Nerve Damage (19 page)

Then he took a deep breath. “I'll tell you my reaction in a minute,” he said. “But what do you usually get?”

“I don't understand.”

“How do people usually react when they hear this story?”

“I haven't really told anyone,” Roy said; the initial lie now leading into a maze, as his mother had warned him back in early childhood. “Except for my lawyer,” he added.

“A Washington lawyer?” Truesdale said.

“A local guy,” Roy said. “A friend.”

“And what was his advice?”

“Pretty much to forget about it,” Roy said.

Truesdale shook his head. “Lawyers,” he said.

It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in. “That means you disagree?” Roy said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You believe there's something to it?”

“Sure as shootin',” Truesdale said. “History's a hobby of mine, Roy, and one thing I learned from history is that some of the wildest tales turn out to be true, especially the ones with a certain kind of detail. And even more specially when they come from someone with your powers of observation.”

“Then what do you think's going on?” Roy said.

“Too soon to say,” said Truesdale. “But I suspect there'll be financial shenanigans at the bottom of it. I sure do intend to find out.”

Roy felt his spine straightening, as though he'd been bent under a burden, now lifted. “What are you going to do? Look into their funding?”

“Among other things,” said Truesdale. “When did you come up with that idea?”

“It was my lawyer's,” Roy said. “He says that private money means actual people.”

Truesdale laughed with delight. “Private money means actual people,” he repeated. “Your lawyer sounds like a smart man after all.”

“He is.”

“What's his name?”

“Mike McKenny,” Roy said. “But everyone calls him Turk.”

“That'll be hockey culture, I'm guessing,” Truesdale said. “Where are you on this funding idea?”

“I wouldn't know how to begin,” Roy said.

“Just as well,” said Truesdale, rising; he moved like a much younger man. “More in my line. All you need is for to sit tight, let me do some digging.”

“I can give you physical descriptions of these people—Tom Parish, Lenore, Westie,” Roy said.

“And good ones, too, I'll wager,” said Truesdale. “But not necessary.”

“No?”

“Not necessary at this stage is what I mean,” Truesdale said. “I'll be in touch.”

“I appreciate this very—”

Truesdale held up that long index finger. “My pleasure,” he said. “Practically my duty—my duty to art. Your time's too valuable to waste on all this—what should we call it—mundanity?”

“I don't really consider it—”

But Truesdale wasn't listening. “And in the end,” he said, walking over to
Delia,
“when everything's all sorted out, I'm hoping you'll see your way clear to naming some mutually agreeable price. I won't ever trouble you personally about it—just let the dealer know at your convenience.”

Roy didn't want to part with
Delia,
but now how could he not?

“You get on back to your work, Roy, clear your mind of all this bother,” Truesdale said, his voice gentle, a little like Willie Nelson, on his Christmas album. “I'll handle everything.” He reached out to touch her again, paused. “Ever thought of bringing a reporter into this?”

The answer: yes. But that meant Richard Gold, obituary, disease, so Roy said, “No.”

“Probably just as well for now,” Truesdale said. “But it's something we might want to consider down the road. I've got a few valuable contacts in the media.” He turned to Roy and added, with a real, visible twinkle in his eye, “especially in media I own.”

Roy laughed. Truesdale joined in.

You get on back to your work.

That sounded good. The problem was that Roy no longer wanted to work on
Silence
. He didn't even want that long silvery curving tube—from a nuclear plant? was that possible?—around anymore. He bent to pick it up, found he could barely raise it off the floor. Strange: he'd carried it in, no problem. Could it have an unstable atomic weight or something like that? Roy was dragging it toward the door when the phone rang.

“Hello, Roy.” Krishna.

“Sorry I didn't get back to you,” Roy said. “He was just here, in fact.”

“I'm afraid you lost me,” Krishna said.

“Calvin Truesdale,” Roy said. “Wasn't that why you called—to tell me he was on his way?”

“Calvin Truesdale was at your house?”

“Ten minutes ago. He wanted to see
Delia
.”

“My God,” Krishna said. “Do you know what this means? Two hundred and fifty grand is just his floor.”

“He kind of indicated that,” Roy said.

“What did he say? The exact words.”

“The exact words?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I don't know the exact words,” Roy said. “Something along the lines of two hundred and fifty being just for openers.”

“Truesdale came right out and said that?”

“Pretty much.”

“So baldly? So black-and-white? So unambiguous?”

“He seemed to think I was a shrewd negotiator.”

Krishna started laughing. “That's a good one. We're going to be rich, Roy. Rich, rich, rich.”

“You
are
rich.”

“I meant
rich
as a figure of speech,” Krishna said. He turned serious. “But there is something very deficient in the man who can no longer get excited about—who knows?—half a million dollars, maybe more. You forget I grew up poor.”

“Your parents were doctors.”

“Doctors in India, Roy. It is not the same.”

“You went to Exeter.”

“Loomis—and on scholarship,” Krishna said. “Partial. But this is about more than money, Roy—it's about taking your career to a whole new level. You're just entering your prime as a sculptor. Think of where you could be in ten years.”

