Free Torch Song by Kate Wilhelm Page B

“It hadn’t mattered,” she said under her breath. “He didn’t care who got killed.”
    Charlie put down a magazine he had not been reading and said, “Listen.”
    She didn’t hear anything.
    â€œWind,” he said in disgust, and stood up.
    Now she heard it. It was March, and a certain amount of wind could be expected, she thought but did not say. He hated high winds; he got twitchy. The cats hated the wind and they got twitchy. So now for a day or two, they would all twitch at her, she thought in resignation.
    â€œWhat are we going to do next?” she asked.
    â€œNot a damned thing we can do but wait,” he said, still listening to the rising wind. “Wait for Brian to check in, or for Pulaski to show up with a warrant, or for Chelsky to come around and ask polite questions for twelve hours, or for Pete to make his next move.”
    Twitchy, she thought. Waiting was going to be very hard.
    All day Tuesday, he stayed busy doing something or other to the car in the garage; she didn’t ask what. And she stayed busy doing something with apples in the kitchen; he didn’t ask what. Late in the afternoon, he sniffed at the woodstove, where she was stirring a very large pot of something. “Umm,” he said, and put his arms around her, nibbled at her neck. She turned and nibbled at his earlobe. The first time she had done that, thirty years earlier, he had growled, “What the hell are you doing?” and she had said, “Stimulating an erogenous zone.” A second later, he had said, “I’ll be damned!”
    Now, thirty years later, he was still surprised. She pushed the kettle to the back of the stove, closed a damper most of the way, and arm in arm they wandered upstairs. Outside, the wind shrieked and the rain pelted down.
    Wednesday, the cats were all snapping at one another. When Candy came in drenched, he reached for her, a humanitarian gesture—he just wanted to dry her off; she snarled and hissed. Brutus watched him through evil, slitted yellow eyes. Ashcan slinked around, hiding behind a chair, behind the couch, underfoot, whimpering. Constance snapped that the apple butter was tasteless, and she fussed around adding spices; he had to take the spark plugs out and put them back in before the car would start. The gutter had filled up with spruce needles that had blown like snow, and he had to get the ladder out and clear the channel; he came in as wet as a human could get without having been dumped in the ocean.
    â€œThat doesn’t happen if you live in a decent apartment building,” he said coldly, removing layers of wet clothes.
    â€œYou’re dripping on the floor,” she said, just as coldly.
    They both stopped when the telephone rang and Brian’s voice came on. Charlie raced to pick up the phone. Constance finished making the coffee she had started and got out the bottle of Irish.
    They sat at the kitchen table when he hung up. He sipped his coffee, raised his eyebrows, saluted her with the cup, then drank again. “Ah,” he said. “Okay, first Marla,” he said then. “Chelsky and company paid a call yesterday. Stayed two hours. As soon as they left and Roy showed up, she got in the Buick and went tearing out to the interstate, down the highway to an exit with a gas station and phone, ran to the phone, then turned and got back in the car and raced home. No call. She hasn’t shown her nose since.” He took another drink of the Irish coffee, savoring it. “The real scoop is on Sal Mervin,” he said then. “The guy with the novelty shop.” She nodded. “They found an empty bottle, scotch, and the story is that he drank until he passed out; then he got up to open a window later and passed out again. Trouble is, his widow says he couldn’t drink more than one mixed drink or maybe two during a whole evening or he fell asleep and was out for twelve hours at least. He was