The Missing Piece (36 page)

She heard Gary fumbling and grunting in the dark, then two solid thunks as something, probably his sneakers, hit the floor. He was quiet for a while, and then she heard a hissing sound and realized he was peeing into a plastic urinal. A moment later, the smell reached her nostrils. She nearly gagged.

*   *   *

Gary capped the urinal and shoved it into its sleeve on the side of the battle chair. He never really noticed the smell of his own urine, but tonight it seemed particularly pungent. Maybe he hadn't drank enough during the long hours of waiting for Mike to bring the missing piece. Maybe he was just plain nervous. It certainly had been one hell of a night so far.

He shrugged out of his parka and hung it over the back of the battle chair, balancing it because Mike's service piece weighed heavily in the left inside pocket. He set his elbows on the armrests, leveraged himself off the seat, and pushed his pants down so he could sit without pinning them with his ass. It took some effort to push and pull them over his dead legs, but eventually he got them off.

Then he began his maneuvers. He raised the seat and spilled himself onto the bed. He landed awkwardly, then pushed and pulled and finally twisted his torso for his legs to follow. They didn't, and so he lay gasping, his hips turned almost ninety degrees, and his legs crossed. He rested a while and then worked himself till he lay completely flat on his back.

*   *   *

Linda felt Gary's every move through the mattress, but now he was quiet and still. At another time and in another place, she might have felt sorry for the enormous effort it took him simply to climb into bed. But this wasn't the time or the place. Still, she sensed a definite expectation in the air. He wanted her to say something or, God forbid, do something. She did not intend to do either.

She stared at the ceiling, not wanting to cast even the slightest glance in his direction. She had no idea of the time. She thought he had come at about ten, but ever since he ran her down as she tried to escape time seemed to have stopped. He'd taken away the bedroom clock.

And so she lay as still as she could, her shallow breaths and his deep drafts in counterpoint. And then:

“Linda,” he whispered.

She stayed silent, kept her breathing steady.

“Linda,” he said, more sharply.

Again, she stayed silent.

“Linda,” he shouted.

“Yes,” she said. She tried to sound calm because if she sounded calm maybe she would stay calm. But her heart pounded and the shakes returned to her arms.

“I have to explain something,” he said.

“You have a lot to explain,” she said.

“Well, this is important,” he said.

A smart remark crossed her tongue, but she swallowed it back.

“I can't come to you,” he said. “I just don't work that way anymore. I can't lie beside you and get a hard-on just thinking about you. Not like I could before.”

He paused. In the silence, her body gave one last shake, then calmed.

“I can still have sex, though,” he said. “Just like any other guy, except it's not in my head anymore. Not even a little bit. I need you to come to me. I need you to manipulate me. That's how it works now. I just want you to know that you don't need to be afraid of me.”

“Okay,” she said.

“And I wanted you to know what you need to do for me.”

“Gary, that isn't happening.”

Gary sighed.

“I know,” he said. “Not yet.”

They lay in silence for a long time before Linda rolled away from him as much as the cuffs allowed. She tucked one hand between her thighs and pressed the other to her womb and thought about the baby she needed to protect.

*   *   *

Foxx didn't know much about medicine, but he knew about vital signs. The monitors over McQueen's bed told a dismal story. Blood pressure low, heart rate low, oxygen absorption low. McQueen himself looked terrible. His skin, always raging with acne, was splotchy. His cheeks were sunken. His eyes, without his aviator glasses, were small in his head. He coughed suddenly—the only sound he made since Foxx sat down—and shook his head hard enough to dislodge the oxygen clips under his nose. Foxx realigned the two jets beneath his nostrils. The oxygen monitor showed a brief spike, then settled back into the dismal range.

“Hey, Mike,” Foxx whispered in his ear. It was his third attempt at communicating. “Mike. It's Foxx.”

“Foxx, where am I?”

Foxx tweaked the oxygen clip.

“That better?”

“Better,” said McQueen.

“You're in the hospital. We need to know what happened. Where's Gary?”

