Death at the Wheel (38 page)

"Doctor at the local hospital. Thomas Durren."

"Looks like a guy I used to race with years ago," he said. "But he was called Chuck Durren. A real wild man."

A click. The slide changes. I'm walking across the parking lot to meet Durren, sitting in his fancy
blue
car.

A click. In the emergency room. I'm thumbing through a copy of
Road and Track,
waiting for Dr. Durren. A copy of
Road and Track
with an address label reading: Dr. Thomas C. Durren. C for Charles? Chuck?

A click. Dr. Durren, holding the same magazine, staring after me, a strange look on his face.

Click. I'm back in the fancy blue car and we're talking. Durren says, "I disliked the man intensely. For what he did to her. I admit that. Still, it was a horrible way to die. To have something go wrong with the suspension and crash and burn like that...."

And one last click. I'm talking with Andre. I ask him what he learned from the Connecticut police about the cause of the accident. "Nothing," he says. "They won't release any details. Not even to me." And there had been nothing in the papers. I took a sharp breath and sat up. Suddenly. My head swam but my thoughts were clear.

"So how did he know it was the suspension?" I asked an empty room.

Click. I'm at the engagement party, trying to be polite, only half listening to Sonia's batty cousin and her comments about how odd it was to have some guy working on his car out in the street. In suit pants and shoes. She was wrong. What was odd was not that he was working on
his
car but that he was working on
my
car.

I'd had all the information and never seen it at all. But Durren thought I had because of that stupid magazine. And because he'd overheard the nurse telling me he wasn't at the hospital on Saturday evening. Something I'd paid no attention to at all because my mind had been on other things. And yet, if Durren had had his way, I'd be toast. An awful shudder went through me, thinking about what might have been.

Click as I picked up the phone. Click. Click. Click. The mellow tones as my long-distance carrier came on and processed the call. Click as the phone was answered, the directory assistance operator gave me the number and added that I could automatically dial it for just a little more money. I pressed a button, let the circuits whir, and got Julie's attorney on the phone. Told him where I was. Reminded him who I was. Told him what I knew. Everything. Told him to call the police. Listened impatiently to a few confused questions. Told him I didn't have time for Q and A, just do it. Make them find that car before Durren repaints it. Click. I hung up. I didn't even bother to say good-bye. I had to get to Andre.

But it wasn't enough. I had to tell the police myself. Julie's attorney wasn't going to be the most credible source, though he might be the most confused. Only I didn't know whom to tell. My father would know. I picked up the phone again. Dialed. Heard the resonant bong of the chimes. Punched in the number. Dom came in quietly, looked at my face, and knew enough not to speak to me. He sat down on the edge of the bed and waited, listening.

My stomach was dancing again, only this time not from a head injury but from a heart injury. I could still see Dad's furious face across the kitchen. I got through the formalities and his secretary put me through. His "Yes, Thea?" was surprised, icy, distant.

I almost hung up. The phone was shaking in my hand. But this was business. Something I had to do. I swallowed hard and forced myself to speak. "Dad, I know who did it. I know who killed Jon Bass. Who should I talk to... at the police station, I mean?" I spoke in a voice that was not my own.

"Are you all right, Thea?" he asked, still cold, slightly surprised.

"No."

"Where are you?"

"Kennebec Valley Medical Center."

"A hospital? What's happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Just give me the name...."

"Do you want me to come there?"

"No. Don't come. I don't need you." I could be as cold as he could.

"Now then," he said brusquely, stung by my own coldness, "what's this about knowing who killed... uh... Jon Bass?"

"Just what I said. I know who did it. Look, I haven't got time to chat. Tell me the name of the cop, if you know it." I was losing control; wondering if I'd made a mistake calling him at all. After last night, I didn't feel I had anything to say to him. I certainly wasn't going to waste time on the phone with him while Andre might be dying.

"Thea, you aren't making any sense," he said. "Now calm down and tell me what you're doing there."

I took a deep breath, feeling like I might cry. Wanting to slam down the phone, needing him to listen instead of talk, to give me information instead of asking questions. Why the hell couldn't they ever just believe me? Why did I always have to jump through hoops just to get heard?

