the one to which he had transferred the fifty-cent piece-into his pants pocket, pulled it out empty, and grabbed a dishtowel. "You got her out of the funny-farm, you gave her a job, and you helped buy her a house. You feel responsible for her, and I suppose to some degree you are. If you didn't worry about her, I think I'd worry about you."

She took the last gla.s.s from the dish-drainer. Alan saw the sudden dismay on her face and knew she wasn't going to be able to hold it, although the gla.s.s was already almost dry. He moved quickly, bending his knees and sticking out his hand. The move was so gracefully executed that it looked to Polly almost like a dance-step. The gla.s.s fell and plunked neatly into his hand, which hung palm up less than eighteen inches from the floor.

The pain which had nagged her all night-and the attendant fear that Alan would tumble to just how bad it was-was suddenly buried under a wave of desire so hard and unexpected that it did more than startle her; it frightened her. And desire was a little too coy, wasn't it? What she felt was simpler, an emotion whose hue was utterly primary. It was l.u.s.t.

"You move like a d.a.m.ned cat," she said as he straightened. Her voice was thick, a little slurred. She kept seeing the graceful way his legs had bent, the flex of the long muscles in his thighs. The smooth curve of one calf. "How does a man as big as you move that fast?"

"I don't know," he said, and looked at her with surprise and puzzlement. "What's wrong, Polly? You look funny. Do you feel faint?"

"I feel," she said, "like I'm going to come in my pants."

It came to him, too, then. Just like that. There was no wrong about it, no right. It just was. was. "Let's see if you are," he said, and moved forward with that same grace, that weird speed you would never suspect if you saw him ambling down Main Street. "Let's just see about that." He set the gla.s.s on the counter with his left hand and slipped his right between her legs before she knew what was happening. "Let's see if you are," he said, and moved forward with that same grace, that weird speed you would never suspect if you saw him ambling down Main Street. "Let's just see about that." He set the gla.s.s on the counter with his left hand and slipped his right between her legs before she knew what was happening.

"Alan what are you do-" And then, as his thumb pressed with gentle force against her c.l.i.toris, doing doing turned to do- turned to do-ooooh!-ing and he lifted her with his easy, amazing strength.

She put her arms around his neck, being careful even at this warm moment to hold with her forearms; her hands stuck off behind him like stiff bundles of sticks, but they were suddenly the only parts of her which were stiff. The rest of her seemed to be melting. "Alan, put me down!" down!"

"I don't think so," he said, and lifted her higher. He slid his free hand between her shoulder-blades as she started to slip and pressed her forward. And suddenly she was rocking back and forth on the hand between her legs like a girl on a hobby-horse, and he was helping helping her rock, and she felt as if she were in some wonderful swing with her feet in the wind and her hair in the stars. her rock, and she felt as if she were in some wonderful swing with her feet in the wind and her hair in the stars.

"Alan-"

"Hold tight, pretty lady," he said, and he was laughing, laughing, as if she weighed no more than a bag of feathers. She leaned back, almost unaware of his steadying hand in her growing excitement, only knowing he would not let her fall, and then he brought her forward again, and one hand was rubbing her back, and the thumb of his other hand was doing things to her down there, things she had never even as if she weighed no more than a bag of feathers. She leaned back, almost unaware of his steadying hand in her growing excitement, only knowing he would not let her fall, and then he brought her forward again, and one hand was rubbing her back, and the thumb of his other hand was doing things to her down there, things she had never even considered, considered, and she rocked back again, calling his name out deliriously. and she rocked back again, calling his name out deliriously.

Her o.r.g.a.s.m hit like a sweet exploding bullet, rus.h.i.+ng both ways from the center of her. Her legs swung back and forth six inches above the kitchen floor (one of her loafers flew off and sailed all the way into the living room), her head fell back so her dark hair trailed over his forearm in a small tickling torrent, and at the height of her pleasure he kissed the sweet white line of her throat.

He set her down... then reached out quickly to steady her as her knees buckled.

"Oh my G.o.d," she said, beginning to laugh weakly. "Oh my G.o.d, Alan, I'll never wash these jeans again."

That struck him as hilarious, and he bellowed laughter. He collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs with his legs stuck out straight in front of him and howled, holding his stomach. She took a step toward him. He grasped her, pulled her onto his lap for a moment, and then stood with her in his arms.

