Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  “Oh.” I stop abruptly, standing uncertainly by my chair. “George.”

  “Martin. How are you?”

  George Renfro walks in and takes a seat as I stand there. I sit back down. When a partner comes into your office, especially the one in charge of compensation, you suddenly have nothing better to do.

  I’m working with George on the restructuring of a corporate lease on a downtown building. He is concerned. He speaks gravely about one of the parties getting cold feet, nasty litigation a possibility. I nod importantly and try to keep eye contact, but I’m looking right through him. He might as well be speaking Portuguese. His words just blur into a white noise, providing the background music for my nightmare.

  The phone blares out a double ring, and I jump. Is it the caller again? Maybe I’m wrong about him. Maybe he’s coming around to my side. Maybe he’s someone who’s trying to figure out exactly what he saw in the Reinardts’ den.

  The phone stops in the middle of the fourth ring. George is still talking. I’m still nodding. Then George’s voice stops.

  I have to talk to the caller again. Maybe I can meet with him. Yeah, maybe I can meet with this guy, show him how things are. If he hasn’t called the police yet—

  The noise is gone. George has stopped talking.

  He is staring at me indignantly. I have no idea what to say. Did he ask me a question?

  “Martin?”

  I shake my head apologetically. “I’m sorry, George. I was just—I understand your concern.”

  He folds a leg. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I’m sorry, George,” I repeat. “This has been a—I’ve got some—I’m not really here today. I’m really sorry.”

  He obviously asked me a question, and I obviously have no idea what it was.

  He lets up. “Nothing serious, I hope?” His tone is just a slight alteration of his loud, authoritative voice, about as sympathetic as Renfro can be.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  I can’t bring myself to ask him to repeat the question. We just sit there, staring at each other, the unknown question hanging between us.

  “Well, why don’t we talk tomorrow?” he says gruffly, as he gets up from the chair.

  “Sure, George,” I call after him. “I’ll stop by first thing.”

  He gives me the patented Renfro smile, which is not a smile at all, just a brief tightening of the mouth. He is already calling out to someone down the hall before he’s left my office.

  Deb walks in. “If you’re going to ask me who called, I don’t know.” She normally will give it a good three rings to see if I want to answer it, but she picks up right away if she knows I have someone in my office. She probably didn’t see Renfro come in. “I picked up, but whoever it was hung up.”

  I bury my face in my hands. “Next time get a message.”

  “He hung up. He didn’t give—”

  “Deb.” I stare her down. “Next time, get a message?”

  Deb returns the glare, more wounded than mad. “Sure, Marty.”

  “Thank you.”

  The outside phone line rings again. I turn to the phone, probably a bit too anxiously, my face hot and moist. Deb takes this in and points to the door. “Should I close this?”

  I don’t want to confirm my anxiety, but I can’t risk someone walking in; as I think about it, I’ve been lucky enough so far. I tell her to close it. I pick up in the middle of the third ring, as the door closes.

  “This is Marty Kalish.”

  “Talk.”

  Good. He’s rethinking this thing. Control him.

  “He beat her,” I say quickly. “You hear what I’m saying? He used a leather belt and whipped her on the back.” I’m speaking quickly, but trying to keep my voice down. “He’d been doing it for months, maybe years. He was doing it that night. Rachel was too scared and humiliated to ever go to the police. She needed someone to help her. Do you think I should spend the rest of my life in jail for saving her life?”

  “What was going on in that room?” says the whisper.

  “What did I say? He was beating her. Only this time, he was hitting her in the face. He was raping her.”

  No response, but he’s listening.

  “Don’t you see? He was gonna kill her.”

  The line goes dead.

  I hang up the phone slowly. I reach for a Kleenex and mop my face. Then I place my hands on my desk to steady myself. Relax, Kalish.

  I’ve done everything I can do with the Caller. If he has a conscience—and all indications are that he does—he might let it go. But I have no idea who the Caller is, and he will always be looming over me.

  In the two years I spent in law school before getting my master’s, I learned about the statute of limitations. The law set an amount of time by which you had to be sued or prosecuted. After that time, you were immune. Among the several purposes for this limitations period was that the law did not want people to live endlessly with the fear of legal action hanging over their heads. In this state, there is no statute of limitations for murder.

  I realize that I will always be wondering about the Caller. Even if he decides not to tell the police, I won’t know he’s made that decision. Maybe that will be punishment enough for me.

  I hope he agrees.

  15

  THE CHRISTMAS PARTY FOR THE FOUNDATION IS held in the Prentiss Room of the Winston Hotel downtown. I declined an offer from Jerry Lazarus to go with him and Ellen. I want to show up late, not seem too eager.

  The outside of the hotel is littered with arrivals and departures, parents yelping at kids, professionals in suits checking their watches. As I push through the crimson doors, it occurs to me that the hotel probably doesn’t want us holding our party here, with the taint of scandal. But who wants to be known as the hotel that kicked the charity out?

