“Good. Well. Good. I hope so.”
Did anyone ever tell you how beautifully you smile?
“I’m a pretty basic chef,” he said. “But I could put something on the grill at my place.”
“Isn’t it a little cold for barbecuing?”
“Not until January, in my book.”
“Will your dog be there?”
“With bells on.”
“Alright. Count me in,” she said.
The elevator dinged, and the door slid open. Jack held it.
“Goodnight, Zellie, and thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
The power to respond left him, and he looked deeper into her eyes. She stepped to him and kissed him on the lips, and before he could react, she swung away and stepped inside.
“Does that mean we’re friends?” he asked.
“Of course not. Maybe. Have you made a decision about resigning yet?”
“I don’t know. Think I’m might stick around and see what happens.”
She smiled, and he released the door. After she vanished, he remained there a few moments more, wondering if it had really happened.
* * *
Back home, he found Tony leaning against the railing out on the front deck, looking out over the valley where New Canterbury sparkled through the trees. Vapor rose with his breath.
“Hey, brother,” Jack said.
Tony looked at him. He had showered, and his long black hair was wet and combed, his beard dripping.
“Hi, Jack,” he said. “I bathed.”
“I can see. Listen, I’m glad you’re in. I wanted to tell you something. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He returned with Zellie’s book, a stocking cap—which he ordered Tony to put on—and two cigars, which were the last from the box of Cohibas Tim Bonadonna had given him for Christmas last year. Clipping off the ends, he handed one to Tony, lit his own and passed the lighter to his brother.
He leaned against the rail next to Tony and puffed silently.
“Humphrey Atwood committed suicide tonight,” he said, blowing out a gray cloud, looking at his brother, who continued to stare out over the valley.
Tony’s expression was hard to read, as always. It held only a sort of distant and vague curiosity, a sense that he was only semi-engaged; and Jack doubted even someone like Zellie could break through that reserve.
“Why?” Tony said abruptly.
Jack thought about his answer before speaking.
“Well, he was feeling guilt and remorse, apparently. It was painful for him, and he wanted to escape it.”
“Why was he feeling guilt and remorse?”
“He’d made a mistake and hurt someone.”
Tony drew on the cigar, and it glowed, highlighting his eyebrows.
“The guy was always something of a jerk, Tony, but I never imagined he’d do something like that to himself and his family. I’m totally stunned.”
“Are you sad?”
“That, too.”
“Why was he a jerk?”
Jack puffed the cigar. He shook his head.
“I don’t know, Tony. He was too self-important. It’s just bad business any way you cut it.”
“He cut himself?”
“No. A pistol.” Jack decided to move on. “Hey, man, there’s something else I need to tell you. I’ve met a very lovely woman—an incredible person—and I think I’m falling in love with her.”
Tony glanced at him, making only the most fleeting eye contact before gazing away.
“I’ve never met anyone like her,” Jack continued. “I’ve invited her here for dinner tomorrow. I want to show you something.” He held up Zellie’s book. “She wrote this, and that’s her picture on the back. You probably can’t see it very well now.”
Tony took Jack’s cigar lighter from his pocket and thumbed it on, playing the light over the photo.
“She looks awful young.”
Jack was just drawing on the cigar and laughed, choking on the smoke.
“The picture’s almost ten years old, Tony.”
“She’s pretty, Jack.”
“She’s beautiful, brother. She’s very lovely. I’d like you to meet her.”
Tony gave him another fleeting glance.
“Like I said, she’s coming to dinner tomorrow night. Would you like to join us?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Come on, why not? She won’t mind if you’re quiet. You’d feel comfortable, trust me.”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Jack, if I had a date, I wouldn’t want you to come.”
Jack smiled and patted his brother’s shoulder.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Tony, but I’d really like you to meet her.”
“I’ll come up later, maybe.”
“Not maybe. You come. Please.”
“She’s nice?”
“Very nice. Mom and Dad would have fallen in love with her instantly.”
“Can I read the book?”
“Sure, but just don’t get it wet or dirty.”
“I won’t.”
Tony gave him a rare smile and wandered off down the steps toward the barn, the cigar clamped between his teeth, smoke trailing him in the chill night air.
Jack smoked a while longer and, growing cold, went back into the house. His cell phone buzzed, and he opened it to a text message from Tim.
Sorry for delay in getting back abt letter. Could not find it w G’s belongings. Will keep lookin. You’ve never known me to fail, have you? LOL.
The phone buzzed. and a continuation message appeared.
Thought more abt Big Pharm biz and decided best to share w police. Strangeness afoot across the land. We must talk soon.
Then came a third.
Was that woman last night the one you mentioned? Not bad, you dog. Sonia curious. We want details. Will call tomorrow. Love, T.
Jack then noticed another text message from earlier that evening he must have missed. He opened the screen. It was from Greta Carpenter.
Dr F—need to speak with you asap. Do not call me at work.
