Strangers (16 page)

“She believes in her son's innocence. That's enough for me.”

“How about you?” Felix said. “You've been here two days now, talked to his lawyer and a lot of other folks. You believe it, too?”

“Doesn't matter if I do or not. I'm like a lawyer in that respect—do the job I've been trained to do without prejudice. Same with you, isn't it?”

He didn't answer immediately. Trying to gauge if I was casting aspersions on his integrity, or just continuing to play his verbal cat and mouse game. He must have decided to take my question at face value because he said, “Same with any good law officer. It's evidence, hard evidence, that determines whether a man is guilty of a crime or not.”

“And the D.A. has enough to convict Cody Hatcher in a court of law, even without a confession.”

“More than enough when the DNA results come in.”

“If they come in positive,” I said. “How's the kid doing, by the way? Any chance he might confess?”

“Go easier on him if he did.” Felix let a few seconds run off before he added, “We don't try to coerce prisoners in my county, in case you're wondering.”

“I never thought you did,” I lied. And then told another: “His mother's worried that he might need some things he's not being allowed. Cigarettes, for instance.”

“If he'd asked for cigarettes, he'd have them.”

“Meaning he hasn't asked?”

“Not that I know of. He hasn't asked for anything.”

A mark in Cody's favor, if true. “Not even a few minutes in person or on the phone with his mother?”

“He's not permitted visits or phone calls,” Felix said. “But then you already know that from her and Sam Parfrey, don't you?”

“And you won't make any exceptions.”

“I won't and the county prosecutor won't. Rules are rules.” He waited to see if I'd press the matter. When I didn't, he said, “Anything else you want to know or discuss? If not, you can be on your way.”

“Just one question. Have you or your deputies told Cody Hatcher what happened to his Jeep?”

“No reason to.”

“I agree. He doesn't need to know. I asked Parfrey not to mention it to him and he said he wouldn't. Can I ask the same of you?”

“You can. For now, anyway.”

Felix stood up when I did, walked out with me into the main office. He even clapped me on the shoulder in a friendly sort of way, but a little harder than was necessary, before the jowly deputy buzzed me through the steel door.

 

15

It was after six o' clock by the time I turned back onto Northwest 10th Street. Cheryl was home, her station wagon in the driveway and light making a shaded frame of the front window, but she had company. Matt Hatcher's Ford Ranger was parked on the street in front.

I pulled up behind the Ranger, sat with the engine running while I made up my mind whether or not to see her now, with Hatcher there, or come back later. I didn't particularly want to trade more barbs with him, and what I had to say to her was better said alone, but I was here, it had already been a long day, and I might as well get it over with. I had no intention of staying long, anyhow.

The two of them were in the midst of a loud argument. Halfway up the front walk I could hear the rumble of their voices, and when I got to the door I could make out most of what they were saying. They must have been standing fairly close on the other side.

Hatcher: “… Dammit, if you'd just give me a chance—”

Cheryl: “You know why I can't.”

Hatcher: “Four years, for God's sake. Four years! Why can't you get over it?”

Cheryl: “I can't, that's all. I
can't
.”

Hatcher: “So instead, you turn yourself into a—”

Cheryl: “Stop it! You're only making things worse.”

Hatcher: “What do you want me to do?”

Cheryl: “Nothing. Nothing. Just accept things the way they are and me the way I am.”

Hatcher: “All right, I'm sorry, I don't want to hurt you—”

Cheryl: “Well, you do every time you start in like this.”

Hatcher: “I'm just trying to make you understand that I need you and you need somebody who cares about you, who'll be there for you long after that detective of yours is back with his wife in San Francisco.”

Cheryl: “There's nothing between Bill and me anymore. Can't you get that through your head?”

Hatcher: “He's not doing you any good, getting your hopes up—”

Cheryl: “At least he's not tearing them down. He's trying to help Cody, he's
doing
something.”

