A Stillness in Bethlehem(115)

Gregor Demarkian got a surprised look on his face that Stuart remembered from grade school. It was the look of a teacher whose prize pupil has just asked a monumentally stupid question.

“Because one of those photos was recognizable, of course,” Demarkian said. “That’s what all this has been about from the beginning. One of those photographs was recognizable.” Demarkian turned toward the Inn and frowned again. “It’s really too bad, in a way,” he said, “because I don’t think Tisha Verek would ever have picked it up on her own. Not from what I’ve heard of her, anyway. I think the first recognition came with your mother. I don’t know. I’m making this up. From what I’ve heard of Tisha Verek, she wasn’t a woman I would have liked. So I’m trying to give your mother all the insight. Maybe I’m wrong.”

“If it’s because the picture was recognizable,” Stuart asked, “why hasn’t someone tried to kill Jan-Mark Verek?”

“Because the picture’s only recognizable to someone who’s seen the person herself. And Jan-Mark Verek does not see many people in this town. Not if he can help it.”

“That’s true,” Stuart admitted. “What about Gemma Bury? Did she see the picture?”

“No. She was looking through a window on the third floor of the Episcopalian rectory when Tisha Verek was killed. Those windows look directly down into the Verek driveway.”

“You mean she saw Tisha killed?”

“I mean she saw Tisha’s killer, although I don’t think she realized it at the time.”

“What happens now?” Stuart asked. “Do you get all the suspects into a large room and reveal the solution? Who are the suspects?”

“Right now I go over and get changed, just like I told you I was going to do. Then I make a phone call. After that, I don’t know what anybody could do. Have a good evening, Mr. Ketchum.”

“Oh, I will,” Stuart Ketchum said. “Soon as I can get my adrenaline down.”

“Work on it,” Demarkian told him. Then he turned away and walked rapidly across the street.

Stuart watched him go, a big, tall, middle-aged man totally out of place on this country Main Street, a man of long coats and hard leather shoes in a world made for parkas and cleated boots. He should have looked ridiculous, but he did not. Stuart thought he looked a lot like salvation. Before they had begun talking, Stuart had been ready to walk out—into what, or where, he had no idea, but out, away from here, away from the kind of people who could shoot rifles at women sitting in half-filled bleachers and threaten a man for no other reason than that he was mentally retarded. Now Stuart felt as if it all fit into something larger, a western movie with common sense in the white hat and hysteria in the black, and if he just put his mind to it, he could be part of it. It was silly, of course, but that was the way Demarkian made him feel. Stuart had had a sergeant like that in the army.

Sometimes, Stuart had a terrible feeling he was that sort of man himself.





4


Kelley Grey had gotten hold of Franklin Morrison, and now Candy George could see them both standing just inside the entrance to the dressing-room tent, talking to each other. That was all well and good, but it didn’t solve Candy’s problem, which was what to do about Reggie, who was not back home in the basement where she had left him. Candy hadn’t really expected him to be. She had told Kelley Grey all about it, and all about where the basement windows were and how strong Reggie was and also how the doors wouldn’t hold him, but Kelley was one of that alien breed, a woman who had never known a man like this. She had no idea what could happen. She had no idea what someone like Reggie could do.

Candy had a very detailed idea of what Reggie could do, and that was why she was watching him now, staying out of sight behind the flap to the dressing room she shared with Cara Hutchinson and Mrs. Johnson. He was going in and out of the dressing rooms on the other side of the corridor, the ones that belonged to the men. He was calling out to people he knew and laughing hard, as if he didn’t care who was around who might hear. He had been here before and nobody thought anything of the fact that he was here again. Kelley and Franklin didn’t know he was anywhere near them. There was a lot of noise in this tent, and they were so close to the flap they were probably hearing sounds from outside. The animals were kept back there. Every once in a while, Candy heard the donkey braying.

There were five dressing rooms on either side of the corridor, all of them tiny, all of them cold. It was a blessing nobody really had to do any dressing in any of them. Since there were no costume changes, actors came dressed for their parts every night and used the “dressing rooms” just to dress, or to repair make-up when it became necessary. Candy didn’t repair make-up because she didn’t use any. She had always used a great deal, ever since she was ten or eleven years old, because her friends had used it and because her stepfather had liked to see her in it—just like Lolita, he used to say, just like Lolita—but here in this place that was hers she didn’t like it. It helped that the distance between the gazebo where she spent most of her time and the stands was such that not having any on made no real difference. Cara Hutchinson was always slathering her face with foundation and rouge, but Candy couldn’t see that anyone in the bleachers would be able to tell. Or that it would do much good even if they could.