The Shadow Box (65 page)

He sat with her two hours in that lonesome garage. He
thought about Michael and what this would do to him. He thought about prison. He thought about taking the car out,
onto a highway, and driving it into a bridge abutment so
it would look like they died in an accident. But he didn't
.
Instead he drove over to Jake's house. He needed Jake to
tell him what to do. And he needed Jake to know he never
meant to kill Annie.

Life turns on little things. If Jake's housekeeper hadn't gone to the dentist about then, if Sheila Doyle hadn't been
up in Boston visiting kin, Jake wouldn't have had much
choice but to call the police. As it was, he checked to see
if Annie was dead, saw she was, then called Doyle over
and they listened to Tom's story. It was Doyle who asked
if anyone had seen or heard them fighting, if anyone had walked through that garage and saw him sitting there. Tom
said he didn't think so.

Jake saw where Doyle was headed. It was taking an
awful chance because there was no telling whether Tom
would be able to handle his part. But he just couldn't see
the gain in having Tom go to prison, having Michael grow
up knowing that his father killed his mother. They drove
Annie down the street to Doyle's house. This wasn't ex
actly what Doyle had in mind but he had a garage and
Jake didn't. This is when Jake called him, Moon, and
asked him to come stay with Tom while he, Jake, went to
straighten up the apartment and pick Michael up at school.

That afternoon, they thought out what they'd do. Moon
had to give Doyle credit. He never would have thought
that Doyle would stand up like he did. He could have
ended up disbarred. Anyhow, that night, they went and
finished their business with Rasmussen. Or thought they
had.

That grave they dug for Rasmussen . . . Jake never
really intended to bury him in it. He had it in mind all
along that they'd use it for Annie. After they made it look
like she ran off. They took her up there the next night.
They buried her with the crucifix she kept over her bed.
That crucifix had been a gift from Jake, blessed by
Cardinal Spellman himself. To Jake, that seemed the next
best thing to consecrated ground.

Jake burned her luggage, purse, jewelry in his furnace.
He kept samples of her handwriting. That was Doyle's
idea, that letter from Chicago. Doyle forged it, even flew
out there to mail it after some time went by. Tom knew
it was coming. He knew he was to read it to Michael, let
him look but not too closely, then let Michael see him
destroy it.

Jake wasn't sure about that part. He thought it would
be too hard on Michael. Doyle said it won't be as hard
as the truth.

Moon looked up at the clock. It was going on four.

He knew that Michael would be sticking his head in
one more time. He closed his eyes. Let Michael see him
sleeping. The fact is, he could do with a few hours' rest
before he unplugged himself and headed back over to
Edgartown.

He moved best at night anyway.

Chapter 40

The next
flight to Munich was not until six. The
London Concorde left at three. Rast had booked himself
on that one. He could make a connection from London
and still be safely in Munich by morning. He made this
decision within minutes of learning that Parker's office had been raided. And that a dead man had been found.

He took only a briefcase. He told the front desk that
he'd be out attending meetings. Within the hour, he
checked in with British Airways. An hour after that, he
was sipping a glass of Beaujolais, looking out at the coast
of Massachusetts.

The wine did not calm him. He was seething inside.

Twice now they have done this, he thought. Twice now
they have forced him to run. This time, however, the dam
age could be infinitely greater.

Hobbs unaccounted for. No doubt in a drunken stupor somewhere. Turkel missing, no doubt flown the coop. Par
ker very probably in custody. The dead man can only be
that investigator of Doyle's. And Avery Bellows not taking
his calls. He's in conference, they say. No doubt with a
good criminal lawyer.

He drained his glass, snapped his fingers for another.

His welcome in Munich might not be the warmest,
global communications being what they are, but it would
surely be an improvement over anything he might have faced in New York. The German authorities, however,
would not dare detain him. He would have to have been
accused of spying for the
Russian
before they would even ask
to question him. A civilized country, Germany.

