Mrs. White

by Margaret Tracy

  Hartigan cursed and shook his head. “Was it bad?” he asked.

  “Not if you like venison. See ya.”

  “Right.” Hartigan waved and started for the dispatcher’s desk. Then he froze in his tracks. The door swung shut behind Scott and Ross, but Hartigan jumped on it, swung it back. “Hey,” he shouted.

  The two were ambling across the barracks parking lot to their cars. They stopped and waited. Trooper Hartigan’s face was no longer pink. It no longer had any color at all.

  Scott grunted. “What?” he said.

  Hartigan moved his lips a few times before he got it out. “She called yesterday. That woman.”

  “About Paul White?”

  “Yes,” said Hartigan, “she said … she said he was going to do it tonight—that is, last night.”

  The two fat men were back across the parking lot in a moment. They pushed into the barracks, taking Hartigan with them.

  “It totally slipped my mind,” Hartigan was saying, “she sounded so—crazy.”

  “Never mind that,” said Scott. The small features at the center of his large face seemed to have clustered even closer together. “What did she say?”

  Hartigan recounted the conversation he had had with the hysterical woman. Almost before he was done Scott and Ross had begun moving with a speed that seemed to belie their girth. Scott was at the dispatcher’s desk calling for a car to take them to the Jenkins house to pick up the carpenter there. Ross was plunged deep in that most reliable of detective’s tools—the phone book, rechecking the Jenkins address.

  Throughout all this the phone on the dispatcher’s desk was ringing insistently. Everyone in the waiting room, however, was so caught up in the sudden whirl of motion that it took seven rings before Hartigan finally snatched it up.

  He held the receiver to his ear for a moment, and then tapped Scott on the shoulder. Scott spun around and took up the receiver.

  A firm, strong female voice came over the line. Though it was no longer hysterical, Scott recognized it at once.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Scott urgently. “Please …”

  “My name is Joan White,” said the voice. “Mrs. Paul White.”

  Inspector Scott sighed with relief. “Is he there?” he asked. “Is he with you?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “He’s at the Jenkins house. He just left. He should be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Mrs. White, stay where you are.”

  “I will,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Mrs. White hung up the phone. She nodded once to herself, then she sat down and took a deep breath.

  She sat straighter now. Her hands did not tremble. Her eyes were dry. It was done now. She had done it. With the mere exhalation of words, by simply saying her own name, she felt she had released a cancer from herself. She felt suddenly free.

  She had had no other choice. Because of her, because she had not acted quickly enough, another woman was dead. If she had been able to control herself, if she had been able to keep her head as her world fell apart around her, perhaps she could have prevented it.

  But it was too late to change that now. The dead could not be altered. Only she could be altered. Only she could alter herself. She felt almost calm now. She had taken the first step. She had spoken her name. Joan White. Mrs. Paul White. That, at last, was who she was.

  She felt the need for further action. She knew the police would be coming soon and she wanted to be ready. She knew what she had to do.

  She stood and went to the door. She waited before it a minute; her hand went out once to open it, then retreated. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. Then she reached out, took the knob, turned it firmly. She stepped outside.

  She looked over to the barn. It did not seem far away. Just a few steps. Just to the barn in her yard. The facts were clear. She knew what she was doing.

  She started slowly across the drive. The gravel crunched before her steady steps. As she walked she listened. When a car went by it made her heartbeat quicken. It was ridiculous, she knew. Paul would not be coming home now. He would not come home again. But she did wish to be careful, to see to every detail, as she did in cooking, cleaning, taking care of the children. This was her duty now.

  As she reached the door she listened. She thought she might hear a siren coming. But she did not. She opened the latch and pulled back the barn door.

  It was dark inside. The only light was what the sun sent in and she paused at the threshold, peering into the gloom. She remained in the light a minute, where it was warm, where she could see. Then, swallowing once, she advanced. The darkness closed around her.

  It was exactly as it had been before, when she had last come in here, when the locker had been empty. But Mrs. White was not the same. And the locker would not be empty this time. He had used the overalls, and the knife, and he would have put them back. They would be there for her, and she would give them to the police.

  Once again, as before, the sun made strange shadows inside. Once again figures seemed to loom above her. A workbench was crouched in waiting. A bicycle about to pounce. A toolrack watched her from the wall. Mrs. White started at them. Then she stared them down.

  Then something flashed at her.

  She spun around, shocked. Her hand rose to protect herself. Her mouth opened to scream. Breathing hard, she recognized her adversary.

  It was only Paul’s hammer. It lay sprawled upon the workbench, the steel head just catching the sun. It winked at her, as if amused.

  Mrs. White brought her hand down and her mouth closed. She smiled at herself, then she turned slowly and squinted.

  She could hardly make out the locker, lost in the blackness of the barn. It seemed to be hiding against the wall.

  Mrs. White began to walk toward it. It would only take a few movements; she counted them: three. Pull the door open, grab the knife and the overalls, close the door. Three darts of her hand and she would have what she wanted, what she needed.

  They were profound moments, decisive seconds; Mrs. White knew it. Once she held the incriminating objects, once she handed them to the police, she would be saying: My husband is the housewife murderer. I know. Here is the proof.

