Final Stroke (30 page)

Steve decided there was nothing he could do regarding Pete now. What he had to do now was find out about Jan. And, damn it, in order to do that he’d have to sit here and wait like … like an invalid.

But maybe there was something he could do while he passed the time waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe he could perform a little test on Mr. O’Connor. After all, Mr. O’Connor was not in the hospi
tal like poor old Pete. Mr. O’Connor was right here.

Steve turned his wheelchair toward the door and rolled out into the hallway to make sure O’Connor was still there. Then he backed his chair into his room. After trying Jan’s cell number again, with out luck, he waited several minutes. He could hear the television in the lounge, but not enough to tell what was going on. So he got the remote from his bedside table and turned on his television with the
sound off. He switched channels until he found the action that fit the sounds filtering down the hallway.

It was a B thriller on a classic movie channel. A scantily clad woman had just screamed at a severed head that had spoken to her, and the host, Svengoli, came on. Steve waited for the commercials to end and positioned himself at the door. When the movie came back on and showed the scantily clad woman running in terror as the head thing skittered after her on the guts protruding from its neck, Steve wheeled suddenly out into the hall.

Leather-jacketed Mr. O’Connor apparently didn’t like watching scantily clad actresses fleeing from severed heads on the large screen television in the lounge, because instead of watching the television, O’Connor had turned his wheelchair and sat facing the hall, staring directly at Steve.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEE
N

The Prius had landed right side up, but its roof was col
lapsed, with only rounded indentations made by the seat backs when the car had been compressed by the weight of the truck. Blood spat
tered out onto the battered hood and rear deck said it all. The car was no longer a Prius, and the men she knew as Tony Gianetti and Buster Brown were no longer men. Although she had not meant to look for ghoulish details, she saw pieces of what had earlier been these men glistening in the brown weeds. Pinkish lumps of flesh and bone, no longer human beings, but mere components scattered like exploded seedpods.

Besides struggling to keep from getting sick, there didn’t seem to be anything else she could do. She had called 911, then gotten out and gone closer to the wreckage. It was strangely quiet and she heard pessi mistic mumblings from nearby onlookers. Someone praised Japanese engineering for having designed the Prius so its gas tank was protected during the crash and did not rupture. Though she stood alone, she felt an odd kinship with the other onlookers. Each group, and several lone
observers like her, maintained yards of distance from the next group or loner, as if to leave space for death’s spirit to make its way through. Some stood in the shadowy gloom like death observing death. Some stood on the unevenness of the embankment like bent statues in a quasi darkness. Although it was afternoon, the thick clouds made it dark enough to see drizzle falling through headlight beams. The cold drizzle touched her face and neck as she and the others watched the men who had gotten to the wreckage first. The men knelt in the mud, apparently trying to determine if either of the occupants was alive. Then someone tapped her shoulder and mumbled something.

A man in a hooded sweatshirt stood at her side and she could feel a rush of adrenaline as she took a step back. Although the man had spoken to her, he stared at the wreckage and she could not see his face. When she turned toward the man, the hand that had tapped her shoulder was pushing deep inside a pocket in his sweatpants. A shiver ran through her as she recalled the flat-nosed man she had seen out
side the apartment in the parking lot. But that man had worn a base
ball cap. Yes, worn backward when he ran, then forward when he was following her in his BMW. Not a hooded sweatshirt. She breathed easier when the man turned toward her and she saw his pointy nose and his beard.

The skin around the man’s eyes appeared sallow in the gray light. When his mouth opened, parting his full beard, she could smell his stale breath. He pulled his hand from his pocket and held it toward her, looking down in an odd way as if he had done something for her and expected a tip. “Lady, your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone. It’s an emergency.”

She looked down at her side where the man was staring and real ized she had brought the phone with her. After using it she had un
plugged the cigarette lighter plug and now the cord hung down, the

plug dragging in the weeds.

