In a way, though, the school of hard knocks had made her blind to someone like Contay. Having scratched and hustled her way from a Glasgow slum to the twentieth floor at Neff, McIntosh couldn’t see how someone else might not give a shit. Say, someone who’d grown up in upscale Larchmont, New York.
For him, the proof of it lay in Contay’s decision to blow off her station by going to the islands instead of Rio. McIntosh had talked to her producer, someone named Jerry. She believed his take on Brenda Contay: that The Lightning Rod had gone out to the Pacific to assert her popularity. To better position herself for contract talks. She was up for renewal this month. A smart move, the producer had said. People really like her. She’s an asset W-DIG doesn’t want to lose.
But you told people what they wanted to hear. “You’re probably right,” Lindbergh said. “She pulls down good money.”
“That’s my point,” McIntosh said. “She’ll get over this do-gooder impulse and tape a nice local special called ‘Lost At Sea.’ But I want you to go back with her. She’ll leave tomorrow or Wednesday. The Soubliks’ next-door neighbor arranged for her to be taken to a private hospital outside Ann Arbor. The neighbor’s name is Poole, a professor she studied with.”
Lindbergh turned from the window and looked down. McIntosh was still writing, her neat cursive working across the legal pad. She was left-handed, like himself. He was beginning to fit in here, playing the game. Going to lunch with people who talked tax shelters instead of money laundering. He preferred it, and knew he had a future.
“You mean surveillance, not special ops,” he said. She stopped writing, turned and looked up at him.
“Special ops,” he said. “The roommate, the girlfriend. Song. I’ve moved on, but if you want that, I can outsource it for you.”
“No, I do not mean special ops,” she said. “The rescue made the wire services. She’s high profile in her market. But I want to know what she does. Who she sees or talks to. See if you can find someone who might help, someone in the hospital. Her producer has a general idea of our concern. He understands advertising with us could be at risk. Contay made a fool of him by not going to Rio. You might suggest he recruit someone on the hospital staff to keep the station informed. Just keep our name out of it.”
He nodded and looked back down to the street, noticing a van parked outside the Neff entrance. It made him think of the Oklahoma City bombing.
That had to stop.
During the trip back to the Mariposa Medical Center, the van’s driver lit a cigarette. Brenda watched him exhale. She had quit a year ago, but the smell produced an overwhelming urge to smoke. Over Iris’s protests, she asked for one.
“That’s really dumb,” Iris said. “Bad enough if you’re healthy.”
Brenda took the pack of Winstons and lighter. It was her only way to answer McIntosh. To do something she couldn’t control.
◆◆◆◆◆
Smoke on the hospital’s roof terrace—until they stopped her—cry, eat, sleep. That’s what she did her last day in Phoenix.
The smallest things still made her weep—an odor or sound, the drawn faces of other patients creeping along the corridor, holding the handrail. She asked to see Ehrlich, but was told he’d been taken somewhere else. That night she woke at three, bathed in sweat. She had dreamt of Calvin Moser shooting baskets, and wondered if he was dead. Or had GENE 2 gotten to him? A bright guy with everything to gain by keeping quiet. Why not?
Early the next morning, Brenda was given loose-fitting surgical scrubs to wear on the flight, and a hospital robe. She put on the sunglasses and her boat shoes, the only thing left from the Nauro Maru. She was taken once more down to the van and driven to the airport.
A man was waiting at the boarding gate. He wheeled her through the jetway tunnel to the plane. After helping Brenda get seated, he spoke to the first-class flight attendant, and just before they closed the cabin door, he took the seat next to her.
“Where’s Iris?” she asked. “What are you, the A team?”
“Put on your belt,” he said, fastening his own.
“Worried about my health?” She reached around for the buckle. There was hardly anything left of her midsection.
“That’s right,” he said. “Betsy McIntosh thinks you know what’s in your best interest. I’m not so sure.”
He was well dressed, tall and blond, with regular features. But there was a flatness to his voice, a directness that had nothing to do with public relations. Or small talk.
“Is that your mission?” she asked. “To fill me in on what’s good for me?”
