“Not really. I’ll explain later.”
Another silence. “Maybe till then I just won’t answer the phone,” his mother said.
“How did that go?” Turk said.
They rode in Turk’s Caddy—Turk driving, Freddy Boudreau up front beside him, Roy in back. “Not so good,” he said. “She’s worried.”
“Me too,” said Freddy; although he sounded like he was having a good time. He cracked open a beer, passed it back to Roy. Roy took a sip, more than he wanted, but just the feel of the cold can in his hand was nice. They crossed the Texas state line. Freddy hadn’t smoked a single cigarette the whole way. Roy shifted around, lay on his side, a position the demon liked, for now. It was good to be with guys from the team. Who else could he trust? He rested his head on the IV bag.
“I was wrong.”
Those were the first words Freddy spoke when he arrived in D.C. with the Caddy. Turk had flown down ahead of him; in fact, been on a plane a few hours after Roy’s call the night of the ambulance ride. Freddy had gone over the call records on Skippy’s cell phone, printed out the three saved photos—a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles, the girl from Dunkin’ Donuts, the Delia sculpture—dusted the phone for prints and finally gotten around to checking the record function. “Turned out to be a pretty smart kid,” Freddy said, pressing a button. “This first voice is the wine-store woman?”
Just sit down on that bunk—we’re not going to hurt you.
Roy nodded. “Lenore.”
Yeah? Skippy: his voice not quite steady, but that might have been from the way the cold wind blew up at the mountain hut, and that light windbreaker of his. Then why is he pointing that gun at me?
Just sit. We’ll have a little talk, that’s all.
Um. I don’t think so. Then a pause. The gun. It’s like that other one. Hey. It was you guys.
What was? Westie.
Planted the gun. Got me in trouble. How come?
Nothing personal. We’ll make it up to you. How does five hundred dollars sound?
Get away.
Click.
“Autopsy report came back—he was strangled,” Freddy said. “A smart kid.”
“And brave,” said Turk.
Roy didn’t speak. For the first time in his life he felt murderous.
“How’re you doin’, Roy?”
“Good.”
“Want anything?”
“Nope.”
He had everything, there in the backseat of Turk’s Caddy—not the cooler full of sandwiches and drinks, no longer needed, or the bottle of seized OxyContins Freddy had borrowed from the station, pills that made him a bit stupid and that the demon shrugged aside anyway—but the mismatched pair of shin pads, lying on the floor; a “Kings of the Penalty Box” T-shirt balled up beside it; and the rumble of the road. So many hockey road trips, going way back, so many long rides: he remembered the second-string goalie at Maine, a quiet kid who, without any warning, had mooned a passing state police cruiser on the turnpike.
“What’s funny?” Turk said.
“Nothing,” said Roy. His eyes closed. The demon napped, too.
Roy sat up. It looked hot out there. He didn’t like that, not in winter.
“Where are we?”
“Near San Antonio,” Freddy said.
Roy’s heart sped up, beating very fast and light. That must have been nervousness, anticipation, excitement. Roy tried to calm himself, tried to save his strength.
“Been getting some calls about the funeral,” said Turk. “Including Dr. Chu.”
“Dr. Chu wants to come to the funeral?”
“I told him we’re thinking of a memorial service in a month or two,” Turk said. “I kept it vague. He gave me all his numbers.”
That was nice. They’d considered letting Dr. Chu in on the truth, but decided against—partly to protect the plan, partly to protect Dr. Chu. Freddy had called Dr. Chu, telling him that Roy must have checked himself out of the hospital and gone home, where Freddy found the body. Turk had called the New York Times, spoken to the reporter Myra Burns, told her about Dr. Chu in case she needed to do any fact-checking for the obit. Same MO applied to Krishna: no one would have to do any acting. It was all working perfectly, a leak-proof plan.
“Whenever it is,” Roy said, “I’m not going.”
Laughter from the front seat of the Caddy. Roy laughed, too, even though it was his own joke, and for a moment this could have been anytime in road trips past; except for that heartbeat, soaring to heights unknown.
