best friend. She already knows, anyway.”
Ned’s body tensed beside her. “How does she know?”
“Nora knows me. She hasn’t said anything, but she knows.”
“Nora?”
“You’d like her.”
Pause. When it came, his response was a surprise. “Maybe I’ll meet her someday. After . . . after Em’s grown up.”
He had never before held out the promise of a better future. Francie lay beside him, savoring the implication of his words. “I’m going to get a divorce,” she said.
Another silence, longer than the last. “Maybe not right away, Francie,” he said.
“Why not? It’s no pressure on you.”
“I know that. But aren’t there ever times you feel you’re in a very delicate situation, where everything is poised just so?”
“I’m not sure,” Francie said, and it occurred to her that in some ways he had more feminine intuition than she had. If there was an emotional IQ test, Ned would probably come out on top, the same way Roger did intellectually.
“You must have felt that sometime in your life,” Ned said. “When the slightest disturbance, even of something that doesn’t seem related at first, upsets everything.”
Francie immediately pictured deformed sperm under a microscope. “I won’t do anything right away.”
“Or without telling me?”
“Or without telling you.”
He kissed her. “Now you’re thinking.”
She laughed. He did, too. “You’re a bastard,” she said. “You know that?”
“All men are bastards,” he said.
“Some more than others.”
“Then there’s hope for me?”
“Yes,” she told him.
He switched on the bedside lamp, checked his watch. “Oh my God,” he said. “The sitter.” He started to get up, turned to her. In the yellow light of the lamp, his face was its youthful self again. “Maybe I can get out here on non-Thursdays once in a while,” he said.
“That would be nice.”
“And it might help if I had a key. It’s cold out there.”
“I’ll get you one,” Francie said. “Wimp.” She smacked his bare butt as he got out of bed.
There was a toolshed behind the cottage. Roger had found an ax inside. He held it now in his gloved hands, staring up at the light in the window, through which had come sounds Francie had never made for him. It was easy to muse on perfect crimes and abstract killers when evidence was circumstantial. It wasn’t easy now when evidence was hard. Why not simply crash his way inside, charge up to that lighted room, start swing swing swinging this goddamned ax? His blood rushed through his body at the thought, his muscles tensed, his teeth ground together. He took a step toward the door, and a few more. A bird—owl—glided down from the sky and settled on the roof. Great horned,
Bubo virginianus
. Roger halted.
Why not? Because of after. Would the ax-swinging feel good enough to render him content to spend the rest of his life in jail? For that would surely happen, given the shambles there would be inside the cottage, the pools of DNA, the two cars parked by the jetty, the obvious suspect with no alibi.
Roger returned the ax to the shed, crossed the river a few hundred yards upstream, retracing the route that kept his footprints out of sight, made his way to the wrought-iron gate where he had left his car. From there, he could just make out the upstairs light in the cottage, dim and partially blocked by trees. He was glad of the sight: a guarantee that he had imagined nothing. The light went out as he watched.
10
T hink.
A penny drops from the Empire State Building. Someone in China pushes a button.
Think.
Think
, Roger told himself, sitting in his basement office, of murder most antiseptic. He went over his list, now committed to memory.
Accidents—mechanical, house
hold, while on vacation; poison; contract killer; arson; dis
ease; bombing
. All wrong, for one reason or another.
Think.
All thinking boiled down to two procedures, rearranging the pieces on the board and inventing new ones. What
Ned’s body tensed beside her. “How does she know?”
“Nora knows me. She hasn’t said anything, but she knows.”
“Nora?”
“You’d like her.”
Pause. When it came, his response was a surprise. “Maybe I’ll meet her someday. After . . . after Em’s grown up.”
He had never before held out the promise of a better future. Francie lay beside him, savoring the implication of his words. “I’m going to get a divorce,” she said.
Another silence, longer than the last. “Maybe not right away, Francie,” he said.
“Why not? It’s no pressure on you.”
“I know that. But aren’t there ever times you feel you’re in a very delicate situation, where everything is poised just so?”
“I’m not sure,” Francie said, and it occurred to her that in some ways he had more feminine intuition than she had. If there was an emotional IQ test, Ned would probably come out on top, the same way Roger did intellectually.
“You must have felt that sometime in your life,” Ned said. “When the slightest disturbance, even of something that doesn’t seem related at first, upsets everything.”
Francie immediately pictured deformed sperm under a microscope. “I won’t do anything right away.”
“Or without telling me?”
“Or without telling you.”
He kissed her. “Now you’re thinking.”
She laughed. He did, too. “You’re a bastard,” she said. “You know that?”
“All men are bastards,” he said.
“Some more than others.”
“Then there’s hope for me?”
“Yes,” she told him.
He switched on the bedside lamp, checked his watch. “Oh my God,” he said. “The sitter.” He started to get up, turned to her. In the yellow light of the lamp, his face was its youthful self again. “Maybe I can get out here on non-Thursdays once in a while,” he said.
“That would be nice.”
“And it might help if I had a key. It’s cold out there.”
“I’ll get you one,” Francie said. “Wimp.” She smacked his bare butt as he got out of bed.
There was a toolshed behind the cottage. Roger had found an ax inside. He held it now in his gloved hands, staring up at the light in the window, through which had come sounds Francie had never made for him. It was easy to muse on perfect crimes and abstract killers when evidence was circumstantial. It wasn’t easy now when evidence was hard. Why not simply crash his way inside, charge up to that lighted room, start swing swing swinging this goddamned ax? His blood rushed through his body at the thought, his muscles tensed, his teeth ground together. He took a step toward the door, and a few more. A bird—owl—glided down from the sky and settled on the roof. Great horned,
Bubo virginianus
. Roger halted.
Why not? Because of after. Would the ax-swinging feel good enough to render him content to spend the rest of his life in jail? For that would surely happen, given the shambles there would be inside the cottage, the pools of DNA, the two cars parked by the jetty, the obvious suspect with no alibi.
Roger returned the ax to the shed, crossed the river a few hundred yards upstream, retracing the route that kept his footprints out of sight, made his way to the wrought-iron gate where he had left his car. From there, he could just make out the upstairs light in the cottage, dim and partially blocked by trees. He was glad of the sight: a guarantee that he had imagined nothing. The light went out as he watched.
10
T hink.
A penny drops from the Empire State Building. Someone in China pushes a button.
Think.
Think
, Roger told himself, sitting in his basement office, of murder most antiseptic. He went over his list, now committed to memory.
Accidents—mechanical, house
hold, while on vacation; poison; contract killer; arson; dis
ease; bombing
. All wrong, for one reason or another.
Think.
All thinking boiled down to two procedures, rearranging the pieces on the board and inventing new ones. What
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