“Exactly.”
“And if I don’t do right, you’re going to see I’m turned into a joke.”
He shook his head. “That’s Betsy’s idea,” he said. “You flipped your station the bird when you went out to the Pacific. I don’t think you give a fuck about being laughed at, or your job. She can’t see it. My thing is different. Making sure you keep your mouth shut protects my investment.”
No, not a PR type. The plane backed from the bay and taxied out to a runway. Minutes later, it rose sharply, and Brenda felt her fleshless bones press into the seat. Without Ehrlich or Cal Moser to confirm what she said, no one would air or print the story. When the plane leveled off, the flight attendant approached.
“How are we doing here?”
“Real good,” the man said. “Bring her the breakfast. I’ll have some coffee.” The attendant nodded and left. “We had the hospital put it together,” he said. “What you’ve been eating. High protein.”
“Feed ’em, then pitch ’em,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Lindbergh.”
“How long have you been with Neff?”
“Two weeks. Before that, I did security consulting in Reno.”
When the attendant returned with the breakfast, Lindbergh fitted Brenda’s table in place, took the tray and set it down. He shook out the cloth napkin and draped it on her lap, then pulled open her milk carton and poured into her glass.
She ate in silence—soft-boiled eggs mixed with white bread, fruit compote. As soon as she finished her tray was removed. Lindbergh got a pillow from the overhead bay and stuffed it behind her.
“You don’t say much,” she said as he sat again. “Aren’t you supposed to talk to me about self-interest?”
He sat back with his coffee. “I’m supposed to keep track of you.”
“Reno. That’s casinos.” He nodded. “I suppose ‘security’ means watching upstairs for card-counters.”
“There was some of that,” he said. “Mostly accounts receivable.”
“Right.” One thing he wasn’t was a bookkeeper.
“That’s what I call it,” he said. “Making sure clients receive payment on outstanding accounts. A certain kind of gambler needs help knowing his self-interest. I gave the help.”
He leaned closer. “Okay, Brenda. You’ve had the breakfast, now we can talk. Like I said, I don’t think you give a fuck. I respect you for it. If you’re still pissed off about whatever happened on this island, you’ll blow the whistle if you feel like it. McIntosh doesn’t understand, but I do. But if that happened—even if no one believed you—it could damage my arrangements. My investment. I like you and I’m going to give you some information. After they brought you in from Hawaii, I visited the hospital. At night. I used the loading dock and stairs. You were asleep, hooked up to all these jugs. Just the resident and night nurse were there, doing charts down the hall.”
Her heart was pounding and she looked away, feeling her arms sticking to the leather armrest. She glanced down at the sharp crease in Lindbergh’s trousers. His legs were crossed, casual. For no reason, seeing them that way convinced her of what he was.
“Anyway, one more thing and then you should get some rest.” He finished his coffee. “Before you make up your mind, call the Sentinel Times in Gary, Indiana. Tell them you’re a reporter. Ask if they have anything new on the van that blew up three weeks ago. Then call the Ann
Arbor News about an accident at the law school. This would be—let’s see—July twenty-eighth.”
Staring ahead, she heard more coffee being poured.
“Thanks.” Lindbergh set down the cup on his table. “That should do it,” he said. “If it doesn’t, I don’t know. You could make one more call, to Baton Rouge. You might decide I read those stories and just want to scare you. Which I do, but not with stories in the paper. So, call Baton Rouge. You ask to talk to someone at the Buck Thibodeau Chrysler-Jeep dealership. I know they didn’t print details, so see if this checks out. I’m talking about the owner’s daughter, Caprice Thibodeau. She bought a synthesizer for some kid in her family. One of these keyboard deals? She takes it home, plugs it in. The shock caused her to pull down a bookcase. It had onyx or quartz bookends. She was an extremely nice girl, Caprice. Refined. I’m telling you because I like you, too. I like the way you toughed it out on that boat. Very impressive.”
There was no need to make the calls. She knew he was telling the truth, could tell by his flat, matter-of-fact delivery. He had nothing against her, even admired her for having lived. And would kill her without hesitation.
