They delivered their patient to the station’s infirmary. Caged emergency cases and intensive care patients lined the walls: a critically ill gannet, a five-pound white seabird, brought in by a lifeguard; an adult pelican fitted with a plastic orthopedic boot; a baby pelican found wandering in South Beach traffic, feeble and shrunken; and a beautiful cormorant who had flown in on his own, trailing two feet of steel leader wire that protruded from this throat. X rays revealed it was attached to two large hooks embedded in his stomach.
X ray after X ray clipped to lighted boards exposed monofiliment line, wire and hooks in birds’ bellies.
“Why,” Frank asked, scrutinizing them, “can’t they make biodegradable line and hooks that stomach acid could dissolve?”
“They could, if they wanted to,” Rory said. “You try making somebody listen.”
Harry and Darlene, who founded the station, had returned. Frank held the bird on the table as Harry removed the hooks and took a temporary stitch in the wound beneath the wing. He could feel the creature’s heartbeat and its downy, snow white neck, not like feathers at all, but as soft and as glossy as a rabbit’s fur.
“That’s as much as we can do for him now,” Harry said.
“The doctor will clean the wound tomorrow, pack it with antibiotics and insert a drain.”
Frank left as the couple worked on the pelican rescued at Haulover. A ten-inch gash in its throat was so deep that when it tried to eat, the fish would slip through the wound. Rory walked Frank to his car. Her hair was still damp, her big eyes sweeping the panorama of sky, clouds and water. “All this tends to make you forget everything else, don’t it?” she said.
He had come to inquire whether she had cremated her husband. How could he?
“Better get outa those wet clothes,” she said, as a Volkswagen pulled up. The driver climbed out, carrying an injured seagull in a shoe box. He was a teacher, he said. The children at his school had lured the bird with bread, then broken its wing with rocks. He and Rory disappeared inside the building.
“Sorry, Daniel,” Frank apologized aloud, alone in the car as he drove home. “Sorry for lusting after your wife.” How could this happen? Then he decided that it was only natural to be attracted to the wife of his heart, if Daniel was dead, if the heart beating in his chest was really his.
Frank made it into the house unseen, but in the upstairs hall encountered Shandi coming out of her room.
She looked at his trousers, still wet around the crotch and the zipper. “Oh, Daddy.” She looked stricken and ran downstairs.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kathleen kissed him good night, held his hand, and returned to their bed, but he felt no intimacy. He lay beside her, fearing sleep, fearing she would sense his disturbing dreams of another woman. In all of them he knew he had been betrayed, yet still longed for her intimate whispers in the dark, the shiver of her sharp fingernails raking his back. The state of his marriage would improve only when whatever drove him lay at rest at last, when he had exposed the truth and buried the past.
He did not see Rory after what had happened. He thought of her, and Billy, often in the bright light of day. Then the call he awaited finally came. Kathleen looked pale when he said at dinner that he had a meeting. He did not explain, but left them still at the table, pretending not to see their expressions, the looks they exchanged. He could fix that later.
* * *
Lucca wore a red tie and held a thin file folder.
“Surprise!” he announced jauntily. He dropped the folder on Frank’s desk and slumped resolutely into a chair, legs stretched out in front of him.
“The guy who blew his brains out with Daniel P. Alexander’s gun, in Daniel P. Alexander’s house, after putting away some of Daniel P. Alexander’s whiskey, waasss—Mister Daniel P. Alexander!”
He swallowed. He had been so sure … “I wish I could be as certain.”
“Well, if you ain’t, you should be. He only happened to fit Daniel P. Alexander’s physical description, was wearing his clothes, his wedding ring, and had Daniel P. Alexander’s fingerprints! To say nothing of the fart that Mrs. Daniel P. Alexander discovered her dying husband and identified him to the medics and the cops as, guess who?”
He looked Frank straight in the eye. “You’ve got it. Daniel P. Alexander.”
“I don’t know …” How can it be? he thought.
“Boss, you ain’t gettin’ my message here. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck … it’s Daniel P. Alexander.”
