He drove through San Diego and onto the Coronado ferry, thinking about Gene. He had not avoided thinking about her that afternoon. She was only another problem that was newly simple too, and did not bother him. Now that he knew his own mind, now that he knew himself and V, he would just have to go to Gene and tell her, as he should have told her the first time, that they had to get a divorce. He would let her keep everything they owned, for he needed nothing. She would be hurt, he knew, but hurt less than if this were to continue, and he could only try to tell her how sorry he was. And Gene was young yet and attractive enough. She would soon forget him and marry again and be happy the way he could never make her happy. He was completely confident he could make her see why it had to be this way.
But Gene was not at the apartment.
He felt puzzled and vaguely worried, he was sorry it had to be put off, but his mood was not affected. He took the ferry back to San Diego and drove out to La Jolla with the radio playing, tapping his foot in time to the music. Wind from the open wind-wing was shunted onto his face and he had never felt so completely free.
He grinned at the operator as he got into the elevator. He walked down the carpeted hall of the fifth floor with long strides. Then he heard the sound.
First it was just a harsh, echoing whack, something he’d vaguely heard before. Then it was a shot. His legs became leaden as he realized it. He stopped. He moved forward again and ran the few steps to the door. He put his hand on the brass knob, he turned it, pushed. The door opened.
Through the great glass doors light streamed into the room and stabbed his eyes and burst in his head. He stood in the doorway, holding the edge of the door with a hand that felt like a steel hook. A meaningless sound rasped in his throat as he looked down at the crumpled shape on the floor, and the blood.
His eyes were held by the blood. With an effort he pulled them away. He saw Gene. She stood motionless, her arm, pointed down, turning into gun, the gun glinting bluely in her hand. The sharp smell of gunpowder cut into his nostrils.
Gene did not move. Her face was like a lump of white dough, her eyes two dark, wild spots in it. He saw that she was panting, swaying, gasping for breath, but still holding the gun pointed down at the floor. Her face turned toward him and she whispered, “She’s dead.”
Jack looked down at V. One leg was crumpled under the other; he could see her brown thigh partly covered by pink slip, then the pink slip covered by her blue dress. Her arms were flung out as though she had been going to dive. They pointed toward him and her face was turned away, but he could see the red spring of blood below her breast. He took a step forward, his breath tearing at his lungs. His brain had stopped. He heard the door close behind him.
“She’s dead,” Gene said.
He tried to focus his eyes on Gene. He took a step toward her, another. He snatched the gun away. It was hot to his hand and he dropped it into his pocket. Gene’s eyes rolled idiotically. He could see spittle at the corner of her mouth.
“I’ve killed her,” she said, and she began to laugh. It was a high, hysterical sound that cut painfully into his ears. He slapped her face, too hard, and she slumped forward. He caught her and held her, limp and heavy in his arms. She babbled unintelligible sounds.
“Make sense,” he cried. “Make sense, Goddamn you!” He was shaking, holding her. His face was wet with sweat, each drop of sweat an active pain to his nerve-ends. Everything inside him was dead with the thing on the floor, upon which the light streamed, bright and cold and mocking.
Gene hiccoughed, spit trickled onto her chin, her mouth began to work. He tried to listen to the words, forced out with harsh, deep breaths. “She called me up. She asked me to come here…” And then she began laughing again, and hiccoughing. Jack felt his fingers tear at the soft flesh of her arms. He shook her.
“Why did you do it?”
“I went to the doctor,” she gasped. She stopped and his hands released her arms and reached for her throat. They twitched and shook. He made them drop. Gene said, “I can’t ever have a baby. That Mexican doctor…His instruments weren’t clean. I’ve got something all over inside me.”
He put his hands over his face and took a step back. Gene said, “Then she called up. It was just then. I’d just come back from the doctor and it was just like the other time she called me, only when I knew…”
“When you knew what?” he whispered. “What did she say?”
“She wanted to know where you were. She asked me if you’d told me and I didn’t know what she meant and then she said she had to talk to me…”
She stopped. “Oh, why, God?” he whispered. His eyes had turned to hot balls of iron in their sockets as through his spread fingers he watched her bend over, hiccoughing, gasping for breath. It was as though he saw her through the wrong end of a telescope. But suddenly his brain came to life. There was no time.
