Bad Blood (26 page)

Ahead, from the right, lights swung onto the road. A hulking truck body followed, filled my vision, my world. I didn’t slow because I couldn’t have stopped. I flicked the wheel left, flew out past him, and eased right. I felt the left front wheel search for the road, then claw its way back onto it. The rear wheel hung in the soft shoulder another second, then followed. We dug up dirt as we thudded back onto the asphalt. Then we were running smoothly, except for the staccato hammering of my heart. Sounds came from behind me, soft words, but I didn’t pay attention. I’d lost my focus, thinking about gloves; we were lucky to have made it through that, and you don’t get two of those.

My world became a moving, headlight-lit band and the
shadows
on either side of it. The texture of the road, the car’s banked angle, the sound of the engine as we headed into a curve were all I cared about. My breathing became as regular as a metronome. My heart slowed again, and I had no purpose and there was nothing I wanted but to push this car down this road and onto Route 1 as fast as it was willing to go.

And we made it. There were other cars, other headlights, migrant leaves and branches huddled across the road, but we made it through all that, and burst out onto 1 like a sleeper screaming himself awake from a dream.

1 was a good, four-lane road. It was one of the ones the county had widened and straightened, and it gave me room and a clear view. I pushed up to eighty.

As I hit 1 the insistent flash of circling red and white lights appeared in my mirror. A siren howled. I held my speed steady. The lights moved up close behind me. Then he pulled beside me, in front of me, opened a distance between us, kept it even. I flashed my lights, inched up behind him to show I could match his speed. He accelerated.

A mile and a half of that, running straight and fast, the siren clearing the way for us as we lay each well-banked curve smoothly onto the one before. Sometimes we sped by a car cowering in the right lane; most of the time the road was empty, ours.

The state highway was even better, six lanes, and we took the six miles, on and off, in four minutes. The hospital was only two miles away now, a long, long two miles through residential streets whose posted speed was thirty.
The
cop ahead of me, with his screaming siren and flashing light, kept us near sixty. I felt as though I’d come down to pleasure-drive speed, Sunday afternoon meandering. I wanted to pass the cop, to drive the way Tony needed me to drive; I wanted to arrive.

A car skidded to a stop as we ran a light; his screeching brakes faded fast into the night behind me. The cop ahead of me signaled and swung right, taking a turn I didn’t know. I followed; we zigzagged through night-sleepy streets whose quiet we ripped apart. The cop darted right again, and we were in the hospital lot.

The medics were waiting as I swung under the canopied emergency entrance. They spoke little to each other, nothing to Eve or me, as they lifted Tony from the back of my car onto a gurney, sped him out of sight through glass doors that opened without help.

I watched them vanish, medics like parentheses bent at the ends of Tony’s wordless sentence. Suddenly I had no words either, and no ability to move. I stood in the cold, drained and empty, staring at the door because I was facing that way.

A voice said, “Go inside.” I turned, uncomprehending. Eve stood close, her hand warm on my bare arm. “You’ve got nothing on. I’ll park the car. Go inside.”

I spread my hands, looked down at myself. I wore a sweat-drenched, blood-streaked undershirt. There was blood on my pants, my hands, my arms. Even the blue snake curling his way up to my left shoulder was smeared with Tony’s blood.

Eve took the car keys from my hand. I did what she
said
, went inside, to a room where a nurse sat behind a cheerful yellow counter beside yellow double doors you couldn’t see through. It was warmer inside, but I didn’t feel warmer. The smell was cold and the shiny vinyl floors were cold and the deserted silence was very cold.

The nurse asked me some questions about Tony and I filled in some forms. There were a lot of things I didn’t know. Eve came in with my jacket. I put it on. She went around a corner, came back with a steaming paper cup, handed it to me. The hand I took it with must have been shaking; hot coffee slopped over my fingers, dripped onto the floor. Eve took the cup back, waited, handed it to me again. I held it in both hands. The coffee was bitter, with oily green droplets floating on the surface, but as I sipped it I finally began to warm.

Eve said, “Do you feel better?”

“I’m all right.” My voice sounded loud in the stillness.

“You probably saved his life, driving like that.”

