Final Stroke (29 page)

“Hooray. I mean, right. Also …”

The word
also
made him stumble as if the four letters of the word were two feet tall and he was walking down a path in the dark and there they were banging against his shins. But he concentrated, forc
ing the two-foot-tall letters back down the side path in his brain from which they’d emerged, and tried to go on.

“Jan spoke Phil Hogan,” he said. “Not sure what. You see? Repeat that?” “Uh, okay. You also want me to talk to Phil Hogan over at the Eighth District because Jan spoke with him about something?”

“Right. Checking for Jan. Don’t know what.”

“Okay, Steve, I guess I can try to do this.” Tamara hesitated, then said, “You know it’s probably nothing and we’ll laugh about it tomor
row. I guess the bottom line is you think Phil was checking into some
thing for Jan and you want me to feel him out in a way that might help figure out where she is and what’s going on. Is that it?”

“Absolutely.”

“And of course you can’t tell me exactly what this is about, is that right?” “Right.” “Huh, just like old times.” Steve waited in his room for Tamara to call back. While he waited,

he called Jan’s cell number several more times but kept getting the un
available message. Finally, he fired up his computer, accessed the notepad and typed some.

When Nadine, an elderly volunteer aide from the rehab center, came in to see why he hadn’t returned for the afternoon session, he turned the computer to her so she could read it.

Nadine read the note aloud. “Tell Georgiana I can’t come rest of day, doing rehab here. Important phone business.”

Nadine turned the computer back toward him. “All right, Mr. Babe. I’m no truant officer, but don’t blame me if they send me back. Have a nice day.”

When Nadine left, Steve wheeled himself to his window. He placed the computer on the windowsill, handy in case he thought of something he should note. He reached out with his good left hand and touched the window glass. It was cold and the glass fogged where he touched it. His window faced the woods where he could see the flash of headlights as cars and trucks rushed to and fro on the wet roads out
side the fence beyond the woods. Although it was only one-thirty in the afternoon, the overcast sky made it as dark as evening. He much preferred the view from the television lounge that overlooked the en
trance and parking lot to this view of the woods. But maybe that was only because there he would often watch for Jan’s red Audi in the eve
nings when she was due to visit.

Although it seemed like an eternity, Tamara called back an hour and a half later at three.

“You were right about Lydia being with Gwen Africa, Steve. She said Jan left a message begging off going with her for the long weekend
on Thursday night. She said Jan didn’t say anything special was going on, but she felt Jan had not wanted to leave you alone the entire week end. It’s probably nothing. Maybe she went shopping and she’ll be there any minute with a surprise or something and then you’ll have to explain to her why you’re so strung out.”

“No. I know something. I really do. Tell me, Phil Hogan.”

“All right, all right. So long as you promise you’ll take it easy and not jump to conclusions. Agreed?”

“Fine.”

“Lord, I don’t know why I’m telling you anything. You’re sup
posed to be there to get better, not on the phone stirring up trouble where there probably isn’t any trouble.”

“Tam!”

“Okay, but don’t try to make connections where there aren’t any. I spoke with Phil, and also with a contact of mine who works at the Eighth District. Phil acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about, which isn’t unusual for him. He kept asking why I’d call him about Jan and I said I was calling everyone I could think of. He sounded phony the way he usually does, like something’s up and he’s under pressure. My contact says everyone’s been watching Phil lately. Says Phil’s been out of the office a lot, but not on business. Says Phil’s pattern has changed. Instead of disappearing from the office for a few hours and coming back tipsy, Phil puts in a full day on the street, then comes back sober and worried and apparently has his booze hidden there because he stays in the office late and gets drunk before he heads home. Of course it doesn’t sound good. Between you and me, sounds like someone’s pressuring him. But that’s between you and me, Steve. And it probably doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Jan.”

“Thanks, Tam.”

“You aren’t thinking of doing anything, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure.”

“Well, look. If for some reason you don’t hear from Jan pretty soon, which I’m sure you will, you know what’s next. I know you wouldn’t want me to do it yet, but if too much time goes by and I don’t hear otherwise from you, you know I’ll want to put out a missing per
son on Jan. And then maybe I’ll just come on down there and we can have a face-to-face.”

He waited, knowing Tamara wanted him to be careful, and also knowing some time would have to go by before she could take any of
ficial action to find Jan.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay by your phone and I’ll transfer mine to follow me if I go anywhere. I’ll try to do some more checking on Phil. Sound like a plan?”

It took a while longer, but he got through to Tamara that Jan’s cell phone indicated it was unavailable. He asked if she could try it every so often. Tamara agreed and they hung up.

Although he had an urge to go out to the television lounge, he stayed in his room, trying Jan’s cell number. Not that he wanted to watch television, but he did feel a need to simply look out into the parking lot. Somehow, he felt that if he looked out into the parking lot he’d see the red Audi driving in, the fog lights on because of the weath
er. Jan would get out, pop up her red umbrella that matched the color of the Audi, and head for the building. But he knew this was only a dream and the risk of leaving his phone wouldn’t be worth it.

