Strangers (31 page)

“I wish I knew,” Jorja repeated uneasily.

Boston, Massachusetts

It was the worst Christmas of Ginger Weiss’s life.

Although Jewish, her beloved father had always celebrated Christmas in a secular spirit, because he liked the harmony and good will that the holiday promoted, and after his death, Ginger had continued to regard December 25 as a special day, a time of joy. Until today, Christmas had never depressed her.

George and Rita did all they could to make Ginger feel a part of their celebration, but she was acutely aware that she was an outsider. The Hannabys’ three sons had brought their families to Baywatch for several days, and the huge house was filled with the silvery laughter of children. Everyone made an effort to include Ginger in all the Hannaby traditions, from popcorn-stringing to neighborhood caroling.

Christmas morning, she was there to watch the children attack the mountain of gifts, and following the example of the other adults, she crawled around on the floor with the kids, helping them assemble and play with their new toys. For a couple of hours, her despair abated, and she was assimilated by the Hannaby family in spite of herself.

However, at lunch—rich with holiday delicacies yet essentially a light meal, just a hint of the extravagant dinner feast to come that evening—Ginger felt out of place again. Much conversation involved reminiscences of previous holidays of which she’d not been a part.

After lunch, she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room. The splendid view of the bay calmed her but couldn’t arrest her spiral into
depression. She desperately hoped Pablo Jackson would call tomorrow and say that he had studied the problem of memory blocks and was ready to hypnotize her again.

Ginger’s visit to Pablo had distressed George and Rita less than she had expected. They were upset that she had gone out alone, risking an amnesic seizure with no friend to help her, and they made her promise she would allow either Rita or one of the servants to drive her to and from Pablo’s apartment in the future, but they did not attempt to argue against the unconventional treatment she had sought from the magician.

The bay view’s capacity to calm Ginger was limited. She turned from the window, got up, and went to the bed, where she was surprised to find two books on the nightstand. One was a fantasy by Tim Powers, an author she had read before, the other a copy of something called
Twilight in Babylon,
and she had no idea where they had come from.

There were half a dozen other books in the room, borrowed from the library downstairs, for during the past few weeks she had had little to do but read. But this was the first time she’d seen Powers’ book and
Twilight in Babylon.
The former, a tale of time-traveling trolls fighting their own secret war against British goblins during the American revolution, looked delightful, the type of exotic story that her father had enjoyed. A slip of paper laid loosely in the front identified it as a review copy. Rita had a friend who was a reviewer for the
Globe,
and who sometimes passed along intriguing books before they were available in the stores. Evidently, these had come within the last day or two, and Rita, aware of Ginger’s tastes in fiction, had put them in her room.

She set the Powers book aside for later delectation, and she took a closer look at
Twilight in Babylon.
She had never heard of the author, Dominick Corvaisis, but the brief summary of the story was intriguing, and when she had read the first page, she was hooked. However, before continuing, she moved from the bed to one of the comfortable chairs and, only then, glanced at the author’s photograph on the back of the jacket.

Her breath caught in her throat. Fear filled her.

For a moment she thought the photograph was going to be the kicker that knocked her into another fugue. She tried to fling the book aside but could not, tried to stand up but could not. She drew deep breaths, closed her eyes, and waited for her pulse rate to sink toward normal.

When she opened her eyes and looked at the author’s photograph again, it still disturbed her, though not as badly as it had at first. She knew that she had seen this man before, had met him somewhere, and not in the best of circumstances, though she could not remember where or when. His brief biography on the jacket flap informed her that he had lived in Portland, Oregon, and now resided in Laguna Beach, California.
As she had never been in either of those places, she could not imagine when their paths might have crossed. Dominick Corvaisis, about thirty-five, was a striking man who reminded Ginger of Anthony Perkins when that actor had been younger. His looks were compelling enough that she could not imagine having forgotten where she had met him.

Her instant reaction to the photo was strange, and some might have dismissed it as a meaningless fillip of an overwrought mind. But during the past two months she had learned to respect strange developments and to look for meaning in them, no matter how meaningless they seemed.