Once there, he would sequester himself at Schloss
Scharnhorst. The Countess won't be there. Tomorrow
through Wednesday she'll be at her hospital. Wiping the
noses of puling children. He'll have those three days to
sit down at his computer, have a number of factories dis
mantled, move some inventories around, and perhaps ar
range a few fires of his own.

This will die down. The authorities, once reasoned with,
will see that it does. The industry, for that matter, will
insist that it does.

But it won't be over for him. Not while that Fallon boy lives. Fallon and that lawyer. Fallon and everyone dear to
him. Fallon and that black bastard, Moon.

Johnny G. met Doyle at La Guardia.

Doyle wanted to talk. Johnny said “Not now” because the air taxi to Bridgeport was being held for them and
because an FBI tail was about twenty feet behind him.
Once aboard, they couldn't talk either, at least not about
Lehman-Stone and AdChem, because the plane was
packed with Wall Street types who were getting an early
start on the holiday weekend.

Johnny knew they were Wall Street because here it was
Friday afternoon and they're all still playing with their
laptops. They're talking to themselves. They're muttering,
“Shit!” or “Way to go!” depending on what chart they
called up on their screens. Most of them also had these
little microcassette recorders for recording their thoughts
and for spying on each others' conversations. Some of
those were interesting.

On two occasions during the flight, Johnny heard refer
ences to the FDA. The first was in connection with a new
lotion, a cure for male impotence, which the Israelis had
developed. The second was about a powerful anti-emetic, developed by the Japanese, that prevents nausea in chemo
therapy patients. These led to some jokes about limp dicks
and barfing but also to the observation that the whole
world is beating the shit out of us on R&D, thanks to, as
one said, “the fucking FDA and its bullshit rules.”

After the first such comment, Johnny G. leaned to
Doyle's ear and said, “Don't get me started on the FDA.”
After the second, he said, “Just don't get me started.”

“On my life,” said Doyle. ”I won't.”

Doyle had too much else on his mind. Low on the list
but troubling all the same was a call that had come in
from that young Boston lawyer. Doyle almost hadn't taken
it, being busy at the time with Marty Hennessy. But he
did and he learned that Michael's new friend, this Megan
Cole, was semi-famous. The lawyer said he hadn't found
out much about her personal history yet but she's known
to the Massachussetts State Police. It seems she's worked
with them on some murders.

She works with the cops? As a
psychic,
yet? What the
hell is she doing with Michael?

They changed planes at Bridgeport.

“Do you know what else stops nausea?” Johnny asked
this as they took their seats.

“Marijuana,” Doyle answered distractedly.

Johnny G. nodded. “Family down the street from us,”
he said, “has a fifteen-year-old kid with cancer. He's get
ting chemo. But he's barely back home from the doctor's
before he starts heaving his guts out.”

This is as the stewardess served a snack.

“Johnny . . .”

“Just listen to me. So someone tells his father about
grass. He figures it's worth a shot so he gets some for his
kid. Kid puffs a joint before his next chemo session and
this time, right after, the kid's not only not sick but he wants to go to Burger King. True story, Brendan.”

“It has a point?”

“Every doctor knows what grass does for chemo pa
tients. But do you think the FDA would let any of them
prescribe it?”

Doyle shrugged.

“They claim other drugs work as well, but the fact is
they don't. They also say grass has carcinogens in it. Can
you believe that? They're saying don't take it for cancer
because you might get cancer.”

Another shrug. “So? The father gets it on the street.”

“The point is why should he have to? The point is why
won't they let a doctor give this poor kid a break? You
want to hear worse stories?”

“No. You said don't get you started.”

Johnny ignored the reminder. “All over the world, there
are good new drugs that work, that keep people from suf
fering the way my father did.” He turned in his seat for
emphasis. “Not only can't you get them here, your doctor
isn't even allowed to tell you that they
exist.
If he does,
he gets hammered by the FDA. You didn't know that,
did you?”