Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

tunnels of hell and eventually realizing he was dead and it was far too late for the salvation offered by John 3:16.
    Her first peek, however, suggested photographs.
    She pulled them out. Not photographs, but baseball cards.
    Ozzie Smith. Jack Clark. Willie McGee. Ted Simmons. A few scrub pitchers and utility infielders, the Julian Javiers of the world. And some older cards, Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Ken Boyer. And the last . . . probably the greatest Cardinal ever. Stan Musial. The Man.
    "Do you like them?" he asked, his eyes wide and serious.
    "Yes, they're wonderful!" she said. "My father used to give me baseball cards when I was little."
    Walter grinned at her happiness, his slightly crooked teeth making him look innocent and young. "One of my buddies gave them to me a long time ago. They were tucked away in a drawer. I got some others, too, but they ain't Cardinals."
    "That's really thoughtful of you," she said. "But I can't take these. They must be valuable."
    "Some of the old ones might be worth a little bit of money, but value is from what you care about them," Walter said. "I don't care that much. I bet you could care about them more."
    That made sense, in a strange kind of way. She studied the cards. Pieces of the past. But not a bad past, because in the photographs the outfield grass was green, the players smiled, and baseball was just a game.
    "Well, I'll let you go," Walter said. "Hope you have a good trip."
    "Thank you, Walter," was all she could think of to say. "This is the best thing to happen to me since I've been to Elkwood."
    He waved as he drove away, the cloth top off his Jeep, his hair ruffled by the wind.
    Julia sat on the couch and looked at the cards for a few minutes, read the statistics on the backs, spread them out on the coffee table. She arranged them into a lineup, setting the batting order by position. The smile felt good and rare on her face. She'd almost forgotten such simple, childish delights existed.
    She set the VCR to tape the evening's doubleheader, finished dressing, and drove to Charlotte-Douglas Airport, where she caught a jet. As the plane lifted off the runway, she embraced the freedom of flight and vowed to leave her mental baggage behind, even though she wasn’t sure what memories were tucked inside it.

 
     
    CHAPTER NINE
     
    On the approach to Memphis, Julia marveled at the lights of the big city, a million stars spread against a dark backdrop, the Mississippi like a galactic rift. After the months in the rural Blue Ridge Mountains, the crush of people at the airport seemed senseless, like a stampede of cattle into the slaughterhouse.
    Mitchell met her as she debarked. He wore his unbreakable lawyer's smile, a Rolex, a tailor-cut pinstriped suit, shoes so gleaming that he could check his dark, curly hair in them. Perfect Mitchell. Still perfectly, utterly the same as when she had last seen him, as when she had first seen him. He didn't age, only accumulated thicker layers of sameness.
    As he headed toward her at the luggage conveyor, she wondered why she couldn't be grateful for the stability he offered. All she had to do was say "Yes," and she could be Mrs. Austin by April. Sure, he would irk her from time to time, would grant only the perfunctory four minutes of intercourse before rolling over to call his stock broker, would pat her on the hand and call her his "Little Woman," would smother her with boring endeavors like tennis dates and new window treatments. But he would never, ever create a bad memory for her. In fact, she was quite sure that, after a lifetime with him, she would have very few memories at all.
    And that might not be such a bad thing.
    They hugged stiffly, him looming over her, trying to press her breasts against him. He kissed her cheek before finding her lips. No tongue, and she didn't offer hers. His cologne was musky and sweet.
    "You're looking great," he said, letting his eyes roam over her figure. If he noticed the weight she'd put on, he didn't say anything, but he might have been calculating its effect beside the country club's pool, and how a small bulge around the bikini lines might affect that complex formula of social standing. Arm candy couldn’t eat candy, at least not too much of it.
    "You're looking perfect, as usual," she said.
    "I work at it," he said. Truer words never spoken. Another thing about Mitchell, he was pretty honest for a lawyer.
    "Did you find out anything about my dad’s case?" she asked.
    "A little, but can't it