“Where did you get the gun?” His voice was too loud but it would come no softer. He didn’t look at V, staring fiercely at Gene; he felt the flesh of her arms twist as he pulled her upright. Oh, why, God? he thought. He shook her.
“She asked me if you’d told me,” Gene said. “So I knew you’d been here again. I knew it then and it was when I’d just got back from the doctor. Jack, when I…Jack, something in me tore all apart. I couldn’t stand…”
“Where did you get the gun?”
“It’s yours. Jack, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I took it out of your dresser there.” His hands fell from her arms. “It’s the one you’ve always had,” she said. “It’s always been there.” He felt the weight of the gun in his pocket then, so heavy it seemed to pull him off balance; the gun he had brought home from the war as a souvenir. He sobbed aloud.
“Get out of here!” he cried. She didn’t move. “Get out!” he cried. He half-pushed her, half-carried her to the door. He opened it and pushed her out. “There’s a stairs down at the end of the hall.” He pushed her roughly toward the stairs and she stumbled and almost fell. She gaped back at him over her shoulder.
“What’re you going to do?” she whispered. “Jack!” She swayed toward him. Her dark eyes were huge and rimmed with white. “Jack!”
“Go on!” He raised his fist and she staggered away from him. The hall was empty, silent. “Go on!” he whispered. She stumbled down the hall. At the door to the stairs she turned again. He raised his fist again. She disappeared and he watched the door swing slowly closed behind her.
Inside the room again, he looked down at V. The gun was an immense weight in his pocket as he moved toward her, moving as though he were walking through water, seeing her in a bright, watery haze.
He dropped to one knee beside her, then, with a jolt, to the other. Clearly now, he saw the red wound below her breast. It was edged with charred cloth. Blood had soaked the blue of her dress to a sickening purple, had spilled from her waist and soaked darkly into the carpet. He put out a slow, nerveless hand toward the wound. He stopped it, changed its course and touched the other breast. He sobbed as he felt it; it was warm. He couldn’t see her anymore. He tried, but she had dissolved into tears in his eyes.
He took the gun from his pocket. He thumbed the hammer back, the metal biting into his thumb, the gun too, still warm. Taking a deep breath he staggered to his feet. V lay dead on the floor before him, robbed of all beauty and cleanness, robbed of any dignity. He watched the gun as though it were a deadly snake he held. He turned his hand slowly. The muzzle turned slowly toward him, a thick ring, the barrel extending down into darkness and release. He could see the slugs in the cylinder as he watched the muzzle turn toward him. There were muffled footsteps in the hall.
There was a knock on the door. He heard it, but his nerves did not signal to his brain. His finger pressed gently, almost delicately, the trigger. He stopped. He forced his finger to press again, gently, his hand straining to be gentle.
The door flew open and slammed back against the wall. He saw them, in blue uniforms. He turned the gun toward them. “Get back!” he shouted. There was a flash of fire and sound from the doorway. He ducked and the gun escaped from his hand. He tried to catch it, but it dropped and he saw them running at him.
He turned toward the glass doors. His legs moved with terrible slowness. They were on him; one of them crashed upon his back, something grazed the side of his head. He went to his knees. His arm flailed out and he heard one of them scream. There were shouts and pain and madness as he tried to stagger up with the one still on his back, and his heart tore apart with the effort. He ran toward the bright, sun-streaming squares of the glass doors.
Something hit him from the side and he fell heavily. He lay pinioned on the floor. Panting, pleadingly, he looked up at them. There were two and each held an arm, panting with him, shouting at him. Blood streamed from the mouth of the one on the right. The hotel was full of shouting, and running feet. He was lying on the floor where V was lying.
“Why couldn’t you let me?” he panted. He looked at the one on his left, who was young and had a red face and his cap still on. He felt the man’s grip loosen a little, and with a quick, convulsive movement he jerked his arm away. He slammed his fist into the face of the other. He clutched at hair and pulled himself up, turning and running and falling toward the source of the brightness. But there was a flashing pain in his head and he fell against the glass and slid down it to the floor, the brightness turning to blackness and then even the blackness gone.