The Company She Kept (20 page)

He opened up just enough to see Bill Allard's familiar shape looming over him. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Give it a rest.”

“I'm supposed to find out if you've been brain damaged.”

Joe widened his eyes. “By yelling at me? Who told you to do that?”

He raised a hand to test his throbbing head and found his forearm tethered to an IV tube and one finger capped by a pulse monitor.

He looked around slightly, trying not to move. “Where am I?”

“Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center,” Allard answered him. “They brought you straight here after the downstairs neighbor found you in a pile in Newport.” He added with an edge to his voice, “Where you'd gone to interview a dangerous half-wit on your own with no backup and without telling dispatch. Congratulations. Pure dumb luck you made so much noise going down—imagine if that lunkhead had just cut your throat and then dumped you in the lake. You're supposed to be influencing Kunkle—not the reverse.”

Joe used his other hand to massage his forehead, to no effect except to discover that it was covered with a bandage.

“Was Wylie Dupont found with me?”

“Yeah, with a broken neck.”

“He's dead?”

“No. He might wish he was when he comes out of his coma—assuming he does.”

Joe scowled. “He just blew up. It was crazy.”

Allard's tone hardened again. With his vision clearing, Joe could see that Bill looked like he should be in the adjoining bed. He was obviously exhausted. “What's crazy is that there're enough TV trucks dogging my heels to document a shuttle launch. We were just starting to think they might find this whole mess too boring to stick around, when you decided to go commando on us.”

“I thought that meant you weren't wearing underwear.”

Bill glared at him. “Don't fuck with me. What the hell were you doing, anyhow? What does Dupont have that's so valuable?”

Joe blinked slowly a couple of times. “That's the worst part—probably nothing. I was just hoping for some sort of break.”

Bill shook his head. “No one ever told you to beware what you wish for?”

*   *   *

Bob Crawford got out of his car and crossed over to where Sam and Willy were sitting in her vehicle. He settled into the backseat.

“Nice heater. Mine only goes up about half-power. They can't figure out why. Gotta drive around dressed like an Eskimo.” He began struggling out of his parka as he spoke. “You hear about your boss?” he asked.

They both turned to stare at him. “What?” Sammie asked first.

“He's at DHMC with a bump on the head. Got ambushed in Newport by some buddy of the late, unlamented Nate Fellows. Guess he was flying without a wingman for some reason.” He waggled his eyebrows at them. “What're you two up to?”

Sam wasn't ready to move on yet. “How is he? Is he okay?”

“Fine, far as I know. He went down a flight of stairs. The other guy came out worse, so there may be some justice in the world.”

“Spare me,” Willy grumbled.

“How did you hear all this?” Sam asked, still struggling with her surprise.

“The hospital is media storm central, but my source is a nurse I know on the floor. You guys should play the radio more often.”

Willy shifted his attention to his partner. “You wanna go rushing off to his side—hold his hand?”

Of course she did, which heightened her anger at his attitude. “Damn. You do have a gift.”

Crawford weighed in. “Wouldn't make any difference. You know he's got hot- and cold-running medical care. You can't beat that. Plus, it sounds like your boss-of-bosses is with him anyhow.”

“Allard?” Willy was caught off guard this time.

“That's what I heard. He's probably reaming your boy a new one.”

Willy tilted his head appreciatively. “Could be,” he agreed. “I'll remember that next time he beats up on me.”

Sam scowled at him. “You poor baby. You do suffer.”

Willy laughed. “I do. I do.”

“So,” Crawford asked, “you going or not? We can do this another time.”

It was Sammie who chose for them. “No, you're right. Sounds like he's fine. We can catch up with him later. Or I can,” she said darkly to Willy.

“Okay then,” Bob resumed. “What d'you want from me?”

“For starters, what've you heard about Stuey Nichols?” Willy asked.

Bob nodded in acknowledgment. “Allan Steward Nichols. Lives in the Gut somewhere. Moves around, like most of them, so I don't have a specific address.”