Roy was silent.

Krishna laughed again. “Starting to dawn on you?” he said. “The import? Don't worry—I'll handle everything. And if Mr. Truesdale gets in touch with you directly, probably best to pass him right along to me. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Roy said.

“Good, good, good,” Krishna said. “Talk to you soon, then.”

“Krishna?”

“Yes?”

“What did you call about?”

“Oh, right,” said Krishna. “The client we were discussing, who bought the Almoravid bowl? Twelve hundred dollars was the figure, by the way—I'd forgotten certain condition issues having to do with
the glaze. Nevertheless a good investment—I wouldn't be at all surprised if—”

“You're talking about Paul Habib?”

“Precisely.” Paper rustled. “The shipping address was 919 Eliot Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

“Wait,” Roy said, remembering as he hurried to the counter that Habib had been a consultant, on loan from somewhere. He wrote the address on the same sheet of paper with Skippy's message:
Back later
.

“And here's the number,” Krishna said.

Roy copied that, too.

 

Roy tried
the number.

A man answered. “Hello?”

“Paul Habib?”

“Wrong number.”

Click
.

Roy called it again.

“Hello?” the man said.

“Don't hang up, please,” Roy said. “This is important.”

“Huh?”

“Are you at 919 Eliot Street in Cambridge?”

“No. What's going on? Is this some kind of—”

“How long have you had this number?”

“I don't answer questions like that over the phone.”

“But—”

Click
.

Roy dialed the number again. No answer. He let it ring ten times before giving up.

 

Roy spent
a few minutes at MapQuest. Then he packed a bag, turned the heat in the house down to fifty-five. He dragged the long silvery tube outside, the snow crunching under his boots with the extra squeak
that came with real north-country biting cold, and wrestled it into the back of the truck. He dropped the thing off at Murph's on his way out of town, pushing it up against a rusted-out combine in a corner of the yard; lots of grunting and quick shallow breathing—hadn't been working out enough, not nearly. Murph watched him from a window in his office, but didn't come out, didn't wave. Roy climbed in the truck and headed south. So cold. He cranked up the blower full blast. Almost right away it was much too hot. He shut off the blower, but that didn't help. He rolled down the windows. Snow started to fall, swirled inside the cab, but it was still much too hot, like some unseen blast furnace had come to life.

 

“Hungry?”

“No time,” Delia said.

They were in the kitchen of their little apartment; not their first little apartment, the one where Roy had started out, still living alone in Foggy Bottom, but the second, farther north. Roy stood by the stove; Delia was throwing clothes into a suitcase.

“Bacon,” Roy said. “Eggs.”

“I can't.”

Delia loved bacon and eggs, especially the way Roy made them. He cracked open a couple of jumbo grade A's, spread bacon strips in a fry pan. Sizzling started up right away, and then came delicious smells. Roy could practically picture them wafting across the room to Delia's nose.

“No goddamn time,” she said.

“Always time for bacon and eggs,” Roy said, “or what's the point of life?”

She stopped what she was doing, gazed at him. The light caught the gold flecks in her eyes; like subtle clues for a prospector, Roy always thought, clues that there was a gold mine inside. “He'll be here any minute,” she said.

“Who?”

“Habib. He's picking me up.”

“What airport?”

“I don't even care.” Delia tossed a hairbrush in the suitcase. It bounced out, landed at Roy's feet. He picked it up, handed it to her.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He put his arms around her. “Three days in the Caribbean,” he said. “How bad can it be?”

“The Caribbean?”

“Isn't Venezuela on the Caribbean?”

“We're not going to that part.” Her mouth opened as though she were about to say more, but she did not. That mouth: like no one else's, almost as readable as eyes. Roy kissed it.

“Stop,” she said.

He lifted her up, swung her around, sat her in a chair at the table, all very gently. “Bacon,” he said. “Eggs.”

She looked angry for a second. Then she laughed.

They ate bacon and eggs in silence, their feet touching under the table. At first they didn't even hear the honking from the street.

Roy went to the window, looked down. Springtime in Washington. Their own cherry tree grew in a tiny plot in the sidewalk outside the building. It was in full bloom, like a frozen pink explosion. An open convertible—white with white interior—idled at the meter, Paul Habib in the driver's seat; a strange foreshortened angle: square-topped head, thick rectangle of shoulders, rounded hands on the wheel.

“He's starting to lose his hair,” Roy said, turning back to the room.

“Good,” said Delia. She was kneeling by her suitcase, trying to zip it closed.

“Hey,” Roy said. “Did you forget your bathing suit?”

“It's not that kind of trip.”

“But it's warm there, right?” Roy said, remembering he hadn't seen her pack any shorts either, or short-sleeve tops.

“Hot as hell,” Delia said. The lightning-bolt vein throbbed in her temple; she struggled with the zipper. “Goddamn it—I broke a nail.” She bit at it. Was she about to cry? Not her at all; perhaps just a reflec
tion of the soft light—morning and spring—coming through the window. Roy zipped the suitcase closed. Their hands touched. Delia went still.

