Nightlife: A Novel

44

Judith Nathan’s alarm clock gave an insistent buzz. She reached across the pillow to turn it off, and sat up in bed. She had been asleep for barely two hours, but she had wanted to be awake at six. She walked out into her living room, turned on the television set, sat in front of it, and waited.

The local morning news began with a lot of oppressively energetic music, quick cuts of cars on highways, shots of office buildings downtown, and idealized stills of the couple who read the news.

The man said, “Good morning. Our top story this hour is an arson fire in the Adair Hill district that’s linked to a murder.” Judith stood up, the excitement building. Had she caught Catherine Hobbes in the fire? “Our Dave Turner was live on the scene with police lieutenant Joyce Billings this morning.”

The image changed to a shot of a woman in her fifties wearing an uncomfortable-looking blue police uniform who frowned at a hand that thrust a microphone into her face. She said, “The fire at the house is now out. The firefighters say that the house will be a total loss, but they were able to contain the fire and limit it to the one building. Fire department investigators have already declared it an arson fire. There is conclusive evidence that accelerants were used.”

The voice of the man holding the microphone said, “Is it true that this was a police officer’s house?”

“Yes, it was. This happens to be an officer who has been involved in a number of high-profile cases during the past few months. We don’t know whether this has to do with one of those cases or not.”

“What can you tell us about the shooting?”

“At approximately three A.M. there were calls to report both the fire and, about a block from here, gunshots. The fire trucks arrived first, to find the street blocked by what appeared at first to be a disabled car. Firefighters got down to push the car out of the street and found a Caucasian male about forty years old lying nearby. A gun was found beside him. We believe that he was killed during a shoot-out with an unknown assailant. We won’t release his name until after his family has been notified.”

“Was he a suspect?”

“No,” said the lieutenant. “He was not a suspect in the investigation.” She turned away, and the camera panned quickly from the microphone up the arm to the face of the young male reporter who had been asking the questions. Behind him Judith could see Calvin Dunn’s car, which was now pushed to the curb. There were cops milling around measuring things with long tape measures and talking. Among them was a shorter, possibly female figure in black clothes.

“This is Dave Turner, live for KALP News . . .” Judith kept her eyes on the figure in black. It was definitely a woman, but maybe only a curious neighbor. “. . . coming to you from the scene of a very mysterious fire.” He gave his serious look, and the woman behind him turned to say something to someone. It was Catherine Hobbes.

“Shit!” said Judith Nathan. “How did you get out of there, you bitch?” Catherine Hobbes disappeared and the scene changed to the studio, where the news couple sat behind their desk. It didn’t matter. Judith knew how Catherine Hobbes had survived. She had been afraid of it since the moment it had happened. It had been the shots. It had been that stupid Calvin Dunn.

He must have been sitting in his car somewhere above Catherine’s house, waiting. She had walked past the house on several evenings before, but he had not been there. He must have known that Judith would come for Catherine late at night, when she was in her deepest sleep. Of course Judith would do it then. Catherine Hobbes was an armed cop, and she spent all of her days surrounded by other armed cops.

He probably had not seen Judith arrive. She had not seen his car, so probably it had been parked beyond the curve, where Catherine wouldn’t see it either. But he had seen the fire. He had driven down the hill and seen Judith come away from the house in a hurry, and he had seen her running. The only thing all night that he had not seen in time was where Judith had carried her gun. He had thought she had it in her backpack.

Judith switched channels, going to each of the local stations to hear their versions of the same story. Some of them showed the same police spokeswoman from slightly different angles, and some had video clips of the burning house and the firemen.

At least Judith had shown Catherine what it felt like to be hunted. She had wanted her to know what it was like to be alone and afraid, to have to run for her life. She supposed that she had accomplished that much. It was a good start.