AT 29 (103 page)

Nigel stirred. His eyes did not open, but his head moved. Jimmy had all he could to keep him above the waves as he pumped his legs. At last, the rocks loomed only a few feet away. Now, they looked like his only refuge. If he had the strength to maintain control he could let the churn guide him to a safe spot. If he found a foothold he might be able to hoist Nigel's body out of the water. It was his only chance.

A minute later, he crawled up the side of a huge flat-topped slab of stone. He gripped Nigel by his arms, fighting the crashing waves to keep the bigger man from being thrown against the craggy sides. With one last burst of energy, he dragged the deadweight up, setting Nigel down as gently as possible. At last, Jimmy dropped to his knees, panting as his chest heaved and stars passed across his eyes.

Nigel's head rolled from side to side, alarming Jimmy who placed his hands at his temples to keep him from slicing his cheeks on the rock. The wound was nasty, a fist sized opening at the peak of his forehead. The gash glistened red. Concussion, he guessed. He knew something about concussions, the time at Kendall when an enraged brother knocked a disrespectful student out cold. And, again on the football field when Antonelli sent a player to the locker room after he failed to count the fingers in front of his eyes. Jimmy thought he might have suffered one himself during practice when Rodgers slammed a forearm to his helmet, dazing him with an odd whiff of sulfur, not in his nostrils, but somewhere deep in his rattled brain.

Whitehurst stopped moving. His eyes blinked then the pupils rolled back, showing mostly white as his mouth gushed a sudden flow of salt water. Jimmy touched his face in fear.

“Nigel! He gently shook him. Whitehurst coughed.

“The trick with a concussion is staying conscious,”
Jimmy remembered Antonelli telling the team.
“A knock on the head is serious business, not like you see on television. You have to keep him awake until he gets to a doctor. The brain needs to keep working.”
Jimmy didn't know why this was important, but if Nigel had a concussion he needed to keep him conscious.

“Can you hear me?” he shouted. “Talk to me Nigel!”

Whitehurst's shoulders shifted and he opened his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

It's not the response Jimmy anticipated, but it was welcomed just the same. The rain continued to come down in sheets, driven horizontal into his face. “You got knocked around.”

“I got that, mate.” His voice was barely audible above the tempest. Jimmy watched his eyes roll back once more. Then his body convulsed. He spewed more water, shivered violently and seemed to pass out.

Panic took hold. He wasn't sure of what to do so he grabbed Nigel's shoulders and shook him. “You have to stay awake!”

The lifeless body didn't stir. Jimmy slapped his face lightly. Nigel's eyelids shot upward. “Head hurts enough, mate”

“Keep your eyes open so I know you're alive!”

Nigel shifted his head. Rainwater beaded on his cheeks. “Did you pull me out?”

“Yes. You nearly drowned.”

“Big storm.”

Jimmy looked out to the horizon. It was a brighter gray. The rain would stop soon.

“It should end in a little while. I don't know about the wind.”

“Something's wrong with my leg.”

Jimmy looked down. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Then he saw Whitehurst's left knee. It was swollen.

“Your knee.”

Whitehurst closed his eyes.

“Stay with me, Nigel!”

“I'm here,” he replied. “Just resting.”

“Open your eyes! You can't go to sleep!”

“Why?”

“I think you've got a concussion.”

His eyes reopened. “We need to get off these rocks.”

The rain continued to whip. “Not yet. The wind is too strong and the tide's coming in. Later, when the surf settles down. I'll climb the stairs and get some help.”

“You didn't send Les for help?”

Jimmy's breath caught in his throat. “She isn't here.”

“It's getting dark. We'll have to climb the stairs together.”

“Not with your leg.”

“If the wind doesn't drop we'll be stuck here all night.”

Jimmy already considered that. “That's better than drowning.”