She felt that fainting wave of emotion and need sweep her again, but it was clearer now, better defined. Now, Now, she thought, she thought, now it is desire. I desire this man so much. now it is desire. I desire this man so much.

"Take me upstairs," she said. "If you can't make it that far, take me to the couch. And if you can't make it to the couch, do me right here on the kitchen floor."

"I think I can make it at least as far as the living room," he said. "How are your hands, pretty lady?"

"What hands?" she asked dreamily, and closed her eyes. She concentrated on the clear joy of this moment, moving through s.p.a.ce and time in his arms, moving in darkness and circled by his strength. She pressed her face against his chest, and when he put her on the couch she pulled him down... and this time she used her hands to do it.

6.

They were on the couch for nearly an hour, then in the shower for she didn't know how long-until the hot water started to fail and drove them out, anyway. Then she took him into her bed, where she lay too exhausted and too content to do anything but bundle.

She had expected to make love to him tonight, but more to allay his concern than out of any real desire on her own part. She had certainly not expected such a series of explosions as had resulted... but she was glad. She could feel the pain in her hands beginning to a.s.sert itself again, but she would not need a Percodan to sleep tonight.

"You are one fantastic lover, Alan."

"So are you."

"It's unanimous," she said, and put her head against his chest. She could hear his heart lub-dubbing calmly away in there, as if to say ho-hum, stuff like this is all in a night's work for me and the boss. She thought again-and not without a faint echo of her earlier fierce pa.s.sion-of how quick he was, how strong... but mostly how quick. She had known him ever since Annie had come to work for her, had been his lover for the last five months, and she had never known how quickly he could move until tonight. It had been like a whole-body version of the coin tricks, the card tricks, and the shadow-animals that almost every kid in town knew about and begged for when they saw him. It was spooky... but it was also wonderful.

She could feel herself drifting off now. She should ask him if he meant to stay the night, and tell him to put his car in the garage if he did-Castle Rock was a small town where many tongues wagged-but it seemed like too much trouble. Alan would take care. Alan, she was beginning to think, always did.

"Any fresh outbursts from Buster or the Reverend Willie?" she asked sleepily.

Alan smiled. "Quiet on both fronts, at least for the time being. I appreciate Mr. Keeton and Reverend Rose the most when I see them the least, and by that standard today was great."

"That's good," she murmured.

"Yeah, but I know something even better."

"What?"

"Norris is back in a good mood. He bought a rod and reel from your friend Mr. Gaunt, and all he can talk about is going fis.h.i.+ng this weekend. I think he'll freeze his b.u.t.t off-what little b.u.t.t he has-but if Norris is happy, I'm happy. I was sorry as h.e.l.l when Keeton rained on his parade yesterday. People make fun of Norris because he's skinny and sort of ditzy, but he's developed into a pretty good small-town peace officer over the past three years. And his feelings are as sensitive as anyone else's. It's not his fault that he looks like Don Knotts's half-brother."

"Ummmmm..."

Drifting. Drifting into some sweet darkness where there was no pain. Polly let herself go, and as sleep took her there was a small and catlike expression of satisfaction on her face.

7.

For Alan, sleep was longer coming.

The interior voice had returned, but its tone of false glee was gone. Now it sounded questioning, plaintive, almost lost. Where are we, Alan? Where are we, Alan? it asked. it asked. Isn't this the wrong room? The wrong bed? The wrong woman? I don't seem to understand anything anymore. Isn't this the wrong room? The wrong bed? The wrong woman? I don't seem to understand anything anymore.

Alan suddenly found himself feeling pity for that voice. It was not self-pity, because the voice had never seemed so unlike his own as it did now. It occurred to him that the voice wanted to speak as little as he-the rest of him, the Alan existing in the present and the Alan planning for the future-wanted to hear it. It was the voice of duty, the voice of grief. And it was still the voice of guilt.

A little over two years ago, Annie Pangborn had begun having headaches. They weren't bad, or so she said; she was as loath to talk about them as Polly was to talk about her arthritis. Then, one day when he was shaving-very early in 1990, that must have been-Alan noticed that the cap had been left off the family-size bottle of Anacin 3 standing beside the bathroom sink. He started to put the cap back on... then stopped. He had taken a couple of aspirin from that bottle, which held two hundred and twenty-five caplets, late the week before. It had been almost full then. Now it was almost empty. He had wiped the remains of shaving cream from his face and gone down to You Sew and Sew, where Annie had worked since Polly Chalmers opened. He took his wife out for coffee... and a few questions. He asked her about the aspirin. He remembered being a little frightened.