“I … I already called 911. I just brought it out here in case.”

“No, lady. For this other guy back there. Says he knows the driver. Wants to call someone.” The man held his hand closer, almost touching her. “Please, lady.”

She handed the phone to the man. “Of course. Certainly.” Then, to be helpful, “It doesn’t need to be plugged in. I just left the wire on …”

She turned to watch as the man gathered the charging wire up with his other hand and took the phone to a group gathered near a van. The man handed the phone inside the van, then nodded back to her.

It began raining harder and she could feel cold droplets running down her scalp and between her collar and neck. If she went to the van to see who was there who knew Tony Gianetti, she’d be asked about being here. She’d be standing in the rain and whoever was in
side would stare at her while she tried to explain. She’d have to make something up because the truth would be absurd. Whoever was in the van must have recognized the Prius. Perhaps the vanity plate and bumper sticker were visible from behind, but she could not tell from this angle. She imagined standing at the side of the van staring in at weeping effeminate men from Tony Gianetti’s gay rights organization. Suddenly the world took on a backward aspect, one of those moments in which the impending chaos of civilization becomes real. She took a step toward the van, then stopped, shivering from the wet cold and imagining herself being able to do nothing more than add to the an
guish of whoever was in the van.

She shook off the chills and went back to her car for her umbrella, noticing that the man who had borrowed her phone was watching, ap parently so he could find her when whoever was using the phone was
finished. As she stood outside her car beneath her umbrella, she could see that others had also gone back to their cars for coats and hats and umbrellas.

The men attending to the wrecked car seemed the most prepared of anyone, and she heard two bystanders agree they were glad the three men had arrived first. The three men at the wreck wore black knit caps, and she noticed all three had on leather jackets, and jeans, and good boots. One of the bystanders said the men told the others to stay back, that because the car was a hybrid they had to be careful of the high voltage of the batteries.

Beyond the wreckage Jan saw a Hispanic woman talking on a cell phone. Could this be the same woman she’d seen earlier on her way to the funeral home? Right, how could she possibly tell in the dark with the emergency lights flashing on the woman’s face, the woman stand
ing at a distance on the far side of the wreckage, the woman standing in the rain without an umbrella or raincoat and …

The man who had taken her phone returned, ducking his head be
neath her umbrella and startling her. “The guy in the van says thanks, lady. He was really cryin’.”

She took the phone from the man. “Yes, I suppose if he knew the driver … did he say whether there was anyone else in the car?”

“He didn’t say nothin’ like that.” The man motioned back toward the van. “You know how people are in situations like this. He was concerned he was using up your battery.”

The man pointed to her cell phone. “He used to sell those things, so he knows a lot about them. Wouldn’t you know, here he is out where he needs one and he left his charger in his own car so his batter
ies went dead. That’s why I came out here to borrow yours.”

When she held up the phone as if she were going to use it, the man touched it gently to get her attention. “I wouldn’t use it right away
until you plug it in for a while. My friend says he could see your bat teries were low so he kept his conversation short. He says cold weather like this kills these batteries fairly quickly. He also says you’re not sup posed to keep it plugged into your car all the time and that you should use your home charger. I guess he figured you keep it plugged into your car all the time because of the charging wire hanging from it. I guess these things don’t get their full charge unless you use the home charger once in a while. So you see? That’s pretty much all he seemed to care about was the condition of your phone. It’s just like him. One of his best friends dies and here he is worried about batteries. Any way, my friend says you should definitely plug it in for a while before you even think of using it. He says if you let the batteries run that low you’ll lose your memory and everything.”

“Well,” said Jan, “I hope your friend is all right. I was just wonder
ing if he knew about anyone else in the car because … well, because if he lost another friend …”

The man stepped around in front of her. “Who’s to say no one survived the crash? I’ve seen people survive worse. You know what I mean? Anyway, you want to talk to my friend yourself? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. That’s the kind of guy he is. Always thinking of others.”

