Where Nobody Dies (18 page)

Screaming would do no good, I reminded myself. The building was empty except for the makeshift gym, and my research had told me the surrounding buildings had also been emptied, Bellfield-style, by fire and harassment. The only people who cared if I lived or died couldn't hear me; those who could didn't care. No, screaming would be stupid.

I screamed anyway. Running back to the exercise bike, I grabbed a hand-weight and threw it at the window. The gesture and the satisfying tinkle of glass that followed gave me new energy. I ran to the window and screamed my guts out. As the smell of smoke grew strong, screams subsided into sobs of frustration and fear.

I knew only one thing—I wanted to be out of this place as much as I'd ever wanted anything in my life. Never before claustrophobic, I hung on those bars and gulped air from that window as though my life depended on it.

After what seemed an eternity, panic began to ebb. I still smelled the smoke and now heard an ominous crackle to go with it, but I had some control of myself. I forced my rubber legs to walk to a small sink in the corner of the room. I ran water, first dashing some onto my flushed face, and then dousing my white shirt in it. Thank goodness, I thought wryly, for fashion—the oversized white shirt I'd tossed on over my turtleneck would make a perfect mask. Holding the wet shirt to my mouth, I began to explore the room, hoping against hope that the gorilla had left a spare key. Coughing and gasping, I walked to where the smoke was strongest, wanting to get it over with quickly. It was the wall with the jump ropes. I started in one corner and methodically searched the dull gray surface for a key-hook. Halfway across, I had to run back to the sink to re-wet the shirt. The air was stifling, worse than the oppressive heat that hits New York in August.

I ran back and finished that wall, my shaking hands roaming the surface I could barely see, my streaming eyes searching for any place a key might be hidden. I checked under the bike and the rowing machine for magnetic key-holders.

Seven trips to the sink later, I'd done all the walls and was reaching the door. My hands were spastic as I reached up above the jamb in the place a lot of householders leave their spares. My hopes were waning, and yet my mind refused to accept the inevitable. I was on the verge of doing what I'd done as a kid, promising the God I no longer believed in a virtuous life if only He'd get me out of this one. I even gave a passing thought to Tito's favorite saint—the one who specialized in the impossible. I laughed harshly at myself as I realized what I was doing: plea-bargaining.

No key. I sank to the ground where I stood, my legs folding under me like a secondhand bridge table. My wet shirt was drying out from the heat, filling with the acrid smell of smoke and denying me the tiny taste of oxygen I'd been getting. The sink would help; the window, away from the engulfing smoke, would help even more. I could scream again, I thought in despair, knowing how futile the act would be. I could search again, knowing I'd already done a thorough job. I could—

I didn't care. I sat in front of the door hoping death would come quickly, realizing the sink, the window, were only temporary respites. The smoke would eventually invade my lungs wherever I was, whatever I did, and I would die. Then the flames would lick at my extremities, nibble and gouge me to death with fiery teeth, and I would end up as what Duncan Pitt had called a roast. A piece of charred meat.

I heard whimpering. I looked around wildly, then realized it was me. I hated myself at that moment, hated my weakness. I sobbed aloud, pounded and kicked the door. I think I screamed out the words that had made me a lawyer at the age of four:
It's not fair
! I threw myself against the door in a paroxysm of rage, the kind of tantrum toddlers throw in the supermarket, then sat spent and staring.

It was time to get up. I did it mechanically, wearily, yet with a deep and utter calm. I walked to the window, leaned out as far as I could, and took long yoga breaths. I tried to hold the air in as long as I could, but I was stopped by racking coughs. I brought up acrid black sputum and spat it into the courtyard, then inhaled again and again, gradually replacing the smoke with life-giving freshness. The cold air felt good to my sweaty, tear-streaked face, and I finally woke up enough to wipe my running nose with my now-dry shirt. I was almost alive again.

Alive enough to realize I wasn't whimpering or kicking anymore. Alive enough to think. Sound was out. The hearing people within earshot had put me where I was. The people who could help me couldn't hear. What
could
they do? They could, I decided, see. What I had to do was give them something to see.

