The Sudden Star (30 page)

"What's the other reason?"

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know."

He rested his elbows on his knees. "You seemed nice," he said. His mouth twisted. "You liked to read. I thought maybe you were different, that I could do something for you."

She let out a sob. His words would break her. She sniffed and gasped. Takaishi finished tying his shoes. He strode over and stood by the bed. He said, "Stop it. You can't fold up now. It has nothing to do with you anyway, it's my problem. I always wanted things to be different. Everything I did I thought I had a reason for doing. The people I went after were the ones the police should have handled, but they didn't, so I did. It's just a story I told myself. I can't even remember if it was ever true. I liked hearing that those people were dead, they were all monsters anyway. But I liked it too much a lot of times. Sometimes I even handled a job myself. I had a story for that too, I called it taking responsibility, but I don't think that was true, either."

He pulled her away from the pillow, shaking her. Still gripping her with one hand, he held her chin with the other, forcing her to look at him. "Let me tell you something. You're still young, so don't tell yourself a lot of stories. You still don't know that if someone else dies, and you're still alive, you're even more alive, your food tastes better, the air is cleaner, sex is better. You still think you lost something, but it isn't true. You'd better get it straight now."

He let go of her. "I'll come back for you later," he said. "Don't let anyone else in. Say you're still getting dressed or something." He straightened his wrinkled white jacket. "Don't go anywhere, don't even go to the lobby."

She nodded. He glanced toward the window for a moment, wrinkling his forehead, then turned and left the room.

She got up and went to the window. Pressing herself against the open blue curtain, she peered around it. The blue-green ocean was calm today, rolling gently toward the shore. The sun shone through feathery white wisps. She looked down at the white sand of the beach and wondered why no one was out. Three hotel guards paced near the water's edge; farther up, four more huddled together conversing. They must have closed the beach. She gazed past them to the wood and barbed wire fence that marked the boundary of the hotel's beach. She stared and drew back in surprise. People stood on the other side of the fence, many people, perhaps hundreds, still and silent in tattered clothes. They were watching the guards. She had never seen them so close to this beach before.

Feeling uneasy, she closed the curtains.

Aisha stood in the hallway, watching Takaishi hurry down the stairs with light, quick steps. She went back inside, closed her door, and leaned against it

Her old table had been replaced by one made of Formica. Four chairs with blue plastic seats and backs stood around it. A blue studio couch sat under the window. Big blue pillows with black fringe had been thrown on the couch. The glass-topped coffee table in front of it reflected the afternoon sunlight.

None of it mattered. It was still the same room in which she had killed a man. She rested her head against the door and closed her eyes. The numbness was gone. Tight bands seemed to bind her chest. She was a murderer. Rabe was only going to do what a lot of men had done. She'd given in before; she had nothing to protect. He was dead and he could have been alive. She'd hated him, but he wasn't any worse than many, probably better than some. She saw her arm rising, the blood spurting, the red glow around him, why, why, why? Her arm was moving by itself, stabbing, she couldn't stop it,
I'm not doing this, I didn't do it, it wasn't me, it wasn't me.
Her ears buzzed.

She opened her eyes. She twisted the doorknob, pulling the door toward her. She went out into the hallway and across to Simon's door. She pounded on it, waited, then pounded on it some more. It opened. Simon stood there. His denim shirt was unbuttoned, his white slacks were dirty. He said, "I was just coming over. I have to talk to you." She smelled whiskey.

She pushed past him and entered the room. Her hands closed, becoming fists. She was shaking. "Stan quit," he went on as he closed the door. "Not that it matters much."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she shouted.

"What do you mean?"

"You lied to me. About how sick I was. You lied to me, you should have told me." He came toward her, extending an arm. She struck it with her fist and he retreated. "It isn't just headaches. Why didn't you tell me?" She was screaming.

He put up his hands, palms out. "You're wrong, Aisha."

She paced across the room and threw herself on the sofa. "Maybe I'm going crazy," she said more quietly. "Sometimes I'm all right and then it changes and I hear things and I—" He was leaning over her, his hand on the back of the sofa.

"You've just been under strain," he said. He was gazing at her too intently, as if trying to convince her. "Things don't look right when you're under pressure. I'm a doctor. Don't you think I'd know if anything was really wrong with you?"

She thought: You might know and not tell me. She buried her head in her arms, confused and miserable. She wanted to believe him, she didn't want to believe him. If he was wrong, she might become one of those creatures she had seen by the barbed wire that morning; she would die. If he was right, she was a murderer, with nothing to blame it on. She sobbed, unable to bear it.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up. Simon sat next to her. She sat up and leaned against him. "You have to calm down," he said. "If you go on like this, you really will get sick."

She swallowed and wiped her eyes on her arm. "Besides, you should feel all right with that new furniture. I saw them moving it in. You'll have to show it to me.” She hated that smooth voice; she'd heard him use it at parties or on patients in this room. "Are you all right now?" He sounded a bit anxious.

"You wanted to talk to me."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm all right."

"I hope so. You have to go to Titus, I don't think we have much time left. Isabeau met me at her father's house last night. Ortega met me and got me in and out of her room. I don't think anyone saw me. Isabeau was watching my reactions, I think she was making sure I was still with her. I put on a good show, talking about how we'd soon be together and how much I—"

"You probably made love to her. I bet you enjoyed that."

"I didn't. I can't stand being in the same room with her, I had to force myself to screw her just so she wouldn't wonder. All the way back here, I kept expecting Ortega to shoot me anyway; Isabeau doesn't need me now."

"Maybe she's in love with you," Aisha said sourly. "That'd be funny, wouldn't it. You're weird, Simon, you know that? You're telling me all this, and I'm supposed to help you and trust you. But all I can think is that Titus trusted you and you fucked his woman, and she trusted you, and you're going to tell Titus."

