“Not until this minute.”
“If there is any point in it, I suppose we could get one of those pictures from Walter Olivera. But we seem to be getting far afield from Van Harder’s problem.”
“We are and we aren’t. I don’t think anybody in authority would take anything Tuckerman might say seriously enough to get Harder some kind of reconsideration. One thing we might do is ask that doctor if Harder’s symptoms were consistent with the brand of horse tranquilizer Lawless used at the ranch.”
Meyer looked into his notebook, thumbing the pages over. “Here it is. Dr. Sam Stuart. Tuckerman’s doctor too, apparently. Shall I make a note of that for Monday? And do it myself?”
“Who else have you got written down there, that we should see?”
“There’s Van Harder’s wife. Eleanor Ann Harder. She’s a nurse at Bay General. And the insurance investigator. I found out his name, by the way. Frederic Tannoy. The company is Planters Mutual General. Tannoy is a troubleshooter for a consortium of middle-sized insurance companies, working on a fee-and-percentage basis. The local agent who sold the policies is a general agent named Ralph Stennenmacher, in the Coast National building.”
“Tannoy is with that deputy in Mexico,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ll see Stennenmacher on Monday.”
B.J. Bailey walked past our booth, giving me one brilliantly venomous glance as she went by. It depressed me. I often wonder what basic insecurity I must have to make me so anxious for approval. I touched the tape over my eye. It had not been entrapment, or even pursuit. No promises made. It had been a happening, not important, happening only because of the time and the place and the shared, nagging sense of depression. There in the yellow-glowing darkness she had been small, limber, greedy, slightly sweaty, her hair stiff from sprayings, humming with her pleasures and making them last. I knew the reason for the hate. No matter how she thought of herself, she was a severely conventional little person and could not accept pleasure for the sake of pleasure, but had to cloak it in romantic rationalization. Like one of her lyrics—it must be love because it feels so good.
I found it ironic that I shared her disease, that puritanical necessity to put acceptable labels on things. The quick jump had always made me feel uneasy. Life cannot become a candy box without some kind of retribution from the watchful gods. I had shared her bed with such a familiar anticipation of the uneasiness that would follow that I had been unable to enjoy her completely. This is the penalty paid by the demipagans, always to have the pleasures diluted by the apprehensions, unless all the labels are in order.
She had found the only label which permitted her all the customary fictions. She was a woman betrayed by a scoundrel, a low fellow who had won her with promises, promises, and then turned his back on all her bounty. I leaned out of the booth and looked for her, saw her in the center of a small group of men, laughing with them, drinking with them, eyes a-sparkle. I decided that, when the chance occurred, I would give her a further fiction to apply like a fresh dressing to her pride. Maybe I was in danger and sought to avoid endangering her. Or I was an alcoholic, or dying of something, or had a wife and six kiddies—anything, in fact, which would fit into your average morning soap opera as something worth dramatic dialogue. Meanwhile I would have to accept being an object of hatred, one of your good old boys, one of your male-chauvinist-pig types that went around thinking of women as being something you used when you felt the need, receptacles rather than persons.
“As I was saying,” Meyer said.
“Sorry about that.”
“Now that I have your attention, let’s go over the actual movements of the vehicles and people, as we understand it at the moment. Let this matchbook be the beach cottage. And this one be the Vista. And this one way over here is Orlando. This match is the jeep. This match is the car Tuckerman no longer has. This match is the Petersen Mazda. Here is Tuckerman driving down to the cottage on the morning of the twenty-third to find that Lawless is still there, and sick. Here he goes back to the Vista. He stays there. Kristin goes down to the cottage in the Mazda, let us say in the late morning of the twenty-third. Tuckerman stays away, as Lawless asked, and goes back on the twenty-fifth or -sixth, and finds nothing. The Mazda had been driven to Orlando, where it was discovered on the twenty-seventh. Now let’s see how many assumptions we can make about the vanished jeep.”
“How many? Lawless recovered enough to drive it on south, over that bad portion of the road, down to Horseshoe Beach, and then he cut over to the main road, and went on down to an airport somewhere, and flew to Mexico.”
“And if he didn’t recover enough to drive?”
“Let me see. Kristin drove to the cottage on the afternoon of the twenty-third. She finds he is too sick to drive. If he wasn’t, they could have stayed with the original plan, for her to hang around mourning her drowned boyfriend for a week or so before following him to Mexico. But with him too sick, she goes back to the Vista after dark, packs, loads the stuff into the Mazda, and comes down and gets him. She could have had him in the back with the luggage, covered with a blanket or something, when they went back through town. They abandoned the Mazda in Orlando, took a flight to Miami, let’s say, traveling separately, and flew Mexicana from there over to Cancun, Yucatan.”
“You’ve developed an interesting point, Travis. About their adhering to the original plan if he was well enough to drive the jeep. But what happened to the jeep, if we follow your scenario?”
I shrugged. “Ran it into the swamps or into a deep pond.”
“If he wasn’t well enough to drive, he wasn’t well enough to hide a jeep.”
“I see her as an intelligent woman, and physically competent. It wouldn’t be anything she couldn’t handle.”
