The Last Goodbye (28 page)

I don't know what the price of a human being is. I grew up believing in the infinite price tag, the one set by God. We all had the dignity of the Creator, and anybody who tried to lower the price with a bullet or a knife had to pay the difference with his own. In those days, human dignity was a zero-sum game. Nobody had the right to mess with the totals, because we all were affected. But it gets harder and harder to cling to that idea. Lately, in the court of Judge Thomas Odom, I've seen a human life go for as little as twenty bucks—the small, sad collection of paper and metal an unlucky victim got capped over by a hyped-up, needy addict. And I've seen the same murder buried on page ten of the newspaper, while the whole town went nuts saving a squirrel who got caught in a drainpipe. So, in the absence of a consensus, you have to choose whom to believe. Either we're all connected to each other by some common soul, in which case, killing is wrong, wrong, wrong. Or we aren't, and the strong eat the weak. The answers couldn't be more different.

The thing is, you don't expect people who sell medicine for a living to be confused on that subject. You expect them to be firmly on the side of the living, without any ambiguities. You can almost believe that, until you realize how much money is at stake, and then all the old battles over human nature come back to haunt you. Because history shows that once a few billion dollars are on the table, nobody is what I would call safe.

That was the moment I started to hear the clock ticking in my mind.
Tic, tic, tic:
It was Tuesday, and the next Monday morning Charles Ralston and Derek Stephens were going to be the recipients of an unfathomable transfer of wealth when tens of thousands of people bought into the future of Horizn's hepatitis treatment.
Tic, tic, tic:
According to Robinson, a successful test of Lipitran would have put every penny of that into jeopardy, and even the future of Horizn itself.
Tic, tic, tic:
To be fair, Robinson was badly damaged, crushed by guilt and defeat. It was theoretically possible his hatred for Ralston stemmed from that, and that he was deluding himself about the rest. Too much failure doesn't just make the world look terrible—it makes the world look pissed off at you specifically, custom-designed to make your life miserable. Robinson was pretty far down that road. Which led me to this: I had six days to find out what price tag Ralston and Stephens would put on eight people, most of whom were drug addicts and down-and-outers. I needed to find out if they believed in the zero-sum of mankind. I needed to find out if they were monsters.

Everything was clear. I knew exactly who the bad guys were, and I knew exactly who I wanted to save. I understood everything, and I cherished that clarity. It was beautiful, and it lasted about fifteen minutes.

“
JACK? WHEN ARE YOU
coming to the office?”

“First things first, baby. How are you? Did Stephens freak out or what?”

“There's someone here, Jack. Someone to see you.”

I looked at my watch. It was nearly five. “Yeah? Did I miss something on my schedule?”

“It's Mr. Stephens.”

I snapped to attention. “He's there? Now?”

“Um hmm.”

“In my office?”

“Um hmm.”

“Tell him not to move.”

“I don't think he's going anywhere.”

“I'm on my way.”

Derek Stephens didn't look pissed off. He didn't look like he was holding his sense of calm together with a titanic effort, either. He looked like it was just another day, and he had never even thought of combining the words Sammy, Liston, and Ferrari. He rose—smiling, inexplicably—from one of my waiting chairs with so much casual insouciance it was as if he was welcoming me into
his
office. I'm telling you, it's like a gift. He even spoke first. “Jack,” he said, “I'm glad you're here. I was hoping you had a few minutes.”

I looked at Blu. “You okay, baby?” She nodded, her face blank. “Tell you what,” I said. “Why don't you go out and get a little coffee?”

“There's coffee here, Jack,” she said. Her voice was unsteady.

“That's all right, baby,” I said. “Take a little time. I'll see you here in a few minutes.” Blu looked at Stephens a second, then picked up her purse. “Sure thing,” I said to Stephens. “Right in here.”

