The Sleepless (44 page)

‘I went to Kevin with everything I knew ... the Masky interview, and all the statistics. Kevin had managed to dig out some of the FAA’s technical findings and he agreed with me. So we went to Joe Garboden and he agreed that the whole thing was pretty damned strange, to say the least. On the face of it, it looked as if the O’Brien crash was suspicious death at the very least, and that it could amount to conspiracy to commit multiple homicide.’ 

‘So what happened?’ asked Michael. ‘You and Kevin were hot on the trail. Why did Joe suddenly take you off it, and offer it to me? He told me himself that he didn’t particularly want me to do it.’ 

Artur Rolbein sipped his Seven-Up without taking his hand away from his face. ‘Edgar Bedford told him to do it.’ 

‘But – come on, Artur, it doesn’t make any sense. Edgar Bedford knew that I was invalided out. He knew that I was undergoing therapy. Why did he think that I could handle a major investigation better than you guys?’ 

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Artur Rolbein. ‘But Joe said that even Edgar Bedford was having to obey orders.’ 

‘Edgar Bedford? The great autocratic Boston billionaire? You’ve got to be joking.’ 

‘Joe was sure of it. He was kind of round-and-about, the way he explained it. He said that there were people who came and went. He’d seen them in Edgar Bedford’s office, he’d seen them in the mayor’s office, he’d seen them everyplace.’ 

‘What people?’ 

‘I don’t know,
people.
He said that once you’d realized who they were, you could always recognize them. He was building up some kind of a file on the subject. Maybe he was paranoid, maybe the job was getting him down. He’s my boss, so I didn’t try to second-guess him. But O’Brien was a multiple homicide, an assassination, I’m sure of that. I don’t know how it was done. The helicopter could have been crashed by remote control, who knows? We live in a technological age, right? If a nine-year-old kid can get to the top level on Sonic the Hedgehog, an adult engineer can find a way of crashing a helicopter wherever he wants to. There’s always a way of fixing everything. The
how
of it is not the point.’ 

‘So, what is the point?’ Michael asked him. 

‘The point is, on the afternoon that Joe Garboden told Kevin and me that we were off the O’Brien investigation, he passed a piece of paper across his desk, so that we could read it while we were talking.’ 

‘Go on.’ 

Artur Rolbein was obviously frightened and upset. He took his hand away from his face and there were tears in his eyes. ‘I’ll never forget it. The piece of paper said, “Please Agree, No Arguments, OK, Otherwise They’ll Kill You.” Then he turned it over, and on the back he’d written “I’m Serious.” ‘ 

‘So you agreed,’ said Michael, feeling grim. He wished that Joe were home, so that he could talk to him. 

Artur Rolbein wiped his eyes with his fingers and gave him a bitter smile. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ 

They shook hands outside The Rat and agreed to keep in touch. The evening was warm and Commonwealth Avenue was thronged with passers-by. Outside the brick façade with its Germanic
Rathskeller
sign, they could still hear the insistent throb of music. Artur Rolbein said he would probably walk part of the way home: he wanted to visit a friend on Boylston Street. Michael hailed a cab. 

‘Where do you want to be?’ the driver asked him. 

‘Cantina Napoletana, Hanover Street.’ 

They drove through the evening rush hour. It was almost dark now, a turmoil of lights and honking cars. Lights flashed on top of the Prudential Center and Sixty State Street. Two National Guard Chinooks thundered overhead. The cab driver glanced in his rear-view mirror and Michael saw that one of his eyes was darkly bloodshot. ‘Looks like it’s war,’ the cab driver remarked. 

‘I didn’t hear the latest,’ Michael told him. ‘Is the rioting still going on?’ 

‘The cops are still shooting innocent bystanders, if that’s what you mean.’ 

‘Hey,’ said Michael. ‘I’m not getting political here.’ 

‘Who’s getting political?’ the driver retorted. ‘This is the day of atonement, aint it? This aint political, this is biblical.’ 

‘Whatever it is, it’s a crying shame,’ said Michael. 

‘It’s the day of atonement,’ the driver repeated. ‘I always knew it was going to come, and now it has.’ 

