Life Penalty (25 page)

I wish I could, Gail thought. “There’s nothing to say,” she said aloud. “It’ll work itself out.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Gail shrugged, not wanting to argue.

“And this thing with Laura? Will it straighten itself out too?”

She hadn’t answered, and eventually Jack had tired of waiting and left the table.

What about Laura? Gail now wondered. A friendship of such long standing shattered in so few minutes. How could Laura have said those things to her? How could she have said those things to Laura? Laura, who had always been there when she needed her, who had cried with her, laughed with her, tried so hard to help her. A real friend, she thought, simultaneously thinking of Nancy, not a friend at all. Interesting the insights that tragedy could provide, she mused.

Now they were both gone, Gail realized. The true friend and the false one. In the end, what difference did it make? Her other friends had stopped calling, stopped asking her and Jack over. They’d been refused too often. People get impatient, she heard the woman from the group meeting repeat silently.

It didn’t matter, she thought, remembering how she had always valued these relationships. She could do without friends. If she had to learn to live without her child, she could certainly learn to live without her friends.

Gail looked around the stark, white room. Of all the rooms she had inhabited, and in the last few days she had moved three times, this one was the most prison-like. It was tiny, the size of a large walk-in closet. Its cracked walls were dull white; the narrow bed was covered with only a thin, faded blanket of indeterminable color. There was no chair, and only a bare over-head light. The dresser consisted of three beat-up shelves. The landlord, a squat middle-aged man with a noticeable paunch, had given her no instructions nor issued any restrictions on her behavior. As far as he was concerned, she could smoke in bed, drink in the halls or shoot up on the stairs. The rent was twelve dollars a night.

The boarders in this establishment were not much different from the roomers in any of the other houses she had stayed in. She had not been in this place long enough to meet anyone, had not even seen anyone except for an obviously deranged young man who lived on the main floor and apparently never left the house. He had the slightly unnerving habit of yelling “Into the trenches!” whenever anyone walked through the front door.

As with all the other rooms she had occupied, she kept her door open, listening for footsteps in the hall, straining to catch bits of conversation. While what little she heard was often angry and contentious, she had yet to hear anything that might link any of these lives to the death of her daughter. She refused to allow for the possibility that she never would.

Gail heard the front door downstairs open and close. “Into the trenches!” came the immediate cry.

Gail found herself laughing despite herself. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs, and she slid off her bed toward the door.

“The rent’s twelve dollars a night,” she heard the landlord explaining as she reached the doorway.

“Fine,” the man beside him said, fishing inside the pockets of his worn jeans for a handful of crumpled bills. He handed them over just after the landlord pushed open the door to the room and gave the man his key. Gail waited for further pleasantries but they never came. No “Have a good day.” No “Enjoy your stay with us.” Not even a simple “Thank you.” The landlord simply pocketed the money and turned toward the stairs. He stopped momentarily when he saw Gail, but whatever thoughts he had he kept to himself. His raised eyebrow was the only acknowledgment that Gail was to receive.

“Something I can do for you?” the other man asked from across the hall, his voice somewhere between curiosity and contempt.

Gail shook her head and retreated slowly back into her room, feeling her body trembling. There was something familiar about this man, with his bulky frame, his squat neck and barrage of dark, unwashed curls. She had seen him somewhere before. On more than one occasion.

Gail heard the door to the man’s room close shut as she felt the back of her knees knock against her bed. She sank down onto the worn mattress. Where had she seen this man before?

Her mind raced back through her time in Newark during the past few days. There had been nothing particularly memorable. She had talked to no one, had her lunches alone.

Lunch. Harry’s Diner. Yesterday. She had been seated at a table near the back, facing the door so that she could keep track of who came in and out. The restaurant had been half-filled. Two black men had sat arguing at the front corner table. Another man, white and balding, had sat at the table directly in front of hers, muttering angrily to himself. He had been joined by a slightly drunk, hugely overweight woman just as he was finishing up his meal. An elderly couple stared wordlessly into their coffee cups at the last table in the rear. There were three people sitting at the counter—a woman well into her sixties who sat flirting with Harry as if she were a silly teenager, a black man wearing a green beret and another man, white, maybe thirty years old, who sat hunched over the counter nursing a single cup of coffee, a man with a bulky frame, a squat neck and a barrage of dark, unwashed curls.