Thirty minutes later the rain slowed to a drizzle. The wind continued to gust with no sign of let up. Nigel drifted in and out, causing Jimmy to concentrate on keeping him conscious with more gentle taps on his cheeks. An hour later, the sun, still hidden by thick dark clouds, drifted to the horizon. By dark the rain had stopped, but the wind became steadier, blowing in their faces from east to west. Jimmy couldn't see the breaking waves, but he could hear them as loud and violent as earlier. He could slip across the rocks and go for help, but Nigel continued to fade in and out. He was in no shape to be left alone. Even if Jimmy succeeded, it would be a long while before help arrived. The concussion worried him. Nigel could go unconscious and slide into the water. He chose to stay put.

Nigel stirred. His breathing came easier, but he remained still with his body fully prone on the slab of stone. After a minute, he tried to rise on one elbow. The effort was feeble. He had little strength as he collapsed back and shut his eyes.

“Second time,” he whispered, weakly.

“What?” Jimmy put his ear close, glad the Australian spoke without prompting.

“Me taking a fall.”

“I don't understand you.”

“The biker would have put his knife in my throat if you didn't stick your hand up. Now, I get ready to drown and you get in the way again.”

Jimmy looked out at the angry waters. “Three's the charm. I'll try not to be around next time, too dangerous.”

They began to talk over the wind. Nigel's voice remained a weak whisper that Jimmy strained to hear over the surf. He wanted to know what happened. Jimmy told him everything from his arrival in the parking lot to the moment he dove into the waves. He
drew the story out, pausing here and there for a prompt because he could no longer see if Whitehurst was awake and listening. He told him that he went down hard, lost in the waves and out of sight.

“I thought you went back to New York.”

Jimmy paused. He didn't want to talk about his failed search for Les, but keeping Nigel awake and involved was paramount. He told him about her aborted trip to Miami and the death of Nicky Aldridge that drove her away from Saint Malachy's.

“You've been looking for her? That's why you happened along?”

“Sister Marie mentioned that Les enjoyed the Great Ocean Road.”

Nigel paused, sucking in more air so he could continue. “You didn't find her?”

“No. I was driving back to Melbourne when I decided to stop.”

“You thought she might be with me?”

“I was just taking in the ocean one last time before moving on.”

“Lucky for me.”

“As long as you keep yourself alive until I can go for help.”

“You're in love with her.” It was a statement. “I know about that.”

“Alice?”

Nigel shifted his shoulders. “No, not her. A girl from Sydney. She was the one.”

Jimmy saw an opportunity to keep him talking. “Tell me about her.”

The story of Reina went on for nearly an hour. Whitehurst poured out a detailed description from when they met as teenagers to the years they lived together. He ended by admitting that he hoped to see her in the Forecourt audience during the Sydney concert.

“She's the first violinist with the Symphony Orchestra. I thought she'd come.”

“Why didn't you go to her?”

“Maybe she's found someone else.”

“I've heard that before. Was she the one who taught you how to play the violin?”

“Yes.”

“You should find her.”

“She would complain that I'm too unorthodox for her classical training.” He smiled. “She turned up her nose everytime I kicked into high gear. The only song she ever liked was the one I stole from the church in Apollo Bay.” He paused again, shutting his eyes as his body shivered involuntarily. Nigel's voice rose and fell in a far off way that led Jimmy to believe he was fading again, in and out. “I remember our first kiss. You know, the kiss you can't forget. Saint Malachy's, being boys, we never knew any girls. It was on the lips, but quick. I was afraid she wouldn't let me to do it.” He changed the subject. “I would have killed him.” Jimmy didn't like the way he shifted so abruptly. He worried that the Australian's brain was playing tricks, not functioning normally.

“Who?”

“Stick.”

“I thought we were talking about the girl from Sydney?”

“If those cops didn't show I would have broken his neck.”

“He had a knife.”

“I saw it. He only got the chance because of the confusion and you stepping in. I had him and he knew I meant to kill him. If I ever see him again, I'll do it. The other ones, too.” His weak voice dripped with rage.

“They're all in jail.”

“McCabe told me.” He waited for a wind gust to die down then continued. “That type, I put plenty of them in prison when I was a prosecutor in New South Wales. I used every trick, not always legal, but I don't care. Scum. I could have easily killed some of them, too. Maybe prison is better. Let them rot for the rest of their sorry lives.”

