If I Should Die

by Hilary Norman

  “It’s kind of you to have agreed to see me, sir,” Joe said at the front door.

  “I’m happy to see you, Lieutenant. I’ve seen no one except my doctor since I left the factory on Friday.”

  If Hagen had looked like hell, Schwartz looked worse. He, too, wore a silk dressing gown, though his had a paisley pattern and looked old, if scrupulously clean and pressed. His wispy, mousy hair was carefully combed, the unremarkable, small-featured face looked pasty, the whites of his bleary hazel eyes were pink, and his forehead and upper lip were beaded with perspiration. He wore burgundy pyjamas beneath the robe, and he smelled of menthol, as if he’d been rubbing his chest.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Joe asked, genuinely concerned.

  “I felt worse in bed,” Schwartz said, and stepped back. “You should keep your distance, Lieutenant. You don’t want to catch it.”

  “If I haven’t caught it yet, I’m hoping I may be immune.”

  For such a quiet, modest man, Schwartz had a startlingly opulent apartment. Joe stepped over Persian rugs as the other man led the way into his sitting room. There were bookshelves – books had been surprisingly absent at Hagen’s, but maybe Carlyle apartments had their own libraries – and heavy drapes, and a central, glittering chandelier. Music played softly from two speakers in a thirties-style mahogany wall unit. Opera. Joe smiled inwardly. Another shared love. Or another imitation.

  “You have quite a place, Mr Schwartz.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Won’t you sit down?” Schwartz gestured to a brocade-covered armchair. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thank you, sir.” Joe, sat and looked up at an ornately framed portrait hanging above the sofa. “That’s a beautiful woman.”

  “My mother. Painted by my father.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Schwartz, too, sat down, grimacing a little, as if his joints pained him. He took a white linen handkerchief from his dressing gown pocket and mopped his forehead. “This is damnable,” he said. “I haven’t been sick in years.”

  “Detective Lipman went down with it last night.”

  “Poor lady, I’m sorry,” Schwartz said.

  Joe hesitated. “Shall I come straight to the point, sir?”

  “I’d be grateful.”

  “I’ve come to the conclusion that you really do know more about the current range of Hagen pacemakers than anyone else, including Mr Hagen.”

  “That’s probably true.” Schwartz was matter-of-fact.

  “I know you still believe that this can’t have happened in your factory.”

  “You mean I don’t want to believe it,” Schwartz said.

  “Perhaps. Though I want you to know we’re looking elsewhere, too.”

  “I’ve never doubted that you’d have to.” Schwartz wiped his face again, then coughed and cleared his throat before continuing. “I know the factory as well as I know this apartment, Lieutenant, and I’ve found not a shred of evidence of anything untoward – and your Detective Valdez is a very thorough man, too.”

  “And you all – including Valdez – insist that the devices are impregnable, once sealed.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Yet the cardiologists and thoracic surgeons involved in the three cases so far,” Joe went on, “all maintain that they would have known if the pacemakers had been tampered with.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe that,” Schwartz said.

  “They say that pacemakers are always visually examined and handled prior to every implantation.”

  Schwartz shrugged. “What else would you expect them to say?”

  Joe smiled. “Maybe you’re right.” He paused. “I’d like to ask you a favour, sir, if you’re up to it.”

  “Anything that will help, Lieutenant.”

  “If you’re too sick, or too exhausted, just tell me.”

  “Of course.”

  Joe sat forward. “If it were you, Mr Schwartz – if you had done this thing – how would you have done it? If you wanted to turn one of your pacemakers into a bomb, knowing all that you do, how would you go about it?”

  Schwartz showed no sign of being offended. “I take it this is on the assumption that I would do it before the devices were sealed?” He watched Joe nod. “And also assuming I had full access to the production area.” He paused only briefly. “I’d use the battery. It’s the most combustible component in the generator box – the part of the pacemaker implanted in the chest wall.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was the first thing Leary and I talked about at the beginning, since lithium batteries are potentially explosive under certain circumstances. I shared the knowledge with Detective Valdez, of course.”

