“Okay, let’s give it two days.”
“Look, Stephanie, I’m going to be out of London for a few days sightseeing, but I’ll check in with you. If they don’t show, you can board the dog.”
There was a silence while Nicole debated whether to tell Stephanie about her troubles. Stephanie was a good listener, one who could be relied on for sympathy. But Nicole always paid a price for that sympathy later. Once in possession of Nicole’s problem, Stephanie would make it her own, fretting and stewing until she decided what should be done. In the next frame, Stephanie would be insisting that Nicole follow her advice, which she invariably saw as the only solution. Nicole, of course, would want to do things her own way, and there would be a fight. At that point, Stephanie would turn on Nicole with a litany of I-told-you-so’s and hard, hurtful truths. Remembering the fallout from her last confidence, Nicole decided she had enough trouble without the burden of her sister’s sympathy.
“Okay,” Stephanie was saying. “I’ll take Arnold home with me tonight, but he’d better not poop on my rug. You hear that, Arnold?” She paused to let the dog take this in. Then: “If those people don’t turn up by Saturday, he goes into one of those boarding kennels over on Sepulveda. Look, this is your nickel, and it’s costing you a fortune. We’d better hang up.”
“Wait,” Nicole said. “How’s Daddy?”
“Don’t ask,” Stephanie said. “He’s spending a lot of time outside — digging. This time it’s the front yard.”
“Oh, no,” Nicole said. There was a silence while she considered their father’s behavior.
For any other seventy-year-old widower, digging in the garden might be a healthy sign. But this was different. Their father wasn’t gardening but tearing up the flowerbeds in a futile search for a cache of gold coins he thought their mother had hidden somewhere. She’d once told him she was collecting the coins, one at a time, on her cruises and tours abroad. The trips were financed by her salary as a filing clerk at the federal building, a job she’d come to at an age when most people were ready to retire. She’d taken it out of rebellion, after a lifetime of railing at her husband’s tight-fistedness.
After the funeral, when their father told Nicole and Stephanie about the missing coins, they were certain that their mother had been lying. Travel, clothes, and the payments on a flashy red convertible had kept her perennially broke. The gold coin story had been her final revenge on their father for his unrelenting cheapness.
When they tried to explain this to him, he was indignant. “That old lady wouldn’t lie to me,” he said. “She didn’t know how to lie.”
This was news to her daughters.
Since then, their father had exhausted himself searching the house. It was like a sickness. The idea of that treasure, hidden just out of reach, was eating him alive.
“Don’t worry about it, Nick,” Stephanie said. “Even if you were here, he wouldn’t listen to you. He won’t listen to anybody, for God’s sake. There’s nothing we can do.”
“I know,” Nicole said. “Credibility. That’s always a problem for the women in this family.”
A long silence, then Stephanie said, “Is everything all right, Nick?”
“I’m fine,” Nicole said, a little too quickly. “That was a joke.”
There followed a verbal scuffle, with Stephanie insisting something was wrong and Nicole denying it. At last, Nicole managed to extricate herself from the conversation and hung up.
She was hurrying into the front hallway to get the car keys when she remembered Alice and their Saturday date for tea. If Alice got back and found Nicole gone, she’d be concerned, especially in light of the fat man’s threat. And, while Nicole didn’t care if Brad was frantic over her disappearance, she didn’t want her new friend to worry.
She rushed back into the kitchen, grabbed the pad of paper and dashed off a note. Clutching it in her hand, she hurried upstairs. The door to the Lowrys’ bedroom was closed, just as she’d left it. She paused, remembering the money. She had no idea where the nearest ATM was, and she couldn’t embark on an automobile trip without cash in her purse. She glanced at her watch. She had barely enough time to leave the note and get out.
As she bent down to slip the note under Alice’s door, it gave a creak and slowly swung open. Alice’s room was smaller than she’d expected, sparsely furnished with scuffed, mismatched pieces that looked as if they’d been gleaned from garage sales. Limp, ruffled tieback curtains hung at the windows. The only new item of decor was a cheap-looking bedspread in shiny aqua polyester.