“Piece,” said McQueen.

“Peace?” said Foxx. “Gary's at peace?”

“Piece,” said McQueen. “Treasure piece.”

“The piece from the treasure? The stolen piece?”

“Found it.”

“Gary found it?” said Foxx.

“I did.”

“Where?”

“Courthouse. Gary knew.”

“Gary knew what? About the piece.”

“Uh-huh.” McQueen coughed, then took a deep slurping breath. “Urse.”

“What about her?”

“How is she?”

“She's in another room,” said Foxx.

An alarm sounded. The cardiac monitor flashed. The heart rate that had been so slow skyrocketed over 140. The cardiogram running along the bottom of the screen twitched like a seismograph.

Foxx ran outside for help, but a team with a crash cart already raced in his direction.

“Coding!” someone yelled.

Foxx jumped aside, and the team piled into McQueen's room.

“You'll need to leave, sir,” said a nurse.

They slammed the door and closed the blinds.

*   *   *

Linda had no sensation of falling asleep. Only after replaying the dream in her head—a quickly evaporating discussion with Hugh—did she realize that she had drifted off. She had no idea of the time. It could have been twenty minutes, or maybe only twenty seconds, since her last waking thought.

The bedroom was still dark, the mattress perceptibly tilted because of Gary's bulk. She rolled onto her back, then pushed herself to keep her distance from Gary, who smelled like a mix of sweaty body odor and funky sleep. Suddenly, he snorted, and just as suddenly the energy of the room changed.

Linda held her breath.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, you awake?”

“Uh,” she moaned. She did not want to admit she was awake, but at the same time did not want to pretend that she was asleep. So far, his claim that he could not approach her appeared to be true. Still, he could hurt her in other ways.

“I need to tell you something,” said Gary.

What now, thought Linda, though she stayed silent.

“I need to tell you exactly how I got shot,” he said. “I saw the whole thing happen in slow motion, like a train wreck or a car crash. They told us to turn around and face the bench. Remember? I didn't think they were going to shoot. They were going to run, and I wanted to get one last look at them to see if I could spot some quirk or mannerism that might help me identify them later. One of them slipped through the doors. The other one stood over Mike. He started to turn toward the door, and Mike grabbed his ankle. I said to myself, Mike, you stupid ass. And then I saw the gunman turn and the gun swing around with him and I moved to get in front of you because I knew that gun was going to go off.

“I didn't feel any pain. There was a sudden loss of balance, and a slow topple to the floor. Somebody yelled, ‘
He's bleeding
.' And I wondered who was bleeding.” He paused. “I took a bullet for you.”

 

CHAPTER 41

“McQueen is dead,” said Foxx.

“Did you talk to him first?” said Bev.

“Yes, and I'm sorry, too. Thank you for your condolences.”

“Foxx.”

“Yeah, I talked to him. He said Gary had the missing treasure piece, which he, McQueen, found in the courthouse.”

“That's it?”

“He also asked about Ursula. I didn't tell him she was dead. Then he coded.”

“Atabrine,” said Bev.

“What?”

“He had Atabrine in his system. Quinine.”

“But that's not lethal.”

“It can be in high-enough concentrations. And McQueen was not a well man. He had serious kidney and liver problems.”

For Foxx, this was the type of revelation that immediately made sense because it was all of a piece with McQueen's bad complexion, contentious personality, and terrible work ethic. Chronic illness was a logical underpinning.

“He have any idea where Gary went?”

“Never got that far,” said Foxx.

“Well, he shouldn't be too tough to find,” said Bev. “He's in a wheelchair. We've got calls into all the major ambulette services in case he dials one up.”

Foxx grunted.

“I spoke to Belcher. After Conover formally declares a mistrial this morning, she'll have the option of working in chambers or taking a leave for the rest of the month.”

“Whatever,” said Foxx.

“My sentiments exactly,” said Bev.