“Let me change your scenario in one respect. Rather than make two trips out to the cottage in a conspicuous red car, she could have brought Lawless back in with her when she packed up her belongings and left her apartment.”
“I’ll buy that. It was dark when she drove back. It’s a better guess than two trips.”
We sat at the booth, staring at the matchbook covers and the matches. “Whichever,” I said, “he got to Mexico.”
“Whichever,” Meyer said, nodding.
There was a deep-throated din of male voices in the big room. Piano tinkle had begun again. I did not want the half drink left in my glass. My stomach felt close to rebellion. This room was not real. It seemed misted and murky, like the contrived visuals in French movies of the second class. Nine miles south reality began, in the long flowing line, that most gentle curve, of the top of a caramel thigh. It began in flecks of gold set close to the black pupil. It began with that elegant balance of the upper body on the pelvic structure, moving in grace to a long long stride.
“Who was Gretel?” I asked Meyer.
“She was pretty shrewd. She held an old chicken bone out of the cage for the witch to feel, to hide the fact she was getting plump enough to cook and eat.”
“How about a nice beach picnic tomorrow?”
“Nine miles from here?”
He looked at his notebook again. “Eleanor Ann, Stennenmacher, Dr. Stuart.”
“Monday we see them. Okay? Monday.”
When we walked out of the place, Noyes lurched into me. It seemed half intentional, half inadvertent. He was sweating heavily. His pistolero mustache looked dank and defeated. He had a pale blue guayabera on, so wet the matted chest hair showed through it. The flinty little Neanderthal eyes stared at me, hostile and slightly unfocused.
“B.J. told me the whole thing, you son of a bitch.”
“Hey. Take it easy.”
“Don’t tell me how to take anything, nark.”
“Nark?”
“And it’s supposed to look like I resisted arrest, right? You don’t like people out on bail, right?”
“You must be drunk.”
“Check with Mitch. I haven’t had drink one.”
“Get out of the way, please.”
“Y
ou think I’m going to let you kill me?”
“You are boring us, Nicky. You are boring me and you are boring my friend Meyer. And you were boring the people at your table at the Cove last night. You are making a new career out of boring people.”
“You want to come outside?”
“Walloway says you can hit, but you can’t aim. Save yourself a short walk.”
He stepped sideways to catch his balance, putting a hand out to grab at the edge of the bar. He muttered something I could not quite hear.
• • •
We left. Meyer said we were in a rut, but we might as well try the Captain’s Galley again. We were in no special hurry. I looked back and was surprised to see Nicky Noyes, burly in the shadows, following us toward the lot. I stopped and he stopped. Meyer missed me and turned and saw him.
“What’s he going to do?” Meyer asked.
“Nothing at all. Trying to bug me a little, I guess.”
We went on and he followed. When I looked back again, he was angling over toward his pickup truck. As we neared the gray rental Dodge, I heard the pickup door chunk shut. We reached the Dodge. Meyer reached for the door handle on the passenger side as I took a stride to walk around the front. I heard a very small squeak of tennis shoe rubber on asphalt. I heard a dual snick-snick, oily and metallic and horridly efficient. There is some good elemental machinery in my skull, left over from the million years of hunting, of eating and being eaten. I am delighted to have that machinery. If I didn’t have it, I would long since have been forcibly retired from my line of work. Primitive computers worked out the direction of the sound, the distance, the probable angle of fire. I spun and dived in a flat trajectory at right angles to the line of fire. My shoulder hit the partially open door and slammed it shut again, a microsecond before I hit Meyer at mid-thigh and tumbled him and myself all the way back to a point six feet behind the right rear wheel. There was a bright-throated blam-blam, two great sounds not quite simultaneous, deafeningly close to us, and as I rolled up to one knee I saw Nicky Noyes stagger back and fall heavily.
He broke the gun open, fumbled something out of his pocket, snapped the old shotgun shut again just as I ran through the powder stink, caught the warm double barrels, and ripped it out of his hands.
“Kill you!” he yelled in a raw high voice as he was struggling up. “Kill you!” He turned and ran. For a fellow so unsteady on his feet, he was running pretty good. He was barreling right along. He ran right toward the long curve of Bay Street. Traffic was heavy and fairly fast.
“Oh, no,” Meyer said softly, beside me.
Nicky tripped slightly just before he reached the curbing. He went out into traffic in that head-down, forward-tilting manner of the fullback when it’s third and one. He ran his head, shoulders, and chest across the hood of a big pale Cadillac, and the front right post of the windshield hit him at waist level. It was slanted enough to hurl him into the air, and more slanted after it had done so. It was almost horizontal, with the white roof buckled into big lumps. His momentum and the impact threw him farther out into traffic, with one sodden bounce and then a floppy roll. Tires of a half-dozen vehicles screamed torment. There were two heavy metallic chunking noises of rear-end collisions, also some thinner sounds as grilles gnashed at fenders. The pale Cadillac had swerved violently to the right to miss running over what remained of Noyes. It came across the curbing and wedged itself between a pair of young banyan trees. People began the yelling and the screaming. People ran out of the North Bay Resort. A car horn began a seemingly endless braying.