* * *
James Gavin grew aware first of pain on the left side of his chest that came and went rhythmically. How long he existed in this state of awareness, he couldn’t be certain, but in the haziness, memories came—of being on an airplane, of being in a meeting, and then of fear, of seeing a man in a hooded jacket approaching, of being dragged, and of being lifted and of falling.
He tried to open his eyes. Or maybe they were open, and he was in a place of pure darkness. He could move nothing, or at least was not aware of being able to move—no sensation of movement came to him.
Was he buried? Was he in a coffin? He couldn’t move no matter how hard he tried.
He became more conscious of the pain now. His chest rose and fell, apparently of its own accord, for he was not aware of trying to breathe. He was not in control of anything, but he felt the air come into his lungs, and when it did, a violent burning sensation stabbed his chest.
Was he on a ventilator? Yes. He had fallen, and he must have broken some ribs. What in the name of God was happening? Why was he unable to move a muscle, not even lift his eyelids? Was he paralyzed? Had he broken his neck? He could hear the hiss and click of the ventilator, and began to feel the pressure of a mattress against his back.
Then came the sound of footsteps, followed by a voice. It was like the bumbling of a bee at first, but it grew louder and more distinct. It was familiar, but as recognition came, he realized it was the last human voice on earth he wanted to hear.
What does this all mean?
Before he could puzzle it out, before the world could make sense, the void enveloped him again.
XXIV
Unintended Consequences
Palm Springs, California
Daphne Gavin lay tanning on the patio of her penthouse, staring from behind her sunglasses at a contrail inching across the strat
osphere and wondering how she was going to hold on to all of this until the new ship arrived.
She took a swallow of vodka-laced iced tea, and a drop of condensation fell between her naked breasts, sending a shiver through her. Something very good was about to happen, a new partnership opportunity of sorts, the best thing that had ever come her way; but it was at least several months off, and she was going broke in the meantime. There was no way to avoid it any longer—she needed to tighten her belt.
She stood, resolute, and pulled on a blue terrycloth robe. The vacuum cleaner whined faintly beyond the sliding glass doors. She might as well get it over with.
“Emelita,” she called, rapping on the glass.
Daphne had bought the condo several years earlier when her bank account was fat from the sale of her house back in New Canterbury and the liquidation of some other assets, including Colin’s share of the racehorse. There should have been three million in life insurance when Colin died, but his father—behind her back—had made sure the policy was allowed to lapse.
Bryson Witner had called her with the news, though, so she knew the mean-spirited old bastard was finally getting his due
She had sacrificed a lot as Colin’s wife, spent most of her married life waiting for him to come home from the hospital. Then, after he’d gotten sick, she’d done her best until the very end. Now the old man was lying in a hospital bed, broken and comatose, a step shy of death’s welcome mat.
She rapped again.
“Emelita!”
She heard the vacuum cleaner die.
Not long after moving to Palm Springs, Daphne had driven out to a crossroads in the desert and handed three thousand dollars to a man with carbuncles on his neck. She returned with Emelita, marching her straight into the shower. Fortunately, the girl had learned English in El Salvador and was as bright as Daphne had guessed by her eyes.
“Yes, señora?”
“Come here, and close the door so we keep the air conditioning in.”
Emelita sat on the tiles next to Daphne, drawing her knees up and hugging them like a schoolgirl, though she was now sixteen.
“Emelita, you’re going to have to leave.”
Emelita had known things were bad financially, and she’d probably feared something like this was coming. Her eyes instantly overflowed, and she looked away. The trauma she’d been through in Central America hadn’t toughened her up. She should probably be in a convent.
“But, señora…”
Daphne held up her hand.
“Emelita, I don’t have as much money as I used to. I must conserve. No puedo pagarte. Do you understand?”
“I do something wrong, señora?”
“Stop it, Emelita. Stop it.” Daphne handed her a tissue. “Wipe your nose. That’s disgusting.”
“But I like to stay with you.”
“It’s probably time you were out on your own, anyway.”
Daphne had tried to discourage Emelita from becoming emotionally attached to her. You destroyed people by coddling them. That’s why Daphne was a survivor. True, she hadn’t had to watch her mother and sisters get raped and her father machine-gunned, but she had been abandoned by her mother the year before she started kindergarten. When she was fourteen, her alcoholic father had kicked her out, leaving her to make her own way in the condo-jungle of Fort Lauderdale. Before the age of eighteen, she’d seen a bit of everything and done a bit of everything, from running hot cars to porn.
But she’d survived, with her health intact and no prison record; and she’d had enough sense to get out when she could, never losing the determination to make something of herself. She’d fled to California with a new identity, attended college and discovered she had a talent for managing other talent. As a result, she’d ended up working in the back office of a major studio in Hollywood until she’d met and married a dashing young plastic surgeon with a taste for the fast life.
Colin Gavin had been a very beautiful man.
Did she crumble when he died? No, she did not. And even greater things were just around the corner. She could still look forward to the day when she’d be able to dump shovelfuls of steaming shit on the heads of those relatives who’d turned their backs on her all those years ago.
