She had only been in the city a week, no one knew she was here, except of course the hotel she was staying at. She would have signed a register, yes, what was the name of the hotel, a Spanish name. It didn't matter. They would think she'd skipped without paying her bill, that was all. They'd maybe report it to the police, or maybe not, depending on what she'd left behind, didn't she say she'd come here with only a suitcase and a little money, sure. But even if they did report her missing, even if they said Molly Nolan who was staying here at the hotel has just vanished without taking her clothes out of the dresser, well, okay, let's say they did that. Let's say they told the police.
She's at the bottom of the river, Roger thought.
She's not going to float up to the top because she's locked inside a heavy refrigerator, I could barely lift it onto the tailgate of the truck, I dropped that refrigerator maybe a hundred and fifty feet from the bridge to the water, maybe more, I was never good at judging distance. It must have sunk ten feet into the river bottom, or at least five, or even three, it didn't matter. Even if it was just laying there exposed on the bottom it was never going to be found, never. It was just going to sit there forever with Molly Nolan dead inside it, and nobody in the world would ever know she was down there. Her parents were dead, her only friend was in Hawaii, nobody had noticed Roger and her in the bar, nobody had seen them go up to his room together, no one would ever know.
All he had to do was drive away.
No one would ever know.
If he did not go into the police station across the street and tell them he had killed her, why they just would never know about it, they just would never find out.
He looked across the street.
I'd better go tell them, he thought.
He got out of the truck.
He was about to cross the street when the door opened. Two men came out of the station house. He recognized the taller one as the detective he'd followed to the restaurant that afternoon, and he thought, Good, he's the one I wanted to tell this to in the first place. The man with him was bald. Roger supposed he was a detective, too. The green precinct lights shone on his bald head. They gave him a funny appearance.
The men had reached the sidewalk.
Go ahead, Roger thought. Go tell him. He's the one you wanted to tell.
He hesitated.
The one with the bald head ran to the curb and made a snowball and threw it at the taller detective. The taller detective laughed, and then picked up a pile of snow and just flipped it at the bald-headed one in a big lump, without packing it, and they both laughed like kids.
"I'll see you tomorrow," the taller one said, laughing.
"Right, Steve. Good night," the bald-headed one said.
"Good night."
The men walked off in opposite directions.
Roger watched the taller one until he was out of sight.
He got back into the truck and turned the ignition key, starting the engine. He looked at the station house one more time, and then began driving home.
To mother.
He was a big strong country boy, alone in the big bad city.
Staying in a cheap rooming house till his business was finished. Really, he should have been on his way back home to his mom and his brother. But there were things he had to do.
First he had to send a Valentine's Day card to his mother.
Then he had to go find the police and tell them something.
And the coloured girl from the drugstore, who'd smiled at him. He needed to see her again. Talk to her and maybe forget the other girl. The one he'd met in a bar. Who'd been nice and warm as well.
The other girl he really had to tell the police about.
Who would never ever be able to be nice and warm to anyone else again…
