She looked down at the legal pad, where she had written the word out and doodled circles and stars around it, trying to trigger something solid.
She had the feeling that if she could just remember, she'd know something crucial.
She was about to turn off the computer when she had an idea. She went to Google and typed in the word “Gizmo.” There were eleven million, eight hundred thousand and seventeen hits. She shook her head slowly as she pondered the mountain of hay that might contain the needle she was searching for.
She typed “Gizmo” and “Charlotte NC.” There were ten thousand and seventy- one hits. When she added the word “Obituaries,” there were fewer than three thousand, still an unmanageable number. The first one was:
survivors are her father, Richard M. Morrison, Sr., of Harrisburg, NC; her aunt, Glenda Eudy, and husband, Clint, of Greensboro; and her cat, Gizmo.
Natasha smiled strangely. Why, she wondered, had she added the word obituaries? That seemed odd. The second one was:
Oct. 14, 2003, at the Community Medical Center in Scranton after being suddenly stricken. rlene loved her babies: her dogs, Cody, Cindy, and Gizmo.
It seemed to be a popular name people gave their pets. Perhaps, she mused, having a pet named Gizmo could be hazardous to your health.
She had a thought. Since it was her memory, she added NorthEast Medical Center, Concord, and there were only five. She had read through two entries, when she saw something in the third that made her blood run cold.
FIFTY-EIGHT
When Gene Duncan called, Ward was watching the news as a commentator said that the RGI virus was designed by a thirty- year- old Charlotte resident named Bert Marmaduke. The newscaster said that suspect Marmaduke had been murdered the evening before his body was found, but gave no cause of death, and made no mention of Trey Dibble's connection to the event. Ward was wondering if the media people refrained from mentioning Trey because Flash's advertising dollars kept the regional TV stations solvent. He figured it was just a matter of time.
Presently Trey's death was reported, as accidental. There were interviews with several NASCAR- involved individuals, whose comments were probably less than honest, each saying something on the order of what a unique individual Trey Dibble had been. Flash Dibble was reported to be in seclusion, and his assistant said that he and his wife wanted to thank everyone who had offered their prayers and consolation.
“You seen the news?” Gene asked.
“I have.”
“Flash called me,” Gene said. “He asked me to pass on his deep sorrow for his son's actions. He told me to tell you that he didn't have any idea about any of it. He still wants RGI and said he'd like to keep it just the way it is. He also mentioned that he might be open to a partnership involvement.”
“Jesus, Gene, he's still able to think about business?”
“What can I say?”
“Call him back. Tell him to work with you and get the deal drawn up for my signature. Tell him I'll stay through a reasonable transaction period, but maybe Unk would be open to something more permanent with him.”
“Did you just say what I thought you said?”
“Yes. The sooner the better. You can figure out how to spend your commission now. But the video game is not part of the sale.”
“I don't know why that would ever come up. He doesn't know about it.”
That was something Ward was no longer sure of. It was possible that his uncle had told Flash about the game, and that was why he wanted RGI so badly. It didn't matter, because if Flash backed out, Ward would continue to run RGI as he had before, and he'd keep Unk in place and pay Flash the six hundred thousand his uncle owed him. Ward wanted everybody happy because, for the first time in a year, he was.
Gene continued, “Oh, yeah, and the most amazing thing of all. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes, I am. Would you get to it?”
“Tom Wiggins told me to tell you there's no charge for his services.”
“That's very generous, but I want to pay him for his time.”
“He thought you'd say that. He said you could send a check for twelve hundred to his favorite charity.”
“The children's oncology center. Tell him it's as good as in their account.”
“I will. Okay, buddy. I'll call Flash and I'll get on the deal as soon as I hang up.”
“So, why are you still talking to me?” Ward clicked off the phone and tapped it on the back of the couch.
He looked up to see Natasha standing in the doorway. “That was Gene. He …”
Ward stopped because he knew Natasha wasn't hearing a word he said. She was staring at him, a look of horror on her face.
“What?” Ward asked. “Natasha?” He jumped up and ran across the room, taking her by the shoulders.
“Gizmo. I know who he is.”
“Who? How do you know him?”
“I killed him.”
FIFTY-NINE
It was dark when Alice lucked out and found a parking spot very close to a towering green painted metal sculpture resembling blades of grass. She wondered if it was designed to make people see what it felt like to be insects. It seemed to her that lots of things in society were designed to make people feel less significant than they were.
Alice walked toward three young men smoking cigarettes near the entrance. She straightened as she approached, and measured them for attractiveness. Two of the boys were sort of fat, and all three were wearing baggy shorts and T-shirts with smart- ass messages printed on them. There was one guy who was taller, and skinny—-just her type—and she made eye contact with him. He looked over at her and his eyes lit up, so she slowed.
“Hey, good looking!” he said, smiling. “Where you been all my life?”
Alice stopped and smiled widely, keeping her lips together so her braces didn't show. And she waved.