  “Certain circumstances being extreme heat or flames, for example.”

  Schwartz nodded. “Which might feasibly have caused the fireman’s death, but which does not, of course, explain the other fatalities.”

  “Could enough explosive be inserted into the batteries to cause the deaths?” Joe asked.

  “In theory, I imagine so. I’m not an explosives expert.” Schwartz began to cough again, a longer attack than before. His face reddened, the veins on his neck and temples stood out.

  “Can I get you some water?” Joe stood up.

  “Please.” Schwartz pointed to the door, trying but failing to control the coughing. “Kitchen’s to the right.”

  Joe went back out over the Persian rugs. There were two closed doors. He opened one, hoping not to get the kitchen first time. Schwartz’s bedroom was warm and stuffy, the bed tidied but uncovered. A large box of Kleenex, a bottle of red capsules and a tumbler of water stood on the bedside table, and that same menthol smell filled the air. He heard Schwartz coughing, closed the door and found the kitchen, fastidiously clean and neat. The cupboards were glass-fronted, everything clearly visible and in its place. Joe opened the big old refrigerator. There was nothing of interest, no sealed containers that might have held sinister substances, a few cans of sardines, two cartons of skimmed milk, a bottle of German beer, half a Saran-wrapped roast chicken, a supermarket pack of ham, some Diet Fleischmans margarine and three eggs. Not exactly the dream refrigerator of a master bomber.

  Joe ran the cold water faucet, filled a glass and took it back into the sitting room. Schwartz was mopping his face again with his handkerchief, and his breathing seemed more laboured than before. Joe gave him the glass.

  “I couldn’t find any bottled water.”

  “I never bother with it.” Schwartz sipped a little. His hands trembled. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You’re sick, and I should be letting you rest, not picking your brains.”

  “I’m not unflattered. Or should I be wary?”

  Joe sat down again and smiled. “Not unless you did it.” He paused. “You were about to try to tell me how the plastique explosive could be inserted into the pacemaker batteries.”

  “In itself, in theory again, I guess that would present no great problem.” Schwartz paused. “Aside from the obvious hazard of being seen to do it. But it would mean opening the sealed outer case and welding it closed again afterward, which would be noticeable on checking.” He shrugged, weakly. “If it was the batteries, it’s more likely that they would have been tampered with during their production.”

  Joe nodded. “We’ve been checking that out. To date, it doesn’t look likely.”

  “Okay. But even that would only give us a part of the picture – I’m sure our bomber would have found many more complex problems than inserting the explosives.”

  “Such as?”

  Schwartz shrugged again. “The possibilities are endless.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. You’re asking more of my brain than it’s fit to give you today. Surely your explosives technicians must have come up with something by now?”

  “Not much more than you and Valdez. Traces of plastique, the p
ossibility that the batteries were tampered with, and minute traces of electronic circuitry that mean timers were probably used.”

  Schwartz nodded. “Time bombs,” he said, softly, dully.

  “None of them went off before they were in the patients.”

  “And I suppose no one’s been able to make a connection between the three victims.”

  “Nothing except for their Hagen pacemakers.”

  Schwartz shook his head again, slowly and painfully, and the dampness of his pasty cheeks glistened. “It goes from bad to worse, doesn’t it, Lieutenant?”

  “We’ll get there,” Joe said.

  “But how many more people may die before you do?”

  “Let’s pray none.”

  “How much longer will the factory be shut?”

  “I can’t answer that, Mr Schwartz.”

  “It’s dreadful for Al Hagen.”

  “And for many others,” Joe said.

  “But Al’s always cared so deeply about Hagen Pacing. More than any of his other companies.”

  “You care, too, Mr Schwartz.”

  Schwartz nodded. “It’s been my life for the past ten years.”

  Joe rose from his chair again.

  “You and Mr Hagen have a lot in common.”

  Schwartz’s smile was wan.

