He locked the cabin, put the key in the mailbox, dragged Frank’s body to the river and dropped it into the current. Emile followed him, rubbing against his legs, then trotted off into the night.
He walked toward Niskayuna, hurrying, putting as much distance as possible between himself and ‘The Nook.’
Exit Lionel Grayson.
He’d take a taxi to Schenectady and …
Somebody was following him.
He jumped into a wayside ditch as a car came into view behind him – slowly, hardly moving, its lights out. A black Cad, shining in the moonlight like a big phosphorescent cockroach.
It began to rain.
It passed him, taking an eternity to drive by, the driver invisible behind the darkened windows.
Suddenly, going to Niskayuna and Schenectady didn’t seem like such a good idea.
He ran off in the opposite direction, east, toward Verday. Albany! Run! run! run! He’d take a bus to Albany, spend the night there and tomorrow get the hell out of New York and go … Anywhere! He turned south on the Shaker Road, toward the airport. He already missed Emile. Las Vegas maybe. He’d go to Las Vegas, sure. It was time to get back into the poker money. Poker! Frank! Christ! Into Lacuna Pit with all that! ‘Double double toil and trouble!’ What did he have to show for these four years except Macbeth? And a murder. That poor simpleton didn’t have to die. He should have just rolled on the floor, unconscious, then woken later with a bump on his head. But no … he had to blow it! Now there’d be an investigation, an inquest, an autopsy. Christ Almighty! The poker! It was still in his pocket!
He pulled it out and buried it in a deep hole in the muddy ground. Just like Alice’s father.
The Cad appeared again, in front of him now, coming north from the airport.
He stepped behind a tree and it passed, still blacked out and slow moving.
He didn’t spend the night in Albany. He caught a midnight Greyhound to Newark, New Jersey. He slept all the way, waking only once, as the bus was speeding through Kingston. He saw a sign in a field: ‘80 MORE SHOPPING DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS!’ Ho! ho! ho!
His money-belt was only half-empty, but to affront Vegas he wanted a full treasury. For that he needed his old savings account in the Raleigh bank. He flew there the next day.
He closed his account and put the money in his belt.
He walked around the city, smoking a cigar, looking for forgotten doorways and malls and bookstores.
Wade Avenue, Pullen Park, Oberlin Road. Peace Street! He looked up at the windows of his apartment. Who was living there now? What color was the wall-paper? Was Ada still working for Esor? Was she still in Raleigh?
She was.
She came out of the entranceway, carrying a briefcase, wearing a tan raincoat and a white beret. And glasses.
Holy Moses! It was really and truly Ada!
He was across the street, standing behind a row of parked cars. She couldn’t see him. There was a man with her and – Jesus Christ! – a little boy!
The three of them walked up the block. So did he, keeping covered.
She’d remarried naturally. And she’d kept the apartment … sure. Four rooms and two baths. Giving that up would have been silly. And she’d had her dream child. A beautiful kid! How old was he? Three or four. Right. After seven years the absent husband is legally non-existent, so Mr. Right No. 2 proposed.
Beloved Ada, will you be my bride?
Yes, Amos. I thought you’d never ask.
Who was he? A big guy, as burly as Frank. But handsome, clean-cut, civilized. An executive. Squash, golf, tennis. The understanding type.
Not tonight, darling. I have a headache.
Yes, precious. I understand.
Wouldn’t it be super-nifty if life were like a novel and she’d married his father … No, he was dead. Or – surprise! – Leopold. Or the midget, what was his name – Roscoe – at the 4 Straight Club. Fiction was easier to handle than reality. Reality was agonizing. He felt as if he’d been stabbed with a saber. He was trembling … reeling … babbling … Ada! This was incredible! She looked superb! He’d never seen her hair that long … and her legs … and … She leaned over to say something to the boy and the agile swerve of her spine and her waist made his groin tighten in response. God! No more of that!
The boy was laughing. What had she told him? Do you see that funny-looking man over there? He could have been your daddy. But he ran away from poor mommy years and years ago because he’s a psychopath. He jumps on buses and planes and trains that don’t go anywhere. He sleeps in motels with brown walls and hides in dumpsters, squealing like a rat. And not only that, he’s also the infamous Mohawk Valley Poker Killer!
‘Hullo, Joe,’ a voice behind him said.