by Unknown
The boards under Stampler's feet whimpered and sagged ever so slightly. Stampler stared at his feet. Snow cascaded between the boards. His jaw began throbbing as his pulse increased. He took a step forward. The ancient boards, ruined by years of bad weather and neglect, groaned as Stampler's weight tortured them. The platform sagged even more. He stopped - afraid to move ahead and afraid to stay in place. He took a giant step, put his foot down gently, leaned forward, and swung the other leg beside it. There was a crack under his feet. It sounded like a rifle shot as the board underfoot broke.
'Oh, Jesus,' Stampler said to himself. He started to run and with each step the rotted platform collapsed underfoot, disintegrating behind him as he dashed madly towards the trees. Then his leg crashed through the platform and he fell forward, felt the platform behind him start to fall away. He started to crawl and it cracked again. This time the platform began disappearing from under him. He leaned forward, reaching out, trying to find something to grab. His fingers burst through the snow, dug into the rotten wood. He pulled himself forward and another section broke away. He looked over his shoulder. Behind him, like an enormous, obscene black mouth, the hole kept spreading.
'Aw, Jesus!' he screamed. He started to fall and he dug his fingernails deeper into the wood. His weight pulled at the nails, but they began to slide, and splinters, like needles, pierced his fingertips, jutted under his fingernails, and punctured the quick. He was too terrified to cry out in pain. He was scrambling for his life as the decayed platform disintegrated completely around him. The last boards gave way.
Stampler looked back for an instant. His eyes locked on to Vail's. His fingers scratched across the disintegrating platform and he vanished into the black maw.
He did not scream. He did not utter a sound. He plunged soundlessly down, down, down.
It was a very long time before they heard the dull, faraway thump; the faint clatter of wood slats as they plunged down behind him. Then it was deathly still except for the wind rattling the dead limbs of the trees.
'God almighty,' Flaherty whispered.
'Save your prayers for somebody who deserves them,' Vail said. He turned and walked away from the gaping hole in the snow.
They followed the road back to the chopper, which was waiting with its rotors idling. Vail and Flaherty helped St Claire into the helicopter and climbed aboard behind him.
'Where's Stampler?' he asked.
'Where he belongs,' Vail answered. 'In hell.'
The chopper lifted off and climbed towards the top of the ridge. Vail watched mine shaft five pass below them. He stared down at the black circle surrounded by fresh snow. It looked like the bull's-eye of a target. He watched it until the chopper swept over the top of the ridge and he could no longer see Aaron Stampler's grave.
EPILOGUE
The mixed aromas of ether, antiseptics, and disinfectant permeated the silent hallways of the hospital. Doctors and nurses consulted in hushed conversation at doorways. Visitors wandered from rooms, some smiling and encouraged, other teary-eyed and wan as they struggled to comprehend bad news. Elation and melancholy walked hand-in-hand, and the atmosphere was charged with emotion. Nothing seemed commonplace in these corridors where strangers were drawn together by the common bonds of disease, misfortune, and mishap.
Vail avoided everyone, speaking briefly when he could not avoid it, usually merely nodding to those he recognized as regulars or staff. He rushed to the hospital at the end of each day, first checking on Jane and Abel, then eating tasteless food in the cafeteria or standing outside the emergency door to grab a smoke.
Martin Vail had always detested hospitals because they reminded him of the blackest and most agonizing days of his past. They evoked images, in sharp and painful focus, of his mother as they put her in an ambulance and carried her out of his life forever, the intensive care unit where his father lay dead from a coronary, the pale blue room in which he said farewell to Ma Cat, the grandmother who had raised him, as she lay dying of cancer. Ironically, those images now had been replaced by relief and thanksgiving and by the sheer joy of knowing that Jane Venable and Able Stenner had been saved by the surgeons, nurses, and attendants in the emergency room at Chicago General.
A few days after the demise of Stampler, Jack Yancey died as the result of his stroke, and Vail officially became the district attorney. Dr Samuel Woodward, under fire for his role in the release of Stampler, held a press conference and, bolstered by half a dozen colleagues, weasled out of the situation with long-winded psychobabble.
