Then Ray Jones spoke to the group, while Warren stood to one side and looked them over, pleased. “After this is all over,” Ray told them, “we can get to know one another better, but for right now Mr. Thurbridge here tells me I have to keep my distance from you nice folks, for fear you’ll like me more than the other jury over there does.” Grinning, shrugging, he said, “Or maybe like me less — that could happen, too. So all I want to say now is, I’m real thankful for your help in my time of trouble and I just hope we can all have a victory celebration together out to my place when this is all over. Thank you.”
The woman who hadn’t understood sequester raised a timid hand. Ray grinned and pointed to her and she said, “Ray, would you sing us a song?”
This was a surprise. Ray and Warren looked at one another, both stuck for a second, and then Warren smiled at the woman and shook his head and said, “Mrs. Carlyle, Ray isn’t singing for the regular jury. We’re trying to make these groups as parallel as possible.”
One of the other jurors, a scrawny little retired postal worker named Juggs, said, “The trial won’t start till tomorrow. I bet Ray Jones could sing us a song today.”
Warren, not liking loss of control like this, was about to turn down the request a second time, but Ray stepped in, saying, “Well, I think I could. I didn’t bring my guitar with me, but let’s see if I can carry a tune without help.” He smiled at each and every one of the shadows. “You know,” he said, “most of my songs are a little comical or irreverent or whatever, but I have my serious side, as well. You may know this song from one of my albums. I don’t sing it all the time, just at special occasions, and I guess this is one. If you know the song and feel like joining in, you’re welcome.”
Warren stepped back, the smile frozen on his face. What the hell was Ray going to do now?
A cappella, Ray sang:
There wasn’t a dry eye in the conference room.
22
Thursday afternoon, it was Sara’s job to play good cop with the Weekly Galaxy people, Jack having so spectacularly played bad cop with them the day before by photographing their home base in a drive-by shooting. She couldn’t do it before then because she had to wait for FedEx to deliver the peace offering from New York. But when it arrived at the Lodge of the Ozarks, about three that afternoon, Sara immediately put it in her shoulder bag and headed for room 222, Palace Inn.
Where Binx took one look at her and in a flash made a crucifix out of crossed index fingers and glared at her wide-eyed through it. Advancing, shaking this fleshy cross in front of her face, he cried, “Out! Out!”
“Oh, come on, Binx,” she said. “You’re the vampire; everybody knows that.”
“Not this time.” Waggling those fingers more aggressively than ever, Binx chirruped, “We don’t want your kind around here. Missy.”
“Binx, Binx,” Sara said with a girlish laugh and an airy wave of her hand, “don’t you know when Jack’s goofing on you?”
Binx lowered his cross, but not his guard, and stood glowering at Sara, while the few people in the nearby crowd who’d noticed his odd actions and paused to see what would happen next decided nothing would happen next and lost interest. Binx frowned and thought and at last shook his head. “Jack Ingersoll does not goof around,” he decided. “Jack Ingersoll has no downtime. There isn’t a civilian bone in his body.”
This was true, but Sara was hardly likely to admit it, at least not right this minute. Taking one cautious step closer to Binx so she wouldn’t have to shout over the crowd noise — the Galaxy’s hospitality suite was as packed as ever, the attendees drunker and louder than they’d been on Monday — Sara said, “Jack’s sorry, Binx. He did it as a stunt, honest, just a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Trend’s tried to get us before,” Binx said, and shivered all over at the memory. “But to do it to me, Sara, to do it on my watch.”
“Jack was afraid you’d think that,” Sara told him, taking from her bag the small black plastic film canister with the gray top. “It takes a lot to embarrass Jack, as you know,” she went on, showing the canister on the palm of her open hand.
“Hah,” Binx said, but he couldn’t keep himself from looking at the canister. He couldn’t keep himself, as Jack had known he wouldn’t be able to keep himself, from hope. “What’s that supposed to be?” he demanded, trying to sound tough and skeptical.
“It’s supposed to be the roll of film Jack took over at your place,” she said, although of course it wasn’t. This was what had occasioned the delay; first the original film had to be shipped to New York and developed. Then another roll of film had to be shot, taking pictures of the pictures. Then the second roll had to be FedExed posthaste to Branson and Sara. And here she and it were. “Take it,” she said. “Go on.”
“That isn’t the film,” Binx said, though it was clear that every atom of his body, every drop of dew in his every pore, wanted it to be the film, wanted to be able to believe it was the film.
“Of course, it is,” Sara assured him. “Jack knows what you’re going through over here; he used to go through it himself. He doesn’t want you to get all bent out of shape just because he decided to play a joke for once.”
“It isn’t the film,” he said. Staring at the canister, Binx looked like a drunk in a silent movie, beholding with desire and repulsion the first drink of the day.
“It hasn’t been developed, Binx,” Sara said, permitting herself to sound just a trifle schoolmarmish and impatient. “Take it; develop it yourself; see what it is.”
“It isn’t the film.”
This time, Sara didn’t answer at all, but let the roar of the crowd enter their cone of space as she stood with her palm out, the canister on it, like someone offering a poisoned sugar cube to a skittish horse.
This was necessary, unfortunately, because Sara still had to maintain her access to the Galaxy and its people. She didn’t want a persona non grata put out against her, not with the entire Ray Jones trial still out ahead, certain to be speckled with Weekly Galaxy chicanery. Binx and the other Galaxians would never permit Jack anywhere near them again, joke or no joke, but that was all right — this wasn’t Jack’s story. This was Sara’s story, and she was going to get it. “Go on,” she murmured, creating a little silence for just the two of them in the midst of the madding crowd. She moved her hand slightly, the canister rolling on her palm. “Take it,” she murmured. “It won’t bite.”