‘We’ll be there with you,’ reassured Newton.
‘I don’t want everyone around me!’ exclaimed Jane irritably, sweeping her hand to encompass the overcrowded East 62nd Street drawing room. ‘I want you all to understand that I can manage by myself.’
‘Jane, you can’t stand there entirely alone,’ protested Davis.
She couldn’t, Jane at once conceded: it wouldn’t be the proper thing to do. ‘You,’ she decided, looking at the lawyer. ‘You should represent the firm, with the most senior partner …?’
‘Fred Jolly,’ identified the lawyer, indicating a balding, stooped man beside him whom Jane did not recognize, although she knew that she should.
‘Sorry. Of course, with you, Fred.’ She continued looking around the room. ‘If my having some personal support is so important, Hilda can stay close to me: tell me whom I’m meeting, as often as possible. That all right, Hilda?’
‘Of course,’ said Carver’s matronly personal assistant, who had organized this second funeral and who hoped at the actual service she’d manage the control Jane was showing. The reflection reminded her of the sobbing Janice Snow and she had to swallow heavily, tensed against breaking down.
Jane accepted that she might have difficulty retaining some of her thoughts but hoped the receding, blurred images or words were diminishing. ‘But I don’t think I need any support. Certainly not any further nursing, now that you’ve almost stopped those damned drugs.’
‘I do. I really do,’ challenged Newton, too quickly.
‘What do you think?’ Jane asked the psychiatrist, well enough aware of the bedside disagreement between the two men.
‘You’re nearly off the chlorpromazine now,’ agreed Mortimer. ‘You sure there aren’t any lingering effects?’
‘You’re watching me, listening to me. What’s your professional opinion?’ demanded Jane, as the faces of those looking at her blurred. She was only distantly aware – but aware, which was all that mattered – of the psychiatrist.
Mortimer said: ‘This isn’t a consulting session.’
Jane’s vision cleared. ‘I’ve got live-in staff. And they have all your numbers. This is how I want it to be. How it will be. I appreciate all your care and all your concern. From now on I want to handle things by myself. And by now I mean just that. Now.’ It had been an effort to finish, but she was sure no one had detected her difficulty. She wasn’t being stupid or arrogant. They’d weaned her off the medication because they’d decided she didn’t need it, as she hadn’t needed medication for her father’s funeral. And if she didn’t need medication she didn’t need nurses to sit around and hold her hand. She didn’t need anyone to hold her hand when she said goodbye to the best husband it had been possible to have. Which was the way to think, Jane told herself. Not to sink into a slough of self-pity but to think how lucky she’d been having him as a loving, caring husband for as long as she had. She’d need to spend a lot of time and effort having John’s crypt designed: ensure it was a monument to him. And speak to Rosemary Pritchard. That was the first priority.
As they left the apartment Newton told Mortimer: ‘Now it’s you who’ve made the mistake.’
‘We’re going to be there, keeping an eye on everything,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘There can’t be any problems.’
Alice hadn’t tried to download any more evidence of cross-border invoice padding. She’d filled the intervening day tidying the cabin, eating properly for the first time since she couldn’t remember when – but shunning alcohol – and driving yet again into Paterson to buy what she thought she needed for the funeral. If those hunting her knew her name she had to assume that they also knew what she looked like: had a photograph, even. Which made the need for a disguise more practical than melodramatic. The thought of adopting one still embarrassed her. The dark wig to conceal her blondness scarcely amounted to a disguise anyway. She added to it a hat with a veil longer than that Jane had worn at her father’s funeral and remained unsure about dark glasses beneath it, deciding to wait until she returned to the cabin to make up her mind. The black dress would have benefited from some minimal lifting at the shoulders but without time for alteration – and doubting she’d wear it ever again – Alice hid the problem beneath a black jacket that fitted better.
