Part 7 (2/2)

”Boy, was she ever! The steaks are wonderful. You really can grill a mean steak.”

”What are you going to do?”

”I don't know. Lay out the options for them to consider. This is so ugly. A true zealot, or just simple orneriness? I wish I knew.”

When they went back inside, Dr. Minick and Alex were at the sink was.h.i.+ng their few dishes. ”Thank you, Will,” Dr. Minick said. ”That was very good indeed. Do you trust me with your coffeemaker?”

Will laughed. ”Go to it. I make lousy coffee, but with the best intentions and the best equipment, and the best beans. Go figure.”

Barbara wanted to hug him.

Then, finally, with coffee at hand, they sat at the kitchen table and Barbara said, ”Let me tell you the various courses we can follow. If you have thought of something else, jump right in. It's a free-for-all.”

She told them the different actions they could take, their pros and cons.

Partly turned away from her, Alex did not say a word until she finished. Then he said, ”Let me tell you a dream I had a long time ago, years ago. I told Graham, and it's as fresh in my mind now as it was the next day when I woke up. In the dream I'm trotting through a woods, not like the forest here, an eastern woods with deciduous trees. There are leaves underfoot like snowdrifts, crunchy under my feet. I stumble and fall down. I'm not in pain, I just can't get up. Some people come by and see me, and one of them turns me over with his toe. I roll right over. He does it again and again, rolling me like a log, and I'm getting covered with mud and leaves so thick that I'm not really there anymore. I'm a log. Together, some of the people lift me and put me on the fire, another log to be burned.”

No one spoke for a time. Then Barbara said, ”I guess the trick is for you to stay on your feet.”

Facing away, Alex laughed. ”That's the trick, all right. I'll do whatever you say, up to a point. But I won't go to prison. They'd kill me. And I prefer to pick the time and place and circ.u.mstances of my own demise without official help. Now tell us what to do.”

They decided that Alex should stay in Will Thaxton's house, and Dr. Minick go back to Opal Creek.

”We don't want the investigators to suspect anyone has fled,” Barbara said. ”You don't have to tell them where Alex is unless they come up with a warrant. But if they do make it official, call Will. Where should an official statement be taken?” she asked, turning to Will. ”Your place or mine?”

”Yours,” Alex said. He shrugged, then added, ”I don't think the attorneys at Will's place care much for me.”

”One more thing,” Barbara said. ”Alex, there could come a time when, for your own protection and safety, we will have to reveal your ident.i.ty. Do you accept that?”

”No! Barbara, there are many kinds of death. I've given this some thought. There's the bolt of lightning, the fatal heart attack, a truck out of control. Then there's the death of a thousand cuts, a slow, tortuous path that I choose not to take. I've come to terms with life, you see. I stay out of sight and do my thing, and it's okay. That would end if the world comes clamoring around. If there's a remote possibility that you're going to reveal my ident.i.ty, I don't want you to represent me. We should be very clear about this now, before temptation beguiles you irresistibly.”

His voice, low and intense, held an edge that had not been there before. She felt as if she had been warned: don't push too hard, or too far.

She nodded. ”I promise that I won't tell anyone without your permission.”

Later, as Will was driving her back to the office, he said, ”Do you think he meant it? He was talking about taking his own life, wasn't he?”

She nodded. She had no doubt that Alex meant every word. She said, ”He tried living with people and it didn't work, remember. I think he has decided that if he can't live alone, or at least on his own terms, he won't live at all.”

11.

Barbara didn't linger at the office after Will dropped her off, but went on to her apartment. In a large complex close to the Rose Garden and the river, blocks away from traffic noise, it was still a walkable distance to downtown and her office. Her two-bedroom unit was on the second floor of the building, with one large area that was living room, kitchen, and dining s.p.a.ce. A divider could be closed to screen off the kitchen, but she never bothered with it. One of the bedrooms was her office at home. And best of all, she had a hallway she could pace from her office to the kitchen and back.

