Rapture

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jeff couldn't sleep that night at the Cambridge Hyatt. Not guilt, but attention to detail kept him awake. He could have checked out immediately and caught a late flight to the West Coast, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself by leaving in a rush. You make mistakes that way. Besides, he didn't think Bonnie would be found that quickly.

He reserved a seat on a Monday-morning plane and asked the front desk for an early wake-up call. Then he very carefully packed his luggage. It wasn't easy, because he had to take with him everything Bonnie had left in the hotel room, including the several items of clothing she'd bought at Filene's, as well as the notebooks, texts, and magazines she'd been carrying on Friday. They were dangerous, incriminating things to have, but he could think of no sure, safe way to dispose of them there. In California, it would be a cinch-drop the clothes in a trash barrel somewhere and burn all the paper. The only things he felt comfortable about leaving in the hotel room wastebasket were the whiskey bottle, empty and wiped, and the crumpled shopping bags.

Using one of his T-shirts, he cleaned every surface Bonnie might have touched while she had been in the room. It was a long and tedious chore, but he didn't mind at all, and when it was finally done, he felt a measure of pride. The chances were incredibly slight that anyone would ever search this room with the idea of connecting it with Bonnie Corcoran, but you have to do these things right, and he had.

Jonathan Tate checked out of the Hyatt the next morning and drove to Logan Airport. He caught the news on the radio twice, in the hotel room and again in the car, and neither time was there any mention of a body being discovered on the south shore. He turned in the rental car and boarded a flight to San Francisco, where he retrieved his own car and cruised down 101 at a leisurely speed to L.A.

Was it just another case of overkill, these ridiculous and perhaps unnecessary precautions he took to cover his tracks? Probably, Jeff admitted to himself. But he liked it. There was, he thought, something almost sacramental about it.

Back in Santa Susana, he read the Boston Globe for a week. There were only two news items about Bonnie. The first reported the discovery of her body, stating that she was an "apparent suicide" and that the police were questioning her friends and classmates at Harvard about her recent activities and state of mind. The second article mentioned that the girl's father had been a murder victim the previous year in an "apparent drug-related case" in Connecticut that remained unsolved. Police interviews in Cambridge had turned up no new information or leads of any significance. An unnamed police source speculated that, although she had appeared to be in generally good spirits and was regarded as an outstanding student, the girl might never have recovered psychologically from the loss of her father and, unable to cope any longer with a persistent and growing depression, had taken her own life with the assistance of a sympathetic friend, as yet unidentified. The investigation continued, but no new developments were expected.

It was true: Bonnie's death, however unfortunate, however necessary, didn't change the fact that Jeff thought of himself as her friend.

Georgianne was shocked by her own lack of surprise. When the words came, they were words she had feared but half-expected many times previously, words from a bad dream that had never stopped playing in the depths of her mind. The last of her borrowed time had run out. Life had condemned her in its absurd, arbitrary, undeniable way, and Bonnie's death was the completion of the sentence. Georgianne tried briefly to resist the fact, but it was like scratching at granite. Suicide? Bonnie? Never. But what did Georgianne know? She knew nothing any more, nothing about anything.

Had Bonnie been on drugs? Could they test the blood or find out somehow without resorting to a complete autopsy? Georgianne couldn't bear the thought of her daughter's body being dissected and then cobbled together again for the funeral.

When she told them the details of Sean's death, as she had to, the two polite officers who interviewed her looked at each other as if to say, There you are.

Georgianne went ahead with the sale of the house. It seemed inevitable, so why turn down a good offer? She had less reason than ever to stay on at Indian Hill Road. Her husband and daughter were buried in Foxrock, and Georgianne wasn't sure she wanted to leave, but the house was like a tomb, and she could no longer live in it. There were no apartments in the village, but if she decided to remain in the area, she would probably be able to find a place in Danbury.

She packed up everything she wanted to keep and had the load put in storage. It didn't amount to much, because she found she was becoming ruthless about sentiment and possessions. She had lost the strength and courage to attach emotional value to anything. She went through the days like some minimally functional creature, semihuman, semirobot. Everything else, the furniture, the tools, the unneeded clothes and miscellaneous household items, she left behind, and Burt Maddox kindly agreed to sell them for her.

Then she flew down to Tampa to spend time with her mother and brother while the horrible business was concluded.

"Of course I remember you! How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. I-"

"Looking good, yes, looking very good. But I can tell you haven't used your mousse today, have you? Tsk tsk tsk.*

"Well, that's the thing. I-"

'The thing? What thing, dear boy?"

"I'd like it back the way it was," Jeff said.

"What!"

"The color and the style."