Dom put an arm around me and sat me down on the bed, and he kept the arm there. I leaned back against him gratefully.

"I'm perfectly calm," I said. "And how do I know who killed Jon Bass?" The minute I started telling it, I wasn't perfectly calm. My nice coherent mind began to disintegrate again. "I'm... he tried to kill me... he... they... everyone's tried to kill me but I guess you just can't keep a good woman down, Dad. I'm okay. Not great, but okay. I'm sorry I can't chat but I've got to go see about Andre. Just tell me who to call...."

"Larry Dixon. Lieutenant Larry Dixon. He's the local guy who's handling it. What's the matter with Andre?"

"He's been shot." I could barely say the words. I couldn't talk any more. I couldn't call Dixon. I was out of time. Andre might die while I was still trying to explain this. "Look, could you call Dixon? Tell him it was Thomas Durren. He used to race cars. Tell him that Durren drove me off the road last night on 128. There will be a report somewhere. The state police, I suppose...." I couldn't remember who I'd talked to, or refused to talk to, at the hospital.

"You're not making any sense, Theadora," he repeated. "Slow down and take this step by step. What makes you think it was Durren?"

"I'm making perfect sense. You're not listening. And I don't think. I know. I saw him trying to set my car on fire."

Dom's arm tightened around me, giving me the support I needed to spit out the last of my message. "Tell them to look for paint on Durren's car. Red Saab paint. Or if the fire didn't destroy it, blue Porsche paint on mine. If they've got questions, they can call me here. Kennebec Valley Medical Center. That's right. In Maine. Augusta. Tell Mom I've done my best. If this doesn't get Julie out, there's nothing more I can do."

"Thea, wait!" There was a softening in his voice, and regret. "We need to talk. You and I... your mother... I... she... we... didn't mean..."

"Not now."

He was still talking when I dropped the phone and closed my eyes, seeing them both yesterday in the kitchen, so determined that manners and control would prevail over love and truth. Yes, in time we would talk. Of course we would talk. We all had a lot to say. But this was not the time. Not while my wounds were still so fresh and I had other, more urgent things on my mind.

"I'm going to go scout around for news and something to eat," Dom said. "You want anything?"

The idea of food was awful but I was thirsty. "Ginger ale?"

He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead like a beloved daughter. "Don't let the bastards wear you down, princess. You done good. Rosie sends her love and says to tell you she's fretting because she isn't here to look after us."

"I could use a little Rosie right now."

"Couldn't we all? Look, I know this is hard for you to believe right now, but I've got good cop's instincts, right?" I nodded. "And I think everything's gonna be okay."

"Thanks, Dom."

He turned to leave, paused, and turned back. "So you figured out who did it, eh? Was it because of the car?"

I nodded. "The bastard. How could he let her go to prison like that, for a crime he committed, if he loved her?"

Dom shrugged. "I hate to say it, but nothing surprises me anymore. Every time I think I've seen the basest form of human nature, something worse comes along. That's why I like to hang out with the good guys. Like you. Get some rest, Thea. I'll keep you informed."

I lay back in bed, seething. Thinking about Thomas Durren, about what kind of love—can it even be called love?—lets the loved one be wrenched from her children and sent to jail. His cooperation didn't make any sense, either. What had he been hoping I would discover? Was he hoping to be found out? Or was it all just a smoke screen and he was just keeping tabs on what I knew so he'd know whether he should be worried? Or maybe Julie didn't matter and all that mattered was getting at Cal. Maybe it was a guy thing, a struggle for control. Two possessive control freaks with Julie in the middle.

Perhaps, to view it in a kinder light, he'd never considered the possibility of Julie being arrested and was left with no idea what to do. It's an odd fact about criminals, obscured by the glitz and pace of TV and movies, that they usually haven't thought things through. He hadn't struck me as the decisive type. But what did I know, I who had declared so decisively that he wasn't the murderer? I didn't understand. Maybe I never would.

