If I Should Die

by Hilary Norman

  Hagen flushed again. “Have you any idea how unthinkable that seems to me?”

  “I think we have, sir,” Lipman gave Hagen one of her deceptively tender smiles. When she was being herself, Linda liked wearing vivid pink, sometimes even scarlet lipsticks, but today she was all face powder and muted colours.

  “We’re not just here to investigate, sir,” Joe said, gently. “We want to help you any way we can.”

  “For which I’m grateful,” Hagen said. “As I told your commander.”

  Joe stood up, and Lipman followed suit. “I guess we should get to work.” Joe took the horn-rimmed glasses from his top pocket. “We’re going to be watching and listening and taking notes – have your people been told there’s a T & M study starting today?”

  “Of course. The only people here who know the truth are Leary, Olivia Ashcroft, and Schwartz.” Hagen hesitated. “And I think it would be helpful to confide in my personal assistant, Cynthia Alesso – she’s been with me from the beginning. I’d trust her with my life.”

  Joe put on the glasses. “I’d be happier if you kept what you told her to the barest minimum.”

  “I agree.”

  Hagen came with them into his outer office and introduced them to his assistant. Cynthia Alesso was around fifty, with keen nut brown eyes and dark curls strewn with silver. She reminded Joe of a blackbird, her movements sharp and swift, her voice high and musical. Hagen went back into his office and closed the door, and a moment later, they heard the sound of classical music, loud and vibrant, piercing the walls.

  “Wagner.” Cynthia Alesso smiled ruefully. “I’ve always hated Wagner, but the boss is crazy about it, says it relaxes him when he has problems to work out. The bigger the problem, the louder the music.”

  Joe Duval knew that his desire for a career in law enforcement stemmed, in good part, from the time after his best pal Tom Harris had been shot to death in a raid on a drugstore while his mother was buying aspirin and shampoo. Joe and Tom had been the closest of confidants in the third grade, and after the tragedy Joe had been left bereft and confused, emotions the local police force had seemed to fully comprehend and share as they had dealt with the nightmare rapidly, compassionately and effectively, nailing the two drug-crazed gunmen within two weeks. The police officers had become heroes to most of the kids at school, but to none more than Joe Duval.

  Apart from the terrible months after Tom’s death, Joe’s childhood had been pretty much a joy, yet from an early age he’d known he was not destined to stay in the Berkshires. He and Lally shared the same colouring, the same dark brown hair and grey eyes, and they loved each other beyond words, but in some ways they were immeasurably different. Lally’s roots meant everything to her, whereas the day Joe had left West Stockbridge to go to John Jay College in New York City, to study criminal justice and psychology, had been one of the most exciting of his life. And it had all gone so beautifully, so exactly as he’d planned: first college, then the Police Academy, and his first years on the force with the NYPD. And then he’d fallen in love with Jess and with sweet Sal, her daughter, and he’d relocated to Chicago so that they could be married. And nothing too much had really gone wrong with his adult life until his parents’ premature death, and then Jess’s miscarriage last year – and those sorrows had felled him, though looking back on them from a distance, in a bizarre kind of way he was almost grateful to them for forcing him to fully understand the fragility and preciousness of love and family and the stuff that really mattered. Ambition, hard work and achievement had their places right enough, but they weren’t what really mattered, not by a long chalk.

  It was tough, sometimes almost impossible, being a good husband and father when you were a cop, but Joe was luckier than most, because though he knew Jess was as afraid as any policeman’s wife, she never gave him a hard time about the dangerous situations he got involved in, seldom nagged him about the long hours he worked.

  “I knew when I married you,” she said simply.

  “But don’t you hate it?”

  “How can I, when it’s so much a part of you?”

  He was a lucky man in so many ways. Soon after his promotion to sergeant, he’d been accepted by the FBI for a ten-month training programme with the Behavioral Science Unit within the NCAVC – the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime – and hard on the heels of Joe’s new-won experience in criminal personality profiling had come his first major case. The arsonist who had terrorized Chicago for almost four months – self-styled The Inhuman Torch in letters sent, at first, to the Chicago Tribune, and as the investigation got under way, to Joe Duval himself – had liked burning people more than property, and had liked knowing they had burnt alive and conscious; and the fact that he never knew his victims seemed only to increase, not lessen his satisfaction. Effective teamwork, routine detection, BSU profiling techniques and good luck had led to the Torch’s arrest, but not before the killer had set a fire that he boasted would burn at least a hundred victims. Joe had interrogated him every way he knew, not all of them orthodox, and the fire, in a children’s hospital, had been stopped just in time. He had been promoted to lieutenant within three months.

  Everything changed less than one hour after Joe and Lipman’s arrival at Hagen Pacing, when Cynthia Alesso asked Joe to return to Hagen’s office to take a call from the commander.

  Jackson was curt and to the point. “Someone in the ME’s office found traces of plastique explosive in Mrs Ferguson’s remains.”

  “I thought that had been ruled out,” Joe said, picking his words carefully with Hagen there in the room at his desk.

  “Yeah, I thought so too,” the commander said. “Is Hagen still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He knows.”