I put the shotgun on the front seat of the pickup. I trotted after Meyer. A trucker was lighting some highway flares and setting them out. Meyer hurried toward Noyes, then swerved and galloped to the pale Cadillac. It hadn’t wedged itself between the trees as far as the doors. In the reflected brightness of headlights and the red glow of the flares, I saw a white-haired man slumped against the horn ring and, beyond him, crouched low under the bent post and car roof, a plump blond lady. When Meyer eased the man back off the ring, the huge horn-noise ceased.
“He ran right in front of us!” the woman shrilled. “Right in front of the car!”
Meyer stuck his fingers into the side of the driver’s throat. He looked at me and shook his head. And so, ignoring the woman, we tugged that old gentleman out of his Cadillac and stretched him out supine on the nearest flat ground. Meyer knelt on the left side near the shoulders and put his left hand under the nape of the man’s neck, his right palm on the man’s forehead. He pulled up on the neck and pushed down on the forehead to give the head a pronounced backward tilt and clear the airway. He put his ear close to the man’s mouth and looked along the chest as he did so, to detect any movement. I knelt at the man’s right side and found the place to brace the heel of my right hand, two finger widths above the sternum, left hand atop right hand, elbows straight and locked. Meyer checked the pulse again and gave three quick exhalations into the man’s mouth, holding the nose clamped shut with the thumb and finger of his right hand.
After the third exhalation, I began my chore, pushing down hard and releasing, saying my cadence out loud. “One—and—two—and—three—and—four—and—five—and—one—and—two—” I pushed down on the number, released on the “and.” The cadence was ninety pushes a minute. When the heart stops, irreversible brain damage starts after four minutes. I guess he’d been about forty seconds to a minute from the time of cardiac arrest until we went to work on him. The air we breathe in is about 21 percent oxygen. The air we exhale is about 15 percent oxygen. Meyer was oxygenating the lungs. I was pumping the heart by compressing it between the sternum and the spine. Done properly, this can establish a blood pressure and an oxygenation of the brain adequate to sustain the brain undamaged.
The woman was not making things any easier. She had crawled out of the car and was dancing around us, yelling, “Get a doctor! Get an ambulance! Stop that! Stop that this minute!”
She tugged at me and then at Meyer, and between breaths he yelled at her, “I am a doctor, madam!”
“Is he dead?” she yelled. “Is he? Is he?”
We had attracted a part of the crowd. The crowd was fragmented, watching different parts of the show, as at a carnival midway. A couple of women in our crowd grabbed the wife and hauled her away.
I kept counting, and at one point I felt a gentle crackling sound under my hands and knew it was some ribs going. When it is properly done, you will almost always break some ribs. The choice is clear—a dead person with nice whole ribs, or a potentially alive person with some rib fractures. I checked the position of my hands and kept going. I wondered where the hell the official medics were. Suddenly the unconscious man vomited. Meyer, leaning toward him, caught quite a bit of it. Meyer did what everyone does in such circumstances. He turned aside and threw up too. A husky kid about sixteen dropped to his knees beside Meyer and swabbed the man’s mouth with tissue, rolled his head to the side and then back. Meyer tried to give the next breath and couldn’t manage it. The kid muscled him aside and took over, doing the job with perfect timing. It is essential not to break the rhythm, because it can set the person way back. Meyer got up slowly, gagging and coughing. I heard the sirens coming. We kept going. Though it seemed longer, I imagine we gave that man cardiopulmonary resuscitation for about twelve to fourteen minutes before the medics moved in with their specialized equipment and their direct electronic links to hospital Emergency.
Ambulances were soon leaving. Tow trucks were untangling the torn metal. The flares were extinguished, traffic resumed, and the spectators began drifting away.
The kid said, “That’s the first time I used it for real. You done it often, mister?”
“Second time for me. The first was a drowning. Didn’t make it.”
“You take the CPR course?” he asked.
“Nobody should ever try cardiopulmonary resuscitation without taking the course. You could do more harm than good.”
“That’s what they told
us too. You think that old guy will make it?”
“I hope so,” I said. I saw B. J. Bailey heading back toward the main building of the Resort, and I hurried and stopped her by clamping a hand on her shoulder.
She turned and said, “And what the hell do you want?”
“I want to know how you got Nicky so charged up about me. What the hell did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Listen to me, Billy Jean. Whatever you told him, it made him come after us with a shotgun. He shot to kill. Believe me. He missed. He tried to reload. I took the gun away from him. He ran out into traffic and got hit and killed.”
“Killed!” she said, aghast. “You’re joking. You got to be joking.”
“You killed him, Billy Jean.”
We stood near a driveway lamp, and it shone pale yellow across her small face. Her mouth broke and she hunched her shoulders high. “No, I didn’t! I didn’t! I told him you came here after him. He gets kind of weird about maybe there are people after him. He’s on crystal. It makes people like that. I thought he would fight again, is all. I thought maybe he’d beat you up this time. I didn’t think he would … oh, no. Oh, no.”
The Empty Copper Sea Page 15
