Ascension Day

by John Matthews

  Jac nodded thoughtfully. He’d noticed Stratton keep his finger on the cradle button as he’d lifted the receiver and carefully inspected.

  ‘So. Just the phone?’ Confirming it as if it was a lesser issue, that he’d somehow got off lightly, belied how Jac felt. A shiver ran up his spine as he thought about the many conversations he’d had that had been listened in to: his mum and Jean-Marie, John Langfranc, Alaysha, and then Rodriguez, Coultaine and his calls to arrange to see Truelle and Thallerey that had finally targeted him to be killed. ‘Okay. Okay.’ Jac eased a burdened sigh. ‘How do we get rid of it?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Stratton said, shrugging. ‘Not, that is, without them knowing.’

  Jac’s eyebrows knitted. With the impact the bug had so far had on his life, he couldn’t bear the thought of it being around a second longer. Stratton gestured towards the apartment; he didn’t want to explain on the corridor. They went back into the apartment and Jac turned down Bruce Hornsby.

  ‘Think about it, Jac,’ Stratton said. ‘If you’re right in your assumption – whoever’s bugging you has already tried to kill you because they’re afraid of what you might find out. If we remove the bug, they’re gonna panic even more – thinking you’re up to all sorts they don’t know about.’ Stratton shrugged as he viewed Jac’s discomfort. ‘Fear of the unknown. Odds are they’ll try again to get rid of you.’

  ‘But how will leaving it in help? Especially given the sort of conversations I’m having right now on the Durrant case?’

  ‘Because you can use it for a handy bit of disinformation.’ Stratton smiled slyly as he saw the first spark of realization hit Jac. ‘You make sure that all vital calls on the Durrant case are made on your cell-phone, and you warn all potential incoming callers of the same: nothing surrounding the Durrant case to ever come in on your land-line here.’ He nodded towards the phone. ‘Then, to complete the picture, having primed a few key people on your cell-phone – you call on your land-line here and tell them that you’re not going to be doing anything further on the Durrant case. You’ve looked at every possible angle, but it appears hopeless trying to prove his innocence. The whole thing now rests with Governor Candaret as to whether he gets clemency or not.’

  Jac mirrored Stratton’s smile. ‘So they think I’ve given up, and meanwhile I’ve got free rein without having to worry about watching my back?’

  ‘Yeah. And you can even play things up some more if you want. You set up a call to your phone here, someone claiming they’ve got vital information on the Durrant case. You’re officially off it, you say – but if it’s that vital, okay. You’ll meet them. They then give you the name of some hotel in Rio or Montevideo and a time for the meet. Meanwhile you sit back here with your feet up and raise a glass, knowing that you’ve sent them on a wild goose chase halfway across the world.’

  As uncomfortable as Jac felt leaving the bug in place, the thought of being able to mislead whoever it was, get some of his own back, was irresistible. Jac arched a sharp eyebrow.

  ‘You’ve done this before?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Stratton smiled wanly. ‘Just a few times.’

  While Jac had been right about the phone bug, he wouldn’t know whether his other suspicion – Truelle being involved somehow – was right until some days had passed. Which brought a smile to Alaysha’s face when he explained the rationale behind his thinking.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Alaysha said, taking the first sip of the red Bordeaux Jac had just poured for her. ‘If over the coming days Truelle is killed or, as happened with you, there’s an attempt on his life – then he’s probably one of the good guys. But if he remains alive, then most likely he’s one of the bad guys. Is that about it?’

  ‘Yes. More or less.’ Jac shrugged awkwardly. ‘Unless there’s some other reason why, unlike myself and Thallerey, he can’t be targeted.’

  Alaysha’s mouth skewed; half quizzical, half humorous. ‘Sounds like one of those old witchcraft trials. If she sinks and drowns, then she’s okay. If she floats and lives, then she must be a witch. You’re not exactly going to be able to phone him after the event and congratulate him on passing the test. “Hey, you’re okay after all. Let’s go for a drink and talk some more”.’