"Not the way it was."

"Yes. Please."

"Color and style?"

"That's right."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to think it over? Have a nice glass of iced Red Zinger and give it another little think. Hmm?"

"No, thanks. My mind's made up."

'You're sure you're sure?"

"Positive."

'All right, one Steve Garvey coming up."

After four weeks, Georgianne was ready to leave Florida. It was summer, the wrong time of the year, and the heat was even worse than she had expected. It felt far more oppressive than any heat wave she had ever experienced in New England.

Her mother lived in a "permanent mobile home" in a protected, self-contained community just outside Tampa. It looked like a real house, but smaller, and it was built with prefabricated sections on a concrete slab. Mrs. Slaton had her own little social set among the other older people who lived in similar houses on the "estate."

Georgianne's brother Donnie lived about eight miles away with his wife and two children. A teacher, he had the summer free, and Georgianne spent more time at his house than with her mother. The company of her family was a great help, not just in comforting her, but in restoring some sense of equilibrium.

After four weeks Georgianne wasn't ready to stop mourning, but she did want to take herself somewhere else. She thought of herself as morbid and depressed, and that was too much to continue to inflict on her family. They never complained, but she was sensitive to the likelihood that she was a disruption in the daily pattern of their lives. And they had done more than enough for her already.

One question plagued her: could she really have failed to notice the warning signs? She still wasn't sure, however much she scoured her memory, that Bonnie had shown any warning signs, but perhaps she had. It was a bitter, demoralizing thought that Georgianne must not have paid attention to her daughter's every word, phrase, and gesture. When depression got the upper hand, as it so often did, Georgians could barely stand herself. She should have been perpetually vigilant; instead, she'd begun to relax just a little in the spring months. She couldn't have anticipated her husband's murder; nor could she have done anything to prevent it. But Bonnie was different, and now she had to live with the terrible thought that she had failed her daughter in the most important test of all.

'I misunderstood you, all that time. I really underestimated you. I always liked you, but I never took you as seriously as I should have, and that was a mistake. We missed out on a lot-I can see that now, and it was my fault, not yours. You were always the quiet one, and I guess I thought that meant you weren't interested or that you were kind of dull. I should have seen it for what it really was--a sign of maturity and intelligence. It didn't mean you weren't capable of having fun. You did have fun, and so did I, but we should have been together, sharing it. I always knew you were a solid guy, safe to be with and dependable. But there's more to you, and I'm sorry I missed it for so long. It was my fault, really. But thank God it's not too late. There's plenty of time left, we're still young, and we won't waste a minute of it. I'm yours now, only yours. Do anything you want to me, Jeff. I love you," Diane told him.

"Why don't you stay on here for a while?" Jack asked. 'Mere are plenty of worse places in the world than Chicago. You don't like Florida enough to want to live there, and is there really anything for you back in Connecticut? You're going to carry a lot of memories around with you for the rest of your life-there's no need to live in a place that'll make it even harder to forget."

"I know," Georgianne admitted quietly.

'You can find work here. You can take courses here if you want. And there are a lot of beautiful old buildings in the city. Have you taken a look at the architec ture? Chicago is an interesting city, and if you started drawing it, I bet you'd never want to stop."

"Maybe."

"Winter's a bitch-I have to tell you that. But it's not much worse here than in Connecticut, and, like Connecticut, you do get four definite, real seasons."

Georgianne smiled. "I get the idea, Mr. Weatherman."

"You know you can stay here with us for as long as you want," he went on. "Take your time and find an apartment or a condo that you really like, in a good neighborhood. Anyhow, give it some thought, Sis, and don't be in any hurry to make up your mind. There's no need for that."

No there isn't, Georgianne agreed silently. Just as well, too. She didn't want to stay in Chicago, or anywhere, but neither did she want to leave. She had nowhere to go, nowhere else to be. She didn't want to do anything but drift along with the days, bother no one, and sleep as much as possible. She would stay until she began to feel awkward and then, perhaps, she would move on or try to make some definite plan for herself.

"Yes," she said finally. "I am thinking about it."

The day Georgianne returned to the cemetery was bright, clear, and crisp, the picture of early autumn. The grass was still a rich green but it wore a scattering of leaves, the first to mark the season's change. In less than a year, she had buried a husband and a daughter there. It seemed impossible. A family had ceased to exist. As simple as that. Both stones were in place now. The names and dates told everything, and nothing. Georgianne imagined someone stopping there a hundred years in the future. Would that person notice that the man had died young? That the woman had died still a girl, less than a year later? Would that person even wonder about it? A mystery. A story lost in time. The names would mean nothing, but would merely indicate two more human beings restored to the anonymity of the earth. Maybe that is the story, the only story. It hurt to think that if she lived out a normal life span, Georgianne would eventually be the odd one of the three buried there, and sometimes she wondered if it wouldn't be better to join them now. Get it over with, accept the last portion of an abrupt fate. But they wouldn't want her like that. She could almost see Sean and Bonnie shaking their heads, saying, No, stay away, live. Georgianne arranged the flowers she had brought and sat for a while on the grass, thinking about all the good days and nights, the years she'd had with Sean and Bonnie, telling herself that in spite of what had happened she had for a long time been very lucky.

