by Harry Dolan
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Loogan remembered Elizabeth guiding him into the house, sitting him down. He remembered deciding he would rest for a moment. He didn’t remember getting out of his denim jacket, but there it was, folded on the coffee table near Sarah’s feet. Loogan turned onto his side. “How long have I been asleep?”
The girl looked up and closed her magazine. It was an issue of Gray Streets.
“Not long,” she said.
“Where’s your mother?”
“Outside. She went to walk Lillian Eakins to her car.”
“Lillian Eakins?”
“Mom called her. She lives nearby. She came to take your temperature and listen to your lungs.”
“She’s a doctor?”
“Technically, she’s the medical examiner.”
Loogan chuckled and threw off the quilt and sat up. “I’m not dead.”
“That’s what she determined,” Sarah said, putting the magazine aside.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
She smiled. “You got shot in the heart.”
“Not quite.”
“Close enough. You ought to take a rest. It’s over now.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“It’s over. He’s dead—Nathan Hideaway. My mom told me the whole story. You saved her life.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Loogan said.
“What’s the other way?”
“Her life would never have been in danger if not for me.”
The girl made an impatient face at him. “You can’t be responsible for everything,” she said. “Do you want some iced tea?”
He considered the question as he looked around for his shoes.
“Yes,” he said.
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“Don’t get up. I’ll bring it to you.”
He spotted his shoes beneath the coffee table, decided they could stay where they were. Sarah disappeared into the kitchen and came back a minute later with a tall glass of iced tea. Elizabeth came with her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked Loogan.
“He’s fine,” Sarah said. “I broke the news to him that he’s alive.”
The girl left the glass on the table and went out again to the kitchen. Elizabeth settled into the chair by Loogan. Her fingers went to the glass beads at her neck.
“We were talking about Tom Kristoll,” she said.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he said. “You’ve got dinner waiting.”
She crossed one leg over the other. “We’re going to talk about Tom. You’ve got to get it out of your system.”
Loogan reached for the iced tea. Took a sip. Elizabeth watched him patiently.
“Laura came to see me the night Tom died,” he said.
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence.”
Her fingers worried at a bead. “It could have been,” she said.
“Tom and I were supposed to meet that night,” Loogan said. “If Laura hadn’t come to see me, I would have been at Tom’s office when Nathan Hideaway got there.”
“It could still have been a coincidence. Did Laura know you were supposed to meet Tom?”
“Not from me. But Tom could have told her. Even if he didn’t, she knew Tom and I had a habit of meeting for a drink in the evening—usually at his office. She wanted to make sure I stayed away that night. She knew what Hideaway was going to do.”
“It’s still possible she thought Hideaway was only going to talk to Tom.”
“She knew what was at stake,” Loogan said. “She knew what might happen if persuasion didn’t work. I think she wanted Tom silenced, one way or b a d t h i n g s h a p p e n
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another. Her motive was the same as Hideaway’s. She didn’t want Tom to go to the police about Sean Wrentmore. Laura was the one who edited Wrentmore’s manuscript. She put a lot of work into it. She thinks of it as her own, wants to publish it. She killed Adrian Tully because he knew about Wrentmore and she didn’t trust him to keep quiet. She let Hideaway kill Tom for the same reason.”
Loogan studied the rim of his glass. “She lied to me at every turn,” he said. “She still pretends she didn’t know it was Hideaway who killed Tom. The worst thing is, part of me still wants to believe her. I’d like to believe she shot Adrian Tully out of revenge—because she honestly thought he was the one who killed Tom. That’s one of the reasons I came here. Part of me was hoping you’d convince me I was wrong about her.”
Elizabeth shifted in her chair. “I wish I could. But Laura didn’t shoot Tully out of revenge.”
“I know,” Loogan said softly.
“She knew he didn’t kill Tom. There’s no doubt about that. Hideaway hit Tom with a copy of Shakespeare’s Collected Works. He took the dust jacket away with him so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints behind. Later we found a scrap of a dust jacket from the Collected Works under a seat in Tully’s car. It had to have been put there to frame him.”
“Laura put it there,” said Loogan.
Elizabeth was nodding. “If it was a piece of the same dust jacket, then she got it from Hideaway. If it was from a similar dust jacket, then Hideaway told her what book he used to knock Tom out—and that he took the jacket. That detail is one I never discussed with her, and it was never reported in the press. Either way, Laura knew that Hideaway killed Tom—at least she knew after the fact.”