He dropped Michael off at the Cantina Napoletana. He handed Michael his change, fixing him with his one good eye and his one bloodshot eye. ‘It’s a burnt offering, that’s what it is,’ he said, with aggressive over-emphasis. ‘An offering by fire of a soothing aroma to the Lord.’ 

‘A what?’ 

‘A so – o – othing aroma,’ the cab driver replied, and steered off into the traffic. 

Standing on the sidewalk outside the Cantina Napoletana, amidst all the normality of a summer evening on Hanover Street, with the smells of Italian cooking and gasoline fumes and Boston Harbor and diesel oil and women’s perfume, Michael knew for certain that Joe was right, and that Joe had discovered something strange and terrible in the fabric of everyday life. 

It must have been like discovering a hideous face in the pattern of a familiar wallpaper. Once you’ve noticed it, you can never look at the wallpaper again without seeing that same hideous face, endlessly repeated. 

He climbed the stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door. All the lights were on, and Thelonious Monk was playing ‘Nice Work If You Can Get It’ on the CD. Victor was there already, his feet up on the couch, sipping alternately from a cup of espresso and a shot-glass of Jack Daniels. 

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said, taking off his glasses, and putting down the notebook that he had been reading. Beside him on the couch were the other books that Michael had taken from Dr Rice’s office: his Filofax, and the green-bound volume from the shelf beside the Sheeler painting. While the Hyannis police had been helping the paramedics to carry Dr Rice to the ambulance, Michael had simply slipped them into a large manila envelope marked
NEW
E
NGLAND DEACONESS HOSPITAL
and walked out of the office with the envelope under his arm. 

‘It looks like Frank Coward had been a patient of Dr Rice’s for quite a few years,’ said Victor. ‘Dr Rice was giving him hypnotherapy for recurring nightmares and panic attacks. Apparently poor old Frank kept seeing two old buddies from his service days. The unnerving thing was that
he
was twenty years older, while
they
hadn’t aged at all.’ 

‘Is there anything to indicate that Frank Coward might have been given post-hypnotic suggestion?’ 

Victor licked his finger and leafed quickly back through the pages. ‘This struck me as a possible clue,’ he said, and handed the book over. 

There was a short, scribbled entry in Dr Rice’s own handwriting, in vivid purple ink. ‘April 6, H called 11 am to ask about Frank’s progress & gnrl condition. Of course I told him that I am satisfied that Frank is ready to help us and will be even easier to galvanize than Lesley Kellow.’ 

Michael lowered the book and stared at Victor wide-eyed. ‘Lesley Kellow! Do you know who Lesley Kellow was?’ 

‘Should I?’ 

‘Lesley Kellow was the co-pilot of the L10-11
that exploded and crashed over Rocky Woods.’ 

‘You’re kidding me.’ 

‘Absolutely not. Not that there was much of him left afterwards. Bits, literally. Little bits and pieces, exactly like a jigsaw, only flesh and bone. In fact, he was more severely injured than anybody else on the aircraft.’ 

‘How did the plane come down?’ asked Victor. 

‘We never found out for sure. But the most plausible theory was that somebody had planted a bomb, somewhere in the mid-section. Not in the hold, but in the passenger compartment, between rows 20-23, right between the wings. The bottom of the airplane opened up like God was shelling peas, and everybody dropped out.’ 

Victor nodded. ‘I remember seeing it on TV.’ 

Michael said, ‘Look at this – a definite connection. Frank Coward and Lesley Kellow were both given hypnotherapy by Dr Rice. And there’s another connection, too, that Joe mentioned. It’s only a
possible
connection, but it’s a connection all the same. John O’Brien was killed in the helicopter crash, and in the Rocky Woods disaster, Dan Margolis died. You remember Dan Margolis, don’t you, the guy who was going to clean up the Colombian drugs trade? Two liberal campaigners, both killed in aircraft piloted by patients of Dr Rice.’ 

‘And another connection, too,’ Victor put in. ‘The men behind the fence on the grassy knoll, when Kennedy was shot. Another liberal campaigner.’ 

