Silent Witness

by Richard North Patterson

  “Trying to put yourself in my place, Sue, was a nice thing to do. God knows Sam didn’t.”

  Sue fell quiet. “That’s me,” she said. “Nice.”

  He could not identify the note in her voice. Suddenly Tony felt selfish—so much of this had been about Sam, or Tony, so little about Sue herself. It struck him that he, like others, took the sunny, sensible girl they saw for the whole of her. “Is that why you put up with Sam when he drinks like that? Because you’re too ‘nice’?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s that ‘nice’—not Sam, or you, and certainly not me.” Turning, Sue looked up at the stars. “I stay with Sam because he feels more than he can always say. And because I need other people to need me, and Sam always will.”

  “But is that what you want?”

  Idly, she brushed back her hair. “I don’t have a clear picture yet. Sometimes all I want is to be part of someone’s life and help make our life a good one—I think that I could be happy, or miserable, anywhere. Other times, I wonder what it might be like to be more like you.” She turned to him. “Do you understand how I mean that?”

  “I think so.…”

  “I mean, Sam will talk about marriage, or Lake City, and that will sound just right to me. And then I’ll lie in my bed and not think of him at all. Instead I start imagining all the places I’ve never been, and maybe never will be.” She shook her head. “I’ve never really been anywhere.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “But you think about it, don’t you? You always have.”

  “Yes.”

  She tilted her head. “Where would you go?”

  “Other than jail?”

  “Other than jail.” Her voice was softer now. “You’re going to have the life you want, Tony. They don’t put people in jail for things they didn’t do.”

  As before, this touched him. “Then let’s drink your champagne, and I’ll consider it.” He smiled again. “After all, it’s our prom night.”

  Reaching into the basket, Sue pulled out the bottle of champagne. Tony twisted the plastic cork; it rose into the night, vanishing with a soft pop, and then he poured champagne in two paper cups.

  “To Italy,” he said.

  Smiling, Sue took a swallow of champagne. Only then did she ask, “Why Italy?”

  “For one thing, Sophia Loren lives there.”

  Sue looked dubious. “We’re drinking to Sophia Loren?”

  Tony shook his head. “I saw this article. In National Geographic, just last summer.” In truth, Tony had forgotten this; now, as he talked to Sue, the photographs came back to him. “There was an island called Capri, with grottoes and fishing boats and beaches, and water so blue but so clear it looked like you could see your hand in it.…”

  Sue seemed to consider this. “That sounds nice,” she allowed. “Where else?”

  “Well, there’s Venice. Imagine being in a city built entirely on canals, with churches and spires and no cars anywhere. It has all these boats, and sidewalk cafés by the water. I’m going there for sure.”

  Sue tilted her head. “I’ve seen pictures. But I think I want more choices.”

  This made Tony smile. He took off his tuxedo coat, poured more champagne. “There’s always Tuscany. It’s one of their wine regions, the article said. Very sunny, with a lot of hills with villas or old castles on them.” He grinned. “A lot of full-breasted women on them too, from the pictures. The good old National Geographic never misses a chance.…”

  Sue gave him a skeptical look. “Are you sure this isn’t still about Sophia Loren?”

  “Of course not.” Tony tried to appear wounded and then realized that, in truth, he had begun to imagine a future which, for months, had extended no further than Harvard or, in his fears, the call he dreaded from Saul Ravin. “No,” he said softly. “It’s about freedom. And choosing.”

  Sue fell silent again. “Then maybe I can go too. If I won’t be in the way.”

  “I’ll break it to Sophia gently.” Tony poured champagne again. “So does any place sound good to you?”

  Sue watched his face; Tony sensed that she saw that his worries had returned, and wished, for his own sake, to keep him in Italy. “Capri,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I like beaches, and warm water.” She hesitated. “If that’s all right with you.”

  Tony looked at her face, suddenly serious. Softly, he answered, “Capri would be fine with me.”

  For a time, they were quiet. They sat closer in the dark now, immersed in their separate thoughts, neither wanting to talk. Then it came to Tony, swift and quiet as a heartbeat, that he no longer felt alone.