It was only when she was driving back from Paterson that Alice finally confronted what she had been refusing, until that moment, to bring into the forefront of her mind, where it should have been from the moment she’d acknowledged Jane to be in danger. The obvious, immediate and seemingly only resolution was to involve the police and the FBI protection. But upon what evidence, came the recurring, taunting question. She’d already decided the IRS printouts weren’t sufficient, quite apart from how she’d obtained them. From the attitude she’d encountered the previous day, the FBI wouldn’t respond without considerably more – which she didn’t have – and she’d never get by the desk sergeant in any Manhattan precinct house with accounts of murder masked as accident and accident fulfilling doubtless intended murder.
Jane, unaware of any danger, was the only person who could produce what was necessary to protect herself … what John had been taken back to Citibank to retrieve. Unaware, yet, where – or what – the secrets were that risked further shattering her already shattered life, as Alice was finally reconciled to hers being shattered. Was she thinking only of Jane? Alice asked herself, at last demanding personal honesty. Of course she wasn’t thinking only of Jane. What Jane had access to, as John’s wife, would provide her salvation, too. Was it the most obscene, unimaginably amoral cynicism, even to think as she was thinking? No, refused Alice. Jane’s marriage – Jane’s security, the fulness and completeness of her marriage – had never once been threatened by her affair with John. She’d genuinely, totally honestly, never seen herself competing with Jane. Alice would never expect anyone to believe her: she found it difficult, with total objectivity, to believe it herself. But without ever knowing it, without there ever having been a challenge, Jane had been the one who won. So it wasn’t amoral or obscene or contemptibly cynical to contemplate – although until now, climbing the low foothills at last, she hadn’t allowed herself to contemplate – how she could properly guarantee her survival. Which was all she was thinking about. Survival, for herself and for Jane.
So how was she going to achieve it? How was she going to get to Jane and talk to Jane in such a way – in such words – that Jane would not dismiss her as the FBI had so far dismissed her? Alice didn’t know. She could think of no plan, no approach, that was halfway feasible. Jane would be in shock, grieving to breaking point. Hello Jane, you don’t know about me but I know everything about you. Your father, who worked for the Mafia, was murdered. John was going to be murdered and we’ve only got one chance to stop it happening to you and me. Oh, and by the way, Janice Snow was murdered, too. Now here’s what we’ve got to do …
As she turned off down the track, towards the cabin totally hidden in the riverside trees, Alice sniggered aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. But it wasn’t – couldn’t be – absurd. Somehow to keep them both safe she had to produce what John had hidden: to guarantee both their survival.
At the cabin Alice modelled her complete outfit in front of the full-length mirror, with and without dark glasses beneath the veiled hat, and remained undecided, glad of the hat because it lessened what she thought to be the artificiality of the ready-made wig, although after practice and careful pinning, again hidden by the hat, she became satisfied that it didn’t look as artificial as she’d first imagined.
When she left the cabin, early on the morning of the funeral, Alice still hadn’t thought of an approach to Jane that she considered remotely practicable and felt sick with the effort of trying.
Alice accepted she couldn’t use the garage space reserved in her own name and it took her longer than she’d anticipated to find a spot in one on East 40th, although she still had time to walk to the cathedral. It was a bright day, which justified the dark glasses
. She arrived with the bulk of the mourners and was grateful for their concealment. The two books of condolences, on either side of the entrance, created a congestion that stretched back to the outer steps but in which it was easy for Alice to mingle to avoid signing, although she couldn’t isolate anyone standing too obviously close to either, checking names. Unwittingly echoing Carver’s thoughts at Northcote’s funeral, Alice told herself that those searching for her would be here somewhere, watching, looking. Would they have an identifying photograph of her, be comparing every woman coming in? The crush of people at that moment would make that impractical, she tried to reassure herself, although once past the condolence book bottleneck there was almost an immediate thinning-out in the vastness of the cathedral. She edged into a half-filled pew, relieved it was immediately filled behind her by other mourners, and at once bowed her head in cupped hands, further hiding herself in feigned prayer. She waited until she guessed from the noise that the pew behind her was occupied before raising her head. She stared directly ahead until she realized that the red cloth-covered stand in front of the altar was for the coffin and abruptly looked down at the order of service, her fogged eyes unable to focus on anything.