  Jac held one hand out, smiling dryly. ‘Unless, that is, like me he survives the attempt.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Alaysha agreed gleefully, taking another sip of wine. ‘Durrant case survivors club. Maybe you can have tags printed, hold a little convention.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done more with Truelle.’ Jac introduced a more sober tone. ‘I told him what happened with me, and warned him he could be next.’

  ‘Well, that’s really going to brighten the coming days for him.’

  The darker, heavier side of their light banter hit them both at the same time. Alaysha’s expression fell sharply and she reached out and gently stroked Jac’s cheek with the palm of one hand.

  ‘Oh, Jac. Jac. Have you thought seriously about giving up, throwing in this whole thing with Durrant? I mean, you’re only Durrant’s lawyer, for God’s sake – not his keeper and protector. And certainly not at the risk of your own life.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I thought about it a lot. Especially in those last days recovering in the hospital.’ Jac took a sip of his own wine as he focused his thoughts, his eyes staying on the glass for a second, as if the greyness of the lake might somehow lay beyond the red. ‘Sure, I was scared out of my wits thinking about how close I came to death. And now I have the knowledge that it probably wasn’t an accident, along with the worry that they might try again. But against that, and not just because I promised to try and help, I can’t shift Durrant from my mind: cut off from his family for eleven years, his life ruined, and his death, now only seventeen days away – unless by some miracle he does get clemency – a certainty. And everyone else has given up on him as a lost cause, deserted him; apart from young Joshua.’ Something tugged at the back of Jac’s mind about Durrant that harked back to his own father’s death; but he just couldn’t bring whatever it was to the forefront. He shook his head. ‘I can’t desert him as well. Especially not now.’

  ‘What makes now so different to before?’

  ‘Because however much the evidence against Durrant appears overwhelming, what happened with me and now Dr Thallerey convinces me of one thing: there’s something crucial I’m missing, something these people are keen for me not to find out. If only I could discover what?’

  Alaysha shook her head. ‘But it’s not just what, Jac, you have no idea who – who is trying to kill you?’

  ‘True. That would certainly help. Know thy enemy. I’ll make a note to ask them when they next make contact.’ Then held one hand up in apology as he became more serious. ‘I know what you’re saying, Alaysha. But, like I said, it would be wrong to give up on Durrant right now. Just when I’ve seen the first strong sign that he might be innocent.’

  Alaysha looked at him levelly, sombrely. ‘Even though it might end up costing you your life, Jac?’

  Jac could see the brewing storm-clouds in her eyes, weighted emotions struggling for balance: one part of her admiring what he was doing in trying to save Durrant’s life, the other questioning the terrible risk he was taking. He couldn’t tell which one held sway.

  ‘I know. I know.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second in submission, as if accepting some of that weight and concern. She’d already almost lost him once; understandable that she wouldn’t want to go through that again. ‘But hopefully this little ploy of Bob Stratton’s will take their eye off of me, take most of the heat and danger away.’

  As Alaysha looked down for a second in muted acceptance, she noticed that her hands were trembling. All this talk of danger and lives threatened had got to her; though not just because of Jac’s plight. She’d read the small entry in the Times-Picayune just the day before: he was noted only as ‘missing’, but now with his family receiving no contact for two weeks, the police were beginning to fear the wor
st. Her mind had gone into a white-hot spin, wondering when the knock might come at her own door and she’d be next to go ‘missing’. Butterflies of unease writhed in her stomach, made her feel queasy. She gripped her hand tighter on her wine glass to kill the trembling as she raised it and looked up again at Jac.

  ‘Hopefully,’ she said, and took another sip.

  But Jac could see that his attempt at reassurance had done little to shift her concern. The storm-clouds still lingered in her eyes.

  ‘So, Gary did more lines this week. How many?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘And did you show your parents?’