Because he couldn’t help thinking any minute Jan would arrive to tell him what she’d been up to, he wheeled into the hall just outside
his room where he’d still be able to hear the phone. From this vantage point he could look down the hall toward the elevators each time he heard the bell. As he sat there he realized he was twisting to one side because of a pain in his right side. Not good to have pain this time of day, especially after Percy had worked him over in rehab this morning. Probably stress. And as he twisted to one side while staring down the hall toward the elevators, the pain was, in a way, reassuring.

After a while he turned to look the other way down the hall to
ward the television lounge. He figured the lounge would be empty because everyone on the floor except him was still down in rehab. But the big-screen television was on, he could see it reflected in one of the rain-soaked windows. And there was someone watching. A man in a wheelchair. Although the man was not facing him, he had definitely been looking this way and had turned as soon as Steve spun his wheel
chair around.

Steve moved his wheelchair forward a little and could see the man was not one of the aides who had plopped down in a vacant wheel
chair for a break the way they sometimes did. He could also see the man was not a resident from his floor. The man was not dressed in so-called street clothes like a resident would wear for a day of rehab, but real street clothes for this kind of weather. Brown leather jacket and a red baseball cap, the cap not on his head, but held by its beak, the cap wagging back and forth slowly on the arm of the wheelchair in which the man sat.

The man was in profile and kept glancing away from the televi sion to look down the hall toward Steve. Normally he wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but he’d noticed that the first time the man glanced his way, there was a pause. And now, when the man glanced his way again, he seemed to be trying to make it look a little too casual. He’d stretch or yawn or drop his cap and pick it up from the floor so
he could start wagging it back and forth again.

A situation from the past loomed up, a crazy situation in which he’d been hired to watch a guy who, it turned out, had been hired to watch him. He could picture the situation. A sunny day, hot weather, each of them sitting in their cars watching one another, a situation in which both he and the man he was watching tried to make it seem they weren’t watching one another. He recalled that, despite his park
ing spot in the shade of a tree, it had been stifling in the car, no breeze coming in the windows. Just like here in the hallway at Hell in the Woods. No breeze, no fresh air.

The longer Steve sat in the hallway, the more he was convinced the guy in the wheelchair in the television lounge was watching someone or something. And even though the guy was not an aide or a patient from this floor, Steve was sure he’d seen the guy before. Earlier that morning when they were all on their way to rehab, he’d seen the guy hanging around the desk outside the rehab center.

The guy was probably in his twenties. Thick, shiny black hair. His face had smooth features, but there was a definite beard shadow, even at this distance.

Footsteps from behind. When he spun around, Nadine wagged her finger at him. “George says for me to come back here and see what you’re up to, Mr. Babe. She says she needs help with the tape recorder and would you kindly reconsider coming down to rehab.”

He wheeled about, catching a glimpse of the man looking his way, then rolled into his room, motioning for Nadine to follow. He re
trieved the computer from the windowsill and began pecking at the keyboard with the index finger of his left hand while Nadine watched over his shoulder.

He typed, “Got to stay. Tell Georgiana waiting for important phone call.”

“Well, my goodness,” said Nadine. “If you’d said that before … now I’ll have to go all the way back down there.”

He typed, “Sorry.” But when Nadine turned to go he reached out with his left hand and tugged at her sleeve.

“What now?”

He typed, “Down in the television lounge.”

“What about it? You want to go there? I thought you were wait
ing for an important call.”

He shook his head and pointed to the screen of the computer, then struggled to type his question. Nadine tried to leave a couple of times, saying she was busy, but he pulled her closer and she finally stayed long enough so he could type his question in a way she could understand. After a few tries, he typed, “The man in the lounge. Leather jacket. Who is he?”

“That’s funny, you’re the second one who’s asked me about him today. His name is Mr. O’Connor. He’s a short-timer from the first floor. I spoke with him earlier this morning. He’s in for physical rehab on his leg. Comes up here during breaks for some peace and quiet. I guess things are a mite hectic down on one.”

He typed, “Why leather jacket?”

Nadine laughed. “I asked him about that, too. He says he’s get
ting out soon and wants to be ready to go. Says he drives a motorcycle. I told him this sure isn’t the weather for it. Says he hurt his leg falling down on his motorcycle but that he’ll keep right on riding it. Some people never learn.”

He typed, “Who else asked?”

Nadine had a puzzled look.

He typed, “Who else asked about O’Connor?”

“Oh, it was that aide named Pete. You know, the one with the sideburns. Funny thing, Pete’s been asking all kinds of questions late
ly. Putting in the hours, too. Guess he was trying to impress some body down at the office. I think he was overworked. That’s probably why he had that accident in the stairwell today.” Nadine paused, star ing at him. “Didn’t you hear about it?”

Steve shook his head.

“Oh, yes. Poor Pete fell down the stairs with a load of files or something. They say he was too impatient to wait for the elevator. He ended up downtown at the hospital. They say he has a concussion.”

After Nadine was gone, Steve pictured the aide named Pete. The guy with out-of-style long sideburns. Yes, Pete scratching at his side
burns like they were brand new sideburns. The same guy who visited rehab a little too often, making it obvious to Steve he was after some
thing. The same guy who spoke with him about Marjorie’s husband having been in the mob. Of course it could all be his imagination, but if not, if Pete had been sent in by someone to nose around and see what he could find out, and if that same Pete was in the hospital because of an “accident” …