Private Screening (45 page)

Day Six: Saturday

T
HE
drive south to Atascadero State Mental Hospital took seven hours. It was still night when Lord got there, and he had not slept.

An iron gate surrounded the complex. Driving through, Lord parked near a dark, sprawling rectangle that only sunlight could make worse; it would not hide the bars in several windows, or the armed guard at the entrance.

The guard led him up some battered stairs to a labyrinth of cinder block and tile. The echo of their footsteps brought back the night he'd first met Harry Carson.

At the end of the high-security wing was a locked metal door. Through its observation window, Lord saw a chair and a Formica coffee table. Carson sat on a worn sofa whose color had probably been green, tapping a cigarette on the table. The rhythm had no purpose but passing time.

Someone in another room began shrieking. When the guard opened the door, admitting Lord, the screams didn't register on Carson's face. A fluorescent light flickered overhead.

Quietly, Lord said, “Never give us a good place to talk, do they, Harry?”

Carson did not answer. When the door shut, cutting off the shrieks, Lord took the chair across from him. In a flat voice that his first soft tone made harsh, he said, “Tell me about Damone.”

Carson stopped tapping the cigarette.

A moment passed. As if to stretch it out, Carson put the cigarette in his mouth. He struck a match, took one deep drag, and softly answered, “John asked me to shoot Kilcannon.”

Lord felt his eyes close. For some period of time—it may have been a minute or only seconds—he could think of nothing to say.

“
Why
,” he asked.

“For Beth and Cathy.” Carson exhaled. “John knew I couldn't take care of them.”

Leaning back, Lord studied him. Something in his face made Carson look away.

“You told him that.”

Carson nodded miserably. “I could talk to him, man—he said
he
flashed back, always at the same times, even when he couldn't remember why.” He paused, groping. “See, he understood why I hit Beth.…”

Lord became quite still. In a low voice, he asked, “When did he first mention Kilcannon?”

“Later—a couple of months before it happened.” Carson watched the cigarette burn in his hand. “It was more like something to consider.”

“What were his reasons?”

“Someone he'd met in Vietnam—he never told me who—wanted Kilcannon dead. Because of his politics, John said.” Stubbing the half-smoked cigarette, Carson added quietly, “Like I told you that first night.”

Lord took out a pen. He clicked it, once.

“And that was all right with you.”

A slight, embarrassed shrug. “John knew that I could do it.”

Lord realized he was staring. At length, he asked, “Did he tell you the date?”

“No—it depended on if Stacy did a concert. Even when I bought the Mauser, I kind of hoped she wouldn't.…”

“When did he tell you she would?”

“Maybe a week before.” Carson's throat worked. “The time was wrong. I kept reminding John I had fucked-up thoughts then—like maybe I couldn't concentrate.…”

“What did he say?”

“It was bad luck, that's all.” Carson turned from him again. “He offered me five hundred thousand dollars.”

It was a moment before Lord became aware of his own silence.

“How,” he asked softly, “were you supposed to collect it?”

“The guy had money. In three years, if I didn't give up John, they'd get the cash to Beth.” Carson seemed to grasp at this. “Like on ‘The Millionaire,' he said. So she wouldn't know.”

Lord rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And you trusted him.”

“I
had
him—I was the only one who knew.” Carson looked up for confirmation, and then his gaze broke.

“When did you decide?”

“Only that morning.” Carson's voice fell. “He showed me that article about you. He'd heard you were good.…”

Lord said nothing.

“I'm sorry, man.…”

“Just tell me what happened.”

Carson tried to gather himself. “It was like I said at the trial. I kept going back and forth—here, 'Nam, Beth. Glennon.” He began to shake his head. “It was just the wrong time for me—even when I shot him, I couldn't get it straight. That fucking camera …”

Once more, Lord's pen clicked.

“Who did the robbery?”

“I didn't know about it.” Leaning forward, Carson touched his eyes. “When you told me it had happened that night, I figured that was the money they meant for Beth.”

