Stillness & Shadows by John Gardner (accelerated reader books TXT) 📕

windowsill a few feet away from him, gray rain behind him, the sky off-color, the breeze coming in through the window unnaturally warm. “Could turn into tornado weather yet,” Craine said.

Royce glanced past his shoulder, annoyed, then looked back at his glass. He seemed to struggle over something—whether to take another sip of whiskey or a puff at his cigarette—then abruptly raised the cigarette to his lips and sucked in hard. His collar was open, flattened by the holster belt, and it came to Craine that what Royce wore on his hairy chest was not a religious medallion but some kind of war trophy, a piece of shrapnel, or what was left of a bullet. He smiled, then noticed Royce’s eyes on him.

“What you grinning about?” Royce said. Craine tipped his head back and pretended to close his eyes, still smiling. “You’re a damn good man, Royce. God only knows what I’d do without you.

“Bullshit,” Royce said, a small explosion, not loud but fierce.

“You are a good man.” He opened his eyes again, innocent, and leaned forward.

“That’s not what I mean.” He launched his hand out at Craine, the cigarette dangling between two fingers. “I was thinking of coming here and blowing your head off. Whattiya think of that?”

Craine made his face incredulous.

“You’re a foxy bastard.” He shook the outstretched hand in warning. “Shit only knows what goes on in that fucked-up head of yours. But I’ve had it. I’m telling you.”

Royce was squinting, talking like a killer on TV. Craine made his face not just incredulous but scared, and suddenly Royce lost his nerve, or got confused, drew his hand back and took a gulp from his drink. Behind him, the rain fell harder, the sky had gone darker. “That stunt you pulled yesterday. Shit.” He shook his head.

“Yesterday?” Craine said. He patted his pockets to find his pipe and, exaggerating clumsiness, drew it out.

“Jesus Christ, Craine!” Royce said. It was almost a wail.

“Oh, that!” Craine said. He sat forward as if alarmed and with the back of the hand that held the pipe momentarily covered his eyes. At last he lowered his hand, eyes closed, and took in a deep, slow breath.

“You know something?” Royce said. When Craine looked at him, guilty, Royce was holding his empty glass out, eyes remote. “I don’t believe one fucking word of this. Everything you’re doing, I’d bet you a hundred dollars it’s a fucking act.”

Craine shook his head and, with a start, as if he’d just noticed, reached down for the bottle by his shoes and held it out to fill Royce’s glass. “Hard bet to prove either way,” he said sadly.

“Lie detector?” Royce said.

Craine shook his head and drew the bottle back. “I’m not a betting man. Matter of principle. But I acted pretty crazy, I won’t deny it. Whole thing had me spooked.”

Royce drank. “Bullshit,” he said when he’d swallowed.

“You think I wasn’t spooked?” Now he put on a keen look.

“Whatever you were, count me out from now on. I quit.”

“You quit?” He got out his tobacco and poked his pipe in to stuff it, hands trembling. He pretended he was thinking, trying to understand it. He was, of course, thinking. He should thank his lucky stars Emmit Royce was quitting, yet here he was fighting it—fighting it, it seemed to him, for Royce’s sake. Nobody’d take a man like Royce up in Chicago, and he’d never get an agency moving on his own. Garbage man? Job with the fire department? Yet it wasn’t entirely for Royce’s sake, of course. It wasn’t Royce’s fault, what happened yesterday. He felt something near him, crouching, and glanced past his shoulder. Craine lit his pipe and took quick little puffs, then lowered it and raised his hand unsteadily to drink. In a minute he’d be flat on his ass again, yet it seemed to him his mind was quick and clear.

“I’ll tell you what you’re missing, Royce,” he said. He leaned toward him, dead serious. “You think there were three of us yesterday—you, me, the girl. But there were four of us. That’s what you’re missing.”

Royce glanced at him. “Bullshit.”

“Call Hannah,” he said. “Ask her.”

“You crazy bastard! I got a hundred dollars says—”

“Call her,” Craine said.

Royce stared at him, then down at the cigarette. “You telling me that murderer she thinks she saw in Chicago—”

“I don’t say it was the same man,” Craine said carefully. “I’m only saying there was somebody, and he was there again this morning when I took the girl to breakfast, and if you’ll just move your ass to that phone and call Hannah—”

Royce thought about it, taking slow drags on the cigarette, then pursed his lips, ground the cigarette out, and looked over at the phone on the desk. “You’re trying to make me believe,” he said, “that when we put her in the sandwich who you thought I was was—”

Craine said nothing, crazy with glee, heart racing.

At last Royce stood up and went over to the phone. He stared at the dial as if he’d never really looked at one before, then lifted the receiver, jutted out one finger and dialed.

Craine drank while Royce talked, laughing inwardly, like a witch. When Royce was finished he came back and stood in front of Craine with his hands on his hips. “They got him down there now,” he said. “Meakins brought him in this afternoon. Havin a little talk with him.”

“No foolin,” Craine said.

Royce nodded to himself. “Some graduate student, Hannah says. Girl had a class with him.”

“Hot dog!” Craine said. “We should get in on it.”

Royce was still shaking his head, grinning now. His right hand came up to scratch the hair on his chest. “You foxy old shit,” he said. For an instant, his face clouded. “All the same you could’ve blown my damn head off.”

“I know that,” Craine said, but he couldn’t stop grinning. “You got your car down there?”

Royce nodded, scratching on. “I still don’t believe you,” he said. “I don’t believe one fucking