◆◆◆◆◆
When they reached Detroit Metro, Lindbergh wheeled her through another jetway tunnel, into the boarding lounge. No press people were waiting, just a driver sent from Mercygrove Hospital. Gordon Poole had arranged for Brenda to recuperate there. Students from Davison had been treated at Mercygrove for emotional and drug problems.
Hands in his pockets, Lindbergh stepped in front of the wheelchair and looked down a moment. She had interviewed many people unburdened by conscience—sociopaths—but no one like him. He wasn’t crazy, he just had no soul. He nodded to the driver, then walked quickly down the long concourse.
◆◆◆◆◆
Half an hour later, they turned into a circular drive. Reporters stood on the Mercygrove entrance steps. Parked behind a fountain were three vans, and W-DIG’s Chevy Suburban. Amy, Bonnie, Yolanda and Gloria from her own station were shading their eyes, watching as the truck approached.
“Is there a back entrance?”
“Service entrance.”
“Please use that.” Brenda watched the familiar, expectant faces as the van passed.
The driver pulled around the building to the loading dock, quickly got the chair out and pushed her inside. She was taken to Admitting, then up to the fourth floor’s closed ward.
Inside, agitated teenagers and housewives coming off drugs sat smoking on both sides of the main corridor. Others shuffled along the hall. As her attendant spoke at the nurse’s station, Brenda realized that checking into Mercygrove would fit with Betsy McIntosh’s game plan. If she wasn’t crazy, what was she doing here?
“Miss Contay?” At the desk, a nurse was holding a phone, palm over the mouthpiece. “It’s Lou Stock,” she said. “You can take it, it’s allowed.”
Brenda shook her head. Surprised, the nurse stared at her a second before raising the receiver. “She just arrived, she’s pretty tired. Thank you, yes, maybe later… Well, aren’t you kind. We certainly will take very good care of her.” The nurse hung up, glowing. Tonight, she could tell her husband she had talked to the Father of All Local Anchors.
Brenda wheeled herself over to a window and looked out. It faced grounds at the back, a stand of hardwoods where the parking lot ended. A brick path led into the trees, toward a covered shed or summerhouse.
It was too bad there were no bars on the window. A zoom shot of bars would make a nice visual. Brenda Contay, W-DIG’s own Lightning Rod is recovering here tonight, Lou. She’s been through hell and she’s alive to tell about it. But she can’t, not yet. She’s in there behind those heavy bars I’m told are made of tempered tungsten steel—
“We have picnics out there in good weather.”
Someone in a lab coat was standing next to her, reflected in the window. She looked up. “Dieter Haffner,” he said. “I’m the director here.” He put out his hand and they shook. He was about sixty and very thin, but her hand felt like a child’s in his.
He looked down at his clipboard. “How was the fishing?”
He said it deadpan, and she liked him for it. “They were running, but I had the wrong tackle,” Brenda said.
“Good flight?”
“There are only two kinds.”
“We’ll have a room for you in a couple hours. How are you sleeping?”
“Like the dead.”
“And you’re on solid food now. Mariposa faxed us your records. Your colleagues are sure after you.”
“I’m sorry, doctor. Whoever told them I was coming here, it wasn’t me.”
“They seem to think you’re locked up,” Haffner said. “They want someone to come out and describe electro-shock treatments.”
“Pay no attention, they need the copy.”
He looked up from the chart and smiled. Bob Newhart doing his psychologist shtick.
◆◆◆◆◆
At one o’clock, she was given a lunch of ham and scalloped potatoes, and one of the high-cal drinks they had made for her in Phoenix. The nurse who came for the tray told her a room was now ready and wheeled Brenda out of the closed ward. Her nametag read PATTERSON.
“I bet you’re glad to get out of there,” she said at the elevator.
“It’s noisy.”
“That’s detox for you. All these ladies coming off mood elevators, Percodan. The Lightning Rod should do a story.”
They rode down one floor to level three. “I’m able to walk,” Brenda told her.