  It took him by such surprise that all he could do was stare at her.

  For an instant, this was safe; she was gazing down at the paper cup in her hand, seemingly far away. That she was aware of him showed first in her new stillness. But Tony could not look away. It was as if, he suddenly realized, he had just discovered her.

  Her eyes rose to his, filling with questions. At first, the questions were for Tony, he sensed, and then, as she watched him, for herself.

  Tony put down his paper cup.

  She gazed at it a moment and then, still silent, placed her cup beside his.

  As she looked into his face, Tony reached for her. Her eyes were still open.

  Her mouth was soft and warm. Tony did not wish to stop; he felt Sue move closer, so that he would not have to stop. When he cupped her breasts, she did not move. And then, gently, she pulled back, looking into his face again.

  “We’re not in Italy, Tony.”

  “I know.”

  Tony found that he could not ask her. Time seemed in suspension. A few seconds earlier, Tony had not known he wanted her; now, silent, he ached to have her close.

  A moment passed.

  Still watching his face, Sue reached behind her, unzipping the back of her dress. Her shoulders were bare in the moonlight.

  “Yes,” Tony whispered. “Please.”

  Gracefully, she stood. As her dress fell, rustling softly on the blanket, her eyes did not leave his. They did not leave as she unhooked her stockings; it was as though, with each new step, she asked the same question of Tony, of herself.

  In silent response, Tony stood and took off his shirt and slacks. Still watching him, Sue unfastened her bra.

  Her breasts were round and full. Just as, Tony realized to his surprise, he had imagined them. As she did the rest, his throat caught.

  Sue Cash, his friend, was beautiful.

  They went to each other. Her breasts were warm against his chest. She leaned her face on his shoulder.

  He held her close to him, torn between sheltering Sue and wanting her. Then her mouth found his, and their second kiss was deep and long and sure. He felt her quiver with her own desire.

  Slowly, mouth grazing her breasts and stomach, Tony slipped to his knees and, by instinct, did for Sue what he had never done. Her soft cries seemed to come from far away. He could feel his own readiness, and yet, what was also new, this lack of haste.

  All at once, Sue knelt and put her mouth to his. The rest, somehow, they knew without speaking—that Tony should lie on his back, that she would bend her face to him and then, raising her head, move her hips to take him inside her.

  For Tony, the night became the warmth of her, the look on Sue’s face.

  She was with him, but not with him; first smiling down at him, then with her head back, her eyes half shut, cries caught in her throat. Tony felt his own surge begin. He caught himself, straining to hold out. Then, quite suddenly, Sue’s eyes flew open and the cry, long and thin and very soft, was freed from her throat at last.

  In the instant before he felt his own shudder, Tony knew what had happened to her, and that it was new for them both.

  Sue bent forward and kissed him.

  “Don’t move,” he said softly.

  “I don’t want to.”

  When she did, finally, they lay together, each touching the o
ther, not needing to talk.

  Gently, Tony broke the silence. “We did that all right, didn’t we.”

  Sue gazed back at him. “Yes,” she said softly. “We did that all right.”

  Leaning his face to hers, Tony kissed Sue again.

  She looked at him, eyes full of wonder. And then, to his surprise, she rolled over on her back and spoke to the stars with a hushed vehemence.

  “God, Sue Cash, you are such a liar.…”

  Tony propped himself on his elbow, placing a hand on her stomach. “Why a liar?”

  She rolled her head to see him. “Isn’t it sort of obvious? I told Sam I didn’t care for you, except as a friend. I even tried telling myself that. So here I am, the American Red Cross in action.” She gave him a rueful smile. “If this is what friends do, Tony, what do we get to do next?”

  Even as he smiled back, Tony felt the world, kept at bay for these few moments, intruding on their deep pleasure in each other. “I don’t know, Sue. Do we have to know right now?”

  Lying against the blanket, Sue moved her head from side to side. “No,” she said. “I don’t even want to.”