(only a little, the interior voice agreed mournfully) the interior voice agreed mournfully) but only a little, because n.o.body n.o.body takes a hundred and ninety aspirin caplets in a single week; takes a hundred and ninety aspirin caplets in a single week; n.o.body. n.o.body. Annie told him he was being silly. She had been wiping the counter beside the sink, she said, and had knocked the bottle over. The top hadn't been on tight, and most of the caplets had poured into the sink. They'd started to melt, and she'd thrown them away. Annie told him he was being silly. She had been wiping the counter beside the sink, she said, and had knocked the bottle over. The top hadn't been on tight, and most of the caplets had poured into the sink. They'd started to melt, and she'd thrown them away.

She said.

But he was a cop, and even when he was off-duty he could not put away the automatic habits of observation which came with the territory. He could not turn off the lie detector. If you watched people when they answered the questions you asked, really watched watched them, you almost always knew when they were lying. Alan had once questioned a man who signaled every lie he told by picking at his eyetooth with his thumbnail. The mouth articulated the lies; the body, it seemed, was doomed to signal the truth. So he had stretched his hand across the table of the booth in Nan's where they had been sitting, had grasped Annie's hands in his own, and had asked her to tell the truth. And when, after a moment's hesitation, she told him that, yes, the headaches them, you almost always knew when they were lying. Alan had once questioned a man who signaled every lie he told by picking at his eyetooth with his thumbnail. The mouth articulated the lies; the body, it seemed, was doomed to signal the truth. So he had stretched his hand across the table of the booth in Nan's where they had been sitting, had grasped Annie's hands in his own, and had asked her to tell the truth. And when, after a moment's hesitation, she told him that, yes, the headaches were were a little worse, and yes, she a little worse, and yes, she had had been taking quite a few aspirin, but no, she hadn't taken all the caplets which were missing, that the bottle really been taking quite a few aspirin, but no, she hadn't taken all the caplets which were missing, that the bottle really had had spilled in the sink, he had believed her. He had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, the one con-men called bait-and-switch: if you tell a lie and get caught, back up and tell spilled in the sink, he had believed her. He had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, the one con-men called bait-and-switch: if you tell a lie and get caught, back up and tell half half the truth. If he had watched her more closely, he would have known Annie still wasn't being straight with him. He would have forced her to admit something which seemed nearly impossible to him, but which he now believed to be the truth: that the headaches were bad enough for her to be taking at least twenty aspirin a day. And if she had admitted the truth. If he had watched her more closely, he would have known Annie still wasn't being straight with him. He would have forced her to admit something which seemed nearly impossible to him, but which he now believed to be the truth: that the headaches were bad enough for her to be taking at least twenty aspirin a day. And if she had admitted that, that, he would have had her in a Portland or Boston neurologist's office before the week was out. But she was his wife, and in those days he had been less observant when he was off-duty. he would have had her in a Portland or Boston neurologist's office before the week was out. But she was his wife, and in those days he had been less observant when he was off-duty.

He had contented himself with making an appointment for her with Ray Van Allen, and she had kept the appointment. Ray had found nothing, and Alan had never held that against him. Ray had run through the usual reflex tests, had looked into her eyes with his trusty ophthalmoscope, had tested her vision to see if there was any doubling, and had sent her to Oxford Regional for an X-ray. He had not, however, ordered a CAT scan, and when Annie said the headaches were gone, Ray had believed her. Alan suspected he might have been right to believe her. He knew that doctors are almost as attuned to the body's language of lies as cops. Patients are almost as apt to lie as suspects, and from the same motive: simple fear. And when Ray saw Annie, he had not been off-duty. So maybe, between the time Alan had made his discovery and the time Annie went to see Dr. Van Allen, the headaches had gone away. Probably Probably they had gone away. Ray had told Alan later, in a long conversation over gla.s.ses of brandy at the doctor's Castle View home, that the symptoms often came and went in cases where the tumor was located high on the stem of the brain. "Seizures are often a.s.sociated with stem tumors," he told Alan. "If she'd had a seizure, maybe. And he had shrugged. Yes. Maybe. And maybe a man named Thad Beaumont was an unindicted co-conspirator in the deaths of his wife and son, but Alan could not find blame in his heart for Thad, either. they had gone away. Ray had told Alan later, in a long conversation over gla.s.ses of brandy at the doctor's Castle View home, that the symptoms often came and went in cases where the tumor was located high on the stem of the brain. "Seizures are often a.s.sociated with stem tumors," he told Alan. "If she'd had a seizure, maybe. And he had shrugged. Yes. Maybe. And maybe a man named Thad Beaumont was an unindicted co-conspirator in the deaths of his wife and son, but Alan could not find blame in his heart for Thad, either.

