In spite of the exhausting schedule of the day, Dean had difficulty falling asleep. At first he lay awake, conscious of every sound the motel uttered, fearful that Cynthia Byrne might waken to God knows what thoughts and fears. Later, when all was quiet, a restless half-sleep was all he could achieve. Later still, the power was restored, and both rooms blazed with light. He jumped to his feet flipping light switches and stumbling through both rooms, barely seeing still-sleeping Cynthia through eyes pinched nearly closed against the intrusive brightness.
But once back in bed, the complexities and the happenings of the day raised their heads like so many ghosts crying for attention in his tired brain. Sleep eluded him. Dean knew if he were honest with himself he'd admit he was tickled pink during those few hours that it appeared Jeffrey Byrne's body had been found. Now they were back to square one. His emerging feelings for Cynthia Byrne only added complications to the equation. Courting a widow was one thing, but harboring a nagging feeling she might not be widowed was quite another matter. Before, it was just police business. Had Jeffrey Byrne skipped or drowned? Let's look at the facts, make a decision and close the case. Drowned, that was the official conclusion. He'd already finished most of the report, had-n't he? Then why was it each time he was around Cynthia Byrne the question kept coming back? Dean wanted to be positive the son of a bitch was dead so he could have his wife; admit it, it was as simple as that.
There. The bastard side of him said it, much as he had tried to fight the thought down. As long as there wasn't a body, Dean could never be sure Jeffrey Byrne wouldn't jump out of the past and yell, "April Fool!" dragging Cynthia Byrne back to home and hearth.
He must have drowned. He has to be out there, caught in the seaweed at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay, with the fish and crabs having a party, getting as bloated as the fat Wassermann twin lying on the slab at the Norfolk morgue. Why not? What evidence did they have to the contrary? Nothing, unless you count a tire patch kit and a half a receipt for $59.95, neither of which probably even belonged to Byrne. There was the Whitney Motel back in Parkside. Big deal. That was two months earlier. Byrne probably needed a day off. What about the newspaper sent to Scranton and
J. Cleary? Just coincidence. But some specter in his fitful half-sleep wouldn't even give permission for him to dream about Cynthia Byrne, sleeping restfully just yards away.