Turk’s phone rang. “Yeah?” he said. His voice changed. “Oh, hi.” He was quiet for a moment or two. “Yes,” he said. “It’s terrible.” He listened some more. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know the answer to that.” Roy thought he heard crying on the other end. “I’ll be in touch,” Turk said. “Take care of yourself.” He clicked off.
“Who was that?” Roy said.
“Aw, you don’t want to know.”
“Who?”
“Jen.”
Silence in the car.
“Hell,” said Freddy. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
Neither had Roy. And that probably proved that Jen had been right: something in him got damaged—in a helicopter crash that hadn’t taken place in Venezuela, maybe hadn’t taken place at all. But Jen was wrong that some feeling part had been wiped out; instead those nerve ends were still there, but now mixed up, twisted, unreliable. A deformation that had actually improved his work? That was possible.
“What didn’t you know the answer to?” Roy said.
Turk turned. Roy, lying on his side, looked up at him. “How long you knew about it,” Turk said. “The diagnosis.” Turk’s eyes shifted away. “In terms of when the two of you split up.”
“I’ll—” Roy was about to say I’ll make it right with her. But would he? And in what way? He was going to see Delia, and soon.
“Get some rest, Roy,” Turk said.
Roy closed his eyes. Turned out that death didn’t simplify your life. How many people had been in a position to learn that one?
He awoke in darkness. A soft breeze was blowing. Roy sat up.
“Good timin’,” said Freddy, from the front seat.
They were in the Caddy, parked in the middle of some vast landscape, windows down, lights off. Roy thought he could make out a line of rounded hills in the distance.
“How’re you doing?” Turk said.
“Good.”
“Better eat something.”
“Yeah.” But he wasn’t hungry.
A light appeared in the sky, faint at first, soon brighter and brighter. Ten or twenty seconds passed; then more lights flashed on, these on the ground and not far away—a yellow one that illuminated a small square building, plus two long parallel strings of glowing blue. Now Roy could hear it: first a faint buzz, then a growing drone, finally a roar overhead. The plane made a semicircle, came in low, landed at the end of the string of lights, kicking up clouds of blue dust, and rolled to a stop near the yellow-lit building, propellers motionless.
Silence. The soft breeze blew. Now it had a faint gasoline smell.
Doors opened in the building and the plane. Columns of lights spilled out; human silhouettes moved in and out of them. They got busy at the rear of the plane, in a while hoisted their long, lumpy cargo onto the blades of a big forklift truck. Motor throbbing low, the forklift drove slowly past the building, dull headlight glinting on the chain-link fence of a small compound. The silhouettes moved around some more. Then the lights started going off: forklift, blue runway strings, in the building. After a minute or two of darkness, other lights flashed on behind the building. Two big SUVs that had been blocked from view swung around the compound and headed toward the distant hills, their taillights fading, fading and gone. The moon rose, here and there adding some shine to the night.
“Okey-doke,” said Freddy.
Turk switched on the parking lights; the Caddy bumped across scrubby desert, stopping by the chain-link
compound. A metal plaque on the door read PROPERTY OF TRUESDALE RANCH—KEEP OUT. The plane, not far away, had writing on the fuselage, just visible in the moonlight: VRAI TRANSPORT. They stepped out of the car.
“Gotta piss,” said Freddy.
They pissed against the chain-link fence, a fence about eight feet high, topped with barbed wire. Roy felt that bladder pressure meaning he had to, but hardly anything came out. Turk’s and Freddy’s piss made splashing sounds on the hardpacked ground.
“Ah,” said Freddy.
The forklift stood only a few yards away on the other side. Its long, lumpy load lay sideways on the forks, a tarpaulin cover tied down to a plywood platform at the ends. Freddy walked around to the compound gate, rattled the padlock, shook his head. Turk opened the trunk of the Caddy, took out an aluminum ladder.
