Living Witness(83)

“Do you think Mrs. Cornish went to Hell?” Barbie asked.

“We can never tell who goes to Hell and who doesn’t,” Alice said, because that was the right thing to say. She’d heard about it in church. No matter how bad you thought a person was, no matter what awful things she’d done, you couldn’t read her heart. Only God could read her heart. Only God could know for sure.

“I think Mrs. Cornish is in Hell,” Barbie said. “I think she’s there right now, screaming for somebody to help her, and nobody will. I think Mallory Cornish is going to Hell one of these days, too. I hate them, did you know that, Mama? I hate all those people from the development. I even hate the way they talk.”

“You shouldn’t hate,” Alice said, still being conscientious. She could sympathize with Barbie. You shouldn’t hate, the Bible said so, but then it said you were supposed to hate the sin and not the sinner. But that didn’t make much sense, either. How could you do that?

“I know I shouldn’t hate,” Barbie said, looking as if she were about to drift off to sleep. “I know that. But she said you were a murderer. She said you killed her mother.”

“What?”

“She said you were a murderer,” Barbie repeated. “Right there in front of the office at school. She said you’d killed her mother and you were going to go to the death chamber and have a lethal injection and then your body was going to rot in the ground and worms were going to come out of it. She said it over and over again.”

“She probably wasn’t thinking straight,” Alice said. It was something she’d said already, but she couldn’t think of any new words.

“I knew she was talking trash,” Barbie said. “I knew it. But there’s that man here, the one not from here, helping the police, and I thought he might not know she was talking trash, and she might get you in trouble. Are you going to get in trouble, Mama?”

“No, no, of course not,” Alice said. “You should try taking a nap now. I should go call your father and get something done about this prescription.”

“She’s probably in Hell right this minute,” Barbie said. “She’s probably burning up in the flames and wailing for mercy, but you don’t get any mercy in Hell, do you, Mama?”

“No,” Alice said.

“Well,” Barbie said. “That’s good then. That makes me feel better.”





THREE





1




Gregor Demarkian didn’t spend much time at crime scenes anymore. One of the better aspects of being a consultant, instead of part of a regular force, was that he didn’t have to. The crime scenes were often ancient history by the time he showed up. On the other hand, one of the better aspects of being a consultant instead of a private detective was that he was allowed onto crime scenes when they happened in front of his face, and he only wished he could learn to stand the boredom and the confusion they inevitably entailed. This crime scene was mostly confusion, with nobody really in charge. Gary Albright had not left, but he was leaning back against his police car, being careful not to contaminate anything. Tom Fordman and Eddie Block were trying, but it was obvious that they had little experience. Gregor had no idea what the procedures were in this department, except in a sort of vague and general way. It gave him a great sense of relief when the crime scene technicians from the state police arrived, although it seemed to make everybody else nervous.

“He’ll be along in a bit,” Gary told Gregor, meaning, Gregor presumed, this man named Dale Vardan, but there was no sign of him yet, and Gary Albright wasn’t talking.

Gregor looked over at the Volvo sitting in the drive. There were police cars all around it now, but the woman inside it didn’t seem to have moved for hours. She had her head against the steering wheel and her arms wrapped around it. Gregor looked back at the big, old house, thinking how odd it really was that there was a time when houses like this had been in vogue, and then walked out to the Volvo and the woman there. Niederman, he remembered, feeling a little relieved. It was Mrs. Niederman.

Gregor knocked against the driver’s-side window. Mrs. Niederman put her head up and looked out. It was colder than she was expecting it to be. She pulled her coat more closely around her chest.

“Hello,” she said.

“I’m Gregor Demarkian,” he said. “We did meet, a little while ago—”

“I know who you are,” she said. She looked up and around. “It’s cold. I want to put the window up.”

“Could I come around and sit in the car with you?” Gregor asked. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”