I walked into my office, tossed my sunglasses on my desk, and motioned to a wing chair opposite my desk. Stephens looked around, probably trying to figure out how I practiced law in the same square footage as his executive bathroom. But even though I've been known to sling my share of bullshit in court, inside my office I take none. Zero. Zip. After my talk with Robinson, I was prepared to take even less than that. It was entirely possible that I was in the room with an unprincipled murderer. It was also possible I was dead wrong about that, so I took as neutral a tone as possible. I sat down, let him stare at my still-swollen left eye and said, “What's on your mind?”

Stephens sat there looking at me, a slight smile playing on his lips. After a while he said, “I've got an idea, Jack. Let's you and I be friends.”

I returned the smile. “Gee, I don't know, Derek. Why would I want to do that?”

“Because that way, I can give you friendly advice, as opposed to the other kind.”

“I wasn't aware I needed either.”

Stephens shrugged. “The people who need it the most usually aren't. But I have the feeling we got off to a bad start. Let's try it again.”

I decided to give him some rope, just to find out what he wanted. “I'm all ears, Derek old pal,” I said.

“You've been poking your nose where it doesn't belong, Jack. Specifically, up the skirt of the wife of Charles Ralston.”

Okay, so this is going to be ugly. That's fine, I can go there, no problem.
“You'll forgive me for not wanting to hear that from somebody with a pathological need to screw secretaries.”

Stevens smiled, as though he were thinking,
Good. You have spunk. That makes this so much more interesting.
“Not that this is the topic, but you don't approve of my relationship with Blu?”

“I'm afraid my answer wouldn't be entirely complimentary.”

Stephens waved his hand magnanimously. “Not a problem.”

“The thing is, Derek, Blu's really a very sweet kind of girl. Heart of gold, but not very sophisticated. You, by contrast, are an effete snob who thinks that because you've read a few books you're better than other people. But that's a matter of taste, so that's not what's really bothering me.”

“And what is?”

“The fact that you'll date my secretary for a while, and you'll definitely take her to bed. You'll enjoy her very considerable charms for as long as you find them interesting. But doing anything that means regarding her as a complete, living human being—like marrying her, for example—isn't something you'd do in a million years. Not that I want you to marry her, naturally, but that isn't the point. The point is, you wouldn't marry Blu because then you'd have to introduce her to your Fortune 500 buddies as representative of your taste in women. You'd be afraid she'd embarrass you at a dinner party, like maybe lean over and ask you which fork to use or who the poet Dante was or what's the big deal with Kandinsky's paintings, anyway? Or maybe she'd say something sweet and simple like she was thinking of having your bedroom painted cornflower blue, and all your New York tight-ass friends would roll their eyes, and that would
kill
a guy like you. No, Derek old pal, you aren't going to marry Blu McClendon. But you'll definitely use her for a while, and you'll drop her when you're done. She doesn't know how to recognize your particular kind of slime because it's not in her nature to think along your lines of evil. I, on the other hand, am a man who knows a bastard when he sees one coming. And the more I think about you, the more I despise my own gender.”

Stephens sat listening, leaning back in his chair, his eyes half-closed. The smile playing on his lips flickered, and he looked at me. “It's a tragedy you lost your compass, Jack. Sincerely. You would have been marvelous.” He leaned forward. “I've been checking up on you, naturally. I can't have you snooping through Michele's underthings without doing that.” He pressed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Short version, since I'm a little pressed for time. You were talented, you were bright, and once upon a time, you were ambitious. But you yielded to the wrong temptation, and here”—he looked around my office disparagingly—“you are.” At that second, I made a silent vow:
If he says her holy name, I'm going to punch his face.
Stephens kept on talking, his voice as steady as a contractor's level. “What was it, two years ago? Just a few years out of law school. You were up at Carthy, Williams and Douglas. Good firm, and you had good prospects. Then came your little indiscretion, and you fell off the rails. The point is, you've already blown yourself up once on the altar of a beautiful woman. Do you really want to make the same mistake again?”

I was fully aware of how many lifetimes of financial servitude I would be rendering myself by breaking Stephens's legs, but at that moment, it seemed like a bargain. “You're sitting on top of the world right now, aren't you, Derek old pal?”