“And?” Willy pressed.

“Not much else. Local loser doing pissant deals—making ends meet. Not a major player. Why?”

“Sam's got a source who says he was in on a deal to supply Susan Raffner with weed through an intermediary.”

“No foolin'? I get why you're interested.”

“But you don't know his whereabouts?” Sammie confirmed.

“Not exactly. I can find out—just by taking you up the street.”

“Good,” Willy encouraged him. “'Cause if we're real lucky, this might be the back door into what got Raffner killed. Bob, if you don't know where Stuey lives, you know at least where he's getting his supplies? It was Holyoke, back in the day.”

“Still is,” Bob said. “The powers change names now and then—the top dog right now is somebody named Manny Ruiz. If we could land him, that would be a major home run. But it's not likely. Too well protected.”

“Whoa,” Willy reacted, tapping Sam on the arm. “He was your squeeze back then.”

Sam shot him a withering look, surprised by her own anger. “That was the cover. Glad it was convincing, even after all these years.” She shifted to Crawford. “How big is Ruiz?”

“Top ranks. It's a more open marketplace than it used to be, now that Vermont's a ripe-'n'-ready consumer state. The last bunch of hotshots were out of New York—the Bronx, to be precise—but even they weren't cut from the old cartel model, with the strict pyramidal, top-down, Mexican drug lord structure. The action's shifted to what used to be the runners and lieutenants—like a middle management thing now, 'cause the money's so good and the risks so minimal.”

He jutted his chin out the side window at the town around them. “That's partly why the shift in policing in this town.”

“I was telling Willy that they discontinued their drug unit,” Sammie said.

“Correct—for local departments, it's less about interdiction now, and more about making your town an unappealing marketplace. You wanna meet with the local expert on that, I know where he is right now—regular as rain every day. He might also be able to tell you about Stuey.”

Sam and Willy exchanged a glance. “Sure,” Sammie told Crawford.

*   *   *

It was late at night when Joe saw the door to his hospital room swing open without a sound. He was awake, reading a history book. His sleeping schedule had been knocked off-kilter by the visits he received around the clock from doctors and nurses, not to mention the spontaneous naps he fell prey to.

Adding intrigue to this interruption was the fact that he recognized the wary business-suited man who entered as Gail Zigman's head of security, John Carter.

“John?” he said inquiringly.

Carter finished his survey of the single-bed room, also glancing into the small bathroom. “Hey, Joe. How's the noggin?”

“Not a vital organ, so all's well. What're you doing here?”

“On the job,” was the answer. “You up for a guest?”

Joe guessed what was next. “Absolutely.” He marked his page and rested the book in his lap.

Gail entered as John left, closing the door and leaving them alone.

Joe smiled. “Just so it's on the record, I know that you know that we shouldn't be meeting without a witness in the room, unless I've been taken off the case.”

She smiled back tensely and crossed over to him to administer a kiss on the cheek and an awkward hug. “I know you know that I know—and that I also don't give a good goddamn.” She sat in the chair next to his bed and slipped off her coat.

“How goes the battle?” he asked. “You've had more press coverage recently than most natural disasters.”

“Interesting comparison. I'll tell you about it in a couple of minutes, but it's not why I came.” She laid a hand on his and looked him straight in the eye. “I want to know if you're okay. Really. And please—none of the New England macho crap you just gave John. I want the truth.”

He turned his hand over so he could interlink fingers with her. “I'm fine. I promise. They're holding me overnight to be safe, but every test and scan and blood draw they've done shows nothing wrong. Apparently, I bounce as well as when I was a baby. I'd tell you if it was otherwise. Speaking of bouncing, though, how're you holding up? I don't guess you've fit much governing in with all the junk that's been flying at you.”

She forced a smile. “You've been keeping company with Kunkle for too long.”

“Oh?” he asked.

“My coming out has been called a lot of things lately, but ‘junk' isn't one of them—or my grieving over Susan's death.”

