Blowing Smoke (19 page)

A
moment later, George sprawled out beside me. Zsa Zsa jumped out of his arms, ran over and licked my face. I hugged her to me. She licked the corners of my mouth and my chin, then rubbed up against my shirt, trying to get some of the water off her coat. After that she snuggled up by my side. The three of us lay like that for I don't know how long, too spent to move or talk, the cold water having leached the warmth from our bodies. Even if someone had come up and tried to shoot us, I'm not sure I could have summoned up the energy to move.

Instead, I watched the lightning and listened to the thunder. The smell of wet dirt and vegetation and ozone lingered in the air, but the storm was moving off. The lightning was over the hill now, the time between the thunderclaps and the flashes longer. Over to the west I could see glimpses of the moon as the clouds scudded across it. The rain felt soft as it caressed my face. I listened to the wind whipping the branches of the trees back and forth. The friction of the leaves rubbing against each other sounded like sandpaper. And there was something else as well. Something higher.

I turned my head toward George. “I think I heard a moan.”

“I didn't.”

“There it is again.” A picture of Pat Humphrey flashed through my mind. In the excitement I'd forgotten about her. She'd been there at the edge of the shore, and then she disappeared. I pulled myself up. My legs felt as if they were made of rubber. My arms were still partially numb from the cold water. “I'm going to check it out.”

“Don't be stupid. The shooter could still be out there.”

“If he were, we'd be dead already.”

“Come on, Light.” George rested his hand on my calf.

“There. You mean you didn't hear that groan?”

George grunted and got up, but I was already on my way.

Zsa Zsa circled my legs as I followed the sound. The smell of wet pine needles surrounded me. They scratched at my calves and ankles. I stepped over rocks. Pebbles embedded themselves in my feet. Somewhere along the way I realized I'd lost my shoes. I moved a branch that had been downed by the storm, and its sap stuck to my hands. I went around a large lilac bush that someone had planted as a specimen tree. Then I went around another one and stopped.

Pat Humphrey lay sprawled out on her stomach. The bullet had dropped her down where she'd stood. It had entered her back, rendering it a dark pulpy mixture of flesh and fabric. Here and there I caught a glimpse of something white and shiny, something that my mind shied away from identifying as her spine.

I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat and forced my eyes downward toward her skirt, which was plastered to her legs. Then my eyes rose again, unable to turn away from her. Her face, an oval slashed with the shadows her eyes and mouth created, was half-turned toward the right. Her lips were parted. Her eyes open. One arm was extended outward, as if she were pointing at something. She looked like a discarded rag doll, just as Raul had. She was still moaning, only the sounds were softer now, as if she were running down.

I went over and knelt down next to her. She looked at me and blinked. Her eyes were surprisingly calm, her face peaceful. Then she smiled. A trickle of blood ran down the side of her mouth. I wiped it away.

“It's funny. All that time at the gym and now I can't move anything.”

“You'll be all right.”

“No, I won't.”

I started to get up. “I'll go call someone.”

“Don't bother. Just stay with me.”

I reached over and took her hand in mine. Her skin was cold and wet to the touch. I massaged it. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She shook her head. “That stuff about Murphy,” she whispered, her voice so low I could hardly hear it. “It was all a con. I'm sorry. Forgive me?”

“Of course. But how ...”

“... did I know?” She gave me a tiny smile. “The newspapers ... I remember things ... I always have ... but the dark and the blood. That was real.”

“Shh.”

“I just didn't think it was about me.” She started to cough. The cough turned into a gurgle. “That's the trouble with this kind of thing,” she continued on when she could speak again. “I see things, but I never know what they're about.”

“Who did this? Who shot you?”

“I ...”

“Was it Sinclair?”

She said something, but I couldn't catch it.

“I'm sorry. Tell me again.” And I put my ear to her mouth.

She made a noise in her throat and died.

“What did she say?” George asked.

I jumped. I'd forgotten he was there. “I don't know. I couldn't hear.”

“Did she say the shooter was Sinclair?”

“I just told you I don't know.” I straightened out her skirt and reached over and shut her eyes and tucked her hair behind her ears.

“So it could have been.”

I stood up. “I suppose.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“You're not on the force anymore. And even if you were ...”

My voice trailed off. Looking down at Pat Humphrey, all I wanted to do was go home and have a drink. I could feel the comforting slide of the scotch down my throat, the expanding warmth in my limbs, hear the clink of the ice cubes as they went into the glass, and see the gold color.

“I know what I am. I just want to see Sinclair's face when we come through the door—that's all.”

I should have argued. I knew that. I didn't like the look on George's face. But I didn't have the energy. So I just went along.

