Read Online Act of Betrayal by Shirley Kennett - Free Book Online
Authors: Shirley Kennett
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said goodnight, Dr. Gray. Give Detective Schultz my sympathies.”
“Oh, of course. Goodnight.”
PJ closed the door behind him, feeling what could only be described as horny, a response out of sync with the day’s events. She wondered if the bartender had spiked her orange juice or if Schultz’s persistently roaming hands had sparked her sex drive.
Upstairs, PJ changed into her pajamas and splashed water on her face at the bathroom sink. Finally, she was tired—drained—and no remnant of her earlier response to Al Baker remained.
She went into Thomas’s room and let her eyes adjust to the low level of light provided by a night-light next to his bed. He was sleeping on his stomach, with one leg completely off the bed and his face turned away from her. He had surrendered his pillow to Megabite, who curled there like the Queen of All Cats, paid her due by her humans. Megabite’s eyes opened slightly, showing little slices of the cat life within that never slept deeply.
All she could see above the blanket was Thomas’s hair, disarrayed and blacker than the moonlit night sky outside his window. In the dim light she could make out the cluttered top of his dresser, and a photo frame standing there. She couldn’t see the picture in the frame, but she knew it was of Schultz with his arm on Thomas’s shoulder, the day they had all gone to a baseball game together. Schultz had bought her son a Cardinals cap. The picture had caught the moment, a half-smile on Schultz’s face and lines pinched between his eyebrows, Thomas grinning and giving a thumbs-up, black eyes full of life, the red hat barely containing his exuberant hair.
The image of Schultz’s son appeared in front of her, and the remembered smell of death filled her nostrils. She was glad it wasn’t her son. She turned and left the room in which Thomas slept, thankfully alive, and felt guilty for the selfish thought.
When Schultz arrived home he climbed the stairs to the front door accompanied by the satisfying clinks of three fifths of Scotch bumping together inside their sturdy brown bag. The house was dark, and he left it that way. He went into the kitchen to get a glass for the Scotch, having decided to be civilized and not drink directly from the bottle.
He was alone, and it was time to give that pact that he’d made with himself a rest, the one where he’d promised not to fall apart. There was no one around. He could drop the pretense of holding up in public and dig himself a hole in the ground for a while.
Schultz knew that in a couple of days when the haze wore off and he couldn’t justify the binge anymore, nothing would have changed. Rick would still be dead. Schultz would still be a shitty father whose intervention in the downward spiral of his son’s life had come too late. And he would still be the asshole who had given the boy’s mother—his own son’s mother, his wife of many years, for Christ’s sake—the news over the phone. He should have gone to her in person, like the time he went to see her to find out if their marriage was really over.
He wondered if he would actually have been crass enough to leave a message on her answering machine if she hadn’t been home.
Schultz fumbled for a glass in the cabinet next to the sink. There was enough moonlight coming in the window over the sink so that he could see to pour himself three fingers, not bothering with ice. Lifting the glass, he peered through the Scotch as if it were a window to his heart. If he squinted hard enough, he might find a shred of decency there.
He didn’t deserve PJ, that was certain. After this was over, he’d lay off trying to get her to admit she loved him.
Through the murky darkness of the liquid in the raised glass, a small light shimmered. It reminded him of when he was a kid, still living on the farm before his parents were killed. He’d sneak out to the swimming hole when there was a full summer moon. He wasn’t supposed to, and he didn’t take his
“Oh, of course. Goodnight.”
PJ closed the door behind him, feeling what could only be described as horny, a response out of sync with the day’s events. She wondered if the bartender had spiked her orange juice or if Schultz’s persistently roaming hands had sparked her sex drive.
Upstairs, PJ changed into her pajamas and splashed water on her face at the bathroom sink. Finally, she was tired—drained—and no remnant of her earlier response to Al Baker remained.
She went into Thomas’s room and let her eyes adjust to the low level of light provided by a night-light next to his bed. He was sleeping on his stomach, with one leg completely off the bed and his face turned away from her. He had surrendered his pillow to Megabite, who curled there like the Queen of All Cats, paid her due by her humans. Megabite’s eyes opened slightly, showing little slices of the cat life within that never slept deeply.
All she could see above the blanket was Thomas’s hair, disarrayed and blacker than the moonlit night sky outside his window. In the dim light she could make out the cluttered top of his dresser, and a photo frame standing there. She couldn’t see the picture in the frame, but she knew it was of Schultz with his arm on Thomas’s shoulder, the day they had all gone to a baseball game together. Schultz had bought her son a Cardinals cap. The picture had caught the moment, a half-smile on Schultz’s face and lines pinched between his eyebrows, Thomas grinning and giving a thumbs-up, black eyes full of life, the red hat barely containing his exuberant hair.
The image of Schultz’s son appeared in front of her, and the remembered smell of death filled her nostrils. She was glad it wasn’t her son. She turned and left the room in which Thomas slept, thankfully alive, and felt guilty for the selfish thought.
When Schultz arrived home he climbed the stairs to the front door accompanied by the satisfying clinks of three fifths of Scotch bumping together inside their sturdy brown bag. The house was dark, and he left it that way. He went into the kitchen to get a glass for the Scotch, having decided to be civilized and not drink directly from the bottle.
He was alone, and it was time to give that pact that he’d made with himself a rest, the one where he’d promised not to fall apart. There was no one around. He could drop the pretense of holding up in public and dig himself a hole in the ground for a while.
Schultz knew that in a couple of days when the haze wore off and he couldn’t justify the binge anymore, nothing would have changed. Rick would still be dead. Schultz would still be a shitty father whose intervention in the downward spiral of his son’s life had come too late. And he would still be the asshole who had given the boy’s mother—his own son’s mother, his wife of many years, for Christ’s sake—the news over the phone. He should have gone to her in person, like the time he went to see her to find out if their marriage was really over.
He wondered if he would actually have been crass enough to leave a message on her answering machine if she hadn’t been home.
Schultz fumbled for a glass in the cabinet next to the sink. There was enough moonlight coming in the window over the sink so that he could see to pour himself three fingers, not bothering with ice. Lifting the glass, he peered through the Scotch as if it were a window to his heart. If he squinted hard enough, he might find a shred of decency there.
He didn’t deserve PJ, that was certain. After this was over, he’d lay off trying to get her to admit she loved him.
Through the murky darkness of the liquid in the raised glass, a small light shimmered. It reminded him of when he was a kid, still living on the farm before his parents were killed. He’d sneak out to the swimming hole when there was a full summer moon. He wasn’t supposed to, and he didn’t take his