But why the hell would they want to kill a high-school boy like Michael Karnes? Why would one of these fanatics – Judge – be engaged in a campaign against promiscuous teenagers, ranting on the phone about sin and judgment? What did that have to do with making the world safe for the white race? Michael Karnes had been a white-bread boy – not a natural target for something like the Aryan Alliance but a potential recruit.
The blacktop in the parking lot was soft in places.
The summer sky was gas-flame blue. And as blind as a dead television screen, offering no answers.
Chase started the car and drove home.
No one shot at him.
In his room, he turned on the television, watched it for fifteen minutes, and turned it off before the program was finished. He opened a paperback book, but he couldn’t concentrate on the story.
He paced, instinctively staying away from his window.
* * *
At six o’clock he left the house to keep his date with Glenda Kleaver.
To avoid leading Judge to the woman and perhaps endangering her,
Chase drove aimlessly for half an hour, turning at random from street to street, watching his rearview mirror. But no tail stayed with him along his circuitous route.
Glenda lived in an inexpensive but well-kept garden-apartment complex on St. John’s Circle, on the third floor of a three-floor building. There was a peephole in her door, and she took the time to use it before answering his knock. She was wearing white shorts and a dark blue blouse.
“You’re punctual,” she said. “Come in. Can I get you something to drink?”
As he stepped inside, he said, “What’re you having?”
“Iced tea. But I’ve got beer, wine, gin, vodka.”
“Iced tea sounds good.”
“Be right back.”
He watched her as she crossed the room and disappeared down a short corridor that evidently led to the dining room and kitchen. She moved like sunlight on water.
The living room was sparely furnished but cozy. Four armchairs, a coffee table, a couple of end tables with lamps. No sofa. There were no paintings because all the walls without windows were covered with bookshelves, and every shelf was crammed full of paperbacks and book-club hardbacks.
He was reading the titles on the spines of the books when she returned with two glasses of iced tea. “You’re a reader,” he said.
“I confess.”
“Me too.”
“See any shared interests?”
“Quite a few,” he said, accepting the tea. He pulled a volume off one shelf. “What did you think of this?”
“It reeked.”
“Didn’t it?”
“All the publicity, but it’s empty.”
He returned the book to the shelf, and they adjourned to two of the armchairs.
“I like people,” Glenda said, which seemed an odd comment until she added, “but I like them more in books than in real life.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m sure you know,” she said.
And he did. “In a book, even the real bastards can’t hurt you.”
“And you can never lose a friend you make in a book.”
“When you get to a sad part, no one’s there to see you cry.”
“Or wonder why you don’t cry when you should,” she said.
“I don’t mind living secondhand. Through books.”
“It has big advantages,” she agreed.
He wondered who had hurt her, how often, and how badly. Beyond doubt, she had suffered. He could sense a depth of pain in her that was disturbingly familiar to him.
Yet there was nothing melancholy about her. She had a sweet, gentle smile, and she virtually radiated a quiet happiness that made him more comfortable in her living room than he had been anywhere since he’d left home for college seven years ago.
“When I returned to the reference desk at the morgue and you’d gone,” she said, “I thought you were angry about being made to wait.”
“Not at all. I just remembered … an appointment I’d forgotten.”
“I’ll be back on duty Monday if you want to stop around.”
“You like working there?”
“It’s nice and quiet. Some of the reporters can be too flirty, but that’s the worst of it.”
He smiled. “You can handle them.”