The Matlock Paper (17 page)

Saliva began forming at the corners of her lips. The half-dead corpse was trying to speak.

“Jamie …” was the only word she managed and then her head slipped to one side.

Greenberg threw his whole weight against Matlock, sending him sprawling into the gathering crowd. He roared orders of “Police!” and “Ambulance!” until he saw enough people running to execute his commands. He put his mouth to the girl’s mouth, to force air into the collapsing lungs, but he knew it wasn’t really necessary. Patricia Ballantyne wasn’t dead; she’d been tortured by experts, and the experts knew their business well. Every slash, every crack, every bruise meant utmost pain but did not mean death.

He started to pick the girl up but Matlock stopped him. The English professor’s eyes were swollen with tears of hate. He gently removed Greenberg’s hands and lifted Pat into his arms. He carried her inside and stretched her out on the half-destroyed sofa. Greenberg went into the bedroom and returned with a blanket. Then he brought a bowl of warm water from the kitchen and several towels. He lifted the blanket and held a towel beneath the bleeding breasts. Matlock, staring in horror at the brutally beaten face, then took the edge of another towel and began wiping away the blood around the shaven head and the mouth.

“She’ll be all right, Jim. I’ve seen this before. She’ll be all right.”

And as Greenberg heard the sounds of the sirens in the near distance, he wondered, really, if this girl would ever be right again.

Matlock, helpless, continued to wipe the girl’s face, his tears now streaming down his cheeks, his eyes unblinking. He spoke through his controlled sobs.

“You know what this means, don’t you? No one
pulls me out now. They try, I’ll kill them.”

“I won’t let them,” said Greenberg simply.

The screeching of brakes could be heard outside and the flashing lights of the police cars and the ambulances whipped in circles through the windows.

Matlock’s face fell into the cushion beside the unconscious girl and he wept.

Matlock awoke in the antiseptic whiteness of a hospital room. The shade was up, and the sun reflected harshly on the three walls he could see. At his feet a nurse was writing efficiently, emphatically, on top of a clipboard attached to the base of the bed by a thin keychain. He stretched his arms, then quickly brought his left back, aware of a sharp pain in his forearm.

“You feel those the next morning, Mr. Matlock,” droned the nurse without looking up from the clipboard. “Heavy intravenous sedations are murder, I can tell you. Not that I’ve ever had one, but Lord knows, I’ve seen enough who have.”

“Is Pat … Miss Ballantyne here?”

“Well, not in the same
room!
Lord, you campus types!”

“She’s here?”

“Of course. Next room. Which I intend to keep
locked!
Lord, you people from the hill!… There! You’re all accounted for.” The nurse let the clipboard crash down and vibrate back and forth. “Now.
You’ve
got special privileges.
You’re
allowed breakfast even though it’s past breakfast time—
way
past! That’s probably because they want you to pay your bill.… You can be discharged any time after twelve.”

“What time is it? Someone took my watch.”

“It’s eight minutes to nine,” said the nurse, glancing at her wrist. “And no one
took
your watch. It’s with any other valuables you had when you were admitted.”

“How
is
Miss Ballantyne?”

“We don’t discuss other patients, Mr. Matlock.”

“Where’s her doctor?”

“He’s the same as yours, I understand. Not one of
ours
.” The nurse made sure the statement was hardly complimentary. “According to your chart, he’ll be here at nine thirty unless we phone for an emergency.”

“Call him. I want him here as soon as possible.”

“Now, really. There’s no emergency.…”

“Goddamn it, get him here!”

As Matlock raised his voice the door of his room opened. Jason Greenberg came in quickly. “I could hear you in the corridor. That’s a good sign.”

“How’s Pat?!”

“Just a minute, sir. We have regulations.…”

Greenberg took out his identification and showed it to the nurse. “This man is in my custody, Miss. Check the front desk, if you like, but leave us alone.”

The nurse, ever professional, scrutinized the identification and walked rapidly out the door.

“How’s Pat?”

“A mess, but with it. She had a bad night; she’s going to have a worse morning when she asks for a mirror.”