“Looking for you,” a high- pitched voice re plied from behind her.
Alice turned to see three girls closing from behind, and, as they passed Alice, the boys straightened and posed like models in anticipation.
“You're late,” one of the fat boys said to the girls.
Alice felt embarrassed, disappointed, and invisible. And she felt anger growing within her.
She slumped, tightened the grip on her black cloth carry bag, and strode purposefully into the entrance, the sounds of youthful laughter closing on her back in rhythmic waves. She heard n one of the girls say, “That little kid thought you were talking to her!”
Alice walked slowly past the shop windows, pausing here and there to check out merchandise, imagining owning some of the items and picturing as well how ownership of each would make her feel. In a matter of minutes she found herself nearing the food court entrance and the smells of a hundred food items hit her like a wave. She skulked on, clenching the strap of her bag like someone was going to grab it and take off running.
Alice checked herself out in a dark shop window, and what she saw made her wonder why the boys hadn't been attracted to her. She looked younger than she was, and she supposed they had imagined that she was too young for them, but she was prettier than any of the other girls had been by a mile.
She thought about Mr. McCarty and how nice he'd been to her, and she had been sure that was because he was attracted to her. He deserved to have his toy car taken, since he was a sexual predator. Everybody knew it. In fact he deserved to be punished, and giving her his money—which was just to keep her from telling the cops that he tried his moves on her—was him being afraid of additional proof that he was guilty of being an old pedophile.
She braced herself and walked into the food court, scanning the tables, looking for the man who'd stopped her on campus.
After a few seconds she saw him seated at a table, waving just his fingers at her. She hesitated a few seconds, then nodded and walked over to him.
SIXTY
Natasha led Ward to the kitchen and showed him the obituary.
Louis A. Gismano, Jr., seve
n years of age, died of complications from injuries sustained when he was struck by an automobile on April 3, 2005, at NorthEast Medical Center. Louis, known as Gizmo to friends and family, was the beloved son of U.S. Army Sergeant Louis Anthony and Evelyn Gismano of Fayetteville, N.C. Burial services are being handled by Sullivan's Highland Funeral Service in Fayetteville.
“Jesus,” Ward said. “You knew him?”
“He was hit by a car. The driver was a drunk, a boy named Howard Lindley. The child was brought to the emergency room. I'd have to look at his records to be sure, but I remember that he had multiple fractures, and internal bleeding, so I went in to address the bleeding. I removed a ruptured kidney and his spleen. After surgery he was in critical condition, but he should have lived. They put off setting the fractures to allow him time to gain strength, and there was too much swelling to address that anyway.”
“You just said you killed him,” Ward added.
“I didn't murder him, but I missed something that wasn't immediately apparent in the initial workup, or during my first surgery. He was unconscious, and there was a damaged wall in his aorta that blew out. They rushed him back into surgery. I cracked his chest but there was nothing I could do. The father didn't get to the hospital until after the child died. I wasn't there when he arrived, but I got a call and was on my way to explain what had happened, but before I got to the ICU, security stopped me. They'd called the cops, so I never talked to the father. I was told not to talk to him, and I was also told he was screaming, ‘Gizmo. You bastards murdered Gizmo!’ ”
“I remember that,” Ward said, remembering how upset his wife had been at the time.
“A panel of physicians reviewed the case, and they ruled that there was no contributory negligence. Nobody could have known about the weak wall in his aorta, and there was no evidence to support a malpractice suit. I never heard another word. I'd forgotten all about it. I mean, I did the best I could given what was known.”
“What made you remember?”
“I don't really know. I queried Gizmo first. Next I added obits and then NorthEast Medical Center, because something told me my memory of the name was connected to my practice.”
“He was a soldier. Jesus. It's got to be him in that hole.”
“Yes,” she said. “What if he still believes I killed his son?”
“I'll call the police,” Ward said.
“Call Todd,” she said. “Let him call them. He'll know what to say that will get their attention. He'll know what to do.”
SIXTY-ONE
Todd stood as Alice approached the table. She sat down across from him and smiled nervously.
“Hi,” she said. “You found the place all right.”
“Yes,” Todd said.
“I mean, of course you did.” She laughed nervously. “Of course you did. Duh, you're sitting here.” She hit herself on the forehead with the butt of her hand. “What was I thinking?”
“And you found it,” Todd said.
“I come here sometimes. They have a great place called Asphalt Jungle, and they've got super cool shit. Clothes, jeans, and skateboards they build from the parts you want. I don't skate, but I have friends who do.”
“Did you bring the model?” Todd asked, wanting to get this over with.
His cell phone vibrated, so he took it out and looked at the caller ID. It was Ward McCarty. He put the phone away. He'd call him back as soon as this was over.
“Yeah, I brought it. You know, he's a pervert. Tell me why I shouldn't call the police.”