He extended the ladder until it topped the barbed wire, climbed up, pivoted around while hanging on to the highest rung and dropped down on the other side. Then Freddy, same thing. And last, Roy. He climbed up, no problem except for the breathlessness that made him take one short break halfway up. But at the top, he had some trouble with the pivoting part, mostly on account of that left arm. Roy lost his grip and fell. Turk caught him—gentle, absorbing all the shock—and lowered him to the ground.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Roy said.
“I know,” said Turk.
They walked over to the forklift truck. Freddy untied one of the ends of the tarp. Roy reached in, felt cold steel, twisted and braided: the rotor blades that filled the broken arch on Delia. He turned and nodded.
“Hey,” said Freddy. “This could work.”
“Why not?” Turk said, his eyes full of moonlight. “It’s a classic.”
“How’s that?” said Freddy.
“From Homer,” Turk said.
Freddy shrugged. “Don’t have time for TV.”
Life could be sweet.
They rolled the tarp back, sat on the plywood platform. The moon rose higher. The air turned colder, as though the moon’s power reversed the sun. Roy breathed a little better. Was he beginning to prefer the night?
“How’re you doing?” Turk said.
“Good,” said Roy.
Freddy reached into his jacket pocket. “Take this,” he said. “You just press the button.”
“Okay.”
“Try it now,” said Turk. “Just for practice.”
“I know how to press a button,” Roy said.
“Three-mile radius,” Freddy said.
“And if you’re out of range?” Roy said.
“Not gonna happen,” said Freddy.
“So,” said Turk, “that just leaves us with—”
“Yeah,” said Freddy. “The hammer.” He laughed, and so did Turk. Roy laughed a little, too: as though the three of them had cooked up a tricky play in the locker room between periods and were now going to stick it to some overweening team. Turk took out his cell phone, scrolled through some programmed numbers, dialed one.
“Myra Burns?” he said. “Who cowrote the obituary on Roy Valois?” Turk listened for a moment. “Yeah, I know it’s late, but he wants to say hello.”
Roy lay on the platform. Turk and Freddy tied the tarp back down.
“Doin’ okay?”
“Good.”
“Get some rest.”
“Yup.” He had to rest, had to save his strength for what lay ahead, to reach the finish line before it reached him.
“Don’t forget the button.”
Footsteps moved away, crunching once or twice on the dried-up vegetation. Then came a clink—the ladder knocking against the chain-link fence—and finally the Caddy, a low, throaty murmur that faded quickly away. After that it was very quiet. Roy, on his side in that comfortable position, just breathed. He felt Delia, hard and cold, against his back. What would he say? Hi, baby, it’s been a long, long time? Sounded like a line from one of those old songs she liked. He shifted his body, getting closer to her. His heart took off on one of those high and rising flights it was starting to like.
Thirty-two
“This is a disgrace.”
Roy opened his eyes. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, all breathless and closed in, as though buried alive. The urge to thrash around came right away, but that voice, a voice he knew, brought him back.
“An appalling disgrace,” Krishna was saying. “Are you seriously asking me to believe that a work of art of this stature was left unguarded the entire night?”
“Well,” said a man, “the orders didn’t say nothin’ about no guard.”
“And,” said another man, “this here is a secure area. Lookit that barbwire.”
“Anyways,” said a third, “no harm done.”
“Oh?” said Krishna. “And how can we be sure?”
“Well,” said the first man, “there it is. Just take a gander.”
“I intend to,” Krishna said. “Please untie that end.”
“This here end?”
“If you’ll be so good,” said Krishna.
Roy shrank closer to Delia, wedged himself under a low curve of twisted rads. Then came a flapping sound and blinding daylight flooded in. Roy glimpsed, as though at the end of a tunnel, a dim yet somehow natty figure. Just as his eyes were adjusting—he made out Krishna’s face, so unhappy today—the tarpaulin fell and darkness returned.
“So,” said the first man. “Everything okay?”
No response from Krishna.
“Those kinda looked like rads in there,” said the second man.
