I woke up with pains in every joint. The room was black. I’d had some awful dream. Something vague. Something fearful. It had left me tense and uncomprehending. I knew that if I went right back to sleep the dream would only start again. And I didn’t want to be there. So I propped open my eyelids. I got myself a glass of water. I walked circles around the room. I lay back down. I passed right out again.
I woke.
I was afraid.
I staggered to the bathroom.
I got another glass of water.
I paced.
The whole night was like that.
Finally, the light came through the curtains. I got up. Looked at the clock. Six in the morning. I took a hot, hot shower. I cleansed myself.
It didn’t work. I was still unclean.
I made some strong and bracing coffee. I checked the porch. The Times was there.
It was awfully slim. I looked more closely. Monday. Shit. What happened to Sunday? I felt a moment of panic. I tamped it down. You’re under a lot of stress, I told myself. I took a Valium. I took another one.
Relief. Routine. Routine was good. I drank my coffee.
I read the Times. I felt half normal.
Laura called.
She wanted me to come over to the morgue. Some test results were in.
I didn’t want to know. Why couldn’t they just let us cremate her and get it over with?
When I got there Laura was smiling. Not the nervous smile she’d had the time before. A real smile. And Harwood wasn’t there.
Two good signs.
Well, she said as I sat down. It’s not you.
I stared.
I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that, she continued.
She said it lightheartedly. It was a joke. Why would I be relieved?
But I was relieved. I was almost overcome with relief. I was lightheaded with relief.
Concealing my confusion, I smiled and said, as playfully as I could, that I was indeed relieved, though somewhat miffed that she had ever doubted me in the first place.
I never doubted you, she said.
I should have known that, I said. It was the evil influence of our good friend Harwood, then.
I defer to your judgment on that, she replied cagily.
Okay. I don’t want to put you on the spot.
We smiled at each other. We were old friends, colleagues again.
The problem is…I began.
Yes, I know. If it wasn’t you…
Who was it?
That’s the question, Rick. And I don’t have an answer for it.
I can’t even imagine, I lied.
I could have imagined many things. But I didn’t want to go there.
It’s not your job, Rick. Listen, I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this. Detective Harwood may seem a bit crusty.
A bit?
Okay, a lot. But his heart’s in the right place.
I guess I’m just going to have to take your word for that.
Harwood chose that moment to make an appearance.
He looked no less rumpled, no less yellow and no less sardonic than the last time I’d seen him.
Laura tells me you’re not as mean as you look, I said.
She’s entitled to her opinion, he replied, lighting a Marlboro.
I laughed.
He didn’t.
So I guess you’re in the clear, he said, in a distinctly unconvinced tone.
Clear of what? Having sex with my own wife?
Lying about it afterwards.
Well, I said, I suppose. Though why I’d have wanted to I don’t know.
I can think of a few things, he said, expertly blowing a smoke ring and expelling a second spume of smoke through the center of it.
That’s a neat trick, I said.
You ain’t seen nothing.
I’ll bet.
Let’s get down to business, he said. We need some information.
Happy to oblige, I said. After all, you’ve been so hospitable.
Laura excused herself. To go cut up some dead people, presumably.
Harwood started asking questions. Many he’d asked before. I gave the same answers. Some were new. I started to catch the drift. The results hadn’t exonerated me. They’d just changed the theory. Now I’d given Melissa an overdose in revenge for her infidelity.
When it seemed that he was finished, I got up to leave. He put out a hand to shake. I put out mine. He grasped it firmly. His fingers were short. His hand was broad and strong. A working man’s hand.
He held mine for a while longer than seemed comfortable. He looked me in the eye.
The message was clear.
He wasn’t done with me yet.