Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  I drop a quarter into one of the phones and dial. Rachel isn’t home. Her answering machine picks up. It is Rachel’s voice, but she doesn’t identify herself by name. She just restates her phone number but adds that any calls from the media should be directed to Gerald Salters at phone number such and such. It’s silly, I know, that I am so desperate to hear her voice that I call her answering machine. But still, I simply cannot control myself, I don’t want to control myself.

  Sometimes when her machine answers, I say nothing, just stand there with heart palpitations, drinking her in, yearning for more but happy for at least this. Sometimes her maid answers, and I don’t have to worry about my voice then. The maid is there in the daytime, although I think Rachel has cut her hours. Those are good calls, too, when the maid answers; I can spend several minutes on the phone with her, telling her I’m a repair guy, or I’m taking a survey, or whatever. Her English isn’t so good, and most of the time I just end up confusing her. But still. It’s almost like I’m in Rachel’s house, making conversation with the housekeeper while Rachel is upstairs getting ready for our date. I am touching some part of Rachel’s life with these calls.

  Other times, when Rachel answers, I use a fake voice, and again ask for Jane Paulson or pretend I’m a reporter. These are difficult calls, because I want so much to use my real voice, talk to her, see how she’s doing, tell her what she means to me. But I stifle the urge every time, secure in the knowledge that it would lead to an immediate click on the other line and probably to a changing of her home phone number.

  This time, I use a recording I have made. I listen to her softly ask that I leave a message before holding my dictaphone up to the phone and pressing play.

  Jane Paulson, this is your chance to win a million dollars! If you return this phone call, you’ll be eligible for prizes ranging from a new sport utility vehicle to. . . .

  The tape goes on for over thirty seconds. Rachel won’t call the number, of course. If she did, she would reach Dewey’s Pizzeria. Pizza at your door, thirty minutes or less.

  43

  TONIGHT’S DINNER IS FILET AND STEAMED VEGETABLES. I enjoy a couple of bites of the steak until I realize that this is what my flesh may look like after Roger Ogren and his cronies are done with me.

  The phone rings early in the evening. It’s Paul Riley.

  “Marty. I have some bad news.”

  “Yeah?”

  A sigh comes through the phone; this is a sound you do not enjoy hearing from your defense attorney. “Marty. They’ve indicted Rachel.” I grip the phone tighter. “Murder in the first degree, conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I am numb for a moment, in disbelief. I feel the constriction in my stomach before his words even register.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  “Marty? Mar—”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m going to get in touch with Gerry Salters, her lawyer. I just wanted to let you know as soon as possible. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “What do they have on her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s—well, I—you’re not planning on speaking with her—”

  “Do you think she’s okay?”

  “I imagine she’s not.”

  “Is she in jail?”

  “No. Gerry’s agreed to bring her into custody tomorrow.”

  Rachel. Oh, Rachel. This is my fault. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No matter how it would turn out, no matter who else got hurt, it was never supposed to be you.

  “You okay, Marty?”

  “This isn’t right. She didn’t do anything, Paul. She didn’t do anything!”

  “Marty. Listen to me. I want you to calm down. I want you to relax. She has a very good lawyer. She’s in good hands.”

  I can’t let this happen to you, Rachel. I will do whatever it takes. Still, after everything. I will keep my promise to you.

  “Marty? Are you okay? Marty?”

  “What if I just say I did it?”

  “Listen to me, okay? You’re not thinking clearly here. I—I know this is upsetting to you. But this is not the moment to make any kind of decision. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.

  “Will you promise me that? Marty? Will you promise me that?

  “Marty?”

  44

  I AM BACK IN MY LAWYERS’ OFFICE BY NINE IN THE morning. I look out the window of the lobby, waiting for Mandy Tanner. It’s cloudy today, with intermittent rain. The street below is littered with the tops of umbrellas.