During the weeks that followed, Vail kept a nightly vigil between the hospital rooms of Jane Venable and Abel Stenner, sleeping in the chair in Venable's room and going home only to shower and change clothes on his way to work. Sometimes he sat beside Jane's bed, holding her hand for an hour at a time, convinced that he was to blame for her pain and suffering, as well as Stenner's. After all, he would reason to himself, he had been the instrument of Stampler's bloody revenge, having provided in his plea bargain during Stampler's trial the method that was used ten years later to free the monster. Stenner was making a remarkable recovery. By the end of the third week he would be taking short walks down the halls with the help of a walker. Jane, who faced several weeks of torturous facial reconstruction, seemed in constant good spirits despite the painful injuries and the loss of her eye. Weak but ebullient, her face swathed in bandages from her forehead to her jaw and bruises tainting her nose and throat, she was indomitable. Aaron Stampler dominated their talks. Ironically, it was Jane who bolstered Vail's spirits during the long nights in the hospital as he fought with his conscience.
'Boy,' she said one night, 'I'll bet Aaron Stampler's sitting down in hell, laughing his buns off about now.'
'What do you mean?'
'Because he's still getting to you, darling. He's reaching out of his grave and pulling your chain. He conned everyone, Marty. Everybody bought his lie, why should you be any different?'
'Because I helped manufacture the lie.'
'He conned you, Marty. Admit it and forget it. Stampler isn't worth five minutes of bad time. You're a great lawyer. You did exactly what the law prescribes, you gave Stampler the best possible defence. You beat me fair and square, and believe me, I've thought a lot about the way you sandbagged me in the years since the trial. It was perfect. It was textbook stuff. The fact that the son of a bitch was guilty is beside the point.'
'Beside the point?'
'Marty, how many lawyers do you know who ask their clients whether they're guilty or not?'
'What's that got to do with anything? It's immaterial.'
'No, it's practical. If the client did it, he'll lie to you, so why bother to ask? You presume innocence and gather evidence to support that assumption, which you did brilliantly.'
'You're talking like a college professor.'
'And you're acting like a student. I remember a quote from an article about you - years ago,' Venable said. 'I don't remember the exact words, but in essence you said the only way for the law to remain strong is if we constantly attack its weaknesses.'
'You have a good memory.'
'Don't you still feel that way?'
'It doesn't have a damn thing to do with the courtroom. It has to do with acting. The courtroom has become the theatre of the absurd. Which lawyer gives the best performance? How good is the judge? How gullible is the jury? The truth gets lost in the shuffle.'
'Reality is what the jury perceives as truth. You also said that.'
'Well, I was young and brash in those… do you remember everything you read?'
'Just the stuff I agree with.' She tried to laugh but it was painful. 'Sure, it's theatre. Sure, it's the best man - or woman — wins. And yes, it's all about swaying the jury. So what? Those are the rules. And you're hellaciously good at pushing the rules to the limit no matter what side you're on.' She paused a moment and winked her good eye. 'It's one of the reasons I love you,' she said.
'I can't even begin to list all the reasons
I love you, Janey,' he said. He leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth.
'Don't go away,' she whispered. 'Kiss me some more. Unless you'd like to lock the door and slide in beside me.
'You're under sedation,' he whispered back.
'It wore off.'
Characteristically, when he brought up the subject with Stenner, the detective's response was short and direct.
'You made a mistake ten years ago. You think you're infallible, Marty?'
But the subject of Stampler could not be ignored.
St Claire and Naomi had stayed on the phone for the first week or so, sorting through police records in Colorado, San Francisco, and Kentucky and putting together a background profile on Rebecca, a sorrowful and sordid story in itself. Gradually the saga of Rebecca and Aaron Stampler began to make sense.
Harvey St Claire, with his baby cup in hand and a wad of tobacco in his cheek, settled back in a chair on his nightly visit to Abel and gave him all the details.