Frank toyed with a silver paperweight in the shape of a windjammer. “But you told me once to never ignore my gut feelings.”
Lucca sighed. “He was cremated, by the way. The ME records show he was released to Biscayne Crematorium. Oh, one other thing, you’ll see it in my report. Your man Harrington, he was no Boy Scout. Had himself a couple little scrapes with the law back home in Connecticut.”
“Like what?” Frank leaned forward, focusing on Lucca’s words.
“Strictly white collar. Worthless checks, unauthorized useof a credit card, failure to pay child support, a little skirmish with the IRS. Nothing serious, never did any hard time.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We?” He snorted. “Boss, you are a PI’s wet dream. Like I say, you ain’t getting my message. Most private investigators live by the golden rule, which is: A case is never closed while the client’s still got gold.
“Cops want to wrap a case up fast, PIs are exactly the opposite. They can always find a way to keep an investigation alive. Another interview, another computer check, one more phone call, another day to research old court records, four more hours to write it all up in the wordiest way possible. It all boils down to bucks. Like the Energizer Bunny, they’ll keep on going and going and going. They’ll milk a case until the cows come home.
“That’s them. It ain’t me. In all good conscience, I can’t keep taking your money for this.”
“All I know, Lucca, is that something is not right. Where is the money? Why was his partner murdered? If Daniel Alexander is dead, was he murdered, too? Where the hell is the watch that should be in his safety deposit box?”
“Look, boss, I don’t know what kinda shit that broad, Big Red, is feeding you …”
“She is not ‘Big Red,’ this … this distorted image you have of her. Stop calling her that, Lucca. You don’t even know her.”
“And you do?” The detective studied him speculatively.
How could Frank explain to this larger-than-life detective, who demanded proof of everything and believed nothing, that the problem here was not Rory, it was inside him. It was he who wanted answers to questions he was afraid to ask.
“Whatever happened,” Frank said wearily. “I don’t think she knows.”
“She’s lying,” the detective said derisively. “That’s the bottom line.”
Once he was like Lucca, Frank thought. Rational, logical, a believer in the bottom line. Who was he now? What did he believe in? “She’s gentle,” he said, “a good mother, she volunteers to rescue seabirds …”
“I don’t give a good goddamn if she’s Mother Teresa, she’s lying, boss. You’re letting your emotions get the upper hand. Trust me. Up to now I’ve done everything you’ve asked, but I sure as hell can’t work out your emotions for you. This is why I don’t do domestics.”
Lucca got to his feet. “I enjoy working for you, boss. Hope you call me again when you need something. But not on this one. Deal?” They shook hands.
“Is there … anyone else you can recommend?”
“Jesus, boss!” Lucca’s face screwed up in frustration. “You don’t listen! Go talk to Red. You can figure it out for yourself.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Or,” he said, his voice kinder, “go see somebody, see your doc, have him write you out a ‘script for something that’ll help you relax, mellow out. Look, you’ve got your health back. You’ve got your family. You’ve got everything. Enjoy it. That advice is free. I’ll bill you for the
rest.”
When Lucca left, Frank called Rory, he had to see her. She had plans, she said, but invited him along.
Her dress was soft and sweeping in a creamy yellow. Billy was sleeping at his grandmother’s. “What is that?” he asked after they were in the car. “Your perfume, what is it?”
She looked embarrassed. “Came outa the little brown bottle in the kitchen. Vanilla. It’s related to the orchid,” she added.
“I knew it,” he told her. “It smells like cookies and ice cream.
“And nobody tests it on baby bunnies’ eyes,” she said.
They were nearly late and had to hurry. Frank smiled wryly when he saw that these New Age seekers of inner light, spiritual connections and realms of consciousness met in a brightly lit bank building, in an atmosphere of money, mortgages and worldly pursuits. Did the starched-collar bankers detect a scent of incense in the morning?