  I cover a nervous yawn. I slept in fits last night, thoughts of Rachel in a jail cell dominating my mind. I wrestled with the idea of going to the cops last night and writing out a full confession, making it clear that Rachel had nothing to do with this. I made it to the hotel lobby, but I couldn’t take the plunge. The only reason I stopped, really, was that every time I’ve made a rash decision, I’ve regretted it. There will be time enough to plead guilty if necessary. But the clock is ticking, in big, booming chimes.

  Footsteps on the marble behind me. I turn to see Mandy, a gray turtleneck touching her chin. She stops and appraises me a moment. “Hey.”

  “Have we heard anything?”

  “Paul’s talking to Rachel’s lawyer right now.”

  We walk to the conference room in silence. And we take our seats in silence. I stare off into space, imagining Rachel walking out of her house through a throng of reporters. The cop taking her fingers and sticking them, one by one, on an ink blotter and then onto a fingerprint pad. The jail cell slamming shut.

  “Marty?” Mandy says cautiously. “You hanging in there?”

  I run my hand over my unshaven face. “How are they gonna kill me?”

  Her lips part, then close. She deflates. “I don’t think—”

  “Tell me. Please—please tell me.”

  She puts her hands together on the table and clears her throat. She pauses before starting, quietly, robotic. “The presumptive method is—electrocution. But the inmate may choose lethal gas.”

  I turn to her. “My choice?”

  “We’ve got a good case, Marty.”

  I run my fingers through my hair, the bangs falling into my face. “Have you ever sent someone to the chair?”

  She stares at me; her eyes glaze over, as if she’s looking right through me. She bites her lip and nods. “Yeah,” she says evenly.

  I whisper back. “How did it make you feel?” I spin my chair around and look out the window. It’s dark enough outside that I can see my reflection, barely, a thin face, big mop of hair on top. I hold my breath, trying to imagine what it feels like not to have another one coming. Then I let out a long exhale, and then I smell Mandy’s perfume. She sits next to me and takes my hand into hers.

  “You want to confess,” she says. “You want to make this all go away for Rachel.” I look into her eyes. Tears have formed. “Let them judge you. Let twelve people tell you what you did was right or wrong. Don’t make that decision yourself.”

  I squeeze her hand and look back out the window. “I can’t let them hurt her.”

  “If we plead that you did it, that you were saving her life, you’ll tell them. You’ll tell them she wasn’t involved. You don’t have to give up to protect her.”

  “Then we have to go that way. Or else I plead guilty.” Mandy doesn’t respond. I turn to her. “Those are the only two choices.”

  Her eyes run over my face. “Do you trust me?”

  “What I trust you with is getting me out of this jam. But I’m not sure I want out.”

  A tear falls onto her cheek now, but she doesn’t brush it away. She just looks into my eyes. “I don’t want to see—” Her whisper cuts off.

  I start to speak but my throat closes up as well. I’m touched by Mandy’s compassion, even more so by her ability to care about me at all, her willingness to reach out to someone who is hanging by
a string. I realize at that moment that we have made a connection, somewhere along the line. I’ve felt it for a while now, but only now do I realize that she has, too.

  I finish the sentence for her. “You don’t want to see me die.”

  45

  Inmates who are put to death in the gas chamber do not become immediately unconscious upon the first breath of lethal gas. An inmate probably remains conscious anywhere from fifteen seconds to one minute, and there is a substantial likelihood that consciousness, or a waxing and waning of consciousness, persists for several additional minutes. During this time, inmates suffer intense, visceral pain, primarily as a result of lack of oxygen to the cells. The experience of “air hunger” is akin to the experience of a major heart attack, or to being held under water. Other possible effects of the cyanide gas include tetany, an exquisitely painful contraction of the muscles, and painful buildup of lactic acid and adrenaline. Cyanide-induced cellular suffocation causes anxiety, panic, terror, and pain.

