by M. M. Mayle
“But you were still alone, not knowing if Colin would live or die, and attempting to foster a special-care infant in a motel room.”
“Yeah, I was and ‘special care’ wouldn’t begin to describe what went into looking after that baby. Good goddammed thing he was so beautiful or it would’ve been way too easy to leave him on somebody’s doorstep. He cried all the time and—”
“Shit! Now I see. That’s what Aurora did, didn’t she? She abandoned him! She wasn’t ever going to claim the baby from the hospital, was she?”
“I’m afraid not. No other conclusion could be reached. Hospital records showed that she disappeared within a day of giving birth and never came back. Not alive, anyway. But that’s not the worst of it. She must have planned to dispose of the baby—sell it through a black market adoption would be my guess—because someone called the hospital a couple of days after the accident wanting to know if the deal was still on and if the Shantz infant was ready to go.”
“Son of a bitch! Sorry! I’m not usually this profane.”
“You needn’t apologize to me, I’ve called her a lot worse.”
Laurel focuses on her teacup, visors one hand over her eyes as though shielding against glare. “Why did she go to Michigan to give birth? Does anyone know? Did she tell Colin why after he found her?” she says without looking up.
“No one can say for sure—least of all Colin. He remembers nothing that happened after he caught up with her at the road stop.”
“What do you think?” Laurel looks up, squinting as though still resisting glare.
“I think Aurora chose the UP, as it’s called, because it was known to her and because it was an area she’d often renounced, making it less likely anyone would look for her there. I think she chose that particular medical facility because she naively thought her filthy business there would go unnoticed. But remember, that’s only theory, nothing was ever proven.”
“Do you think she planned this from the outset, from the start of the pregnancy?”
“No. I believe the scheme evolved when she ran off and started using again. She would’ve had a desperate need for money because by then, I’d convinced Colin to stop shelling out for her unauthorized expenditures. That may seem like an extreme measure, but you have to remember Colin was desperate too.”
“Yes, I know, Rayce filled me in on that.”
“Okay, then you know Colin went along with it because he thought it might bring her back. Because he still wasn’t ready to give up on her. That’s only partly theory.”
“What about the driver of the red pickup truck, Gibby Lester, the alleged drug dealer? What was his role in all this?”
“Now there was a son of a bitch. He made it all the way back to New York before the cops caught up with him. When questioned by Michigan authorities he knew nothing. He knew nothing to the extent he even failed to bring charges against Colin for assault, theft, and destruction of property. He said he was in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for deer season, that he met this Audrey chick in a bar, and later on, his truck was stolen. Yeah, right. But the asshole was good in his day, I’ll give him that. He’d wormed his way out of so many indictments for possession with intent that any accusation I threw at him had to seem like a parking ticket.”
“Do you think he was her only accomplice? Do you think he alone arranged for the sale of the baby?”
“I underwrote an investigation that went on for half a year and never uncovered another direct accomplice or, for that matter, the place Aurora stayed immediately before giving birth and the ten days after. As for setting up the sale, I’ve no doubt it was Lester. Unquestionably. He had the right connections, and he had everything to gain. He’d long been on my radar as one of Aurora’s suppliers, and with her main source of funds cut off, she had to have been into Lester for some serious change. I saw him canceling her debt and then some in return for the price even a substance-exposed infant would bring on the black market.”
“Do you suppose she thought she’d get away with it?”
“I’m sure she did. Knowing her, she probably thought she could tell Colin she had a late miscarriage or stillbirth and stand a good chance of him believing her. Or at least wanting to. And I’m sure she thought her dealings with Lester would never come to light because they never had before. Not in any provable way, at least.”
“Parenthetical to this discussion. . . . ” The tape machine clicks and goes into rewind. “Perfect timing,” she says and produces a fresh tape from her bag. “Off the record, I was about to ask if you think Lester was killed by one of his own or by an outsider.”
While she reloads the machine, he pours them each a little more Scotch. “I’d immediately say one of his own if it weren’t for the similar murder on the West Coast and the murder Colin was briefly accused of here in New York. However, if you don’t mind, I’d like to save that subject for another time, another discussion.”
“Very well, I’ll hold you to that.” She restarts the tape recorder. “In the current chronology you’re again waiting for help to arrive. Did you send for anyone besides Bemus? A nanny? A pediatric nurse? Did Rachel consider coming to Portage St. Mary?”
“Rachel would have been there in a New York minute if she hadn’t been needed in England to keep Anthony reassured. I considered hiring a nanny or baby nurse, but I didn’t have the time or the means to vet one. I even considered calling my ex-wife. She probably would have come, but I couldn’t count on her being discreet. So the answer is no, just Bemus. And the good news there was when he finally did arrive on the day after Thanksgiving, he had Tom Jensen with him. Said it was his feminine intuition that told him to bring reinforcements.”
“Were they needed? Did the press eventually show up in droves? Did fans congregate and do whatever it is they do—hold candlelight vigils, place wreaths?”