Gail leaned slowly back against the wall behind her bed, watching a memory of herself as she finished her lunch, paid her bill and left the restaurant. Out of the comer of her eye she had seen the dark, curly-haired man gulp down what was left in his cup and stand up. She had not paid him any further notice.

And yet she had seen him again less than an hour later, she realized, her body vaulting suddenly forward on her bed, her fingers twitching nervously. She had gone into the National State Bank to make a small withdrawal, and he had been there when she stepped outside again. She had barely noticed him at the time, but now she could see him quite clearly. He had been leaning against a bus stop sign, ostensibly trying to light a cigarette. His head was down, his body hunched forward, his hand in front of his face, seemingly intent on keeping the wind from extinguishing his match. But it was unmistakably the same man she had seen in Harry’s Diner. The same man she had just seen renting the room directly across the hall from her own.

Was he following her?

“Excuse me,” Gail asked the landlord several minutes later, standing outside his door at the bottom of the stairs. “I was wondering if you could tell me who that man is, the one who moved in across the hall from me.” She looked warily up the stairs.

“Why don’t you ask him?” the landlord asked, already bored with the conversation.

“I’d rather not,” Gail tried to explain. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Don’t run no dating service,” the man said. “You want to know who he is, you ask him yourself.”

Gail understood that the conversation was over before the landlord closed his door. She stood alone in the hallway outside his room and wondered what she should do now. It was possible that the man was there entirely by chance, that he wasn’t following her, that his being in the restaurant, outside the bank, even his being here, was part of a large set of coincidences. Possible, she thought, but highly unlikely.

She heard footsteps on the outside steps. The front door opened and two young men entered the house side by side, their hands entwined.

“Into the trenches!” came the cry from across the hall.

Gail pulled her coat tightly around her and rushed outside.

Despite the cold, the air was still as Gail moved quickly down the street. It felt like rain, she thought idly, her mind back in her cell-like room. She heard the footsteps on the stairs, saw the man across the hall, recognized that she had seen him before, knew that he was following her. Why?

Something I can do for you? he had asked.

Yes, she answered now. You can tell me who you are. Tell me why you’re following me. Tell me what you want.

Maybe I’m the man you’ve been looking for, he said.

No, she answered immediately, shaking her head. It can’t be you. The man I’m searching for is taller, slimmer, blonder, younger.

Then why am I following you?

Gail turned the comer.

It can’t be you, she repeated, almost out loud. Cindy’s killer was fair-haired and slim; he was younger, taller. It can’t be you. You’re too squat, too stocky, too dark, too old.

Too much. Not enough.

Then why am I following you?

And then she saw him. He was taller, slimmer, blonder, younger. He was walking about a block ahead of her, moving farther away from her with each step. She saw only his back, but it was enough. The boy was of average height and build, with long, light brown hair. He appeared to be youthful. He was wearing blue jeans and a yellow windbreaker. Gail’s breathing came to a virtual stop as a light drizzle began to fall around her.

She had found him. She had found Cindy’s killer.

Gail waited for several minutes before following him. The boy abruptly turned and disappeared into the last house
on the comer. Gail approached the house with caution, wondering even as she rang the landlord’s bell what she was going to say.

“Yeah?” the woman asked, her gray hair in old-fashioned pin curls.

“Do you have any rooms?” Gail asked.

“Sorry, full up.” She was about to close the door. “Wait,” Gail began, “I’m looking for someone …”

“Who’s that?” the woman asked curiously.

“Who is it, Irene?” a man yelled from inside.

“I don’t know his name,” Gail said quickly, aware the woman was eager to be rid of her. “He’s about five feet ten, slim, young. He has longish, light brown hair. Wears a yellow windbreaker …”

The landlady shook her head.