“No point in rushing it.”
Pushed briskly out of the elevator, she felt air passing over the sensitive new skin on her face and hands. She still wore sunglasses. Pairs of captain’s chairs and small tables were arranged at intervals down the hall. Tranquil landscapes and still-life prints hung from the walls.
“Here we are!”
The nurse wheeled her through a doorless entry and rolled the chair past twin beds to the window. Brenda stood and looked out. The reporters had given up or gone to lunch. Patients with attendants were moving along both sides of the circular drive.
“It’s very exciting having you here,” the nurse said. “I’m a real Lightning Rod fan. You reporters must all know each other.”
“Not really.”
“It must be the most wonderful life,” she said. “Not what happened to you, that’s really terrible. I mean here at home. Your regular work.”
“I’ve been lucky.”
“We’ll take real good care of you. The food’s all right here, too.”
“That’s good. All I do is eat and sleep.”
“You must be tired, but I hope some time—”
Brenda heard a sound and turned from the window, taking off the sunglasses. The room was all bands of too bright light and dark shadow. It was fumbling somewhere, producing the bumpy change of pitch a bug makes seeking the outside. She felt her new skin turn damp.
“You okay?” The nurse came close and looked from Brenda’s face to her chest. “You’re hyper-ventilating—”
“Do you see it?”
“See what?”
“An insect.”
The nurse looked around, searching. “I can’t tell what it is.” She faced her. “Are you afraid? Do you want me to bring Dr. Haffner?”
“Which is my bed?”
“Either one, you’re in here alone.”
She lay down, feeling wet and foolish as the nurse ran down the hall. Brenda was in the garden on Pirim, crouching under taro leaves.
◆◆◆◆◆
“Hypovolemic shock is the technical term,” Haffner said. “The sweating’s caused by adrenal exhaustion. Your kidneys still aren’t working up to speed. This will happen again, so be ready for it.”
An aide came to sit in the bathroom while she showered. There was a plastic chair in the stall. Tepid water playing on her, Brenda thought of Ehrlich slumped in the ship’s shower. She changed into fresh pajamas and
fell asleep.
She woke at four and saw Patterson in the entry. The nurse was holding some folded clothes. “I thought you could use these,” she said. “Your brother’s on the phone, I’ll take you. And your roommate called, Renee Cappelli? She’s coming tomorrow morning.” She brought the wheelchair as Brenda dressed in a plaid blouse and loose poplin pants.
The nurse took her down to the lobby, into a small visiting room with a table and landline phone. She closed the door.
“So, Brenda, thanks for the postcard,” Morris said. “Thanks for all the latest. You almost die at sea and don’t even tell your family. Ma will kill me. Can you think how it’s going to be for me when she gets back? I had to read about it in the goddamn Times.”
“I tried to call her. Where is she?”
“In a fjord, how should I know? She went on a cruise.”
It was good to hear his George Constanza voice. “Tell her I’m fine, Morris.”
“Fine, like in ‘hours from death’ the Times said. A tuna boat. She hears this, she’ll go ballistic, she’ll blame me.” Morris shut up for a second, probably eating something. “So, should I come see you?” he asked. “You need anything?”
“No, don’t come, I’m fine. Get back to torts or whatever.”
“Acquisitions and mergers,” he corrected. “I’ll call tomorrow. You have to give me convincing specifics on how you’re all right. If they put the story in the international Tribune, she’ll see it. I need many convincing wellness-type details.”
“Listen, Morris, you’re in Manhattan. I need some information. Do me a favor and ask around about a firm called GENE 2. Anything you can find, I want to know.”
“What’s the deal?”
“No deal, I just want to know. We did some business.”
“It’s a small-cap drug company,” he said. “Pharmaceuticals and research.”
“That’s the one. Please ask around.”
She ate dinner in her room, thinking about Lindbergh’s matter-of-fact warning. He hadn’t lied; he’d wanted her to know he killed people. What had been done on Pirim was worth hiring an assassin to cover up. If she talked to others, they, too, would be jeopardized.
The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1) Page 17