Georgianne sipped the hot drink carefully. Exquisite. The glass held Irish whiskey, a slice of lemon, sugar, cloves, a silver spoon, and water that had just boiled. She wanted to let the liquor take hold of her and make her feel better. But it was like drinking after a funeral-it didn't quite work. She'd been trying, with Bobbie Maddox's help, for several days now. They'd gotten tipsy, they'd even fallen asleep drunk a couple of times, but it still didn't quite work. Nothing did, nothing ever would. Georgianne was beginning to reconcile herself to that. But drinking with a friend was a distraction at least, sometimes fun and occasionally enough to diffuse the pain a little.

She had concluded all her business in Foxrock that day. She'd kept a few trunks of personal items in storage in Danbury, but everything else that had been in her home on Indian Hill Road was sold and gone. The last of the bills were paid, the papers signed and filed away.

Georgianne had more money in her checking account than ever before, and much larger sums secure in certificates of deposit. Burt wanted her to see a friend of his about investment planning. Money, money, money-not a cent of which she wanted or knew how to spend. It gave her nothing but a spurious, meaningless freedom.

Burt and Bobbie, like almost everyone else, had been more than kind. Georgianne stayed with them for five days, taking care of her personal business but mostly just talking, joking, and reminiscing over drinks. It was pleasant enough, and in some ways easier than being with relatives. She, however, grew increasingly aware of a difference. She was an odd person now, a detached wheel rolling about aimlessly.

Bobbie wanted her to buy a condo in the area, perhaps get her job back at the nursery school or take some courses at Western Connecticut State University in Danbury. Mrs. Slaton had suggested something like that in Tampa, Jack in Chicago. The options were always about the same, only the people and places varied. There was something wrong about it. Georgianne didn't know what, but she didn't like it. Freedom had a way of seeming to narrow down to practically nothing at all. It was true that she had more friends and acquaintances in the Danbury area than anywhere else, but after a few days at the Maddoxes, she'd begun to feel restless again. She didn't know if it was Foxrock, all the painful memories and the new feeling that she didn't, couldn't, belong there any more, or if it was some psychological compulsion to keep moving, but in either case she knew she had to leave.

"But why?" Bobbie asked, turning on the front burner to boil more water for the next round.

"I don't know," Georgianne said. "I've just seen my mother and my brothers, and their families, but I feel I have to go see them again. And there are other people and places I have to go. Friends I haven't seen in a while. I have to stay in touch, I have to see them."

"Whatever happened to that friend of yours?" Bobbie asked. "Oh ... I can't remember his name now."

"Which one?"

"The one from California. Good-looking man. He came here with you one night last fall."

"Oh ... Jeff Lisker."

"He's in computers or something like that."

"Yes, that's Jeff."

"Have you heard from him recently?"

"No, not in quite a while."

"He seemed nice."

"Yeah, Jeffs ... nice."

"I thought he was showing signs of interest in you," Bobbie persisted. "I mean, as more than just a friend."

"Maybe he was."

"Didn't he call you every week for a while there?"

"Yes, for a while. 'Twice a week."

"Aha. But nothing came of it?"

"No," Georgianne said, managing a slight smile. "He wanted to come and see me again, but I ... discouraged him, I guess. At the time, I just couldn't handle anything like that." The smile was gone. "Now, I don't think I'll ever be able to again."

"Now don't say that, Georgie."

"I mean it."

"Listen, that's what you think now," Bobbie said gently. "But sooner or later you're going to begin to feel you need someone. There's nothing wrong with that. It's perfectly natural. Your life is far from over, honey, but you just have to be careful. When the time comes, don't overreact. That's all. It's like after a divorce-so many people fall in love on the rebound, and it turns out to be a huge mistake. You know?"

"Yes, I know what you're saying." Georgianne didn't like comparing the violent and unnatural deaths of her husband and daughter with something as banal as divorce, but she knew Bobbie meant well. She gave a short pathetic laugh. "It's all so unreal, though. I'm not even ready to take on a one-room apartment, let alone another person."

