Dante's Poison

by Lynne Raimondo

  “No one, unfortunately. That was my mistake. Agreeing to go over the facts of the story with him one last time. But when he bragged about how he’d put Jane in her place a little earlier and I saw all the signs—you couldn’t mistake them; he was as pale as a corpse and sweating like a pig—I knew my girl had come through with flying colors. Unfortunately, the coroner neglected to perform an autopsy, so I had to intervene again.”

  “You sent that note to Gallagher’s nephew. Why not to the police directly?”

  “I knew they wouldn’t pay any attention to it. The authorities are always getting letters like that from cranks and attention seekers. I thought I stood a better chance of getting the body exhumed if I sent it to someone with a financial stake in proving Gallagher didn’t die from natural causes. Another correct assumption, as it turned out.”

  “And the second note? What was that all about?”

  “Second note?” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “I’m sorry but you’ve lost me.”

  “The note you left in my office, after you attacked Hallie and me. You’re not going to deny you were the one who came after us?”

  “No. But I didn’t send any letters. Why would I want to draw attention to myself? Going after you and your girlfriend was another mistake. I allowed my irritation over Jane’s release to get the better of me.” He stopped. “Is there anything else you want to know? It’s getting late and I have a plane to catch.”

  I scrambled to come up with another line of conversation. “Why kill me? I had nothing to do with your father’s death.”

  “The better question is why not? You’re just like all the other imposters in your so-called profession. Calling yourselves healers when you have no more understanding of the potions you prescribe than the most primitive of witch doctors. My father always looked down on psychiatry, said it wasn’t the true practice of medicine. And I proved it, didn’t I? Nobody knows how the drugs work. They might just as well be the sugar pills I snuck into my samples. It’s about time someone repaid your arrogance in kind.”

  It was time to play the O’Leary card. “You won’t get away with it.”

  “That’s also part of the standard script, isn’t it?” Graham said coolly.

  “Yes, but what you don’t know is that I did go to the police. They’ll be searching your place any minute now.”

  “And won’t find a thing. Just as they won’t find any evidence linking me to your apparent suicide. Of course, I’ll have to relocate to a different country to avoid prosecution for whatever additional crimes they’ll try to slander me with, but your death won’t be one of them. It will be crystal clear to everyone why you chose to take your own life.”

  I fought to keep a cool head. “I’ve managed to stay alive all this time. Why would anyone think I suddenly decided to kill myself?”

  “Why, the experimental study you were enrolled in. Everyone knows how you’ve pinned all your hopes on it. How sad for you that the miracle didn’t happen, and how terribly depressed you became when you could no longer deny that your blindness was permanent. It doesn’t matter anymore, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: I tested the pills in that bottle you were stupid enough to lose in the hall. You were in the group getting the medication. So now you know: the treatment was a complete failure.”

  Somehow it paled in significance to getting out of there alive.

  “My friends won’t believe it,” I insisted, without much conviction. If Graham succeeded in his plan, who would be able to swear I’d never considered it? Even Josh, if you put him under oath, would have to concede he’d been worried about me. And hadn’t I impressed upon Rusty that most suicides were unpredictable? Nine-tenths of the population believed that blindness was a fate worse than death. When they found me hanging by a sheet from my terrace, why wouldn’t everyone draw the simplest and least debatable conclusion?

  “And then there’s the e-mail you’ll be sending,” Graham added, almost casually.

  “What e-mail?” I said, with rising panic.

  “Haven’t you been wondering all this time why I bothered to hack into your computer? It’s already there, timed to go out just about now. The e-mail to your ex-wife and son, telling them about the treatment and apologizing for not having the courage to go on. Steady, now. I see that mentioning your little boy touches a nerve. What’s his name again? Oh, yes, I remember. Louis. Well, it’s a pity that Louis will have to grow up like I did. I always hated my father for leaving me like that—wasn’t I a good enough reason for him to go on living? They say it’s common for the offspring of suicides to experience such emotions. And now your son will come to despise you, too.”