  The Prentiss Room is surprisingly lively. The combination of Christmas music and conversation fills the space. About fifty or so members have shown, a decent turnout. Christmas wreaths hang from the oak wood. A fake tree reaches the twelve-foot ceiling in one corner of the room. I see Laz, who raises a glass to me, and Ellen, who gives me a wink. I grab a hanger for my coat from the coatrack near the entrance.

  I give a few hellos, hey-how-ya-doins, as I make my way to Laz. I don’t see Rachel, and I don’t want to be too eager in my search.

  “Nice of you to show,” Laz says as I walk up.

  I kiss Ellen on the cheek. “Nice threads,” she says to me, taking a step back to check me out. I’m wearing a cream shirt and olive tie that she bought me for my birthday.

  “You like it?” I ask. “I got it from a girl who has a secret crush on me.”

  “No doubt.” Laz, deadpan. “Must be your winning personality.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” I say. “I think it’s sexual. She said she wasn’t getting any from her boyfriend.”

  “Are we done yet?” Ellen asks, but I know she enjoys this. She loves sex talk.

  “The bar?” I ask, looking around.

  Laz points to the back of the room. I make my way through more people I don’t feel like talking to. Nate Hornsby is walking around with mistletoe, preying on unsuspecting women. He catches up with me at the bar, a plastic cup of punch in hand.

  I look warily at the mistletoe. “Tell me you’re not gonna kiss me.”

  Nate cups his hand around my head and plants one on my cheek. Then he bursts into laughter, unleashing a very, very strong scent of brandy.

  “A little overboard on the eggnog, Nater?” I can’t help laughing myself, the first time I’ve laughed since my sister’s at Thanksgiving.

  He puts his arm around my shoulder and shakes me. Then he puts his head close to mine, his greased hair falling into his face and touching my forehead.

  “So, Kalish my boy,” he whispers. “Ready to make your move?”

  I step back and look at him. “What?”

  “Now that the hubby’s outta the way.”

  �
��Scotch on the rocks,” I say to the bartender. “Make it two.”

  “I say seize the day,” Nate announces.

  I throw back the first drink in one gulp. This pleases Nate.

  I turn to him. “I say pick your spots, Nate.” Jerry’s line from the poker game.

  He waves a hand. “Don’t get your back up, Kalish. I’d hate to see you miss an opportunity, is all. At least get a good mourning fuck.”

  I look away. “I think we’re done here.”

  He gets right up next to me again. “The grieving-widow bit suits her.”

  I follow the direction of Nate’s nod across the room. Rachel is talking to a couple of people. Actually, the others are talking, she is listening, smiling politely. I know that face, that forced smile; she’s not enjoying herself. I watch her as Nate continues rambling.

  Her eyes move across the room. Finally, she sees me. She blinks, then looks away. She takes a deep breath, nods at something the guy next to her is saying. But I can tell she’s not hearing him anymore. She steals another look in my direction.

  Nate is already gone; I know this because I hear his voice off in the distance, trying to coax someone to kiss him, a woman’s giggled protest. I just stand there, watching Rachel. The kick from the first scotch is setting in. It’s probably a bad idea to keep drinking, but I gulp the second one and grab a third from the bar. I resume my watch.

  Another peek at me. She holds eye contact for a moment.

  I have to tell her.

  She looks back at the people talking to her. She crosses her arms, then puts them down. She runs her hand through her hair. She puts her hands together and fidgets.

  “Oh, excuse me,” some guy says as he walks past me to the bar.

  Rachel looks upset now. She’s trying to concentrate on the guy talking to her. Whoever this guy is, he stops talking and puts a hand on her shoulder. She shakes her head and reaches into her purse. She pulls out a tissue and wipes her eyes. She looks over at me quickly, her eyes sullen and brimming.

  The wind was whistling inside the den. Rachel was on the hardwood floor in the corner of the den, her mouth wide open, trembling, staring in disbelief at the sight of her dead husband on the carpet.

  “An intruder broke in,” I said simply as I stood over the doctor. “You couldn’t see who it was.”

  Rachel leaves the room. The guys she was talking with watch her walk away, shaking heads and raising eyebrows. Some woman from the foundation walks up to me and asks me how I’m doing. I can hardly speak. I manage to mumble a pleasantry or two and move on.

  But I don’t know where to go. I walk through the crowd, like I’m trying to find someone. I keep looking at the door she walked through.

  I bump into someone and mumble an apology. Whoever she is knows me and says hi. I keep walking.

  I look back at the door. No sign of Rachel.

  This is ridiculous. I’m doing laps around the room. I stop and look over heads. Some lady is checking me out, short, middle-aged, gray hair pulled up in a bun. She looks away as we make eye contact. I must look like some crazy man right now.

  Rachel is back, holding a cup of purple punch in a clear glass and speaking with a couple of women. One has her hand on Rachel’s arm.

  I work through the crowd again, keeping Rachel in my sight. She looks up and we make eye contact. I nod to her. She looks away.

  Another five minutes, one more conversation I didn’t feel like having with someone who works in my building. Rachel’s down to one person at her side. Ready for approach.

  “Hello, Mrs. Reinardt,” I say, extending my hand. “Marty Kalish.”

  “Sure, Marty,” she says, smiling. “Merry Christmas.”