At least I was pretty sure Julie wouldn't go back to Cal. As for the rest, I didn't care, as long as they caught Durren. It was up to the police to decide who else, in the whole nasty mess, they wanted to go after. I was pretty sure Eliot Ramsay had hired the thugs, though they'd probably never be able to prove it. Still, once the feds were done with Cal and Ramsay and the bank and the missing mortgage applications, their careers would both be destroyed. I might want to see them both publicly hung up and flayed, but our system, our snail's-pace, inadequate system of justice, doesn't allow for stocks, ducking stools, the lash, or other public displays of disapproval.

Then there was Duncan Donahue. I didn't know what to do about him. My earlier plea for clemency had been for Julie, to protect her from any further distress while she was locked up helplessly in jail. To provide a familiar refuge for her children. Once she was free, as I was sure she would be in a matter of hours, I didn't need to protect her any more. Andre and Roland Proffit were right. I wasn't doing anyone any favors by allowing someone so violent and unbalanced to be walking free. Maybe I'd rethink that one, if I still could.

I shook my head wearily. It was a sordid, complicated mess and I was glad to be done with it. Maybe tomorrow I'd feel differently. Right now I didn't care. It would have been easy to beat up on myself, second-guess all the decisions I'd made, and try to figure out if I could have known about Durren sooner. But, as always, I had to prioritize my tasks. I'd done what I could to help Julie. It wasn't my problem anymore. No one, not even my mother, could ask for more.

Now I had more pressing things to think about. Like my future with Andre. "Come live with me and be my love," he'd said. I'd said I'd think about it, but would I get the chance? Sighing at the state of the world, I got out of bed, ignoring my shaking limbs and uncertain head, and shuffled off to find him.

I knew I was in the right place when I found a room full of troopers sitting, standing, and milling about, strangely silent except for occasional shoulder pats and murmurs. A couple reporters spotted me, surged forward, and were blocked by a wall of troopers. Roland Proffit offered me his arm and I was not too proud to take it. Andre's parents were there, holding hands, and his sister, Aimee, hugely pregnant with her fifth child. Some aunts, uncles, cousins. Andre's landlady, eyes and nose red, knitting as if his life depended on it. A whole room full of people holding their breath. All of their eyes were on the door through which the doctor would come.

Jack was there, sitting with his long legs stretched halfway across the room, staring at his shoes. He looked up when I came in and shook his head. "No news," he said. "He's still in surgery. They'll let us know as soon as they're done.... How are you?"

"I've felt worse."

He didn't look like he believed me. "You shouldn't be out of bed," he said.

"I couldn't stay away," I said, and he didn't argue. The man beside him got up to give me his seat. I shuffled over to it and sat down, wishing I could have brought my bed with me. All resting had done was make me tired. Even if I could barely remain upright, I couldn't have stayed downstairs.

"What do they think?"

Jack's face was grim. "I won't lie to you," he said. "It doesn't look good."

I stared down at my lap, the faded blue dissolving in a mosaic of tears. I almost wished he had lied. I'd lived in fear of this moment for so long. Used it as a shield to keep from loving. He patted my knee. "I'm sorry I don't have better news. Can I get you a coffee or something...?" He stopped abruptly, remembering how sick I'd been. "Guess that wouldn't be so good, huh? Something else?"

"Soda?"

"You've got it." He sent a trooper to get it. "Where's that guy Florio?"

"Getting something to eat, I think." We sat in silence for a while. A long while. Whenever the door opened, we'd lean forward, sinking back when it turned out to be nothing. In the harsh fluorescent light we looked like refugees, our faces etched with pain and anxiety and the weariness of waiting for uncertain news. Many of the people there had been out at the hostage site, and the room smelled of damp clothes and the sweat of old fear.

I thought about Andre. Times we'd spent together. Things we'd said. I thought about the rumble of his voice when I laid my head on his chest, the sound of his voice when he read aloud, the way he liked to tease. I thought of presents he'd given me, special one-of-a-kind things that were perfect, though I never would have picked them for myself. The meal he cooked for Valentine's Day, when I was so sick and miserable.

I heard his voice again, in my mind. "I want you to live with me... I want to come to bed every night knowing I can have you beside me like this. Not just sometimes. All the time. I want to be able to throw a leg over you and feel your skin. I want to curl up like spoons when it's cold. It feels safe. It feels real. It feels good."