Feeling the gun to his head, Tony looked into the face of his friend; Sam’s eyes were as filled with emotion as they had been in those first seconds in the end zone, the height of their time together, perhaps the height of Sam’s life. Tony looked back at him, too afraid to speak.
“Can’t let you win,” Sam said quietly. “You know how it is.”
Sam stepped backward, gun aimed at Tony, eyes locked on his face. “Bye, pal,” Sam said.
Tony’s voice trembled. “Sam…”
Smiling slightly, Sam put the gun to his own temple. “You lose,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
Tony winced.
A piece of Sam’s brain spat from the side of his head. Then he buckled, falling to his knees, still gazing up at Tony. He stayed there a moment, kneeling, his eyes glazed, unseeing, his arms at his sides. The gun clattered on the floor. Then Sam toppled sideways, and was still.
Paralyzed, Tony stared at Sam in some twilight of consciousness, unable to accept what had happened, what he was seeing now.
The door opened behind him.
Sue gasped. It was this that awakened Tony. He turned to her, and then, stricken, they stared at Sam together.
The bullet had not changed his expression, or much about his face. He lay there, still smiling, as if he had fallen asleep. A strange thought came to Tony: this was how they had watched him, lying in his hammock, on the night of the prom.
“Look at him,” Tony said softly. “He’ll probably die in his sleep…”
When Sue turned to him again, tears running down her face, Tony wondered if she had thought of this too.
Tony put his arms around her. He found that they both were crying: for Sam, Tony was certain; for Alison; for Marcie Calder; and for all the memories, forever changed, that each of them would have to face.
At last, Tony took Sue’s hand and led her gently from the bedroom. Turning, Sue looked back at the man on the floor, her husband, Tony’s friend, the murderer of two teenage girls.
SEVEN
Tony stayed on, to help Sue.
The day before Sam’s burial, Tony made a statement to a room filled with reporters, photographers, and television cameras.
He spoke first for Sue Robb and for her children, expressing their shock at what they had learned, their deep sadness for the families of Sam’s victims, their wish to mourn in private. Briefly, he described Sam’s death: that Sam had admitted killing Alison Taylor and Marcie Calder; that he was torn by guilt and shame; and that—burdened by conscience—he had taken his own life. He did not mention the autopsy report or his role in confronting Sam.
Finally, Tony spoke for himself. The jury had been correct, he said. Based on the evidence, they should not have convicted; only Sam Robb knew the truth, and Sam Robb at last had told it. All that was left for Tony was to apologize to Ernie Nixon.
“I implicated an innocent man,” he said, “without any real belief that Ernie Nixon was capable of murder.
“Mr. Nixon did nothing wrong. I did. Marcie Calder was Sam Robb’s victim, and Ernie Nixon was mine. Everyone in Lake City should know that.”
Tony left without taking questions, or addressing his own relationship to Alison Taylor. Anything further he had to say would be in private.
* * *
Sue and her children buried Sam quietly. Tony was not there.
Instead, as Sam was laid to rest, Tony completed his confession, begun twenty-eight years before. A soft-voiced priest, a shadow in the confessional, listened.
When he was seventeen, Tony said, he had made love with Alison Taylor. He could not think this a sin. But this had led to other sins; perhaps, Tony said, he had misconceived the lessons he had learned. For he had abandoned his faith to make a religion of the law and then, faced with his arrogance and folly, had abandoned even that.
Perhaps he had done this for Ernie Nixon, or Jenny Travis. More surely it was for Sue, whom he still loved. But he had also faced Sam out of pride and, Tony was quite certain, the desire for revenge.
“Why do you say that?” the priest asked.
“I lied to him,” Tony said simply, and then explained himself.
When he was through, the priest was silent for a moment, and then prescribed a penance.
For the sake of his soul, Tony performed it gladly. Then, still kneeling in the church of Saint Raphael, Tony prayed for the soul of Alison Taylor, for Marcie Calder, and, at last, for Sam.
* * *
He found Ernie Nixon in front of his garage, packing boxes. Bent over a box, Ernie looked up at him. His eyes were cool.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I thought you might come around.”
Tony shoved his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing?”
Ernie considered him for a time. “Leaving,” he answered. “Like you…”
A sense of hopelessness crept over Tony. “Look, I know I’m not the one to say this, but maybe you should stick this out.”
Ernie stood, arms folded. “No, you’re not the one to say that.” He paused, face hardening. “I don’t know what you want from me. But I have to live with this, and so can you.”
For a moment, Tony was quiet. “I don’t want anything from you. I just thought I should apologize in person. That’s how I did the rest of it—in person.”
“And now you’re doing the stations of the cross,” Ernie said in a level voice. “You just can’t help being the hero, can you. No matter what.”
Tony felt a spark of anger. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s how I am. But just for the hell of it, I wondered what you are going to do. Besides leave.”
Ernie gazed at him. “Try to get Dee back,” he said after a time. “She’s willing to talk, and I’m going to start by saying she was right about me. But not anymore, Tony. So maybe I’ve got you to thank for that.” Pausing, Ernie finished in a softer voice. “Stella Marz tells me I’ve got more to thank you for than that. But it’s a little hard to get worked up about it.”