Not all the things which happen in small towns are known to the residents, no matter how sharp their ears are or how energetically their tongues wag. In Castle Rock they knew about Frank Dodd, the cop who went crazy and killed the women back in Sheriff Bannerman's day, and they knew about Cujo, the Saint Bernard who had gone rabid out on Town Road #3, and they knew that the lakeside home of Thad Beaumont, novelist and local Famous Person, had burned to the ground during the summer of 1989, but they did not know the circ.u.mstances of that burning, or that Beaumont had been haunted by a man who was really not a man at all, but a creature for which there may be no name. Alan Pangborn knew these things, however, and they still haunted his sleep from time to time. All that was over by the time Alan became fully aware of Annie's headaches... except it really wasn't wasn't over. By virtue of Thad's drunken phonecalls, Alan had become an unwilling witness to the crash of Thad's marriage and the steady erosion of the man's sanity. And there was the matter of his own sanity, as well. Alan had read an article in some doctor's office about black holes-great celestial empty places that seemed to be whirlpools of anti-matter, voraciously sucking up everything within their reach. In the late summer and fall of 1989, the Beaumont affair had become Alan's own personal black hole. There were days when he found himself questioning the most elementary concepts of reality, and wondering if any of it had actually happened. There were nights when he lay awake until dawn stained the east, afraid to go to sleep, afraid the dream would come: a black Toronado bearing down on him, a black Toronado with a decaying monster behind the wheel and a sticker reading HIGH-TONED SON OF A b.i.t.c.h on the rear b.u.mper. In those days, the sight of a single sparrow perched on the porch railing or hopping about on the lawn had made him feel like screaming. If asked, Alan would have said, "When Annie's trouble began, I was distracted." But it wasn't a matter of distraction; somewhere deep down inside of his mind he had been fighting a desperate battle to hold onto his sanity. HIGH-TONED SON OF A b.i.t.c.h-how that came back to him. How it haunted him. That, and the sparrows. over. By virtue of Thad's drunken phonecalls, Alan had become an unwilling witness to the crash of Thad's marriage and the steady erosion of the man's sanity. And there was the matter of his own sanity, as well. Alan had read an article in some doctor's office about black holes-great celestial empty places that seemed to be whirlpools of anti-matter, voraciously sucking up everything within their reach. In the late summer and fall of 1989, the Beaumont affair had become Alan's own personal black hole. There were days when he found himself questioning the most elementary concepts of reality, and wondering if any of it had actually happened. There were nights when he lay awake until dawn stained the east, afraid to go to sleep, afraid the dream would come: a black Toronado bearing down on him, a black Toronado with a decaying monster behind the wheel and a sticker reading HIGH-TONED SON OF A b.i.t.c.h on the rear b.u.mper. In those days, the sight of a single sparrow perched on the porch railing or hopping about on the lawn had made him feel like screaming. If asked, Alan would have said, "When Annie's trouble began, I was distracted." But it wasn't a matter of distraction; somewhere deep down inside of his mind he had been fighting a desperate battle to hold onto his sanity. HIGH-TONED SON OF A b.i.t.c.h-how that came back to him. How it haunted him. That, and the sparrows.

He had still been distracted on the day in March when Annie and Todd had gotten into the old Scout they kept for around-town errands and had headed off to Hemphill's Market. Alan had gone over and over her behavior that morning, and could find nothing unusual about it, nothing out of the ordinary. He had been in his study when they left. He had looked out the window by his desk and waved goodbye. Todd had waved back before getting in the Scout. It was the last time he saw them alive. Three miles down Route 117 and less than a mile from Hemphill's, the Scout had veered off the road at high speed and had struck a tree. The State Police estimated from the wreckage that Annie, ordinarily the most careful of drivers, had been doing at least seventy. Todd had been wearing his seatbelt. Annie had not. She had probably been dead as soon as she went through the winds.h.i.+eld, leaving one leg and half an arm behind. Todd might still have been alive when the ruptured gas-tank exploded. That preyed on Alan more than anything else. That his ten-year-old son, who wrote a joke astrology column for the school paper and lived for Little League, might still have been alive. That he might have burned to death trying to work the clasp on his seatbelt.

