I ran my finger to the other end of the little lever and flipped it. It opened with a satisfying click. Underneath, there was a small, serrated cog. The flint mechanism. I flicked it. Nothing. No hint of a spark. I flicked the cog the other way. A small spark, but no flame. This time I flicked it hard. Bingo.
I set the flame against the blanket and saw a blue wave dance along the dirty material. The pyre was lit.
I gave the boat a shove and it started to drift away from me.
Suddenly I was gripped with the need to retain something; she was taking too much with her, too many objects of value to me, things that might anchor her and my father in my memory.
I swam frantically toward the boat and realized it was now moving away at a fair crack; a current had picked it up and if I weren’t careful we might end up sharing these dark waters.
The boat was well and truly alight by the time I reached its prow; the blanket gave off thick smoke and the kindling crackled. I could see my mother’s clothes were beginning to flicker.
The paisley bag was alight too, but only just. Without thought of the new burns that I was about to inflict on myself, I thrust my handthrough the flames and yanked the zip open. I yelped and withdrew my hand, plunging it into the water.
Before I could make the rational decision to retreat, I plunged my hand into the bag once more. Then my fingers closed around the elephant and withdrew it.
I held Ganesh beneath the surface as I trod water and the pain began to subside.
I started to swim.
The current was strong and I was weak. The brass elephant felt like an anchor, but I wasn’t going to let it fall into the depths. Either we’d both make it, or we’d both go down.
I battled with the current but seemed to be making no progress. I shut my eyes. There was no point in looking. The shore was invisible and I didn’t want to know how near I’d gotten if I should fail.
My strength was ebbing away as the water pulled at my clothes and the swell swamped me with its every peak and disabled me with its every valley. From the shore, and even while pushing the boat out, the sea had seemed calm, but now in my desperation it felt mountainous. And down at my feet the current tugged and tugged.
I was beginning to go under. I clutched Ganesh and allowed myself what I guessed would be a final struggle.
And then the sea let go of me. I’d reached the gentle curve of the shore.
I lay on the beach, feeling the soft waves break over me. With one hand I clawed in the sand, with the other I clutched Ganesh.
At last I raised my head and looked around me. There was nobody. I turned to look out to sea: The bobbing lights held their position, and heading toward them was a silent, flaming torch.
I got up and glanced at my arm. The burn wasn’t good, and would join the other two in tormenting me for the foreseeable future.
I went back to the car, stripped off my wet clothes, and dried myself on Mum’s hand towel as best I could. The cheese-grater hadn’t hit a main vein, but my hip was bleeding badly and took most of the gauze to staunch it. The rip on my shoulder was vicious but oozedrather than flowed. The other wounds were surprisingly superficial, and I felt that some generous dabs of cream and some gauze would do for them. The burns I left alone.
I slipped gingerly into my clean shirt and pants, and removed all but a few hundred rupees from my wallet. Then I walked to the hut and slid the wad of notes under the door.
I returned to the car and stood looking out to sea.
She had said she liked it here.
There was no noise, no vultures, no ambiguity. People living in a past too distant to be threatening. The Ketan family wasn’t India, Askari wasn’t either. Raj was. And so was this place.
It was a good place from which to leave. It soothed my anger; even the raw agony of my burns and gashes subsided slightly in the wake of their stinging immersion.
There was a cross at the Towers of Silence. There was a burning pyre in the Arabian Sea.
PART III
FORTY
Traveling coach meant a long line at immigration. The cheaper the ticket, the less welcome the alien.
Another flight had just arrived at JFK, swelling the line of people to join, to wait behind. And at the head of the line there would be uniforms ready to handle me with crisp authority. A night in a cell? More than a night? That would depend on Terry Wardman.
I fiddled with my immigration forms. Obsession had attended their completion. Not only had they taken my mind off the pain after a few fitful hours of sleep, but I’d been irrationally fearful of the threatened fine for fudging them.
A gentle tap on my back alerted me to the gap that had opened up in front of me. It missed my burn by a millimeter.
The wound sensed proximity and flared anyway.
I felt like a refugee.
There was another tap on my back.
I shuffled a few steps and mumbled an apology.
“Excuse me, do you want to enter the States or don’t you?”
I turned to face the man behind me. English; one of my fellow countrymen. He looked beat, desperate to get to his hotel, call his wife maybe, get the kids on the phone and tell them he loved them.
He started to move around me. This time he brushed against the burn on the back of my hand.
I groaned.
The man stopped and looked at me. “Are you all right?”
I tried to smile, but burns, rips, and thirteen hours on a plane were having none of it. I could feel myself sway and the grip on my suitcase loosen. The noise of the case hitting the marble floor seemed to echo forever.
“I’m fine. It’s okay.”
“You don’t look fine to me.” He waved at the world of officialdom on the other side of the white line.
A uniformed woman moved toward us.
“I think this fellow is unwell and may need some assistance.” He headed for the counter. English first aid: call for help and escape.
I tried to focus on the officer’s name badge. If I could address her by name, then maybe she’d leave me alone. Sbarro, Slorro, Sharro. Dammit. I couldn’t bring it into focus.
