All That Remains - Cornwell Patricia (читать хорошую книгу полностью TXT) 📗

"To answer that would be hearsay."

She smiled a little. "To tell you the truth, I wondered about it when I was working on the stories. It crossed my mind, at any rate. But no one ever suggested it or even hinted."

She paused, staring out. "I think I know what they felt like."

I looked at her.

"It must have been the way I felt with Cliff. Sneaking, hiding, spending half your energy worrying about what people think, fearing they somehow suspect."

"The irony is," I said, putting the car in gear, "that people don't really give a damn. They're too preoccupied with themselves."

"I wonder if Jill and Elizabeth would ever have figured that out."

"If their love was greater than their fear, they would have figured it out eventually."

"Where are we going, by the way?"

She looked out her window at the roadside streaming past.

"Just cruising," I said. "In the general direction of downtown. " I had never given her an itinerary. All I had said was that I wanted to "look around."

"You're looking for that damn car, aren't you?"

"It can't hurt to look."

"And just what are you going to do if you find it, Kay?., "Write the plate number down, see who it comes back to this time."

"Well" - she started to laugh - "if you find a 1990 charcoal Lincoln Mark Seven with a Colonial Williamsburg sticker on the rear bumper, I'll pay you a hundred dollars."

"Better get your checkbook out. If it's here, I'm going to find it."

And I did, not half an hour later, by following the age-old rule of how you find something lost. I retraced my steps. When I returned to Merchant's Square the car was sitting there big as life in the parking lot, not far from where we had spotted it the first time when its driver had stopped to ask directions.

"Jesus Christ," Abby whispered. "I don't believe it."

The car was unoccupied, sunshine glinting off the glass. It looked as if it had just been washed and waxed.

There was a parking sticker on the left side of the rear bumper, the plate number ITU-144. Abby wrote it down.

"This is too easy, Kay. It can't be right."

"We don't know that it's the same car."

I was being scientific now. "It looks the same, but we can't be sure."

I parked some twenty spaces away, tucking my Mercedes between a station wagon and a Pontiac, and sat behind the wheel scanning the storefronts. A gift shop, a picture-framing shop, a restaurant. Between a tobacco shop and a bakery was a bookstore, small, inconspicuous, books displayed in the window. A wooden sign hung over the door, with the name "The Dealer's Room" painted on it in Colonial-style calligraphy.

"Crossword puzzles," I said under my breath, and a chill ran up my spine.

"What?"

Abby was still watching the Lincoln.

"Jill and Elizabeth liked crossword puzzles. They often went out to breakfast on Sunday mornings and picked up the New York Times. " I was opening my door.

Abby put a hand on my arm, restraining me. "No, Kay. Wait a minute. We've got to think about this."

I settled back into the seat.

"You can't just walk in there," she said, and it sounded like an order.

"I want to buy a paper."

"What if he's in there? Then what are you going to do?"

"I want to see if it's him, the man who was driving. I think I'd recognize him."

"And he might recognize you."

"'Dealer' could refer to cards," I thought out loud as a young woman with short curly black hair walked up to the bookstore, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

"The person who deals cards, deals the jack of hearts," I added, my voice trailing off.

"You talked to him when he asked directions. Your picture's been in the news."

Abby was taking charge. "You're not going in there. I will."

"We both will."

"That's crazy!"

"You're right."

My mind was made up. "You're staying put. I'm going in."

I was out of the car before she could argue. She got out, too, and just stood there, looking lost, as I walked with purpose in that direction. She did not come after me. She had too much sense to make a scene.

When I put my hand on the cold brass handle of the door, my heart was hammering. When I walked inside, I felt weak in the knees.

He was standing behind the counter, smiling and filling out a charge card receipt while a middle-aged woman in an Ultrasuede suit prattled on, "… That's what birthdays are for. You buy your husband a book you want to read…"

"As long as you both enjoy the same books, that's all right."

His voice was very soft, soothing; a voice you could trust.

Now that I was inside the shop, I was desperate to leave. I wanted to run. There were stacks of newspapers to one side of the counter, including the New York Times. I could pick one up, quickly pay for it, and be gone. But I did not want to look him in the eye.

It was him.

I turned around and walked out without glancing back.

Abby was sitting in the car smoking.

"He couldn't work here and not know his way to Sixty-four," I said, starting the engine.

She got my meaning precisely. "Do you want to call Marino now or wait until we get back to Richmond?"

"We're going to call him now."

I found a pay phone and was told Marino was on the street. I left him the message, "ITU-144. Call me."

Abby asked me a lot of questions, and I did my best to answer them. Then there were long stretches of silence as I drove. My stomach was sour. I considered pulling off somewhere. I thought I might throw up.

She was staring at me. I could feel her concern.

"My God, Kay. You're white as a sheet."

"I'm all right."

"You want me to drive?"

"I'm fine. Really."

When we got home, I went straight up to my bedroom. My hands trembled as I dialed the number. Mark's machine answered after the second ring, and I started to hang up but found myself mesmerized by his voice.

"I'm sorry, there's no one to answer your call right now…"

At the beep I hesitated, then quietly returned the receiver to its cradle. When I looked up, I found Abby in my doorway. I could tell by the look on her face that she knew what I had just done.

I stared at her, my eyes filling with tears, and then she was sitting next to me on the edge of the bed.

"Why didn't you leave him a message?" she whispered.

"How could you possibly know who I was calling?"

I fought to steady my voice.

"Because it's the same impulse that overwhelms me when I'm terribly upset. I want to reach for the phone. Even now, after all of it. I still want to call Cliff."

"Have you?"

She slowly shook her head.

"Don't. Don't ever, Abby."

She studied me closely. "Was it walking into the bookstore and seeing him?"

"I'm not sure."

"I think you know."

I glanced away from her. "When I get too close, I know it. I've gotten too close before. I ask myself why it happens."

"People like us can't help it. We have a compulsion, something drives us. That's why it happens," she said.

I could not admit to her my fear. Had Mark answered the phone, I didn't know if I could have admitted it to him, either.

Abby was staring off, her voice distant when she asked, "As much as you know about death, do you ever think about your own?"

I got off the bed. "Where the hell is Marino?"

I picked up the phone to try him again.