'We've managed to trace her back as far as high school. That was Denver, 1965,' he began. 'Her mother died when she was twelve, her father was regular Air Force. An NCO, rose up through the ranks, ultimately made captain. He was killed in a burglary in their apartment in early 1965. She vanished right after that. Accordin' to a retired homicide detective named Ashcraft, she was a suspect - there were reports of sexual and physical abuse by the old man - but they couldn't make anythin' stick. The murder was never solved.'
'How was he killed?' Stenner mumbled.
'Stabbed to death.
'Not usually… burglar's choice of weapons.'
St Claire nodded. 'It was a messy job. I got the feelin' talkin' to Ashcraft that they deep-sixed the investigation because everyone assumed Rebecca did him but they couldn't put a case together. Anyway, she popped up on the computer in San Francisco two years later - a dope bust in the Haight-Ashbury. Paid a menial fine, seventy-five bucks. Nothin' else until she accepted a teachin' job in Crikside in 1970. Stampler was in the first grade then - that's when she became his teacher and later mentor and finally lover.'
'When was Stampler born?' asked Stenner.
'Sixty-five, coincidentally the same year Rebecca's father was killed and she took a hike. We went back over Tommy Goodman's notes from his meetin' with her - he went down there and talked to her when Vail was prepa-rin' Stampler's defence. She mentioned some drug problems to him and there was somethin' about living in a commune in New Mexico for awhile and teaching kids there, but we couldn't put that together, most of those communes appeared and disappeared like sand gnats back in the late Eighties. And there's no further arrest records on her - that we could uncover - so she's litreally a cipher until she showed up in Crikside. What attracted her to the job was they didn't ask for references. I assume Crikside was beggin' and not too choosy. The state has no employment or health records on her, and social security didn't turn up anythin' on her until she went to work teachin' school. Apparently they needed a teacher so bad they overlooked certain fundamentals, like a teaching certificate and a background check. The locals say she was a good teacher.'
'Depends on what she was teaching,' Stenner said.
'Well, she sure taught Stampler a few tricks you don't normally learn in school, like Murder 101. Anyway, she taught there until 1991, then she just left. Boarded up this little house she owns one weekend and vanished into the night, just like in Denver. But interestingly enough, she paid her taxes every year by money order, so the house is still in her name.'
'I missed the last act,' said Stenner. 'You think that's where Stampler was heading when you caught up with him?'
'He was ten miles from her house when we nailed him. You tell me.'
As the weeks drifted by, the subject of Aaron Stampler took a backseat to the Edith Stoddard case. When Vail was not there, Venable stared at the blank TV screen or out of the window, thinking about the night she discovered the hidden closet in Delaney's apartment, about the paraphernalia. About the gun. And she wondered whether Edith Stoddard was a victim or a willing participant in the bizarre sexual games Delaney obviously liked to play. If Stoddard contended that she was victimized by the dead man, Venable could build a strong case in her favour.
She sent notes to Stoddard, advising her not to discuss the case with anyone until Venable was back on her feet and able to discuss the case with her. Stoddard never answered the notes and refused to recant the confession she made to Shock Johnson.
Shana Parver, with the assistance of Dermott Flaherty, continued to construct the murder one case against Edith Stoddard, whose arraignment had been postponed for a month because Jane Venable was in the hospital. Parver was the strategist, Flaherty the pragmatist.
'Venable will use the insanity defence,' Flaherty guessed.
'It's still premeditated murder,' Shana snapped back. 'But extenuated. Venable will argue that she was a sexual victim of Delaney. That he kept her in sexual bondage. That her job was at stake. And then he cut her loose and she was mentally unstable because of her daughter and husband.'
'We still have her confession,' Parver countered. 'Which Venable will get thrown out. She was distraught, scared, anguished…'
'Oh blah, blah, blah,' Parver said. Flaherty laughed.
'C'mon,' he said. 'I'll buy you dinner.'
'No, I'll buy you dinner. I'm the primary on this case. And don't let me order a martini.'
'Oh, I don't know,' he laughed. 'You get very lovable when you're loaded.'