  Joe looked at Hagen. He seemed dazed.

  “Do you want us to come back, Commander?”

  “No point wasting time.” Jackson’s voice was grim. “I’ve talked to Boston, and Chief Hankin’s informed the FBI and FDA. Under the circumstances, given our jurisdiction, they’re letting us put together our own task force, including Bomb and Arson, and the FBI will give us access to computers, transport, whatever we need.”

  “Who’s going to head the task force?” Joe asked.

  “You are.”

  Joe said nothing. A swift stab of excitement gripped him, followed by a wave of guilt. It was often that way for him, getting caught up in a homicide investigation. All the right motivations, sure, but then that nasty little worm of conscience reminding him that a job done well could further his career, the way all those poor burned people had brought him his promotion.

  “You got The Inhuman Torch” – Jackson was a mind reader – ”and more to the point, you trained in their Behavioral Science programme, so the FBI’s behind us on this, for the moment at least. It’s all yours, Duval.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Joe pushed the guilt aside and started focusing hard on the case.

  “It’ll be around the clock,” Jackson went on, “and you can’t talk about this one to anyone, not even your wife.”

  “I realize that, sir.” Joe hated keeping stuff from Jess – they were the kind of couple who liked to share.

  Hagen got up from his desk and went out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Hagen just left,” Joe said. “He looks pretty shell-shocked.”

  “Tell the others – Leary, Ashcroft and Schwartz – see how they react – and make damn sure they know it’s for their ears only.”

  “It could be any one of them,” Joe said.

  “It could be anyone in the whole goddamned place.” Jackson paused. “Hagen says Schwartz is going to test samples from the last six months’ output. Think he’s up to it, or do we bring someone in?”

  “I think it might be a mistake replacing him at this stage,” Joe said. “He knows better than anyone exactly what goes into these things.” He remembered the man’s haunted expression, remembered that he’d liked him on first impressio
n, then put the thought away. “He’ll have to be supervised every working moment.”

  “And he has to work in a secure testing area, away from the rest of the work-force,” Jackson said. “Who do you want on the task force?”

  “Lipman, for sure. And Tony Valdez from Bomb and Arson,” Joe said without hesitation. “He’s the man to stick with Schwartz and the production line.” He paused. “And Cohen.”

  “Cohen has a pacemaker.” Involuntarily, the commander laid his right hand on his own chest. Aside from Chief Hankin, he thought no one in the department knew about his trouble.

  “He’s had it for ten years,” Joe said. “It’ll make him extra sensitive.”

  Jackson winced. “He may not think it’s such a hot idea.”

  “I think he’ll want to help,” Joe said. He and Sol Cohen went back a long way.

  “I’ll talk to them both, and get back to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just find out how the hell this happened, Duval, and get the bastard who did it.” Jackson’s voice grew more resonant. “And for the love of God, find out if those two were the only ones.”

  “We’ll do our best, Commander.”

  “Not good enough, Lieutenant.”

  Joe looked at the dead receiver, and put it slowly back on the hook. The commander wanted results, Chief Hankin demanded results, and if Joe didn’t give them what they needed – and soon – if this horror was allowed to get out of hand, the whole country would be after his blood.

  Joe knew he had the case of a lifetime. He had never wanted one less.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday, January 12th

  Hugo came to collect Lally from the hospital at three in the afternoon.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to leave?” he asked her.

  “I’ve been ready to leave since yesterday morning.”

  “But Dr Ash wanted you to stay till tomorrow.”

  “And then he changed his mind.”

  “Because you drove him nuts.”

  “He wouldn’t be letting me out if he thought I wasn’t ready.”

  “Depends how nuts you drove him.”

  “You make me sound terrible.”

  “You are.”

  “Hugo.”

  “What?”

  “Take me home.”

  She knew he was still frightened for her, and in a way she was grateful for that fear because it strengthened her, gave her someone else other than herself to think about. That had probably been the worst part of the last few days, the sudden awareness of her own body, the constant battle with her mind not to count every heartbeat. Hugo had said, in one of his braver moments, that she looked fine, a little on the pale and interesting side, but nothing that a few home-cooked meals and a lot more sleep wouldn’t set right. Lally still felt pretty sore, though that did seem to be getting better with almost every passing hour, but apart from that, she found it hard to describe exactly what she felt.

  “I feel emotionally weird,” she told Hugo on the drive home.

  “How weird?”

  Lally tried to find words. “Some of me still feels shocked, I guess – by the drama, by the speed of it all.” She paused. “Some of me feels vulnerable and anxious, because maybe not all of me believes that such a simple procedure could really put right something so dangerous.”

  Hugo glanced across at her. “But it has put it right, Lally. I’ve done a lot of checking around since Ash put in the pacemaker. They’re wonderful things, completely reliable.”

  “I know they are.” She smiled at him. “I’m just trying to be honest about what I’m feeling.” She ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. “I can’t wait to get in the shower and wash my hair properly.”

  “I’ll do it for you.”

  “Maybe I’ll let you help dry it.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  Lally stared out of the window, relishing the snowy landscape, the beauty of the hills in the distance. “I know it’s foolish,” she said, quietly, “but another part of me feels heroic and euphoric, as if I’ve been smoking dope and drinking champagne. I get these moments when I feel I’ve stared death in the eye and told it to take a running jump.”