  I close out of the Federal court opinion I pulled up on-line and log off the Internet. I suck in a big breath and hold it. I count backward from one hundred.

  I’m not sorry I killed him.

  I’m not afraid of what will happen to me.

  Are you sure?

  Ninety . . .

  I saw you, Mr. Kalish.

  I’ll come forward.

  Eighty . . .

  Rachel says she didn’t see the intruder.

  Marty?

  What are you doing here?

  Are you sure?

  Seventy . . .

  Are you sure?

  46

  MY DAILY RUN AT THE HIGH SCHOOL. IT’S OVER forty today, and I run six miles on the quarter-mile cinder track. My headphones are blaring Vivaldi, and I’m lost in my little world of strings and percussion and sweat. I’ve come to relish my daily jog. I’ve made a deal with myself that I won’t think about the case when I run, and I’ve kept to it.

  The pressure is mounting, though, and manifesting itself physically now. The last few days, my shoulders have tightened up; I wake up every morning with a stiff neck. My appetite is gone, my stomach preferring to twist and turn itself into knots.

  The track surrounds the school’s football field; as the snow has melted the last few days, the yard lines have begun to appear. Today, a few eager students are out throwing around a baseball, getting loose for the upcoming tryouts, trying not to slip on the field as they hop in place and wing the ball to each other, their breath visible with their effort.

  I complete lap twenty-four and break to a walk. I notice by the spectator stands a man in a long olive coat, standing and watching me, smoking a cigarette. As we make eye contact, he nods and walks toward me, dropping his cigarette and crunching it out with his foot, a last stream of smoke curling from his nostrils and mouth. I’ve had reporters follow me here before, and I’ve always given the same line: No comment, talk to Paul Riley.

  As he approaches, I consider leaving my headphones on and ignoring him completely. But I’ve been inclined lately to treat these guys more respectfully, hoping they’ll return the favor. They rarely do.

  “Mr. Kalish?” He extends a hand. He has receding curly hair, a Mediterranean complexion. “Andrew Karras.”

  “The Watch,” I say. He’s the reporter I called that time, declaring my innocence.

  “Yeah. Listen, I was hoping for a comment from you.”

  I wipe my forehead with my arm. “You know the drill by now. Talk to Riley.”

  “I’m giving you the chance to hear something in advance, Mr. Kalish.”

  “Keeping your nose to the ground, huh? Good for you.” I pull the hood on my sweatshirt and turn away.

  “Okay,” he calls out. “You’ll find out about Rachel just like everyone else, in a few days.”

  That one stops me. I turn back to him. “Talk.”

  “We have a deal? You’ll give me a comment?”

  “Talk.”

  Karras blinks and considers his options. He sees he’s not gonna get any guarantees. He finally decides he’s got nothing to lose. “Rachel’s cutting a deal.”

  I stumble back a step at these words, maybe to make sure the ground is still beneath me, that I am really standing here and I have truly heard what I think I heard. I swallow hard and search the face of my informant for confirmation. His expression tells me he is not kidding, not pulling a fast one. His expression also tells me he is very satisfied with himself, but he manages a solemn face.

  “She’s pleading guilty?”

  Karras shakes his head slowly. He seems surprised that I don’t understand. And something more than surprise. Sympathy. Apology. “No, Mr. Kalish, she’s not pleading guilty. She’s—getting immunity.”

  I squint my eyes, still not catching the drift.

  “They’re going to drop the charges in exchange for her testifying against you.”

  A quick gasp, just a brief intake of air, is the only sound that comes from me. I am frozen, paralyzed, as these words float through my mind. And then, through the echo of the words comes the adrenaline, acid cutting through my veins, a searing rush to my heart, rage and bitterness and shame mixing together in thick black spots before my eyes. And even though this feeling is not foreign, even though I realize I should have seen it coming, even as I chastise myself for having this blind spot, I still can’t believe I am uttering the words: “She’s going to testify against me?”

