Dante's Poison (38 page)

“I guess you could say I'm just a lucky guy,” I replied.

I was holding Hallie's hand and she shuddered. “Luck doesn't begin to describe it. Oh, Mark . . .”

“No, don't start crying. I may feel compelled to join you.”

I disengaged my hand and fumbled in my jacket pocket for a handkerchief. It required more maneuvering than usual because of the sling on my left arm. “Here,” I said, shaking it out by the corner and handing it over. “It's probably against hospital regulations, but I don't want to go crashing around looking for a tissue.”

She took it from me, sobbing in earnest now.

I moved in closer and patted her arm. “There, there. It's just the head injury. People are often emotional when they come out of it.”

“It's not that,” Hallie said, sniffling. “It's just that you . . . you were almost killed because of me.”

I gave her a crooked grin. “And you were almost killed because of me. So we're even. Though I'm going to have to think long and hard before getting involved in your next case. This one nearly lost me my head. By the way, how is yours feeling?”

Miraculously, based on all the early tests, she appeared to have sustained no neurological damage apart from some weakness on her left side that could be cleared up with minor physical therapy. After I got the cast off, I'd be joining her.

Hallie blew into the handkerchief and said, “Like someone stuffed it full of mattresses and then stomped all over them. I'm just glad you can't see me. I look like Alvin the Chipmunk with a hangover. And I'm going to have to get a new hairdo when the dressings come off.”

“I'm sure Bjorn won't mind,” I said.

“Oh, him,” she said dismissively. “Do you know he hasn't come to see me even once? Although he did send a nice flower arrangement.”

“Men are so unreliable,” I said.

Hallie laughed. “Of course, you know what that means.”

“What?”

“You'll have to keep going to the theater with me.”

“I think that can be arranged—unless the next one in your subscription is
Wait until Dark
. Can I ask you something?”

“If it avoids the subject of what I'm wearing.”

“Are you sure it was Graham—I mean Donald Tesma Junior—who attacked us? It couldn't have been, say, a woman dressed up to look like a man?” Graham had admitted he was behind the attack, but I didn't know whom to believe anymore.

“Uh-uh. I'm positive it was him.”

“You're really sure?”

“It's what I told you ages ago. I'd remember that face anywhere. If you don't believe me, ask the EMTs. I kept trying to tell them, but they wouldn't listen.”

I smiled indulgently at her. “The only thing you said in the ambulance was that you were sick and needed to use a phone.”

“Maybe that's what it sounded like, but I was actually giving them a clue. It just got lost in translation.”

“Why, were you speaking Spanish?”

Hallie sighed. “OK, I know it wasn't the easiest message to follow. But if you recall, I wasn't exactly lucid at the time. I wasn't using the words ‘sick' or ‘phone.' I was saying ‘ill' and ‘app.'”

“Well, that certainly clears it up for me.”

“If you don't shut up I'm going to throw this water jug at you. ‘Ill.' and ‘App.' are abbreviations—lawyer shorthand for the Illinois Appellate Reports, where all the opinions of the appeals courts are published. They're organized by volume and page number. I was telling them where to look for the decision affirming Tesma's conviction. For some reason it was the only thing I could come up with while I was sinking into oblivion.”

I shook my head in amazement. “You mean it? That's what you were trying to say?”

“Yes, and if you or anyone else had bothered to tell Jane she would have caught on immediately. She would have led you to Tesma's son long before he tried to kill you.”

Somehow I doubted it.

“Now it's my turn to ask a question,” Hallie said. “What were you thinking of when . . . when he was about to push you off? It must have been terrifying.”

“You mean, did my life flash before my eyes? Let's just say I was busy counting up all my sins. There's one in particular I need to tell you about. But later, when you're better. In the meantime, there's another misconception between us that needs clearing up.”

“Like what?”

“Like this,” I said.

I imagined her eyes opened wide in surprise as I leaned in to kiss her.

The next morning, while I was getting dressed for my two appointments, a knock came on my door. Since it was only 6:00 a.m., I hoped it didn't mean I'd been observed sneaking back from the men's room with my shaving gear. Following the episode with Graham I hadn't worked up the nerve to go back to my apartment—which in any case was now a cordoned-off crime scene—and had been camping out at my office, which had the dual virtues of proximity to Hallie and a twenty-four-hour security patrol. Just in case, I'd also had office management install new locks on the door, which was now double-bolted against intruders. “Just a sec,” I said, while I finished buttoning my shirt and tucking it into my waistband. I opened the door to find—of all people—Yelena.

“‘Hark, hark the lark at heaven's gate sings,'” I said. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I hope you're not planning on moving in here permanently. It's enough of a dump as it is.”

“About that. Do you think you could come in this weekend and help me do some more straightening? I'm sure I could arrange for time and a half.”

“I'd like to,” Yelena said. “But I'll be busy.”

I should have known our détente wouldn't last for long.

“But maybe another time,” she added, surprising me. “When I get back.”

“Get back from where?”

“The vacation I put in for. Two weeks ago. But I suppose you weren't paying attention.”