No one was at the lodge. There was a fire burning in the lodge fireplace, but the lobby itself was empty. I noticed we were tracking water and small clumps of mud across the polished floor.

“I wonder if they have a bar around here?” I mused aloud. The thought seemed very attractive.

George looked at me, opened his mouth to say something, and changed his mind.

“You got a problem with that?” I demanded.

“No. I think you might, though.”

“Meaning?”

“Let's not do this now.”

“Fine with me.”

George massaged the back of his neck. “He's got to be here somewhere.”

“What are you going to do when you find him?”

“Sinclair? Nothing. I already told you I'm just going to talk to him.”

“You know ...” I was starting to say when George made a shushing noise and put his finger to his lips.

I heard the voices, too. One was sobbing, and the other one was making soothing noises. The voice that was making soothing sounds was Sinclair's.

George looked at me, and I looked at him.

“Maybe we should call 911,” I suggested again.

George clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “We're going to. Later.” Then he looked at me. “Hey, if you don't want to do this, you don't have to go in with me. You can wait outside.”

“I just don't want you to do anything stupid.”

“I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just want to talk to the man. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“No,” I said softly. “I guess not.”

George grinned. It wasn't a nice sight. “It's the polite thing to do,” he said as he headed to where the voices were coming from.

“I can't believe it,” the woman was saying. “I just can't.”

“It'll be all right,” Sinclair replied. “Let me help you.”

“No, it won't be. It won't be at all.”

“You have to believe that it will.”

“She said this would happen.” The woman wailed. “She saw it. How could that be? I don't understand. I don't understand.”

I couldn't hear what Sinclair said next, but it must have been something to the effect that the woman should calm down, because the next thing I heard her say was that she was all right. She'd be fine.

“You're obviously not,” Sinclair replied.

By now we were almost in front of the office behind the front desk. The door was closed. George and I looked at each other. I knocked.

Sinclair opened the door half an inch. His eyes widened when he saw me. “I thought I told you not to come on this property anymore.”

“She's really bad at listening,” George said, flinging his weight against the door.

It flew open, and Sinclair went flying.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said as I stepped inside.

George followed.

Sinclair struggled to get up from the floor where he'd landed. Blood was running out of his nose. He touched it and winced. “Damn. I think it's broken,” he announced in an unbelieving tone as he stood up. “You broke my nose.”

Neither George nor I said anything. Our gazes were riveted on Amy.

Her eyes were swollen from crying.

Her skirt was hiked up to her thighs.

She had blood on her shirt and a gun in her hand.

“My, my,” George said as Amy pointed the weapon at us. “What do we have here?”

A
my's eyes darted from me to George to Sinclair and back to me again. With her free hand she tugged her skirt back into place.

“I can see religious life has its benefits,” I said to Sinclair. “First Pat Humphrey and now her.” I nodded in Amy's direction. “Not bad. Of course, the gun might be a little bit of a turnoff. Unless you're into that kind of thing. Are you?”

“What are you? Nuts?” Sinclair mumbled as he wiped blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand. “She came on to me. Not the other way around.”

“It's not my fault,” Amy said in a high, piping voice.

“Nothing ever is,” Sinclair muttered to himself. “It's your family's.”

“Of course it's not.” I kept my voice low and soothing and my glance on the gun in Amy's hand.

“It's Hillary's. This whole thing happened because of her.” Amy's breasts strained against the white shirt she was wearing as she gulped in air. The shirt was translucent from being wet, and her nipples were visible through the fabric. “I'm not taking the blame for my sister's mistakes. Not this time I won't.”

“You're right. You shouldn't have to.”

Amy used her free hand to wipe her eyes. “Don't you humor me.” Her tone was fierce.

I put my hands up and inched closer. “I'm not trying to.”

“Yes, you are. Everyone always does.”

“What's not your fault?” George asked.

Amy spun around toward him. “Who is he?” she demanded as if she'd noticed George was in the room for the first time.

“He's a friend of mine.”

“Why is he here?”

“I came along for the ride,” George answered.

“Ride? What ride?”

“It's just an expression. Now, why don't you give me the gun?”

Amy glanced down at the automatic in her hand. She looked surprised to see she was holding it.

“Or,” George continued, “if you don't want to do that, you can put it down on the desk.”

“That's right,” Sinclair cooed. “Give it to us.”

Amy took a step back. “It's not mine.”

George took a step forward, an unwilling partner in an awkward dance. “We know that.”

“I found it.”

“Of course you did.” His voice was like syrup.

Amy raised the revolver. “Stay where you are.”

“Why is the whole thing Hillary's fault?” I asked, trying to divert her.