“Not just after,” Loogan said. “She knew before. She knew what was going to happen to Tom.”
“You may be right. She and Hideaway may have been working together all along. But no one’s going to prove it to a jury. Because Laura has a good 3 3 4 h a r r y
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lawyer, and even if she had a bad one he would argue that Hideaway killed Tom without her knowledge, and then killed Tully and framed him, and she had nothing to do with any of it.”
Loogan sat back against the cushions of the couch. “I don’t suppose it matters that Hideaway denied killing Tully. That night in the clearing, he said Tully was a suicide.”
Elizabeth rubbed beads of glass against her chin. “It would be better for us if he had ratted Laura out,” she said. “I guess it’s possible he didn’t know. Maybe he told her the details of how he killed Tom, and she decided on her own to frame Tully. When Hideaway found out about Tully’s death, he might have suspected Laura without being sure. But I think the truth is simpler. He knew what she had done, but he felt a kind of odd loyalty to her. So he was discreet that night in the clearing—he confessed to his own crime and kept quiet about hers.”
The light outside the window faded and the colors in the room seemed to dim. David Loogan let his head tip back against the cushions.
“So Laura’s not going to suffer any consequences.”
“She’s going to have to live for a long time with her husband’s ghost,”
Elizabeth said quietly. “That’s something. As for the manuscript she edited, I think I can make sure it’s never published. We’ve got it on the disc Rachel Kent gave us. I’ll see that Sean Wrentmore’s family gets a copy. They can block its publication.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It might be all there is.”
Loogan closed his eyes. “You and I know she killed Adrian Tully. Maybe I could get her to talk about it. I could wear a wire.”
“She’s not going to confess, David.”
“There has to be something I can do.”
“You can let it go. It’s not your problem to solve.”
Slowly he opened his eyes. Elizabeth had gotten up. She stood with her hands in the pockets of her jeans. The sleeves of her white shirt were rolled to her elbows.
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He said, “Are you going to tell me I can’t be responsible for everything?”
“You already know that,” she said. She took her right hand from her pocket and held it out to him. “I’m goi
ng to eat dinner with my daughter. Are you going to join us?”
At one in the morning a gust of wind set a branch scraping against a pane of glass and the sound woke David Loogan from a doze. He sat up on the couch and the light from a lamp in the corner showed him he was alone in the room. A blanket and pillow lay on one arm of the chair beside him, a towel and a toothbrush on the other.
He made his way upstairs and found the bathroom by the glow of a night-light. There he made use of the toothbrush and took care of other business. In the hallway after, he passed a half-open door, caught a glimpse of moonlight on the folds of a blanket.
Down in the kitchen he poured himself a glass of milk and stood drinking it in the light of the refrigerator. The remains of the chicken casserole occupied a small covered dish on the top shelf.
Three apples stood in a row on the counter. After dinner, there had been juggling—Sarah Waishkey demonstrating her skill. Then there had been several games of Scrabble. There had been a movie, a Western on a cable channel. There had been popcorn. No one had said anything about Loogan staying. No one had said anything about him leaving. Loogan drank the last of the milk and drifted into the living room. He spread the blanket on the couch, arranged the pillow. He heard a sound from the window, the branch scraping again. He pulled the curtain back and checked the window lock. All secure.
He made a circuit of the downstairs rooms, checking every window. The kitchen came last. Two windows facing the street. He had grown careless by then; he almost missed the movement on the lawn. He looked again and saw two figures on the sidewalk beneath the elm tree. He turned the bolt on the front door and went out onto the porch with-3 3 6 h a r r y d o l a n
out thinking. The night air was absolutely still and there was no sound. Even his footsteps on the floorboards were silent.
A streetlight cast the shadow of the elm over the lawn, and in the shadow stood two men he recognized. Neither of them seemed quite right. Jimmy Wade Peltier was thinner than Loogan remembered, and paler. The contours of his skull showed through the flesh of his face. Nathan Hideaway had diminished somehow too, though he was still tall. He had the same wide mouth and square jaw, the same crown of white curls, but there was something insubstantial about him. It was difficult to distinguish him from the shadow of the elm.
