But maybe it was easy because it was a good memory. Steve had stayed with her all the way. He was even sitting in her room with her parents waiting for her to wake up after the surgery.
"The doctor said I was lucky none of my nerves were severed. But it was sore for months. And I got a second cast because the first one got so bloody."
Wally waved a hand. "Enough, already," he said. "I don't want to hear every gory little detail. I believe it is still your turn."
"Oh. Right." She leaned forward and tried to study the board. Her mind instead ran back through the memory of that long-ago game in the Mayflower Street backyard. She shared a thought with Wally. "You know, sometimes, as adults, we can forget how to be close. Ed remembered. Just before Dad and I left Greensboro he came over and told me he hoped we found Hardy real soon."
Wally nodded quietly.
With an effort, she returned to the game on the board. Concentrating hard, she tried to pick out the moves she had seen earlier. But she couldn't, or wouldn't, because she saw a better one. She moved her rook two spaces, behind her queen. Wally then took her pawn next to her king with a bishop, hoping to lure it into checkmate from his queen.
He wouldn't get that move from her. The bishop didn't threaten her king.
She swept her queen across the board and took his flanking pawn. "Checkmate," she announced.
Stunned for a few seconds, Wally finally muttered, "Where did that come from?"
24
The grease stank and John Hardy knew it wasn't particularly nutritious, but that didn't matter so much to him now. And a half-eaten decadent cheeseburger (actual beef) in his belly would feel better than being empty. He downed it in three bites.
He walked through the dark neighborhood of mixed zoning. Small old houses were sprinkled in among shops and small warehouses. Only a few of the homes showed any lights. Then he came to the end of the side street he was on. The street before him didn't worry him any. It was nearly deserted at this hour and would lead back to the cemetery. A bright section of light surprised him.
Curiosity got the better of him, though he approached cautiously.
The little Cary Street Nondenominational Church was open for a late Wednesday service, its front doors ajar.
Hardy thought it over for several minutes. He'd been cold, at times freezing, ever since he had been kicked out of jail. It would be so nice to be warm, even for a little bit. He performed a best-guess cost-benefit analysis regarding the risk of exposure. But he was so tired of being wet and cold. After a brief bout of coughing, he slipped through the door to share the heat, taking a seat in the back pew to the left. Only a couple of heads turned to register his arrival with disinterested glances.
Even at this hour the church was more than three-quarters full and currently the congregation was murmuring among themselves. Most looked like himself; bums with no home or one that was derelict. He wouldn't stand out among these folks.
The somewhat better dressed seemed unfazed by having so many poor among them. Of course, nearly everyone was poor, just not all homeless.
To his relief, Hardy saw the collection plates stacked unevenly at the altar, the offering already made. Though he'd done well in finding coins, he had none to spare.
The preacher swayed a little behind the pulpit. He slapped its surface, startling Hardy. The congregation quieted. Opening the bible, he said, "I'm going to read from the Gospel: Mark, chapter four, verse three. Listen closely, for, as always, the Almighty is at hand and expects us all to try to understand what He means. Do not listen with only your ears, but also with your heart, because the word is not always direct. It is sometimes a mere illustration. An allegorical lesson. Many good people lead themselves astray when they fail to understand this. And, my children, I want you to be prepared, for any day you may find yourself with Him. The end times come. All the time…" the preacher stepped back, then to one side and finished, "to each and every one of us, in our turn. That is the mistake so many make. There is so much talk about the end of the world comin' on this date or that date. They seem to forget that Jesus said only God knew. Not even His own Son was to know. So think, my brothers and sisters, and ask yourselves, 'Who of us would know what Jesus Himself could not?'" He stepped back to the podium with a wide, wise smile, neither smug nor condescending, maybe more wistful. "It makes you wonder, doesn't it? So don't be taken in by the misguiding. Listen inside yourself, for God is there. And there is where he will speak to you. Not from no t-vid. Not from no street corner." The preacher chuckled and gestured to himself. "No, not even from me here. Just know that you are to be ready for your own, private 'end of days.'
"Now for the words of God: 'A farmer went by, sowing his seed, just
tossin' it out. Some of 'em fell by the wayside. The birds got 'em. Others fell on hard
ground, and, though they sprouted, they died because their roots couldn't go deep. The
others, why, they fell among the thorns.' Careless man, wasn't he?"
A smattering of laughter rose from the people.
The preacher's modulating voice and the unaccustomed warmth lulled Hardy. His mind drifted. Life had seemed full of promise as he grew up. But somehow he got off track in college. Maybe it was the way his fiancée had dumped him. Maybe it was how his mother had handled it when he dropped out. He didn't know; couldn't figure it out. Might never know.
He must have dozed, for the organ was playing and the preacher was sitting and he couldn't remember seeing that happen.
Then a solo singer stepped from the small choir. As the organ died, she started singing, soft and sweet.
Hardy thought he hadn't liked the old standard, but he now knew it was because he had never heard it done right. This time he did. A pure, musical way, no flourishes, no riding up and down the scales. Amazing Grace, done so honestly, suddenly became first among his favorite hymns. Hanging to every note and word as the soloist sang alone, he nearly cried for the beauty of it.