My gaze switched to her face. It was hard and unsmiling. Her eyes stayed firmly fixed on me as she knelt down and picked up my suitcase.
“Come with me, sir,” she said, taking me by the arm and prying the passport and forms from my hand.
We went through via the cubicle for diplomats.
By the time we reached the other side, three more officers were waiting for us. One of them took my passport, glanced at it, and nodded.
“This way, sir,” he said.
I’d been in the gray room for two hours. But the time wasn’t wasted. A paramedic had come in and done a pretty good job of patching me up: my hand, my lower arm, my back, and my gashes. He gave me a shot for the pain, a shot for tetanus, and a shot of something else for good luck. He said he couldn’t do anything for my hair, and suggested that I go to the emergency room before visiting my stylist.
JFK was a whole lot better than Heathrow. There they would have given me an aspirin and shoved a flashlight up my ass to check for an over-the-limit bottle of Johnny Walker.
The paramedic left the room. I stared at the two posters on the wall: one of the Statue of Liberty and the other of the Golden Gate Bridge jutting out of thick fog. I toyed with the laminated card on the table that was supposed to tell me my rights. But I didn’t read it.
I didn’t feel like I had too many rights. The door opened.
Detective Manelli came in. “They tell me you’re not fit enough to answer questions.” He circled me and nodded. “You look like shit.” He pointed his finger at me like a gun. “Peeoww.Tomorrow. ElevenA.M.We’ll talk. Your guy will be with you.”
My guy? Terry Wardman? Someone new from Schuster?
Terry came in the room at that moment. He wasn’t alone. Pablo Tochera was with him.
“Thanks, Detective,” Terry said. “We want to be alone with our client now.”
“How are you feeling?” Terry asked.
“Better than before. What happens now?”
“We leave here,” Tochera said. “You get some rest tonight and tomorrow we’ll talk over the situation. Then, assuming you’re okay, we go and see Manelli.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked Tochera. “I thought you’d dumped me.”
He glanced at Terry. Was anger the dominant emotion etched on his face?
“I’m not here,” he said. Yes, anger, tinged maybe with fear. “At least not officially. If McIntyre knew I’d come, I’d be out of a job.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you anyway,” I said gratefully.
“They’re going to charge you, Fin,” Terry said. “Obstruction and a catalog of moving violations. Holding stuff, while the lawyers determine how to pin murder on you. They may add drug dealing to the list, although even they seem to appreciate it’s a long shot.”
“When, Terry?” I challenged. “When will they charge me and why didn’t they do it straight away?”
He smiled at Pablo. “You’ve got Pablo to thank for that. As brilliant a display of bullshit as you will ever hear, but he’s too modest to shout about it, aren’t you, Pablo?”
Pablo didn’t return the smile. “We called Manelli before the plane landed and told him you were coming back voluntarily and you just needed one night to get straight and then you’d talk to them.” He shook his head. “It’s going to take a shit-load of bail to keep you out of the cells.”
I’d ask Delaware Loan for an advance.
Slumping back in the chair, I shut my eyes.
“Can you walk?” Terry asked. “Let’s get out of here. You can stay with me tonight.”
No. I wanted to be in my own apartment, my own space. I wanted to speak to Carol. See her if I could. But whatever, I wanted my apartment as a base.
My eyes fluttered open. “That’s kind,” I said, “but I’d rather have my own things around me tonight. I feel like I’ve been away forever.”
“Not a good idea,” Tochera said. “You’re not a very popular guy right now. And when it gets out that you’re back in town—which will be around now—you’re going to have plenty of visitors. Press, lawyers, and relatives of the victims.”
I stood up. “I just want to go to my own fucking apartment. Okay?”
I caught the wink that Terry flicked at Tochera. “That’s fine,” he said. “We’ll go there first and then decide what to do.”
“Give me a cell phone,” I said. “I want to try and get hold of Carol.”
Tochera looked doubtful. “Leave it till tomorrow, it could complicate things.”
I found myself standing up, my face against Tochera’s.
“Complicate things?” I hissed. “How could they get more complicated? And I suppose you can tell me where she is, how she is, put my mind at ease?”
Tochera edged away from me and turned to Terry. “Hey, cool it. I’m here to help. Tell him, Terry.”
“That makes everything all right, does it?” I said. “You were my attorney. Christ knows what you are now. I was supposed to be a footnote in Manelli’s report by now, a witness and no more. There should have been adozen statements from a dozen people saying how they’d set me up. I should have been going to Manelli to pick up a medal from the City.”
Tochera held his hands up defensively, his black button eyes resting on Terry, pleading with him for mutual professional support. “Please, Fin. It’s not like—”
“INSTEAD,” I shouted, “I’m going to be charged with enough to put me away for years, and that’s just for starters. They’re still figuring out what to stuff me with for the main course.”
“Calm down, Fin. This isn’t helping.”
I grabbed at Pablo’s suit; not hard, I had no strength, but I wanted him to feel me, maybe feel some of my pain, feel the desolation that was so bad it was physical.