Estate-planning seminars were apparently conducted in the same room during the day. Rows of metal folding chairs faced a well-lit podium. He overheard snatches of conversation related to self-hypnosis, meditation and dream therapy. Despite his lifelong skepticism, he felt a sense of anticipation, or was that because Rory sat to his right, eyes alight and uplifted, hair pushed back, to reveal the graceful curve of her neck and her high cheekbones?
Lights dimmed at the sound of a Buddhist temple bell. As its resonance lingered, a dark, slightly built man stepped to the podium. Unlike Frank’s image of a mystical guru, the man wore a well-cut business suit and hair only slightly longer than his own.
“Listen,” he commanded, in a voice rich and mellifluous, “to the sound of serenity. The universe is listening. Things spiritual are spiralling forward exponentially, as rapidly as scientific discoveries. We must be part of the process …”
His topic was spirit and self, the eternal links between mind and body. Those gathered were to “hold hands, close your eyes and travel to that infinite well of wisdom deep within yourselves, where the answer to every question lies.”
Rory’s hand was smooth and tender, not so the bony paw to Frank’s left. Arthritic and misshapen, it belonged to ashrunken and watery-eyed old man who smelled of corned beef and pickles.
Frank wondered if somebody would lift their wallets while they all traveled to their inner wells. He sneaked a sidelong peek at Rory, her face serene, her breathing even. Sucking in a deep breath, he tried to retreat into his mind as the speaker urged. Images of Lucca and his unsettling words blocked him, but Frank wrestled the big detective aside to wade more deeply into the rushing river of his consciousness. Shudders rippled down his spine. Something waited along that remote and misty bank. A pleading stranger instead of an inner child. Angry, demanding and full of anguish. Frank shuddered again. Rory gently squeezed his hand and he felt the chair beside him creak as the old man turned to stare. The air-conditioned room had become far too cold, yet perspiration blossomed at Frank’s temples and beaded across his forehead.
His eyes flew open as he fought the urge to flee. He needed fresh air. His startled eyes caught those of the lecturer, who paused. “You are always safe within yourself.” The man spoke as though directly to him. “Cherish the divine being inside you.”
Bullshit, Frank thought. That was no divine being. Something foreign and frightening prowled the deep wilderness of his mind.
“Life is so simple,” the lecturer was saying. “It is we who make it complicated. Make me your stepping-stone as you journey to eternal light through the long dark night of the soul.”
The meeting ended in polite applause and the room cleared except for a few stragglers. Frank and Rory remained in their seats until everyone else had gone. An older man was carefully packing the temple bell into a straw-filled boxas Rory approached the lecturer. They spoke briefly and she signalled Frank to join them. She left them alone near the podium, at a small table stacked with tax work sheets and investment-planning brochures, things he could understand.
“I have a problem,” Frank began, surprised that he felt comfortable confiding in this stranger. Probably, he told himself, because the man is crazier than I am. He spoke about his surgery, the intruder, the dreams, the sightings, the night Margery Howe was killed, his own feelings. The assistant who packed the temple bell approached, but the speaker dismissed him with a gesture.
He was nodding as Frank finished. “Cellular memory,” he said. “It is not unusual for transplant patients to experience the presence of the donor. Many report spiritual links with those whose organs they received.” The man’s eyes glowed. “Science has brought us to this new plateau. I spoke earlier of the inexorable connection between mind and body. Perhaps the link now exists between his mind and your body.”
“That is not the official line from those in charge of the transplant program,” Frank said. “Suggest something like this and they want to change your medication and call in a shrink.”
The man smiled, genuinely amused. His teeth shone, white and perfect. “Many in the medical profession are hampered by their practicality, their scientific mind-sets.” Leaning forward, he whispered, “This spirit has clearly demonstrated that he is not hostile to you. You must listen to what he is trying to communicate.”
“I’ve tried, but I can’t understand. My God, this is all foreign to me. I don’t sleep. My mind can’t shut down at night. He won’t let it.”
