JOHN YAWNED, LOOKED AT his bed. His Aunt Janice had turned the bedspread down, the way his mother had done, so very long ago. But his aunt didn’t want him to go to bed, didn’t want him to go to sleep, not yet. They were waiting for someone.
He looked at his aunt, looked at the TV. It was about a large family that talked too much and laughed too loud. His Aunt Janice had turned the volume down until the voices were only whispers. When there’d been nothing left for him to say to his aunt, nothing left for her to say to him, when only their small, sad smiles were left, she’d turned on the TV, so he wouldn’t fall asleep.
Now he looked at his aunt, and saw her watching him. When their eyes met, she smiled a quick, bright smile, more serious than cheerful. His Aunt Janice was worried. Scared, really. The men downstairs, the cars outside, the flashing lights, the sound of strangers’ footsteps—it was all the same as the night his mother died. And his aunt was scared.
Words ran together in his thoughts. Words like Aunt Janice became one word. And Grandpa Hale, too—the grandfather he’d never know, his mother’s father.
And the night his mother died all ran together, too: one long, sad word, the word that would never leave his thoughts. It was a word that—
A knock on the door: three light knuckle-raps. A stranger’s knock. It was the knock Aunt Janice had been expecting, the knock they’d been waiting for. Quickly, she stepped to the TV, switched it off, then went to the door. She looked back at him, smiled, and nodded. Don’t worry, the nod meant.
But she was worried.
Plainly, she was worried.
She opened the door to the tall, half-bald man with the thin voice who spoke quietly. But when he spoke, the strangers in the house listened, and nodded, and obeyed. Everyone but the sheriff, who never nodded.
Aunt Janice and the man were talking quietly. Their eyes had gone cloudy. It was the same way everyone had talked at the funeral, the same way they’d looked around the eyes and the mouth.
Had Al died?
Was that what the tall, thin man had come to tell them? When they’d driven from the barn to the house, they’d found Al lying beside the road. Maria had been kneeling beside Al, crying, rocking from side to side as she pressed a blood-soaked towel to Al’s upper chest. Soon afterward the ambulance had come, its siren screaming. It had only been a station wagon that was painted white, with red lights on top. So they’d had to send another ambulance for the woman they’d left at the barn.
On the night his mother died—those words, again—there’d only been one ambulance. And when the ambulance left, that night, there were no sirens, no flashing red lights. Only the headlights, sweeping white arcs in the darkness.
At the door, his Aunt Janice and the tall man were finished talking. They nodded to each other as if they were agreeing to something sad. Yes, it was like the two days in Santa Barbara, those final two days: low voices, slow movements, eyes that had gone dark.
Had Al died? He’d been alive when they put him in the ambulance. His eyelids had been fluttering, and his fingers had twitched.
While Aunt Janice closed the door, the tall man stepped forward, smiling down at him. The man was so tall that the ceiling was behind his head, not the wall.
“Hi John,” the man said. “My name is Clifford Benson. I’m the district attorney of Benedict County. I’m the one who’s got to decide whether we arrest people—put them in jail.” As he spoke, the tall man sat on the bed, gesturing for John to sit beside him. Between them the tall man placed a small tape recorder.
“Not the sheriff?” he asked.
“Well, the sheriff makes the first decision, I guess you’d say. He makes the on-scene decision, as we call it. He decides whether someone should be arrested. But then I have to decide whether there’s enough evidence to indict someone, make him stand trial, in court. The sheriff does his work first, gets everything secured. Then he calls me.” The tall man was smiling at him. “Do you see?” It was the kind of question a teacher would ask. A good teacher, not one of the bad teachers.
“I—I guesso.”
“Good. Now—” The man pointed to the tape recorder. “Now, that’s a tape recorder, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Now, I’ve talked to Miss Hale—your aunt. And I’ve talked to Mr. Bernhardt, too. And they both agree that they want me to talk to you about the events that transpired—” He broke off, frowned, started again: “About what happened on the night your mother died.” The man looked to Aunt Janice. “Is that correct, Miss Hale?”
“That’s correct.” She spoke slowly; her face was serious. She stood against the far wall, arms folded. She was standing that way because she would say nothing more. Now it was the tall man and the tape recorder—and him. Just him.
As, yes, the man touched the switch on the recorder. The tape began to revolve as the man, Mr. Benson, began to talk: “This is Clifford R. Benson, district attorney of Benedict County, California, at—” He looked at his watch. “At eleven-fifteen P.M. on the night of August thirtieth, of this year. I’m speaking from the residence of Dennis Price, of the Brookside Winery, in Benedict County. I’m interrogating John Price, age seven, the son of Dennis Price and the late Constance Hale Price. Witnessing this interrogation is Miss Janice Hale, sister of Constance and aunt of John. At the end of the interrogation, Miss Hale will make a short statement.
“The subject of the interrogation is the events that transpired at this location on the night of June sixteenth, of this year, and the early morning hours of June seventeenth.”
Mr. Benson touched the switch again, stopped the tape. For a moment Mr. Benson didn’t speak. As the long, silent moments passed, they sat motionless, looking at each other. Then, quietly, Mr. Benson said, “I know what you told Mr. Bernhardt and Miss Hale a few hours ago, John, while the three of you were in the barn and you observed your father and Theo Stark approaching. I want you to tell me exactly what you told them. If you do—if you tell me the whole story, then that’ll be the end of it. Everything will be out in the open after that. There won’t be any more lies.” Another long, solemn pause. Then, still quietly: “Do you understand, John?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“And will you tell me what happened? Everything that happened?” Could he do it—nod once more? Just once more?