I’d Know You Anywhere

“I tried to leave you there that day.”

“You did not.”

“I thought about it. There was a group of schoolchildren, a few years younger than you, and they were loud and rowdy, and I thought, I’ll just back away and she’ll start talking to those kids and as soon as she’s distracted, I’ll run to the parking lot and drive away.”

She was weeping, as silently as possible, determined that he not know. “I don’t believe you.”

“That’s understandable. I don’t doubt it sounds self-serving. You know what I did-taking you-it was so stupid. If I had had a moment to think about it, I would have realized that you didn’t know anything, that you couldn’t hurt me. I thought, I have to kill her. She’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. But-look, whatever you think about me, whatever the law says about intent and first-degree, I never pla

“Walter-this is not a conversation I can have with you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to explain why I couldn’t hurt you.”

“Walter, you more than hurt me. You raped me. Which would have been awful enough, under any circumstances, but I not only had to endure the rape, I had to endure it while assuming that you would kill me afterward, as you did with Maude.”

“I never told you what I did.”

“I found you at a grave. I understood what had happened. And then there was Holly…”

He sighed, the misunderstood man. “I didn’t kill Holly. And the thing is, you know that. You’ve always known that, but people talked you out of it, told you it couldn’t be.”

“Stop.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you, Elizabeth. But if we can’t speak honestly of what happened that night, to each other…”

“I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t there.”

A long pause. “I’ve clearly upset you, and that’s the last thing I want to do. Truly. Where were we? Talking about you, as a mother. As I said, I just didn’t think it interested you much. That’s all I meant, when I wrote you that time. I wasn’t denigrating what you do. I just never thought that was what you wanted.”

“You don’t know me, Walter.”

“Now that’s just hurtful, Elizabeth. Yes, I harmed you. There’s no doubt in my mind that I victimized you, and I only wish I had been called into account for those things. That I wasn’t is not my fault.” He had her there. She and her parents had asked that Walter not be prosecuted for rape, and he had accepted a plea bargain on the kidnapping charge, meaningless in the larger scheme of things, years attached to a life sentence that wasn’t to have lasted this long. “And I don’t know all of you, no, but, then-do you know me? Can you understand that I have changed, that I do understand the importance of making amends to those I’ve harmed?”

She felt she should apologize. Then she felt furious, being put in the position of thinking, even for a moment, that she owed Walter Bowman an apology.

“ Elizabeth -I wish I could say these things face-to-face, let you see how remorseful I really am. Clearly, I can’t persuade you over the phone. But if I looked into your eyes, I think you would see I am a different man.”

“I don’t think so…”

“If I could see you-maybe I could apologize for everything.”

“You did apologize. You apologized the last time we spoke. You apologized just moments ago.”

“No, I mean for everything. Maybe, if I saw you, I would talk about those things I never talk about.”

“Are you saying-?”

“I’m not going to be more explicit over a phone line. But if you come to see me-you might be surprised by what I would say.”

His comment about the phone line, the implication that it was insecure, jogged her memory. “Walter-did you call Sunday?”

“No.” Adamant, but not defensive. “You told me during which hours I could call, and I’ve followed that to the letter.” He almost seemed to expect praise.

“Someone did. Called and hung up, at least twice. Have you given this number to anyone else?”

“Well, it’s on my sheet. And Barbara knows, but I’ve told her not to use it, ever. But, no, I haven’t given it to anyone. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You’ll visit?”

“No. I mean-I’ll talk about it-I mean, I’ll think about it.” Again, she didn’t want to admit to the intimacy of her marriage, how she reviewed all important decisions with Peter.

“Time is ru

“I realize that.”

“And once I’m dead-well, let’s just say that some secrets are going to go with me. But maybe that’s what you’re counting on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. A person gets a little ornery, at times, living as I do. I’m not a saint. And I’m offering you something pretty big, Elizabeth. But it’s only for you, no one else.”

“Walter-I need to go.”

“Right-there’s soccer practice on Wednesday.”

How do you know that? But she didn’t ask. He wanted her to ask, she was sure of that much. Still, he knew he had rattled her. The pause alone gave her away.

“Good-bye, Walter. We’ll talk soon.”

“In person, I hope. Eventually.”

“We’ll see.” But, again, she had paused, given herself away. He knew she was considering it.

31

THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW seat looked over Jared Garrett’s shoulder at the notes he had arrayed on his tray table. He had hoped she would. He had taken out his index cards because he was bored and restless, his mind churning from the events of the day. It seemed primitive to him that Amtrak didn’t provide wireless service on its trains. He would have been better off driving, after all, but he had assumed he could do e-mail en route. Now he was stuck on this wheezy old regional-only a sucker or a fool would pay extra for the Acela, which cut a mere ten minutes off the trip-with another forty minutes before he arrived back in Philadelphia. He could actually write, he supposed, but it felt odd to write without the option of the “publish” button, waiting to reward his efforts. Of course, the Bowman story was bigger than his blog. He must not waste it there, tempting as it was. He remembered when people criticized him as a cut-and-paste writer because he had managed to deliver his manuscript on Bowman within six weeks of his death sentence in the first trial. That pace seemed positively leaden by today’s standards.

“Colored index cards,” the woman said. “Are you a writer?”

“Yes,” he said. If his wife were here, she would roll her eyes or give an exaggerated sigh. She saw his writing as a hobby, one used to escape her in the evenings, when she parked herself in front of the television to watch reality shows. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

“What kind of books do you write?”

“Nonfiction,” he said. “Usually about crime.”

“True crime?”

“Nonfiction,” he repeated. “Fact crime is probably the best label. One of my books was nominated, once, for best fact crime.” He did not mention the name of the prize because it was not well known, but it was a prize, and he had been nominated for it. And fact crime might not be the most elegant construction, but it was better than true crime. Of course, fact crime was problematic, too, as it sounded almost like a criminal act driven by fact, like a so-called hate crime. But true crime had acquired a nasty taint over the years.

“Would I have read any of your books?”

The inevitable question. He wanted to turn it on her, say, “How would I know what you’ve read or not read? Are you a world-famous reader?”

Instead, he said: “My best-known book was about the Walter Bowman case, but that was over twenty years ago. I haven’t published for a while.”

“Walter Bowman?” The name clearly didn’t resonate with her. But then-Walter Bowman didn’t resonate. Jared always felt that Walter’s lack of charisma had dampened interest in his book, kept it from becoming the success it might have been. If only he could have written about someone like Charlie Manson or Ted Bundy. He had thought he lucked out, all those years ago, when the big guns didn’t come to Virginia. Turned out the big guns knew what they were doing.