One Monday We Killed Them All by John D. MacDonald Page A

and you don’t think those plans are—exactly gentle, you let me know. You see, he’s always had the knack of using women, and making them believe in him.”
    “But this time he—”
    “If you think there can be some kind of a valid relationship, a little concealed skepticism in the beginning isn’t going to bankrupt it, Cathie.”
    “Just tell me why you’re doing this?”
    “Because I have so much at stake, I can’t afford to overlook the smallest chance. It’s a table stakes game, and everything I own is on the table. My wife, my marriage, my job, my reputation, and the reputation of my friends.”
    “I see. When do you think he’ll want to see me?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I talk to him on the phone every day. I think he wants time to—be more like himself for me. More like he used to be, before they put him in a cage. And we probably both feel a little shy and awkward. I mean, after you write very personal things to someone, you worry about—saying the same sort of things face to face.”
    “I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine him being shy about anything.”
    “Because you don’t really know him.”
    “And you do?”
    She lifted her chin. “I know I do.”
    “I could tell you other things, but you wouldn’t believe them, would you?”
    “No.”
    “But leave room for a little doubt, so you won’t—get in too deep too soon, Cathie.”
    “I’ll try,” she said. “I have to go now. You’ve—been nicer than I thought you’d be. You’re not like he described you in one letter. He said you’re a cold, selfish, righteous man who doesn’t give a damn about people, that all you care about is enforcing the law to the letter. He said he didn’t know how his sister could stand you.”
    “I wonder about that myself.”
    She flushed again and said, “I thought that when a man got out of prison he’d be anxious to—see a girl.” She sighed. “He’s very strange.”
    “That’s where we agree, Cathie.”
    After we left the restaurant, I watched her walk to the bus stop at the corner. The wind touched her blonde hair and tugged at the hem of her narrow skirt. She walked like a lady. I knew she was another victim. McAran collected them like beads on a string.
    The days went by and I felt a restless impatience, an irritability. I did not enjoy going home, yet felt guilty when I stayed away needlessly. Even when he was in what had been Bobby’s room and the door was closed, I could feel his presence. To me it was like a faintly acrid stench, unidentifiable, untraceable, the kind which makes you uneasy because it can mean something might break into flame.
    I had to talk to Bobby again. I had a long talk with him before I brought McAran back from Harpersburg, at the time when the other kids first started to tease him. Meg told me he was acting very strangely. So on the next really pleasant Saturday morning, I walked with him to the playground and we sat on the bench. He was very reserved. I had hoped our kids would look like her, but both of them have my sallowness, and the dank black hair, and the sorrowfulshape to their faces—though Judy is such a cheery child it is not apparent.
    “I suppose the kids are giving you a hard time,” I said.
    “Not so much.”
    “Remember, I told you what to keep telling yourself, so it wouldn’t bother you.”
    “Sure.”
    “Did it work?”
    “I guess so,” he said with elaborate indifference.
    “Bobby, this is a very hard time for your mother. She loves us, but she loves her brother too. And she’s known him a lot longer than she’s known us. What we have to do is make it easier for her by—by acting as if everything is just fine, even though it isn’t.”
    “I don’t see how she can love him the way she does us.”
    “Love doesn’t go by reasons, Bobby.”
    He sat still for quite a long time and then he turned toward me, his face pinched and white, and his eyes slitted and he said, “I hate that dirty killer son of a bitch!”
    “Hey