I reached a cigarette from my pocket, lit it without answering her, because we both knew that Tony might not live, even so.

The nurse behind the counter glanced up at the sound of the match. She rested a long look on me, on the cigarette, on Eve. Then she went deliberately back to her paperwork as though nothing was amiss. I wondered whether some people were born understanding the true nature of kindness, or if it was something you had to learn.

A state trooper came through the glass doors, knife-sharp creases in his pants smoothing at the knees as he sat.

“You the guy I was following?” I asked him.

“Uh-huh. Donnelly.” He had crinkly blue eyes and a wide smile. He stuck out his hand.

I reached for it, then saw my hand, dirt, blood, and coffee in equal parts darkening my skin. I withdrew it, said, “Thanks.”

“What happened?” he wanted to know.

I finished the coffee. “Drive-by.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Like the movies?”

“Yeah.”

“You know who it was?”

“No.”

“You know why?”

“No.”

“Anybody else hurt?”

“No.”

“Well,” he said, “none of my business. I’m just supposed to keep an eye on you until someone who knows something gets here.”

“On me?”

“Sure.” He was a little surprised. “You’re a witness. From what I hear, you’re
the
witness. You’re gonna be a popular fella around here.”

Somehow, I doubted that.

I stubbed out the cigarette, found the men’s room, lathered liquid soap on my arms, my face, my neck. I took off the undershirt, threw it away, washed again. There weren’t quite enough paper towels to dry on; Housekeeping must have had a heavy day.

I wormed back into my jacket, went out to the pay
phones
in the corridor by the vending machines. Donnelly was sitting peacefully talking to Eve, his back to me. I could have slipped down the fire stairs and out the basement level door, and would his face have been red when someone who knew something got there. Lucky for him I had no place to go.

I called Antonelli’s. A cop answered, in the voice of cops answering crime-scene phones. I asked for Lydia, hoping he wouldn’t ask me who I was, and when he did, I thought briefly of lying. But that would just have led to trouble later, and there was enough trouble now.

“It’s Bill Smith,” I said.

“Hold on. Lieutenant!” the cop yelled.

Then MacGregor’s tired voice: “Smith? That you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You find anything?”

“What the hell am I supposed to find? Jesus Christ, one minute I’m in my jockeys watching
Star Trek
reruns, next thing I know I’m racing to a run-down bar because it’s hunting season in parking lots. What happened?”

I told him what I had and hadn’t seen.

“Who was it?”

“I didn’t see.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Any theories?”

“Frank Grice.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like him.”

“Screw you. Describe the car.”

I closed my eyes, tried to flip through the pictures in
my
mind. “Strip tail lights. Red-white-red. License plate between, not below. The plate was dark. Covered with something.”

“You see the color?”

“Dark.”

“No shit.”

“Come on, Mac.”

“Anything else?”

“Something shiny above the left light. Auto club sticker, something like that.”

“Okay. Does Antonelli have any enemies?”

“Probably. But not this kind.”

“You said Grice. Tell me what this has to do with the fight Monday night.”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Grice?”

“You’re a pain in the ass, Smith, you know that? Anyhow, maybe it wasn’t Antonelli they were after. Maybe it was you.”

I said, “Maybe it was.”

“You got enemies of your own?”

“I’ve got nothing but. But if someone thinks I’m worth killing, I don’t know why. Except that bastard with the broken wrist. He may be annoyed about that.”

“Otis Huttner? A guy with a cast on his wrist can’t drive and shoot at the same time. But I’ll pick him up anyway, just for practice.”

“Maybe he had someone with him. That other bastard.”

“So I’ll pick them both up.”

“Frank Grice doesn’t like me, either.”

“Smith, you want me to pick up Grice, you’d better have a damn good reason. You have one?”

“I have the one I’ve always had. I think he killed Wally Gould, or he knows who did, and I think he knows I think that. Maybe he thinks I know more than I do.”

“That’s not good enough. He pays his lawyer too much for me to pick him up because you think he thinks you think he did something that even if he did he knows I can’t prove.”

The headache that had been sitting quietly in the bruised place behind my left ear suddenly threw its arms around my head and held on tightly, as if MacGregor scared it. “Mac,” I said, “I don’t even want to understand that.”