"It isn't like that," he pleaded. "I never wanted to do anything to Titus, but Isabeau would have killed me if I hadn't helped her. Besides, you can trust me, I never did anything to you." He looked appealingly at her, eyes wide.

"Maybe," she said, "I was just lucky."

"If you're going to start blaming people, blame René, blame Ortega, if it wasn't for them, none of this would have happened." He rubbed his chin. Stubble showed on his face, his eyes were bloodshot. He sighed, as if losing patience. "It doesn't matter now. You have to see Titus."

"Did Isabeau say she was going to—"

"Damn it, of course she didn't." He glared at her. "But when I left, she was getting some of her things together, stuff she hadn't had time to move over to Titus's yet. One of the items was a little jewelry box made of blue velvet or something. I recognized it because when I brought her the succinylcholine—the drug—she'd put it there. All the stuff was in piles and on her dresser, waiting to be moved, but she put that box in her purse. She's got to act soon, or take a chance on Titus finding it accidentally or something. Not that she couldn't think of a good story." He shook his head. "She would have left it there if she was going to wait."

Aisha leaned back. Her neck and shoulders were tight and beginning to ache. "You have to see Titus tonight," he went on.

She sat up quickly. "Tonight!"

"You already have an appointment with him, at eight. I talked to one of the lobby guards. I told him you had a very important deal to discuss with Titus, business, that Takaishi was sending you over, and the guard called upstairs and set it up. I told him I happened to be over there, so I was doing you a favor."

"Why did you mention Takaishi?" she asked, suddenly on guard.

"Titus knows you're together, so I had to say something. It sounded like a good story." He took her hand and held it. "Look, we don't have much time. I have to tell you exactly what to say and make sure you're prepared."

She pulled away from him. Her body was rigid with anger. "I have to go, huh? I take the risk, while you go hide. You coward. It's your mess, why don't you go yourself?"

"I can't. Don't you see, if I did, Isabeau would make sure I never got in, just to be careful. Look, it'll work, I'll tell you what to say."

Aisha rested her elbows on her knees and stared at the floor. "All right," she said, "all right."

"Look, in a few hours Isabeau'll be finished, and Ortega too. We'll be safe, you won't have to worry about anything."

She sighed. "What do I say? Just tell me what to say."

Aisha got off the elevator and approached Titus's suite. The summer heat was making her lightheaded; the long wait to get on the crowded elevator had only made her more nervous. She hurried down the hall to the suite, hoping she wasn't late.

The tall guard by Titus's door seemed to recognize her. "Baraka?" he said finally as she lingered by the door. She nodded. "I better tell you," he continued. "Mr. Echeverria isn't in a good mood tonight. He can't get anything for his cars. No methane, no hydrogen, nothing. He's been bitching all day about it."

She drew away from the door, wanting to postpone the encounter as long as possible. "How strange," she responded. Her voice was high and squeaky. "He's a rich man. He can afford whatever they're going to charge now."

"That's the whole trouble. A woman from Miami was in there today, and she claims it isn't a thing with prices at all—they just can't get any. Mr. Echeverria's mad, I can tell you. I thought you better know." He opened the door. She swallowed and walked inside. The door closed behind her, leaving her trapped.

Titus, sitting in his wicker chair near the window, seemed very far away. One of his bodyguards, a tall bald black man, stood behind him. Two people, also in wicker chairs, sat near Titus. One was his friend and partner, Jacob Slansky; the other was Isabeau Rasselle. Aisha walked toward them slowly, horrified to discover that she couldn't remember what Simon had told her to say.

She stood in front of them. At least Ortega wasn't here too; she didn't know if that made things better or worse. "Get the girl a chair," Titus said, waving an arm lazily at Slansky. Slansky got one and she sat, gripping the wicker arms. Titus pouted; his jowls sagged. Isabeau Rasselle, curled like a cat in her chair, stared placidly at Aisha. Slansky, always amiable, smiled, deepening the creases in his darkly tanned face.

Aisha's mouth was dry. "I have some important business to discuss," she whispered.

Titus pouted some more. He said, "Speak up, Aisha. I can't hear you."

"I have something we should talk over."

Titus waved his chubby hands impatiently. "I know, I know, Mr. Takaishi sent you. Get to the point. This isn't a social occasion."

"I'd rather talk to you privately, if you don't mind." She clutched the chair arms more tightly.

"You can speak in front of Jake. I have no secrets from him. And my wife's quite a clever little advisor, she's really quite intelligent about business." He patted Isabeau's pale hand. "Aren't you, dear?" Isabeau smiled; her violet eyes were empty.

Aisha fidgeted uneasily in the chair. The backs of her legs felt sticky. She didn't know where to begin. "Speak up," Titus said.

She took a breath, "Someone's trying to kill you," she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye.

Slansky chuckled. Isabeau was still smiling. "I don't doubt it," Titus responded. "Not everyone is my friend. Go ahead, tell me about it. I probably already know about it."

"No, you don't. Your wife is trying to kill you."

"How ridiculous," Isabeau said in her little voice. Still smiling, she brushed back a lock of silver hair.

Titus frowned. His knuckles were white. "I suppose you can prove this," he said.

Aisha looked at him desperately. "Yes, I can. She went to Simon, she wanted him to help her. She said she'd make sure you killed him if he didn't go along, that she'd tell you he made love to her, and then you'd kill him." She watched to see if he would buy the lie. His eyes were cold and angry. "Simon wanted to come to you, but he was afraid you wouldn't believe him without proof, so he pretended to go along."

"And why would my wife do this?" Titus said, very quietly. "She has everything she wants here, and she could have found a more straightforward method. There are people who handle such work."