Rapture

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jeff checked out of the Brook Green Motel shortly after eight that morning and dropped the car off in Bridgeport within the hour. He returned the second car to the agency at La Guardia and then bought a seat on a noon flight to Los Angeles. By the end of the afternoon, local time, he was sitting on his balcony with a cigarette and an enormous glass of Scotch and ice. He was naked beneath the black robe wrapped loosely around his body. Only then, finally, did he allow himself the luxury of considering what had taken place at the Gorge.

He had to admit it was brilliant. He had treated the whole thing like a problem at work. You don't solve anything by talking about it off the top of your head. You let it simmer in the depths of your brain, and sooner or later the answer will come to the surface. It was, he reckoned, an essentially creative process. The world was full of people with stunted imaginations, poor souls who were incapable of something like this. He belonged to the select handful of individuals who had the courage, imagination, and sheer will to create their own destinies.

It had all come together so well! He felt like an architect who, seeing for the first time a construction he had designed, is overwhelmed by his own genius. The phony driver's license. The two cars. The cut cocaine, which undoubtedly would make the police think Sean had been involved in a deal that went wrong. And, best of all, the sudden inspiration that had come to Jeff only at the last moment: the tight triangle of bullet holes in Sean's skull. Didn't the Mafia go in for that sort of thing, symbolic, ritual executions? It couldn't be perfect, he knew, because nothing ever is; all the same, he thought it was pretty damn close to perfect.

There were still things to do, weak points to be covered. The Philip Headley license would be easy enough to destroy. Too many people knew that Jeff was not a jogger, so the new running suit and shoes had to go. They were brand-name products, and he had kept them in plastic bags to minimize the risk of fiber contamination, but there were brownish pinprick blood spots on the right sleeve. He had intended simply to dump the clothes in a Goodwill box, but the more he thought about it, the less he liked that idea. Expensive new duds ... hardly used at all ... blood spots ... probably some of Jeff's body hairs on them. The chances that the clothes would ever be connected with a killing three thousand miles away were very slight, but why take the chance? Then there was the gun. Funny, Jeff thought, how the most trivial things can suddenly become so important. He had often regretted buying the .22. He had never needed it, and over the years had come to regard it as more of a nuisance than anything else. But he had kept it, if only because he couldn't be bothered to sell it. Now it was much more than just another cheap handgun. Jeff had made it the instrument of Georgianne's liberation. And if that were not enough to convict him, the gun was also legally registered in his name with the police. No question, he had to get rid of it quickly. Not to forget the plastic bag that had held the cocaine and flour. Things to do, important things, but no real problems. Jeff sat happily on the balcony, sipping Scotch and marveling at his accomplishment.

That evening he burned the plastic bag and the false driver's license, and washed the ashes down the kitchen sink with Liquid Drano.

The next day he packed the jogging clothes in the middle of a trash bag full of garbage and drove around until he spotted a dumpster containing similar trash bags outside a Valley mall. He added his to the collection.

On Monday, at lunchtime, he went to a hardware store and bought several small screwdrivers and a hacksaw. That night he patiently spent almost three hours dismantling the gun and cutting it into smaller pieces. On Tuesday, at lunchtime, he completed the disposal of the gun by scattering the pieces over a ra dius of several square miles. He threw them into ponds, reservoirs, and streams. He dropped them through sewer grates. He even put a few in various litter baskets. That evening he called the police to report the gun missing. He said he thought he'd lost it the previous weekend while hiking, alone, in Los Padres.

Jeff bought the New York Times every day for a week. The murder was reported in the Metro section. Sean's body had been discovered late in the morning, and the police were said to have no clues to the person or persons responsible. But it did appear to be a drug-related crime, according to an unidentified source. Family, friends, and colleagues of the dead man were shocked ... etc. By the third day, the story had disappeared. Jeff was pleased, confident that events were taking precisely the course he'd intended.

It would be hard on Georgianne and Bonnie, but that couldn't be avoided. They would simply have to suffer through it. They were strong enough, Jeff reasoned, they'd make it. No one could blame them for Sean's transgressions. Later, they would find it easier to move away from Foxrock. A clean, fresh start somewhere else ... like Santa Susana.

Jeff regretted the necessary cruelty to Georgianne and Bonnie, but he felt nothing for Sean. Why should he? You either experienced a sense of guilt and wrongdoing over something or you didn't, and he did not. He was enough of a scientist to know that the universe was random, arbitrary, and remorseless. It was a romantic exaggeration to call Sean's death a crime. He could just as easily have had a fatal heart attack while jogging, or been run down by a drunk teenager. Those things happened every day. And people killed other people every day, probably by the thousands world-wide. You might not like it, but there it was. Jeff would not indulge in any theatrical, hypocritical guilt. He was happy. From now on everything would be easier.

He slashed his work hours to about forty-five a week, and at the end of the first week he was startled to find that he hadn't fallen behind on anything, as he had expected to. It made him wonder how much of his life he had squandered, obsessively making work for himself. Every minute spent getting the company off the ground and keeping it alive was justified, certainly, but a few years ago some big contracts had come their way. The company had become an established fact, safe, solid, successful. Even so Jeff had continued putting in long hours, compulsively, and unnecessarily. It was a bitter thought, but he didn't linger over it. When you do gain your freedom, pain and a sense of loss tend to fade away. And he had no doubt that this was what Georgianne would experience in due course.

He spent more time socializing with his colleagues now. He ate, drank, and even took in a couple of Dodger games with them, and enjoyed all of it. He stayed away from Diane though. She was a whore, and he no longer liked the idea of having his dreams serviced by a whore. It seemed wrong, now that the way to Georgianne was clear. Diane was good at her job, one of the best, but he didn't need her any more.