There had been an autopsy. The autopsy revealed the brain tumor. It was, Van Allen told him, a small one. About the size of a peanut-cl.u.s.ter was how he put it. He did not tell Alan it would have been operable if it had been diagnosed; this was information Alan gleaned from Ray's miserable face and downcast eyes. Van Allen said he believed she had finally had the seizure which would have alerted them to the real problem if it had come sooner. It could have galvanized her body like a strong electric shock, causing her to jam the gas pedal to the floor and lose control. He did not tell Alan these things of his own free will; he told them because Alan interrogated him mercilessly, and because Van Allen saw that, grief or no grief, Alan meant to have the truth... or as much of it as he, or anyone who hadn't actually been in the car that day, could ever know. "Please," Van Allen had said, and touched Alan's hand briefly and kindly. "It was a terrible accident, but that's all all it was. You have to let it go. You have another son, and he needs you now as much as you need him. You have to let it go and get on with your affairs." He had tried. The irrational horror of the business with Thad Beaumont, the business with the it was. You have to let it go. You have another son, and he needs you now as much as you need him. You have to let it go and get on with your affairs." He had tried. The irrational horror of the business with Thad Beaumont, the business with the (sparrows the sparrows are flying) birds, had begun to fade, and he had honestly tried to put his life back together-widower, small-town cop, father of a teenaged boy who was growing up and growing away too fast... not because of Polly but because of the accident. Because of that horrible, numbing trauma: Son, I've got some awful news; you've got to brace yourself... Son, I've got some awful news; you've got to brace yourself... And then, of course, he had begun to cry, and before long, Al had been crying, too. And then, of course, he had begun to cry, and before long, Al had been crying, too.

Nonetheless, they had gone about the business of reconstruction, and were still still going about it. Things were better these days... but two things refused to go away. going about it. Things were better these days... but two things refused to go away.

One was that huge bottle of aspirin, almost empty after only a week.

The other was the fact that Annie hadn't been wearing her seatbelt.

But Annie always always wore her seatbelt. wore her seatbelt.

After three weeks of agonizing and sleepless nights, he made an appointment with a neurologist in Portland after all, thinking of stolen horses and barn doors locked after the fact as he did it. He went because the man might have better answers to the questions Alan needed to ask, and because he was tired of dragging answers out of Ray Van Allen with a chainfall. The doctor's name was Scopes, and for the first time in his life, Alan hid behind his job: he told Scopes that his questions were related to an ongoing police investigation. The doctor confirmed Alan's central suspicions: yes, people with brain tumors sometimes suffered bursts of irrationality, and they sometimes became suicidal. When a person with a brain tumor committed suicide, Scopes said, the act was often committed on impulse, after a period of consideration which might last a minute or even seconds. Might such a person take someone with them? Alan asked.

Scopes was seated behind his desk, c.o.c.ked back in his chair with his hands laced behind his neck, and could not see Alan's own hands, which were clasped so tightly together between his knees that the fingers were dead white. Oh yes, Scopes said. That was a not uncommon pattern in such cases; tumors of the brain stem often caused behaviors the layman might think of as psychotic. One which the sufferer feels is a misery was a conclusion that the misery which is shared by either his loved ones or the whole human race; another was the idea that the sufferer's loved ones would not want to live if he was dead. Scopes mentioned Charles Whitman, the Eagle Scout who had climbed to the top of the Texas Tower and killed more than two dozen people before making an end to himself, and a subst.i.tute grammar-school teacher in Illinois who had killed several of her students before going home and putting a bullet in her own brain. Autopsies had revealed brain tumors in both cases. It was a pattern, but not one which held true in all cases, or even most of them. Brain tumors sometimes caused odd, even exotic symptoms; sometimes they caused no symptoms at all. It was impossible to say for sure.

Impossible. So let it alone.

Good advice, but hard to swallow. Because of the aspirin bottle. And the seatbelt.