  NO, I thought in near hysteria. Not that, too . . .

  “HELP!” I screamed suddenly and at the top of my lungs while I jumped to my feet, thrusting myself and the lawn chair back and behind me with as much momentum as I could manage. If I couldn’t save myself, the least I could do was create evidence of a struggle. “Help! I screamed again as the chair hit the plate glass behind me. There was a loud smack but no evidence of shattering. The chair toppled over from the force of the impact, sending me to the terrace floor in a fetal position with my wrists still attached to the armrests. I wasted no time kicking off the concrete with the sides of my feet and scuttling the chair backward against the glass again. This time I had the satisfaction of hearing a crunching sound upon impact. “Is anyone there? Call the police!” I continued to shout, still trying to make as much noise as possible. “There’s a madman trying to kill me!!”

  Graham came over and silenced me with a kick to my solar plexus. “That won’t do you any good. By the time anyone gets here, you’ll be twisting in the wind.”

  I lay there on the ground gasping for air while he slipped the homemade noose over my head and proceeded to detach my hands from the chair. As soon as my right had been freed and while I was still struggling to breathe, I reached into my pocket and pulled out all the detritus—loose change, cane tips, and whatever else I’d been able to scoop up while I was retrieving my cell phone from the bowl near the door. Before Graham could stop me, I flung them wildly at his face, still hoping to slow him down.

  “My, my, we are full of tricks,” Graham said. “That one will cost you, too.” He hadn’t been lying about the gun, which he now brought down butt first on the hand he’d been working on. I heard my radius crack and let out a shriek of pain. When he was finished, he pulled me up by the unbroken wrist and turned me out, facing the wind. “Take a last look,” he said in my ear, pushing me forward until my feet were at the terrace’s edge. “For whatever that’s worth.” He tugged on the noose to secure it and gathered me up in a bear hug while I struggled to wrest free. I felt my feet come off the ground and summoned the lungpower to scream once more. “Tell Louis it wasn’t me!!”

  Just then I heard a sound from behind us, like a playful little pop.

  And found myself sinking under Graham’s considerable bulk.

  “Thank God she was able to stop him,” Hallie said from her hospital bed. “But how did she happen to be there at just the right time?”

  Jane’s story, repeated many times to the police over the last twenty-four hours and with all-too-credible consistency, was as follows: that she’d been worried about me ever since I’d burst out of her penthouse several days ago in an apparently disoriented state. That after leaving several messages for me with my assistant—Yelena, reverting to her usual self, had neglected to pass any of them on—Jane became even more concerned about my welfare, resolving to come knock on my door as soon as her busy schedule permitted. That her receptionist, Gregory, had found my address in the online white pages and phoned ahead to make an appointment, only to discover that my phone line was disconnected. That she’d rushed over to the building, following one of my neighbors through the door and gone directly upstairs. That when she’d heard my screams from inside the apartment, she phoned 911 immediately—their records confirmed it—but thought the situation too dire to wait un
til the police arrived. That upon testing the door she discovered it to be unlocked and entered to see me struggling with a heavyset intruder on my terrace. That fortunately she always carried a semiautomatic pistol in her purse, having received several death threats during her tenure at the State’s Attorney’s. That when it appeared I was in imminent danger of being pitched over my balcony, she decided the use of deadly force was justified. That she did not consider herself a hero and was merely honored to have saved the life of the brave psychiatrist who had brought a dangerous psychopath to justice.

  “I guess you could say I’m just a lucky guy,” I replied.

  I was holding Hallie’s hand and she shuddered. “Luck doesn’t begin to describe it. Oh, Mark . . .”

  “No, don’t start crying. I may feel compelled to join you.”

  I disengaged my hand and fumbled in my jacket pocket for a handkerchief. It required more maneuvering than usual because of the sling on my left arm. “Here,” I said, shaking it out by the corner and handing it over. “It’s probably against hospital regulations, but I don’t want to go crashing around looking for a tissue.”

  She took it from me, sobbing in earnest now.

