Brainquake (31 page)

Cop bullets drove Paul back onto the deck of the barge.

From the deck Paul spotted Eddie swimming to save the drowning Lafitte. An illuminated sightseeing boat sent up fireworks lighting the sky with rainbow colors…red, white, and blue, but the white was pink and the blue was purple.

Cops behind vehicles with shattered windows got a glimpse of Paul racing along the deck, bent low. They opened fire, but he was gone.

Running through gunfire Paul was slammed down by the quake-rocking earth. He heard the flute playing much louder. The earth kept shaking and heaving. He saw the quake lift the sightseeing boat high up into the sky. The boat exploded. He watched the three-masted sailing ship against the flames. He saw a giant wave sweep Eddie back on the deck of the barge. Rain came down like nails with thousands of poetry books bombarding Paul. Pages fell out. Paul ran through the poems.

The wounded Inspector ran out of the barge’s cabin, shouting at his men:

“Try to take him alive!”

The Inspector raced to the gangplank.

Father Flanagan and Michelle came running out after him, only to be hurled behind vehicles by cops.

Paul ran to tell his mother the ship in the sky was a miracle. He spotted Eddie on the barge roof again. Paul charged at him, knocking deck chairs to either side. He smashed into Michelle pushing the baby in the carriage in Central Park. Paul saw the baby shoot Frankie Troy from the carriage. Paul saw Lieutenant Zara on the police horse galloping at him and he ducked out of the way. A bullet zinged past his foot as he climbed up on the barge roof and saw Eddie disappear. Paul heard the flute, turned, saw Eddie moving slowly behind the front of the ambulance
.

Slowly the Inspector raised his gun from behind the ambulance.

Paul saw Eddie aiming the flute at him
.

The Inspector aimed at Paul’s knee, fired, saw Paul grab his leg, fall, then force himself up.

Paul fired at Eddie playing the flute
.

The bullet hit the ambulance window. The Inspector darted back as splinters of glass flew.

Paul suddenly turned inward to look for Eddie, diving deep into his own enormous and expanding brain. Tremors increased. Pink getting weaker, red getting redder. He followed the tune, sloshing past his half-eaten sensory impulse organs…crawling past his busted transmitter motor half-buried in blood…splashing through thousands of cells…stopped. He saw the jackal tearing apart the remains of his nerve tissues…the jackal looked up at Paul, bared its fangs…a massive tremor shook the surface of his brain and showered debris of tissues, blood, nerve cells upon Paul and the jackal…Paul raised his gun and fired at the jackal.

The bullet hit the Inspector in his thigh, plowed through muscle, shattered bone. He collapsed to one knee. Michelle and Father Flanagan maneuvered to his side. They saw him raising his gun—and Paul standing like a statue on the roof of the barge.

Paul was wondering…Why was his brain eaten away by the jackal?…Why his brain?…Why his brain?…There must be a reason. He saw Eddie. Eddie changed into the jackal. Then back into Eddie, then Paul fired at the jackal
.

The Inspector steadied his aim at the homicidal head.

Must everything have a reason?

The Inspector fired.

Paul’s brain was blown apart by the red explosion
.

“He’s dead. No bag.”

“Keep looking,” Hampshire said.

“Jesus himself couldn’t find it.”

“Father—you ought to know the bag’s no write-off just because they’re dead.”

“I didn’t hit the widow.”

“Then she’s got the bag. Find her.”

“I never lost her.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I passed.”

“You could’ve hit her and you
passed
?”

“Yes.”

“You must’ve had a damn good reason.”

“I don’t think she knows where it is.”

“You don’t think…?”

“That’s right. She’s no saint, but she got swept up in this because of her husband. Just wanted to get away from the Codys. She didn’t know who she was getting in bed with.”

“Bullshit!”

“No. Page wouldn’t talk. Even when his life depended on it. I think he physically couldn’t. Not to the police, and not to her.”

“You think so, Father? You’re that confident? Confident enough to pass?
Why?
”

The
Why?
was the crack of a 240 mm gun. Father Flanagan knew exactly what Hampshire would say before calling him. He stood in the coffin-like phone booth, sweating. Two more ambulances roared past him to pick up more dead cops. The phone booth was suffocating him. His head choked with scrambled words Hampshire would never buy.