Mostly it was the seatbelt that hung in the back of Alan's mind-a small black cloud that simply wouldn't go away. She never never drove without buckling it. Not even down to the end of the block and back. Todd had been wearing his, just like always, though. Didn't that mean something? If she had decided, sometime after she had backed down the driveway for the last time, to kill herself and take Todd with her, wouldn't she have insisted that Todd unbuckle his belt as well? Even hurt, depressed, confused, she wouldn't have wanted Todd to suffer, would she? drove without buckling it. Not even down to the end of the block and back. Todd had been wearing his, just like always, though. Didn't that mean something? If she had decided, sometime after she had backed down the driveway for the last time, to kill herself and take Todd with her, wouldn't she have insisted that Todd unbuckle his belt as well? Even hurt, depressed, confused, she wouldn't have wanted Todd to suffer, would she?

Impossible to say for sure. Let it alone.

Yet even now, lying here in Polly's bed with Polly sleeping beside him, he found it hard advice to take. His mind went back to work on it, like a puppy worrying an old and ragged strip of rawhide with its sharp little teeth.

An image had always come to him at this point, a nightmarish image which had finally driven him to Polly Chalmers, because Polly was the woman Annie had been closest to in town-and, considering the Beaumont business and the psychic toll it had taken on Alan, Polly had probably been there for Annie more than he had during the last few months of her life.

The image was of Annie unbuckling her own seatbelt, jamming the gas pedal to the floor, and taking her hands off the wheel. Taking them off the wheel because she had another job for them in those last few seconds.

Taking them off so she could unbuckle Todd's belt, as well.

That was the image: the Scout roaring down the road at seventy, veering to the right, veering toward the trees under a white March sky that promised rain, while Annie struggled to unbuckle Todd's belt and Todd, screaming and afraid, struggled to beat her hands away. He saw Annie's well-loved face transformed into the haglike mask of a witch, saw Todd's drawn long with terror. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night, his body dressed in a clammy jacket of sweat, with Todd's voice ringing in his ears: The trees, Mommy! Look out for the TREEEES! The trees, Mommy! Look out for the TREEEES!

So he had gone to see Polly one day at closing time, and asked her if she would come up to the house for a drink, or, if she felt uncomfortable about doing that, if he could come over to her house.

Seated in his kitchen (the right kitchen, the interior voice a.s.serted) with a mug of tea for her and coffee for him, he had begun to speak, slowly and stumblingly, of his nightmare. the interior voice a.s.serted) with a mug of tea for her and coffee for him, he had begun to speak, slowly and stumblingly, of his nightmare.

"I need to know, if I can, if she was going through periods of depression or irrationality that I either didn't know about or didn't notice," he said. "I need to know if..." He stopped, momentarily helpless. He knew what words he needed to say, but it was becoming harder and harder to bring them out. It was as if the channel of communication between his unhappy, confused mind and his mouth was growing smaller and shallower, and would soon be entirely closed to s.h.i.+pping.

He made a great effort and went on.

"I need to know if she was suicidal. Because, you see, it wasn't just Annie who died. Todd died with her, and if there were sighs... signs, I mean, signs... signs... that I didn't notice, then I am responsible for his death, too. And that's something I feel I have to know." that I didn't notice, then I am responsible for his death, too. And that's something I feel I have to know."

He had stopped there, his heart pounding dully in his chest. He wiped a hand over his forehead and was mildly surprised when it came away wet with sweat.

"Alan," she said, and put a hand on his wrist. Her light-blue eyes looked steadily into his. "If I had seen such signs and hadn't told anyone, I would be as guilty as you seem to want to be."

He had gaped at her, he remembered that. Polly might have seen something in Annie's behavior which he had missed; he had gotten that far in his reasoning. The idea that noticing strange behavior conveyed a responsibility to do something about it had never occurred to him until now.

You didn't?" he asked at last.

"No. I've gone over it and over it in my mind. I don't mean to belittle your grief and loss, but you're not the only one who feels those things, and you're not the only one who has done a fair amount of soul-searching since Annie's accident. I went over those last few weeks until I was dizzy, replaying scenes and conversations in light of what the autopsy showed. I'm doing it again now, in light of what you've told me about that aspirin bottle. And do you know what I find?"

"What?"

"Zilch." She said it with a lack of emphasis which was oddly convincing. "Nothing at all. There were times when I thought she looked a little pale. I can remember a couple of occasions when I heard her talking to herself while she was hemming skirts or unpacking fabric. That's the most eccentric behavior I can recall, and I've been guilty of it myself many times. How about you?"

Alan nodded.

"Mostly she was the way she was ever since I first met her: cheerful, friendly, helpful... a good friend."

"But-"