  I moved in closer and patted her arm. “There, there. It’s just the head injury. People are often emotional when they come out of it.”

  “It’s not that,” Hallie said, sniffling. “It’s just that you . . . you were almost killed because of me.”

  I gave her a crooked grin. “And you were almost killed because of me. So we’re even. Though I’m going to have to think long and hard before getting involved in your next case. This one nearly lost me my head. By the way, how is yours feeling?”

  Miraculously, based on all the early tests, she appeared to have sustained no neurological damage apart from some weakness on her left side that could be cleared up with minor physical therapy. After I got the cast off, I’d be joining her.

  Hallie blew into the handkerchief and said, “Like someone stuffed it full of mattresses and then stomped all over them. I’m just glad you can’t see me. I look like Alvin the Chipmunk with a hangover. And I’m going to have to get a new hairdo when the dressings come off.”

  “I’m sure Bjorn won’t mind,” I said.

  “Oh, him,” she said dismissively. “Do you know he hasn’t come to see me even once? Although he did send a nice flower arrangement.”

  “Men are so unreliable,” I said.

  Hallie laughed. “Of course, you know what that means.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to keep going to the theater with me.”

  “I think that can be arranged—unless the next one in your subscription is Wait until Dark. Can I ask you something?”

  “If it avoids the subject of what I’m wearing.”

  “Are you sure it was Graham—I mean Donald Tesma Junior—who attacked us? It couldn’t have been, say, a woman dressed up to look like a man?” Graham had admitted he was behind the attack, but I didn’t know whom to believe anymore.

  “Uh-uh. I’m positive it was him.”

  “You’re really sure?”

  “It’s what I told you ages ago. I’d remember that face anywhere. If you don’t believe me, ask the EMTs. I kept trying to tell them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  I smiled indulgently at her. “The only thing you said in the ambulance was that you were sick and needed to use a phone.”

  “Maybe that’s what it sounded like, but I was actually giving them a clue. It just got lost in translation.”

  “Why, were you speaking Spanish?”

  Hallie sighed. “OK, I know it wasn’t the easiest message to follow. But if you recall, I wasn’t exactly lucid at the time. I wasn’t using the words ‘sick’ or ‘phone.’ I was saying ‘ill’ and ‘app.’”

  “Well, that certainly clears it up for me.”

  “If you don’t shut up I’m going to throw this water jug at you. ‘Ill.’ and ‘App.’ are abbreviations—lawyer shorthand for the Illinois Appellate Reports, where all the opinions of the appeals courts are published. They’re organized by volume and page number. I was telling them where to look for the decision affirming Tesma’s conviction. For some reason it was the only thing I could come up with while I was sinking into oblivion.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “You mean it? That’s what you were trying to say?”

  “Yes, and if you or anyone else had bothered to tell Jane she would have caught on immediately. She would have led you to Tesma’s son long before he tried to kill you.”

  Somehow I doubted it.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask a question,” Hallie said. “What were you thinking of when . . . when he was about to push you off? It must have been terrifying.”

  “You mean, did my life flash before my eyes? Let’s just say I was busy counting up all my sins. There’s one in particular I need to tell you about. But later, when you’re better. In the meantime, there’s another misconception between us that needs clearing up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this,” I said.

  I imagined her eyes opened wide in surprise as I leaned in to kiss her.

  The next morning, while I was getting dressed for my two appointments, a knock came on my door. Since it was only 6:00 a.m., I hoped it didn’t mean I’d been observed sneaking back from the men’s room with my shaving gear. Following the episode with Graham I hadn’t worked up the nerve to go back to my apartment—which in any case was now a cordoned-off crime scene—and had been camping out at my office, which had the dual virtues of proximity to Hallie and a twenty-four-hour security patrol. Just in case, I’d also had office management install new locks on the door, which was now double-bolted against intruders. “Just a sec,” I said, while I finished buttoning my shirt and tucking it into my waistband. I opened the door to find—of all people—Yelena.

