The Vision (29 page)

The bats stayed with Alan. If anything, their cries grew louder, angrier.

Five steps down he fell, rolled to the next landing, got up, went on, plucked a bat from his nose, tried to shield his eyes with one arm, fell again, couldn’t keep from screaming, had to bite another bat that crawled from his chin into his mouth, had to spit out part of it, gagged, choked, stumbled, leaped from the final flight of stairs into the dark arcade and collapsed.

She walked out of the archway and stood over him.

He was very still.

One by one the bats rose from the body, circled, and flew back up the stairwell to the belfry.

AT NOON THE December sun fell straight down on the cemetery, leaving virtually no shadows on the grass. There was a chill in the air that didn’t come from the sea wind
_;
it radiated from the tomb-stones and the silent mourners and, most of all, from the plain dark casket suspended above the open grave.

As the winch motor began to purr and the coffin lowered out of sight, Mary turned away. She walked between the small granite and marble monuments toward the open wrought-iron gate, walked by herself, unassisted, alone, because that was what she wanted.

She sat for a while behind the wheel of the Mercedes and stared down the hills to the sea. She was waiting for her hands to stop shaking.

Yesterday, she had buried Alan
_;
and in spite of what he had been and done, she had grieved for him. But this final ceremony was far sadder than yesterday’s. She felt as if a piece of her own flesh had been torn from her.

She needed to cry and wash some of the pain from her system, but she choked the sobs before they could start and squeezed back the tears. She had one more duty to perform before she could allow herself to break down.

She started the Mercedes and drove away from the cemetery.

 
 
Sunlight streamed through the venetian blinds and banded the private hospital room with shadow and light.

Max was sitting up in bed, one shoulder heavily bandaged, one arm in a sling. He was drawn, sallow, sunken-eyed; but he had a gentle smile for Mary when she came through the door.

She kissed him and sat in the chair beside his bed. They held hands in silence for perhaps a minute; then she began to tell him about Lou’s funeral. When she had nothing more to say, she leaned away from her chair, rested her forehead on the edge of the mattress and finally began to weep. He murmured soothingly, massaged her neck, stroked her hair. She broke down completely. She cried out loud for Lou, but for herself as well
_;
his death left a hole in her life. However, her despair couldn’t last forever
_;
eventually, gradually, her sobbing subsided.

For a while they listened to classical music on the radio, neither of them able to speak.

Later, over dinner in the hospital room, her eyes grew heavy, and she couldn’t stifle her yawns. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep.”

“Nightmares?” Max asked, concerned.

“No. In fact, I had lovely dreams—the first pleasant dreams I’ve ever had in my life. I woke up about four-thirty in the morning, exhilarated, full of energy. I even went for a nice long walk.”

“You? A walk? Alone at night?”

She smiled. “I don’t mind being alone as much as I used to,” she said. “And I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.”