  “That doesn’t sound foolish to me,” Hugo said.

  “But the weirdest thing of all is that I keep alternately forgetting and then remembering with a jolt that I have this thing embedded in my body, this alien thing powering my heart – ”

  “It isn’t powering it, it’s just making sure it steers a safe course.”

  “I know. Still.”

  There were two bouquets waiting for Lally at the house, pink roses from Hugo with a card telling her how much he loved her, and a bunch of sweet peas from Katy Webber, saying that she wished Lally would get better real soon and would she mind if she came to visit?

  “Don’t look at me like that.” Hugo saw Lally’s accusing stare. “I had to tell some people – you’re not going to be taking classes for a few weeks yet.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely.” He raised a hand defensively. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell Joe – though I still think he ought to know.”

  “He will know, when I’m better,” Lally said, definitely. “And not before.”

  “I guess it’s up to you,” Hugo said.

  “It is.” Lally looked at the flowers again. “I’d better put those in water.”

  “I’ll do it. You go upstairs and get into bed.”

  “I’ve just got out of bed.”

  “Dr Ash said you could only come home if you rested, and he meant staying in bed.”

  “I could lie on the sofa,” Lally said.

  “With a pillow and a blanket,” Hugo compromised.

  “Deal.”

  “Then go put on something comfy and I’ll cut you a slice of your welcome-home cake.”

  Lally’s eyes brightened. “Chocolate?”

  “What else?”

  She was settled on the sofa before Hugo brought her the cake and a cup of camomile tea. “This came for you this morning.” He handed her a brown paper wrapped parcel.

  She looked at it curiously. There was no address, written or printed. It had clearly been hand-delivered. “Who’s it from?”

  “I was asked to say nothing,” Hugo said. “I guess it’s some kind of gift.”

  Lally held the parcel for a few moments, examining it for signs. It was rectangular in shape, about eighteen inches by twelve, and about two inches thick. She gave up trying to guess, and tore off the paper to find a brown cardboard box. Her hands grew more impatient.

  “Careful,” Hugo said. “It might be fragile.”

  “It’s a painting.” Lally’s eyes widened. Gently, she lifted it out of the box, and saw that it was a portrait of herself, on canvas and framed in pale polished wood. She was barefoot and dressed in the leotard and cotton rehearsal skirt she often wore for classes, her hair was fastened in a bun, and she was holding a pair of pointe shoes. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “There’s something written on the back.” Hugo’s voice was tight.

  She turned it over. Thank you, it said. Be well, and safe. Chris.

  “He’s called a few times,” Hugo said. “I didn’t know how much you wanted him to know, so I didn’t tell him where you were, but once the surgery was over, I told him you were fine and when I expected you home.” He paused. “He sounded pretty upset when he heard you were sick, and then he kept on calling, leaving messages.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Hugo said, slowly. “I wasn’t too clear how you felt about the Webbers.”

  “Don’t you mean how you felt?” Lally asked, gently.

  “Maybe.” Hugo sat down on the end of the sofa, and she moved her feet to make space for him. “You know I was uneasy about your getting involved with them. It was upsetting you, and the man’s married, with problems – ”

  “I understand,” Lally said.

  �
��But then, this morning, he got here with the parcel before I was even out of bed, wanting to know exactly what time I was going to fetch you.” Hugo gave a wry smile. “He’s probably sitting at home right now, chewing his nails, wanting to talk to you.”

  “I should call him.”

  “I suppose you should. I’ll bring you the phone.”

  Chris answered on the second ring.

  “It’s me,” Lally said, and watched Hugo leave the room.

  “You’re home.” His voice was full of relief.

  “I’m calling to thank you for my gift,” she said, trying to be careful, though she knew her heart was in her voice. “It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever been given.”

  “I’ve been so worried,” Chris said.

  “I’m fine now.”

  “When Hugo told me what had happened, I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I had a little trouble believing it myself.”

  “I kept remembering that you almost passed out when I was with you the other night, and that I just went home and left you.”

  “Because I insisted. You weren’t to know.”

  “I should have stayed. I should have called a doctor.”

  “Chris, I’m fine now. It’s all over.”

  “Hugo wouldn’t let me visit you – he wouldn’t even tell me where you were. I would have at least sent flowers.”

  “I was only there two days, and they didn’t encourage visitors.”

  “At least you’re home now.”

  They were both silent for a moment.

  “How are things with you?” Lally asked, tentatively. “How’s Katy doing? Is she home right now? I’d like to thank her for her sweet flowers.”

  “Katy’s doing pretty well,” Chris replied, “but she’s at a friend’s house – doing homework together, or so the story goes.”

  Lally hesitated only briefly. “And Andrea?”

  “Not so good,” Chris said. “She’s still fighting them and me, still refusing to admit how bad her problems are.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She seems to understand, though, that if she doesn’t stay in the clinic, I’ll take Katy away from her. Andrea may not care about our marriage, but she loves our daughter far too much to risk losing her.”