I bent down and picked up the weight I'd used to break the window. It had hit a bar and fallen back inside the room. It was a small hand-weight; probably Gorgeous George lifted it with his pinky. But to me it was heavy. And I had to hurl it out the window, across the courtyard, through the alley, and out into the street. This from the girl chosen last for every softball game Chagrin Falls, Ohio, ever had.

I swung back my arm, trying not to notice the immediate protest lodged by stiff shoulder muscles. I flung the weight, holding my breath involuntarily. It got about halfway across the courtyard, landing with a dull thud even the hearing wouldn't have noticed. The second weight I threw went almost to the alley. I was getting better. The third hit the opposite wall, chipping a brick. The fourth was the last one I felt I could throw with any success, and I stood in indecision, hating to let it go, when I suddenly had a flash of inspiration. The jump ropes! I ran to the wall, through the black cloud of smoke, ripped the ropes of the wall in one motion, then ran back to the window, gulping more air and spitting out smoke. When I was reasonably recovered, I pulled the handles off the ropes and tied them together with hands steadier than I thought possible.

I threw without hesitation, my aim good enough this time to send the weight into the alley itself. I had to smile with pride. That pitch could have evened a lot of scores back in Chagrin Falls. I grinned as I pulled the weight back in and prepared to try again.

I had my arm raised when I saw it. A movement at first, it soon resolved itself into a sleeve, and then a jacket—a jacket with the colors of the Unknown Homicides on the back!

The boy was facing the street, away from me. I had to force down the shout that wouldn't be heard. Summoning up everything I had, I flung the weight into the courtyard, into the alley, where it landed just short of the boy. Anyone else would have turned to look at the source of the unexpected sound, but the boy just stood.

It was back to prayers again. I was afraid to haul the weight in, afraid my next try wouldn't get it that far. All the boy had to do was turn around and look down. I begged him to do it. The sight of one of George's weights attached to a rope would have to lead to an investigative walk into the courtyard, where he'd see me waving frantically in the window. My mind screamed what I knew it would be futile to cry aloud.

The boy in the alley walked away as quickly and silently as he had come. I saw red, then black, before my eyes as I hung, defeated, in the window.

At first, I didn't even hear the noise, but then, restored to my senses, it sounded as loud and welcome as any sound I'd ever heard. It was the rasp of a key turning in the lock on the steel door.

Frantic, I ran for the door, my breath coming in sobs and coughs; when the door opened, I rushed through it—and flung myself into the arms of Ira Bellfield.

It was like a scene from a romance novel. I buried my head in his coat and sobbed with relief, my fingers kneading his back. His arms were around me, holding me up, and his voice whispered soothingly, “It's okay now. The fire's out. Don't cry.” It was a touching moment, except for one thing—I was still convinced it was Ira who'd tried to kill me in the first place.

We hobbled out of the building together. My legs were still too wobbly to support me on their own. I wanted to sit down, but the cold, broken pavement in front of the building didn't appeal to me. “I'm taking you to my car,” Ira said in my ear. “You'll be out of the wind there, anyway.” I didn't protest as he opened the door of a black Mercedes and gently lowered me into the passenger seat. I leaned back against the leather upholstery and closed my eyes. I was no longer crying, but tears coursed down my cheeks.

A touch on my shoulder startled me. I jumped, then turned to see Tito, looking anxious, holding my now-grimy down coat. I mustered a smile and let him tuck it around me like a blanket. I was trying to reassure him that I was all right, and finding it pretty hard going without Frankie the interpreter, when Bellfield came back, followed by the rest of the Homicides. He handed me a Styrofoam cup. “Coffee,” he explained. “I thought you'd like something to drink.” I tore off the lid and sucked thirstily at the deli coffee Bellfield had brought. It was overmilked, oversugared, and utterly wonderful.

“It was just a couple of mattresses set on fire,” Bellfield said, gesturing toward the building. “Turk put the fire out with an extinguisher he keeps in the basement. Coulda been kids.” He gave me an appraising look, then added, “Anyway, no harm done. Thank God for that.”

“You thank God,” I snapped, my voice an ugly and unexpected croak. “Kids, my ass. Somebody locked me in that room—and the only person I know has a key is that gorilla of yours. Turk, is it? What's his last name?” I glared at Bellfield. “I'll need it for the police report.”