“Because she called you,” Amy replied without taking her eyes off of George. “If my sister hadn't called you, none of this would have happened.”

“Are you saying I'm responsible?”

“I'm not saying that at all.” A bead of water dripped from her hair onto her shoulder. “It's just that your visit set certain things in motion.”

“What things?”

“I told her.” Amy's voice rose. She lifted the gun a little higher. “I told her it was a bad idea.”

I nodded encouragingly. “I remember you did.”

“But she wouldn't listen. No one ever listens to me.” Then Amy smiled. “But you're listening to me now, aren't you?”

“Absolutely. Is there anything I, we, can do to help you?”

“Yes. Don't let him get near me.”

“Who?”

“Him.” She nodded in Sinclair's direction. “The reverend. If I give you the gun, will you promise to keep him away from me.”

“Now, Amy ...” Sinclair began. The “Amy” came out through clenched teeth.

“No ...” she cried. “He tried to rape me ...”

“Amy, you know that's not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Amy said, appealing to me.

Sinclair fixed his gaze on Amy. “I want you to take deep breaths. You know you tend to become agitated—”

Amy pointed. “He did.” Then she turned to Sinclair. “You want everyone to think I'm crazy.”

“Of course you're not crazy,” he cooed. “You're just overwrought, which is very understandable in the light of what happened. You'll be fine as soon as you start taking your medication again.” Sinclair turned to George and me. “Evidently Amy's let her prescription lapse.”

“Leave me alone,” Amy screamed at him. “Just leave me alone.” And she closed her eyes blotting out the scene.

Before George or I could stop him, Sinclair leaped across the floor to Amy and grabbed the hand that was holding the gun.

She screamed, “Stop,” as Sinclair tried to pry her fingers open.

“Give it to me, goddamn it.”

George dashed across the room and wrapped his arms around Sinclair's shoulders and attempted to pull him off.

“Let her go,” he shouted. “You're making things worse.”

“Get away from me,” Sinclair screamed.

I ran to help George. I grabbed for Sinclair's arm and came up with a piece of his robe.

The gun went off. My ears rang. I smelled hot metal.

“Oh, my God,” Amy said in a voice filled with wonder. A few seconds later, she crumpled to the floor. I knelt down besides her.

“You sonofabitch,” George growled at Sinclair.

I watched Sinclair's face go from white to ashen. He looked as if he were going to be sick. “Someone had to do it,” he cried as Amy clutched her side and writhed on the ground. “You saw.” He appealed to me. “You saw I didn't have a choice. She was going to kill us all.”

“Really.” I saw George's fist bury itself in Sinclair's midsection. I watched as he doubled over. George lifted him up and hit him in the kidneys. Then he landed one on his cheek, right underneath his eye.

“Please,” Sinclair cried, dropping to the floor. “Don't.”

“That's it,” I yelled as George lifted his foot to kick him. “No more.”

George paused and glanced down at Sinclair. A dark puddle of urine had formed around his legs. He was sobbing, the sounds muffled through his hands.

George swallowed, dropped his hands to his sides, and walked out the door, self-contempt for what he'd just done inscribed on his face.

 

 

Later, on the way home, I tried to talk to George about what happened, but he didn't want to. His face was as tightly closed as a fist. I touched his arm, and he pulled it away. I gave up trying and turned on the radio.

“You blame me,” I said when he finally dropped Zsa Zsa and me off at my house.

“Why would I do that?” His voice was carefully neutral.

“For putting you in that situation.”

“Don't be stupid.”

But I knew he did.

I went inside and poured myself a drink. By the third one, I was feeling good enough to consider the possibility of sleep. It occurred to me at some point as I was walking up the stairs that maybe George was right. Maybe I did have a drinking problem. But then I decided I didn't care.

 

 

The next day, I got a phone call from the director of the Hispanic Alliance. He had spoken to the clerics. It was decided. A collection would be taken up for Raul's burial. I donated two hundred dollars for the cause.

A day later, I found myself seated in Moss Ryan's office, waiting to hear why he'd called me in. The way the receptionist was dressed and the flower arrangement on her desk reconfirmed that Hinkle, Ryan, Packard & Maxwell was one of those law firms that specialize in the problems of the rich and the corporate. Ryan had made the call for this appointment himself, which I thought was fairly unusual. I didn't have to sit around long, either. The receptionist buzzed me through as soon as I'd announced myself, after asking whether I wanted anything to drink.

I sat down in a modern brown leather chair; Moss Ryan remained seated across the desk from me. He had his jacket unbuttoned, his chair pulled out from behind the desk, and he was tapping a silver mechanical pencil against the palm of his hand. He was freshly shaved, and his blue suit was immaculate, as was his white shirt and blue tie. But he appeared tired and unhappy. It was easy to understand why he would.