  She would be asked to testify against him. She would not have to: no wife did against her husband. She knew that from old courtroom dramas on TV. But who else could do it? Who else could they call? She was the one. Joan White. Mrs. Paul White. She was the one who knew.

  A few steps from the locker Mrs. White stopped. She thought of it. She saw herself on the witness stand, answering the lawyers’ questions. Didn’t you have an inkling? Didn’t you ever suspect it of you husband? Didn’t you know him at all?

  She would have to answer: no, no, no.

  They would try to trick her too. Lawyers were good at that. They would try to make it seem as if she were trying to frame Paul. Didn’t you have something against your husband? Didn’t you harbor secret resentments? Didn’t you hate your husband?

  She would have to answer: no, no, no.

  Mrs. White came a step or two closer. Once she opened the locker, once she held the knife, she was saying to the world: I loved him and he murdered women. I loved him, and he was not what I thought. I loved him, and it was all a lie.

  She nodded silently: yes, yes, yes.

  She reached out and grabbed hold of the thin locker handle. She pulled it up and out.

  The locker was empty.

  She dropped back slightly, nearly reeling.

  Her features trembled in disbelief. Now she did hear a siren, but it was not outside. It was in her head, the red light whirring, the alarm screaming.

  She felt as if the whole barn were laughing, as if all of Paul’s implements were mocking her. The shadows seemed to dance around her in a satanic celebration of her simplemindedness, of her betrayal. She felt that, at any moment, Paul himself might reach out from the shadows
to grab her.

  But Paul did not grab her.

  He merely touched her, gently, on the arm.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Mrs. White spun around and stepped back, crashing against the locker door. That face, that old familiar face, came toward her. Paul’s eyes flashed and he smiled.

  “No,” Mrs. White whispered.

  “Joan,” said Paul. His voice was hoarse and deep. He reached out and put one hand on her shoulder. “Joan,” he repeated, “what the heck is going on around here?”

  Mrs. White stared at him, unable to speak.

  “Joanie, it’s me,” said Paul. “Remember? Paul, the guy who comes home at night? Joanie, look at you—what’s the matter?”

  The words seemed to penetrate Mrs. White’s mind slowly. The voice of her husband flowed into all the remembered places. She blinked once, then again.

  “Paul,” she said.

  “Joan, what’s wrong, baby?” said Paul. His grin was friendly, his hand light on her shoulder. “You been acting crazy for days. What’s up, kid, tell me. Is it your mom?”

  Suddenly, Mrs. White could not restrain herself. “I know,” she said. She leaned her face toward him. “I know everything.”

  Paul dropped his hand to his side and his smile disappeared. It was replaced with a look of deep husbandly concern.

  “All right, just explain it to me slowly,” he said. “What’s going on? What do you know?”

  “Everything,” Mrs. White repeated, the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Everything,” Paul said softly. “Like, in the world?”

  “I know what you did. I know what you did to those women,” said Mrs. White. It was all pouring out of her and she could not stop it. At last there was some relief. She was talking it over with Paul. “I know you—”

  “What?” he said gently.

  “Killed them,” she said.

  Paul straightened as if she had slapped him. But his expression did not change: he seemed concerned for her.

  “You think I …?” He shook his head in wonder. “Wait a minute. You think I’m the guy who killed those women, those housewives?”

  “I know it,” said Mrs. White. A single tear coursed down her cheek. “I know it.”

  Paul nodded once, then again. He turned away from her for a moment and looked down at the planks in the barn floor. Then he faced her.

  “You know,” he said, “ever since this weekend—I came in here and found the light on in here—and I thought to myself, ‘What the heck is going on here,’ you know? I mean, I know Joanie never comes in here, what’s going on? And then you started acting so strange and everything. I thought maybe today I ought to stay home, keep an eye on the house, see what’s happening. I mean, for a while there I thought you were …” He laughed. “I know it’s stupid, but I started to wonder if maybe you were seeing somebody else or something, can you imagine that? And all this time …” Again he shook his head. “You thought I was the crazy bastard who was killing those women.” He looked at her hard for a long time, then he spread his arms with a half smile flickering on his face. “Joanie,” he said earnestly, “how could you?”

  As he spoke Mrs. White seemed to relax. Her body slumped backward until it was resting against the locker. Her eyes, still wet, had stopped spilling over. Her mouth had closed. She looked at Paul blankly, as if she did not know what to think, what to believe.

  “I saw it,” she said, but her voice was small, almost childlike. “I saw it in the locker.”

  “What? What did you see?”

  “The knife. And the … the overalls—the blood.”

  Paul stepped toward her and Mrs. White started, but he did not touch her. Instead, he peeked into the locker.

  “Well, they’re not there now, are they?” he said.

  “No, I … you took them,” said Mrs. White. “You took them and you—killed somebody.”

  “Joanie!” Paul’s eyes went upward in exasperation. “Would you think about it for a minute? Would you just do that for me? Do you think I could kill anybody? I mean, Jeez-Louise, you’ve lived with me for a fifth of a century. Is that the kind of guy you think I am?”

