CHAPTER 22

R.J. stopped in at his office at noon. As he opened the outer door, Wanda met him with a look of cold petulance.

“What’s that face?” he asked her.

“Nothing, I’m sure,” she said. “After all, you’re the boss. You don’t even have to come in to the office if you don’t want to. You have an employee to take messages and run the office. Just stay in bed all day, if that’s what the two of you want to do.”

R.J. stifled a laugh. “Is there more?”

“You’re darn right, there’s more,” she said, not even pretending to be civil now. “Boss, I’ve worked here for three years—and not once in all that time did you see fit to tell me who you really are! R.J. Brooks—what a laugh! I have a right to know who I’m working for, at least, and I thought there was a little more to the relationship than that, but if you—”

R.J. put his hands to his ears in an attempt to block out the torrent that was pouring out. “Whoa, whoa, for Christ’s sake, slow down. Jesus, Wanda!”

“—can’t even give me one civil word of explanation, even when I ask you right out, then all I can say—”

R.J. stepped over to Wanda and placed a hand gently but firmly over her mouth.

“There’s lots of stuff I’ve never told you,” he said. “And I never will. That doesn’t mean anything. You’re my friend, and I’m glad you work here, but my private business is private, got it?”

She made muffled sounds of protest and looked poison at him.

“Now, I’m going to tell you this one time, and one time only. Yes, Belle Fontaine was my mother. I’ve spent the last ten years running from that. I never mentioned it because I didn’t want to think about it myself. I’ve been trying to forget it. I thought it wasn’t important.

“I was wrong about that. I’m sorry she had to get killed for me to figure it out, but that’s water under the bridge. All that matters now is finding the guy who did it, okay?”

Once again she made a muffled noise, but not a violent one this time, and the look in her eyes had softened.

R.J. nodded. “Good. I’m going to take my hand away now, and I don’t want to hear another word about this, all right?”

He slowly took his hand away.

Wanda stared at him, watching him inch his hand back. When he finally dropped it to his side, she said one word.

“Asshole.” She returned to her desk. “Here’s a list of your calls. You’ll notice most of them are from Tina Burkette. She wants to ‘Finalize the schedule of payments,’ which I think means the hot tub again.”

“Oh, brother.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you got yourself into hot water, you can get yourself out.”

“Pretty funny. Anything else?”

“A couple of other calls, nothing important: Gloria wants to see you. Your accountant called; he says he needs about four hours of your time—”

“Jesus Christ,” R.J. said. “I don’t spend four hours with him in five years!”

Wanda gave him a mean smile. “You will, now you’re rich. I think you’ll be spending a lot of time with Fender, Bean, and Weinstock.”

“Hell, I can’t do it. Bean has breath that could knock a vulture off an outhouse.”

“It can wait until next week,” Wanda said sweetly.

“Quit your damn gloating. What else?”

“Why do you think there’s more?”

“Isn’t there?”

“Yes. A handful of prospective clients. I told them you weren’t taking any new jobs right now.”

“One of these days, you’ll go too far and I’ll spank you.”

“Promises, promises,” she said, and R.J. went on into his office, letting her have the last word.

R.J. spent about forty minutes with some routine paperwork and then called Wanda in to dictate a letter.

She settled into the chair beside his desk, smoothing down her skirt over her crossed legs.

“Ready, boss,” she said, poised with her pen and pad.

“Dear Mrs. Burkette,” R.J. began, sticking a cigar in his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, almost to a full horizontal.

“Oh, boy,” muttered Wanda, “here it comes.”

“Sorry I have not responded to your recent calls. I’ve been away from the office on a very complicated and time-consuming new case. Paragraph. I can’t see that we have anything further to finalize, but if I have overlooked some small detail, please feel free to discuss it with my confidential assistant, Wanda Groz.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Wanda.

“You’re welcome. Paragraph. I hope you are as satisfied with the outcome of my work for you as I am. If I can be of any future assistance, please don’t hesitate to call. Sincerely, et cetera.”

“Old Mr. Fuller’s got nothing on you, boss,” Wanda said, slapping shut her notebook.

“How’s that?”

She gave him a shark’s smile, which meant she was back to normal again. “You give a great brush-off,” she said, and she swished out of his office.

R.J. leaned back in his chair again, letting his mind drift.

He thought about Casey for a good long time. He still didn’t know what to make of her hot-and-cold act. The hot was the best he’d ever had. But the cold was killing him.

He threw the soggy, mangled cigar at the trash can. With an effort he put Casey out of his head and thought instead about what Henry Portillo had learned about the killer. Chicago, Atlanta, San Diego, Houston, Sacramento: all over the damned country.

What the hell did any of them have in common?

* * *

The man sitting in the dim, midtown bar knows the answer to that one. In fact, he knows the answer to a lot of puzzling questions.

For instance: How much horrible, permanently mutilating pain can a human being stand before going completely mad?

That’s one of his favorite questions.

He asks it frequently.

In Chicago, Atlanta, San Diego, Houston, Sacramento. And of course, Manhattan.

He loves to explore the answer to that one. It is always different. He never gets tired of helping someone stretch beyond that red line they thought marked the end of the world and show them, oh no, there’s more.

See? You can go just a little bit further.

See? A little further again.

Of course, they all do go mad, sooner or later. At that point they’re no longer very much fun.

The woman had surprised him. She had been much stronger than he had thought she would be. She had lasted for several hours.

Remarkable, really. The reserves in the woman. Quite as powerful as anything she had ever done onscreen.

And he had been magnificent too. Of course, he had no movie roles to compare his performance to, but he had known. It had been the performance of his life.

Better than anything he had ever done before—in Chicago, Atlanta, San Diego, Houston, and Sacramento. All the miserable, half-sophisticated hick towns where he’d gotten dinner theater roles.

All the moldy hotel rooms, the dim and uncomprehending audiences, interested only in two-for-one drinks and pawing at each other.

And he had to go through with it, all the hundreds of performances of Barefoot in the Park, The Fantasticks, Camelot, The Owl and the Pussycat. Nothing ever changed; the shows the same, the other actors performing in the same way, saying the same shallow, stupid, self-centered things, even the towns the same after a while.

No relief from the horrifying, blurry murk of the whole existence. No relief at all—except when The Feeling comes and he plays out a scene as he has scripted it himself

The quickened pulse as he spots a potential scene partner and knows, Yes, that one. The delicious delay as he follows them home from the AA meeting, planning the scene, wondering how it would be, hoping he’s found a partner with real talent.

And then it would happen. And always just a little disappointment afterward, when they failed to really stretch into the role as he wanted them to.

He has known for a while now. It is time to try something new, to work a scene with somebody stronger. Somebody unlike the rabbits, with more depth, range, and power.

Somebody like the son. Yes, that one would be different, not a rabbit at all.

They were too easy, the rabbits he followed home. So unsuspecting. He can almost read their minds. But you can’t be doing this, not to me.

And they would all realize at the same time, as he did something so interesting, so completely shattering to their little rabbit minds, that he did mean them. It was happening to them.

That’s his favorite moment, that moment of realization.

He takes a long sip of his drink, letting the ice cube clink against his front teeth.

It is like Shakespeare, he thinks. That great, tragic moment of self-awareness. All the great works of theater have that. His are just a little more immediate, that’s all.

He finishes his drink and raises a finger for another.

In a few hours it will be evening. Perhaps tonight would be a good time to mingle with the rabbits.