The closet door was standing open. Nicole was surprised at how empty it was. Just two garments were hanging inside: a dress and a skirt. There were two extra hangers, as if Alice never hung more than four garments at a time. Surely she had more clothes, but where were they? Her overnight bag had been just big enough for a nightgown and an outfit or two at most.
Nicole walked over to the dresser and opened the top drawer. It was immaculate, devoid of even a crumb or a speck of dust. At the back of the second drawer was a pair of cotton bikini underpants, pristine white, as if they’d never been worn. Other than that, the dresser was empty. She looked under the bed — nothing, not even a dust ball. It seemed odd when Alice had insisted she’d be back.
Nicole glanced at her watch, startled to see it was now 5:52 p.m. The note was still in her hand. She tossed it on the bed and, in sudden panic, dashed for the stairs. Her ankle was beginning to protest.
The car keys were on the hall table. She grabbed them as she opened the front door. This time she slammed it shut and hurried down the steps, not bothering with the deadbolt. As she slid behind the wheel of the car, she felt disoriented, almost dizzy. It was the unfamiliar position of the driver’s seat, the fact that the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car, the car on the wrong side of the street. It occurred to her that she might not be able to pull this off.
She thought of the two men and their deadline. There wasn’t much time. She had to get away, put some distance between herself and the house in the next few minutes. She reached out and turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. She tried again, pumping the gas pedal. Still nothing.
Then she remembered what Muriel had explained in one of her messages. The car had a choke she was supposed to pull out as she started the engine. Or was she supposed to push it in? She stared at it a moment, then jumped at the sound of someone tapping on the car window.
It was Mr. McGiever. He smiled at her, pointing to himself and then to the driver’s seat. She hesitated only a moment before opening the door and hopping out. “It won’t start,” she explained breathlessly. “I’m in the most enormous hurry. If you could just …”
Even before her words were out, he was stiffly easing himself behind the wheel. He was such a sweet man, really. His eagerness to please made her sorry she’d been so unfriendly. He always seemed to be hanging about, trying to make small talk. Lately, she’d even taken to peeking out the window to make sure he wasn’t there before stepping outside.
He turned the key and worked the choke button until the engine sprang to life. Then he opened the car door and began to slide out.
She gave him a smile. “Thanks a lot, Mr. McGiever,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” She glanced around at the house again. Now that he’d turned up, she thought, why not go back and get the money? “You know, I just remembered something I left inside,” she said. “Would you mind …?”
“By all means, Mrs. Graves,” Mr. McGiever beamed at her. “Feel free to go take care of it. I’ll keep an eye on the car. We’ll just leave the engine running to warm it up.” He settled back behind the wheel and shut the door.
She’d just opened the front door when she heard, or rather felt, a rumble that made the front steps tremble beneath her feet and then rocked the whole house. A sound accompanied it, a loud swoosh that filled her head with a strange ringing sound. A moment later, she was blown into the house by a ferocious wind that w
as as hot as dragon’s breath. The phrase, which she’d once read in a fairy tale, popped into her head as the wind tossed her into the entry hall on her hands and knees.
Then the whooshing sound stopped or, rather, everything went silent. A brilliant light made her turn her head and look out. There, framed perfectly in the open doorway, the car where she’d just been sitting was now a fireball. As she watched, flames leapt from the car to dance along the Lowrys’ rosebushes, reducing them to a few charred twigs.
Nine
From the floor of the entry hall, Nicole stared out at the inferno. She could feel its heat, its ferocious hunger as it consumed the small black Renault. The hot point of the blaze, its very source, appeared to be the spot where Mr. McGiever had been sitting. There was no longer any sign of him. The fire had taken over the driver’s seat. The explosion had blown out the car’s windows, and brilliant streamers of flame reached through them to flap against the roof. It was inconceivable that anyone inside could have survived.
That poor, sweet old man.