They were both silent for a moment, reluctant to voice the next logical conclusion out loud. It was too far-fetched; too dramatic. It was like finding out that the South Pole was supposed to be at the top of the world, and that the North Pole was supposed to be underneath. 

‘Conspiracy?’ said Victor, at last. 

‘Pretty incredible kind of conspiracy if it is,’ Michael replied. ‘And what’s the motive? What’s the political agenda?’ 

‘That’s what we’ll have to find out,’ said Victor. 

Michael read Dr Rice’s scribble a second time. ‘We could start with finding out who this “H” is. If “H” was interested to know if Frank Coward was ready for action, then it seems likely that “H” is Dr Rice’s contact with the conspirators. Always assuming there
are
any conspirators.’ 

Victor thumbed through Dr Rice’s Filofax. ‘Hmm – he knows plenty of “H’s”. Julius Habgood, dental surgeon. Kerry Hastings, florist. Norman T. Henry.’ 

Michael went across to the table and picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll give Marcia another call, see if there’s any sign of Joe.’ 

‘Mason Herridge, realtor. Ruth Hersov, realtor. Jacob Hertzman, psychiatrist.’ 

Michael punched out Joe’s number and Marcia answered almost instantaneously. Joe?’ she asked, her voice bleached with worry. 

‘No, I’m sorry, Marcia, it’s Michael. There’s still no sign?’ 

‘Nothing. Nobody’s seen him, nobody’s heard from him.’ 

‘I’m sure he’s okay. He probably doesn’t even realize how worried you are.’ 

‘You don’t believe that, do you? Joe wouldn’t just vanish without telling me. He’s irritable sometimes, he’s impatient sometimes, but he’s never cruel.’ 

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Michael asked her. 

‘Joe Hesteren, auto repairs,’ Victor intoned. ‘Joyce Hewitt. Leonard Heyderman.’ 

‘Just keep in touch,’ Marcia begged. ‘My sister’s coming over tomorrow, but I feel so all alone.’ 

Michael put down the phone. He was gravely worried about Joe. He had the terrible leaden feeling that Joe was dead; and that he would never see him again, ever, except in his casket. 

‘Here’s an odd one,’ said Victor. 

‘What’s that?’ asked Michael. 

‘It’s the only entry without a first name, that’s all. It probably doesn’t mean anything.’ 

Michael walked around the couch and peered over Victor’s shoulder. Victor was pointing to the neatly lettered name and address,
Mr Hillary, Goat’s Cape
and then a 508 telephone number. 

Michael felt a chilly prickling all the way down his back, and he couldn’t suppress an involuntary shiver. 

‘Mr Hillary,’ he repeated. ‘That’s the man I saw when I was under hypnosis. That’s the name that the blind man told me by Copley Place.’ 

Victor turned around. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’ 

‘But I didn’t realize that Mr Hillary was real.’ 

‘What are you worried about? It’s perfectly explicable. Dr Rice put the name into your mind while he was hypnotizing you. He may not have even mentioned the name to you directly ... maybe he was talking on the phone to Mr Hillary while you were under.’ 

‘But I
saw
Mr Hillary. I know exactly what he looks like.’ 

‘That doesn’t mean anything, necessarily. What probably happened was, you heard the name Mr Hillary while you were in a trance, and your imagination fleshed him out for you. I’ll bet if you go back into your memory, you’ll think of somebody you once knew who looked like that, or maybe a character in a book, or on TV – somebody with a name that sounded like Hillary.’ 

‘I never knew anybody who looked like this guy. And anyway, how come that blind man mentioned his name to me?’ 

‘I don’t know. You probably misheard. Or maybe it was a hangover from your hypnotic trance.’ 

‘Who are you, Mr Sceptical or something?’ Michael asked him. 

Victor smiled. ‘I’m a medical examiner. I was trained to be sceptical. I don’t mind following clues and connections, and trying to put two and two together. But I don’t believe in magic and I don’t believe that you can see people under hypnosis when you’ve never seen them in real life.’ 

Michael picked up the Filofax. ‘Mr Hillary, Goat’s Cape. Where the hell’s Goat’s Cape?’ 

‘I don’t know. Do you have a map?’