*   *   *

Linda woke to light. Not a lot of light, but definitely enough for her to see that she had gotten through the night. Somehow. Without a clock or a phone, she tried to reason what time it might be. Mid-October, three weeks past the equinox. Equinox meant twelve-hour days and twelve-hour nights. In general terms, 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. So what could it be? Seven o'clock? Later? She was due back at the courthouse at nine thirty to declare a mistrial and disband the jury. Other than her own sense of duty, she had no obligation to handle these technicalities. Sharon had been gracious in yesterday's aftermath and would understand if she didn't show up.

And then she remembered Bernadette.

She pushed herself up and then squirmed forward to ease the cuff pressure on her ankles. Gary lay on his back, with his hips turned away from her and his legs crossed like the legs of a marionette.

“Gary,” she said.

He groaned, then sank back into sleep.

“Gary.” She poked his shoulder. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He shook his head and then opened his eyes.

“What was that?” he said.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He dragged himself to the edge of the bed, slowly rotating his torso until his back faced the wheelchair. He gripped the two armrests like a gymnast on a pommel horse and, with a grunt, lifted his butt off the bed and dropped himself heavily onto the seat. His legs, still crossed at the ankles, stayed on the bed. He reversed the chair, and his legs fell off, his heels hitting the floor with two solid thuds. He stopped the chair, then used his hands to lift one leg and then the other to set his feet on the footrest.

He rolled alongside the spindle and used a key to unlock one of the cuffs.

“There,” he said.

“Can you take the other off, too?”

Gary made no move.

“It hurts,” she said. “And I'm not going to run.”

He hesitated, then unlocked the other cuff. Linda drew up her legs and rubbed her ankles with her hands.

“Thank you,” she said, and dropped herself to the floor. “I'm just going to make it.”

She hurried down the corridor between the two walk-in closets and closed herself into the bathroom. The door and the lock were weak, more suggestions of privacy than barriers against intrusion. But she clicked the lock anyway, then turned on the lights and the ventilator fan. The bathroom had a single frosted glass window over the toilet. She climbed onto the toilet lid and quietly lifted the sash as far as it would go. The screen popped out easily with a push. It sailed downward, bounced off the awning, and landed on the deck with a crack.

Dammit, she thought. But several seconds passed, and Gary did not react.

She poked her head out the window. No lights were on in the brownstones across the back gardens, no one sat on a deck drinking coffee. She could start screaming, but she didn't know her neighbors and doubted anyone would take her screams seriously. Besides, Gary would hear. He'd break through the flimsy door in a second, and who knew what he would do … which made the awning more inviting.

She ran her hand along the inside edge of the window, considering whether it was big enough. She'd need to go out feet first and wriggle her body through, all the while gripping the window frame. The awning was ten feet down. With her arms extended she'd be about six feet tall, which meant her drop to the awning would be only about four feet. The patio furniture was still on the deck. If the awning held—
if
the awning held—she could slide down to the edge and jump onto the love seat.

A slim chance, she thought, but her only one right now.

She lifted one leg through the window, then contorted herself enough to fit her second leg through. She sat on the sill, her legs dangling outside and the rest of her still in the bathroom. The opening was just large enough for her to roll herself onto her belly. As she began to roll, she heard the doorbell. Then the pain hit her.

*   *   *

Gary had his pants on and one arm in a shirtsleeve when the doorbell rang. He froze. The bathroom door was still closed. Linda did not call out to him, which meant she might not have heard it.

The doorbell rang again, twice quickly now, as if the person was impatient. He punched his other arm into the sleeve. Again, Linda did not call, so he rolled out of the bedroom and into the sitting room. Turning the battle chair sideways and leaning close to the window, he could see down to the stoop. Bernadette.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Bernadette pressed the doorbell one more time, then backed away from the door and looked up. Gary jerked away from the window. The doorbell did not ring again, and after a few seconds he returned to the window. Bernadette was on the sidewalk now, drifting slowly toward Broadway with her cell phone to her ear. Linda's cell phone buzzed in Gary's parka, which still hung over the back of the battle chair. It buzzed until Bernadette went out of sight.