  “I guess we do.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Monday, January 18th

  On Monday morning Hugo drove Lally to the hospital in Holyoke for her eight-day check-up. Persuaded that there would be no invasive procedure on this occasion, he came into the laboratory with her and held her hand while Lucas Ash, Joanna King and Bobby Goldstein checked her over, ran a final X-ray and used their magical electronic gadgetry while Lally alternately sat, jogged on a treadmill, lay down and walked, to ascertain that her pacemaker was properly programmed for the individual needs of her heart.

  “One hundred per cent,” Dr Ash pronounced when it was over.

  “Really?” Lally, nerve-racked, icy limbed yet clammy, looked suspicious.

  “I’ve told you before, Lally, I don’t lie to my patients.”

  “I’m sorry.” She flushed.

  “No need to be sorry, so long as you believe me.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  Hugo, his own palm damp, gave her hand one last squeeze and let go.

  “Well, I feel better,” he said.

  “I’m sure that’s a relief to us all,” Joanna King said, drily but not unkindly.

  Hugo took no notice. “This means Lally’s really going to be okay?”

  Lucas Ash shook his head. “Okay implies survival, or something merely adequate. Lally’s going to be better than okay – she’s going to go on being Lally, leading the lifestyle she chooses – dancing, baking, whatever.”

  “It’s so hard to believe,” Lally said, though a fresh and wonderful feeling of warmth and relief was stealing through her entire body and mind. “I mean, I am starting to believe it, truly, but it was all so sudden, so serious, and now – ” She shook her head, impatient with herself. “I’m sorry, I’m being a real pain.”

  “No, you’re not,” Bobby Goldstein said.

  “No more than anyone is at this stage,” Joanna King added. “I know I’d be no different if it happened to me.”

  “But you can go home now,” Dr Ash said, with finality.

  “And then what?” Lally asked.

  “Forget it.”

  “Honestly?” This time it was Hugo who sounded disbelieving.

  “I’d like you to start slowly, dance-wise,” the doctor addressed Lally, “but you can, and you should, make a start. Gentle warm-up exercises, barre work, nothing too exerting for a week or two – not because it’s going to kill you,” he added swiftly, “or even harm you. But I don’t want you overdoing things and scaring yourself. I want you to take it easily, and come to terms with the fact that the thing in your chest is your friend, a part of you now.”

  “Think of it as a new lover,” Joanna King suggested, “who’s going to turn into the perfect husband. At first you don’t quite believe how good things are, you can’t quite trust him, but gradually you settle down and realize that things are better than they’ve ever been.”

  “And then you take him for granted.” Bobby Goldstein grinned.

  “In this case, a good thing,” Lucas Ash said.

  “What about check-ups?” Hugo asked.

  “One month from today,” Dr Ash replied. “Then six months, and after that, it’ll be annual.”

  “And the batteries?” Lally asked.

  “Should last ten to twelve years.”

  Lally sat back in her chair and relaxed. No more questions came into her mind. She looked around the laboratory and then at the people surrounding her. The sun had poked through the grey outside, and its sudden yellowish winter glow illuminated the doctor’s golden head, giving him a cartoon aura that made her smile.

  “How about a vacation?” Hugo asked.

  “Good idea,” Dr Ash said.

  “A vacation?” The word sounded good. Lally hadn’t been anywhere – other than to Chicago to visit Joe – in a long time. “What kind of vacation?”

  “Any kind you like.” Ash paused. “I’d prefer you didn’t actually climb a mountain just yet, but walking or riding or swimming – like most things in life, everything within reason.”

  “Skiing?” Lally asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I don’t really feel like skiing,” she said. “I think I’d like to get away from all this snow.”

  “You love snow,” Hugo said.

  “Not the last few days. I’ve hated it.”

  “We could go to Florida,” Hugo suggested, then looked awkward. “Unless you want to be by yourself.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Or with someone else.”

  Lally looked at him steadily. She knew he was thinking of Chris Webber. “There’s no one else I’d rather go with, Hugo.”

  “That seems to be settled then,” Joanna King said.