  He says something in reply, but I don’t hear it. I throw off my headphones and jump the fence surrounding the track. He is calling to me for a comment, but I just run.

  BOOK TWO

  47

  THE LAST BOX DROPS WITH A MUTED THUD ON THE carpet in my bedroom. Four boxes and this little suitcase, these have been my life for the last two months. I look over at the dresser by the window, the picture of my family on the beach in Florida taken about twenty-five years ago: Jamie waving eagerly at the camera, my father standing behind her in his long plaid shorts and sunglasses perched on top of his head, me scooping up sand to pile on top of the castle. As always, I find relief, a rush of warmth, in this photo, a time when life was simple and ideal and full of hope. It’s good to be home.

  As I survey the bedroom, I remember the place after the cops were done with it. The bedspread lying in a heap on the floor, the mattress tossed haphazardly back onto the wooden bed frame. The dresser pulled back from the wall, the drawers open, their contents spilled on the floor.

  When I came home after my arrest, I stayed a grand total of twenty minutes, just long enough to throw together a suitcase of clothes and a few boxes of toiletries and other items. I left a key with Mandy, who led a photographer around the house taking shots of the place. I paid my maid, Alice, who comes every other week to clean, two hundred dollars to clean up the entire house. And it seems she did a pretty nice job.

  Official word of the deal between the prosecution and Rachel Reinardt came down on Saturday. The Watch ran the story with very few details. The terms of the plea bargain were not disclosed, only that Rachel was being granted full immunity from prosecution in exchange for testifying against me.

  County Attorney Phillip K. Everett’s mug was plastered next to Rachel’s on the front page. The sober expression he wore, along with the press comments he made, reflected the perfect image: This law-and-order stuff is a tough business, and he’s not doing it for his own personal gain, you understand, but for the good people of this fine county who put their trust in him. The new developments have stirred the media awake, so once more I’m fielding a dozen phone calls a day.

  Anyway, I’m not going to think about that now. Yesterday, I called my Realtor and told her to take my house off the market. This is my home, and I’m not running anymore.

  Tonight I’m going to cook a huge bowl of pasta in my house, with my pan, on my stove.

  With a leap, I land on my bed, arms and legs sprawled like I’m making a snow angel. I consider stripping off my clothes and running around th
e house, because I can. Because I can.

  I visit every room. I hang my clothes back up in the spare bedroom. I replace my pictures on the dresser. Everything back back back, same as it ever was. No more shitty hotel. No more hiding. No more running.

  I go to the basement and do pull-ups on the bar that extends between the beams supporting the staircase. I don’t know why. Because I can. I can’t do too many, with all the strength I’ve lost. But I do a few. The sweat feels good. I’m going to throw on a flannel shirt, no shower, and stay up all night watching movies. I’m going to shout at the top of my lungs, and no one from the front desk is going to call with complaints. No one is going to stop me from doing anything I want.

  “I’m not gonna let them,” I grunt out loud, my arms trembling as my chin reaches out for the bar.

  48

  “MR. KALISH,” SAYS GREG QUILLAR. “YOU GOT HERE fast.”

  “Yeah, well.” I stand near the door of his office, hands stuffed in my jacket, indicating I’m not interested in pleasantries or small talk. Just give them to me.

  Quillar wears a satisfied smirk as he hands me a shoe box. “You don’t pay for packaging,” he apologizes.

  I shake the box, rattling the contents. “Good?”

  “Yeah, good. Two’s enough, huh?”

  I nod. “Two’s better than none.”

  “There’s a little surprise in there for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Quillar smiles. “I got some audio.”

  “Wonderful.” I hand him some extra cash. “A job well done.”

  He accepts the money with reluctance. “Another job?”

  “No. Just to make sure we understand each other. Absolute confidentiality.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Then your job is done, sir.”

  Quillar allows a small grin. An alliance has formed. “I take it your job is not done.”