Lord waited a moment. “They meant you to die, Harry. Trying to escape.”

Carson's hand fell.

“You fucked up,” Lord told him softly. “By stopping to shoot at the camera. So we had a trial instead.”

Carson fumbled for another cigarette. Sticking it in his mouth, he mumbled, “I had to tell you.…”

“You're ten months late.” Striking a match, Lord held it out. “If I were to tell them now, they'd try you for perjury, and then for Kilcannon's murder. In federal court.”

Carson's cigarette stopped short of the flame.

“On your side,” Lord told him quietly, “the attorney-client privilege still protects you. But that only complicates my problem, doesn't it.”

Carson's face was pale. Looking into his eyes, Lord blew out the match.

“Tell me about Phoenix.”

“I never heard of him.” The eyes seemed naked. “Except when this guy took John, I thought maybe it had to do with the thing we did. That it was all going bad.”

Lord nodded. “I don't think you'll see him again—any more than Beth will see that money.”

Carson's head bent to his knees. “I don't want you to die, man.…”

Lord did not trust himself to answer. His silence seemed to rest on Carson's shoulders.

He looked up, almost shyly. “Do you want to tell them?”

Lord put the pen away. At length he answered, “I don't think I can do that.”

“Why?”

For a last moment, Lord watched his face. Then, very softly, he told him, “Because I'm your lawyer, Harry, and I was right the first time. You're insane.”

Lord hardly noticed the four-hour drive to San Francisco.

He had no time to stop and think. Only when he arrived at the Federal Building, surrounded by reporters, did he realize that part of what he'd lost was his idea of himself. He brushed past Rachel without looking at her.

Upstairs, the FBI had installed a second receptionist to transfer calls from citizens with tips. Silently retrieving him, Moore stopped at a large room housing several agents, a bank of telephones, a television, two computer terminals, and a map of the United States and Canada. The map was dotted with pins where Phoenix had been sighted.

“We've talked to over five hundred callers,” Moore explained in an undertone. “Waiting for just one person to tell us something useful.”

On their television, Lord saw himself enter five minutes earlier, to the accompaniment of Rachel's voice. “Inside,” she began, “Anthony Lord faces a decision on which lives may depend.…”

“Let me see the tape,” Lord said.

Without answering, Moore led him to the conference room.

Johnson and DiPalma were waiting with a videotape machine. Neither stood.

“We hear you saw Carson,” DiPalma told him.

Lord turned to the screen. Glancing at the others, Moore switched it on.

“This is a private screening,” Phoenix began, “for Anthony Lord.”

Bordered by black, his hood faced the camera. The slow, distorted voice seemed relentless.

“If Parnell makes final penance, and the jury approves, I will return his wife and John Damone for five million dollars in cash.

“Their return must be to you alone.”

Part of him still did not believe it, Lord thought. He strained to see the eyes.

“By enabling me to know you from an FBI agent, SNI has supplied the perfect courier. I will accept no one else.…”

No color showed through the dark holes of the hood; Lord had only imagined his eyes were black.

“Directly after Parnell,” his voice commanded, “you will state Miss Tarrant's compliance, and your own desire to ‘reclaim' the hostages.

“If you do not, they will die directly following your refusal.

“But if you do, they will live for one more day, while I privately tell you the route by which we two shall meet.”

Pausing for emphasis, Phoenix filled the screen. “And if at its end, you do not appear alone, they will die
tomorrow
night, as you watch on SNI.”

He vanished.

Lord sat down.

The others watched him. Finally, he asked Moore, “Do you really think he'd kill someone on television?”

Moore simply nodded.

“What did Carson tell you?” DiPalma demanded.

For a moment, Lord could not look at him. Finally, he answered, “Whatever Carson says to me is privileged, Ralph. You know that.”

DiPalma's voice rose. “If
you
know something about Phoenix

“Dammit,
Carson
doesn't know who he is.…”

“What about the robbery?” Moore put in softly.

Lord turned, pausing. “Carson wasn't in on that.”