People began to gather across the street. They kept their distance but seemed to be drawn to the blaze, as hypnotized by it as she was. She wondered if anyone would approach and try to pull him out. Clearly, it was too late. Beneath the acrid smell of burning metal and plastic was a more organic stench she knew instinctively as death, the reek of burning flesh.
Oh, God, she thought. It’s all my fault. If only I hadn’t asked him to start the car.
Then she realized what would have happened if he hadn’t taken her place at the wheel, if she hadn’t chosen that very moment to go back into the house. A dull numbness took over. She was sprawled in the entry hall, lying on one side with her knees drawn up. From this vantage point, she stared through the open doorway, no longer taking in the scene before her. Although she felt the heat of the fire, she couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
Eventually police cars, fire trucks and an ambulance arrived, their approach heralded by a shrieking chorus of sirens. As men in uniforms appeared and began to dash about, she stirred and struggled to her feet. The movement made her vision crack and break into hundreds of tiny pieces. When they slowly reassembled themselves, the floor was tilted at an unfamiliar angle, and she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.
Then two ambulance attendants were standing there. They had a compact bundle that unfolded into a stretcher. After they set it up, one of them turned and spoke to her, his words lost against the ringing in her ears. From his gestures, she could guess what he was saying. He seemed to be under the impression that she was hurt and should go to Emergency. She explained that she was fine. She had no intention of being carted off like a dead horse. It was Mr. McGiever who needed help.
Perhaps she wasn’t making sense, for the two exchanged a glance, an almost imperceptible nod. Then they refolded the stretcher, linked their arms in hers and, with gentle insistence, led her down the steps. To avoid the fire, they cut across the yard to a far corner; they hoisted Nicole over the low picket fence before climbing it themselves. The ambulance was several doors down, parked in front of a neighbor’s house.
The firemen swarming around the blaze, the ever-arriving police cars, the curious onlookers, the row of houses—all tilted and swam as the paramedics pulled her along. Nicole took stock of herself. She was somewhat surprised to discover that she had her purse, its strap slung over her shoulder. She didn’t think she was bleeding anywhere, and her arms and legs seemed to work. Yet she felt injured in some indiscernible way. She seemed to remember hitting her head; perhaps that explained why she was so dizzy. The dizziness and the loud ringing in her ears made it hard to think. Even so, she felt the need to protest. “I’m not hurt,” she told them. “You can’t take me to the hospital without my consent. Not even if I’m dying.”
Neither attendant answered. They seemed to think they had every right to carry her off whether she agreed or not.
As they were opening the back of the ambulance, a battered Volkswagen careened around the corner and screeched to a stop a few feet away. The door burst open, and a rather objectionable looking young man jumped out and pointed a camera at them.
“Looky ’ere,” he said.
But they were already looking. The ambulance attendants and Nicole gawked opened-mouthed as he snapped a few pictures, then continued clicking the shutter, approaching them in a practiced zigzag that seemed calculated to vary his camera angle.
One of the attendants waved dismissively. “Aw, it’s just the bloody tabloids.” He and his partner gripped Nicole’s arms and lifted her into the ambulance. By now, she’d given up any thought of resistance. It was a relief to lie down on the narrow cot that occupied the rear of the vehicle.
While they were strapping her in, the man with the camera stuck his head in the door. He had greasy hair and needed a shave. “Wot’s your name, lady?” he said. Then, when there was no response: “Know who bought it over there?” Shrugging and raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture, he added, “I’ve got me job to do. Doesn’t cost noffink to be civil.” The questions stopped when the paramedics pulled the man away from the door and slammed it shut.
As the ambulance started up and the siren began to wail, Nicole’s indignation resurfaced. Being dragged away in an ambulance with its siren screaming was humiliating and unnecessary. Then she remembered Mr. McGiever, and a wave of terrible grief swept over her. She was aware of the siren and the motion of the vehicle as it maneuvered through the traffic, yet her mind was quiet, utterly empty of thought.