  “Florida?” Bobby Goldstein queried. “You don’t look like Miami Beach people to me, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I don’t think we are,” Lally smiled at him.

  “I might be,” Hugo said. “I’ve never been.”

  “Me neither,” Lally said. “But I’ve always wanted to see the Everglades.”

  “Go to the Keys,” Goldstein told her. “Great for creative types – get the best of all worlds. Swamps – if you like alligators – ”

  “And deer,” Lally said. “And otters and thousands of birds.”

  “Do you know that at least six Pulitzer prizewinners live on Key West alone?” Goldstein had a misty look in his eyes. “It’s where I’ll be heading when I write my bestseller.”

  “Don’t anyone hold their breath,” Joanna King said.

  “So that’s settled.” Lucas Ash’s brisk voice broke the spell. “Lally and Mr Barzinsky are going to Florida.”

  “When?” Lally asked him.

  “Whenever you like.”

  “You mean I could go now – right away?”

  Dr Ash shrugged. “Maybe go home and pack a few things first.”

  The sunlight had already vanished, but the warmth continued to fill Lally. She felt good.

  “I hate alligators.” Suddenly, Hugo looked apprehensive.

  Lally smiled at him.

  “I’ll protect you,” she said.

  That evening Lally decided it was time to call Joe. She listened for a few minutes, then put down the receiver.

  “What’s up?” Hugo asked.

  “No one home.”

  “What about the answering machine?”

  “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Tell them what’s happened, but that you’re okay.”

  Lally shook her head. “I don’t want to do that. Joe’ll worry unless he speaks to me direct.”

  “Tell him you’re so okay that we’re taking a vacation.�
��

  “He might not believe me.”

  “Lally, you have to tell him.” Hugo sounded severe.

  “No, I don’t.” Her face was stubborn. “I know my brother a lot better than you do.” She dialled again, listened to the machine picking up and raised a finger to her lips to hush Hugo before leaving her message. “Hi, everyone, it’s Lally, just calling to say hello. I’m fine – Hugo’s fine – Nijinsky’s fine – we’re all fine, and everything’s good, and Hugo and I are going on vacation for a few days, so don’t worry if you can’t reach us. Love you.”

  “Lally – ” Hugo said.

  She put down the phone.

  “Hugo.”

  “What?” He glared at her.

  “Stop being such a bully.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tuesday, January 19th

  He was dozing on the couch in the room when the gecko woke him. He felt it on his chest, hardly any weight at all, just enough to bring him out of sleep, raise every hair on his body, and open his eyes.

  Fear swamped him, sickened him, but the man controlled it, remained very still, watching it. It was so small, so deceptively attractive, with its leopard spotted skin and clever golden eyes. He remembered he’d held one of these little creatures one morning soon after he’d brought them home; he had held it up in his thickly gloved hand against the sunshine from the window, and the light had seemed to shine right through its head, and he had quivered with excitement and fear at the gleaming display of its powers.

  He had never felt it on his naked flesh before, till now. It must have climbed out of the vivarium while he had changed its water. Slowly, it began to move down towards his belly. He felt a wave of nausea as the terror increased, and then, as he watched the spotted, pointed tail, he felt his own excitement begin to rise, saw his penis grow engorged and powerful and swordlike and, as if in a dream – for he could not have done it otherwise – he reached down and plucked it off his belly with his bare hand. It wriggled against his palm, panicking, writhing, particles of freshly shed skin flying into the air, and the creature’s fear strengthened the man and, carefully holding its tiny jaws closed, he sat up a little and began to rub it over his own body, over his nipples, back down over his belly and against his testicles and penis. He felt the fire in him, felt the surging and the agony and the heat and then the shuddering, groaning release, felt the milkiness of his semen against his skin. And the movement in his hand had ceased, and when he looked down, he saw that he had squeezed the life out of the little creature, and it was the first time he had killed a dragon in physical combat, and the release and relief and vindication were overwhelming, and the man knew that it was a sign.