Thinking back to the episode with Graham, I had to admit she was right. “I'm sorry,” I said to her. “I've . . . I've had a lot on my mind lately. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Just that you're invited to a party on Sunday. If you can make it. Boris won't be free to drive you, but Dr. Goldman said he'd be glad to pick you up.”

I decided she must be talking about her birthday, the date of which I realized I'd never bothered to ask about. “Sure,” I said. “I'd be glad to come. And I promise not to ask how old you are.”

“It's not that kind of party,” Yelena said in mock irritation. “Here's the invitation.” She handed me a linen envelope about the size of a CD. “I can stay and read it to you if you want me to.”

“Er, no thanks,” I said, now filled with embarrassment. All the signs had been there. I just hadn't noticed them. “May I ask who the lucky fellow is?”

“For the answer to that, you'll have to go back to your favorite play.”

“Huh?” I said as she turned to leave.

“‘The instances that second marriage move . . .'” she quoted, making her exit while I stood there with my mouth stationed just above the floor.

“More tea?” Jane asked.

“Please,” I said. “Provided that's all I'm drinking.”

She laughed in merriment. “You should be more trusting. We're sharing the same pot, aren't we?”

“That's no guarantee I won't soon be writhing on the floor in convulsions. I brought you something you might want to take a look at some time.” I removed some papers from the backpack I'd been wearing when I came in, which in combination with the sling and the cane no doubt made me look like some species of armored insect.

Jane took them and scanned rapidly. “You needn't have bothered. I'm already familiar with the questionnaire. I see you brought the long version.”

I wasn't entirely surprised. “You know what it is?”

“Certainly. The Hare Psychopathology Checklist. A diagnostic tool developed by a Canadian psychologist based on his work with psychopaths in prison. It ‘scores' an individual on twenty different items like boredom, shallow emotions, lack of empathy, and so forth, with the numbers zero, one, or two, depending on how pronounced the trait is. Shall I tell you what my score was?”

“In the mid-twenties, if I had to venture a guess.”

She sounded delighted. “You
are
perceptive. Not as high as it might have been, but thanks to a good therapist I was able to shed many of the less socially desirable characteristics in my youth. As you can see, I work long hours and take my responsibilities seriously. Nor am I especially promiscuous. Of course, shading the truth comes easily, but that only helps me perform better in my profession. Did you know that some estimates place the incidence of psychopathy among lawyers and politicians at nearly twenty percent? It's one of my favorite statistics.”

“So you were diagnosed early?”

“As a teenager. In those days you could have given me a starring role in
The Chalk Garden
and I wouldn't have had to act the part. Are you familiar with the play?”

“Sure. It was also a film, wasn't it?”

“Yes. I always found it amusing that the writer attributed Laurel's wildness to feelings of abandonment by her mother. She was a junior psychopath if ever there was one. My situation was quite different. I grew up in a loving home with every advantage, both material and emotional, though it wasn't sufficient to overcome the trait. Inflicting physical pain was never of much interest to me, but I found other ways to torture my siblings. Then, when I was fourteen I pushed a classmate down a flight of stairs at the Lab School. It should have gotten me expelled, but my parents were wealthy and influential enough to get the matter hushed up. They settled quietly with the girl's parents and enrolled me in an outpatient program at the university hospital with the threat of sending me to the Orthogenic School if I didn't cooperate.”

I nodded. “And did you—cooperate?”

“I was fortunate to get the attention of a brilliant psychiatrist, a pioneer in the field, who recognized at once how intelligent I was. He put the issue to me very simply. I couldn't be cured in any real sense of the term, but I could learn self-control. If I did, my life could be as productive and happy—though that's not an emotion I ever really feel—as any normal person's. If I didn't, I would probably end up in prison. Being trapped like that was the worst fate I could imagine, so I went along with his behavior-modification program. Over time, I learned to take my pleasure, such as it is, from success. And from manipulating people into doing what I want.”

“Like you manipulated me,” I said.

“Perhaps. Why don't we play that version of blind man's bluff we played before? The one where I nod when you're on the right track but don't otherwise confirm it.”

“All right,” I said, drawing something else out of my backpack. “For starters I thought I'd ask if you recognized this. If I'm not mistaken, you left it for me right after Hallie and I were attacked.” I tossed it onto her coffee table.

“I don't think I'll pick it up,” Jane said. “Someone—I won't say who—must have gone to a great deal of trouble not to leave any fingerprints.”

“And arranged it so that it couldn't be traced back to the sender in other ways. You, for instance.”

She laughed again. “Now why would I do that?”

“You were trying to hit me over the head with it.”

“That's a droll way of saying it. Surely you're not accusing me of being the one who attacked you?”

“I did wonder for a while. But after thinking it over I decided you wouldn't have stooped to anything so crude. And Hallie is very definite about it being Tesma's son. What I don't understand is how you knew he was our attacker.”

“That isn't damaging to my interests, so I'll answer. You remember the investigation I undertook for Atria? One of the first things I did was commandeer a room at company headquarters so I could conduct private interviews of all its salesmen. I recognized him as soon as he walked through the door. He recognized me too, though we each pretended to be complete strangers.”