Afterparty (38 page)

He nodded. “His name is Vincent.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I woke in a different room, a smaller space but somehow less crowded. Fewer machines, I realized. So, out of the ICU, then? Rovil wasn’t there, no nurses were in sight, and Dr. Gloria …

A chill of panic moved through me. I was alone. For the first time in years, truly alone.

I could feel the emptiness where the doctor used to reside. Even when she was angry with me, staying out of sight, I had never felt this absence. I remembered talking to her during the height of the fever, the way she seemed to be slipping away into shadows, the way she leaned over me that final time.

You have been betrayed.

I tried to sit up, but a stab of pain in my shoulder brought me up short. The left side of my body was wrapped in an elaborate sling. I pulled aside the sheet. My right ankle was in an oversized handcuff (footcuff?), which was secured to the bed by a steel chain. What the hell?

I lay back down. My body was heavy with fatigue, and my brain felt sandbagged with painkillers and antiepileptics and whatever else they’d pumped into my veins. But the fever was gone. I was fully awake for the first time since the shooting. And all I could think about was Ollie.

Eventually a nurse—a skinny kid who looked, despite his muttonchops, to be sixteen years old—arrived with a breakfast tray. I pointed to a bouquet of white and red flowers that sat on the windowsill. “Who are those from?” I asked. My voice came out as a croak.

He found the tag. “‘Get well soon,’” he read. “‘The Millionaires Club.’” He smiled. “Hey, that’s nice.”

Fuck. Fayza and the Millies had found me.

Hootan was dead, Aaqila was dead or injured … and I was alive. Fayza had to assume that I was associated with the cowboy and had set up her people. Could she have sent someone across the border to kill me? Was someone in the hospital right now?

When the police arrived I was almost glad to see them. They were three detectives from the New Mexico State Police. They told me they’d been here twice before, but I’d been too out of it to answer their questions. “How about now?” they asked.

They spoke to me as if I were a criminal. Understandable, I suppose; they knew how egregiously I’d violated my parole. One of them even checked my arm for the missing pellet. It was also clear that they had already talked to Rovil, and there was no telling how much he’d told them.

“Start again from the beginning,” one of the other detectives said.

The beginning? I didn’t know when that was. Francine? The night Mikala died? Or before that, on the night I first saw her, standing in a crowded room, a wineglass in her hand? And then where to stop—with Dr. Gloria’s flaming sword?

I was exhausted and angel-less. There was no narrative line I could skate, no combination of facts and lies I could imagine that would make my position any better. Worse, any details could be used against Ollie and Bobby … and Edo. If I incriminated Edo, I would only hurt Sasha.

I said the only thing I could think of: nothing.

My silence made them angry, and they did not give up so easily. At some point one of them said something that got me to react: “You don’t have to be afraid of him. We can protect you.”

“Afraid of who?” Then I got it. “Wait, he’s
alive
?”

“We found blood, and a bloody handprint as he left the house.”

The cowboy was alive! I’d been sure he’d been mortally wounded by the doctor’s sword. During the fever, that had made perfect sense. I’d even bought her reassurance:
The man who is responsible for this will not bother you again.

“That lying bitch,” I said under my breath.

“Pardon?”

“I thought he was dead,” I said.

“Just tell us what you saw,” the lead detective said. I shook my head and ignored him. “Okay,” he said. “How about Rovil Gupta? Have you heard from him?”

“Rovil? Why?”

“He last checked in with us two days ago. He said he was driving home to New York, but he hasn’t arrived at work, and no one has heard from him.” He made his voice sound reasonable. “If he attacked the shooter, he’s not going to be in trouble. It was clearly self-defense.”

“I haven’t heard from him since he left me in the ICU.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we looked at your pen?”

“I don’t have a pen.”

“It’s in with your clothes.” One of the detectives reached into the cabinet and withdrew a large, clear plastic bag. Inside were smaller bags containing my shirt, my jeans, my shoes. They all looked bloody. “We would like to look at your local or externally stored messages, as well as related files and internet history.” He’d said this sentence many times before. The southland was way behind Canada when it came to electronic privacy, but the Supreme Court had set
some
limits.

