IF HE HAD NOT told Janet that he would be in Chicago that night, Mather would have returned to New York at once. The one thing he would not permit himself was fantasy, the dream of Eric Mather, hero, or in disgrace. The future must be no larger than the compass of his atonement, step by step. He would go as far as he could by his own resources and hope that it was far enough to partially redeem him. Jerry and Tom had tracked him back in time; they had tracked him, he was sure now, from an incident in the park. First, they had chosen him as the most likely prospect for their scheme among Peter Bradley’s associates. They must have done a similar job on others until they settled on him as their man. To have used Anne Russo as they finally had when he had no more than mentioned her was proof enough. But how bitterly ironic that in his righteous strength that day, striking a would-be offender, he had exposed the very weakness they were looking for! Evil born of good.
And he had convinced himself that he was breeding good of evil, content in their conspiracy. Ah, but nothing was that simple: to be honest now he needed to remember his feeling of exultation as, string by string, he had manipulated his unwitting friend. To have had such envious hatred of a man whom he truly loved!
They had tracked him from the park; and he must now track them. His last contact: the day of Peter’s return. By pre-arrangement with Jerry, he had posted a notice on the third-floor bulletin board in the General Studies Building: PUPPIES FOR SALE—CALL EL 7-2390 AFTER 9:00 P.M. It told them Peter Bradley would leave the house at that hour, carrying the film. The confirmation: a thrown kiss. He had with consummate skill and sureness carried out his plan. Even now he felt the prickle of pride, and his self-humiliation was the greater for instantly realizing it.
All afternoon he walked the stark and windy lake front beneath the Albion bluffs, composing in his mind the details of his “Confession.” It must be told ruthlessly, without a word of self-justification. But the sands of the shoreline kept giving way beneath his feet. In the late afternoon he drove into Chicago, parked the car, bought a notebook, and checked in at the Palmer House.
In a high room, looking down on the elevated tracks below, he noted that the window was sealed, and then began to write. Presently: “… They would have been watching me for some time then. Or they may even have put the boy up to it. I rather think they got to him afterwards. This I propose to find out if I am given the opportunity. They had liaison within the University itself. The boy’s name was Osterman. He dropped out of my classes at the end of the semester, but he used to turn up now and then in a group that called themselves the Imagists …”
It was after nine when Janet called him. He had long since told himself he had no right to expect that she would call. But all evening long he had been writing with an almost superstitious haste against the moment when the phone might ring. It was as though time were the measure of truth. The notebook pages were scarred with his deletions, for over and over again he had sought to justify himself and scratched out the words. A lifetime of such reflex could not be stilled at a sitting, especially by one who taking pen in hand had always fancied himself a potential Proust.
His voice showed the strain when he answered the phone.
“Are you all right, Eric?”
“Yes. And you?”
“I’m fine,” Janet said. “It’s over now … the ceremony. Just ashes. We put them beneath an oak tree in the place where all the Bradleys are … near his son.”
He had known of course that there had been a child, but never before had either Janet or Peter spoken of him to him.
“Now there’s the other,” Janet went on, “why he died. It doesn’t seem important when a man’s reduced to a little box of ashes.”
“Janet, don’t.”
But she went on: “I kept thinking all day of the places I hadn’t gone with him because I wasn’t always sure he wanted me. It seemed so indecent—so grotesque to have him all—like a trinket at my wrist.”
“For the love of God, Janet …”
“Eric, there has to be some deeper meaning to a man. What did his death mean to the person who killed him?”
“I too want to find that out,” Mather said quietly.
“Then tell me quickly. I can bear it.”
Something in the way she said the words made him say: “Peter was pure, Janet. There was no corruption in him.”
“I’m much aware of that. Eric, I can take a cab and come downtown—just for an hour. I want to leave this house for a while.”
He looked at the key lying on the table beside the phone. “Room 723,” he said.