The Lesson of Her Death

as she lay down like a struggling lover and saw for one short moment the darkening glow of the half-moon?
    …
the metaphors of violence abound
.…
    Corde reached forward and ran a finger along
metaphors of violence
and seemed to feel heat coming off the ink.
    “Metaphor, n. A figure of speech in which an object, idea or symbol is described by analogy.…”
    WHAT
…
    “Analogy, n. Correspondence between objects generally thought to be dissimilar …”
    …
IS HE TALKING
…
    “Correspondence, n. A similarity …”
    …
ABOUT?
    Corde leaned forward and pressed his eye sockets into his palms, hearing tiny pops of pressure.
    The motives of the poet are the motives of us all. The mind of the poet is the collective mind. But it is the poet—whether his psyche be that of saint or murderer—who perceives the world by the illumination of pure understanding, while others see only in reflected light
.
    Bill Corde turned to the last page of the article.
    Oh Lord …
    He stopped as if he’d been struck, feeling the throbbing as the blood pumped furiously through his neck. He reached forward and lifted the Polaroid from the binding of the journal.
    The snapshot had been taken recently, perhaps when the family had cooked supper outside just two evenings ago. He noticed the garbage can had not been righted after a storm last week. Sarah and Jamie stood around the barbecue looking down at the glowing coals. The picture had been taken from somewhere on theother side of the cow pasture in the forest. Almost the exact spot where Corde believed he had seen someone that night he’d kept his long vigil, shotgun-armed and shivering.
    Written across the surface of the photo in smeared red ink were the words: SAY GOOD-BYE, DETECTIVE.
    Diane Corde, feeling suddenly sheepish, told Ben Breck that she and the children were going to Wisconsin for several weeks.
    “What?” Breck asked, frowning.
    Diane lifted her hands to her eyes. Her burgundy nail polish was unchipped and her fingers, often red and leathery from the housework, were soft and fragrant with almond-scented lotion. “It’s the damn case again.”
    She explained that there’d been yet another threat by the killer. “Bill thought it was best if we went to visit my sister.”
    He hesitated and then whispered, “Two weeks?”
    She shrugged. “At least. Or until they catch this crazy man. Or find out he’s left town.”
    Breck’s downcast boyish face and his tone were identical to those of her first husband when she’d told him she had to spend a week with her mother, who’d fallen and broken her hip. It had been the first time they’d be apart and the young man’s face had revealed major heartbreak. Breck’s eyes now mirrored the poor man’s forlorn expression. This troubled and thrilled her.
    They heard a voice outside.
    In the backyard, Sarah Corde paced, speaking into her tape recorder like a Hollywood producer dictating memos. Tom, the familiar deputy guard, leaned against the fence rail, his head swiveling slowly like a scout’s in an old-time Western as he scanned the horizon for marauders.
    Breck and Diane stood in the dining room and watched Sarah silently. They stood one foot away fromeach other. Diane felt him touch her hair, the motion of his hand very gentle, as if he were afraid he might hurt her. She leaned her head against his shoulder then stepped away, both disappointed and grateful to hear him begin to speak suddenly about Sarah. “She’s coming along remarkably well. What a mind! The stories she comes up with are incredible.”
    “I’ve given Dr. Parker four tapes already. Her secretary’s transcribing the last of them.”
    He brushed his salt-and-pepper hair off his forehead in a boyish gesture.
    “She’s fortunate,” Breck said slowly, his eyes playing over Diane’s face. “She’s got a superior auditory processing system. That’s how I’m approaching her lessons, and it’s working very well.”
    Diane had recognized something about him. If he had a choice between a ten-dollar word and a twenty-five-cent word, he picked the big one. “Fortunate” instead of “lucky.” “Auditory processing,” not “hearing.” “Onerous.” “Ensconce.” With anyone else this habit would put her off; in Breck, she found it increased his charm.
    No. His “charisma.”
    He continued to speak about Sarah. This was unusual and she sensed he was propelled by nervousness. In most of these after-session get-togethers—usually in the