“I just saw him come in here.”

“Irene, who is it, for God’s sake?”

“Oh, shut up. It’s just some girl looking for a guy with long brown hair and a yellow windbreaker.”

“Tell her to try the yellow pages,” the man laughed, obviously proud of his feeble attempt at humor. Gail heard him approaching the door, and for an instant feared he might be the boy she had followed; but when he stepped into the doorway, filling it with his vast bulk, she saw that it was not. He waved her away.

“Wait a minute,” the woman said as the door slammed shut, “maybe she means Nick Rogers, up on the third floor.”

“Never heard of no Nick Rogers,” the man said, and Gail heard a sudden burst of laughter from inside.

She stood outside the closed door and stared up toward the third floor. Nick Rogers, she repeated to herself. Nick Rogers.

“Nick Rogers,” she whispered into the phone later that same evening.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. You’ll have to speak up.” Lieutenant Cole’s voice was pleasant if tired.

Gail raised the level of her own voice while striving to keep It deep, hoping to disguise its basic timbre. “Nick Rogers,” she repeated. “He lives at 44 Amelia Street in Newark. He killed the little Walton girl. Last April.”

“Who is this, please?” Lieutenant Cole asked, his interest obviously piqued, trying not to sound too eager.

Gail ignored his question, hearing her voice shake as she continued. “It doesn’t matter who I am. Nick Rogers,” she said again. “Forty-four Amelia Street. The little Walton girl. Check it out.”

She hung up the phone and immediately buried her head in her hands, shaking all over. Had Lieutenant Cole recognized her voice? Had he known it was her? Gail slowly drew her hands away from her face, staring back at the phone.

She had been so surprised when Lieutenant Cole had picked up his extension. She had assumed someone else would take the call. It was after eight o’clock. She had thought he would be long gone. Did the man never go home? She wondered what case he was working on now. How had he reacted to her phone call? Would he dismiss it out of hand because she had refused to divulge her identity? Would he bother to investigate? Had he recognized her voice?

“Something wrong?” Jack asked from the doorway.

Gail visibly jumped.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quickly, coming up behind her and rubbing her back gently. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Gail replied, her voice still husky.

“You sound like you’re getting a cold.”

“Don’t think so.”

“That’s good.” Jack headed for the refrigerator and
pulled out the carton of milk. “Want a glass?” Gail shook her head. “Who were you talking to?”

“What?”

“‘I thought I heard you on the phone.”

“No,” Gail lied.

“Talking to yourself again?” Jack asked, trying to joke. Gail said nothing, her thoughts on Lieutenant Cole. Had he recognized her voice? Would he investigate Nick Rogers? “Gail, are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Gail answered, hoping she had heard his question correctly.

“I was thinking,” he began, almost nervously, “that maybe we could get away to Florida for a few weeks …”

“Not now,” Gail said flatly.

“I didn’t mean right this minute,” he continued, straining to keep things light. “I thought soon, in the next little while …”

“Not now,” Gail repeated.

When she looked over in his direction a minute later, he was gone.

Gail waited a day, and when she heard nothing from the police, she called Lieutenant Cole.

“I just wondered if there was anything new.” Gail hoped she sounded suitably casual.

“I wish I had something to tell you,” he said. “There’s nothing?” Gail tried—and failed—to disguise her amazement. “I was so sure that something would have come up,” she began, and then stopped, afraid she might give herself away by saying too much.

“Something will,” he assured her.

“When?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“What can you tell me?”

“That we haven’t given up. That we’re still working on it.”

“On what? Can you be more specific? Are there any new leads?”

“Nothing substantial.”

“‘What do you mean by ‘substantial’? Don’t you check out everything? No matter how small? Every phone call, every possible clue, no matter how insignificant it sounds. Don’t you check everything out?”

‘“Of course we do. Gail, what are you getting at?” “Nothing,” Gail said quickly. “I was just hoping that there would be something.”