“No,” Tony said. “I wouldn’t bother. But good luck, anyhow.”
Silent, Ernie resumed packing boxes. Tony left.
* * *
It was close to five when Tony reached the cemetery. The afternoon light fell gently on Alison’s headstone.
He had come, Tony supposed, to say goodbye to her. In the depths of his sorrow, he did that.
The nightmare, he was somehow certain, would not return. What would never leave him was deeper, surer—sadness, and a measure of comprehension.
At Sue’s direction, Sam Robb had not been buried here: the Taylors had borne enough.
In the smaller cemetery near Taylor Park, Tony found his marker. “Samuel James Robb,” it said simply. “Husband of Sue, father of Samuel and Jennifer.”
“Athlete of the Year,” Tony thought. “Killer of Alison and Marcie.” The new headstone had already been defaced—someone, perhaps a teenager, had smeared it with blood-red paint.
“We both lost,” Tony said to his friend.
* * *
For a long time, Tony stood on the Taylors’ front porch. He was about to leave when the door cracked open, revealing John Taylor’s seamed face, ravaged by time and tragedy.
There was a brief glint in John Taylor’s eyes, some remaining spark of vitality. “What do you want?” he asked.
Tony’s chest felt tight; he supposed that, with this man, he would never feel any other way. “I’m not sure. Maybe to reach some understanding, if we could. What happened, happened to us both.” Tony paused. “At least now we know what that was.”
John Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “Happened to us both, you say?” His jaw worked, and his voice, when he spoke again, was rough. “You got him off, Anthony Lord. If it hadn’t been for this strange attack of conscience—if that’s what it was—Sam Robb could have killed again. What would you say then? I wonder. And who would want to listen?”
John Taylor did not know what Tony had done. But Tony suddenly saw what John Taylor had done: hating Tony had given mea
ning to his life, and he could not let it go. “When Alison died,” Tony said at last, “you asked me for an answer. Now you have it, and you can hate me for what I did do. But, with all respect, it’s a terrible waste of time.”
John Taylor was silent, his face closed. Tony said goodbye, and left him with his bitterness.
Near his car, Tony stood for a time, gazing at the hedgerows of Taylor Park.
For almost thirty years, Sam Robb had defined the Taylors’ lives as, in a sense, he had defined Tony’s. All that Tony knew about his future, whatever it might be, was that Sam should not define it now. That was the lesson of John Taylor.
* * *
That night, Sue chose to be with her children. Tony had his last dinner with Saul.
They went to the steakhouse. At Saul’s insistence, for old times’ sake, Tony ordered the half head of lettuce with the gelatinous French dressing.
Content to be in Saul’s company, Tony was quiet. Finally, Saul said, “Thinking about quitting, aren’t you.”
Looking at Saul’s face—its strange combination of priest and cynic—Tony realized how well this man had come to know him. “It’s just hard to imagine doing it again,” he answered. “You need this ruthless objectivity, a kind of bloody single-mindedness. I don’t know if I have that anymore. Or want to.”
Saul nodded. “Rough times, my boy.” Pausing, he took a swallow of red wine. “Of course, Sam could have been innocent, like you. The fact he wasn’t doesn’t change that.”
Tony shook his head. “It also doesn’t change what he did to Alison or Marcie, and could have done again. Or the fact that I made it possible.” Tony paused for a moment. “Remember the story you told me? The child abuser you got off—the one who used the fireplace implements? Sam could have been mine.”
Saul sat back, hands folded on his stomach, appraising Tony across the table. “How did you get him to do that, Tony? Kill himself.”
Tony smiled a little, though his heart was hardly light. “I already went to confession. Why make a long day longer, when all I want is the pleasure of your company.”
“Well,” Saul said at last, “I’m sure Lady Justice would forgive you too. For whatever it was.” Leaning forward, he touched Tony’s arm. “You’re a good man, and a good lawyer. After all this time, I’ve kind of gotten invested in you.”
Tony smiled again. “What are you going to do, Saul?”
“I don’t know. Maybe try another case—you inspired me.” Saul’s eyes were serious now, and his voice was soft. “Don’t let your life come to that, either. Have a life. And when it’s time to quit, quit.”
Tony knew that and, he was sure, Saul knew that he did. But it was the last time for Saul to share whatever he could.
“I’ll miss you, Saul.”
“Me too.” Abruptly, Saul looked out at the light and shadow of the Steelton skyline. “But if you ever come back here again, Tony, it really is your fault.”
EIGHT
Neither Sue nor Tony wished to say goodbye in the house where Sam had died. And so, on a crisp fall morning, they met at the end of the Lake City pier.
They sat close to each other, feet dangling over the water. Sue leaned her head against his shoulder. “This is where we said goodbye the last time, remember?”
“Sure. I remember.” Suddenly, to Tony, the passage of years was achingly sad. “I never imagined this, Sue. Any of it.”
