The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (39 page)

A
FTER RUSH HOUR,
she drove Jack’s car to San Francisco, listening to the Joan Armatrading tape he loved so much, the one with “Show Some Emotion” on it. She was getting the hang of driving his big sleek car; it kept her from thinking much about where she was going until she crossed the bridge and saw the steel and glass skyscrapers of the city looming on the right. Apprehension steadily crept up her back and gripped her neck in its cold fingers. Her mood of the early morning had returned. She dreaded seeing the patients on the ward, dreaded the hospital smell, dreaded the dejected eyes of the visitors, and, most of all, dreaded seeing Jack.

She parked in the hospital parking lot and remained in the car. She smoothed her hair, put on more lipstick, and spied the glove compartment—another place she had not yet explored.
No more hiding places!
In it she found another jumble of papers, some maps, a tire-pressure gauge, several plastic vials of medicine, and an inhaler. She read the labels. One was an antibiotic she’d heard of, but all the other drugs were foreign to her and came from a pharmacy in San Francisco. She scooped them up and deposited them into her handbag.
Why in the world would he keep his meds in his car? Why hide an inhaler when it was so obvious he had respiratory problems? Why so many secrets?

Jack’s roommate’s bed was empty and all his personal effects had been removed. She walked to the far side of Jack’s bed and pulled up a chair next to him. He lay exactly as she had left him the previous
afternoon—on the inclined mattress with his mouth open, struggling for air, his head rolled to the side. He was oblivious to her. Paul, the big blond nurse assigned to monitor him, came in to check vital signs. He smiled at Mercedes, who was a refreshing sight in the ward, and shook her hand.

She pointed at the empty bed with a question in her eyes. Paul shook his head sadly.

He said Jack had been awake a little earlier and had gotten agitated, but they were able to calm him.

“Did he understand where he was?”

“No,” Paul said, “and his speech was quite . . . garbled.”

She stared at Jack and took his hand, while Paul busied himself checking the equipment and making notes on the clipboard at the foot of the bed. Only two nights ago they’d been arguing. She would gladly trade an argument for this. She kissed his hand and held it with both of hers against her cheek, under a stream of tears. She thought her insides could not withstand the pressure of the grief in her heart. Paul patted her back, which only made her cry harder.

Who will take care of Germaine when I’m the one lying in the hospital bed? Will her last memories of me be like this?

Paul tried to reassure her. “The first onset of illness is not often fatal,” he said. “I think Jack will rally and you’ll have more time together.”

“How much time?”

“They’re improving the treatments all the time.”

“Ten years?”

He didn’t want to say.

“Eight years?”

“Not likely, from what we’ve seen here.”

“Five years then? Could we have five years?”

“I wish I could tell you, but we just don’t know.”

Jack began to moan and move his legs. He opened his eyes and looked through the clear plastic tent at the woman in the chair. He stared at her without blinking and tried to form words, but nonsense came out instead. Mercedes stood up and leaned over him, hoping that the sight of her would comfort him, but he only grew more agitated. She put her hand on his leg, and he recoiled.

Paul observed, “You might look rather odd to him through the oxygen tent. His reaction is fairly typical for patients where the virus has moved into the brain, but it can change as rapidly as it starts. It all depends on where the colony has set up camp that day.”

Jack stared at her and inched his way to the bed rails farthest from her. She could comfort neither him nor herself.

“What can I do to help him?” she asked.

“In this state, not much. Be patient and take care of things at home. Take care of all the things he can’t do right now.”

Tears filled her eyes again. “What good does it even do for me to come here?”

“You can call the nurse’s station about him at any time. Why don’t you do that, and not plan on coming every day?”

“But he’s my husband!”

“You have a child. You’re lucky. Spend time with her. We’ll keep you posted.”

Jack moved his head from side to side, as if trying to convey his disagreement.

Mercedes looked right at him and said, “Jack, I found your medication and gave it to your nurse. He’s going to give it to your doctor. We’re trying to help you get well.”