Hatcher: “Yeah. Like damn near getting his ass shot off, and then not even bothering to tell you about the wrecked Jeep. If I hadn't seen what's left of it at High Desert and stopped to ask what happened—”

So they already knew about it. My cue to bang on the door, loudly, with a bunched fist. The noise chopped off Hatcher's voice and it got quiet in there. Then Cheryl called, “Who is it?”

“Bill.”

She didn't waste any time opening up. Hatcher was right behind her, scowling over her shoulder. He said, “How the hell long have you been out there?”

“Just got here.”

“Yeah? Took your sweet time showing up. I'm the one had to tell Cheryl what happened to the Jeep.”

“So I heard before I knocked.” Then to her, “I'm sorry, I should have come sooner. But I had some other things to take care of.”

“Sure you did,” Hatcher said. “Real important things, I'll bet.”

She said sharply, “Matt, that's enough. I want you to leave now.”

“Yeah. So you can be alone with him.”

She stepped back away from Hatcher, opening the door wider. He didn't move, alternately glaring at her and at me.

“Come in, Bill.”

I started in. Hatcher muttered, “Screw it,” and moved then, thrusting a shoulder at me as he came past. I turned aside so that the intended impact was nothing more than a brush-by. He stomped partway down the walk, turned to aim another glare my way, but I was inside by then and Cheryl closed the door behind me and turned the bolt lock.

“What was the argument with him all about?” I asked her.

“Oh, so you did overhear.”

I hedged on that. “Not much. Pretty obvious from the loud voices that you were arguing about something.”

“What we always argue about. It doesn't matter.” But it did; she sighed heavily. “God, he can be infuriating sometimes.”

“You don't have to let him in next time he comes around.”

“I won't.” She peered up at me. “You're all right? You weren't hurt this afternoon?”

“Shaken up a little, that's all.”

“My God, you could have been killed.”

“It wasn't an attempt on my life. Either a warning, or another act of vandalism. I'm sorry about the Jeep. I shouldn't have been driving it in the first place.”

“It's not your fault. Cody will be upset when he finds out—at me for loaning it to you, but that's all right. I'll file a claim with the insurance company tomorrow. They'll replace it when he comes home.”

When he comes home. I kept the obvious cautionary disclaimer to myself as we went into the living room where the light was stronger.

She said, peering at me again, “You look tired. Sit down, I'll get you a beer.” I started to decline, but she was already on her way to the kitchen.

I didn't feel like sitting; I wandered around the room instead. There was a gilt-framed mirror on one wall and I caught a glimpse of myself as I passed by. Tired, all right. Gray, truffle-skinned image framed in glass. But I was not the only one showing the telltale signs of age tonight. The lines in Cheryl's face seemed deeper, her skin pale and dark-shadowed under the eyes, the eyes themselves glassy from stress and lack of sleep; even the red-gold hair seemed stringy and lifeless. Crumbling slowly from within.

She came back with two beers poured foaming into tall glasses. I sat down when she did, the two of us at opposite ends of the worn sofa, the drinks on a chipped chrome-and-glass coffee table. Drank a little beer when she did. And then we talked, or rather I did, giving her a watered-down version of the shooting and the rest of the day's events. There was nothing to lift her hopes in any of it, but I was careful not to make it all seem too demoralizing.

Ten minutes of that and a little more conversation, and I swallowed the last of my beer, not because I wanted it but because she'd finished hers, and then said I'd better be on my way and got up on my feet.

“No, please, don't go yet. There's more beer in the fridge.…”

“One's my limit tonight.”

She was still seated, dry-washing her hands in that way she had. “You haven't eaten supper yet, have you?”

“No, not yet.”

“I'll cook something for us. It won't take long.”

“That's not necessary, Cheryl. You've been on your feet all day—”

The telephone rang.

She stood immediately, stayed motionless through a second ring, looked at me on the third and said, “I have to answer it,” and went to pick up on the fourth. I watched her listen for maybe ten seconds, then quickly break the connection.