“No, that’s all right. I just thought if he could recognize a car that’s been smashed so badly, he might know more.”

The man turned toward the wreckage, but as he turned he seemed to move in even closer. Droplets of rain dripped from his beard and steam rose from his breath. “Yeah, that’s right, but see, he didn’t rec
ognize the car. What he recognized was the license.”

The man moved even closer beneath the umbrella, held his hand up before her face and pointed behind the wreckage. He spoke more quietly as if to keep others from hearing. “We came in that way and
you can read the license plate from back there. P-P two-thousand. That’s what my friend recognized.”

The man’s stale breath filled the space beneath the umbrella and she could feel his arm press against her arm. She stepped back slightly and when she did he turned and stared at her. He’d been excited about sharing the moment, but now she saw something else in his face. Something deep down beneath the dark eyes and sallow skin and black beard. She had a momentary feeling they both knew she wanted nothing to do with him, that she might even be frightened of him. This feeling was telegraphed between them in an instant, too late to say or do anything, impossible to say or do something that would not be misconstrued. In the years before she met Steve, the life she’d led had put her in this awkward situation many times before, terminating conversations with men she did not know.

As the man continued standing near her, several squad cars and three ambulances and two fire trucks arrived in rapid succession. When paramedics took over from the three men in leather jackets at the wreckage, the men did not stick around as she thought they would, but seemed to disappear as quickly as they had appeared.

There was no hope of either Tony Gianetti or Buster Brown being alive. She could tell this by the wave of a hand from one of the paramedics after the Jaws of Life had been applied to one side of the crushed roof. Although she had never really forgotten what had gone on earlier in the day, it wasn’t until a policeman took two briefcases out of the wreckage and carried them to his squad car that it hit her. Something in those briefcases might be very important to her. Some
thing so close, yet so far away.

She felt relieved when another policeman approached her and the man standing at her side. “Go back to your vehicles, folks. The south bound lanes are open and we’d like to get everyone moving. If you
move on I’m sure others will follow.” The policeman motioned them along. “I appreciate your help, folks. Thank you. Have a pleasant evening, if that’s possible.”

Saying nothing, she went back to her car, started the engine, locked the doors, and plugged in her phone. Bright headlights lit up the inside of her car from behind. When she looked in her mirror she could see that the van carrying the man who had borrowed her phone had pulled up very close. When it sounded its horn she put her car in gear and started off. The man who stood at her side had disap
peared quickly after the policeman approached and was apparently doing what he had been told, moving on.

“All right, all right,” she muttered, as the van followed her closely back onto the road.

She considered staying at the scene because she witnessed the crash. Maybe she should have given her name and address to the po
liceman in case they wanted to contact her.

As she continued slowly away from the scene, very slowly because of the crowd of gawkers that had grown to perhaps a hundred, she saw the driver of the semi sitting on the ground at the side of his cab. Two policemen stood over the driver looking down, apparently question
ing him. And stooped down on the ground, consoling the driver, was one of the men who had been at the wreckage before the emergency vehicles arrived. Black knit cap, leather jacket, boots.

As she drove away, she could see in her mirror that, besides her and the van, several others were leaving. The road south was empty, but on the other side of the median, traffic was stopped dead in the north
bound lanes and lined up as far as she could see.

Tony Gianetti was dead, and so was her whole stupid investiga tion. She wondered if she should tell Steve about any of it, or just let the whole thing drop. But of course she knew she would tell him
eventually. Part of the reason she had come out here was because she was part of him and he was part of her. She couldn’t keep anything from him, especially when he needed her so much. She could almost see him trying to put on a show of anger that she should do such a thing, but smiling, always smiling. He’d ask for details and it would be good therapy. He’d struggle to ask questions, and now that she had left the scene of the accident, she realized one of the questions he would ask would be whether or not she felt the death of Tony Gia netti and Buster Brown was just a bit too much of a coincidence to be an accident.