“Stop resisting. Open yourself to him. Listen to him. Inmeditation I have often encountered restless spirits in transition, many are confused, unaware that they are no longer in this life. Some are angry, full of fury, unable or unwilling to ascend to the next phase of existence because of unfinished business. Perhaps the shock of a sudden, unexpected departure from this life …”
“They say he committed suicide,” Frank said. “Death doesn’t come unexpected to a man who puts a gun to his own head.”
The speaker shrugged, smiling serenely. “Heed his message. Learn why he is angry, in distress. Do not resist. Surrender, help him, so he can move on and travel toward the light.”
“It would explain so much,” Frank said, as he drove Rory home. “But it sounds like a bunch of New Age mumbo jumbo.”
“It isn’t,” Rory said softly. “Whether you believe or not, it’s all there, in the Bible. The New Testament is full of dreams and visions, extrasensory perception, contacts between this life and the next, miraculous healings and out-of-body travel.
“I know ESP is a fact. Didn’t you ever know exactly what somebody was gonna say before they said it? Or that the phone was about to ring and who was calling? Or think of people you haven’t seen in years and then cross paths with them the next day? My mama had a vivid dream about her daddy. He lived eight hundred miles away, but she woke up at three a.m. and saw him standing, plain as day, at the foot of her bed. He hadn’t even been sick, but she knew right then he was gone. That was the exact time he had died. And when my grandma died in the hospital, her old dog, Tigger, came to the back door and just howled and howled. He’dnever done that before. The hospital called twenty minutes later. She was gone. Things like that happen to everybody.”
She invited him in, brewed tea and served angel food cake. The tension between them was palpable. That kiss at the water’s edge had changed everything. His lips tingled when he looked at her. He knew she felt it too. Billy’s absence resonated from the walls.
“I better go.” He checked his watch.
“Yes.” She smiled and got to her feet. “You’d better.”
She hugged him lightly, soft hair brushing his cheek, the way one hugs a friend. He opened the door, turned to say good night and something flared like a spark. They collided spontaneously, like a force of nature. They were insane, possessed.
Her hands were in his hair, his under her skirt. “We can’t do this,” he said.
“I know.” Her eyes were closed.
He opened her dress, exposing her breasts, hoarsely whispering, “Yes, yes.”
“This can’t happen.”
“We won’t. We can’t.”
Her skin felt hot, on fire. Her thighs opened.
His felt an urgency he had never experienced. “Upstairs?”
“No.” She hesitated. “We can’t.”
Of course, he hated himself. The bed she had shared with Daniel. His mouth found her breast. Fondling, cradling them together, his tongue moving back and forth from one taut nipple to the other.
Plump tufted sofa pillows, pushed away, slid to the floor.
He was scarcely aware of Daniel Alexander, watching from the mantel. Their anatomies had been designed for this purpose, a perfect fit. The connection was more than physical, he felt every neuron in his brain, every nerve ending in hisbody. After decades of lovemaking with only one woman, he intuitively knew exactly how and where to touch this one. The blood-borne chemical hormones did their job and his pulse beat accelerated. If my heart can survive this, he thought, unable to hold back any longer, it will survive anything.
They lay there afterwards like storm-tossed survivors, limp and exhausted. Her fingers stroked his forehead, tracing his brows, his mouth, then the scar on his chest, her hand coming to rest over his still-racing heart. “You’re still excited. Is it always like this?”
“It takes my heart longer now to speed up and to slow down.” He held her, her head resting on his shoulder. “But no, it’s never like this. I didn’t plan this,” he swore. “I never …”
“I know,” she said softly.
He drove home picturing her alone in her bed in that house. What had he done? How had an evening focused on the spiritual become so physical? He scrutinized his image in the rearview mirror at a stoplight. How could he look the same? Why did everything he felt now conflict with all he knew about Daniel Alexander?
“I’m surrendering,” he said aloud. “I’m not resisting. Tell me what to do. I surrender, I surrender,” he repeated, over and over.
Kathleen was in bed when he got home, only pretending to be asleep, he was sure, as he quietly undressed. He felt her eyes, watching him in the dark.
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