Sue was quiet for a moment. “I should have,” she answered. “There were things I didn’t want to know.”
Tony took her hand. “Neither of us wanted to. And some of this we couldn’t know. So we both took care of him, even if that meant not seeing him whole.”
Sue looked down. “In an odd way, Tony, he loved you more than anyone. I always knew that. But the way it ended…”
“Was the way it had to end.” Tony paused. “Otherwise, he’d have spent the rest of his life knowing what he was. I never thought he’d kill me, Sue. Except for the last few seconds.”
She turned to him now, looking at him carefully. “You thought he’d kill himself, didn’t you?”
Studying her face, once more so dear to him, Tony considered his answer. Then, at last, he chose the truth. “I didn’t leave him any room, Sue. The alternatives were shooting me or letting me turn him in. Sam chose the way I thought he would.”
Sue touched his cheek. Softly, she asked, “Is that why you didn’t go to Stella Marz?”
Tony drew a breath. “I wanted peace for you, and justice for Alison. I got it the only way I could.”
“What do you mean?”
Tony watched her eyes. “If Stella couldn’t try Sam for Alison’s murder, there would have been no conviction for killing Marcie Calder. Because I never could have testified, and the evidence still wasn’t there.”
Sue’s fingertips had frozen on his face. “But Alison…”
Gently, Tony removed her hand. He did not look away. “Stella couldn’t have charged Sam with Alison’s murder. Sometime in the last twenty-eight years, moving old files from place to place, they lost the semen samples. Stella doubts they’ll ever find them.” Finishing, Tony spoke softly. “As any lawyer would have told his client.”
Sue stared at him, the nature of what Tony had said washing over her. “My God…”
“So I guess I ‘won,’ Sue, after all. But Sam’s not here to keep score.”
Sue turned from him and was still for a moment. Then she stood, facing the water.
Standing behind her, Tony still spoke quietly. “For the last three days, I’ve told myself you were better free of him. It’s the one excuse I can live with.”
Sue did not move. “That decision was never yours to make.”
In his pain, Tony felt the truth of this. Silent, he walked to the middle of the pier.
It was here, Tony remembered, that Sam had said that it did not matter if Tony was a murderer. It was no comfort then—or now, when Tony was.
He heard Sue’s footsteps behind him.
Tony found that he was afraid to turn. Then he felt Sue’s hand on his waist, her face against his back.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was low, tremulous. “Am I?”
“God, yes.” He turned to her and, for a long time, held her without speaking.
At length, he looked at her. Her eyes, tearless and steady, gazed back at him.
“Will you stay here?” he asked.
“For now. The kids have their own lives. I’ll sell the house, and work, and see how that is. This is still my home, and I’ve got friends here. There’s some comfort in that, even now.” For the first time, she smiled a little. “If I win the lottery, maybe I’ll travel. Go to Capri.”
Her resolution, the absence of self-pity, pierced his heart. “If there’s anything I can do…”
Sue shook her head. “That’s probably not such a good idea. For either of us.” She hesitated, and then her smile faded. “I’ll always love you, Tony. It’s a strange time to say that, I know. But there’s never been a good time for us, has there.”
Tony touched her face. “Maybe we just don’t know, Sue. Maybe in some other life, where none of this ever happened, Alison is forty-five, with two nice kids and a man her parents adore. And you and I are married.”
Gently, Sue kissed him. Then she leaned back, her eyes moist, looking up at him. “Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so,” she said.
* * *
He flew to San Francisco under an assumed name, to avoid reporters. Landing, it was better than he had hoped, for Stacey and his son were there.
Christopher hung back. So that it was Stacey who came up to him, ignoring the stares of onlookers, and kissed him.
“I thought I’d appear in person,” she said. “Just in case you’d forgotten me.”
Tony smiled. “I never did.”
On the ride home, Stacey was quiet, thoughtful. Once they arrived, she gave him time with Christopher.
To Tony, his son seemed older.
The initial pleasure of Tony’s return was replaced by a watchful curiosity, concern with what his father had been through. To Tony, the risk he had taken seemed beyond his power to forgive himself.
They sat together in the living room. “What happened?” Christopher asked.
As completely as he could, Tony told his son the story of his seventeenth year and realized that, for the first time, the story had an ending. Christopher said almost nothing—the empathy was on his face.
When Tony was finished, Christopher said, “It explains a lot, Dad.”
“Yeah. I guess it does.”
For several hours, they talked about that. When, at last, Christopher went to bed, Tony stood on the rear balcony, looking at the bay, the lights, the stars.
After a time, Stacey was next to him. “What will you do now?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
She touched his wrist. “Well,” she said, “we’ve got time to talk about it. Now that you’re home.”
He was home, Tony realized. This city. This woman. The life they shared, and the boy they loved in common. He had never known this so completely and, for now, this was enough. The rest would come in God’s own time.
Turning, Tony Lord looked into the face of his wife, his lover. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m home.”
The End
SILENT WITNESS
RICHARD NORTH PATTERSON
Silent Witness Page 53