Part 5 (1/2)

”Aunt Marge, don't be silly,” said Stephanie, glaring at me. ”It's not your fault.”

”I feel so bad for you,” Marge said. ”At least I can go home. You have to go back to Holly's little place, where you're surrounded by her things. Even her cat. This whole experience must be so dreadful for you.”

”I like being surrounded by Holly's things. In fact, I've been wearing her clothes just to feel closer to her. It's Holly we have to be concerned for. Getting her back to her old self.”

”You're not still hoping for a miracle?”

”Of course I am.”

Two months ago when Holly and I had been seeing each other, I'd met Marge DiMaggio at an auction to raise money for muscular dystrophy research, an affair for which I'd had to dig up my tuxedo from the darkest part of my closet. Marge DiMaggio had been thrilled to death to see her niece out on the town with, as she'd put it, ”a handsome and eligible fireman,” describing me in terms of marriage, the way so many women described men, as if that was our primary function in life, to be married to them. Marge liked me from the moment she set eyes on me. I guess she thought she was looking at a future nephew-in-law, though you'd better believe she didn't get the idea from me.

Even though she was twenty years older than I was, Marge had flirted with me and with every other male that night, a mannerism I attributed at the time to habit and alcohol rather than ambition and inclination; she'd gone on to belie her flirtations with self-deprecating remarks about being too busy to think about a private life. Marge was chic, smart, candid, and seductive in a sophisticated manner that went way over my head. My impression was that she was one of those older women who had always been a coquette and just couldn't stop.

DiMaggio was the CEO of an Eastside research company. She'd explained it to me once, but the details were fuzzy. Having resigned a profitable position as an executive in a New York department store chain ten years earlier, Marge had joined her husband's fledgling research outfit. Then, out of respect for her husband's memory, she'd stayed on with the company after his death. According to Holly, Canyon View now held patents that aided scientists across the country in gene and DNA research, patents that had enticed megacorporations to pump big bucks into Canyon View's coffers.

When Stephanie and Aunt Marge turned to me, I could see the family resemblance. They were both relatively short, the older woman a couple of inches taller than her niece, both with slightly squarish faces, a trace of freckles, light-colored eyes. Marge displayed an openness I found comforting under the circ.u.mstances, perhaps because there was already so much guile and manipulation in the room. ”Jim . . .” she said.

”It's such a shock to see her like this. I-”

”A shock?” Stephanie said loudly. ”You sonofab.i.t.c.h. The only thing Holly ever meant to you was a romp in the hay.”

”Despite what you may believe, Dr. Riggs, I feel awful. She's the second friend I've seen like this today.”

”Yes, you've already told me how you're having such a bad day,” Stephanie mocked. ”Poor baby.”

”Okay. Sure. I could have treated your sister better. You probably could have, too. And maybe Aunt Marge could have. Maybe everybody everybody could treat everybody better. But at least I don't take my guilt out on total strangers.” could treat everybody better. But at least I don't take my guilt out on total strangers.”

I stalked out the doorway.

For a moment Stephanie was speechless; then she yelled at my back and her shrieking voice told me how close I'd gotten to the heart of the matter. ”Get out! Don't ever come back! Get out! Get out of here, you stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”

I was halfway down the corridor when I realized Marge DiMaggio was following me.

”Jim. Don't listen to her. She's been out of sorts. She cried for two days when she first got here.”

DiMaggio stopped in front of me and hugged me, and after a few moments I could feel her heaving against my chest as she wept. She was fas.h.i.+onably New York thin, the flesh of her arms and back stringy and soft. ”Jim, I can't get over how good it is to see you. It was wonderful of you to come. And never mind Steph. You want to see Holly, you come any time.”

It was hard to see a point in a second visit. Holly hadn't known I was here tonight and would hardly jump up to greet me if I came again.

”I'll come as often as I can. I would have been down here sooner if I'd known.”

”I know, dear.” Standing close, Marge DiMaggio held my elbows. She was about the same age as my mother, her hair dyed the same stark black as my mother's, though, as far as I know, my mother hadn't yet resorted to cosmetic surgery the way DiMaggio obviously had. ”I feel so bad about all of this.”

”It's not your fault.”

”No, it is. I should have done more for Holly. She came up here from California because I was the only family she had on the West Coast. At first I gave her a job with my company, but she didn't want to work indoors. And she had no skills. So then when this truck-driving idea developed, I treated her to the driver's school. I even threw work her way. That company she drove for in Seattle? It belongs to an old friend of mine. In fact, you two wouldn't even have met if it hadn't been for me.”

”Really? How do you figure that?”

”She was on her way to Canyon View to drop off a couple of boxes of books we'd ordered from back east. Now tell me. You said you had a friend who was ill?”

”A firefighter I worked with. Finding out about him was a shock, but then to find out Holly's in basically the same condition . . . I don't even know what the odds of that are. I've been trying to reconcile this whole-”

”He tried to commit suicide? Your friend?”

”Fell off a roof. Marge, I feel so sick about Holly. She had her whole lifetime ahead of her.”

”Tell me about your friend.”

”I . . .”

”I know how this works, Jim, and you need to talk this one out. I know exactly what you're going through. Tell Aunt Marge all about it. I'm not going to take no for an answer.”

I told her about our alarm to Joel McCain's house, about his choking, about the family's religious objections to medical intervention. At one point I must have mentioned Stan Beebe's disjointed theories, because she homed in on it. ”Syndrome? You say somebody out there thinks there's some sort of disease going around that all these people are catching? And it's a syndrome?”

”Stan Beebe. One of our full-time department employees. He's a good firefighter, but every once in a while he comes up with something a little wacky.”

During our chat I watched the door to Holly's room down the hallway, lest Stephanie come sprinting out to rip me a new a.s.shole. I'd been an idiot to drive all the way down here.

Maybe it was the way she listened or the way her gray-blue eyes stared up at me so relentlessly, but talking to Marge DiMaggio made me feel much better. Strange how tragedies can unite comparative strangers.

10. TAKING IN THE BIG PICTURE.

It was not quite dark when I got onto I-5 and began driving north. Beyond the water park I took Highway 18 and headed east by northeast, the Douglas firs on either side of the narrow highway opening up to an occasional view of a housing development or shopping mall.

It occurred to me that had Holly been considering suicide, she would have used the threat during our last phone conversation to lever concessions from me.

But she hadn't.

At least not while I was awake.

I'd made the mistake of telling someone at the firehouse I'd drifted off during that last phone call, and now whenever I got a call at work Click or Clack would announce over the station intercom, ”Telephone for Jim Swope. Lieutenant Swope? Nap time.”

I felt enough guilt over that call without finding out I was the last person Holly spoke to.

She deserved better than me. Better than that bed in the hospital. Better than her angry sister even. When you thought about it, most of the women I'd been seeing in the past couple of years deserved better than me. Maybe Stephanie Riggs was right. Maybe her sister tried to kill herself because of the way I'd treated her.

It was mind-boggling, because underneath I was basically a pretty decent guy.

Today had been a double whammy. Joel's predicament had been a jolt for us all. Joel and I, at fifteen years and twelve years of time in the department respectively, had known each other longer than any of the other full-timers. Having made lieutenant a year before I did, he often joked that he was my superior, though in fact we'd worked as equals until he was obligated to take over the department's administrative duties following Newcastle's death.

Never one to volunteer for extra paperwork or meetings, Joel hadn't been happy holding the reins of the fire department. When he fell off his roof, I'd made a bad joke that he'd done it on purpose in order to get out of running the department.

Now the whole enchilada rested on my shoulders.