She sensed the family arrival from the movements of heads in front of her and turning with them she saw Jane, dressed as she’d been dressed for her father’s funeral, upright and unaided by those around her, whom she recognized from her research visits to the Northcote building, although she couldn’t remember the men’s names. The other woman in the group was Hilda Bennett, John’s PA. And then she saw the coffin following and her mind emptied and her eyes filmed and there was the rustle of everyone around her opening their service sheets and she automatically opened hers.
So did Jane. Who couldn’t see the words either. All she could see – nothing receding and returning, receding and returning – in crystal clear, unwanted clarity was a flower-festooned box with burnished brass fixtures containing the body of the man to whom she had given herself completely, whom she loved completely, and whom she could not conceive being without. Not having. Any more than she had been able – was able – to conceive not having her always-commanding, always-controlling father. Two indomitable supermen to whom nothing was insurmountable. Leaving her alone. Bereft. She didn’t know what she was going to do. How she was going to do it.
Jane anticipated the sitting down, without prompting. A man she didn’t know, from the firm, she thought, but wasn’t sure, ascended the pulpit and mouthed words she didn’t hear because she didn’t want to hear. She knew how wonderful John had been. She didn’t need the contrived platitudes and hypocritical insincerity. She knew John. Fully and completely knew John, which no one else did. He would have made the most wonderfully attentive, adoring father. Which he could still be, from beyond the grave. Not physically attentive or adoring. But a father. A father for their child. She didn’t care how many or what operations she had to undergo, what discomfort – pain – she had to endure: if John had left a sperm sample, she’d become pregnant by it. Was Rosemary Pritchard here: would she be at the wake? Urged by her own question Jane half turned, actually to look around the vast building, but didn’t see anyone properly. Good today, if they could talk. Not essential, though. She could definitely make contact tomorrow. Begin everything tomorrow. If it was a boy – it had to be a boy – she’d obviously call it John. Create an archive of photographs and anecdotes and whatever had been written in the obituaries, so that John jr would know what a very special, unique father he’d had. She hoped so much to meet Rosemary today.
There was another ebb and flow of awareness but Jane didn’t need Hilda’s supporting hand to rise for another unheard hymn or sit for another unheard reading or another unheard sermon about the cruel mysteries of God’s will beyond mere mortal understanding. She wished she’d seen John’s body: properly said goodbye. She wouldn’t have been persuaded against doing so if it hadn’t been for the goddamned drugs they’d fed her like candy, take this madam, take that madam. She wouldn’t take anything, when she had John’s baby. She wanted to feel everything, know everything. Like she knew how completely John had loved her, as she’d loved him. It wouldn’t be an empty life, from now on. She’d have John’s baby. Make him so proud of the father he’d never know. John Carver junior. It sounded good, strong, as John had been strong.
‘It’s over,’ whispered the attentive Hilda, at her elbow.
‘No, it’s not,’ smiled Jane, rising to follow the coffin from the cathedral.
Where was Martha, wondered Gene Hanlan, watching the procession from the back of the cathedral. She had to be here somewhere, among all these people. He’d spent the entire service studying the crowd without knowing what he was looking for, a woman crying, a woman furtive, a woman fitting his mental image of Martha, for whom he didn’t have any proper mental image, which made his being there a waste of time. He’d still go on to the wake, Hanlan determined. It didn’t make any more sense to do so than it had to come here but you never knew. There might just be something that would instinctively jar, although he couldn’t imagine what it might be. He was curious at the faint smile on Jane Carver’s face, as she passed. And wondered, too, why she was looking so intently from side to side of the nave, as if she were looking for someone. Probably the effect of tranquillizers. She’d need something to get her through the double whammy of losing a father and a husband like she had.