I said, “Another one of those calls?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say this time?”

“She. I'm not going to repeat it.” Cheryl came back to where I stood, and her uplifted gaze was imploring. “Bill, please stay for dinner. I just … I don't want to be alone right now.”

I couldn't refuse her, not after another of those damn vicious calls. My intention had been to see if I could track down Alana Farmer before going back to the motel to find out what, if anything, Tamara had for me, but that could wait. Clients' needs always come first.

I sat at a dinette table in the small kitchen while she fried bacon and cooked cheese omelettes and made toast—“I'm sorry there's nothing else, with Cody away I don't keep much in the house.” Neither of us had much to say; I felt a little uncomfortable in this kind of domestic situation with a former lover, I suppose because of what it might have been if our long-ago relationship had become permanent. If she felt the same awkwardness, she didn't show it.

She was a good cook: all those years in the restaurant business. I didn't think I was hungry, but the cooking odors changed my mind and I polished off everything she set in front of me. When I was done and offered up the usual compliment, she said, “I could tell. You know, I like to see a man enjoy his food.”

“My problem has always been enjoying mine too much.”

“You're not heavy. You haven't put on weight since … well, since we knew each other before.”

“Put some on more than once, took it off again. Thanks to my wife and daughter I've managed to keep it off the past few years.”

“Oh, you didn't tell me you had a child. How old?”

“Adopted. She's fourteen, smart as a whip. Her name's Emily.”

“And your wife? How long have you been married?”

“Eight years. Kerry's vice-president of an advertising agency.”

“Smart, too, then.”

“And then some.”

Cheryl had poured herself a second beer with her dinner; she took a long swallow, brushed foam off her upper lip. A kind of pensiveness had come into her expression. At length she said, “You must be very happy. I envy you.”

“Well … I'm lucky.”

“Yes, you are. In more ways than you know.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Well, you could have ended up with me. If you had, I would probably have made your life miserable.”

What can you say to that?

“It's true,” Cheryl said. “I've caused or been a party to suffering in one way or another with everyone I've ever cared about. Never intentionally, but it happens just the same.”

“You're being too hard on yourself.”

“No, I'm not. People are better off without me in their lives. My first husband, my brother, Glen … all dead now. And Cody in jail for crimes he didn't commit, facing prison…”

“You can't take the blame for any of that. You're not responsible for the actions of others.”

“Then why does it keep happening to people I care about.”

“Is that why you don't encourage Matt Hatcher? Because you're afraid if you do, something will happen to him?”

“No. I don't encourage him because I have no feelings for him.”

“And there's no one else?”

Shadow of a bitter smile. “No one who'd have me. And vice versa. I'm better off alone.”

“And lonely?” The words were out before I could bite them back, but she didn't take offense.

“Yes, I'm lonely,” she said. “I have been for a long time, even before Glen died. But I've learned to live with it, compensate for it.”

“How do you compensate for loneliness?”

She shook her head.

I said, “Mineral Springs might be part of the problem. You must've considered starting over somewhere else.”

“Thought about it, yes. But I have nowhere to go.”

“It's a big world, Cheryl.”

“Too big. There's no other place for me at this point. Even if there was, my life wouldn't be any different than it is here.”

The words conjured up a memory: Cheryl saying to me once when we were dating, on a warmish San Francisco night when the moon was bright in a cloudless sky, that on such nights the world seemed to be a wonderful place where anything was possible and you could be and do anything and you were full of hope. But a lot of other nights are dark, moonless and starless, full of storm, and a lot of days are cold, gray, cheerless. Live through enough dark nights and cheerless days, and your perception of the world and your place in it changes; fewer and fewer things seem possible, and you realize you can't do or be anything you want and never will. Hope shrivels and dies then. Despair and resignation set in. And the loneliness becomes acute. Endless days and nights of loneliness that defy any real compensation, that breed bitterness and self-condemnation.