Runyon said, “Get up.”
The sandy head wobbled sideways, maybe a refusal, maybe something else. The tortured gaze shifted to the Magnum.
“Please,” he said.
Runyon was silent, working to bring his breathing under control.
“Shoot me,” Ostrow said. “Why don’t you?”
“No.”
“I want you to. I killed her, I deserve to die.”
“I’m nobody’s executioner.”
“Please, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
“Don’t tell me,” Runyon said. “Tell the judge and jury. Tell God.”
Ostrow flopped over on his belly, buried his face in the grass. Broken sobs came out of him-for the woman he’d killed or for himself, there was no way to tell which.
Later, after Ostrow had been taken away in handcufffs and the last of the police had gone, he had a little time alone with Risa. She was tearfully grateful to him. Told him she always would be. Told him he’d given her the closure she needed to stop grieving, get on with her life. When he was ready to leave, she hugged him tightly and clung to him for a few seconds, her body pressed against his.
She wasn’t Colleen, she was Risa. She didn’t even look much like Colleen, really. And Colleen was gone and he was still alive and Risa was an attractive woman and not married anymore. He wanted to ask if he could see her again, maybe take her to dinner or a movie. But the words wouldn’t come.
He stood rigidly in her embrace, not able to return it, not able to make himself say anything at all.
30
I stood on the condo’s balcony, watching the night. One of those rare, crystalline early-summer nights, no clouds and mostly windless, where both the city lights and the stars have a kind of hard metallic glitter that almost hurts the eyes.
So many stars tonight. If it wasn’t for the light pollution, you would have been able to see the Milky Way. I looked for the two Dippers, found the Big but not the Little. Kerry knew where they were, knew the names and locations of all the major stars and constellations-just one of many things she knew that I didn’t. I could identify the two Dippers and Venus, the evening star, but that was about all. Star clusters were just that to me; I looked at them, tried to imagine horses, birds, dogs, lions, fish the way she did, and couldn’t seem to form the right pictures. Orion, Ursa Major, Gemini, Cassiopeia were just names to me.
Cancer had been just a name until tonight.
Cancer, the crab. Perfect fit, all right. Ugly, scuttling, sharp-clawed creature that tore through flesh, fed voraciously on human cells.
I was having trouble imagining that, too-the crab wreaking its havoc inside Kerry. Bad enough, the scare I’d had years ago, the spot on my lung from years of heavy smoking. But that scare had been false. This one was real. The spot hadn’t been malignant. The lump in Kerry’s breast was. And the victim wasn’t me, it was the one person I loved more than my own life. That made it harder to deal with, because back during my brush with the crab I hadn’t had her, I’d had no one to care about but myself.
I wished again that she’d told me as soon as the lump was discovered. And again, perversely, hating myself a little, I was glad she hadn’t. Now at least I could focus my fear, concentrate my hope-I was better equipped to handle what lay ahead for Kerry, and for Emily when we told her. She’d known that about me. She knew me so well, better than I could ever know myself.
One good thing: it would be the last of the secrets between us. We’d vowed that to each other inside, before I came out. No more secrets. It was a vow we’d both keep. How could we not keep it, now?
Behind me the sliding glass door whispered open, whispered closed. Kerry came over to stand next to me, close. She’d put on a sweater, was holding it wrapped around herself with her arms crossed.
“You okay?” she said.
“Yes.” More or less. “I just needed some air.”
“Chilly out here.”
“Not too bad. Supposed to warm up tomorrow, stay nice for a while.”
“I hope so. I always feel better when the sun shines.”
“So do I.”
Neither of us said anything more for a time. Feeling welled up in me, sudden, sharp, and I straightened from the railing and turned her and held her again, the way I had inside after she told me.
“I love you,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “I love you.”
“We’ll get through this. It’ll be all right.”
“I know that, too.”
We kept holding each other, tight, tight, and I looked up once more at all those bright glittering anonymous stars.
Don’t let her die, I thought. You hear me up there?
You better not let her die.
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Mourners nd-31 Page 20