  “‘Hark, hark the lark at heaven’s gate sings,’” I said. “What are you doing here so early?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. I hope you’re not planning on moving in here permanently. It’s enough of a dump as it is.”

  “About that. Do you think you could come in this weekend and help me do some more straightening? I’m sure I could arrange for time and a half.”

  “I’d like to,” Yelena said. “But I’ll be busy.”

  I should have known our détente wouldn’t last for long.

  “But maybe another time,” she added, surprising me. “When I get back.”

  “Get back from where?”

  “The vacation I put in for. Two weeks ago. But I suppose you weren’t paying attention.”

  Thinking back to the episode with Graham, I had to admit she was right. “I’m sorry,” I said to her. “I’ve . . . I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

  “Just that you’re invited to a party on Sunday. If you can make it. Boris won’t be free to drive you, but Dr. Goldman said he’d be glad to pick you up.”

  I decided she must be talking about her birthday, the date of which I realized I’d never bothered to ask about. “Sure,” I said. “I’d be glad to come. And I promise not to ask how old you are.”

  “It’s not that kind of party,” Yelena said in mock irritation. “Here’s the invitation.” She handed me a linen envelope about the size of a CD. “I can stay and read it to you if you want me to.”

  “Er, no thanks,” I said, now filled with embarrassment. All the signs had been there. I just hadn’t noticed them. “May I ask who the lucky fellow is?”

  “For the answer to that, you’ll have to go back to your favorite play.”

  “Huh?” I said as she turned to leave.

  “‘The instances that second marriage move . . .’” she quoted, making her exit while I stood there with my mouth stationed just above the floor.

  “More tea?” Jane asked.

  “Please,” I said. “Provided that’s all I’m drinking.”

  She laughed in merriment.
“You should be more trusting. We’re sharing the same pot, aren’t we?”

  “That’s no guarantee I won’t soon be writhing on the floor in convulsions. I brought you something you might want to take a look at some time.” I removed some papers from the backpack I’d been wearing when I came in, which in combination with the sling and the cane no doubt made me look like some species of armored insect.

  Jane took them and scanned rapidly. “You needn’t have bothered. I’m already familiar with the questionnaire. I see you brought the long version.”

  I wasn’t entirely surprised. “You know what it is?”

  “Certainly. The Hare Psychopathology Checklist. A diagnostic tool developed by a Canadian psychologist based on his work with psychopaths in prison. It ‘scores’ an individual on twenty different items like boredom, shallow emotions, lack of empathy, and so forth, with the numbers zero, one, or two, depending on how pronounced the trait is. Shall I tell you what my score was?”

  “In the mid-twenties, if I had to venture a guess.”

  She sounded delighted. “You are perceptive. Not as high as it might have been, but thanks to a good therapist I was able to shed many of the less socially desirable characteristics in my youth. As you can see, I work long hours and take my responsibilities seriously. Nor am I especially promiscuous. Of course, shading the truth comes easily, but that only helps me perform better in my profession. Did you know that some estimates place the incidence of psychopathy among lawyers and politicians at nearly twenty percent? It’s one of my favorite statistics.”

  “So you were diagnosed early?”

  “As a teenager. In those days you could have given me a starring role in The Chalk Garden and I wouldn’t have had to act the part. Are you familiar with the play?”

  “Sure. It was also a film, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I always found it amusing that the writer attributed Laurel’s wildness to feelings of abandonment by her mother. She was a junior psychopath if ever there was one. My situation was quite different. I grew up in a loving home with every advantage, both material and emotional, though it wasn’t sufficient to overcome the trait. Inflicting physical pain was never of much interest to me, but I found other ways to torture my siblings. Then, when I was fourteen I pushed a classmate down a flight of stairs at the Lab School. It should have gotten me expelled, but my parents were wealthy and influential enough to get the matter hushed up. They settled quietly with the girl’s parents and enrolled me in an outpatient program at the university hospital with the threat of sending me to the Orthogenic School if I didn’t cooperate.”