Their meeting at Marchman’s, the little coffee shop on Witcham Street, had gone well enough. Amy had hugged him and he had hugged her back, but when he tried to kiss her mouth, she turned her head deftly aside so that the lips landed on her cheek instead. Kiss-kiss, as they said at the office parties. So good to see you, darling.
Ted Milner, blow-dried hair perfectly in place this morning and nary an Alfalfa corkscrew in sight, sat at the table in the corner, watching them. He was holding the pipe which Mort had seen clenched in his teeth at various parties over the last three years or so. Mort was convinced the pipe was an affectation, a little prop employed for the sole purpose of making its owner look older than he was. And how old was that?
Mort wasn’t sure, but Amy was thirty-six, and he thought Ted, in his impeccable stone-washed jeans and open-throated J. Press shirt, had to be at least four years younger than that, possibly more. He wondered if Amy knew she could be in for trouble ten years down the line – maybe even five – and then reflected it would take a better man than he was to suggest it to her.
He asked if there was anything new. Amy said there wasn’t. Then Ted took over, speaking with a faintly Southern accent which was a good deal softer than John Shooter’s nasal burr. He told Mort the fire chief and a lieutenant from the Derry Police Department would meet them at what Ted called ‘the site.’ They
wanted to ask Mort a few questions. Mort said that was fine. Ted asked if he’d like a cup of coffee – they had time. Mort said that would also be fine. Ted asked how he had been. Mort used the word fine again.
Each time it came out of his mouth it felt a little more threadbare. Amy watched the exchange between them with some apprehension, and Mort could understand that. On the day he had discovered the two of them in bed together, he had told Ted he would kill him. In fact, he might have said something about killing them both. His memory of the event was quite foggy. He suspected theirs might be rather foggy, too. He didn’t know about the other two corners of the triangle, but he himself found that foggery not only understandable but merciful.
They had coffee. Amy asked him about ‘John Shooter.’ Mort said he thought that situation was pretty much under control. He did not mention cats or notes or magazines. And after awhile, they left Marchman’s and went to 92 Kansas Street, which had once been a house instead of a site.
The fire chief and police detective were there as promised, and there were questions, also as promised.
Most of the questions were about any people who might dislike him enough to have tossed a Texaco cocktail into his study. If Mort had been on his own, he would have left Shooter’s name out of it entirely, but of course Amy would bring it up if he didn’t, so he recounted the initial encounter just as it had happened.
The fire chief, Wickersham, said: ‘The guy was pretty angry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Angry enough to have driven to Derry and torched your house?’ the police detective, Bradley, asked.
He was almost positive Shooter hadn’t done it, but he didn’t want to delve into his brief dealings with Shooter any more deeply. It would mean telling them what Shooter had done to Bump, for one thing. That would upset Amy; it would upset her a great deal … and it would open up a can of worms he would prefer to leave closed. It was time, Mort reckoned, to be disingenuous again.
‘He might have been at first. But after I discovered the two stories really were alike, I looked up the original date of publication on mine.’
‘His had never been published?’ Bradley asked.
‘No, I’m sure it hadn’t been. Then, yesterday, he showed up again. I asked him when he’d written his story, hoping he’d mention a date that was later than the one I had. Do you understand?’
Detective Bradley nodded. ‘You were hoping to prove you scooped him.’
‘Right. “Sowing Season” was in a book of short stories I published in 1983, but it was originally published in 1980. I was hoping the guy would feel safe picking a date only a year or two before 1983. I got lucky.
He said he’d written it in 1982. So you see, I had him.’
He hoped it would end there, but Wickersham, the fire chief, pursued it. ‘You see and we see, Mr Rainey, but did he see?’
Mort sighed inwardly. He supposed he had known that you could only be disingenuous for so long – if things went on long enough, they almost always progressed to a point where you had to either tell the truth or carve an outright lie. And here he was, at that point. But whose business was it? Theirs or his? His.
Right. And he meant to see it stayed that way.
‘Yes,’ he told them, ‘he saw.’
‘What did he do?’ Ted asked. Mort looked at him with mild annoyance. Ted glanced away, looking as if he wished he had his pipe to play with. The pipe was in the car. The J. Press shirt had no pocket to carry it in.
‘He went away,’ Mort said. His irritation with Ted, who had absolutely no business sticking his oar in, made it easier to lie. The fact that he was lying to Ted seemed to make it more all right, too. ‘He muttered some bullshit about what an incredible coincidence it all was, then jumped into his car like his hair was on fire and his ass was catching, and took off.’
‘Happen to notice the make of the car and the license plate, Mr Rainey?’ Bradley asked. He had taken out a pad and a ballpoint pen.
‘It was a Ford,’ Mort said. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with the plate. It wasn’t a Maine plate, but other than that . . .’ He shrugged and tried to look apologetic. Inside, he felt increasingly uncomfortable with the way this was going. It had seemed okay when he was just being cute, skirting around any outright lies – it had seemed a way of sparing Amy the pain of knowing that the man had broken Bump’s neck and then skewered him with a screwdriver. But now he had put himself in a position where he had told different stories to different people. If they got together and did a comparison, he wouldn’t look so hot. Explaining his reasons for the lies might be sticky. He supposed that such comparisons were pretty unlikely, as long as Amy didn’t talk to either Greg Carstairs or Herb Creekmore, but suppose there was a hassle with Shooter when he and Greg caught up to him and shoved the June, 1980, issue of EQMM in Shooter’s face?
Never mind, he told himself, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it, big guy. At this thought, he experienced a brief return of the high spirits he’d felt while talking to Herb at the toll plaza, and almost cackled aloud. He held it in. They would wonder why he was laughing if he did something like that, and he supposed they would be right to wonder.
‘I think Shooter must be bound for
(Mississippi.)
‘ – for wherever he came from by now,’ he finished, with hardly a break.
‘I imagine you’re right,’ Lieutenant Bradley said, ‘but I’m inclined to pursue this, Mr Rainey. You might have convinced the guy he was wrong, but that doesn’t mean he left your place feeling mellow. It’s possible that he drove up here in a rage and torched your house just because he was pissed off -pardon me, Mrs Rainey.’
Amy offered a crooked little smile and waved the apology away.
‘Don’t you think that’s possible?’
No, Mort thought, I don’t. If he’d decided to torch the house, I think he would have killed Bump before he left for Derry, just in case I woke up before he got back. In that case, the blood would have been dry and Bump would have been stiff when I found him. That isn’t the way it happened … but I can’t say so. Not even if I wanted to. They’d wonder why I held back the stuff about Bump as long as I did, for one thing. They’d probably think I’ve got a few loose screws.
‘I guess so,’ he said, ‘but I met the guy. He didn’t strike me as the house-burning type.’
‘You mean he wasn’t a Snopes,’ Amy said suddenly.
Mort looked at her, startled – then smiled. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘A Southerner, but not a Snopes.’
‘Meaning what?’ Bradley asked, a little warily.