“Why so bitter?”

“Hurting a woman. What they did to Alice. That kind of thing makes me crazy. I can't understand it. I never will.”

“Go back to your first kiss.”

“We wrote letters, talked on the phone, but we only saw each other once or twice a year because I was in Melbourne and she was in Sydney. That simple kiss sealed it for me.”

“And, her?”

“She left me.”

They went silent for fifteen minutes. Jimmy kept an eye on Nigel while he thought about Les. The wind slackened briefly. “Why did she leave you?”

Whitehurst spoke without opening his eyes. “I got sacked and hit the magic green. She tried to keep things going, but we stopped talking. I was stoned most of the time. Between that and her father who didn't approve of us being together, she was fighting a two front battle. She finally moved out. Not in anger, mind you. It was the magic green. I don't blame her.”

Jimmy took over. He traced his life as Jimmy Button and the five years with Cindy. He went on for a long time, drawing out the story to keep Nigel alert.

“McCabe's wife? You were together for five years?”

Jimmy nodded. “My drinking killed the relationship. Better for her. What she has with him, that's what she wanted.”

“He's tough, mate. Reminds me of Sister Marie, stubborn and demanding.”

“He gave us a chance.”

“It wasn't him. Your songs did it all.”

“He'll be on you about the drugs.”

“I don't want to do it anymore.”

“I saw you when you came out of the water. At the bottom of the stairs.”

“How long were you watching me?” He didn't wait for Jimmy to answer. “Last stash. I intend to get help.”

“Good. You have too much at stake.” More silence. The ocean continued to roar in the background. Nigel drifted off, but Jimmy shook him awake. “How's your head?”

“Hurts.”

“Stay awake.”

“You won't let me sleep.”

“So, you're a lawyer?”

“Not anymore.”

Jimmy wanted to probe, but Whitehurst didn't seem receptive. Music dominated the better part of the darkness. They talked about the songs they wrote together, dissecting every note and vowing to collaborate again. They talked about the tour. Jimmy marveled at Nigel's stage presence, the most exciting rock performer he'd ever witnessed.

“I've always wondered why you spurned my help after we did the shows in Maine.”

“That's the thing about me and music, mate. I need to do it my way. Sister Marie never understood that, either. Your songs changed things for me.”

“Why?”

“Your melodies touch me. Everyone thinks I was convinced to sign with Blossom because you wrote those songs for me. That wasn't it at all. It wasn't the gesture. It was the music itself. When I studied the notes and chords that Les brought to Willies that night, I felt a shiver of recognition. That song from the church at Apollo Bay, the one I play on my fiddle, makes me feel the same way.”

“Like you've heard them before?”

“Like they deserve the best I can do. My life changed the moment I heard those songs. Except for losing Reina and the drugs, I feel like I'm on the right track for the first time.”

“I enjoy collaborating with you.”

“Kate had it right. That last bit we did in Melbourne when we were all up there together. Our voices, the key changes, we complemented each other, but it was you who brought us together. We ought to do more.”

“I'd rather be behind the scenes, write, record, bring some of the new talent along. I hate touring.”

“That won't be enough. You need feedback, the feel of an audience.”

“I can get that in New York. I don't have to travel.”

“McCabe has plans for a world tour.”

The conversation trailed off as both men fell into thought. Jimmy broke the silence a few minutes later. “I want to write a set of good songs with a storyline; costumes, sets, voices, instruments. My dream is to bring the whole package together in a theater.”

As the night passed, the bond was made; Les, Reina, drugs, alcohol, and most of all, music, each was examined with more detail. Questions back and forth, deeper, more personal. While describing one of his cases, Whitehurst suddenly changed the subject in mid-sentence, letting out a sigh that caused Jimmy to look down. He saw anger.

“What is the most important thing in life?”

“To accomplish something worthwhile.”

“Leave a mark? You only say that because you know who you are. You're Jim Buckman. You knew your mother. You knew your father. You have relatives. You know where you came from.”