At some point the ride ended and, after a long wait on a gurney in a crowded hallway, someone examined her. She was given a couple of pills and a glass of water. A nurse helped her out of her clothes into a short white gown and into bed. The smooth, cool sheets felt unimaginably good against her skin. She slept.
She opened her eyes, and Brad was there. He was sitting forward in his seat, resting his chin on the backs of his hands, staring at her. She’d never seen him look so miserable.
When he saw she was awake, he came over to the bed and put his arms around her. “Oh, God, Nick,” he said. “I never dreamed… If anything had happened to you, I couldn’t… I just…” His voice trailed off.
She could feel him tremble. His cheek was hot against hers, almost feverish. Only when he made a funny gulping sound did she realize he was crying. She’d never known him to cry, and his grief mystified her. She herself felt nothing.
As he held her, she remembered about Brenda—the fact that Brad had taken her to Liverpool. And yet the terrible emptiness she felt rendered Brenda, and even Brad, irrelevant.
She had the most dreadful feeling that nothing mattered, nothing at all. Then it all came rushing back. The car, the explosion, the fact that it could have been her.
“Mr. McGiever? ” she said.
“Dead, poor old buzzard,” Brad said. “I heard about that bomb threat on the news. But I never dreamed it could —that you…” His embrace tightened, and he made another gulping sound.
She wondered what he was talking about. Then she remembered the newscast she’d heard in the hotel room, the bomb threat that had closed the railway stations.
She pulled away from him and said, “Listen, you’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t terrorists.” As clearly as she could, she explained about the two men who’d followed her, the way the fat one had insisted he knew her “old man” and had threatened him.
As he listened, Brad shook his head. She could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe her. Her voice trailed off and—to her own surprise—she began to cry in great, heaving sobs of frustration and anger. As she wept, she had the feeling of observing herself from across the room and wondering why she was making such a fuss.
Just then a nurse walked in carrying a tray with miniature paper cups lined up in rows. She handed Nicole one of the cups. It held two white pills that looked like aspirin.
While the nurse poured water into a glass, she turned to Brad. “We mustn’t sit on
the bed, sir. And we mustn’t upset the patient. She’s had a bad shock. In fact, it might be better if we came back later.” She spoke in a sharp tone, like a parent upbraiding a naughty child.
“No, no! I’m not upsetting her.” He stood up and backed away from the bed, patting the air as if to demonstrate how agreeable he was.
The nurse propped the door open and shot Brad a warning look before rushing off.
The rebuke was lost on Brad, who immediately sat on the bed again and renewed his argument. “Look, Nick, it’s natural for you to be a little mixed up—I mean, after all you’ve been through. But the cops think it was terrorists. It’s got terrorist written all over it.”
Although she hadn’t asked, he went into detail about the way he’d heard about the explosion. “I called the house and your cell a number of times from Liverpool,” he said. “I was getting pretty worried because you didn’t answer.”
He paused and looked at her, as if expecting an answer, but Nicole glanced away. He was lying about the phone calls. If he’d called her cell, she would have seen the missed calls. But she wasn’t going to point this out. Nor was she going to tell him she’d gone to a hotel. He’d want to know why, and she didn’t have the energy to explain. The rage and jealousy that had driven her out of the house had completely evaporated.
“This morning,” he went on, “when I was getting ready to catch the train back to London, I decided to give it one more try. You can’t imagine how I felt when a cop answered the phone and told me about the bomb. He said they’d taken you to the hospital. He paused before continuing, “The bottom line is London’s too dangerous for tourists right now. They’ve even got a cop stationed outside your door. Oh, man—the minute you’re on your feet again, I’m putting you on the first flight to L.A.”
Still trembling, he took her hand and planted a kiss on it. His emotion seemed real enough. Yet Nicole could see he was taking advantage of the situation, using it as an excuse to send her home. She understood there was a flaw in his logic, but her dizziness made it hard to sort out. Then it came to her. If the bomb was a random act of terrorism, as he insisted, that would mean she was no longer in danger. In the whole history of terrorism, who’d ever gotten in the way of two car bombs?
The Swap Page 10