But Emelita didn’t have the same fighter’s instincts. According to Mr. Carbuncle, after the girl’s family was slaughtered, a photographer found her sitting in a field wearing a bloodstained dress, waiting for the wild dogs to eat her.
“You don’t have to pay me, señora. I want just to stay with you.”
“Of course, you want to stay. You’ve got it made in the shade here.”
“Señora Daphne, I need no money.”
Daphne studied the mountaintops in the distance.
“So, you’d stay and not want to get paid?”
The girl nodded, ignoring the tissue and swiping her nose with her hand.
Daphne considered this. Emelita had turned into a decent little chef.
“I’ll tell you what, young lady. Until my ship comes in, you can stay. But as of today, you work only for room and board, entiende?”
A fresh wave of tears came, but the girl smiled.
“Thank you, señora.”
“Leave me alone now. Go—get back to work. And, Emelita, tell no one about this, especially not Mrs. Granger or Mrs. Erhenberg, do you understand?”
The girl rose, bowed and darted back inside. The vacuum cleaner whined to life.
That would mean five hundred a month saved, and the kid ate like a bird. Daphne slipped off the robe and stretched back out, but there were clouds moving in. The vacuum suddenly fell silent again, and a moment later, Emelita slid open the door,
“Señora, is a man here for you.”
Daphne looked at her and flexed her ankles.
“Who is he?”
Emelita handed her a business card. She lifted up the sunglasses and read “Auren Mitchell, Esq., Attorney at Law, Conrad, Victorio and Dubendorf.”
“I don’t know him, Emelita. Ask what he wants.”
Emelita returned in a flash.
“He say he a lawyer.”
“Is that all he said?”
“He say he a friend of Mr. Victorio. He want to talk about Dr. Gavin. He say you would know.”
* * *
He looks like a baby, Daphne thought as he slid one of her wicker chairs over and sat. She tightened the robe belt around her waist. Couldn’t be much over thirty, but he’s balding a little. Nice build, though, tall, probably works out, like they all do around here. Those gyms are like stud farms.
“Mr. Mitchell, would you like something to drink?”
“A Diet Coke would be fine.”
He had a good tan, but his suit and shoes were off the shelf, and his socks didn’t match.
“Emelita, bring out a Diet Coke for the gentleman and a Southern Comfort Manhattan for me.”
“Actually, if that’s what you’re having, Mrs. Gavin, I’ll take the same,” Mitchell said.
He’s an underling. Why are they sending out an underling?
“Emelita, make that two Southern Comfort Manhattans.”
Mitchell cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Gavin, it’s awesome of you to see me without notice. Great view of the mountains here.”
“So, how well do you know Sal Victorio?”
“He’s one of my mentors.”
Sal Victorio was one of the biggest legal names in Palm Springs, and was now semiretired. He’d made a fortune suing doctors and hospitals, and had been married for a while to the actress Susan Terwilliger. Daphne had known him quite well in Los Angeles before she’d married Colin, and she still maintained the connection. A good friend to have in a place like this.
“Well, I’m sure Sal makes a good mentor, but please don’t call me Mrs. Gavin. Or do I look old to you?”
“You know that’s not true. What would you like me to call you?”
“I don’t know yet. Why don’t you tell me what brings you here?”
/> Mitchell drew a newspaper clipping from his pocket and handed it to her. It was from the New York Times:
Nobel Laureate in Coma from Intern’s Mistake
“I already know this,” she said. “They called me. What do you people do—scour the papers for tidbits like this?”
“Actually, we have a college student that—”
Daphne cut him off with a laugh.
“My God. You really are ambulance chasers. How in the hell did this article lead you to me?”
“We have Sal to thank for that,” he said. “It was blind luck. Sal happened to be in the office yesterday before going on a trip, and remembered that this Dr. Gavin was your father-in-law.”
“Great memory.”
“Our research people took the ball from here. We found out you are apparently his sole next-of-kin.”
“You’re wrong. He has a cousin or two in Nova Scotia.”
“Not anymore. From what we could discover, they’re all gone.”
Daphne sipped the Manhattan, which was very good, and thought of the time she and Colin took a road trip to Canada. They had stopped at an old house at the end of a gravel road by a lake, where an old woman lived. She wore a blue linen dress, was very opinionated, and her fingers were stained with cigarette smoke. That was Colin’s Aunt Louise. She must have been the end of the line.
“Why didn’t Sal come to see me about this himself?” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“Because he’s halfway to Australia right now,” Mitchell said.
She stared at him.
“So, he sends me somebody fresh out of law school. Thanks for the favor, Sal.”
“He sent me, Mrs. Gavin, because he knows I’ll work my heart out to help you. I won’t rest till you get what you deserve. I’m backed up by the resources of Conrad, Victorio and Dubendorf. Those doctors screwed up, and we can make them pay.”
Daphne took another sip, and caught him glancing at her legs.
“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Mitchell,” she said, lifting one of her knees.
“Beg your pardon?”
“I have no interest in suing anyone just because they hurt my ex-father-in-law. I feel more like congratulating them.”
“So, you and he weren’t close?”
Final Mercy Page 21