Pity Him Afterwards

They followed him back down to the water’s edge. The lawn petered out a few feet from the lake, and the ground from there on was dark moist soil. Lowndes said, “You’ve got to get just the right angle on it to be able to see it at all. It’s scratched into the ground. I just happened to see it, coming down here. There. Can you see it?”

Sondgard could see it. Three words, one beneath the other, scrawled repetitiously in the dirt, the letters wavy and uneven, not all of them complete:

Robert

Robert

Robert

“So he did come to the house,” said Sondgard.

“But not inside,” said Lowndes. “Of that we are quite sure.”

“He leaves notes,” Sondgard said thoughtfully. “This is the second one.”

“You think it’s the same man? The one who killed that girl yesterday?”

“I’m almost sure of it.”

“And you say he’s left another note? But this is hardly a note, is it?”

“The first one was a note. In soap, on a mirror. I’m sorry.’ ”

Harry said, “You think he’s one of these types really wants to get caught? You know, ‘Stop me before I kill again.’ ”

“Maybe. He isn’t sane, that’s all I know for sure. So I don’t know how to guess at his meanings.”

Lowndes said, “Do you suppose that’s his own name?”

“I guess it probably is. The dead man was named Eddie, wasn’t he?”

Harry nodded. “Right.”

Lowndes said, “And there’s no one named Robert in our household.”

Sondgard looked back away from the lake, toward the road. He frowned, trying to think it through. “He came over the gate,” he said. “I don’t suppose he came over to kill Eddie. He wouldn’t even have known Eddie was there. Not without seeing him. And if he’d seen Eddie, then Eddie would have had to see him.”

Harry said, “And Eddie wouldn’t have let him get all the way over the gate. You don’t just jump over that thing.”

“That’s right. So he climbed over, and started along the road, and that’s when Eddie found him. They fought, he killed Eddie, and then he kept on down here. He didn’t try to get into the house, or the— What about the garage? The boathouse?”

“We checked them,” said Harry. “Locked last night, both of them. Still locked this morning.”

“All right. So he came down here, all the way down to the edge of the lake. Then he sat down, I guess, or knelt down. And he wrote that name on the ground. Probably his own name. But, maybe not. Anyway, then he got to his feet and turned around and left.”

Lowndes said, “You know, this may seem an odd thing to say, with poor Eddie Cranshaw hardly cold, but I think I feel sorry for that man. I could almost see him just now, as you were describing his movements, and he’s really a sad and forlorn figure.”

“He’s also pretty dangerous,” said Harry.

“I grant that.”

“I know what you mean,” Sondgard told him. “I’ve felt the same way about him.” He looked back toward the road again, and saw the blue-and-white patrol car coming toward the house. “What’s this?” He started up the slope, the other two following him.

Sondgard got to the edge of the blacktop just as Larry braked the Ford to a stop. His face was paler than before, his eyes larger. He leaned over to call through the farther window, “Dr. Sondgard! They want you right away.”

“Who? Is Dr. Walsh there?”

“Yes, sir, but this is something else. Something else has happened out at the theater.”

Mel couldn’t sleep any more.

Wakefulness came to him, and he opened heavy eyelids and stared blearily at his room, and by the quality of the light he knew it was far too early for him to be awake. It had been way past one o’clock when he’d gotten to sleep last night. If he wanted to be any good to anybody today, he had to get back to sleep.

But it was no good. First, curiosity forced him to open his eyes again, to find out exactly what time it was. Then he had to poke around on the night table to find his watch, and then he was even more awake. His eyes hurt from the daylight, but still his lids had snapped open and didn’t seem to want to close again. He found his watch at last, and it was twenty minutes past six.

Five hours sleep. Impossible.

He fell back on the bed with a groan. He had to get back to sleep.

But then last night’s beer caught up with him, and he had to get up and relieve himself. The floor was icy cold on his bare feet, and the key didn’t want to unlock the door, and then the tile floor in the bathroom was even colder. By the time he got back to bed he knew it was hopeless, but still he kept trying.

And then he couldn’t get comfortable. He twisted and turned, and mashed the sheet and blanket down under his chin, and curled his knees up, and nothing did any good. The bottom sheet kept bunching into hard ridges beneath his ribs, and the top sheet and blanket were always hanging off the bed to one side or another, and didn’t reach up far enough, and pressed down on his toes.

And he was hungry.