“Thought it was s’posed to be art,” said the third. “Ain’t it, Mr., ah…”
“Let us now load it with great care on the truck, gentlemen,” said Krishna. “I will follow in the limo. Thirty miles per hour, please, and no more.”
“How much is it worth, anyhow?”
“That,” said Krishna, in a tone Roy had never heard from him before, “is not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“Respect.”
A minute or two later, the chain-link door clinked open and Roy was in motion—a short bumpy ride on the forklift; then a pause, and a scraping slide; followed by the shriek of released air brakes and they were rolling. A deep thrumming vibration rose up through the floor of the truck and the wooden platform where he lay; an easy, gentle thrumming, like a massage, but the demon didn’t like it. Roy tried to find a position they could both live with. He had a crazy thought, how he was now on a secret mission, a kind of Operation Pineapple of his own—only his would make things right. Delia had had Paul Habib; he had the demon.
After a while, Roy felt the truck slowing down—pressing Delia against him—and then stopping. He heard voices, too faint to distinguish the words. Then someone banged on the truck body, not far from Roy, and they were rolling again. The road seemed smoother. The demon, like a resistant and colicky baby taken for a ride, finally gave in and napped. Although he’d just slept all night, Roy felt worn out. He took the IV bag from under his shirt, uncapped it and drank what was left. Then he napped, too.
“What a nice space.”
Roy awoke: no longer in motion. He smelled flowers.
“So glad you like it,” said Calvin Truesdale. “The roof is retractable, by the way.”
Roy felt in his pocket, touched the button on Freddy’s wireless transmitter; didn’t press it—just made sure he knew it was there.
“Have you considered a setting for the piece?” Krishna said.
“The alcove,” said Truesdale. “Knew it the moment I first laid eyes on her.”
“Even before Roy made up his mind to sell?” said Krishna.
Truesdale laughed. “I never quite fell for that line. So many of these artists turn out to have a shrewd side.”
“Not Roy.”
“You knew him better, of course. And he must have been quite sick when I met him, surely not himself.”
“I think he was very much himself toward the end.”
“Oh? In what wa
y?”
“How he handled it,” Krishna said.
“Possibly,” said Truesdale. He sighed. “Such a tragedy.”
Krishna said nothing.
“When is the funeral?” Truesdale said.
“There’s talk of a memorial service,” said Krishna. “Nothing is set.”
“Please keep me informed.”
“You’d like to go?”
“If possible. But I’d certainly want to send flowers.”
A silence.
“Interest you in something to eat or drink?” Truesdale said. “Tour of the ranch?”
“Very kind,” said Krishna. “But—”
“Or even better,” said Truesdale, “we’re having a party tonight—that’s where most everyone is right now, setting up tents by the river. Steer roast, some ropin’ and ridin’, fireworks off the barge—why don’t you stay for that?”
“What’s the occasion?” said Krishna.
Truesdale laughed. “Nothing, really,” he said. “I’m just in the mood for a little shindig, is all, kick up my heels.”
“I have to be in New York for dinner,” Krishna said; his tone suddenly going cold, very unlike him, in Roy’s experience.
“Then I’ll say good-bye,” Truesdale said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“And with you as well.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Not necessary.”
“No trouble.”
Footsteps moved off. When Truesdale spoke again, he was farther away, almost inaudible. “Any predictions on how the market’s going to treat his work in the next five, ten years?”
A door closed on Krishna’s reply.
A minute or two went by. Roy heard nothing but the distant neighing of a horse. He reached out, raised the edge of the tarp. The first thing he saw was a huge bronze seated woman by Henry Moore, familiar from his college textbooks. Beyond the sculpture stood a wall of tall windows, thirty feet high or more, all topped with stained-glass rosettes. Outside lay some gardens, green under a fine mist from the irrigation system, and on the far side of the gardens lay a corral. A horse with pinto markings—much smaller than the horse in Tom Parish’s barn—was prancing through a series of figure eights, the rider a woman in a stylish Spanish hat with a flat crown and a round brim. There was no one else around.
Nerve Damage Page 27