He stared at her wild-eyed. Her throat tightened. Somewhere in that tent was the man with whom she had fallen in love. Would she ever see him again?

“Honestly, it’s as if I agitate him. I don’t get this,” Mercedes said.

Paul said, “Try not to take anything he does or says personally. He’s not in his right mind, and I’m sure he loves you very much. This is not an easy place for anyone to visit. You’re a brave woman.”

“I’m not brave, Paul. I’m next.”

She felt repulsed by the hospital ward, by the patients, by her prospects. As she walked down the narrow corridor to the elevator, she felt herself in an updated version of her honeymoon dream, following a cart loaded with the dead.

Before turning the corner she looked back. Two skeletal patients stood in a doorway, one with his arm around the other. They both watched her, and she remembered the men in the doorway from her dream. She could almost hear the wooden cartwheels creak, their crunch on the hard, rocky ground, the squeal of a rat. She pushed the button for the elevator and the down arrow lit up.

“
M
ercedes, is everything all right?” Darrel asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you. Now is as good a time as any.” She got up and closed the conference room door. “It’s Jack. He’s very ill. He collapsed on Sunday at home. He’d been having a lot of trouble breathing.”

She had Darrel’s complete attention.

“I took him to the ER and they wound up admitting him. He’s been diagnosed with pneumonia. He’s fighting for his life.” The words caught in her throat. “He’s apparently had it for some time, but we weren’t aware that’s what it was. You know, he’s had that cough. They told me he hasn’t been getting enough oxygen for quite a while . . . which may explain why he hasn’t been himself . . . and . . .”

Her voice cracked. She covered her mouth with her hand.

“And anyway, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own at trial. Jack is totally incapacitated and the prognosis is very guarded.”

Darrel sat for a moment, thinking about the news.

“Mercedes, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry . . . for you and for him.” He looked troubled, but not surprised. “I’m sure you have him in the best possible hands. Jack’s a force of nature, and I know he’ll pull out of it. Please take all the time you need and let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.”

“The doctors say that even if he recovers well enough to come home, he’ll be out of commission for some time. You should consider the Taylor case yours. If you decide to settle it, there’ll be nothing to stop you. I’m afraid Jack is beyond consultation.”

“What about you? How are you handling all this?” His gaze seemed to penetrate her façade.

“I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. You’re the only person I’ve told, except for Melanie.”

Just then the phone intercom buzzed. It was Julie, from reception. “Tony Grey is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

Darrel and Mercedes exchanged a surprised look as Darrel pressed the speaker-phone button.

“Tony, what’s up? I’m here with Mercedes, and we have you on speaker.”

“An unsettling turn of events, I’m afraid.” Mercedes looked down into her lap. He continued, “Our boy Rand may not be so lily white after all. I was able to track down a young fellow who used to turn tricks at Franjipur. He did a stint in the executive suite. I got quite an earful.”

Darrel sat forward in his chair and braced himself.

“I’ve been trying to nail down exactly how these trysts were set up at the hotel, so I asked him about it. He said he didn’t know about the other guys, but after his first ‘date’ there, a man with a thick southern accent called him to arrange another one. I asked if he ever met him or learned his name. He said no, he didn’t. But he said it was
an unforgettable voice. The guy contacted him a few times. He said he would recognize it easily if he heard it again.”

Darrel and Mercedes exchanged a look of disgust. Rand had played them. The avalanche of bad news just kept coming. Mercedes felt sick.

“He’s absolutely certain it was a southern accent?” Darrel queried, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Yes, and I said nothing about the accent before he brought it up. Is there anyone it could be, besides Rand?”

“I doubt it. Keep digging and see if anyone else corroborates this. We have to know everything, Tony—no holds barred.”

“Understood.”

Darrel ended the call and jumped to his feet. “God damn it. God
damn it!”
He roared. He rubbed the back of his neck and paced back and forth in a fury.

Mercedes’s thoughts turned immediately to Jack—to what he must have known and when he knew it. As if reading her mind, Darrel said, “I really must talk to Jack.”

