Read Online All the Flowers Are Dying by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online Page B

“More than I should, actually. I have challenging work to do, and I should be giving it a hundred percent of my attention, but instead I’ll find myself thinking of you. God, I wish I knew. Four or five days, I would think. I wish I could tell you where I am. It’s a place where they have a different attitude toward privacy. I wouldn’t be surprised if this phone is tapped. My cell? I left it home, it wouldn’t work here. If you left me a message, it’ll be waiting for me when I get home. So there are things I’d say, but I’d better not. Yes, as soon as I know. And I miss you, too. More than I can say.”
    He rings off, wondering if he’s made a mistake by denying that he’s calling from his cell phone. It’s set up to block Caller ID, so anyone with that feature should get a NUMBER UNAVAILABLE OR CALLER OUT OF AREA message, but glitches happen. Does she
have
Caller ID? He’s never thought to check, and that, he decides, is a sin of omission. Not necessarily a grievous sin, it shouldn’t matter, but he’d rather leave as little as possible to chance
.
    He’s checking his e-mail when it strikes him that he hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. He’s not hungry, he never gets hungry, but his body ought to have regular feedings.
    Emporia’s not a large town, the population’s around five thousand, but it’s the county seat of Greensville County, and it’s got an Outback Steak- house. He’s noted the sign several times now, near the Interstate exit for U.S. 58. He drives ten miles into Virginia, finds his way to the place, and orders a rare rib eye steak with fries and salad, and a big glass of unsweetened iced tea. Everything’s good, and the steak they bring him is actually rare, just as he ordered it, a welcome surprise in a part of the country where everything’s overcooked, and almost everything’s fried.
    Driving back to his motel, he wonders what Preston Applewhite will want for his last meal.
     
     
    Wednesday morning. It’s getting on for noon, and Applewhite has clearly been anxiously awaiting his arrival. They shake hands, and he lets his left hand cup Applewhite’s shoulder.
    He’s no sooner seated in the white chair than Applewhite says, “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.”
    “I said a number of things,” he says, “and I rather doubt any of them is worth thinking about.”
    “About the theory you proposed to Humphries. That a man can be guilty but truly believe himself innocent.”
    “Oh, that.”
    “The one thing I’ve been sure of, from the first moment on, is that they were all making a horrible mistake. I knew I didn’t kill those boys.”
    “Of course you didn’t.”
    “But if what you say is true—”
    “For some people. Sociopaths, men with something missing inside them. You’re not like that.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I know.”
    “
Well, how do
I
know? Believe me, I’d like to take your word for it, but failing that, how can I be sure? You can see where logic leads. It’s a conundrum. If I’m innocent, I’d know I was innocent. But if I was guilty, and had managed to convince myself I was innocent, I’d also know I was innocent
.”
    “Look at yourself, Preston.”
    “At myself?”
    “At the sort of man you are, the sort of man you always have been. Have you ever committed a violent act?”
    “If I killed those boys—”
    “Before. Did you abuse your wife?”
    “I shoved her away from me once. It was when we were first married, we’d argued and I was trying to leave the house. I wanted to go for a walk and clear my head, and she wouldn’t let go of me, you’d have thought I was on my way to Brazil, and I pushed her to make her let go. And she fell down.”
    “And?”
    “And I helped her up, and we had a cup of coffee, and, well, it worked out.”
    “That’s the extent of your history of spousal abuse? How about your children? Did you beat them?”
    “Never. We didn’t believe in it, either of us. And I never felt