He hesitated. “How’s Antonelli doing?”

“He’s in surgery. They haven’t told me anything yet.”

“You think he saw who it was?”

“He could have.”

“I’ll send someone over, to be there when he wakes up.”

“You’ve got someone here now.”

“Who? Donnelly?”

“Yeah.”

“He should’ve been Highway Patrol. He drives great, but he doesn’t think so good.”

“Does the Highway Patrol know you feel that way?”

“Yeah, and so does Donnelly. Smith, listen—”

An electronic voice interrupted him, asked me for more money. I fished around past the gun in my pocket for quarters, shoved them in the slot. I said, “I’m listening.”

“Whatever it is you’ve been sitting on, I want it. Don’t give me client confidentiality, don’t give me it’s not police business. I’ve got one dead body and I might—I almost had another. I cover three counties here, Smith. This is
more
homicides than I had all last year. So your time’s up. Give.”

“I can’t, MacGregor.”

“You can, and you will. If you don’t, I’ll send somebody over there to pick you up. You won’t like my jail, Smith. It’s not nice and comfy like the ones you’ve got in the big city.”

A nurse squeaked down the hall on crepe-soled shoes.

“Oh, Christ,” I said. “Yeah, okay, Mac. But tomorrow, okay? I want to stay here until—until I know something. And I’m beat. I’ll come in the morning.”

He was silent a moment. “You going to spend the night there?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Am I going to be sorry if I don’t make you come in now?”

“No. Nothing else is going to happen tonight. All the bad guys have gone home to bed.”

“You’d better be right.”

“I’m right. Listen, it’s been fun, but I didn’t call to chat with you. What are the chances of my speaking to Lydia Chin?”

“The little Chinese dish in the leather jacket?”

“You’d better hope she didn’t hear that.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s a friend of mine, for Christ’s sake. She came up to spend a couple of days.”

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“Yeah, sure. Oh, and look—Brinkman’s on his way to the hospital, to talk to you.”

“Jesus, Mac, did you have to do that?”

“I didn’t want him screwing up my crime scene. Tell him what happened, tell him you’re coming in to see me in the morning, tell him to leave you alone.”

“Sure, Mom. Can I tell him my big brother’ll beat him up if he doesn’t?”

“Tell him any damn thing you want.” MacGregor’s voice became distant as he called Lydia’s name.

I waited, not long. “Bill? How’s Tony?” Lydia’s voice was both soft and urgent, like spring rain.

“I don’t know. He’s still in surgery. MacGregor give you a hard time?”

She said noncommittally, “He’s a cop.” With a smile in her voice, she added, “And he’s listening.”

“Talk dirty.”

“You wish. What should I do? They took my statement; I can go.”

“Come to the hospital. I want you to take Eve home, stay with her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stay here.” I wasn’t sure why. Tony wasn’t likely to wake until morning, if then; and I was desperately tired. But it seemed, somehow, as though it would help.

I went back to the little waiting area. Eve and Donnelly were sitting companionably, silently. I asked the nurse behind the yellow counter whether she could tell me anything about Tony yet. She smiled a gentle, practiced smile, said she was sure Doctor would let us know as soon as he could.

I sat down next to Eve. Donnelly and I looked each other over; then I leaned back, stretched my legs, closed my eyes. Eve rested her hand on mine. It was rough, warm, and sure. I twined my fingers with hers, and slept.

17

I DIDN’T SLEEP
long. The sound of boot heels clomped through the confused images in my mind. I felt Eve squeeze my hand just before a deep voice drawled, “Well, look at Sleeping Beauty.”

I opened my eyes but I didn’t sit up. The fluorescent hospital lights seemed harsher, brighter than before. I squinted against them.

“Every time I see you, city boy,” Brinkman said, dropping into the chair next to Donnelly, “you look worse. Why d’you think that is?”

“In the eye of the beholder, Brinkman.” Now I sat up, took my hand from Eve’s. I lit my last cigarette, drew on it hungrily. The nurse looked up again, her face more disapproving this time. I crumpled the empty pack, showed it to her. She smiled and bent over her papers again.