“The hell with that! Is she
all right?
”

“Twenty-seven stitches—body, head, mouth, and, for variety, one on her left foot. But she’s going to be fine. X-rays show only bone bruises. No fractures, no ruptures, no internal bleeding. The bastards did their usual professional job.”

“Was she able to talk?”

“Not really. And the doctor didn’t advise it. She needs sleep more than anything else.… You need a little rest, too. That’s why we put you here last night.”

“Anyone hurt at the apartment?”

“Nope. It was a crazy bombing. We don’t think it was intended to kill anyone. The first was a short two-inch stick taped below the window exterior; the second—activated by the first—wasn’t much more than a July Fourth rocket. You expected the second blast, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I guess I did.… Terror tactics, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what we figure.”

“Can I see Pat?”

“Rather you waited. The doctor thinks she’ll sleep into the afternoon. There’s a nurse in there with ice packs and stuff if localized pain bothers her. Let her rest.”

Matlock cautiously sat up on the edge of the bed. He began flexing his legs, arms, neck, and hands, and found that he wasn’t much below par. “I feel sort of like a hangover without the headache.”

“The doctor gave you a heavy dose. You were … understandably … very emotional.”

“I remember everything. I’m calmer, but I don’t retract one goddamned word.… I have two classes today. One at ten and the other at two. I want to make them.”

“You don’t have to. Sealfont wants to see you.”

“I’ll talk to him after my last class.… Then I’ll see Pat.” Matlock stood on his feet and walked slowly to the large hospital window. It was a bright, sunlit morning; Connecticut had had a string of beautiful days. As he stared outside, Matlock remembered that he’d looked out another window five days ago
when he’d first met Jason Greenberg. He’d made a decision then as he was making one now. “Last night you said you wouldn’t let them pull me out. I hope you haven’t changed your mind. I’m
not
going to be on that Pan Am flight tomorrow.”

“You won’t be arrested. I promised you that.”

“Can you prevent it? You also said you were going to be replaced.”

“I can prevent it.… I can morally object, an enigmatic phrase which is translated to mean I can embarrass people. However, I don’t want to mislead you. If you create problems, you could be taken into protective custody.”

“They can if they can find me.”

“That’s a condition I don’t like.”

“Forget you heard it. Where are my clothes?” Matlock walked to the single closet door and opened it. His slacks, jacket, and shirt were hung on hangers; his loafers were on the floor with his socks carefully inserted. The lone bureau held his undershorts and a hospital-furnished toothbrush. “Will you go down and see whoever you’ve got to see to get me out of here? Also, I’ll need my wallet, cash, and watch. Will you do that, please?”

“What do you mean—if they could find you? What are you going to do?” Greenberg made no move to leave.

“Nothing earth-shattering. Merely continue making those inquiries … of a minor nature. That’s the way the statement from your employers phrased it, wasn’t it? Loring said it. Somewhere out there is the other half of that paper. I’m going to find it.”

“You listen to me first! I don’t deny you have a right …”

“You don’t
deny!
” Matlock turned on the federal
agent. His voice was controlled but vicious. “That’s not good enough. That’s
negative
approval! I’ve got several
big
rights! They include a kid brother in a sailboat, a black son of a bitch named Dunois or whatever you call him, a man by the name of Lucas Herron, and that girl in there! I suspect you and the doctor know the rest of what happened to her last night, and I can
guess!
Don’t talk to me about
a right!
”

“In principle, we agree. I just don’t want your ‘rights’ to land you next to your brother. This is a job for professionals. Not an amateur! If you work at all, I want you to work with whoever takes my place. That’s important. I want your word on it.”

Matlock took off the top of his pajamas and gave Greenberg a short, embarrassed smile. “You have it. I don’t really see myself as a one-man ranger team. Do you know who’s taking your place?”

“Not yet. Probably someone from D.C. They won’t take a chance on using a Hartford or a New Haven man.… The truth is … they don’t know who’s been bought. He’ll be in touch. I’ll have to brief him myself. No one else can. I’ll instruct him to identify himself with … what would you like?”