He felt no betrayal. No guilt at all. Then why was he sweating like a spent horse? He knew his decision to pass on the hit would only give her the briefest freedom. Eddie would find her after the New York police had given her a clean slate. But he couldn’t stop Eddie. Father Flanagan was a professional and he only killed on contract. To kill Eddie was murder. That he would never do. Not even for a widow and her baby, not even to keep a baby from being orphaned.

He stayed in the booth, one hand depressing the metal tongue, the other holding the receiver. He concentrated on what he would say. The words in his head began to fit.

He placed the call. It took a few minutes for the international connection to go through, and then he heard Hampshire’s voice on the other end of the phone.

He told Hampshire everything from the time he had walked onto the barge with the cop to the bloody catastrophe at the end. He explained there was no sign of the bag, no sign the widow even knew about the bag. He explained about the murder of the skipper, about the massacre of the police. He described the interrogation by the Inspector. He confirmed that Paul had gone to his death without naming any names. His voice was hoarse when he finished.

He waited. One word from Hampshire and another hit man would get the widow.

“I buy it,” Hampshire said. “You did good.”

“Thank you.”

“Take a vacation, my friend.”

“I need one.”

“Take a month.”

“Okay.”

“God be with you, Father.”

* * *

Hampshire hung up and smiled, thinking about Paul.

He was proud of Paul. Bagman loyalty was stronger than any kind of insanity. Opening the bag for the widow had been suicidal thievery, but never mentioning a name under pressure… that was the apex of loyalty. The man had redeemed himself in death.

If Paul had mentioned Railey, Uncle Sam’s top psychiatrists would have put together Paul’s insane jigsaw under the scrutiny of a federal judge. They would’ve climbed the ladder and tried to get to Hampshire at the top, and who knows, they might have succeeded.

He hadn’t slept well since Paul had run off with the bag.

Now he would sleep like a baby.

Yes, he was very proud of Paul Page.

Father Flanagan shed his uniform of God in Avoriaz, a ski resort in the French Alps he had always liked. Its quaint fairy-tale hotels and inns drew beautiful girls.

The first week he struck out. He tried hard, but couldn’t get the attention of a certain gorgeous blonde. His X-ray eyes revealed her to him nude as she swept down the slopes. She made all the others also-rans.

The second week he tried to catch her eye at the bar of their inn, on the road, in a lift while it was snowing, on a slope.

The third week he even joined kids in a snowball fight and deliberately threw one that broke on her back. She scolded the boys. He announced he had thrown it. She kept walking without a word.

The fourth week he spotted her with a group at the bar watching the morning news on TV. Logs were crackling in the huge fireplace. He ordered a Bloody Mary and sat on the stone bench near the fireplace and kept watching her. He sipped his drink. She paid no attention to him.

When he heard the name of Inspector Sainte-Beuve on the news, he turned away from her to look at the TV newsman reporting:

“Sainte-Beuve’s videotaped statement, made from his Paris hospital bed and transmitted to the New York police ten days ago, was said to be the decisive factor in the judge’s decision to release Michelle Troy. Mrs. Troy could not be reached for comment. Paul Page, the New York taxi driver who was slain following a murderous rampage…”

The blonde shivered and switched to another station. Some sort of philharmonic performance. The others in the group showed relief. They were on a vacation. They wanted to enjoy themselves, not listen to the sort of news they’d come to the Alps to escape.

Father Flanagan left, gathered up his skis, still rueful about Michelle’s Pyrrhic victory. He knew that no matter where she hid—California or Alaska—Eddie would find her and kill her. There was no statute of limitations on vengeance.

But if she was very fortunate, she’d live long enough to see her son grow up past toddlerhood.

He trudged through the snow on the road crowded with early skiers on their way to the lifts. Kids were still in snowball fights. Pictures were being taken of a family in a horse-drawn sleigh while the driver bit off a chunk of his baguette.

Taking the lift to the highest slope to see what it looked like from above, Father Flanagan watched experts in action. When the last skier queued up ahead of him asked if he wanted to go first, Father Flanagan shook his head. The skier sailed off. The way he soared made Father Flanagan’s courage sink lower. He was not a brave man and viewed any steep slope with suspicion.

