No? Then how did you explain the second god? She was sure it had been there all the time, and she was only seeing it now because . . .
‘Because there’s more right in the picture now,’ she murmured. Her eyes were very wide, although it would have been difficult to say if the expression in them was dismay or wonder.
‘Also more left, and more up, and more d — ‘
There was a sudden flurry of knocks on the door behind her, so fast and light they almost seemed to collide with each other. Rosie whirled around, feeling as if she were moving in slow motion or underwater.
She hadn’t locked the door.
The knocks came again. She remembered the car she’d seen pulling up at the curb below
— a small car, the kind of car a man traveling alone would be apt to rent from Hertz or Avis
— and all thoughts of her picture were overwhelmed by another thought, one edged about in dark tones of resignation and despair: Norman had found her after all. It had taken him awhile, but somehow he had done it.
Part of her last conversation with Anna recurred — Anna asking what she’d do if Norman did show up. Lock the door and dial 911, she’d said, but she had forgotten to lock the door and there was no phone. That last was the most hideous irony of all, because there was a jack in the corner of the living-room area, and the jack was live — she’d gone to the phone company on her lunch hour today and paid a deposit. The woman who waited on her had given her her new telephone number on a little white card, Rosie had tucked it into her purse, and then out the door she’d marched. Right past the display of phones for sale she had marched. Thinking she could get one at least ten dollars cheaper by marching out to the Lakeview Mall when she got a chance. And now, just because she’d wanted to save a lousy ten dollars . . .
Silence from the other side of the door, but when she dropped her eyes to the crack at the bottom, she could see the shapes of his shoes. Big black shiny shoes, they would be. He no longer wore the uniform, but he still wore those black shoes. They were hard shoes. She could testify to that, because she had worn their marks on her legs and belly and buttocks many times over her years with him.
The knocking was repeated, three quick series of three: rapraprap pause, rapraprap pause, rapraprap.
Once again, as during her terrible breathless panic that morning in the recording booth, Rosie’s mind turned to the woman in the picture, standing there on top of the overgrown hill, not afraid of the coming thunderstorm, not afraid that the ruins slumped below her might be haunted by ghosts or trolls or just some wandering band of thugs, not afraid of anything. You could tell by the set of her back, by the way her hand was so nonchalantly raised, even (so
Rosie really believed) by the shape of that one barely glimpsed breast.
I’m not her, I am afraid — so afraid I’m almost wetting my pants — but I’m not going to let you just take me, Norman. I swear to God I won’t do that.
For a moment or two she tried to remember the throw Gert Kinshaw had shown her, the one where you seized the forearms of your onrushing opponent and then turned sideways. It was no good — when she tried to visualize the crucial move, all she could see was Norman coming at her, his lips drawn back to show his teeth (drawn back in what she thought of as his biting smile), wanting to talk to her up close.
Right up close.
Her grocery bag was still standing on the kitchen counter with the yellow picnic-announcement fliers beside it. She’d taken out the perishables and stuck them in the refrigerator, but the few canned goods she’d picked up were still in the bag. She walked across to the counter on legs which seemed as devoid of feeling as wooden planks, and reached in.
Three more quick knocks: rapraprap.
‘Coming,’ Rosie said. Her voice sounded amazingly calm to her own ears. She pulled out the biggest thing left in the bag, a two-pound can of fruit cocktail. She closed her hand around it as best she could and started toward the door on her numb woodplank legs. ‘I’m coming, just a second, be right there.’
4
While Rosie was marketing, Norman Daniels was lying on a White-stone Hotel bed in his underwear, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the ceiling.
He had picked up the smoking habit as many boys do, hooking cigarettes from his dad’s packs of Pall Malls, resigning himself to a beating if he got caught, thinking that possibility a fair trade for the status you gained by being seen downtown on the corner of State and Route 49, leaning against a phone pole outside the Aubreyville Drugstore and Post Office, perfectly at home with the collar of your jacket turned up and that cigarette dripping down from your lower lip: crazy, baby, I’m just a real cool breeze. When your friends passed in their old cars, how could they know you’d hawked the butt from the pack on your old man’s dresser, or that the one time you’d gotten up courage enough to try and buy a pack of your own in the drug, old man Gregory had snorted and told you to come back when you could grow a moustache?
Smoking had been a big deal at fifteen, a very big deal, something that had made up for all the stuff he hadn’t been able to have (a car, for instance, even an old jalop’ like the ones his friends drove — cars with primer on the rocker panels and white ‘plastic steel’ around the headlights and bumpers held on with twists of haywire), and by the time he was sixteen he was hooked — two packs a day and a bona fide smoker’s hack in the morning.
Three years after he married Rose, her entire family — father, mother, sixteen-year-old brother — had been killed on that same Route 49. They had been coming back from an afternoon of swimming at Philo’s Quarry when a gravel truck veered across the road and wiped them out like flies on a windowpane. Old man McClendon’s severed head had been found in a ditch thirty yards from the crash, with the mouth open and a generous splash of crowshit in one eye (by then Daniels was a cop, and cops heard such things). These facts hadn’t disturbed Daniels in the least; he had, in fact, been delighted by the accident. As far as he was concerned, the nosy old bastard had gotten exactly what he had coming to him.
McClendon had been prone to asking his daughter questions he had no business asking. Rose wasn’t McClendon’s daughter anymore, after all — not in the eyes of the law, at least. In the eyes of the law she had become Norman Daniels’s wife.
He dragged deep on his cigarette, blew three smoke rings, and watched them float slowly toward the ceiling in a stack. Outside, traffic beeped and honked. He had only been here half a day, and already he hated this city. It was too big. It had too many hiding places. Not that it mattered. Because things were right on track, and soon a very hard and very heavy brick wall was going to drop onto Craig McClendon’s wayward little daughter, Rosie.
At the McClendon funeral — a tripleheader with just about everyone in Aubreyville in attendance — Daniels had started coughing and had been unable to stop. People were turning around to look at him, and he hated that kind of staring worse than practically anything. Red-faced, furious with embarrassment (but still unable to stop coughing), Daniels pushed past his sobbing young wife and hurried out of the church with one hand pressed uselessly over his mouth.
He stood outside, coughing so hard at first he had to bend over and put his hands on his knees to keep from actually passing out, looking through his watery eyes at several others who had stepped out for cigarettes, three men and two women who weren’t able to go cold turkey even for a lousy half-hour funeral service, and suddenly he decided he was done smoking. Just like that. He knew that the coughing-fit might have been brought on by his usual summer allergies, but that didn’t matter. It was a dumb fucking habit, maybe the dumbest fucking habit on the planet, and he was damned if some County Coroner was going to write Pall Malls on the cause-of-death line of his death certificate.