“There was a crush of media attention after the snow tapered off. It didn’t last long because I didn’t cooperate beyond issuing empty statements once a day, as Colin would have wanted it. A surprising number of fans showed up, considering Colin’s band was never big in the area and had never toured Michigan north of Detroit. And yes, quite a few held vigils and brought floral tributes. Predictably, some tried to get inside the hospital and a couple actually made it. I remember one in particular, first of all, because he wasn’t a blubbering girl, and most of all, because he was an Indian—sorry, Native American—with the balls of an international paparazzo. He damn near made it into the ICU before Bemus corralled him. On the other front, the three of us figured out how to manage Simon’s needs better than expected—go ahead, grin. I can see you’re dying to.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” Her grin goes ear to ear, “I’ve spent time with both Bemus and Tom Jensen and the thought of them—or you—with a tiny baby. . . .”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. No one can imagine me caring for an infant, even though Colin’s referred to me as nanny often enough. But to continue . . . We spelled one another with Simon. He had to be fed every couple hours, and it seemed like he never slept. We took turns replenishing baby supplies and doing laundry—never-ending chores—and one of us was always at the hospital with Colin, who never really woke up.
“As far as anyone could tell, Colin was oblivious to everything around him. He would look at me and seem focused when I told him about the baby, and I’d get no reaction. I should mention that he couldn’t speak because he was still on a respirator, but he didn’t wiggle so much as an eyebrow or lift a finger when I told him his mother said to call the baby Simon, the name he’d picked out for a boy.
“While I was alone, I necessarily had to bring Simon to the hospital whenever I looked in on Colin. On those occasions they let me park him in the nursery for short periods. When Bemus and Tom made the scene and basically went unrecognized by Colin, they both said I ought to show him the baby and maybe shock him out of this funk he was in. So, one day, two weeks or so into the ordeal and against everybody else’s better judgmen
t, I brought Simon to Colin’s hospital room, displayed him on the bed alongside Colin who showed absolutely no reaction even though the kid screeched at the top of his lungs throughout.
“Then I decided it was time he heard about Aurora. I figured if that didn’t do it, nothing would. I went easy at first, described how there was no avoiding the accident, how he shouldn’t blame himself, how there was no saving her, how she was killed instantly. I explained that the combined efforts of several police agencies nationwide failed to produce any surviving members of her particular branch of the Shantz family, so there was no one to object when I had her cremated. I told him unless he had other plans, her ashes would remain in a box at the crematorium until the end of time. Then I told him again, the whole story, and with the repeat I was blunt, brutal even. I didn’t spare any of the nasty details, including my opinion of the deceased. I referred to Aurora as a ruthlessly conniving cunt—and worse—and when he didn’t react in any physical way, I was forced to acknowledge how bad things really were.
“Following that heartbreaker, I asked for a meeting with his doctors. When I demanded that specialists be brought in, nobody acted like I was pulling rank or insisting on preferential treatment. They immediately arranged for consults with the head of neurology at a big teaching hospital right there in Michigan and with a prominent authority from a well-known teaching hospital in Baltimore.”
“In-person hands-on consultations?”
“Yeah, and it cost the fucking earth, what with chartered planes and everything else that went into it, but it had to be done that way because Colin couldn’t yet be moved.”
“I see.”
“After extensive testing and poking and prodding, these two experts established that he most likely had an acquired brain injury probably resulting from crush injuries to the chest, and this could be considered cerebral hypoxia depending on the extent to which blood flow to the brain may have been impaired. I read the report so many times most of it’s committed to memory, and I emphasize the qualifiers now to give you some idea how much dithering was going on. Took me a while to understand that the neurologists weren’t just trying to cover their respective asses—that this was their way of saying they just didn’t fucking know what was wrong with him.
“But with or without precise diagnosis, all the doctors involved agreed that Colin should be transferred to a long-term catastrophic care facility as soon as he could be moved. I went into overdrive trying to find one in the UK. Those in the know over there said the premier facility of that type was the Fortescu Clinic in Colorado, a place that specialized in rehabilitating body as well as mind. This was ideal because Colin was going to need weeks and months of physical therapy if he was ever going to walk again.
“Another ten days went by before Colin was stable enough to be moved. During that time he had a few setbacks—another lung collapse, drainage problems with the splenectomy incision, infection in one of his legs. While that went on, the three of us held the fort as far as Simon was concerned and read up on what to expect if non-traumatic brain injury had, in fact, occurred. Between hospital pamphlets and texts from the library, we learned Colin could be screwed in the areas of cognition, language, memory, concentration, reasoning, and problem solving. And that that type injury could bring on muscle disorders and cause severe behavior problems like psychosis and depression. Another laundry list of dire prophecies I’ve never been able to forget.
“Beneath this black cloud, we never stopped trying to reach Colin. Bemus had a Walkman and an assortment of CDs with him, and once Colin was off the respirator we had him plugged into music of some kind every chance we got. I thought for sure we’d get a rise out of him the day he was forced to listen to a hair band he absolutely detested. But nothing.
