Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

sorry, I was just remembering that day when we found all those things.”
    “You were telling me about the letter.”
    “It was a letter we found in the bottom of one of the chests that had all the quilts. It’s what gave me the idea for writing my book.”
    “You wrote a book?”
    “Yes. I wrote a historical novel based on that and some other letters. He seemed really interested in them.”
    “Alfred?”
    “Yes. Anyway, he offered to buy them from us.”
    “The quilt and the letter.”
    “Yes.”
    Her voice had become very small again. Malloy paused to give her a moment and looked down at his notebook. Then gently he asked, “Can you tell me what he looked like?”
    Her voice remained flat and distant. “He was odd. He wore these thick glasses that made his eyes look buggy.”
    “How tall was he? Hair color, anything?”
    “He was maybe five foot eight inches, shorter than Malcom. And his hair, even though it was brushed, still looked like he had bed-head.”
    Before he could say anything else, she looked up, and with a strength that surprised him, asked, “Can I leave now?”
    He could tell that she wasn’t going to tell him anything else today, and this wasn’t an interrogation of a suspect. He couldn’t say no and he knew he would talk with her again. “Of course. Is there anyone I can call for you? Are you all right?”
    “No. Thank you. I just need to go home. I’ll be all right.”
    He looked at her closely. He knew that she wasn’t all right, but at times like this, a kind of survival instinct takes over and he was reasonably sure that she would get home fine. Tomorrow would be much tougher.
    They walked out of the morgue and drove back to the station. He opened her car door for her. He asked one more time, “Are you sure I can’t call anyone for you?”
    “I’m sure. I just need to go home.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes.”
    He couldn’t force her to stay. “Someone will be in touch with you about arrangements for your husband. Again, I am so very sorry for your loss.”
    It was dark and cold, made all the more so by the past few hours. He shivered. He watched her drive away slowly, but he continued to stand there in the cold and the dark, reflecting on what she had just told him. A sharp gust of cold air cut through him. “You son of a bitch. Whoever you are, I’ll get you.”

CHAPTER 60
    FOR POLLY, TIME BECAME A BLUR , an empty, timeless blur that began when she met Lieutenant Malloy at 3:30. She hardly remembered the ride home. She replayed the afternoon over and over in her mind, refusing to believe her new reality.
    Over the years, there had been times when she had spent an occasional night alone in the Inn, but she had never felt such overwhelming silence and emptiness. She heard nothing, felt nothing, and saw nothing, not even the flashing light on the answering machine. The night was spent in sleepless denial. as she walked through the empty rooms of the Inn one at a time, remembering. Their dreams, their hopes … everything was there and she tried to remember it all. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel his touch. Questions plagued her: did she tell him she loved him before he left for the race? Did she wish him good luck? She didn’t remember―no, she couldn’t remember. Tears came and went, but most of all she was consumed with an overwhelming emptiness. One moment she would tell herself that he would return soon, but she knew otherwise. He would not return; he would never walk through the door again.
    Dawn didn’t bring Malcom back to her, but it did bring sleep. Polly had no idea for how long she had been sleeping when she heard the phone ringing. At first, it seemed a part of her dreams, but as she lay there and the fog of sleep began to lift, she started to call out to Malcom to get the phone. Then everything from the previous day came rushing back with a crushing, paralyzing finality. Malcom would never answer the phone again and at that moment neither could she.
    * * *
    Max had tried calling before she went into work and again just before the doors opened. Neither call was answered, nor could she leave a message on the Inn’s answering machine because its recording said it was full.
    “Hi there.”
    Her back was turned toward the entrance to the bar when a deep, slightly nasal voice startled her. She hadn’t heard anyone come in. She turned. Facing her, sitting at the bar, was a man with a narrow face. His hair had the look of a failed