The Innocent
He knew it was wrong. He knew the odds were much greater that the gun would lead to disaster rather than salvation. But there it was. And now, with the world caving in on him, he was eyeing it for the first time since he’d bought it.
The phone startled him. He quickly closed the lockbox, as if someone had suddenly entered the room, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Guess what I was doing when you called.”
It was Cingle.
“I’m sorry,” Matt said. “I know it was late.”
“No, no. Guess. C’mon. Okay, forget it, I’ll tell you. I was putting out for Hank. He takes forever. I was getting so bored I almost picked up mid, er, thrust. But men, well, they’re so sensitive, you know?”
“Cingle?”
“What’s up?”
“The pictures you downloaded from my phone.”
“What about them?”
“Do you have them?”
“You mean the files? They’re at the office.”
“Did you blow them up?”
“My tech guy did, but I haven’t had a chance to study them.”
“I need to see them,” Matt said. “Blown up, that is.”
“Why?”
“I have a thought.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yes, uh oh. Look, I know it’s late, really late, but if you could meet me down at your office—”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on my way.”
“I owe you.”
“Time and a half,” Cingle said. “See you in forty-five minutes.”
He grabbed his keys—he was sober enough now to drive—jammed his cell phone and wallet into his pocket, started for the door. Then he remembered the Mauser semiautomatic. It was still on the desktop. He considered his next move.
He picked up the gun.
Here was something that they never tell you: Holding a gun feels great. On television, the average person always acts all repulsed when the gun is first handed to them. They make a face and say, “I don’t want that thing!” But the truth is, having a gun in your hand—the cold steel against your skin, the weight in your palm, the very shape, the way your hand naturally coils around the grip, the way your index finger slides into the trigger loop—it feels not only good, but right and even natural.
But no, he shouldn’t.
If he somehow got caught carrying a piece, with his record, there would be huge problems. He knew that.
But he still jammed the gun into the waist of his pants.
When Matt opened his front door, she was walking up the stoop. Their eyes met.
Matt wondered if he would have recognized her had he not just heard her name from Lance and listened to the message on the machine. Hard to say. The hair was still short. That tomboyish quality remained. She looked very much the same to him. Again there was something to that—to running into adults you only knew as kids in elementary school, how you can still recognize them by seeing the small child there.
Loren Muse said, “Hey, Matt.”
“Hey, Loren.”
“Long time.”
“Yeah.”
She managed a smile. “Do you have a second? I need to ask you a few questions.”
Chapter 23
STANDING ON HIS FRONT STOOP, Matt Hunter asked, “Is this about that nun at St. Margaret’s?”
Loren was startled by that one, but Hunter held up his hand.
“Don’t get excited,” he said. “I know about the nun because Lance already questioned me.”
She should have known. “So you want to fill me in?”
Matt shrugged, didn’t say anything. She pushed past him, stepped into his foyer, and took a look around. Books were piled everywhere. Some had fallen, looking like crumbling towers. There were framed photographs on the table. Loren studied them. She picked one up.
“This your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty.”
“Yes.”
She put the picture down and turned to him. It would be corny to say that his past was written on his face, that prison had somehow not only changed the inside, but the outside as well. Loren wasn’t a fan of that stuff. She didn’t believe the eyes were the windows to the soul. She had seen killers with beautiful, kind eyes. She had met brilliant people who had that open-eyed vacancy thing going on. She had heard jurors say, “I knew he was innocent the minute he walked in the court—you can just tell” and knew that it was total, awful nonsense.
But that said, there was something in Matt Hunter’s stance, in the tilt of the chin maybe, in the line of the mouth. The damage, the defensiveness, emanated from him. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but it was there. Even if she hadn’t known that he’d served hard time after a fairly comfortable childhood, would she still feel this unmistakable vibe?
She thought the answer was yes.
Loren couldn’t help but think back to Matt as a kid, a good, goofy, sweet-natured kid, and a pang of sorrow skipped through her.
“What did you tell Lance?” she asked.
“I asked him if I was a suspect.”
“A suspect in what?”
“In anything.”
“And what did he say?”
“He was evasive.”
“You’re not a suspect,” she said. “Not yet anyway.”
“Whew.”
“Was that sarcasm?”
Matt Hunter shrugged. “Could you ask your questions quickly? I have to be someplace.”
“Have to be someplace”—she repeated, making a production of checking her watch—“at this hour?”
“I’m something of a party animal,” he said, stepping back onto the stoop.
“I somehow doubt that.”
Loren followed. She glanced about the neighborhood. There were two men drinking out of brown paper bags and singing an old Motown classic.
“That the Temptations?” she asked.
“Four Tops,” he said.
“I always mix those two up.”
She turned back to him. He spread his hands.
“Not exactly Livingston, is it?” Matt said.
“I heard you’re moving back.”
“It’s a nice town to raise a family.”
“You think?”
“You don’t?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go back.”
“That a threat?”
“No, that’s meant to be literal. I, me, Loren Muse, would never want to live there again.”