“He was scheduled to be transferred to Colorado the first Monday in December, so Chris Thorne and his wife, Susa, came the weekend before to take Simon home to England. They both broke down when they saw what was left of Colin and that affected everybody. From then on, it was a real struggle to hold it together until goodbyes were said. When we went our separate ways—me to Colorado with Colin, and Bemus and Tom back to New York—we couldn’t help feel we were marking the end of an era. We all knew that even if Colin made a full recovery, he’d never be the same person he was at the start.”
“Whew.” Laurel lets out a long sigh and pauses her hand over the tape recorder. “To be continued,” she says and switches it off.
“I agree. You must be way past saturation, and I don’t mind saying I’m startin’ to wear down. We can pick this up another time. As soon as next week if you wish. There’s not a lot more for me to add, but I imagine once you start transcribing you’ll have questions.”
“I will and I’m glad to know I can count on you for at least some of the answers. I don’t want to have to call the UK every time I need a detail or a clarification.”
“I don’t follow. Are you talking about calling Chris Thorne for his input?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Apparently no one told you Colin’s stay’s been cut short. He’s going home no later than Saturday. He would have left today if David hadn’t advised otherwise.” While she gathers her things and gets to her feet, she explains the whys and wherefores, including the fact she herself tried to convince Anthony his schoolmates’ taunts held no truth. She says all this with the casually confident air of a privileged insider, and the same sensation overtakes him as when watching the video of her addressing the press corps: Laurel Chandler’s the one to keep an eye on, not David Sebastian.
They move to the foyer, where her effusive thanks for dinner and the narrative contribution ring nothing short of sincere. He helps her on with her coat and calls downstairs for a cab. In the elevator, he broaches a subject that’s been nettling all day. “Related to another matter, your assistant mentioned that you’re staying at the Phillippe. She didn’t say why, though.”
“Yes, I’m at the Phillippe,” she says as they cross the lobby. “Only until Saturday, as it turns out. I have an unusual number of late nights in town on my calendar this week—including this one—and it simply makes more sense to stay in town. Plus, to be perfectly honest, I’m a little spooked by paparazzi sniffing around my house because of my association with Colin. Even the neighbors have noticed. One went so far as to think she saw an intruder on my porch roof a few nights ago, but I discounted that sighting because the poor woman’s elderly and a bit addled.”
“Well, you can’t be too careful,” he says and hands her into the waiting cab.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Early morning, April 8, 1987
Colin was barely past the eye-rubbing arse-scratching stage of waking when Nate rang at eight wanting a briefing. Now, a half hour later, after a quick shower followed by an inevitable review of all the other demands he can’t do anything about, this new one rankles in the extreme.
“I wouldn’t have breakfast with you this often if we were married,” Colin grumbles when Nate arrives. “What’s this make, third time in a week?”
“Who’s counting?” Nate says.
“Yeh, who’s counting?” Colin checks the date on one of the morning papers Nate brought with him, reads Wednesday, April 8 which makes it a week and one day since he first laid eyes on Laurel Chandler. Not nearly long enough to legitimize intent. “How’d it go last night?”
“Fine, but don’t tell me you don’t already know. She still asleep?” Nate nods toward the bedroom and takes a seat at the dining table.
“Leave off with that shit. You’re the one who spent the night with her—the evening, I should say—and after that amount of exposure you can’t have failed to recognize she’s not your regulation pushover. She’s . . . different, she’s not like that.”
“If you’re trying to tell me she’s immune to your charms, save your breath. Last night it was all she could do not to weep and wail when I described what the accident and that goddammed wife of yours put you through. She tried so hard not to cry she got hiccoughs.�
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“She told me she had a lot to drink.”
“So I was right, you did see her last night.”
“Wrong. She rang me after she was done with you and we chatted a bit. She told me you were very gracious and saw to her every need including when she got hiccoughs from drinking more than usual.”
“Maybe so, but I take that as just another indicator.”
“Of what? Make your bleedin’ point, will you?”
“Are you listening at all? I’m telling you she’s yours for the taking and I’ve gotta fucking wonder what you’re waiting for. She’s the only thing you’ve got left to prove. In a few short days you’ve let the world know you can still command a stage by hijacking the orchestra at the Icon gig; you’ve demonstrated to readers of the tabloid press you’re fit and able-bodied by clocking the photographer outside the recording studio; you’ve shown anyone who cares to know that you’re your own man by shucking the label and releasing staff left and right. Goes without saying that you can attract a mob and, given enough reason, probably foment civil unrest.”
“That’s enough.”
“Oh, and you’ve unquestionably established your soundness of mind by finally responding to bad press, even if you did put a pretty face on it by employing—”
“I said that’s enough!”
“Not quite. It’s worth mentioning you’re bitchier than ever. You on the rag or what?”
“I’m . . . I’m pissed because . . . never mind. I need to get out of here, I need some freedom.”
“You’re going home Saturday, aren’t you?”
“She told you, then? Yeh, I am, but whilst I’m waitin’ for Saturday to come, I’m in serious need of—I shouldn’t have to spell this out for you.”
“Okay, I’ll spell. You need to stretch your legs and present circumstances make that increasingly difficult to do.”