“Fuck no,” I said. “I want my lawyer.”

“You don’t have a lawyer,” he said.

An idea came to me. “Sure I do,” I said. “It’s the same guy who represents Eduard Vik, Junior.”

The detectives looked at each other.

I stopped speaking, which made the interrogation more difficult for them but almost enjoyable for me. They grew more frustrated and I grew more tired, nearly falling asleep between their sentences. Eventually a doctor came in and said I should be resting. The detectives reminded me that I was under arrest and implied that unless I cooperated, they would need to keep me in the US—and not in some cushy hospital. This smelled of bullshit. I was a Canadian citizen, here illegally but only a witness to a crime, not a suspect. Jurisdictionally I was as complicated as an Akwesasne cigarette smuggler. But I didn’t have the energy to spar with them.

“One more thing,” the lead detective said. “Olivia Skarsten.” I didn’t bother to open my eyes. He said, “Your hospital said she skipped out the same time as you, and Rovil said she traveled with you as far as Amarillo. I don’t suppose you’ve seen
her
?”

I said nothing.

When they finally left I asked the doctor for a favor. “Jeans, back pocket,” I said.

She fished out the pen, then wiped it down with an antiseptic.

Turns out, I had a few messages. The first three were from Ollie.

*   *   *

The fever had screwed with my biological clock. For the rest of the week I could not stay awake during the day, but nights I spent staring at the TV or the pen. Mornings crashed through the window like the grille of a Mack truck. Of course that’s when the cops liked to time their visits. The detectives came twice more, the second time to tell me that the US Marshal Service would be escorting me back to Canada. Their case was going nowhere. Rovil still hadn’t shown up in New York. The descriptions of the cowboy—Esperanza, Sasha, and I largely agreed on what he looked like—hadn’t led to anyone.

Every time I wanted to move off the bed, my RN had to find the head nurse to get the key to the leg irons. My skinny, sideburned, day-shift nurse—his name was Dan, but by the time I’d learned that I’d already nicknamed him Baby Chop—helped me hobble back and forth to the bathroom and instructed me on how to shower without soaking my bandages. After five days my body still felt as sturdy as a corn husk, but I was deemed ready to travel. Suddenly I could no longer put off a particularly onerous task.

*   *   *

“I got your flowers,” I said.

The woman on the other end of the line said, “I’m so glad. We were worried about you.” There was no video on the call. An additional restriction was that neither of us knew who else might be listening in.

She said, “I was surprised to hear that you were so far south.”

“Yeah, that kind of surprised me myself.”

“But you’re coming back north soon, I hear.”

“Any day now,” I said. “They say I’m doing much better.”

“I wish I could say the same for others.”

“Is, uh, your hairdresser okay?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t say ‘okay.’ Someday, perhaps, but not anytime soon.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes. Well.”

“The reason I called…”

“I was wondering about that.”

“I feel bad about what happened,” I said. “To the hairdresser, but also … the one who drove your hairdresser.”

“I’ll pass on your condolences to his family.”

“I was hoping to do more than that.”

“Really.”

“The man who is responsible for the driver is the same man who put me here in the hospital.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“He was never on my side. I want you to know that. What happened … out east. That was a third party.”

“What you want me to know, and what I believe, are miles apart.”

“I’m not asking you to take this on faith.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking me at all.”

“I’m asking for a chance to make amends.”

“Amends?”

“Amends,” I said.

“What can you possibly offer?”

“A name. And soon, I’ll have more than that.”

“Go on.”

*   *   *

The morning of my deportation, Baby Chop unchained me and helped me into my new clothes. The hospital—or maybe the police—had provided me with a pair of jeans with an elastic waistband, a floral shirt that must have been popular with the geriatric crowd, and a pair of cheap cotton loafers. The marshals were due any minute. Baby Chop locked me back up just the same.