Aunt Kitty and Uncle Roy gave Jeff the excuse he thought he needed to get in touch with Georgianne again. He could, of course, have picked up the tele phone and called her anytime, just to say hello and chat, but he had always resisted the temptation to do that. He had to let enough time go by, he kept telling himself; he had to wait. And when he did eventually make contact with Georgianne again, he would have to have a reason, something specific to hang it on. He hadn't spoken to her in months, and somehow that meant it would be wrong to call offhandedly, out of the blue.

He had talked with his aunt and uncle twice since he'd been east for his father's funeral. Now, in October, they arrived in Los Angeles for a few days of whirlwind sightseeing. They'd decided to spend some of the money from the sale of his father's house, and they'd joined the Ramblin' Rovers, a club that organized tours for groups of retired people. Aunt Kitty and Uncle Roy had already "done" Canada from Nova Scotia to Toronto, and had come to inspect fabled California.

Their days were well planned, with excursions to Hollywood, Disneyland, Knotts Berry Farm, the Cu- camonga winery and the Getty Museum. That made it easy for Jeff, who had only to give them a tour of Lisker-Benedictus, show them his condo, and take them out to dinner a couple of evenings.

"Did you go to school with any of the Slaton kids?" Aunt Kitty asked at one point when they were filling Jeff in on odd bits of Brass Valley news.

"Sure. I knew the Slatons," Jeff replied. It would never have occurred to him to mention Georgianne to his aunt and uncle, and he was a bit surprised by the question. "Georgianne was in my class. We were good friends. Why?"

"Georgianne," Uncle Roy said, nodding. "That's the one."

They told him the whole story of Bonnie's death, which was still regarded as a suicide, and of Sean's murder the year before. The Corcoran double tragedy had been widely reported and gossiped about in Millville, since Georgianne had been a local girl. Jeff acted astonished and saddened, but he learned nothing new.

He could call Georgianne and honestly explain that he had just heard about Bonnie. It was an excuse, a reason, a hook.

They would have to get the subject of Bonnie's death out of the way sooner or later. Enough time had passed. He would have to find out where she was, and what she was doing now.

A call to the Corcoran home revealed that the phone number had been reassigned. So the house was sold. Directory assistance advised him that there was no new listing for Georgianne Corcoran (or Slaton) in either Foxrock or Danbury. Therefore, she was out of there. So far, so good.

Next he called Doris Slaton in Florida. She remembered him, of course, but wasn't very helpful. She hadn't heard from Georgianne in a week or more. At that time her daughter had been visiting friends in Connecticut, and might still be there. Or she could be somewhere else by now, with her brother in Chicago, perhaps. In any event, Mrs. Slaton did expect to hear from her soon and would tell her that Jeff had called. Did he want Georgianne to call him? Yes, please, Jeff told her. Neither of them referred to Sean or Bonnie.

It would have to do, he decided. He didn't want to take it any further by calling the Maddoxes or Georgianne's brother in Chicago. And the more he thought about it, the more he liked the new situation. He had no doubt that Mrs. Slaton would keep her word and tell Georgianne about his call. It wasn't just an obligation, but something she would want to do. She knew Jeff from the old days and surely she'd want her daughter to talk with an old friend. Especially at a time like this. And Georgianne would have to return his call. That was it. Georgianne was incapable of being so rude as to ignore his call. All Jeff had to do was sit back and wait a little longer, a week, two at most. Georgianne would get in touch with him. And about time, too. Yes, he had done the right thing. It was turning out better than he had hoped.

A month later, he wasn't so sure. Thanksgiving was only a few days away. Georgianne had to be in Tampa again, to spend the holiday with her mother and brother. Where else could she be? Chicago, with the other brother? Possible, Jeff thought, but unlikely. The weather in Chicago would remind her too much of Connecticut, and Thanksgiving would be hard enough to take without that.

He hadn't heard a word from her. No call, no message, not even a click on the answering machine connected to his home phone. It didn't seem possible. Jeff didn't like it. It was worse than rude, it was a dismissal of their friendship, of ... everything.

It didn't make Jeff bitter; it frightened him. What was he supposed to do? Hit the road and track her down? Then what? No, he didn't like it at all. The possibilities seemed to be narrowing to a single dark option. He would hold off as long as possible, because when you acted out of desperation you were no longer in control of things. For the last year and a half, he had followed an elaborate, evolving plan. He didn't always understand it, and at times he thought he was just drifting aimlessly, but at every crucial point the plan had worked, and his instincts had proved correct. It would be a disastrous mistake to rush things now. Patience and perseverance were still the order of the day, and faith. With the right moves at the right time, sooner or later she would fall into his waiting arms.

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