People rarely pluck a phoney name out of the blue: the psychological-profile training at Quantico was that somewhere there always had to be a subconscious connection, like people nine times out of ten choosing phoney names that began with their own initials. Would Jane Carver know who might call herself Martha? A long shot, among all the other shots so long they were virtually beyond the horizon. Certainly one he wasn’t going to resolve today.
Hanlan moved as his pew turned to empty, emerging into the aisle at virtually the same time as Stanley Burcher, from the other side of the nave. Burcher hadn’t seen anyone resembling the inadequate thumbnail picture of Alice Belling, although the crowd was too great for any proper examination or comparison. Not everyone in the cathedral would be going back to the wake at the Plaza. He hadn’t bothered with Northcote’s but there were a lot more pressing reasons for his going this time. Maybe he’d find Alice Belling there.
‘Bearfort Mountains are New Jersey. Cavalcante territory,’ identified Bobby Gallo. They were again in the hotel penthouse with the view over Central Park.
‘They’ve used the system a lot,’ said Charlie Petrie. ‘Know its importance.’
‘We should bring them in,’ suggested the Luchese consigliere, Gino LaRocca. ‘We get a better lead, they may have useful people on the payroll.’
‘I think so too,’ said Petrie. ‘I’ll fix it.’
‘We’ve agreed the Northcote organization is finished,’ said Vito Craxi, the Bonanno voice at the meeting. ‘Who’s going to take over?’
‘I’m proposing a firm in Philadelphia,’ said Petrie. ‘We got pressure on the president and four directors. It’s worked like clockwork for the past five years.’
‘You want to use Burcher?’ asked Gallo.
‘I don’t think we should,’ said LaRocca. ‘I’ve apologized for the Deliocis but Burcher lost the handle on it, too. Let him work his usefulness out here but when it’s sorted out I think Stan’s time is up.’
‘More than used up,’ said Carlo Brookier, offering the Colombo opinion. ‘This should have been settled – properly – a long time ago.’
‘Anyone disagree?’ invited Petrie.
No one spoke.
Twenty-One
Jane hadn’t seen Rosemary Pritchard on her way out of the cathedral but there had been too many women in the congregation to isolate every one and a lot wore hats, some with veils like her own, although Jane didn’t imagine the gynaecologist to be a hat-and-veil person. Hilda told her, when she asked in the car, that there wasn’t an attendance list but they’d know later who had been at the service
from the condolence books. Peter Mortimer and Paul Newton were among the first to arrive after her at the Plaza. Mortimer asked how she felt and Jane said OK, which she was. There had only been two ebb-and-flow sensations in the cathedral, both when she was sitting down, and none since. She was hearing and thinking quite clearly, knowing what she had to do, eager for everyone to arrive so she could find Rosemary. It wouldn’t be possible for them to talk properly at the receiving line but she’d be able to tell Rosemary she wanted to see her later and that it was important. It was good to be able to think like this, not losing the thread halfway through. She told Hilda she didn’t want anything to drink or to go to the bathroom. Why was it taking so long for everyone to arrive? Geoffrey Davis and the senior partner took their places beside her and Jane nodded to the parroted question about how she felt.
Hilda said: ‘People are getting here now,’ which they were.
Mortimer, standing drink in hand with Newton where they had an unbroken view of Jane, said: ‘She’s going to be just fine. The chlorpromazine didn’t hit her as hard as it could have done.’
Jack Jennings was close enough, with the rest of the now dispersed Litchfield staff, to hear the remark and hoped the psychiatrist was right. He thought Jane Carver looked shaky.
Alice held back, wanting the concealment of the crowd that she’d had at the cathedral, desperately, anxiously, wishing she’d been able to think of a better approach to Jane. It hardly amounted to an idea at all but it might just get her to Jane, alone, which was as far as Alice had taken her thoughts. Get to Jane alone, today. Talk about documents she’d been promised by Northcote and then by John for the biography of Northcote she’d agreed to write. How was she going to persuade Jane – convince Jane – to open the safe deposit? She didn’t know, not yet: hadn’t worked it out. Just get them protected, that was all she had to do. Keep them both alive.
Two Women Page 22