“They killed my parents. Did you know that, Pablo? When you went scurrying back up your partnership ladder, did you know what these people have done?”
“Terry mentioned that your father was dead,” Tochera said.
“But not how he died, and how my mother has joined him.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Pablo said. “How could I?”
Pablo turned to Terry. “I better go now. Julia will be worried.” He brushed his hand gently against my arm. “Tomorrow at eleven, guy.” He paused. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge people. Sheesh. You ain’t the only one with problems.”
Terry placed his arm across my chest as I tried to follow Tochera. “Leave it, Fin,” he said gently. “Let him go. Don’t burn that bridge until you know where you are.”
“Let me try Carol,” I said. Terry handed me his phone.
No answer at the apartment, not even voicemail. Nothing on her cell phone either. Her mother’s? I didn’t have the number and she was divorced, wasn’t she? She’d have changed her name. I tried information. An Amen in Scarsdale?
None listed.
“Let’s go,” I said.
I woke up as Terry pulled alongside the Battery Park apartment block.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Ten-thirty.” He paused for a moment, then slightly hesitatingly asked, “Do you still want to stay here, Fin?”
More than ever. I would be able to think in my own space. “Yes.”
I eased myself out of the car. Terry retrieved my suitcase and garment bag from the backseat and we went into the building.
The concierge to whom I’d offered advice about a career on Wall Street was behind the desk. “Cute haircut, asshole,” he said.
I ignored him and went to my mailbox.
But the voice followed. “Filled with fan mail I expect, Mr. Border.” Terry put his finger to my lips, seeing that I was about to end my short-lived policy of turning the other cheek.
“Roll with it, Fin,” he said. “I’m afraid there will be plenty more of that before this is over.”
The concierge had been right about my mailbox. It was stuffed.
“I’ll take those.” Terry decked my luggage and yanked the mail out of the box, opened up my garment bag, and stuffed the whole lot inside.
“We can look at them tomorrow,” he said.
We went up to my apartment. At the door I hesitated.
“You still have a key?” Terry asked.
I did. Secreted behind what few dollars I had left in my wallet.
I opened the door and switched on the hall light.
The first name was JESSICA. In red. Where a framed map of Manhattan in the late 1890s had been. The map lay on the floor, glass and frame smashed.
The next was ABBY.
The next, EILEEN, then JAPHIRA. Harsh red, harsh strokes, Jackson Pollock splatters all around the letters.
Down the hallway, RAY, CONNOR.
Into the living/dining room.
SEPH, ROSA, SOL.
All the pictures lay on the floor smashed, smeared, and spattered. Grand Central Station was unrecognizable.
JOHN, CARLA.
The photographs torn to pieces, the frames twisted and flung aside.
PATTI, HARRY.
The overstuffed couch and chair ripped to shreds. The diningtable splintered. The chairs broken and scattered. A screenless TV. A hi-fi bleeding wires.
DAVE, CHUCK.
A computer, disemboweled of mother board, processor, and memory. The floor was a lurid, stinking palette of the contents of my refrigerator.
YOUR VITIMS HAD NAMES YOU FUCKER.
The missingCin VITIMS somehow emphasized the blind fury and hatred that fueled every brushstroke.
I was hated. It didn’t matter that I had done nothing to earn it. I was hated. It was that simple, that terrible. I hurt all over, but I stayed on my feet, feeling my shoes grind into glass, wood, cheese, olives, the debris of my fragile habitat.
I remembered Carol t
elling me about the graffiti sprayed on the FDR parapet. Shit happens.
Did anythingelsehappen, I wondered.
“Do you want me to call the police?” Terry asked.
“No,” I said without hesitation. “Let me pick up a few things and we can go back to your place.”
Terry scrutinized the mess. “How did they get in? No sign of forced entry. Anyone else have a key?”
“Only the management,” I said blankly. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s collect my stuff and get out.”
I went into the bedroom. The only things in one piece were the light switch and lightbulb. Whoever had done this wanted me to appreciate their handiwork.
The bed was eviscerated. My clothes were scattered and torn, covered in red paint.
“We’ll get some new clothes first thing tomorrow.” Terry was behind me, hands gently on my shoulder, just a slight presence, so as not to hurt me. I was numb now.
“Let’s go,” I said.
On entering the apartment I hadn’t looked behind me, I’d just swung the front door shut. Now I could see what was written on the interior panel.
AND YOU KILLED ME. GUESS WHOSE NEXT.
FORTY-ONE
Downstairs I could hear a commotion as the elevator doors opened. I walked around the corner from the elevator bank and into a wall of intense light sharply peppered with blinding flashes.
I couldn’t figure out how many of them there were. I was facing an unintelligible sea of mouths shouting questions. Lenses and microphones were thrust into my face. I shielded my eyes and we just barged through, Terry gamely swinging the garment bag like a matador’s cape.
As I passed the front desk, the concierge treated me to a blinding smile. “I tried to warn you,” he said, “but your phone don’t seem to be working.”
We got outside but the entourage stuck to us, wasps around a picnic.
“Don’t touch him,” screamed Terry. “He’s hurt. Don’t hurt him.”
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