The World's Finest Mystery Part 36

"I've never known an ex-convict," she said. "I got married young, moved to Wilmette with my husband, an accountant. Got a college degree in not much of anything, joined groups. Not a very interesting biography. Your life?"

He still stood looking at her. He stood for a long, slow thirty seconds before he spoke.

"Lived with my mother in Wisconsin," he said. "Small house, right on Lake Michigan, just below the Michigan border. Lots of land. No money. My father died when my sister and I were babies. I wasn't much of a student in school. I wasn't much of a son. I wasn't any kind of a brother. Loner, quiet. Started with small crimes, stealing cars. There was a chop shop in Madison my friend and I used to drive them to. His name was Charlie. He wasn't much of a friend. Spent his money getting drunk... and on women. We were kids. Sure you want to hear this?"

"I'm sure," she said curling her legs under her.

Ringerman could see that she had good, long legs.

"I split with Charlie when we were both twenty-five," he said leaning back against the wall, not drinking his coffee. "Went on my own. Safer."

"Your mother?"

"She didn't know. I told her I was driving a truck. She worked in a shop that rented uniforms till her legs gave out. She got disability, read, watched television, mostly game shows. Wheel of Fortune was her pa.s.sion. She actually said that. I just remembered. "Wheel of Fortune is my pa.s.sion." I'd drive days away, as far as Duluth or outside Chicago or Fort Wayne, put something, cheap mask, stocking, over my face, point a gun in the face of a department store manager or a jewelry store owner, take the cash and get out of town. I'd wear gloves, do all the right things and never go near the same town twice. I'd always use a cheap stolen car, a car I stole from somewhere about twenty miles from the place I'd hit. After, I'd drive the car back to where I'd parked my car out of sight, wipe it down. Did all right. Then..."

"Then," she said looking up at him intently.

"Got greedy, getting older, almost thirty-five, and getting greedy. I was doing fine, but not big fine. I decided to go for a bank. Not inside where they have the alarms you can't stop and people ready to be heroes. Or maybe someone gets scared and runs even with a shotgun leveled at them. I decided to take the armored car at the end of a pickup day. Come at the guard, stick the shotgun in his face, grab what he had in both hands, cut the truck tires, back the guard up to my stolen car to keep the armored car driver from helping and get away fast. It was all worked out. I checked the bank out for a week eating at a McDonald's across the street, sitting in the parking lot of the mall where the bank was, reading a book. Had it all worked out."

"But?" she asked.

"But," he repeated. "Everything went down perfectly. Truck, tires, guard, gun, bags. A few people were watching, but I didn't care. None of them moved. You never know. When I was backing up with the guard, a little kid, a boy no more than five or six, got away from his mother who was watching. She screamed. The kid ran at me, grabbed my leg and wouldn't let go. I tried to shake him loose, but I had the shotgun at the guard's neck, two heavy bags in the other hand and my eyes on the doors of the armored car. The kid bit me."

"Too much television," she said.

"He wanted to be a superhero," Ringerman said pushing away from the wall and moving to the chair across from her. "I told the guard to get the kid off of me but my time was running out. The whole thing had broken down. The guard made a halfhearted move to get the kid loose, but the kid's mother was running fast at me and only a few yards away."

"And you got caught?"

"Gave up," he said after taking a long drink of coffee. "If I believed in astrology I'd have said the stars and planets were against me. The kid was a hero. They said I would have gotten away with two hundred thousand and change. Instead I wound up with fourteen years and change, the change being three months. They tied me to some of the other smaller jobs I'd done. I did ten years with good behavior. Could have been worse, much worse. More coffee?"

"I don't think so," she said.

"My mother was seventy-nine and ailing," he said. "She died a few months after I went in. Since the job had been done in Illinois, I did my time in Stateville."

"How long have you been out?" she asked.

"Three months, four days," he said. "Three months, four days."

"And now?"

"I'm on parole. I drive a bus up and down Western Avenue, report to a parole officer, mind my business."

Ringerman smiled.

"Am I missing a joke?"

"I don't know. Just kind of funny that I wear a uniform now instead of looking at other people wearing them."

"And you built your own prison cell," she said looking at the barred window and then at the bolted, reinforced door.

"What did you study in college, psychology?"

"A little of lots of things," she said. "Nothing to make a living with. I think I should be going."

She stood, barefoot, and handed the empty mug to Ringerman, who stood to take it. Then she just stood there looking at him. He looked back.

"Have you... it's none of my business, but have you been with a woman since you've gotten out?"

"Yes, twice," he said. "Paid for it."

"You're a good-looking man," she said. "I wouldn't think you'd have to pay."

"That's the way I wanted it," he said.

"This is crazy," she said with a laugh, shaking her head, looking up at the ceiling and then back at him. "Would you like, do you want? I mean with me?"

Ringerman clinked the two empty mugs together.

"You mean? ..."