He tilted his head slightly at the rebuke and looked at her without comment, forcing her to respond apologetically. “But there you have it. Sad to admit, Kunkle is usually right. So, yes—all PC aside, I've been drowning in junk, most of it coming from beyond our borders.”

“You were warned about that, if I remember.”

“I was. Rob foremost among them was quick to point that out. Thankfully, he hasn't now been saying, ‘I told you so,' for which I am very grateful. And my staff in general has really been great.”

“Nevertheless,” Joe asked her, “any regrets?”

“No. I followed my conscience. Maybe not good politics, at least outside Vermont, but I can live with it.”

“From what I've heard, it's not hurting you nationally, either, except among people who would never agree with you anyhow.”

Her mouth tightened slightly before she commented, “Implying it was smart politics after all?”

He squeezed her hand. “Can we stop this? We used to be best friends. I'm not sure what made me a bad guy, but I've never sniped at you or disrespected you or talked behind your back or—ever—doubted your integrity. And your being here now tells me you know that to be true.”

She was crying, her head tucked, her other hand wiping her nose. He let her be, not offering platitudes or empty soothings. He made it a point to never say, “I'm sorry for your loss,” and he didn't try for an equivalent phrase now. She had come to him, across the state border and near the middle of the night, and he half suspected it was in part to do exactly what she was doing now. He wasn't about to stop her.

“We were lovers, Joe,” she finally said, extracting a tissue from her pocket and blowing her nose before continuing. “We might as well've been married. We saw each other through my rape and your almost getting killed, and your mom and brother nearly dying in that car wreck—just for starters. I come out and tell the world I'm gay, and all you say is that we better be sure to follow protocol and talk through channels. I mean, shit, Joe—I got that much out of fucking Rob Perkins or the ice queen Joan Renaud.”

Joe felt a surge of anger. His entire life—from watching his taciturn father while a child, to absorbing the deaths of comrades in battle, to letting invective slide off him in mid-interrogation in order to secure a confession—Joe had practiced self-control. Denying himself the short-lived pleasure of an emotional outburst had become as natural to him as his advice to others to let their feelings run free. In most people's eyes, he knew this paradox made him something of an Obi-Wan—useful, he conceded, but largely untrue. He hurt and pined as much as anyone. His instincts to lash out and curse and complain were no different from anyone's. He'd merely trained himself to rein them in, to process in private, and to counsel on the basis of what he learned, rather than on how he felt.

As he did now, instead of arguing with her. Wronged as he was, he tamped down his protest, and said, “You know me better than that, Gail. You're in pain you hoped you'd never feel again, and you're swamped by what everybody's throwing at you. Susan was someone you loved, along with being the best counselor you ever had, and you're beating on me hoping I'll get pissed enough to maybe justify our breaking up in the first place.”

She opened her mouth to react before he cut her off. “The point is, life sometimes sucks and makes us doubt our decisions. But you were right to leave me, and right to run for governor, and right to open your heart to Susan. You don't need to kick me in the shin while you're legitimately and lovingly wishing me well.”

He propped himself up on one elbow to lean closer to her, making himself dizzy in the process, but feeling relieved nevertheless. “Take a breath, Gail. Accept the pain and the grief and—most of all—the help that people are offering you. You have a right to be angry. Just don't use it on the rest of us.”

He didn't expect her to respond one way or another, and was grateful that she didn't, instead merely tucking her head in deeper and completely yielding to her sorrow.

He lay back against his pillows and let out a breath, struck by the contrast between the two most recent victims of catastrophe that he'd encountered: Vermont's chief executive—ambitious enough to make the governorship a mere launching pad for higher national office—and Wylie Dupont, lying in a room down the hall, barely aware of what had befallen him, or why.

There wasn't much to be made of it, he decided, aside from the usual tired aphorisms concerning life's odd quirks. Decades ago, he'd been offended by first hearing the phrase, “Shit happens.” Now, possibly aided by his proximity to Willy, he was finding himself hard-pressed to improve upon it.