She cast a dubious glance at him. 'I don't have to be loaded to be lovable, Flay,' she said.
Trees trembled before a warm spring breeze as Vail drove along Lakeshore Drive. He stopped and bought several bunches of spring flowers from a street vendor before entering the hospital. Jane was sitting up in bed and Stenner, who could now get around with the help of a cane, was sitting across the room.
'I got my walking papers today,' Stenner said. 'They're going to parole me an hour early so I can come to court in the morning.'
'Nothing to see,' Vail said. 'We're going to ask for a continuation of the arraignment until Jane's well enough to go to court.'
'That was thoughtful of you,' Venable said. 'Do I see signs of a crack in your armour?'
'It was Shana's idea,' Vail said with a smile. 'And I don't see so much as a blemish in her armour.'
'She's a tough little cookie, Marty,' Jane said. 'You taught her well.'
'I didn't teach her anything,' Vail laughed. 'She was born tough. Wait'll she gets John Wayne Darcy in court.'
'How about Edith Stoddard?' Jane asked.
'That's between the two of you. I'm not involved in that one, thank God.'
'You're involved in everything that goes on in the DA's office, Marty. Who are you trying to kid?'
'I didn't come here to talk business,' Vail said. He handed her the bouquet of spring flowers. 'I came to tamper with your affections.'
'You can tamper with my affections anytime,' she said and took the dead flowers from a vase on the table beside the bed and dropped them in the wastebasket. Vail took the vase to the sink in the corner and filled it with water.
'I think I'll go back to my room and spend a little time,' Stenner said. 'Been there four weeks. Be like leaving home. Goodnight.'
'I'll drop by and tuck you in,' Vail said.
'My nurse takes care of that,' Stenner responded brusquely, walking as jauntily as he could from the room.
'I'm jealous of Abel,' Venable said. 'He's going home and I have two more operations to go.'
Vail sat down beside her and ran a finger gently down the bandage on her face. 'A few more weeks and it will all be behind us,' he said gently. He stood up and walked to the window.
'Still have Stampler on your mind, don't you?' she said softly.
'You know,' he said, 'there was a moment there… there was a moment when… when it was a catharsis. For a minute or two I had the power of life and death over him. I had him in my sights. God knows, I wanted to kill him. I w
anted to shoot him over and over again. A bullet for every one he butchered. The trigger had an eighth-of-an-inch to go and I knew what he wanted, Janey, I knew he wanted me to put him down, to pull me down to his level. Then I saw the sign and eased off and let the devil have him.'
'Well, it's over, my dear,' she said and patted the bed beside her.
Maybe, he thought. And maybe it will never be over.
The next morning, Shana Parver and Dermott Flaherty sat at the prosecutor's table, prepared to ask for another continuance of the arraignment of Edith Stoddard. Vail, Naomi, and St Claire, accompanied by Abel Stenner, sat beside them in the first row. Edith Stoddard's daughter, Angelica, sat on the opposite side of the courtroom, nervously awaiting the hearing to start. She kept staring back at the entrance to the courtroom.
At exactly 9 A.M., Judge Thelma McElroy, a handsome black woman whose glittering, intelligent eyes hid behind round, wire-rimmed glasses, entered the room. A fair judge, she was known for her stern, no-nonsense approach to the law.
Edith Stoddard was led into the courtroom and took a seat at the defence table. She was drawn and thin. It was obvious her weeks in jail had worn her down. She folded her hands on the table and stared down at them.
A moment later there was a rumble from the rear of the courtroom, and Vail turned to see what the commotion was about.
Jane Venable entered the courtroom in a wheelchair. She was resplendent in an emerald green silk business suit, her red hair pulled back in a tight bun, a black patch over her eye, the side of her face covered with a fresh bandage.
She wheeled down the centre aisle, cast her good eye at Vail, smiled, and winked as she headed for the defendant's table. Vail could not conceal his surprise. Shana Parver was even more surprised. She looked back at Vail, who just raised his eyebrows and shrugged.