Conduct in Question

Chapter 40

Harry stood on the front porch of the Deighton house. The street was jammed with fire trucks, an ambulance, and police cars. The blaze up the main staircase had been easily contained and doused. Severely burned, McKeown was loaded into the ambulance by the paramedics and rushed to the emergency ward. Donnie was also taken by ambulance to the hospital with his father. The fire trucks shut down their slowly twirling amber lights and started up their engines.

After giving the police his statement, Harry locked up the house. Overcome with weariness, he carefully lowered himself to the front steps of the porch. His shirt was torn and blackened; his pants were badly singed. McKeown had been at the center of the maelstrom all along. Harry’s thoughts were a jumble.

McKeown had murdered Marjorie, Rosie, and the paralegals—and God knew who else. The man was untouched by any kind of restriction devised by law or the soul. Some puzzles could never be pieced together.

Nothing to go home to, he thought bleakly. With Laura gone, he felt utterly drained and empty. So shattered was he that he scarcely knew what to do next. For several moments, a cool spring breeze caressed his face. Slowly, he felt his spirits begin to rise and his energy return.

Glancing at the house, he thought of Natasha, and the day they had met for the appraisal. Too much restriction had deadened his soul. Without any particular plan, he headed down the sidewalk to a phone booth at the corner. He fished a couple of quarters from his pocket and inserted them into the slot. She had said to call anytime. He dialed. It rang twice and was answered.

“Natasha?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Harry. Harry Jenkins.” He felt lightheaded.

“Harry?” Her voice was full of concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” He paused. A streetcar screeched by on its track, making it hard to hear, hard to think. “May I see you?”

“Now?”

He caught his breath, then said, “Well, yes.”

“Certainly, Harry. I’m not really dressed, but please come.”

He scribbled down her address. The trip from the phone booth to her apartment door took him less than fifteen minutes.

“My God, Harry! What happened to you?” She touched his cheek. For a second, he held her fingertips in his hand. Ushering him into her apartment, she took his jacket. He followed her into the living room.

Natasha was concerned. Harry looked pale and worn, and filthy. “Harry, are you hurt?”

With great effort, he produced a wan smile. He shook his head. “No. Really, I’m fine. I just wanted to see you.” There, he’d said it. She smiled gently. “I’ll tell you in a bit about my evening.”

His eyes traveled absently about the comfortable room. Somehow, it was warm and intimate, despite the grand view of the city skyline.

“I just needed to talk to you,” he concluded rather lamely.

“Would you like a drink?”

He gazed at her. She was gorgeous—the deep-cut red silk blouse and the black leather pants; the gold sandals and the red nail polish. And here she sat at last, not two feet from him.

She was waiting patiently for a response. Suddenly he realized that he had not replied. “No. Thanks. At least not yet. I’m still a little bit woozy.”

“Something to eat?”

He nodded. “May I clean up first?” She showed him to the washroom off the hall.