That same flicker of confusion in his dead eyes. Cheryl's blood kept spreading closer to his shoes, and he sidled away, again. Despite myself I looked at her. Life juice leaking from the mop of blond hair, dipping to a low spot between the boards, trickling through. They say sharks can smell a drop in millions of gallons. Was the shark Internet buzzing?
Irving raised the automatic.
“Another blonde,” I said. “But Lauren wasn't dumb. Anything but. She was a double threat— knew you from the bad old days, the hooker-a-night days. Knew stuff you strongly preferred Anita didn't find out about. And on top of that, she tells you who she is— what she wants. Talk about insult and injury.”
Irving sighed again. The sweats made him look pudgy. His ponytail made him look like nothing but Mr. Midlife Crisis, and as he aimed the gun at my face, a sick, sour thought flashed in my head: So this is how it happens, a clown like this. Then: Sorry, Robin.
Then a voice behind Irving shouted, “Kent? What're you doing? What's going on?” and Irving blinked and turned as footfalls twanged the pier.
A man running toward us. Irving moving reflexively, the gun arm wavering, realizing his error and pivoting back toward me, but I'd already thrown myself at him and was grabbing for the automatic.
Managing only to jar his elbow.
He fired up in the air.
The new voice said, “Oh, my God!” and Irving slashed out at me and I chopped at him, keeping myself close, fighting for the weapon. A new set of hands grabbed for Irving. Irving, growling now, fired again.
The new voice said, “Oh!” and went down, but Irving had been thrown off balance, and I brought my knee up hard into his groin and, as he doubled over, stabbed at his eyes with my fingertips.
I made contact with something soft, and he screamed and stumbled and I shoved him, kept shoving him, down to the planks, got on top, straddled him, kept hitting him. It had been a while since I'd messed with karate, and what I did to him was more blind rage than martial arts, chopping at his head and his neck over and over and over, using stiff fingers and frozen fists, bloodying my knuckles, slashing and slamming until well after he'd stopped moving.
The gun had landed several feet from his arm. I picked it up, aimed it at Irving.
He didn't move. His face was pulp.
A few feet away, Ben Dugger moaned. I went to see how he was doing.
35
“WRONG,” I SAID. “By light-years.”
Dugger smiled. “About what?”
“About you. About lots of things.”
It was eleven A.M., three days after I'd watched Cheryl Duke die.
During that time Robin had left one message on the machine. Sorry I missed you. I'll try to call again. . . . No home number was listed for her friend Debby, and when I tried Debby's dental office, I got voice mail informing me the doctor was out for a week.
For three days my life had been stagnating, but Ben Dugger had traveled: from the ambulance I'd called, to the E.R. at St. John's, to three and a half hours of surgery— tying together blood vessels in his thigh— to recovery, then two nights in a private room at the hospital.
Now this place, bright yellow and vast and dim, the air sweet with cinnamon and antiseptic, lots of inlaid French furniture— everything ornate and antique except the bed, which was all function and much too small for the room. The IV stand, the bank of medical gizmos.
The room was on the third floor of his father's mansion. Doting nurses hovered round the clock, but he seemed mostly to want to rest.
I'd phoned yesterday to request permission, waited half a day for the call back from a woman who identified herself as Tony Duke's personal assistant's assistant, had been allowed through the copper gates an hour ago.
I'd driven up, sat scrutinized as the closed-circuit camera rotated for several minutes, then the tentacles parted and a mountainous bouncer type in a fudge brown suit stepped out and showed me where to park. When I exited the car he was there. Escorted me through a fern grove and a pine forest to the peach-colored, blue-roofed house. Stayed with me as we entered the building, exerting the merest pressure at my elbow, propelling me across an acre of black granite iced by two tons of Baccarat chandelier hanging three stories above, the entry hall commodious enough for a presidential convention. Flemish paintings, carved, gilded baseboards and moldings, gold velvet walls, the elevator cut so seamlessly into the plush fabric that I could've walked past it.
Finally, this room, with its canary-colored damask walls. Bad color for recuperation. Dugger looked jaundiced.
He coughed.
I said, “Need anything?”
Smiling again, he shook his head. Pillows surrounded him, a percale halo. His thin hair was plastered across his brow, and beneath the sallowness his skin tone was dirty snow. The IV taped to his arm dripped, and the instruments monitoring his vitals blinked and bleeped and graphed his mortality. The ceiling above him was a trompe l'oeil grape arbor painted in garish hues. Silly in any context, but especially so now. If not for the way I felt, I might've smiled.
“Anyway,” I said. “I just wanted to—”
“Whatever you think you did, you made up for it.” He pointed shakily at his bandaged leg. Irving's stray bullet had passed through his thigh, nicked his femoral artery. I'd tied back the wound, stanched as much of the bleeding as I could, used the cell phone in the pocket of Irving's sweatpants to call 911.
