Part 21 (1/2)

”This is what I really have to apologize for,” she says flatly. ”In my rush to conclude an obvious suicide case I failed to make thorough survey of the things that could cause a ring of bruises above a person's ankle.”

”Okay. And so ...” I stop talking. I don't know what she means at all.

”At some point in the hours before he ended up where you found him, this man was knocked unconscious and dragged by the leg.”

I look at her, unable to speak.

”Probably to the trunk of a car,” she continues, placing the paper back on the cart. ”Probably to be taken to the scene, and hanged. Like I said, I have significantly revised my understanding of this case.”

I catch an inward glimpse of Peter Zell's dead eyes, the gla.s.ses, disappearing into the darkness of the trunk of a car.

”Do you have any questions?” Fenton asks.

I have nothing but questions.

”What about his eye?”

”What?”

”The other cl.u.s.ter of old bruises. On his cheek, below his right eye. He apparently reported that he fell down some stairs. Is that possible?”

”Possible, but unlikely.”

”And are you sure there was no morphine in his system? Are you sure he wasn't using it the night he died?”

”Yes. Nor for at least three months beforehand.”

I have to rethink this whole thing, go over it again from top to bottom. Rethink the timeline, rethink Toussaint, rethink Peter Zell. Having been right all along, having guessed correctly that he was murdered, provides no joy, no powerful self-righteous rush. To the contrary, I feel confused-sad-uncertain. I feel like I've been thrown in a trunk, like I'm surrounded by darkness, peering up toward a crack of daylight. On my way out of the morgue I stop at the small black door with the cross on it, and I reach out and run my fingers along the symbol, remembering that so many people are feeling so awful these days that they had to close down this little room, move the nightly wors.h.i.+p service to a bigger s.p.a.ce, elsewhere in the building. That's just how things are.

As soon as I step outside into the Concord Hospital parking lot, my phone rings.

”Jesus, Hank, where have you been?”

”Nico?”

It's hard to hear her, there's a loud noise in the background, a kind of roar.

”I need you to listen to me closely, please.”

The noise is intense behind her, like wind whipping through an open window. ”Nico, are you on a highway?”

It's too loud in the parking lot. I turn around and go back into the lobby.

”Henry, listen.”

The wind behind her is growing louder, and I'm starting to hear the distinct menacing whine of sirens, a distant shrieking mixed in with the whoosh and howl of the wind. I'm trying to place the sound of the sirens, those aren't CPD sirens. Are they state cars? I don't know-what are federal marshals driving right now?

”Nico, where are you?”

”I am not leaving you behind.”

”What on Earth are you talking about?

Her voice is stiff as steel; it's her voice but not her voice, like my sister is reading lines from a script. The roar behind her stops abruptly, and I hear a door slam, I hear feet running.

”Nico!”

”I'll be back. I'm not leaving you behind.”

The line goes dead. Silence.

I drive 125 miles an hour at full code all the way to the New Hamps.h.i.+re National Guard station, running the dashboard emitter to turn the red lights green as I go, burning precious gasoline like a forest fire.

The steering wheel shudders in my hands, and I'm shouting at myself full volume, stupid stupid stupid, should have told her, why didn't I tell her? I should have just told her every single thing that Alison had told me: Derek had lied to her all along about what he was mixed up in, where he was going; he had gotten himself mixed up in this secret-society nonsense; the government considered him a terrorist, a violent criminal, and if she persisted in trying to be with him, she would end up with the same fate.

I make a fist, pound it into the steering wheel. I should have just told her, how little it was worth it, to sacrifice herself for him.

I call Alison Koechner's office, and of course there's no answer. I try to call back, and the phone fails, and I hurl it angrily into the backseat.

”G.o.d d.a.m.n it.”

Now she's going to do something stupid, get herself shot up by military police, get herself thrown in the brig for the duration, right alongside that moron.

I squeal to a halt at the entrance of NGNH, and I'm gibbering like an idiot to the guard at the gate.

”Hey! Hey, excuse me. My name is Henry Palace, I'm a detective, and I think my sister is in here.”

The guard says nothing. It's a different guard than was at the front the last time.

”My sister's husband was in jail here, and I think my sister is here and I need to find her.”

The gate guard's expression doesn't change. ”We are holding no prisoners at present.”

”What? Yes-oh, hey. Hi. h.e.l.lo?”

I'm waving my hands, both hands over my head, here comes someone I recognize. It's the tough reservist who was guarding the brig when I came to interview Derek, the woman in camouflage who waited impa.s.sively in the hallway while I tried to get some sense out of him.

”Hey,” I say. ”I need to see the prisoner.”

She marches right over to us, to where I'm standing, halfway out of the car, the car in park, stopped at a crazy angle, engine running, by the entrance gatehouse. ”Excuse me? Hi. I need to see that prisoner again. I'm sorry, I don't have an appointment. It's urgent. I'm a policeman.”

”What prisoner?”