“Darrel, there’s just no way. He’s unconscious. You can go see for yourself,” she offered.

“Then we have to call Rand, immediately. If he’s culpable, we can’t waste another minute on this case.”

Darrel summoned Stuart, who appeared in the doorway.

“Take a seat,” Darrel told him. “We’re getting Rand on the line. He’s got some explaining to do.”

Mercedes kept her silence. She knew she was about to learn more than she wanted to know. Again.

“Mr. Crenshaw?” Rand asked in surprise, after Darrel greeted him.

“Rand. I’m here with Stuart and Mercedes, and we have you on the speakerphone. We have a few questions we need to ask you.”

“Why certainly, counselor,” he drawled. “How may I be of assistance?”

“For a number of months our private investigator has been pursuing leads on your behalf. As we get ready for trial we want to make sure there will be no unpleasant surprises. We want to see our case as much as possible through the defendants’ eyes, so we can anticipate what they’ll do and be ready for it. Does that make sense?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good. And in order to represent you most effectively we have asked you to be completely forthcoming with us from the start, have we not?”

“You have, and I have been.”

“Good. Our investigator just called with some unsettling information that we’d like you to clarify.”

Rand was silent. Stuart looked at Mercedes with a quizzical expression. She shook her head at him.

“An informant we have at the escort service just disclosed that his contact at the hotel for assignments in the executive suite had a thick southern accent. What do you have to say about that?”

“Oh my.”

“What does
that
mean?” Darrel’s face was flushed.

“I discussed all of this with Mr. Soutane.”

“So it’s true? It was you?”

“It was my job to see to my employers’ comforts. That is precisely what I did. I did not participate in the activities, as Mr. Soutane is well aware. I merely made a few phone calls.”

“I’m afraid ‘merely’ won’t cut it with a judge and jury,” Darrel said, barely containing his anger. “At what point did you share this with Jack?”

“At the very beginning. Now I would like to speak with him, if you don’t mind.”

Mercedes leaned forward in her chair and spoke. “Rand, Jack is seriously ill. He’s in the hospital with pneumonia and can’t talk. He won’t be able to participate any further in your case.”

Stuart’s eyes widened.

“Rand, we need you to tell us everything you told Jack,” Darrel said. “We can’t represent you if you withhold information. Otherwise, we are playing poker with half a deck. Can’t you see that?”

“I see no reason for you to speak in such a tone. I’ve followed Jack’s instructions to the letter. I went to him first and have been doing exactly as he advised.”

Mercedes’s stomach turned a slow somersault.

“Things have changed,” Darrel responded. “Jack’s incapacitated. You’re welcome to seek other counsel, although at this late date I don’t believe it would serve your interests.”

Darrel glared at the speakerphone with his arms crossed, and waited.

“Jack said he wanted to see what the paralegals could figure out. He told me I should never admit to any involvement.”

Rand paused for a second—long enough for Mercedes to reflect that she was one of “the paralegals” her husband had set up.

“I want this case to be over and I want my money,” Rand added.

“We have that in common, at least. I suggest you tell us everything about what went on in the suite and precisely what your involvement was.”

“I want to talk to Jack first.”

“We’ve just told you—that’s not possible. From now on you’re dealing with us. Better spill it, Rand. What was it? Prostitution? Drug deals?”

“The former only, as far as I know, but minor boys were involved. Please be assured that I was only the messenger. I only conveyed my employers’ preferences.”

“That’s not going to get you much sympathy,” Darrel said curtly.

“I am well aware of that. My employers rewarded my loyalty and discretion by relocating and then terminating me.”

Mercedes recalled the day she, Lindsay, and Simone had pieced together the evidence of who was in the suite on what day, and how proud they had felt in doing so. Rand had known all along and was the facilitator, yet Jack had silenced him. On top of that, Jack had called her a “genius” for her idea of back-channeling information to the wives, when all along he knew the truth. She felt so imbecilic. How could her own husband have treated her like that? How could he have done this to Darrel?