C4 antho - Chamber Four
C4 antho - Chamber Four C4 antho - Chamber Four
~258~ The Chamber Four Fiction Anthology “What’s going to happen to him?” “It’s already happened.” “What has?” “We haven’t much time, miss,” Patrick said. “You’ll be all right. They’ll want to have a word with you at the other end, but there won’t be anything to it. You’ll soon be on your way.” “What about you?” Sharon asked Patrick. “Are you going back? Are you going back for Duncan?” “Go home, miss,” said Patrick. “Go right on back home and pick up where you left off. Carry on. Forget what happened down here, or if you can’t forget it, at least don’t talk about it. Not ever, miss, not to anyone. Do you think you can do that? Ah.” “Ah,” Patrick said. They heard, overhead, the heavy thumping of a helicopter approaching quickly. It came from the sea, flying very low, circled the blinker buoy once, then again, then settled on the water at a little distance from them. It showed no lights. Patrick rowed them to it. A door in the helicopter opened, and Patrick helped Sharon step from the raft onto one of the helicopter’s pontoons. An arm reached for her there, took her hand, and pulled her into the cabin. The door closed. Sharon turned to look out a little window. She saw Patrick begin to row away, toward the island. When he passed the marker buoy, he reached for it, cut its line, raised it from the water, and laid it down in the raft. The helicopter’s rotors began to turn. When it rose into the dark sky and began to make off, Sharon could see, on the far side of the island, a row of lights, running lights, in fact two rows, three, advancing toward the beach. Many running lights, coming in to the beach. * * * *
The Next Thing on Benefit ~259~ Sharon wishes that the police in Miami―if police is what they were―could have simply put the question. She wishes that some one of them could have taken a minute, only a minute, could have laid down his pencil and brought her a cup of coffee, or a drink, and sat down beside her and simply asked, What in the world was going on down there? She couldn’t have told him, but she would have liked to have been asked. Nobody asked. She’s back home now, back in the city, back at work. But things aren’t quite as they were. When she’d been back a couple of days, Sharon walked down the block past the St. John. The place looked dead, it was dark, and when Sharon went up the steps nobody swung the door open for her. The door was locked. She called Wanda; Wanda had at least known Duncan Munro. But Wanda’s number was no longer in service. Sharon even called Neil. Why? Neil hadn’t known Munro. But he’d known Sharon. She called him one evening. A woman answered, and Sharon told her she’d called the wrong number and hung up. Then one day in the spring Sharon was waiting for the light on 76th Street on her way to a client when she saw Patrick getting out of a taxi on Madison Avenue in front of the Carlyle. It was Patrick, all right. His hair was a little longer, he wore a blue suit and carried a briefcase, but it was Patrick. Did Sharon call out to him, did she catch up with him and say hello? Did they have a cup of coffee together and talk things over? What do you think? She stayed where she was. She watched him, though. She watched Patrick as he shut the taxi’s door, paid the driver, turned, and went into the old hotel.
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The Next Thing on Benefit ~259~<br />
Sharon wishes that the police in Miami―if police is what<br />
they were―could have simply put the question. She wishes<br />
that some one of them could have taken a minute, only a<br />
minute, could have laid down his pencil and brought her a<br />
cup of coffee, or a drink, and sat down beside her and simply<br />
asked, What in the world was going on down there? She<br />
couldn’t have told him, but she would have liked to have<br />
been asked.<br />
Nobody asked.<br />
She’s back home now, back in the city, back at work. But<br />
things aren’t quite as they were. When she’d been back a couple<br />
of days, Sharon walked down the block past the St. John.<br />
The place looked dead, it was dark, and when Sharon went<br />
up the steps nobody swung the door open for her. The door<br />
was locked.<br />
She called Wanda; Wanda had at least known Duncan<br />
Munro. But Wanda’s number was no longer in service.<br />
Sharon even called Neil. Why? Neil hadn’t known Munro.<br />
But he’d known Sharon. She called him one evening. A<br />
woman answered, and Sharon told her she’d called the<br />
wrong number and hung up.<br />
Then one day in the spring Sharon was waiting for the<br />
light on 76th Street on her way to a client when she saw<br />
Patrick getting out of a taxi on Madison Avenue in front of<br />
the Carlyle. It was Patrick, all right. His hair was a little<br />
longer, he wore a blue suit and carried a briefcase, but it was<br />
Patrick. Did Sharon call out to him, did she catch up with<br />
him and say hello? Did they have a cup of coffee together and<br />
talk things over? What do you think? She stayed where she<br />
was. She watched him, though. She watched Patrick as he<br />
shut the taxi’s door, paid the driver, turned, and went into<br />
the old hotel.
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