“You could leave the key,” I told him. He laughed good-naturedly and went to his next patient.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, reading my pen, when the knock came.

“Just a sec,” I said. I typed another sentence and the door started to open. “Jesus, hold on!” I closed the pen, then turned awkwardly to see who’d come in.

Eduard looked years older than he had in Chicago. His suit was just as beautiful, but he was missing his tie, and the top two buttons had come undone. He glanced at me, then looked away, fixing his gaze on other objects in the room: the window, the plastic water jug, the black slab of the unpowered TV screen.

“I thought you might stop by,” I said.

“The police think my lawyers are representing you,” he said. “I told them you were lying.”

“Maybe you should rethink that,” I said.

He looked at me then. His face was haggard, days away from sleep.

“We’re on the same side,” I said. “I didn’t tell the cops that the chemjet was in your office. Or that you’ve got blueprints for making more of those machines.”

“What are you talking about?” He seemed genuinely confused.

“The paintings from Gilbert Kapernicke. They’re instructions. Anybody who looks into it will know he’s talked to you—and that you’ve got the money to manufacture all the NME One-Ten that you want.”

“You’re out of your mind. You think I want more of you people? You think I want
anyone
to—”

He seemed to realize he was shouting. He glanced at the door, then put his hands on the rail of my bed. “You think I want anyone to be like
Sasha
? Like you?”

“I believe you,” I said. And I did. Eduard Jr. wasn’t the one who started a new religion to distribute Numinous. And he wasn’t the guy who made a deal with Big Pharm to manufacture it. Eduard, like his father, had been used.

Finally I said, “How is she?”

He said nothing for a time. “She’s fine.” Then he shook his head. “No. That’s not true. She’s a wreck. After what she saw … She loved my father very much.”

“I know you’ll take care of her,” I said.

This seemed to make him angry. “You’ll have nothing to do with her,” he said. “I’ll make sure that Sasha never sees you again.”

“Don’t do that. You shouldn’t punish her like that. If she wants to talk to me, at least let her—”

“You’re poison,” he said. “You brought death to our house.”

That was true. I had led death straight to their door. Straight to Sasha.

“I
am
unfit,” I said. “I know that. I don’t want to be her parent; I just want to be … I don’t know,
there
. To answer her questions.”

He shook his head. “You’ll never have the opportunity to hurt her again.”

My bearded and baby-faced nurse entered the room, looking concerned. Eduard said, “I was just leaving.”

“Wait,” I said. “At least do this for her. Keep Esperanza.”

“What?”

“Don’t fire her. Sasha needs her.”

“I’ll decide what she needs and what she doesn’t,” he said. “I’m her father.” He pushed past the nurse and walked out.

I flipped the pen back open. On the screen it said,
Is he there?

Just left,
I typed.
Thanks for the warning.

No prob.

My nurse said, “It’s time to go, Lyda. Do you need any help with your things?”

“I’m good.” I typed,
Are you okay? How was the therapist?

Talkety talkety talk.

Was she nice?

I guess. Ed and Suz keep asking me how I’m doing. Weird.

Two cops, a man and a woman, entered the room. I didn’t recognize the uniforms, but I assumed these were the US marshals. I pretended I didn’t see them and kept typing.

Last message for a while. Taking me to airport now.

Then prison?

Yup.

!!!! Aren’t you scared?

I wondered, should I tell her that this wouldn’t be the first time? Surely a ten-year-old didn’t need to know that her mother was a hardened criminal.
I’ll be fine,
I typed.

TWO YEARS!!!!!

Maybe less. Depends.

One of the marshals said, “Let’s go.”

Tell your angel to watch over you,
she typed.

*   *   *

I was evidently too dangerous to be held by mere leg irons. The marshals manacled both ankles, then circled me with a waist chain. My damaged arm couldn’t be moved to the sling, so they handcuffed my remaining arm to the chain. Then they took my pen and placed it in a bag with the other surviving personal items: a HashCash card; a smartpaper sketch of a pirate bear; my brass wedding ring. I signed a paper that consigned them to the care of the US government.