But that evening when she entered, she looked about discontentedly. After Will's s.p.a.cious, beautifully decorated house, her apartment looked barren. She should get some art, she thought, surveying the living room, thinking of the paintings Will had acquired-not that she was that fond of abstract art, but the colors were brilliant. And some doodads, knickknacks or something. She didn't even consider plants. They always started to die the minute she paid for them. She had a lot of books and magazines scattered around, even a cloisonne candy dish that was always empty because the only time she thought of it was when she actually wanted a piece of candy. That was the crux of the problem, she knew; her homemaking skills were on a par with her cooking skills, which meant zilch.

She scowled at a pair of going-to-court shoes by the sofa, and scowled even more at a messy heap of newspapers on it. Tomorrow she would straighten up, clean things, do a little shopping. Her refrigerator more often than not was just about as empty as the candy dish.

Her phone rang and she picked up when she heard Sh.e.l.ley's voice. ”I've been watching for your lights. Can I come over?”

Barbara told her to come ahead, then started opening windows. It was getting dark outside, and the evening air had cooled magically. The breeze that drifted in felt good; later it would be too cool.

Sh.e.l.ley arrived, carrying a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. She lived across the pool area in an apartment identical to Barbara's, but hers was crammed with stuff, all very good stuff, chosen by someone with a very discerning eye, aware of the overall impact, which was of luxury, abundance, and good taste.

”What's going on?” Sh.e.l.ley asked by way of greeting.

”Let's crack that bottle, and I'll tell you.”

Then, sitting in the living area, where Barbara nudged her shoes aside, she told Sh.e.l.ley about the notes.

”He meant it,” Sh.e.l.ley said in a low voice. ”He'd rather die than be a public spectacle. He knows what that would mean.”

Barbara nodded, then said, ”Well, we're doing what we can for now. I've got that list of the hospital-committee members, and I started looking up people. A seventy-year-old priest, a nun, a bank president... G.o.d, this is a mess. I don't even know if that list means anything.”

”Don't you trust Dougherty? Couldn't he do that?”

”The Doughboy,” Barbara said. ”The problem is that I don't know. I don't know how good he is, or if he can keep his mouth shut, or even if he's ever done this kind of work. It has to be kept absolutely quiet.”

They both understood that she meant this was Bailey work.

After a silence Barbara said, ”What are you doing at home on a Friday night anyway?”

For the past two years or longer Sh.e.l.ley and Bill Spa.s.sero had been a thing, and to all appearances they were the perfect couple. Barbara always thought of him as a dandelion gone to seed, with a great head of platinum hair. And probably penny for penny, they were a perfect match; both were independently wealthy. He was a public defender with a growing reputation as a fine attorney.

”We had dinner, then I told him I have work to do. He thinks you're a slave driver.”

”True,” Barbara said.

”He's pus.h.i.+ng too hard,” Sh.e.l.ley mumbled. ”He wants to get married, and I keep telling him I'm not ready.”

”Ah,” Barbara said. She knew that Bill had been after Sh.e.l.ley to get a house or an apartment together, but Sh.e.l.ley had not mentioned a proposal before.

”He knows I'm not going out with anyone else,” Sh.e.l.ley went on. ”It just seems reasonable to him for us to make it official, I guess. But I'm not ready. I don't want to get married and settle down. Not yet.”

”Then don't,” Barbara said.

Sh.e.l.ley smiled then. ”It's so simple, isn't it? Just say no.” She stood up. ”You want me to dig into the people on that list? Whatever's public anyway.”

”Nope. My job. I've got to be doing something, might as well be that.”

Several hours later she admitted to herself that she could just as well have spent her time knitting a scarf; the results couldn't be more discouraging than what she had accomplished. Apparently everyone on that list was above reproach.

It had not helped any that the image of Alex being rolled like a log and tossed on a campfire kept interposing itself between her and her monitor. She turned off her screen and roamed through her apartment, turning off lights, closing windows partway. The night had grown quite chilly, as she had known it would. June was the perfect month, warm and sunny days, not too hot yet, and blanket nights. At the kitchen window she sniffed and decided that Maria had been right; rain would move in overnight.

Then she was thinking of Hilde Franz and her death. The newspaper article reported no sign of foul play, but Frank's suspicions had been aroused and Barbara had confidence in his instincts.

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