“Tell him to use your proverb. ‘When the old men kill themselves, the cities are dying.’ ”

“You like that, don’t you?”

“I don’t like it or dislike it. It’s simply the truth. Isn’t that the way it should be?”

“And very applicable. I see what you mean.”

“Very.”

“Jim, before I go this afternoon, I’m going to write
out
a telephone number for you. It’s a Bronx number—my parents. They won’t know where I am, but I’ll check with them every day. Use it if you have to.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“I want your word on it.”

“You have it.” Matlock laughed a short laugh of gratitude.

“Of course, under the circumstances, I may just be on the other end of the line if you do call.”

“Back in private practice?”

“The possibility is less remote than you think.”

Between his two classes, Matlock drove to the small brokerage office in the town of Carlyle and emerged with a check for $7,312. It represented his total investment in the market, mostly from royalties. The broker had tried to dissuade him; it was no time to sell, especially at current prices. But Matlock had made up his mind. The cashier reluctantly issued the check.

From there Matlock went to his bank and transferred his entire savings into his checking account. He added the $7,312 to the slip and looked at the sum total of his immediate cash value.

It came to $11,501.72.

Matlock stared at the figure for several minutes. He had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, it proved solvency; on the other, it was a little frightening to think that after thirty-three years of living he was able to pinpoint so accurately his net financial worth. There was no house, no land, no hidden investments anywhere. Only an automobile, a few possessions of minor value, and some published words of such a specialized nature that there would be no significant commercial rewards.

Yet by many standards, it was a great deal of money.

Only nowhere
near
enough. He knew that. It was why Scarsdale, New York, was on the day’s schedule.

The meeting with Sealfont had been unnerving, and Matlock wasn’t sure how much more his shattered nerves could take. The cold fury of Carlyle’s president was matched only by the depth of his anguish.

The bewildering shadow world of violence and corruption was a world he could never come to grips with because it was not within the realm of his comprehension. Matlock had been startled to hear Seal-font say, as he sat in his chair staring out the bay window overlooking the most beautiful lawn on the Carlyle campus, that he might well resign.

“If this whole sordid, unbelievable business is true—and who can doubt it—I have no right to sit in this chair.”

“That’s not so,” Matlock had answered. “If it’s true, this place is going to need you more than ever before.”

“A blind man? No one needs a blind man. Not in this office.”

“Not blind. Unexposed.”

And then Sealfont had swung around in his chair and pounded on the top of his desk in an enormous display of strength.

“Why
here?! Why here?!
”

As he sat in front of Sealfont’s desk, Matlock looked at the pained face of Carlyle’s president. And for a second he thought the man might weep.

The trip down the Merritt Parkway was made at high speed. He had to race; it was necessary for him. It helped take his mind off the sight of Pat Ballantyne as he had seen her a few minutes before leaving. He had gone from Sealfont’s to the hospital; still he hadn’t been able to talk with her. No one had yet.

She had awakened at noon, he’d been told. She’d gone into severe hysterics. The doctor from Litchfield had administered further sedatives. The doctor was worried, and Matlock knew it was Pat’s mind he was worried about. The nightmare of terror inflicted upon her body had to touch her brain.

The first minutes with his parents at the huge Scarsdale house were awkward. His father, Jonathan Munro Matlock, had spent decades in the highest spheres of his marketplace and knew instinctively when a man came to him without strength.

Without strength but with need.

Matlock told his father as simply and unemotionally as he could that he wanted to borrow a large sum of money; he could not guarantee its repayment. It would be used to help—ultimately help—young people like his dead brother.

The dead son.

“How?” asked Jonathan Matlock softly.

“I can’t tell you that.” He looked into his father’s eyes and the irrevocable truth of the son’s statement was accepted by the father.

“Very well. Are you qualified for this undertaking?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Are there others involved?”

“By necessity, yes.”

“Do you trust them?”

“I do.”

“Have they asked for this money?”

“No. They don’t know about it.”

“Will it be at their disposal?”

“No. Not that I can foresee.… I’ll go further than that. It would be wrong for them to learn of it.”