“Not even close to a tie,” I said. “If you hadn't shown up—”
“Hey, it's a soft science,” he said. “Psychology. We study, we guess, sometimes we're right, other times . . .” Weak smile.
The door opened, and Dr. Rene Maccaferri marched in. Those same appraising eyes. White lab coat over black turtleneck and slacks, pointy little lizardskin shoes on too-small feet. He looked like a goombah playing doctor, and I told myself I could be forgiven my theories.
Mr. Wrong.
Maccaferri ignored me, checked the monitors, approached Dugger's bedside. “They taking good care of you?”
“Too good, Rene.”
“What's too good?”
“I'm not used to it.”
“Try,” Maccaferri told him. “I talked to the vascular surgeon. He'll be over today to look you over, monitor you for infection, make sure no thromboses. You look good to me, but better to make sure.”
“Whatever you say, Rene. How's Dad?”
Maccaferri's thick, black, fuzzy-caterpillar brows knitted, and he glanced at me.
“It's okay, Rene.”
“Daddy is about the same,” said the doctor, turning to leave.
“Okay, Rene. Thanks. As always.”
Maccaferri stopped at the door. “There's always, and there's always.”
Dugger's eyes went moist.
When the door closed I said, “I'm sorry to add to your burden.”
Both of us knew what I meant: Life had thrown him a double dose of grief. Anticipation of the loss to come, pining for the sister he'd never really gotten to know.
Meeting her, losing her.
He turned his head to the side and fought back tears. “I know the road to hell's paved with good intentions, but I'm one of those people who still takes intention into account. Whatever you did, it was because you cared about Lauren— My throat's a little dry, could you please hand me that 7UP?”
I poured soda into a paper cup, held it to his lips.
He drank. “Thanks— How long did you actually treat her? Tell me about that— tell me anything you can.”
He'd shared his story. I had no option but to reciprocate. I recited, speaking automatically, while another lobe of my brain remembered.
The anxiety in his eyes when Milo had questioned him about Lauren. What I'd taken for guilt had been pain— a solitary ache.
Lauren and I agreed to do it the right way, not just spring it on everyone. There was Anita to think about— Dad's illness has plunged her lower than I've ever seen her, and she doesn't do well with change. And Dad, himself. I was
concerned about the impact. So was Lauren, she wanted whatever happened to go smoothly or not at all. She said Dad knew about her— years ago, when Lauren's mother wrote to him, he called, wanted to meet Lauren, but her mother put it off, said Lauren had emotional problems, she wasn't ready. Dad tried a couple more times, then Dad backed off. That was just like him— make his offer, then not push. Maybe it's a character flaw— emotional laziness, I don't know. Sometimes, growing up, I felt Dad was too laid-back— as if he didn't care. But on balance it was better than his trying to dominate Anita and me. . . . In Lauren's case, maybe if he would've pushed . . . How can you second-guess? By the time Lauren did build up the courage to meet me and tell me who she was, Dad was sick and weak. I was worried abut the shock. Maybe I— What's the use . . . ? Right from the beginning Lauren and I got along so well— clicked, as if we'd known each other our whole lives. And— this is going to sound childish— we had fun. Imagining what things would be like once we . . . Our little experiment, we called it— figuring out a way of integrating Lauren into the family.
I said, The phone booth.
He nodded, winced. Moved his leg and his breath caught. That was part of our . . . arrangement. When we built up the courage to bring Lauren to Dad's house. She'd call me at Point Dume, and if it was okay— relatively quiet at the house— I'd pick her up. I told people she was my friend— childish, I know. I think we both liked the cloak-and-dagger aspect. I would have so liked to know her better— longer. . . . My little sister.
At that point he'd broken down and sobbed, and I'd turned away, feeling low and intrusive, until his voice drew me back.
Don't worry, I've had enough therapy not to be ashamed of my feelings. I guess what I want you to know is that Lauren had value to me— dammit, she deserves to be cried over. Maybe that's what bothers me the most. There's no one left to cry for her but me. That time you and Sturgis showed up at my apartment and told me what happened to her— it was as if my entire world was imploding. I'm not the most spontaneous person, but right then I could've just . . . gone mad. Of course, I didn't. Too controlled . . . too much at risk . . . The thing about Lauren was that she made me feel like a kid— something I rarely felt when I actually was a kid. The two of us were planning and scheming, laughing about what we had in common. Our differences— she'd find something we just couldn't see eye to eye on and laugh and say, “So much for chromosomes.” That kind of thing— No one knew. Not Anita or the women at the office, no one. At least I thought so. . . . Then I started seeing things. Looks passing between Kent and Cheryl, and Lauren would be going off with Cheryl talking. When I asked her about it, she just said Cheryl was nice but not too bright. I never liked Kent, but never did I imagine— how can you imagine things like that? . . . Poor Anita— outwardly she's tough, but it's an act. She's always been frail, has irritable bowel syndrome, asthma, migraines— most of her childhood was spent in doctors’ offices. . . . Kent was . . . vulgar, but how could I know? . . . I keep asking myself that— Lauren going off with Cheryl, more and more— Was there some way to know?
