He stared at her for a moment, fascinated. What kind of creature was she that violence served as an aphrodisiac? Killing her would be the ultimate turn-on from her point of view, and what did that make him? Not another word passed between them. She dressed quickly. She wept and her hands shook as she struggled to fasten her skirt. He sat on the bed stupefied, his head in his hands.

When she was gone he sat down at his desk, where he rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter. He wrote for four hours, took a break, and then wrote for another two. Words poured out of him. He could feel sentences form in his head, almost faster than he could type. It was like taking dictation. Paragraphs lined up and passed through his body onto the paper in front of him. No thought. No analysis. No hesitation. He wrote about Mona. He wrote about his mother’s death. He wrote about his weak father and his own loneliness. He wrote about what it felt like to be shut away upstairs while the rest of the family enjoyed the comforts of home. He wrote about being a fat boy and what it felt like to run seven miles in the rain. He wrote without once thinking of Mr. Snow.

At 10:00 he stopped. He went downstairs and out into the chill night air. The property overlooked the ocean and he could see the sheen of moonlight on water as far as the islands. He was exhausted and energized. He thought he’d never sleep again, but he did. In the morning he read what he’d done. Some of it was awkward and inadvertently comical. Some of it was mawkish and maudlin. It mattered not. He knew what it felt like to work from the heart and he was hooked. Even if it took him years to get back to that flow, he knew it was worth every failed attempt and every misbegotten word.

At eight, he brushed his teeth, showered, dressed, and rode his scooter to Walker’s house, taking the bridle paths that wound up the hill. He had to cross a public road only once, and even then there was no traffic. Walker had just gotten up and he was sitting in his kitchen in his boxer shorts, hair rumpled, his face embossed with wrinkles from his bedsheet.

Jon let himself in as he usually did. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “I have to get out of the house before the Amazing Mona returns with her merry band in tow. She sucks all the oxygen out of the air and I can’t take it anymore. I thought we could get a place together near UCST or close to City College, whichever you’d prefer.”

Walker said, “I’m up for that. How do we pay the rent, rob a bank?”

“I’ve been thinking we’d borrow Rain—fun and games for a day or two—and then we exchange her for a bag of cash. Easy does it. No rough stuff and nothing scary. We get a kitten and she can play with it. She gets to drink pink lemonade laced with tranquilizers. Mona has a big stash, fifty-two by my count. She won’t miss a few. You have folks, so we keep the little girl at my place while everyone’s gone. I have a new hot-water heater going in and we can use the box to make a house for her. As long as she naps, she won’t make a fuss, which should give us time to negotiate.”

Walker was attentive. “I’m with you so far.”

“The only snag is the threesome in the yellow school bus. We have to find a way to get them out of there.”

Walker’s smile was slow. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve been mulling the selfsame subject . . . on your behalf, of course. You may be in the woman’s thrall, but she’s bad news. Consider yourself lucky if you haven’t picked up crabs or a dose of the clap. I’m not passing judgment, Jon. I’m stating a fact. You want her gone, I can make it happen, the other two as well, unless I greatly miscalculate. Say the word and it’ll be done by noon today.”

“How?”

“First, I call the draft board and tell them where to find our friend, Greg. Then I stop by the bus and drop a hint to him. I figure fifteen minutes max we’ll see them tearing out of there. Your idea about Rain we can implement once we get the kinks worked out. What do you think?”

“Far out. You’re a genius. I take back every bad word I ever said about you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

32

Thursday, April 21, 1988

I arrived at the office at 8:00, hoping to get a jump on the day. As I unlocked the door I could smell scorched coffee and realized with a flash of annoyance that I’d forgotten to turn off the coffeemaker when I’d left Wednesday afternoon. I scurried down the corridor to the kitchenette and flipped off the machine. I removed the carafe from the unit and set it on a folded towel to cool. The glass bottom had a ring of black sludge that would probably never come off.

I hauled out my trusty Smith-Corona, popped off the hard cover, and placed it on my desk. I spread out my index cards and typed a report for Sutton’s file, covering what I’d done to this point. I included Henry’s speculation about the sequence of events, which added a little ray of sunshine. When I finished I put the report in his file. I put a rubber band around the cards, dropped them in the same file, and closed the drawer. I’d gone as far as I could go and I needed a break. Over the weekend I’d reshuffle the facts and hope to spot something I’d missed. In the meantime, it was a perfect April morning, clear and sunny, still cool but with the promise of a warming trend. Surely, that boded well.