“And now it’s Gilly’s turn.”
“If she’s willing.”
“She’ll be willing, bet on it. I told you she has this thing about justice and fair play. Well, all her money — except what she gets from Decker — was B. J.’s to begin with. She’ll spend every cent of it on him if she has to, the way she spends every ounce of her energy and will on Decker. Probably with the same result. Zero.”
The artichoke hearts and eggs lay untouched on Gilly’s plate.
“How much?”
“I don’t know,” Aragon said. “I’ve never bribed a judge.”
“You claim a lot of them live high. How high? Like this, for instance — this house, the servants?”
“I think so.”
“Offer him a thousand to start. Be prepared to raise the price as much as you have to.”
“You assume I’m going back.”
“Of course you’re going back. Don’t you want to?”
“No.”
“You’re quitting,” she said. “Just when the case is beginning to open up, you’re quitting.”
“No, I’m not. You asked if I wanted to go back and I said no. I have the feeling someone is following me around down there, watching every move I make.”
“You’re getting paranoid.”
“If you prefer to use that word, fine. I’m a paranoid with someone following me around, watching every—”
“You must admit it doesn’t sound reasonable, Aragon. I expect a lawyer, even a novice like you, to have a certain objectivity. Someone who’s behind you and headed in the same direction as you are isn’t necessarily following you. Now, are you going back or aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Right away. This afternoon or tonight.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I need a day off to catch up on my mail, my laundry, some—”
“Laundry, mail, all that can wait. You’re not helpless. Can’t you rinse out your own socks?”
“Yes, dammit, I can rinse out my own socks.”
“Then do it. And please try to work up a little enthusiasm for your job.”
“I’m trying,” he said grimly.
“As for the business about someone tailing you, it’s probably a mistake. He may think you’re someone else.”
“I’m beginning to think the same thing.”
“In any case, the solution is very simple. Next time it happens, all you have to do is turn around and confront him — or her — and identify yourself. That ought to solve the problem.”
“Or create new ones.”
“Please try to take a more positive attitude. I’m trying. I’m trying very, very hard to keep my — well, we won’t go into that. You’ll need extra money.”
“Not yet. Wait until I talk to Hernandez.”
“All right.” She glanced down at her plate. “What’s this crud taste like?”
“I can’t describe the taste exactly, but it feels kind of slippery.”
“Slippery. Christ.” She got up and dumped the contents of her plate in one of the marble tubs containing a camellia bush. The leaves covered the evidence. A dog or cat might smell it out or a bird discover it while searching for insects, but Reed would never see it.
When she returned to the table with the empty plate she looked suddenly old and sick, as if the dumping of the food had been a symbolic gesture, a rejection of life itself.
“You shouldn’t go without lunch,” Aragon said. “Let me take you out for a burger, guaranteed not slippery.”
“That’s nice of you, Aragon. I really appreciate it, I’d love a burger and fries, a whole bunch of nice greasy fries. But I can’t leave Marco. He’s not used to the new nurse yet. I can tell by his pulse that she makes him nervous. It’s too bad. Mrs. Morrison has excellent references and Marco has to get used to someone else besides me and Reed. Reed could quit any time. He has no contract, and I have no guarantee that I’ll last longer than my husband. It’s likely but not certain. I must prepare for every contingency. I promised him he’d never be left alone.”
Mrs. Morrison’s voice was as crisp and starched as the small pleated white cap which sat on top of her head like a crown. No matter how vigorously she moved her head, the crown remained firmly attached as though she’d been born wearing it and entitled to all the privileges it bestowed.
“I have studied your charts with some care, Mr. Decker,” she said regally, “and I have reached the conclusion that the amount of brain damage you have sustained will not prevent us from communicating with each other, at least on an elementary level. Such communication can be arranged in a fairly simple manner. Have you ever played twenty questions? Of course you have. Very well. I will ask you only questions which can be answered by yes or no. You will then raise one finger of your right hand for yes, and two for no. Or if you prefer, blink your right eyelid instead, once for yes, twice for no. Think you can do that?”
He didn’t move. He had so much to say that the sheer bulk of it overwhelmed him. His fingers were icicles inside their warm blanket of flesh, and his eyelid felt as though someone had sewn it shut.
“Come, come, you’re not going to be uncooperative just because we’re strangers, are you? I am your nurse. You should trust me to practically the same degree that you trust your doctor or your wife. I am with you, Mr. Decker, with you. Let’s try a few basic questions for practice. Wait now, did I say one finger or one blink for yes, and two for no, or was it two fingers or two blinks for yes, and one for no? We’d better start over. I think we’ll say two fingers or two blinks for yes, and one finger or one blink for no. Ready to begin?”
He opened his right eye and gave her a look of such terrible loathing that even Mrs. Morrison, who was not noted for sensitivity, felt a certain coolness in the air.
“We must communicate, Mr. Decker. I’m not a mind reader and you’re not a vegetable, appearances to the contrary. Let’s make that a test question: Are you a vegetable?”
He wasn’t.
“There, that’s better, you are not a vegetable. Is your name Marco Decker? No? Are you being deliberately perverse or are you just stupid? This is a serious matter. Is the sun shining? Yes, it is, so I want two, two for yes. Do you understand me? Another yes, two fingers or two blinks.”
All of his powers of concentration and will were gathered now to move his hand.
“Why, you old goat, I do believe that’s an obscene gesture.”
He blinked twice.
Seventeen
Aragon had been half hoping he wouldn’t be able to find it, but he could hardly have missed. It was the only house on Camino de la Cima, an oiled dirt road southeast of the city. The long winding driveway that led up to it was lined with silver-leaved eucalyptus trees that tossed and trembled at the slightest hint of wind.
The whole hillside was enclosed by hurricane fencing with half a dozen rows of barbed wire along the top. At the entrance the double iron-grilled gates were open, and so was the door of the gatehouse itself. The small building had been constructed like a miniature mission with sand-colored adobe walls and red tile roof. It reminded Aragon of the abandoned church in Bahía de Ballenas where the padre lived, but there was a couple of hundred years’ difference in age. Another and more important difference quickly became apparent. Instead of a kindly old padre coming to the door, there were two young men wearing uniforms and holsters. One of them also carried a rifle.
They watched with polite interest as Aragon parked his car and approached the gatehouse. Then the man with the rifle nodded and his companion went over to the car. He opened the right front door and looked through the glove compartment and under the seat. Then he took out the ignition keys, unlocked the trunk and searched it. He closed it again and replaced the ignition keys. Hernandez was taking good care of his past mordidas.