I wasn't sure what reaction I expected, but what I got surprised me. “Let's not be hasty, here, Miss Jameson,” he said in a smooth, confident tone. “If the police get into this, they could hear evidence that could cut both ways.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Those boys of yours”—Bellfield gestured at the Homicides, who were watching us intently but without comprehension—“have already been charged with arson once.”

“Why would any of them want to hurt me?” I responded with scorn. “I'm on their side, and they know it.”

Bellfield shrugged. “Some people are crazy about fires,” he said. “They don't care who they hurt as long as they get to see the pretty flames. Or maybe,” he went on, “it was an accident. Maybe somebody tossed a match in the wrong place, and being deaf, didn't hear the flames start to crackle. Could be a lot of explanations. 'Course,” he went on, giving me a piercingly shrewd glance from under the gray hatbrim, “it's up to the fire marshal to decide what really happened.”

The fire marshal. Duncan Pitt. My heart sank, and the anger that had led me to threaten Bellfield with the police evaporated. Pitt would write in his report whatever Bellfield told him to write. Turk wouldn't be mentioned at all, and if anyone got the blame, it would be the Unknown Homicides. Maybe someday, the whole mess would be straightened out, but in the meantime, I'd be a complaining witness against my own client. It would be the end of my representation of Tito Fernandez.

Suspicions creased my forehead. I turned away, ostensibly to finish my coffee and dispose of the cup in Bellfield's plastic litter bag, but really to think. Had that been the reason for the fire—to trap me into filing a complaint and removing me as Tito's lawyer once he turned out to be the person charged? If so, why was Bellfield telling me his plans before the trap was sprung?

It made no sense, and yet, clearly, he had placed me in danger. Equally clearly, he had rescued me from the danger. Conclusion: He wanted me scared, not dead. I turned from the inside of the car toward Bellfield's face. It wore the same mildly solicitous expression he'd worn before, but the eyes seemed implacable, cold, calculating. I shuddered, a great racking shiver that traveled through my body and made the coat jump off my shoulders. If Bellfield wanted me scared, I admitted sourly, he'd achieved his purpose.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “it's just as well they can't hear. Some things you and I ought to talk about that maybe it's better they don't hear.”

I had to clamp my lips shut to keep my teeth from chattering. It made for clipped answers. “Like what?”

“It doesn't have to be this way.” He shook his head sadly. “All this court business. You and me on opposite sides.”

I couldn't think of a two-word answer, so I just sat, trying to look receptive. In truth, I was curious as hell to see where this was leading.

“All I wanted,” he went on, “was to find out who torched my building. I thought it was your boy. Maybe”—he spread his hands and smiled ingratiatingly—“maybe I was wrong. Maybe Turk got the wrong idea. He's a good super, Turk, but a pretty dim bulb, if you know what I mean. Plus, he hates your boys like poison, calls 'em dummies. He was always on my case to get 'em outa the building.”

“I know,” I said. Clenched teeth made the answer sound snappy, so I went on. “So what?”

“So maybe he jumped to conclusions when he seen your boy inna hallway there. Maybe your kid did get the kerosene on him from slipping in a puddle. Who knows? I wasn't there that night, all I know is what I get from Turk. And if he was wrong, or just saying something to get your kid locked up, well, it'd be a real shame for a kid like that to do time for something he didn't do, wouldn't it?”

I was having a hard time accepting Ira Bellfield, the voice on the tape, as a passionate advocate for the rights of deaf defendants. What, I wondered, did he really want?

“I don't know much about the law,” Bellfield went on, “so let me ask you something. What would happen in court if there wasn't enough evidence against your boy? If, say, one of the witnesses didn't show up in court? Or told the DA his memory wasn't too good? They'd throw the case out of court, right?”

“It depends,” I answered. I was playing for time. This was the kind of conversation lawyers are taught to be very careful about. One wrong word and I was up to my ears in collusion. The bar association could get very interested. “My advice,” I said slowly and deliberately, in case the conversation was being recorded, “would be for that witness to come to court and tell the truth.”