“Well, a couple of reasons …”
“I know, I could get in trouble. You said that, but what about all those kids? I've been thinking it over. Even if I did get in trouble for like taking the car, he's a pervert and I doubt the cops would charge me.”
“Alice, first off, the FBI and the cops know he's not guilty, because they know who did it. More importantly we have a deal, and we've held up our end. Mr. McCarty's son loved that car and the boy died in a terrible accident, and Mr. McCarty carried the car around with him because his son loved it and he loved his son.”
“Kind of like a memento,” she said, a look of suspicion crossing her features. “Is that the truth?”
“Absolutely.”
Alice opened her bag and looked in. She took a note card out and studied it.
“What's that?” Todd asked.
“He drew this picture of me on the airplane,” she said, showing it to Todd.
“It's good,” Todd said.
“I forgot all about it,” she said. “He's a good sketcher. You think I look like this?”
“Yes.” Todd glanced from card to person, back and forth. “It shows a you I haven't seen before.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. In the picture, you look innocent and sensitive. And you look vulnerable, and there's intelligence, humor, and mischief in your expression. I guess he drew you the way he saw you.”
“I make good grades. That's never been hard for me. And I can do some mischief shit. I did something earlier tonight that would be considered that exactly.”
Todd said, “He obviously thought you were a nice person. So why would you want to do him harm?”
“I don't. You think I made up that he wanted to screw me. I thought that's probably why he drew me so … I don't know. Because he wanted to hook up with me. I guess maybe he was just being nice.”
“I think he liked you because he thought there was something likeable about you. I doubt he ever imagined you'd do what you did. He's the kind of guy who would be kind to a young person traveling alone. You told him your parents were divorced and you were shuttling between them.”
“No, I didn't,” she said, but her eyes wandered around the space.
“He was kind to you because that's the kind of man he is. He thought you were vulnerable, and maybe in pain over the fact that you felt betrayed by your parents. There was never anything sexual in his mind, and I think you know that.”
“I don't know anything like that!” she snapped. “And you don't either. You're just trying to make me feel bad.”
Todd took the envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table in front of her.
“This is yours.” But he purposefully kept the envelope pinned under his hand. “It's two thousand,” Todd told her.
“You want the car now?”
“I think we've arrived at that point.”
She reached into the black carry bag and removed the small blue car and placed it on the table, wheels down, and pushed it across the table. Todd lifted his hand, picked the car up, and examined it.
“It was already scratched,” she said, taking the envelope.
“You can count it,” Todd said.
“I trust you.” Alice stuffed the envelope into her purse and looked around the food court.
“So, where's Earl?” Todd asked, placing the model in his jacket pocket.
“I don't know, and I don't care.”
“You could do better,” Todd said. “I'm sure you know that.”
Her face suddenly felt hot and she snatched the drawing and tore it up into small pieces and let them flutter to the tabletop. “You don't know me. You've got your little piece- of- shit toy car.” She stood up and grabbed up her tote bag.
“Good luck,” he told her.
“Fuck you,” she replied, and stormed off out of the food court.
SIXTY-TWO
Alice was around the corner in the corridor when her cell phone started ringing. She pulled it from the pocket of her jeans and looked at the ID. It was Earl.
“What, Earl?” she said.
“Where you at?”
“If it's any of your business, I'm at the mall.”
“Doing the deal?”
“Maybe. You still drunk?”
“Naw, did you ask for ten like I said?”
“No, I did not. I agreed on two. More would be dishonorable.”
“Damn. A’ight, that's cool. So, see ah'm sayin’, you
coming to get me so we can do what we said. You know, gets me my money, the tat and stuff?”
“Your money?”
“Well, it's like mostly mines, in it? Was me gots the gun. Who negotiated the deal? Who said ten grand so as you ended with two not some measly five hundred? Who'd you shoot in the fuckin’ head?”
“I don't know, Earl. I'm thinking that I should keep the entire two thousand.”
“Without me you'd be lucky to have anybody fuck you through a hole in a wall, you no- tit loser bitch. If you couldn't make a fist around my pecker, you'd be worthless.”
“Whatever,” she said, fuming. “But if I'm the loser, how come I've got the money and you're the one sitting on your front porch?”
“Who're you calling a loser?”
“Maybe the loser who's a penniless freak with the IQ of a mollusk.”
“Don't you dare try to fuck me!”
“Why would I bother, when you're doing such a great job of fucking yourself? We're done, and if I ever see you again, even by accident, I really am going to shoot you.”
She snapped the phone closed and laughed. When her phone rang again, she started to ignore it, but she wanted to say a few more things.
“You evil little monster! You horrid bitch!” the voice hissed.
Alice felt her cheeks reddening, and her stomach felt hot and hollow. The female voice was distorted by cold fury, but Alice had heard this same tone often enough since childhood.
“You miserable ingrate.”
“What's wrong, Mother?” Alice managed to say, using the most innocent voice she could muster.
“You've ruined me,” her mother hissed.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nine one one ring any bells?”
The Last Day Page 17