“I've had enough,” she said.

“Enough of what?”

“We're having a baby.” Her hand trembled against his. “That changes everything.”

Roy had heard that pregnancy sometimes caused mood changes, wondered if this was an example. “How do you mean?” he said.

Habib honked again.

The lightning-bolt vein throbbed. “Let's talk when I get home.”

“About what?”

Delia smiled at him. “Just good things.” She withdrew her hand.

“Like?” Roy said. “He can wait five minutes.”

But she just shook her head. Roy carried the suitcase down to the street.

“Hi, Paul.”

“Roy. How's it going? Just toss that in back.” Habib's shirt was the color of the cherry blossoms; damp patches had spread under both arms.

Roy put Delia's suitcase on the backseat. They kissed. This time she didn't say
stop
. She met his gaze for the briefest instant; then her eyes closed. Roy tasted eggs. Delia got in the car.

“See you Friday,” Roy said. He patted the trunk. “Safe trip.”

They drove off, Habib's squared-off head straight up, Delia's oval making an angle to the right.

 

Ring
. A phone. Roy reached toward the bedside table. He felt nothing.

He opened his eyes. Not in bed, but slumped behind the wheel of his truck, an inch of snow on the seats, the dash, the floor.

Ring, ring
.

Roy looked around, maybe a little wildly, saw he was in the corner of some big parking lot; across the lot, a McDonald's, Exxon pumps, long
lines of traffic following snowplows in both directions. The Mass Pike: he was in a service area, probably the one after Exit 9.

Ring, ring
.

Where was that sound coming—

He dug his cell phone from his pocket. “Hello?”

“Roy? Cal Truesdale. Didn't wake you, did I?”

“No,” Roy said, checking the clock. “No, of course not.”

Out on the turnpike, a truck hooted, long and loud.

“Sounds a mite noisy on your little street,” Truesdale said.

“Um, I—”

Truesdale chuckled. “One beautiful valley, Roy—right out of Tom Thompson.”

“Who's he?” Roy said.

“Canadian painter I collect a bit,” Truesdale said. “But that's not why I'm disturbing you right now. Not quite as sharp as I once was—forgot to ask an obvious question.”

“What's that?” Roy said. Cold in the cab; he switched on the motor, slid the windows up.

“This man you mentioned,” Truesdale said, “Delia's former boss, who you cornered at the wine store?”

“Tom Parish.”

“That's the one,” Truesdale said. “What made you look for him there?”

The answer: he'd used the photo on Richard Gold's cell phone, a phone no longer around when the time came for showing it to Sergeant Bettis. That was one complication. The second: the part about Gold's cell phone couldn't be separated from the obituary, Dr. Chu, or all those other things he'd already separated from the version he'd told Truesdale.

“Roy? Still there?”

At that moment, Roy realized what lay at the root of this unwillingness of his. It had to be the same reason he'd told the truth about his diagnosis to Turk alone, and even reluctantly to him: speaking the words made them real.

“It was luck,” Roy said.

“Luck?”

“I was just driving around—I used to live not far from there—and I saw him.”

“I'll say that's lucky,” Truesdale said. “Fortune smiling down upon you.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, he considered telling Truesdale about this new link to Paul Habib, to let Truesdale work on that, too. But the link was uncertain, and more than that, how could he just sit and wait? This—the whole question of the Hobbes Institute—was gnawing at him; and from another direction, he realized, the disease was gnawing at him, too: a kind of race, and therefore no waiting possible. And the stakes? The stakes were very—

At that moment, a big realization hit Roy: he wasn't the only one with a stake in this. There was another side—the side with Tom Parish, Lenore, Westie, God knew who else—a side that had gone to a lot of trouble to erase all traces of the Hobbes Institute. Why? What would happen if the existence of the Institute was public knowledge? Why all this effort? Who would be threatened? How big was their stake?

“Something on your mind, Roy?” said Truesdale.

“No,” Roy said. “Just thanks for your help.”

“No need for any gratitude,” said Truesdale. “You take care now. Y'hear?”

 

Snow turned
to rain east of 495, and by the time Roy parked in front of 919 Eliot Street in Cambridge there was just a light drizzle, with foggy wisps rising from the snowbanks. He knew the area slightly, a few blocks from Harvard Square, where he and his teammates had partied after away games against Harvard, in bars that always seemed to bring out the worst in them, win or lose. Tall, skinny brick row houses lined both sides of the street, some renovated, some not. Nine-nineteen was one of the latter.

Roy climbed the steps. A sticker on the doorpost advocated im
peaching the president, a bumper-sticker sentiment also seen in Ethan Valley. Did the president notice things like that, maybe discuss them with Calvin Truesdale while they waited for a covey to flush? Roy pressed the buzzer.

The door opened. A little girl, five or six, looked out. Her eyes went to his cast immediately.

“Hi,” Roy said. “Is your mom or dad around?”