He started another round of coughing so left soon as she finished, partly because the sermon could only diminish the soloist's performance, partly because the coughing would draw attention to him, partly because that bit about 'saving a wretch' struck a hopeless cord inside him. He just couldn't see any salvation for him.
Outside, shivering, he saw the stars. After nearly a week of clouds and rain, he would have a dry night. The clear sky made the night colder. He pulled the lapel up on his jacket and hurried down the street, away from the lights.
The wind picked up as he reached the crest of the hill. It felt of an icy gale on the exposed summit. Holding his hands under his arms, he looked down at the headstones: 'Lucas J. Hardy, 1954-2034,' and 'Emma Munn Hardy, 1953-2035.'
Standing there, the memories flew through his head, too swift to hold on to any for long: Gran'dad's pride in him when he accomplished a solo bit in a band concert in middle school; his grandmother encouraging him in a music degree, but still giving him the love his mother couldn't when he changed majors; their having him overnight countless times. The flood became too much for him. He walked downhill toward the riverbank, the few teardrops freezing on his cheeks.
He ducked under the bushes and unfolded the ratty blanket he'd taken from a trash pile. Spreading it over himself, he then layered some leaves on top, careful to make them even.
After getting things arranged in a manner he hoped concealed him, he laid back and closed his eyes. Hardy had yet to adjust to a nocturnal existence, finding himself exhausted after tonight's activities.
For a moment it seemed his mind would continue relentlessly playing out memories of his grandparents. But, when the next train rumbled by, he turned without waking.
25
Callie was relieved when he had stopped crying. Eric looked a little more like a professor. He sipped the cold tea absently, then began talking again.
"They were about to take off, you know. I mean…well, they had a great marriage and a good life, Callie. But professionally they were really getting
somewhere. Kelly was in her eighth year with RecoveryInc, and they made her the local coordinator. That way she not only was promoted, but could do much of the work at home. But Steve…he'd really moved up big. I don't mean to brag, Cal, but I was so proud of him. And Emily. She's becoming a first-rate archeologist. But Steve became the youngest assistant superintendent since '08. And it was really working out well.
"God, I was a happy man. My two children doing great, one of them with me. I can't remember being happier since Rose died."
Eric sat up so abruptly it startled Callie.
"Damn. Goddamn!" He smacked a fist in his palm. "Why couldn't it have been me? When will it be me? He'd never done anything he should have died for. He was a good kid…a good man."
Callie couldn't let that go. "And you have done something you should die for?"
Eric turned on her with an expression that, for an instant, unnerved her. It held a fair mix of anger, self-hate, guilt, and something she had no idea of but feared. "You don't know what I've done," he said huskily, then looked away. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I've lived a long, full life already. He hadn't."
Swallowing the fear, she softly asked, "So, what are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to find the little bastard and I'm going to kill him."
Callie hesitated, but she had to know. Maybe Eric needed to know. So she asked, "Will that make it better?"
This time Eric didn't have an immediate answer. Finally he said, "What difference does it make? It's what I'm supposed to do. The law makes that very clear."
"What if he's not through killing? What if he gets you? Or Emily? Then what's so great about your revenge?"
"I've thought about that. I've thought a hell of a lot about it. Don't think I haven't. All I've got left is Emily and David. I won't lose either one. Remember? I told you: you don't know everything about me, Callie."
The last words seemed like an attack. Callie ignored it. "Maybe it would be better for me if I did know more about you, Eric. Maybe then I wouldn't be as likely to worry." She sighed, thinking it over. Then she decided. That ancient English phrase gave her its advice: In for a penny, in for a pound. "Maybe if I told you something about me, then you might feel able to tell me more about you." She took a shaky breath, wondering too late how good such advice was.
Eric's eyes narrowed. He waited.
"You see…" she began, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. For some reason, what she was about to say to this man, whom she had tried to only think of as a long and good friend, favorite professor, made her more nervous than meeting any member of government or big business. It might be the wrong time to say this, but there may never be a right time. She worried that there might not be another time. So she plunged on. "I…guess it was ever since I saw you. Even I thought it was nothing more than a crush, even then. So I just played with the silly notion as an ideal that wouldn't come to pass. However…it's still there."
His eyes took on a suspicious glare. "What is?"
A quick sigh and she kept on. No turning back now, for Christ sake. "You know… I loved…Harry. But you always were there in the back of my mind. I love you, Eric. No other way to say it. It isn't fair of me to spring it on you like this, certainly now, but… Hell, am I supposed to keep it to myself forever? Don't think it was an obsession that ruined my marriage. I really did love him. And I tried hard, and the marriage might have worked if we'd both been more understanding. But you are my real love. I… I guess I always held back because of the age difference, even after Rose died. And I knew you were deeply in love with her. And I certainly had more morals than to try and ruin someone's marriage. After that, and maybe before, too, I was afraid of rejection. Keeping in contact over the years seemed to help, actually. I could consider you a friend personally and socially, and that seemed enough.