"Yes," she said. "Before I change my mind. I've never done anything like this before, not even remotely like this. We're strangers. We'll never see each other again. One time. No more. Never again."

He stood looking at her and she looked at him.

"Not your type?" she asked.

"My type covers a lot of possibilities," he said. "You're a very beautiful woman."

"Thanks, but?"

"No 'but'," he said.

"You have protection. I mean..."

"I have," he said. "You sure you want this?"

"I'm sure," she said. "I'm very sure."

She moved in front of him, reached for the top b.u.t.ton of his denim shirt, paused and then leaned forward to kiss him. They were about the same height. After a few seconds, he put his arms around her and kissed her, feeling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest.

"I feel you," she said pulling her face a few inches back.

He saw her full lips, her white, even teeth. He nodded his head.

"Before I panic, before I change my mind, before..." She paused. "The bedroom?"

He turned his head toward the closed door next to the bookcase.

"You want to know my name?" she asked.

"Make one up," he said.

"Emma," she said. "Emma Bovary."

"Emma Bovary," he repeated.

"I'll go in first," she said. "Please. I need a minute, just a half minute. This is crazy... I need a minute. Please, wait till I call you."

"I'll wait," he said.

She hurried into the bedroom and began to take off her clothes. She did it carefully, laying each item out on a chair, not taking time to look at the paintings on the bedroom wall. The bed was narrow. A single. She and her husband had a king-size. When she was naked, she looked around for a mirror to examine herself in. There wasn't one. She got into the bed and called, "Ringerman."

He appeared in the doorway, stripped down to his undershorts. She knew he was freshly showered and she knew his body was strong and hard. She searched for the tattoo. He moved to the bed, sat beside her and touched her breast.

"Oh, G.o.d," she said sitting up. "I forgot something in my purse. I'll be right back."

Ringerman sat, back straight, looking at one of the ten paintings in the room. It was of his mother's house, now supposed to be his house, at least as he had remembered it. If it were still standing, it was probably smaller, probably in worse shape than he recalled. Probably not quite so close to the ma.s.sive cold lake of dead, dark black and blue.

He could hear her go into her purse.

When she came back into the room, he was still looking at the painting. He did not turn his head toward her.

"That was our house," he said.

"I know," he heard her voice, soft, not at all confident.

Then he turned his head.

She stood there with a small gun in her hand. She was quite beautiful. He knew how old she was but her body was young, straight. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were high, not large.

"I'm going to kill you," she said.

He nodded, unsurprised. His lack of surprise or fear made her shake slightly, but she was determined.

"You're not afraid," she said.

"No," he answered.

"I want you to be afraid," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not much of an actor."

"Don't you want to know why I'm going to kill you? You think I'm just some crazy robber?"

"No," he said.

"I've been having you watched for weeks," she said. "Since you got out. I've been having you watched."

"By a little man, neat, not much hair," he said.

"Ye-Yes."

He nodded.

"I wanted to know where you lived, what you did, where you shopped. When I knew, I paid him and ended his services. He told me you were a very careful man."

Ringerman looked at the painting again.

"You learn to be careful in prison," he said. "Still you get scars. If you survive, you have scars."

There was another rumble beyond the room. The windows in here were also barred. The rumble this time was distant thunder. The sun was still shining.

"When you dropped your wallet, I saw my chance. Are you interested in this?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then look at me. Look at me."

There was a distinct edge to her voice now. Ringerman turned his head to look at her.

"Do you know who I am?"

"You're not Emma Bovary anymore," he said.

"I never was."

"No."

"My name is Charlotte Brenner. The name doesn't mean anything to you?"

"No."

"Before I married, it was Charlotte Dianne Glicken, a name given to me by my adoptive parents, and before that for a few days it was Charlotte Ringerman," she said. "I'm your sister, your twin sister. The Scorpio born less than an hour after your sign, Libra, had ended and mine had begun."

She looked at him for a reaction. There was none.

"I was the one they chose to give up for adoption," she went on. "You were the one they chose to keep. The boy. The boy who became an armed robber and went to jail."

"Prison."

"Prison," she repeated.

"So you're going to shoot me because our parents gave you up for adoption and you blame me? You've been holding this inside and now because our parents are dead you hold me responsible?"

"Yes."

"No," he said shaking his head. "It doesn't make sense. Resentment, maybe, but hate? No, unless you're crazy. I've known people in prison and out who killed for crazy reasons. There was a kid named Ramirez two cells down from me, in for drug dealing. Low-level stuff but he got caught and the Dade County attorney wanted numbers. Ramirez was a number. He was twenty-four when he took his sharpened spoon in the yard and started stabbing everyone he could reach who had a wife and kids. He went right by the single guys, young, old, black, Mexicans, me. Just started stabbing. Killed five, hurt the h.e.l.l out of two more. One of them, Ian Plickwell, lost his voice box. Ramirez went for a guard. Guard was shaking, p.i.s.sed in his pants. Guards weren't armed in the yard. Ramirez went down and out with two shots from a tower guard."