So she killed him, and moved south with the insurance money.
Sammy, I'm not kidding, she really did. She doesn't know that she did it, or rather, she knows, but she's buried it so deep that it's gone from her conscious mind. I swear, I had to go down eleven layers before I found it, but there it was, tinkling like a lonesome bell.
… Treviton every three hours… Treviton every three hours… Treviton every three hours…
Do you see it? Husband Harry has a massive heart attack, and once he's off the critical list they send him home from the hospital because, what the hell, his wife is a registered nurse, and she can take care of him. Bed rest, TLC, no excitement, and Treviton every three hours. She's administered Treviton to more cardiac patients than she can remember, there's nothing difficult about it for her, and for the first four days she keeps to the routine. Never occurs to her not to. But this is Buffalo in February, and on the fifth night the wind comes sweeping up the lake, and the Grey Goose Express unloads three feet of snow on the city. That does it. The next time that Harry is due for his dosage, she goes into his room and looks out the window. The streets are blanketed, the snow is coming down in curtains, and she can almost feel the freezing winds that are blowing outside. She looks down at the Treviton on the tray beside the bed, she looks down at Harry asleep there, she looks outside at the snow again, and without allowing herself to think about what she is doing she picks up the tray and walks out of the room without administering the medication. It's as simple as that. She sits up all night in the kitchen drinking coffee and listening to the whistle of the winds outside. The hours go by, three, and six, and nine, but she never leaves the kitchen. She never goes back to the bedroom. It's a long night, just long enough, and Harry checks out just before dawn.
That was twenty years ago, and, as I said, she doesn't remember it that way. Talk about suppression, she's got it buried so deep that it would take a shrink with a degree in civil engineering to blast it loose. When she thinks about it at all, she remembers that she nursed poor old Harry round the clock, never left his side, but his heart just gave out. Snap of the fingers, quick like that. She did her best, but it wasn't enough. It was God's will, and who could blame her if she chose to move away from the scene of such sorrow? That's the way she recalls it, and she really believes it.
Are you ready for the cream of the jest? Harry the actuary, Harry the Met Life guy, Harry the conservative one, had only about half the life insurance coverage that she thought he had. Through all the years of their marriage he had denied her the Florida of her dreams, and he did it again from the grave. There wasn't nearly enough for the white beaches and the emerald waters; there was hardly enough for the hard-scrabble sands of Glen Grove, and a rooming house to give her an income as she grew older. Isn't it enough to make you weep for the old gal? Yeah, me too. But whatever you think of Bertha Costigan, she isn't Gemstone.
That leaves Julio Ramirez, the only one I haven't met. From what I can gather, he's a slim, dark, well-mannered guy in his thirties who scrapes together a living as some sort of an entertainer in the Cuban community here. Of course, the barrio here isn't anywhere as big as what you find further south, but…
Snake stiffened, and braced herself to stop the rocking of the glider as a car turned the corner and came into the street. She got to her feet, and moved quickly out of the light and into the shadows at the end of the porch. The car slowed as it neared the house, and she tensed, ready to move again. It was a jump to the front door, and three quick steps to the alarm. The car turned into the parking area near the house. The headlights went out, the motor went off, and a door slammed. She heard footsteps on the gravel, on the stairs, and a man walked onto the porch. He was also in shadow. He stopped, looked around, and said cautiously, "Is there someone here?"
"I'm sorry," said Snake. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Where are you?"
"At the end of the porch." She stayed in the shadows.
"What are you doing here?"
"Who wants to know?"
The man laughed softly. "Take it easy, I didn't mean it that way."
"I'm new here. I moved in this morning."
"I see. I live here, too. I'm Julio Ramirez. And you?"
"Claudia." She tried to make out his face, but the shadows covered him.
"Welcome to the Southern Manor, Claudia. Will you be staying here long?"
"Maybe. Who knows?"
"You probably won't. Nothing happens here, nothing exciting."
"Did I say that I was looking for excitement?"
He laughed again. "No, you didn't. Goodnight." He turned to go inside.
"Goodnight."
His back was to her. He was the last one, and she decided to tap him on the spot. One quick sweep of his head was all that she needed. She tapped, but nothing happened. She frowned, and tapped again. Still nothing. She tapped a third time, but it was like banging against a wall. She couldn't get in. He had a block up, a mental barricade that no normal person could have erected. Only an ace could have done it.
He wheeled around to face her. Head-to-head, he said, Who the hell are you?
You felt it?
Of course I felt it. You hit me like a sledgehammer.
And you brushed it off like a feather. You're good.
I used to be.
Do we talk?
If you wish.
Walk into the light.
They both moved at the same time, and stood facing each other under the porch light. They stared at each other. Snake saw a lean, dark-haired man with smooth olive skin and a thin mustache. Her eyes widened. So did his.
Snake.
Rafael.
The moment hung on tip-toes, and then they had their arms around each other. They kissed. He cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her again. They both grinned broadly. They both were close to tears. Snake stepped back.
"I don't believe this," she said. "What are you doing here?"
He looked dazed. "How did you find me?"
"I didn't. I mean, I wasn't looking for you."
"Then why…?"
She shook her head. "You look older."
"How kind of you to say so. You don't."
"Who's Julio Ramirez?" She had known him as Rafael Canero.
He shrugged. "Just a name."
"What do I call you?"
"Make it Julio, I'm used to it. When you said Claudia-I always thought of you as Snake."
She put her hands on his shoulders, and stood back. "Let me look at you."
She looked long and hard at the man who once, for a brief time, had been her lover. In those days, Rafael Canero had been an ace in the employ of the Dirección General de Inteligencia, the Cuban version of the CIA-how long ago? Six years back, she figured, at the United Nations when he had been attached to the Cuban mission, and she to the American. His cover job had been as the commercial attaché, and hers had been as a translator, but both had done what all sensitives do. They were snoops.
They had been lovers for three months, and it had been a time of desperate loving, for by the rules of the topsy-turvy world in which they lived they were forbidden to know one another. They were on opposite sides of the political fence, security risks if they exchanged so much as a word, but they had managed. As sensitives, they had their own ways, and it had started during one of those slam-bang cocktail hours in the North Delegates' Lounge where drinks were still a dollar apiece and the place was packed every night with all ranks and all nations. Doing it the way aces did it, head-to-head from opposite ends of the bar with the crowd in between unaware of what was going on.