  ‘Not at first. But I think they… they kinda guessed. So in the end I did show them what he did.’

  ‘And were they upset?’

  ‘A little, sure. But at least now they don’t blame me any more. They seem to accept that it’s Gary doing them – not me.’

  Truelle nodded pensively. One of his most intriguing cases. Fourteen-year-old boy, Brad Fieschek, recommended by Social Services due to self-mutilation. Discovered by his parents three months back, although it had probably being going on for some time before that, the marks were thin knife or razor cuts on his arms and sometimes wrists. ‘Lines’, had quickly become his comfort-zone term for them, Truelle discovered; possibly to soften the impact in his mind, because some of the cuts had been so deep that when made on his wrists his parents were convinced that it was a suicide attempt.

  But from there, the case became deeper and darker still, because Brad claimed a secondary character, Gary, was making the ‘lines’. Perhaps again to push away what was happening to him – but the worry now was that schizophrenia was developing. And that this secondary character might become increasingly violent: the self-mutilation would get worse.

  It was a case that required all of his attention, all his skills; and so he should have known better than to schedule his meeting with Jac McElroy for earlier that day.

  Truelle noticed his hand starting to shake again, and pressed his pen firmer on his pad to steady it.

  He’d broken the golden rule when – with the excuse to his secretary that he was grabbing a coffee from the deli – he’d had a quick shot of bourbon before his appointment with McElroy. It steadied his hands slightly, but he kept them clasped as much as possible during the meeting to mask any remaining tell-tale signs.

  He popped back a few peppermints to kill any smell on his breath, then sprayed himself with some cologne from his office cabinet just to make sure.

  But the shaking in his hands was back after talking to McElroy, with a vengeance.

  Phones bugged, an attempt on McElroy’s life, Jessica Roche’s obstetrician killed…

  He managed somehow to brave it through the one remaining patient session before lunch, then dived out to the nearest bar. What he’d intended as just one more shot quickly became two, then three. The bourbon did little to quell his churning thoughts, but at least took most of the tremble out of his hands.

  He looked at them again now: still not too heavy a tremble, not too noticeable. He focused past them to his notepad and took a fresh breath.

  ‘And, as I suggested last time – have you asked Gary to stop?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because… because, I’m afraid.’ Brad’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘I’m afraid that’ll make him angry, will just make it worse. He’ll give me more lines.’

  Looked like he’d taken out those phone bugs and changed his insurance policies just in time. If he hadn’t, he’d have probably gone the same way as Thallerey by now…

  ‘I can understand that. But you know – as we also discussed last time – if you don’t confront Gary, he’ll just become bolder. It could become worse anyway.’

  ‘I know. But, like I said – I’m afraid. I just don’t know what to do.’

  Confront them? Know what to do? Afraid.

  Truelle’s hands were starting to shake harder. He clenched them tightly. Maybe it should be him laying on the couch. Maybe he could get one of his old colleagues from New York to pull him apart, guide him through what to do. Pull him apart before he fell apart.

  He swallowed, took a fresh breath. ‘But sometimes, Brad, however hard it might seem at the time – we have to confront our worst fears.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Otherwise they just become stronger.’

  ‘I know, Doc… I know.’ Brad biting at his bottom lip, close to tears. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult.’

  ‘I know.’ Truelle in that moment feeling as if he wanted to join Brad in bursting into tears. He dabbed at some sweat beads on his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘And, uh… have you been able to find out why Gary is doing this? Why he’s giving you the lines?’

  Brad looked quizzically at Truelle, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘Yes. We discussed that at my last session.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Truelle covered quickly, reminding himself. ‘What I meant was – have you been able to probe more about that with Gary? You were never really satisfied with what he said – because you thought that you were pleasing your parents with what you did.’

  ‘I could try, but I don’t think he’d tell me. It’s like… like his little secret, his main hold over me, knowing better than me what might please my parents…’

  Truelle knew that he should have stopped the session there. He was far too distracted.

