Rather than wait for the elevator, he took the fire stairs. Midway down, on the landing of the eleventh floor, he fell back against the wall, squeezed his eyes closed, and tried to block out Kerra’s wounded expression over his parting words.
The tactic didn’t work.
He looked up through the switchbacks of the stairwell and considered racing back to apologize, pull her close, hold her. But a sweet embrace and fond farewell weren’t going to change the situation. He had vowed to himself that if things didn’t go well today, he wasn’t going to drag her down with him. A clean break was best.
Besides, if he went back to say a proper goodbye, he didn’t trust himself to walk out a second time.
Between Kerra’s condo and Trapper’s office building, not a word passed between him and the driver of the hired car.
After being dropped at the address, in order to get to the entrance, he had to step over the parking meter, which still lay flat against the sidewalk. It crossed his mind to wonder about the status of his car, but he couldn’t work up any real interest or concern over it.
He entered the building, and immediately the door to the law office was jerked open. Carson took one look at him. “I guess you’ve heard.”
“Who told you?”
“Kerra was on TV doing a standup outside Wilcox’s gate.”
“That didn’t take long,” Trapper muttered. Then to Carson, “I ought to strangle you with that brassiere you bought her.”
“I didn’t buy it for her, I bought it for you. Like it?”
Trapper gave him a scornful look and tried to go around him so he could get to the elevator, but Carson sidestepped and blocked him. “They cleaned up your office.”
“Who?”
“I authorized the janitor only to change the lock and replace the glass, but I guess he saw a chance to make some extra coin. Couple of guys were banging around up there yesterday afternoon. I took a peek. Looks good. I settled the bill for you.” He fished in his pants pocket for a key and handed it to Trapper. “It goes in with teeth side down.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course I’ll have to tack those charges onto your bill.”
“Whatever, Carson, just let me by, okay?”
Carson stopped him this time by placing his hand on Trapper’s chest. “Wilcox getting iced sucks for you. Right?”
“Genius deduction.”
“They’re saying his old lady killed him with his own fancy six-shooter.”
“Jesus.” Trapper had replaced the revolver in the drawer, but apparently Mrs. Wilcox had known where to find it. “Have they estimated time of death?”
“Around two o’clock this morning.”
Shortly after he and Kerra had left.
Carson said, “They got a sound bite from one of the wife’s friends saying she’d suffered from severe depression since they lost their kid. So, you know, all things considered, Trapper, maybe this ending is for the best.”
Trapper’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Don’t make me hit you, Carson.” He pushed the lawyer’s hand off his chest. Carson judiciously backed away. Trapper continued on to the elevator.
As soon as he stepped off on his floor, he smelled fresh paint. The frosted glass pane in the door had been replaced, but no stenciling had been done yet. Which was just as well. It would save the new tenant the hassle of having it redone.
Trapper planned to move out as soon as he had the wherewithal to go through the necessary motions. He didn’t know what he was going to do or where he was going to go, but he knew he was finished here.
It wasn’t the finish he’d hoped for. He had wanted it to end with clarity and absoluteness. He’d wanted vindication, yes, but, more than that, he’d wanted closure. Solid closure, which, either way, left no niggling ambiguity or debilitating doubt.
As it was, he would remain in limbo. Limbo for life.
And although he’d told Wilcox that he was fine with that, he wasn’t. Especially after this week. After Kerra.