Neither of them made a sound, but there was something between them, some debate going on. Jimmy Peltier gestured with his butterfly knife. Hideaway had his black revolver. Loogan thought he was witnessing the prelude to a fight, but it turned out to be something else. A bargaining session. It ended with an exchange: Peltier took possession of the revolver; Hideaway accepted the knife.
As Peltier began to back away, he seemed to notice Loogan for the first time. A grin took hold of his mouth and he raised the black revolver triumphantly, the muscles of his arms tense beneath his torn shirt. He spun on his heel and darted soundlessly across the empty street. Nathan Hideaway saw Loogan at the same time. He stood still on the lawn and let Loogan approach him. He wore the same woolen sweater and corduroy slacks he had worn in the clearing.
The two of them watched Jimmy Wade Peltier jog down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Loogan lost sight of him, but Hideaway stayed focused on him for a long while.
“He’s a graceless fellow, and not very bright,” Hideaway said eventually.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over killing him.”
There was an undercurrent in his voice, like the rustling of dried leaves.
“You shouldn’t have given him a gun,” Loogan heard himself saying.
“He was bad enough with a knife.”
Hideaway turned to Loogan and fixed him with his piercing eyes. “It b a d t h i n g s h a p p e n
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won’t do him any good,” he said. He raised Peltier’s knife and slashed at a branch of the elm. The blade passed through harmlessly. Looking through Hideaway’s body, Loogan could see the porch light of one of the houses across the street.
Hideaway held up the knife and examined his reflection in the mirror of the blade.
“If I can see myself,” he said, “then I must still exist in some sense. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”
Loogan ignored the question. He turned to look up and down the street, alert for any sign of movement. But nothing stirred. Overhead, a wisp of cloud hung frozen before the moon.
“What are you doing here?” he said to Hideaway.
The man folded and pocketed the knife. “I came to haunt you,” he said,
“but I’m having second thoughts. I get the feeling it would be tedious work.”
“Have you seen Tom?”
Hideaway let out a hollow sigh. “Definitely tedious. Why don’t you ask me if I’ve seen the face of God?”
“Have you?”
“Not yet.”
“What about Tom then?”
“I don’t think he and I are in the same place.”
Loogan leaned forward eagerly. “You mean he’s still alive?”
“It’d be a neat trick if he was,” said Hideaway. He lifted his right hand over his head and mimed a body falling several stories. His left hand stood in for the sidewalk below. There was no sound when the two met. “What do you want with him?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Tedious,” Hideaway said again. He looked over Loogan’s shoulder at the Waishkey house. “Go back inside,” he said. “If I see Tom, I’ll send him around. I wouldn’t hold my breath.” He shooed Loogan away. “Go on. Those two in there have absolved you. You’re not going to do better than that out here.”
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With that, he turned and began to stroll down the sidewalk. The knife came out of his pocket and he held it up, admiring his reflection.
“Wait,” Loogan said, but he made no move to follow.
Hideaway strolled on without responding. He started to fade almost immediately, and before he reached the end of the block he was gone. Sound and movement returned with his passing: The branches of the elm swaying in the wind. A car’s engine puttering in the distance. A cat prowling among garbage cans across the street.
Loogan heard a door opening behind him, the creak of a floorboard, soft footsteps.
Elizabeth Waishkey saying, “Are you all right?”
He turned and looked up at her. She wore a long robe hugged tight around her. She tilted her head curiously and her hair was sleek and black under the porch light. Her feet were bare.
“Did something happen?” she asked him. “Was someone out here?”
He hesitated, but not for long.
“No,” he said.
“Come in then,” she said. “Get some sleep.”
a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s
I would like to offer thanks to Amy Einhorn and Victoria Skurnick, who conspired to make good things happen for me and the mysterious Mr. Loogan.
For their support and encouragement, I’m grateful to my family in New York: my parents, Carolyn and Mike, my brother, Terry, and my sister, Michelle. And to Linda Randolph, my family in Michigan.
Thanks also to Ellen Paul, Tamara Sharp, Elizabeth Carter, Monika Verma, Jan Ollila, and Mark Fowler.
a b o u t t h e a u t h o r
Harry Dolan graduated from Colgate University, where he majored in philosophy and studied fiction writing with the novelist Frederick Busch. He earned a master’s degree in philosophy from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and worked for several years as a freelance editor. He grew up in Rome, New York, and now lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with his partner, Linda Randolph.
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Acknowledgments
About the Author