Donald Bennett stood frozen for a moment, confused even though he had heard the gunshot, and watched the woman in the fleece jacket lift in the air slightly before hitting the ground like a head-shot doe. He’d been giddy with excitement all morning at the thought of getting revenge on his new buddy’s girlfriend, but now he wasn’t sure what was happening. He just knew it was something bad.
He didn’t hear the next shot, the one that hit him in the dead center of his chest.
When Fischer got to his Equinox, stowing his rifle in his trunk, he detected the faint sound of a distant siren, probably nothing to do with him. But, still, he felt suddenly exposed out in the daylight, in a quarry with two dead bodies and only one exit. He made the quick decision to leave the bodies where they had fallen and drove out of the quarry as fast as he could. When he’d first started in this business, he’d been meticulous about covering up his crimes, but over the years, he worried less and less about it. In real life, the police just weren’t as good as TV shows and movies made them out to be.
As he was leaving the peninsula, a police car went past him going the other way. Maybe the gunshots had been reported, but he was already turning south on Route 1. He looked at his watch, realized that if he pushed through without stopping, he could be back in bed with his wife by midnight.
FIVE
1
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 6:00 P.M.
It was drizzling rain, but the walk from his house to his neighbor’s was less than fifty yards, so Jack Radebaugh wasn’t wearing any kind of jacket when he pushed the doorbell, cradling two bottles of wine in his free arm.
Margaret answered the door, and for a moment he thought he might have the wrong night because a look of surprise, or maybe fright, crossed her face. But then she said, “Oh, I told you to bring nothing, and you bring two bottles of wine.” She held out her hands and he handed her the wine.
“I didn’t know what we’d be having so I brought a bottle of red and a bottle of white.”
“Come in. Eric just called and he’s leaving the office now, so he’ll be here any minute.”
“It smells delicious in here,” Jack said.
“Braised beef ribs. I hope that’s okay.”
“It sounds perfect.”
Margaret led him to a high-ceilinged living room and indicated an expensive-looking white couch for him to sit on. On the coffee table in front of the couch was a platter of appetizers. Rounds of bread topped with a little bit of smoked salmon, a dollop of what looked like sour cream, and a sprinkling of chives.
“What can I get you to drink?” Margaret said. She was wiping her hands along her corduroy skirt, and Jack thought she seemed nervous, or if not nervous, then harried. There was a sheen of sweat along her forehead.
“Well, what do you have?”
“I can make you whatever you’d like. Be creative.”
Jack asked for a gin martini, and Margaret disappeared into the kitchen to make him one. He looked around the room, which was immaculate but a little sparse. There was no clutter, and nothing particularly personal about it. There were also no bookshelves or books, which struck Jack as odd since Margaret was a librarian.
She returned with his drink just as the front door opened, and Eric shouted out, “Sorry, sorry,” very loudly into the house. Margaret spilled a little of the gin as she handed him the large martini glass. He took an immediate sip and set it down on the coffee table, standing up just as Eric walked into the living room, shedding a raincoat.
“Yep, I’m an asshole,” Eric said. “The guest is already here, and I’m just coming in.” He was talking theatrically, as though he were trying to project out to some nonexistent back row.
“I just got here,” Jack said, reaching a hand over the couch to shake Eric’s hand, bracing himself for the tight squeeze.
“Hey, I know that you don’t think I’m an asshole, but this one does.” He grinned at Margaret, who seemed embarrassed.
“As far as I know, I’ve never in my life called you an asshole, and you are right on time, Eric, so no worries.”
“So she says. Look, do I have time to grab a beer and a shower and get back down here in time for dinner or would that fuck everything up?”
“It’s fine with me,” Jack said, at the same time as Margaret said, “Not a problem.”
After Eric had grabbed a can of beer, then gone upstairs for his shower, Jack told Margaret how much he liked the martini.
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you. It’s funny. I used to make them for my dad, when I was a little kid. Doesn’t sound appropriate now, I guess.”