"But when you called out to me in the cafeteria, well, ever since that moment, it's been flooding my mind. I could barely concentrate on work--"
"Please stop, Callie."
"I will not. Not when I've finally started. Now you come and share with me what has happened, and I realize that I could really, irrevocably, lose you, without ever having told you. So…I've told you. If you don't like it, well…I'm sorry. But it's true. And if you can't accept it, well I'm a big girl now and can get on with my life. But at least now you know."
"Cal…" Eric started hesitantly. "I don't know how to respond to that."
She shrugged and said, "You don't have to."
"Damn you," he said softly, no anger in it. "You've just complicated my life even more. I don't need that."
He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. Callie thought she saw a smile fleet across, nothing more than a tiny turning up of the ends of his lips.
"Damn," he whispered. Then he sat straight up again. "I've got to get out of here before you do any more to me." Eric stood, got his coat. Then he came back, leaned over and kissed her forehead.
"Keep in touch with me?" she asked.
Eric shook his head. "I…can't promise anything right now."
She nodded, but while he was still low over her, she reached up and pulled him back for a kiss on his lips, a real kiss instead of his peck, taking his scent in.
He had a faint smile, a real one, as he drew away and left. She followed and listened at the door until his footsteps faded.
26
Emily woke with a start. Somehow she knew someone had been in the room. She looked around, straining to see in the dark. A thin line of light glowed under a door. A moment of foggy brain passed as she grasped where she was and that the door was to the bedroom of the Luptman's ground floor. And she relaxed. The 'someone' had been her father.
Maybe I should go talk with him, ask how his date went, she thought, but dropped the idea. She was too sleepy. Besides, the clock on the t-vid said 2:42. She simply laid back down, assuming he'd had a good time to be so late returning.
She was aware of nothing more except a sensation of running and running. It wasn't until she saw the little red numbers saying 6:11 that she was sure the running had been a dream.
Emily swung her feet down and rubbed her eyes. She yawned and went to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on her face, she decided it was time to start running again. Lacking proper clothing, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a heavy sweater. She'd be back before her father got up.
Outside the air was crisp, clean, and freezing cold. Stretching and shivering, her breath blew out huge clouds. She looked up at the stars showing clear even in the city sky. No breeze stirred. Today will be a little warmer, she thought. Maybe even pretend to be pleasant.
Then, not knowing the neighborhood, but assuming it was about the same for several blocks, she decided to start down toward the river as a warm up.
She was glad of the choice by the time she reached the lower street. Her thighs burned from lack of exercise. She turned left and followed the river, passed under a bridge, negotiating the large ice patch with mincing steps. Then along a series of apartments. Next was a block of fashionable homes and a couple of blocks of cleanly kept row houses. A section of small shops followed that.
Now into her stride and feeling less of the burn, she turned from the river, deciding to continue a bit further unless she struck a bad area.
The shops continued along the rising street and consisted mainly of little antique and novelty stores, coffee shops, florists and the like, with occasional alleys in the middle of some blocks. Even those seemed clean from what she could see in the dim pre-dawn. So she kept running.
The street gently curved on upward until she felt she must be higher above the river than Wally Luptman's home. As the sky slowly brightened to the pearl of real dawn, she sometimes caught glimpses of the Potomac, running high on its banks.
A sharp metallic clatter erupted from the ally she was passing. She halted, startled, whirling to face it, breath issuing huge vapor clouds.
Peering nervously into the dim alley, she could see only some vague shapes.
Just as she could make out the shape of a hunched-over person, a gruff voice shouted, "What the hell you starin' at? Get the fuck away from me!"
Despite the threatening words and tone, Emily stood, immobilized by the man's presence. A tiny thought, just a notion, tugged at her consciousness, trying to get through.
"Go on," he said, less stridently, less certain, even worried. "Get outta here."
Emily blinked and realized this was as far as she needed to go. But this man seemed to be no threat at all. "Sorry," she said. "I won't do anything to you." Turning, she ran back the way she'd come, less from fear than embarrassment at disturbing him.
Sometimes, when she tried inside her mind to haul a notion out to see what it held, she had success. Sometimes she didn't. This was a time when the notion was stubborn and the only thing to do was to quit trying. Do something else. So she concentrated on her route and the placing of one foot ahead of the other.
She ran on, past the row houses, the fine homes, along the apartments.
Coming under the bridge, she skidded to a halt, nearly slipping on the ice. The notion fell in place before her. A complete and full idea.
She looked around in the pale mid-dawn, the sun now striking orange on the tallest buildings she could see, and on the houses and trees farthest up the bluff.
It was so simple. Why did it take so long to see? Why hadn't they figured it out the first day? Or, rather, the first night.
John Hardy comes out at night. Only at night! Just like the bum in the alley, he surfaces when everyone else is inside.
Emily started running full speed, slowed only by the climb back to Wally's house. It didn't matter that her father came in so late. He could sleep all day, now.
Eric bought the idea. At least he said it sounded as good as anything he could come up with. But Emily couldn't help thinking he was swayed more by the fact that he could go back to bed.
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