She stared at Corvaisis’ photograph, hoping to nudge her memory. Finally, with an almost clairvoyant sense that
Twilight in Babylon
would somehow change her life, she opened it and began to read.

Chicago, Illinois

From University Hospital, Father Stefan Wycazik drove across town to the laboratory operated by the Scientific Investigation Division of the Chicago Police Department. Though it was Christmas Day, municipal workers were still cleaning last night’s snowfall from the streets.

Only a couple of men were on duty at the police lab, which was located in an aging government building, and the old rooms had the deserted feeling of an elaborate Egyptian tomb buried far beneath desert sands. Footsteps echoed resoundingly back and forth between the tile floors and the high ceilings.

Ordinarily, the lab did not share its information with anyone from outside the police and judicial systems. But half the police officers in Chicago were Catholics, which meant that Father Wycazik had more than a few friends on the force. Stefan had importuned some of those friends to make petitions in his name and to pave the way for him at the SID.

He was greeted by Dr. Murphy Aimes, a paunchy man with a perfectly bald head and walrus mustache. They’d spoken on the telephone earlier, before Stefan left the rectory for University Hospital, and now Murphy Aimes was ready for him. They settled on two stools at a laboratory bench. A tall opaque window loomed in front of them, decorated with dark streaks of pigeon dung. On the marble top of the bench, Aimes had laid out a file folder and several other items.

“I must say, Father, I’d never compromise case information like this if there were any possibility of a trial arising from the shootout at that sandwich shop. But I suppose, as both perpetrators are dead, there’s no one to be put on trial.”

“I appreciate that, Dr. Aimes. I really do. And I’m grateful for the time and energy you’ve expended on my behalf.”

Curiosity ruled Murphy Aimes’s face. He said, “I don’t really understand the reason for your interest in the case.”

“I’m not entirely sure of it myself,” Stefan said cryptically.

He had not revealed his purpose to the higher authorities who had made him welcome at the lab, and he did not intend to enlighten Aimes, either. For one thing, if he told them what was on his mind, they would think he was dotty and would be less inclined to cooperate with him.

“Well,” Aimes said, miffed at not being taken into Stefan’s confidence, “you asked about the bullets.” He opened a manila envelope of the type that ties shut with a string, and he emptied its contents into his palm: two gray lumps of lead. “The surgeon removed these from Winton Tolk. You said you were particularly interested in them.”

“I certainly am,” Stefan said, taking them in his own hand when Aimes offered them. “You’ve weighed these, I suppose. I understand that’s standard procedure. And they weigh what .38 slugs should?”

“If you mean, did they fragment on impact—they did not. They’re so misshapen they must’ve impacted bone, so it’s surprising they didn’t fragment a little—or a lot—but in fact they’re both intact.”

“Actually,” Father Wycazik said, staring at the slugs in his hand, “I meant were they underweight for .38s? Malformed ammunition, factory mistakes? Or were they the right size?”

“Oh, the right size. No doubt of that.”

“Big enough to do plenty of damage, terrible damage,” Father Wycazik said thoughtfully. “The gun?”

From a larger envelope, Aimes produced the revolver with which Winton Tolk was shot. “A snubnose Smith and Wesson .38 Chief’s Special.”

“You’ve examined it, test-fired it?”

“Yes. Standard procedure.”

“No indication that anything’s wrong with it? Specifically, is the bore poorly machined or is there some other anomaly that’d result in the bullet leaving the muzzle at a much slower velocity than it should?”

“That’s a peculiar question, Father. The answer is no. It’s a fine Chief’s Special, up to the usual high standards of Smith and Wesson.”

Putting the two expended bullets back into the small envelope from which he had seen Aimes take them, Father Wycazik said, “What about the cartridges these bullets came from? Is there any chance they were filled with too little powder, that they carried an inadequate charge?”

The SID man blinked. “I gather one thing you’re trying to find out is why two .38s in the chest didn’t do more damage.”

Stefan Wycazik nodded but offered no elaboration. “Were there any unexpended cartridges in the revolver?”