I glanced around. His office came as something of a surprise. Given the reception area, I'd expected Moss Ryan's of fice to be done up in international style—all teak and leather and chrome. But that wasn't the case at all. The bookshelves were mahogany. The drapes were brocade. There was a set of highly polished armor standing in the corner. Broadswords, crossbows, and lances decorated the walls. A cloth pendant hung over the bookcases. It looked like a medieval banner. The background color was silver. Two rampant griffins sat on either side. There was a border of flowers on the bottom. Two lines of writing were inscribed in the middle. I sounded it out.

“Amor stemman non cognosce/sed ad virtutem cede.
That's Latin, isn't it?”

He nodded. “It is indeed. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Too bad the church abandoned it.” He absentmindedly traced the jagged edges of a large piece of quartz that was sitting on his desk with two of his fingers. “I used to enjoy listening to Mass as a child. It's not the same anymore.”

I indicated his collection. “Where did you get all of this stuff?”

“Here and there.”

The afternoon sun was coming in through the slats on the blinds, dancing around the room and making shadows on the walls. I leaned back in my chair and watched them while I waited to hear what Moss Ryan had to say. He seemed lost in thought for a moment or two; then he pulled himself together and spoke.

“You'll be happy to hear Amy is doing well.” He tapped his pencil on the desk. “She should be out of the hospital in a day or two.”

“That's good.” Her wound wasn't as bad as it had first appeared. It turned out she'd shot herself in the shoulder, the bullet traveling upward and out, tearing tissue as it went but, fortunately for her, nicking the bone instead of shattering it. “Her mother must be relieved.”

“Her mother doesn't know.”

“You're kidding, right? What about the report I sent in? Didn't she read it?”

“I read it to her. Or rather I read the relevant parts to her.”

I studied his face. He was serious.

“Which is why we're having this conversation.” Moss Ryan took a deep breath. “Rose wants to speak to you.”

I waited.

“As I said,” Ryan went on, “she doesn't know about Amy, and I don't want you to tell her anything that happened. Yet.”

“Where does she think Amy is?”

“She thinks she's vacationing in Mexico, and given the fragile nature of Rose's health, I prefer to keep it that way—at least for the time being.”

I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them. “Somehow Rose Taylor strikes me as a woman who wouldn't enjoy having things kept from her.”

Ryan gave a short bark of a laugh. “Oh, we'll tell her. There's no danger of our not doing that. But Pat Humphrey's death has been an incredible shock to Rose's system. When we told her, Geoff and I were afraid the news would precipitate another stroke, especially coming, as it does, on top of her nurse's unfortunate demise.”

“Unfortunate demise is a nice way to put it. What's new on that front?”

“You know as much as I do.”

“So the detectives haven't said anything to you.”

“Just that her parents are flying in to claim the body. A thing like that makes me glad I never had a child.” Moss Ryan paused for an instant, then said, “To get back to the matter at hand, I'd like to give Rose a little time to adjust before we hit her with more bad news.”

“What if Amy's indicted?”

“Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.”

I thought about the blood and the gun. “I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you.”

Ryan dropped his pencil, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. “I've heard Amy's story, and it sounds extremely credible to me. She tells me she stumbled across Pat. And I mean that literally. She fell over her. Naturally, in the dark she didn't realize what had happened. She thought Pat had had some sort of seizure. Evidently she'd been complaining about headaches.” He sighed. “Amy tried to rouse her, and that's when she must have gotten the blood on her shirt.”

“Funny thing, but when I got to Pat Humphrey, she was talking. How do you account for that?”

“Perhaps she passed out from the bullet, then came to again. The doctors I've consulted have told me that that can happen.”

“Even so, why didn't Amy call the police?”

“Because she was in shock.”

I thought about how George and I had found her. “She certainly has a unique way of showing it.”

Moss Ryan frowned. “Everyone is different. Don't forget, Amy thought Pat Humphrey was dead.”

“And the gun?”

“She found it on her way to the lodge as she was going for help.”

“And Amy just picked it up and brought it with her?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“But not by much.”

Moss Ryan stiffened. “It's possible.”

“Anything's possible. Is the D.A. preparing an indictment?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And you believe Amy's story?”

“Absolutely.” Moss Ryan straightened his tie. “The idea that Amy shot someone, let alone Pat Humphrey, whom she adored, who was aiding her in making contact with her favorite childhood pet, is ludicrous. Why would she? As I said, Pat was helping her. She was the only person that could. Added to everything else, Amy is terrified of guns. She always has been.”