He was startled when the blonde got off the lift with her skis. She glanced through him, as if he didn’t exist. It was his chance. They were alone.

He performed the suicidal feat. Sailing in the air, flying spread eagle with his legs apart, he made a perfect landing. He waited. She didn’t follow. He waited.

She came down in the lift.

“You’re wonderful!” she said. “I haven’t the nerve to tackle that slope.”

“How about a double lift to an easy one?”

“I’ll race you,” she said.

They trudged through snow to the double lift. They enjoyed the safe downhill race. She won. They lunched, raced down safe slopes the rest of the day, dined, slept in his bed.

The next day they repeated the same program.

When she learned he was only staying one more day, she was disappointed. She was staying on another week. Today they would enjoy themselves and tomorrow, his last, they would do the same. They were tired. Too much skiing.

But they slept well in his bed.

When he woke up, she was gone. The note on the floor was brief. She was going to the slope they met on, didn’t want him there in case she proved cowardly and backed out once again. He was to wait for her at the bar.

He smiled. She didn’t want him to see her chicken out or fall on her ass. There was no time to shower. Swiftly, he pulled a purple turtleneck over his head, thrust his legs into emerald green pants, jammed his feet into his heavy yellow boots, buckled them, put on his red skiing jacket, slung his tinted goggles round his neck, clapped on his knit cap, rushed out, grabbed his skis, hurried down the snow-banked road.

He kept his eyes on the highest slope. Deserted. No movement whatsoever. He looked for orange. Vivid orange—her jacket. No orange.

He stopped in the middle of the road. Steadied his gaze. Maybe she was still going up the lift. Maybe she had tried the slope and fallen.

He spotted orange on the top of the slope. It sparkled in the blinding sun. She stood there like an orange monument. He shared her fear. She was making up her mind.

She stood there for over a minute.

Suddenly she vanished. An instant later she appeared flying in the air. She sailed like a swan. She made a wonderful landing. Soon she would be skiing down the road to tell him all about it.

The sun burned his eyes. He put on the goggles and started along the road, waiting for her. Behind him, the approaching jingle of bells made him step out from the middle of the road as he turned toward the horse-drawn sleigh.

In it, he saw the widow. She was wrapped in mink. With a mink cap.

With her was a man. Both were laughing. On his lap was the baby pulling at the tail of the toy monkey in his tiny gloved hands.

The sleigh was coming closer. He knew she couldn’t recognize him, with goggles and hat and collar pulled high. But he recognized her. He also recognized the face sitting next to her. He had seen that face on TV and in newspapers threatening blood revenge for the murder of his brother.

Edward Cody.

Eddie and Michelle kissed.

The sleigh passed. He watched it heading toward the inn. The shock was brief. He had been taken in. Because of him, the mob wasn’t looking for Paul’s bag. She had made a horse’s ass out of him. She’d made a horse’s ass out of Hampshire. She had pulled the old collusion sting and it had worked. Eddie, the avenger, was her partner. It was a setup that had fooled everybody, even the cops. Father Flanagan admired her cunning, her acting ability, recalling the way she had goaded Paul to blow his top, yelling Eddie’s name. And Paul shot down by a French cop. What a goddam brilliant sting. She had the ten million and nobody was looking for it. Nobody.

His mind traveled back to his room, to the closet in his room, to the highest shelf of the closet, to the small leather satchel on the highest shelf, to the tools tucked away in a deep, reinforced pocket of the satchel. He was on vacation, he’d had no intention of working for a month, but because you never know what might come up, he hadn’t traveled empty-handed.

He smiled, thinking of the hammer, of the spikes.

No one was paying him to rectify the situation. True enough. But sometimes an extraordinary situation calls for unusual measures. And this was a matter of pride. Of self-respect. Of justice.

And of ten million dollars.

A small, strained voice in the back of his head spoke then:
If you let them live, the baby won’t be orphaned!

But he silenced it. There was orphaned and there was orphaned. Most of the ten million remained, surely, and a generous fraction donated anonymously to the orphanage in France would ensure a better childhood than he’d ever have had with his mother. It would ensure a good childhood for quite a few orphans.