“A couple. Plus spare ammunition in one of the gunman’s jacket pockets—another dozen.”

“Did you cut open any of the unexpended shells to see if maybe they carried an inadequate charge?”

“No reason to,” Murphy Aimes said.

“Would it be possible for you to check one of them now?”

“Possible. But why? Father, what in the world is this all about?”

Stefan sighed. “I know this is an imposition, Dr. Aimes, and it behooves me to repay your kindness with an explanation. But I can’t. Not yet. Priests, like physicians and attorneys, must sometimes respect confidences, keep secrets. But if I’m ever at liberty to reveal what lies behind my curiosity, you’ll be the first to know.”

Aimes stared and Stefan met his eyes forthrightly. Finally the SID man opened another envelope. This contained the unexpended cartridges from the dead gunman’s .38 Chief’s Special. “Wait here.”

In twenty minutes, Aimes returned with a white enamel lab tray in which were two dissected .38 Special cartridges. Using a pencil as a pointer, he commented on the disassembled elements. “This is the case head in which the primer assembly is seated. The firing pin strikes here. This opening on the other side of the case head is the flashhole that leads from the primer packet to the powder compartment. There’s no problem with this, no manufacturing errors. At the other end of the cartridge, you’ve got a lead semiwadcutter bullet with a copper gas check crimped onto its base to retard bore leading. The tiny cannelures around the bullet are packed with grease to ease its passage through the barrel. Nothing out of order here, either. And in between the case head and the bullet is the powder compartment—or it’s sometimes called the combustion chamber—out of which I’ve taken this small pile of gray, flaky material. This is nitrocellulose, a highly combustible material; it’s ignited by the spark that comes through the flashhole from the primer; it explodes, ejecting the bullet from the cartridge. As you can see, there’s enough nitrocellulose to fill the powder chamber. Just to be sure, I opened another round.” Aimes pointed the pencil at the second disassembled cartridge. “There was nothing wrong with this, either. The gunman was using well-made, reliable, Remington ammunition. Officer Tolk was just a lucky man, Father, a very lucky man.”

New York, New York

Jack Twist spent Christmas in the sanitarium room with Jenny, his wife of thirteen years. Being with her on holidays was especially grim. But being anywhere else, leaving her alone, would have been grimmer.

Although Jenny had spent almost two-thirds of their marriage in a coma, the years of lost communion had not diminished Jack’s love for her. More than eight years had passed since she had smiled at him or spoken his name or been able to return his kisses, but in his heart, at least, time was stopped, and she was still the beautiful Jenny Mae Alexander, a fresh-faced young bride.

Incarcerated in that Central American prison, he had been sustained by the knowledge that Jenny waited at home for him, missed him, worried about him, and prayed each night for his safe return. Throughout his ordeal of torture and periodic starvation, he had clung to the hope that he would one day feel Jenny’s arms around him and hear her marvelous laugh. That hope had kept him alive and sane.

Of the four captured Rangers, only Jack and his buddy Oscar Weston survived and came home, though their escape was a near thing. They had waited almost a year to be rescued, confident that their country would not leave them to rot. Sometimes they debated whether they would be freed by commandos or through diplomatic channels. After eleven months, they still believed their countrymen would bail them out, but they no longer dared to wait. They had lost weight and were dangerously thin, undernourished. They had also suffered unknown tropical fevers without treatment, which had further debilitated them.

Their only opportunity for escape was during one of their regular visits to the People’s Center for Justice. Every four weeks, Jack and Oscar had been taken from their cells and driven to the People’s Center—a clean, well-lighted, unwalled, unbarred institution in the heart of the capital—a model prison meant to impress foreign journalists with the current regime’s humanitarianism. There, they were given showers, deloused, put in clean clothes, handcuffed to prevent gesturing, and seated before videotape cameras to be politely questioned. Usually, they answered questions with obscenities or wisecracks. Their answers did not matter because the tape was edited, and answers they had never made were dubbed in by linguists who could speak unaccented English.