All this time, too, he waited. He watched the days go by, one after another, a week, two, a month. He was patient, and sure of himself. He found that it was even possible to savor the slow but relentless passage of time, the exquisite delay, the smoldering anticipation. It was a kind of mental foreplay.

He waited until the third week of September. That was time enough, he judged, for Georgianne and Bonnie to recover. Georgianne would be getting back to the business of coping with everyday life. Bonnie would be at Harvard, most likely trying to lose herself in her studies. That was as it should be. Jeff held back a few days more and then, on a Tuesday evening, picked up the telephone to call Georgianne. He had a large drink and a fresh pack of cigarettes at hand. It would be nine-thirty at night back in Connecticut.

Third ring. "Hello." Voice subdued.

"Hi, Georgianne." Cheerful, carefree. "This is Jeff." Pause, no response. Nearly five months since he'd last spoken with her. The shock. Understandable. "Jeff Lisker."

"Oh ... Jeff." A slight laugh. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking. How are you? Where are you?"

"I'm fine and I'm home, in California."

"Oh. I thought you might be in Danbury on business."

"Well, that's one of the reasons I'm calling. I am going to be in Danbury soon."

"Oh. That's nice." Another pause. She sounded friendly, but vague and distracted. A pendulum swinging back and forth, in and out of the conversation. "Jeff, I have to tell you something," Georgianne said reluctantly.

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"I should have called you...."

Her voice, tiny and strangled now, faded again. She should be over it by now, Jeff thought anxiously. But raw grief billowed out of the telephone in his hand like some noxious gas.

"Georgianne, are you all right? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. I should have called you, Jeff, but I haven't been very efficient about anything lately." She spoke quietly, but she sounded more composed. "Jeff, I lost my husband. Sean is dead." A definite waver in the voice, followed by a brief gasp.

Jeff waited a couple of seconds. Then: "What?"

"It's true. Someone killed him last month."

Again the proper shocked pause. "Georgianne, no. I don't believe it. What on earth ... ?"

"I don't know, I really don't know. Someone shot him one morning while he was out jogging, and ... it's ... I still don't understand any of it."

"My God, that's terrible. Who did it?" Jeff demanded.

"I don't know. No one knows, except ..."

"Jesus, it's unbelievable. It must have been an absolute nightmare for you and Bonnie. You should have called me, Georgianne. I'd have come back right away."

"Thanks, Jeff, I know you would. But I didn't think ... Anyhow, my family was here, and Sean's of course...."

"And you say the police haven't found the bastard who did it? What are they doing?"

"No, they haven't, and I don't know what they're doing." Almost a whisper, but as cold and dry as a night wind coming out of the desert. "I'll tell you about it sometime, Jeff, but I really don't feel like talking about it now. Not on the phone."

.Of course, of course," Jeff said soothingly. "But tell me how you are now, and Bonnie."

"We're all right, I guess. Bonnie's at Harvard-she went last week. I think she's starting, just starting, to get over it. I hope her classes will help. Keep her busy."

"Sure."

"I call her every night. I have to; I'm so terrified of her being alone up there. I have to hear her voice before I can get any sleep ... not that I'm getting much anyway."

"She'll be all right," Jeff said authoritatively. "It may take her awhile, but I got the impression that she's a strong person, with a lot of character as well as intelligence."

"Yes ..."

"And you. How are you now?"

"Functioning, more or less. It's hard, Jeff, it's ... so damned ... hard."

"I can imagine. Listen, is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? Don't ask, just tell me, and it'll be done at once."

"No, not really. But thanks, Jeff. Everyone's been very kind to us ... well, most people. And there are no real problems about money or the house, or anything like that."

"Good. You don't need any extra headaches."

Jeff wanted very much to cheer her up, but he couldn't find the right words, and it annoyed him. She was still deeply caught up in Sean's death. Time was the only thing that would haul her out of it. Jeff felt helpless, concerned.

"So, I just have to get myself back together," Georgianne said wanly. "I'm not as tough as Bonnie, you know. It devastated her, of course, both of us, but she was terrific all through the wake and the funeral. So good and strong and brave ..."

"That's good," Jeff said.

"Sean and I used to ask, Where did we get her from? You know? She's so much brighter than either of us, and so adult for her age. We were so ... lucky...."

There were muffled sounds as Georgianne tried to hold on to her composure. Jeff knew the telephone conversation wasn't doing her any good, and he decided to wrap it up briskly but gently. He couldn't bear to hear her this way.

"It'll get better, Georgianne, it will," he promised. "I don't want to give you the usual baloney about life going on and all that jazz. You know that, but it won't mean anything until you get over your loss-and you will, you will."

"I know," she said distantly.

"Listen. I'm going to be in Danbury soon."

"It'll be nice to see you again."

"You're going to be around?"

"My mother wants me to go down to Florida to spend some time with her, but I think I'll wait until Christmas, when Bonnie and I can go together."

"That's a good idea."

"And my brother wants me to go out to Chicago, but I'll think about that next spring or summer. Right now I'm just seeing how I feel a day at a time."

"That's perfectly natural. Anyhow, you will be there for the next few weeks."

"Oh. Yes."

"Okay, good. I'll call you again as soon as I've got my dates worked out. We'll get together, go out for dinner ... and talk."

"I'll look forward to it, Jeff."

"Me too."

When Jeff hung up, he lit another cigarette and paced the living-room floor. He couldn't sit still. He hated to think of Georgianne suffering this way. It was worse than he had expected. He might have to wait another two or three weeks for her to get over it.

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