  Mrs. White seemed to do as she was bidden: she seemed to think about it. She sounded calmer, more reasonable, when she spoke again.

  “What about the police?” she said. “They told me they questioned you, but you said …”

  “Oh, is that what that was about?” Paul said. He put his hands on his hips as he nodded. “That’s what really convinced me to stick around today, you know? I thought maybe that had something to do with this.”

  Mrs. White stared at him. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide. Suddenly she buried her face in her hands and began sobbing.

  “Oh, Paul,” she said. “Oh, God. I didn’t know what I was doing. Oh, Paul, forgive me—I called them again. I told them—they’ve gone to arrest you at Mrs. Jenkins’s.”

  “It’s all right,” he murmured. “It’s okay. We’ll explain it to them. We’ll just tell them all about it. Come on, we’ll go inside now and call them and explain everything.”

  Gently, he brought her around and started walking her to the door. She seemed unable to bring herself under control. Her shoulders shook. The sobs muffled by her hands grew louder.

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” Paul whispered. He kissed the top of her head. “We’re going to call the police, and then we’re going to get you to a really good doctor, okay? It’s just that you’ve been working too hard, that’s all. Maybe I haven’t been home enough.”

  Mrs. White nodded soundlessly. Paul walked her slowly forward, past the workbench, toward the door.

  When Mrs. White dropped her hands there were no tears on her face. With one desperately powerful lunge, she stretched both her arms out to the workbench. She snatched up the hammer that had glinted at her in the dark and brought it around in a vicious arc.

  The hammer struck Paul on his cheek. He grunted and stumbled back.

  Mrs. White dropped the hammer and ran out of the barn as fast as she could.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Paul reeled back, his hand clutching the bruised part of his cheek. For a moment he stood dumb and bewildered. Then, slowly, his hand fell away. His face was pale and already an ugly purple and yellow bruise was beginning to show. He thought his cheekbone was chipped or even broken.

  His eyes darted around the barn. Mrs. White was gone. On the untouched side of his face his mouth lifted, and he shook his head and sighed.

  His toolbox was lying on the floor against the back wall of the barn. He’d brought it back with him when he had parked the truck up the road. He went to it now, released the lock, and took out the butcher knife. He stuck the knife in his belt and untucked his shirt so that the tails covered all but the tip of the blade. With another sigh he stepped outside to find his wife.

  At first Mrs. White had run for the house. She was hoping to get to the phone, call the police, or get the car keys she’d left inside. But as she grabbed the doorknob she heard movement behind her in the barn.

  Mrs. White froze like a trapped animal. If she ran for the road, Paul would catch her easily, before she could get to a neighbor’s. If she went inside, she would only make it easy for him.

  Then Mrs. White bolted down the drive, over the lawn, toward the woods. At least there, there was somewhere to hide.

  Paul stepped out of the barn, feeling the butcher’s knife tapping softly against his leg. He came forward, thinking his wife must have gone inside the house, must be trying to call the police. He felt, however, no sense of urgency. He knew he was quick enough.

  As he moved he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He looked down across the lawn just in time to see his wife disappear into the forest. He smiled. He thought she looked funny running, her big backside rocking back and forth, her hands out at her sides.

  To emphasize the contrast in his own mind, he went after her with a steady, masculine jog, arms pumping, long legs stri
ding. He estimated it would take about sixty seconds to catch her.

  The sound of her own labored breathing filled her ears as Mrs. White tore down the forest trail. She ran now without any thought but to run, to get away, to stay free. The trees whipped by her on either side. Branches lashed her face. But all she heard was her own breathing.

  And then—something else.

  “Joanie. Joan-nee.”

  It was Paul, still out of sight, but not far behind her. He was calling to her in a friendly, though somewhat beleaguered voice. As if he expected her to come to him, to help him do some female chore that he couldn’t get quite straight.

  She ran.

  “Joanie, come on, honey,” Paul called. “This is ridiculous.” He was not even out of breath.

  Mrs. White, however, was gasping now. She did not know if she could go much farther. Her eyes went from one side of the trail to the other, searching for someplace she might be able to hide, someplace where he couldn’t find her. There was no place, no place good enough. Paul was a hunter, after all. Mrs. White thought hysterically that now she would finally find out what had happened to that deer.

  “Joanie, come on,” he called coaxingly. “Come on, now. Stop this nonsense. I’m your husband, remember?”

  Mrs. White closed her eyes with the strain of running. The forest floor was rough and she stumbled, but then she regained her balance and kept going.

  “You’re not my husband,” she gasped softly.

  But when she heard him call again, she knew that that was exactly who he was. And she knew he was gaining on her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Jonathan Cornell decided to quit fishing early.

  He had a feeling about it today. Nothing was biting. They were lying low in the water. Not today. He was giving up.

  He broke down his rod and assembled his equipment. He slid his fishing knife back into his belt, took the empty stringer off the ground, and laid it in his tackle box, which he’d left open against a tree. He closed the box, stood up, and took a long, long stretch. The reservoir was beautiful in the early light. He watched it for a few seconds. So long, fish, he thought. Then, beginning to whistle, he picked up his rod and headed back up the trail.