  As McElroy had been. Maybe it had been due to Thallerey’s death – but then what had McElroy suddenly thought of to make him cut everything short and head off in such a rush? And why on earth had they killed Thallerey? How could he possibly have presented a threat?

  Truelle pressed his hands firmer against his notepad as the shaking ran deeper. But this time the pad simply started shaking as well.

  Oh God, help me. Help me!

  Truelle battled his way through the remaining twenty minutes of the session, keeping his comments concise and simple so that he didn’t make any more mistakes.

  But when he finally ushered Brad out, his secretary Cynthia, seeing Truelle pale and shaky, enquired, ‘Has it got worse?’

  It took Truelle a second to detach from his own thoughts and realize that she was talking about the boy, not him.

  ‘No, no. Much the same as before with Brad.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just a small fever that seems to have hit me. Cancel and rearrange my last two sessions today, would you?’

  He headed back into his office without waiting for a response, went into the adjoining washroom and splashed water on his face as he leant over the sink.

  Straightening up, his head was still burning as if about to explode, his eyes pin-pricks unable to fully focus on his reflection. And his hands shaking worse than ever.

  Maybe he should head out and get another drink or two to steady them again. But he knew that if he did, it would end up as four or five, and by the next day he’d be on half a bottle; a day or two after that, a full bottle.

  And so he stayed in the same position, hands gripped tight to the edge of the sink, as if it were the last planks of a sinking ship that he dared not let go of.

  ‘Does Durrant know yet that you can’t do any more?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m heading out there tomorrow to tell him.’

  Nel-M had already heard the taped calls once at Farrelia’s, so wound through to the main highlights. McElroy on the phone to Mike Coultaine.

  ‘So that’s it now? Last time you’ll be seeing him?’

  ‘Apart from sitting in with him for the BOP hearing, or if there’s something else needed connected with the clemency plea. But that’s going to be the only focus now. From hereon in, it all rests with whether or not Candaret feels generous-hearted.’

  Coultaine consoled that at least he’d given it a shot before they signed off. Nel-M wound forward to McElroy’s following call to Pat Coyne.

  ‘…I know that my colleague John Langfranc said that I’d probably be following up on som
e details. That won’t now be happening – I’ve decided there’s nowhere left to go with it. Apart from the DNA, I just can’t get my mind past Durrant describing that final shot to the head – particularly since you held that back from all releases.’

  ‘I understand. Me neither, and I’ve had twelve long years to think it over.’

  ‘But thanks for your time and the information you gave.’

  Nel-M wound forward to the next call, this time incoming and left on McElroy’s answer-phone.

  ‘Jac. Jennifer. Jennifer Bromwell. I heard all about your accident. Your sister, Jean-Marie, kept me up to date. I didn’t visit the hospital, because, well, I… I understood your girlfriend was there much of the time. But I hear from Jean-Marie that you’re fine now… so this is to wish you well, and also to ask – and I’d understand perfectly if you didn’t think you were well enough yet for it – about one of those dates we discussed. I sneaked off to see Kelvin a couple of nights back – but there’s something coming up in a few nights that’ll be hard for me to find an excuse for. So, if you thought you could oblige… call me.’

  Nel-M stopped the tape and smiled thinly. Hardly got his pulse back, and McElroy’s convoluted love-life was full-on again: screwing his lap-dancing neighbour while playing charades with this second girl.

  Shame though it wasn’t about to get more complicated, thought Nel-M. He’d already started to bring the lap-dancer’s ex-boyfriend, Gerry Strelloff, into play; only a few words spoken on his anonymous call, but effective. And as much as Roche would be pleased to hear that McElroy had finally thrown in the towel with Durrant, Nel-M couldn’t help feel disappointed that they wouldn’t now be taking things to the next stage; his plan for McElroy had without doubt been his best yet. Nel-M picked up the phone.