Moore was silent. Lord watched him consider the possibilities his denial did not cover.

“You have an obligation,” DiPalma said, “to help us try and find him,
before
tomorrow.”

Lord kept watching Moore. “Does Parnell have the money?”

Moore nodded. “He wants to see you.”

“I'm not ready for that.” Lord's own voice seemed to come from someone else. “Tell me how an agent would handle this exchange.”

“He'd give Phoenix the money, get his hostages, and split. No tricks, no gun.”

“Could someone follow?”

“Depends on where the route leads.” Moore leaned forward. “Let's cut the hypotheticals, Tony.
You
won't know the route until after you've agreed—”

“And if you back out then,” DiPalma snapped, “you've killed them one day later. Which comes back to my question.”

Lord still faced Moore. Quietly, he asked, “Suppose we're down to that, Johnny. Would you rather take a stab at Phoenix, with one day left, or send me with the money?”

Moore's gaze moved to DiPalma, and then back to Lord. A private look of comprehension passed between them.

“If that were my only choice,” Moore answered finally, “I'd send you.”

Lord felt himself nod. “Then I'll think about that,” he said, and left without acknowledging DiPalma.

Hurrying through reporters to his car, Lord was unsure of where to drive. Stacy seemed a thousand miles away.

Such a joke, he thought. But what does it mean.

When he turned toward Noe Valley, he had six hours to decide.

Fred sat on their porch, reading a paperback called
Positive Self-Fulfillment
.

“Where's Christopher?” Lord asked.

“Inside.” Fred's chin raised. “I want to be real definite, Tony. We don't like you coming around when it's not your weekend, no matter what's going on with you.”

Stepping onto the porch, Lord stood over him. “Just keep reading,” he said, “and you'll hardly know I'm here.”

He turned and walked through the door.

Christopher was alone in the living room, racing toy cars. Seeing Lord, his eyes lit up, and then he sneaked a quick look down the hallway.

Smiling, Lord nodded in that direction. “Is your mommy here? 'Cause it's a perfect day to take you to the park.”

Christopher jumped up. “You wait here,” he said. “I'll ask her.…”

“Hello, Tony.”

Marcia was wearing a bathrobe. Lord saw that she had changed her hairstyle, as she did when depressed.

“I like your hair,” he ventured.

Defensive, her look said that she knew what he was thinking. “Why are you here?”

“To play with Christopher.”

“It's not in our plans.” Her eyes changed slightly. “I'm surprised you're not too busy.”

“I may be. Later.”

Christopher stood to the side, watching them. In an undertone, Marcia asked, “What does he want you to do?”

“Nothing much.” Lord looked quickly toward his son, catching her eye. Marcia shook her head.

“It's just that I may be gone tomorrow,” he told her.

Marcia stared at the hands in his pockets. “Fred and I can do some things around here,” she said finally. “Can you have him back by four?”

“Yes.”

“I'll count on that.”

All at once, Christopher was at his side. Marcia looked at their son, then Lord, and walked back to her bedroom.

When they drove around the corner, Christopher asked, “Are you going on a trip, Daddy?”

“Maybe. Just for a while.”

His son hesitated. “But you'll always be my dad, right?”

“Of course.” Lord smiled across at him. “You're stuck with me.”

They drove to Golden Gate Park, past museums and bicyclists and cherry blossoms, stopping at the Polo Field, an immense bowl of grass several football fields long and wide, with goalposts at each end. As Christopher waited, Lord reached into his trunk for their foam-rubber football.

“Dad,” his son was saying, “how come Mommy won't let me watch TV today?”

Lord hesitated. “I don't know,” he answered, then turned with the football. “But when boys under eight watch too many cartoons, they can't catch passes.”

“
I
can …” his son challenged, and then Lord threw the football.

Christopher clutched it in both hands. “Amazing,” Lord called.

Laughing, Christopher ran out onto the grass. Lord's stomach felt hollow. Five more hours. An hour with his son.