  After a moment, Tony took her hand and lay next to her, gazing up at the stars. Between them, he felt something proprietary growing—this night was theirs, and whatever happened in its protection belonged to them, forever. Her next question, though unexpected, did not really surprise him.

  “Do you think you’ll win Athlete of the Year?” Her voice seemed almost casual. “Does it still matter to you who wins?”

  The question was not an idle one, he sensed it—it carried shades of Sam, and of Alison, and the knowledge that, in their new closeness, Sue Cash and Tony Lord could avoid neither.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “Because I won’t win.”

  Sue was quiet. “I think you deserve to,” she said at last.

  “I used to think so. But I lost that Stratford game single-handed, after Sam had almost won it.” His fingers tightened around hers. “Anyhow, they don’t award Athlete of the Year for murdering the senior class president. I’d say that gives Sam the edge.”

  Sue turned to him. Softly, she asked, “Do you feel guilty? I mean, about us.”

  Silent, Tony parsed his thoughts. “I guess I feel confused. Last night, at the dance, I was missing Alison so much it hurt.”

  Sue watched his face. “Maybe you still do, Tony. Maybe you kept on missing her, and I was here.”

  “No,” he said reflexively, and then, looking at Sue, realized that he meant this. “Nothing can stop me from missing her. But this doesn’t feel like we’re all about Alison. I don’t think we ever were.”

  There was something new in her eyes, he thought: the wish to believe this, yet the refusal to ask him what, in her heart, she thought unfair to ask. He touched her hair. “Tonight was different, Sue, than how I was with Alison.”

  “How?”

  Tony breathed in. “The night she died,” he told her, “I was ashamed of wanting her. Even before I found her that night, I believed what we did was a sin, something to confess.” He paused, finishing softly: “Maybe I have changed. But you don’t feel like a sin to me. Except maybe against Sam.”

  For a moment, she touched his face. “At least you don’t have to live with it alone.”

  Tony pondered her meaning. “Do you plan to tell him?” he asked.

  She slid next to Tony, holding him tight. “I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything but this.”

  Tony held her, stroking her hair and back. After a time, her body relaxed, her breathing eased, and then she was still; to Tony, it was as if her desire to escape their shared betrayal had resolved itself in sleep. He drew the blanket over them. The tenderness he felt, growing with each breath she drew, was a secret only from her.

  Tony could not sleep. At first, he thought of Alison, with deep sadness but not guilt. And then, for a long time, he wondered what would happen to the three who remained—to him, to Sam, to this lovely girl, his friend, suddenly Tony’s for a night. But the night was already fading; with the first streaks of light, erasing the stars and graying the darkness, Sue Cash stirred in his arms.

  Waking, her face was fresh, untroubled. For an instant, she looked up at him in surprise, and then, remembering, she smiled.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  He kissed her. “A long time.”

  “Too long.” When she looked at him again, her face was sad. Softly, she said, “We’ve got to go.”

  Tony was silent. After a moment, Sue began to dress. “No,” he said. “Not for a minute.”

  Sue stood there for him, naked, looking into his eyes. Then she came forward and put her arms around him, as if kissing Tony goodbye, and picked up her gown again. They watched each other as she dressed.

  Turning her back, she asked, “Get my zipper?”

  He did that. “I don’t like this part,” he said. It was meant to sound joking, but did not, quite. Nor did Sue look at him when she answered.

  “I know.”

  She helped him with his studs. As they picked among the wreckage of their picnic, Tony felt like a scavenger at the end of the world. When everything was in his trunk, they stood next to each other, looking at the bare matted grass.

  “In an hour,” Sue said, “no one could ever guess.”

  Quiet, they drove to Sue’s. In the first light of day, the town was still silent, street upon street. He had not been up this early, Tony remembered, since driving home from the police station, dull and heartsick, on the morning after Alison’s murder.

  He felt Sue’s hand on his knee and covered it with his own.

  “Can we talk?” he asked. “In a couple of days, after this has sunk in a little.”

  She turned to him. “I’d like that, Tony.”