No, I'd told him. No one knew.
* * *
He asked for more 7UP, drank, sank back against the pillows, closed his eyes.
A controlled man. A kind man. Delivering toys to a church, with no ulterior motive. Donating 15 percent of his trust fund, every year, to charity.
No one had a bad word to say about him because there was nothing bad to say.
I'd persisted in thinking of him as a warped killer.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
I supposed I'd saved his life, but given all that and the bullet he'd taken for me, it seemed a feeble twist of reciprocity.
He'd been charitable enough to grant me another false equality: sharing Lauren. As if my stint as a failed therapist could come close to the bond he'd shared with her. Only to have it ripped from him.
A nice guy. In another place, another time, I wouldn't have minded shooting the breeze with him. Talking about psychology, learning what it had been like growing up Tony Duke's son.
But I had nothing more to offer him, and what he'd been through— what Lauren had been through— would stay with me for a long, long time.
So would the loose ends.
Anita. Baxter and Sage.
And now I had my own problems to deal with.
As I rang for his nurse, I knew that most likely I'd never see him or anyone else in the Duke family again, and that would be just fine.
36
THE NURSE CALLED for someone to see me out, and another big man showed up, a lobster pink blond with a shaved head wearing a lime green suit over a black T-shirt. I gave Dugger a small salute and walked out of the yellow room.
“Nice day, sir,” said my escort, using the same elbow steer to guide me through the black walnut hallway. Gilded niches were filled with statuary, urns brimmed with flowers, monogrammed D's punctuated the blue-and-gold carpeting at twenty-foot intervals.
On the way to the elevator we passed a room whose double doors had been shut when I'd arrived. Now they were spread open, and I caught a glimpse of a ballroom-sized space with zebra-striped walls.
Another hospital bed, the stoic Dr. Maccaferri standing by the headboard, drawing blood through a syringe that he'd jabbed into an IV line.
Another too-small bed. A tiny, bald head barely visible above blue satin covers. Wizened, elfin. Sleeping or approximating slumber. Gaping mouth, toothless. Motionless.
The pressure on my elbow intensified. Mr. Nice Day said, “Please keep moving, sir.”
* * *
I drove home, knowing the house would be empty.
After that night on the pier, I'd spent hours at St. John's Hospital. Had phoned home twice, gotten the machine. Returned just after two A.M. to find Robin wide awake, in the bedroom, packing a suitcase.
When I tried to hold her, she said, “No.”
“Early vacation?” I said. Everything was wrong, and I was talking gibberish.
“By myself,” she said.
“Honey—”
She threw clothing into the valise. “I got home at ten, was worried sick until you just happened to call at midnight.”
“Honey, I—”
“Alex, I just can't take this anymore. Need time to settle myself down.”
“We both do,” I said, touching her hair. “Let's stick with the original plan and get away together. I promise—”
“Maybe in a few days,” she said, suddenly crying. “You don't know the pictures that filled my head. You . . . again. Then Milo told me what happened— what were you thinking? A date with a bimbo? Another undercover adventure that nearly got you killed!”
“Not an adventure. Anything but. I was trying to help . . . some kids. The last thing I thought would happen was—”
“You can help kids by doing what you were trained for. Sit and talk to them—”
“That's how this started, Robin.” Unable to keep my voice steady. “Lauren was a patient. It just got . . .”
“Out of control? That's the point. When you're involved, things tend to . . . expand. It's like you're a magnet for ugliness. You know me, I'm a structured person— I work with wood and metal and machines, things that can be measured. I'm not saying that's ideal, or the only way. Maybe it means there's something wrong with my psyche. But there's something in between. Alex, the uncertainty you keep putting me through— every time you step out the door, not knowing if you'll come back.”
“I always come back.” I reached for her again, but she shook her head and said, “Let me go.”
“I'm sorry, let's talk about it—”
She shook her head. “I need . . . perspective. Then maybe we'll talk.”
“Where are you going?”
“San Diego— my friend Debby.”
“The dentist.”
“The dentist,” she said. “She and I used to have fun together. I used to have friends. Now all I've got is you and Spike and my work. I need to expand.”
“Sure,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “That'll be the day.”
“What— impossible?”
“If there was something less likely than impossible, you and golf would be it. Alex, I'm not trying to tame you. I want you healthy— that's the point. You standing around on the links in funny shoes, all that dead time, is not a prescription for well-being. Let's not prolong this. I'll call you.”
Latching the suitcase, she headed for the door. “Spike's in the truck. I'm sure you won't mind that.”
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