He smiled. “It would appear so.”

“You've got a girlfriend—probably some Connecticut hardass who majored in gender studies, given the fact that you can't keep your hands off southern women—but at any rate, you've got one. Meanwhile, your ‘little something on the side' happens to be one of the most beautiful women on earth. And to top everything, you're less than a week away from becoming incredibly rich.”

“And your point is?”

“You got nothing.”

Stephens seemed amused. “Nothing?”

“That's right, nothing. And you know why? The whole thing lacks nobility.” I leaned forward. “You didn't do the
work
, Derek. You know, the part where you and Ralston earn what you have? You stole that hepatitis treatment, and that kind of takes the shine off things.”

Stephens fixed me in his clear, untroubled eyes. “There's only one man who says that,” he said. “How very interesting that you've been speaking to him.”

“He's a real fan of your boss.”

“Tom Robinson is a fine scientist. He did some good work, although not as good as he imagines. But he made an error, and he can't live with himself. Do you want me to feel sorry for him? I won't. Business is war, and everybody who succeeds knows it.” He paused, looking around my office with a slight smile. “Look at this place, Jack. Is this why you went to law school?”

“At least I didn't steal it.”

Stephens shrugged. “All right, Jack. You don't like me. Fine. You think I'm unscrupulous. Fine, again. But I'm not going to ask for your trust. I'm going to earn it.”

“That would be a neat trick.”

“Watch.” Stephens paused, looked straight at me, and casually said, “Has Michele told you about Briah yet?”

With those words, the world listed badly to the side. It was the big secret, the one Michele had begged me to keep private at all costs. Stephens had said her name with so much ease he might have been talking about the weather. “Briah?” I whispered.

“Yes, Jack. It's all right. I know all about Briah, and so does Charles.”

“She said . . .”

“I know, Jack. She lies.”

“She doesn't know that you know.”

“Of course she does. All you have to do is ask her. When you see her face, you'll know I'm telling you the truth.”

I closed my eyes. The implications of what he was saying were too vast to contemplate. I had gone to the wall, and if I had done it for somebody who was using me, it was going to change the way I felt about the world. Stephens sat waiting, patiently letting me gather myself together. “Did you know Michele has a criminal record?” he asked.

“No.” A wave of nausea began forming in my gut. “What was her crime?”

“Crimes,”
Stephens said. “T'aniqua was a very unhappy little girl.”

“T'aniqua.”

“Yes, Jack. We know all about that, too.”

My breathing was getting labored. It was hard to find air. “She said Ralston could never know. She said he would never accept it.”

“He
does
know, Jack. So there's no point in arguing about whether or not he could accept the fact.”

The logic was irrefutable. But it didn't answer the question burning a hole through my humiliation. “Tell me why,” I said. “Why make all this up? If Ralston knows, then why beg me to help her find her daughter?”

“Because she can't reach her by any legal means,” Stephens said. “So she uses her considerable skills of manipulation to get people to help her.” He paused. “No doubt she told you that Social Services took the baby away at birth.”

“Yes.”

“One of her favorites. She's also maintained that the child was taken from her in a shopping mall, or that the father stole her from her.” He smiled sadly. “If it makes you feel any better, you aren't the first. You're . . . fifth, I believe. Which makes your friend Doug Townsend the fourth.”

I stared. “You know about Doug?”

“What you need to understand is that I know everything about Michele, Jack.” He looked at me levelly.
“Everything.”
The vision of what happened on the Horizn jet came flashing back through my mind. “It's all right,” Stephens said, as though reading my mind. His eyes gleamed. “She is luminous, isn't she? When she opens her mouth, you're convinced she's a goddess. So much beauty, it's breathtaking. But it's an illusion. She's a deeply troubled woman.”

He paused. “Michele was a wild child. When Briah came along, it shouldn't have surprised anyone she failed to accept her responsibility regarding the baby.”