  He felt a kind of peace settle in. They were quiet the rest of the way; as they turned into Sue’s driveway, her hand was curled in his.

  Sam was sitting on her front steps.

  Tony felt Sue tense. Neither spoke; only when they parked did Sue withdraw her hand.

  By unspoken consent, they got out of the car together, to face whatever happened.

  Sam still wore his tuxedo pants and ruffled shirt. He was pale, his hair disheveled. Sue had kept his car keys; Tony guessed that Sam had walked the mile to Sue’s house from his own. His eyes seemed bruised, rimmed with red.

  As Tony and Sue stopped, a few feet from him, Sam looked from one face to the other. He stood, walking toward Tony.

  Tony braced himself. Their eyes met, and then Sam rested his hand on Tony’s shoulder and slowly shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, pal. I’m really, really sorry. For all of us.”

  It took Tony by surprise. After a moment, he said, “So am I.”

  “Not your fault.” Pausing, Sam tried to smile. “Thanks for looking after Sue.”

  This was, Tony knew, meant as both thanks and dismissal. Tony turned to Sue, hesitant. The time that he spent looking into her eyes, suddenly moist, seemed longer than it must have been.

  “Bye, Sue,” he said softly, and felt Sam turn to watch her. The smile she gave Tony changed nothing on her face.

  “Thanks, Tony. For everything.”

  Tony walked to the car. He switched on the motor, trying not to look back at them. When he finally did, in the rearview mirror, Sam was leaning his forehead against the crown of Sue’s head, mutely asking her forgiveness.

  SEVENTEEN

  Two days after making love with Sue, Tony sat in the high school gym for what would be the last time, watching the coaches pass out the final sports awards.

  Tony had begun here as a freshman and become the quarterback; the three sports assemblies held each year, fall, winter, and spring, had punctuated his life as he passed through Lake City High School. Each marked another season of striving; of teammates and new memories; and, at the end, a token block-shaped L. Now his drawer contained eleven letters. This assembly, his twelfth, wa
s the culmination he once had imagined, as early as his freshman year, when Tony knew that either he or Sam Robb would become Athlete of the Year.

  Sam sat across the gym, with Sue. She was quiet, Tony saw. This afternoon they would meet; perhaps, like Tony, she was not sure what would happen. He knew only that, with an intensity that surprised him, he wished Sue Cash were with him now.

  Next to him, Ernie Nixon whispered, “Taking bets on your chances?”

  Tony did not take his eyes off Sue. “Slim,” he finally answered, “and none.”

  Below them, the awards went on. Tony already held his baseball letter; for him, the coach passing out the track team letters was background noise. Restless, he saw Sam watching the letters dwindle, his mind clearly elsewhere. Tony waited until Sue spotted him; she tilted her head, one corner of her mouth forming a slightly querying smile. To Tony, the current between them was so strong that it seemed as though Sam could not help but feel it, and then Sue looked away.

  The last few letters passed as slowly as a minuet. At the corner of his eye, he saw Sam stare at the speaker’s podium. Tony had never seen him sit so still.

  At last, the track coach sat, and Principal Marks came to the podium.

  It had become the principal’s privilege—because George Marks enjoyed the drama—to award the trophy for Athlete of the Year. The coaches who sat in folding chairs behind him—football, basketball, baseball, and track—had already made their choice. Tony tried to read Coach Jackson’s face; that it was grim, as usual, gave away nothing. The award was Sam’s, Tony told himself again.

  On the floor of the gym, George Marks gazed admiringly at the bronze figure of a Greek marathon runner. Tony sensed some kids glancing at him, others gazing at Sam.

  “This highest award,” George Marks began, “is given to that senior whose talent, determination, and sheer hard work best epitomize the spirit of Lake City High School.…”

  In other years, this peroration had made Tony smile. “You’d think it was the Medal of Honor,” he’d once joked to Sam. “I keep expecting him to say, ‘tested on foreign soil.’ ”

  “This year’s winner,” Marks went on, “is more exemplary than most.