  The woman next to Rachel, whom I know, also smiles at me, and we shake hands, merry Christmas. She seems relieved that reinforcements have come; her obligatory conversation with the head of the charity—the grieving widow—is over. She excuses herself. It’s just Rachel and me now, and I’m unsteady, not sure what to expect. Her look is one for the room, a polite smile, but her eyes are intense, welling with tears.

  I wait for the friend to leave earshot. I start quietly, cautiously. “How are things?”

  She looks at me with that forced, trembling smile. “Okay, I think.”

  “Do the police have any idea?”

  “Yes, they do,” she says, like I’ve just asked her if she’s enjoying her punch.

  “Do they know about us?”

  She looks down at her drink, pauses, then stirs it with her finger.

  “No,” she finally mumbles.

  “They never will, Rachel. They never will.” I want to step closer to her, wrap my arms around her, touch her face, wipe away her tears. But we have an audience. “I’m going to protect you. If I have to come forward, I will.”

  She looks around the room, blinking at her tears. Anything not to look at me.

  I put my hand on her arm. “Listen to me. I’m not sorry I killed him and I’m not afraid of what will happen to me.”

  She looks back up into my eyes for a long moment. She understands. Her face is fighting contortion; she exhales deeply and swallows hard.

  “Do you mean that?” she says quietly.

  “I’m not sorry I killed him,” I repeat. “And I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you hear me?”

  She looks back down at her drink. Then, in a whisper, she says, “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am,” I answer in a shaky voice. Doesn’t she know what she means to me?

  Clinks of glass behind us. Laughter. Music. There is nothing left to say, but I just want to look at her. Her chest heaves, her shoulders tremble. She takes a deep breath to hold in her sobbing. And then I walk away from her and out the door, only a few minutes after I arrived at the party.

  16

  THE RIDE HOME FROM THE FOUNDATION PARTY IS A blur. I’m on automatic pilot, making the turns and stopping at the lights, hardly noticing the heavy traffic.

  The house is chilly. I feel the heat coming through the ducts, but it isn’t enough. I keep my overcoat on and plop down on the recliner in the family room. I turn on the local all-news cable channel. Nothing on the Reinardt case.

  Do the police have any idea?

  Yes, they do.

  I open the newpaper beside me and reread Friday’s article on Dr. Reinardt. No new developments. My throat is painfully dry, but I don’t get a drink of water. I can’t move from the recliner.

  The door opened slowly. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, with a stretched-out neck that revealed part of her shoulders. Rachel looked at me with surprise, then a slow smile.

  “Mr. Ka-lish.” She sang the words.

  I stood there, eager as a teenager. “Is your husband home?”

  She cocked her head with mock suspicion. “No,” she said playfully. “He has late surgery every Thursday night.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. I already knew that he had surgery tonight. I had called the hospital. “Can I come in?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Still with the half smile.

  “Why not?”

  “The other night was great—”

  “It was more than great—”

  “But it was just a night. I am married, after all.”

  “Just to talk, then,” I said.

  She considered this, her eyes dancing, flattery and amusement coloring her face.

  “I’ve never really had a full tour of the house.”

  Her head bowed slightly. “What a tragedy.”

  “I agree.” I smiled. “I walked over, no car. No one knows I’m here.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “You seem to have certain expectations.”

  “More like hope.” Her expression softened; I was winning her over. “Just to talk, Rachel. Nothing else.”

  “Just to talk, then,” she said, stepping away from the door. Her eyes followed me into the house.

  “When is surgery over?” I asked, looking at my wa
tch. It was just past seven-thirty.

  “He works past midnight. He performs extra surgeries on Thursday nights so he can work half days on Friday.”

  “Every Thursday night?”

  “Like clockwork.”

  I’ll store that info away, I thought, as I took a seat in the den. Rachel walked over to the coffee table near the sliding glass door. She pushed a button on the table, and the curtains mechanically closed over the glass door with a low hum.

  “I’ll be back,” she told me, dimming the lights on her way out of the room. “Feel free to fix yourself a drink.”

  A minute later, music, jazz, piped into the speakers in each corner of the ceiling. Saxophone, soft bass beat, high hat. I stirred the ice in my scotch with my finger and took a seat on the couch. The room was lit only by the lamp on the coffee table, the outside porch light muted by the closed curtain.

  I heard her footsteps on the stairs. Then, as she reached the tiled hallway, the sound of click-click. Dear, sweet, gracious God. High heels. Like she read my mind.

  I watched her walk slowly into the den. She wore a purple silk nightie, slightly open to her waist, where it was buttoned once, only lingerie underneath.

  I put my glass down awkwardly on the carpet and started to my feet.

  “No,” she said sternly, wagging a finger at me. “You sit there.”

  She walked over to the bar and poured herself some vodka, her back to me. She took a sip and looked over her shoulder.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Kalish?” she said.

  I made some kind of sound and nodded.

  She walked over to the wall opposite me and stopped, facing me but not looking at me. The music played quietly, the sax blaring over the steady percussion. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, running her fingers along the sides of her body. Her hips slowly moving side to side . . .