Quand il me prend dans ses bras,
II me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en rose …
It was French, so it must be Christina. He might have known.
“Ben, can you hear me? It’s Mike.”
Ben sensed the discomfort in the voice, the tension.
“I don’t know if you’re getting this, Ben, but the doctors said we should talk to you, so here goes. Hoodoo’s dead. George Armstrong. Whatever you want to call him. He’s history. Dust in the wind.”
He heard the shuffling of hands, the scraping of a chair.
“Your buddy Earl told us everything that happened, everything Armstrong said. Turns out it was true. He killed his brother, took his place, and framed Earl. He’d been off in Montana with his brother’s name and his brother’s money for twenty-two years when he got wind of the fact that Earl had been released. He couldn’t stand that. So he got himself transferred to Tulsa, then looked up his old jazz buddy Scat—Lily’s former husband—the one man on earth he knew didn’t like Earl any better than he did.”
He heard Mike take a deep breath, then continue. “The same hatred George had for Earl extended to Lily Campbell, since she was the one who dumped him to be with Earl. So he killed her and used her as a tool to frame Earl. He delivered the corpse in disguise, just in case he bumped into Earl. I think he was planning to plant it in Earl’s office, but when Earl came back to the club sooner than he expected—thanks to you—he had to ditch the stiff in a hurry. The stage light wasn’t the perfect place, but it was all he could get to without being seen. I don’t know why he took his disguise off in the men’s room; my guess is, once Earl was safely tucked away backstage, he planned to stay for the show. Probably wanted the pleasure of seeing Earl get hauled away by the cops with his own two eyes. After he was spotted by Tyrone Jackson, however, he changed his plans. Worse, he dropped his Buxley penknife.
“Armstrong came to the club the next day as Grady—at a time when Scat told him Earl wouldn’t be around—to recover it. I understand you caught them in the act of searching, so they acted like they’d been helping clean up, and introduced George to you as Grady. But they were too late—Tyrone had already found the penknife. Those little treasures were only given to the forty Buxley vice presidents. Once Tyrone figured out what it was, George knew it wouldn’t be hard to figure out who the man in the men’s room had been. So he had to kill Tyrone before he put two and two together.”
Ben heard the sound of knuckles cracking. “You’re probably wondering why Armstrong turned on Scat. Best I’ve been able to figure is that Scat was happy to help George along—till things started getting too hot. He probably didn’t know Grady planned to kill Lily, his ex-wife. And I think you put the fear of God into him when you went over to his place. He probably started talking about getting out or telling what he knew, so George killed him. He needed a second corpse anyway, since the first murder hadn’t put Earl behind bars.
“After Earl offed the Professor, he used your car phone to call 911 and get an ambulance for Tyrone and me and you. Tyrone was beat up something awful, but the doctor says he’ll recover—in time. And I’m fine.” He paused. “You’re the one we’re worried about.”
The room fell silent, but Ben sensed that Mike had not left the room.
“The D.A.’s office is going nuts trying to think of some way to charge your buddy Earl, but so far they haven’t thought of a thing. We can’t try the man for committing the same crime to the same person he’s already done time for. We can’t charge him with attempted murder or any other lesser included offense; as you know, double jeopardy bars the main offense and all the lesser includeds. They can’t stand the thought of letting him get away with murder. But even if they did think of a charge to bring against Earl—what jury would convict him when he’s already served twenty-two years for a crime he didn’t commit? They’re inclined to call it self-defense and let it go. In short—I think he’s gonna walk.”
Another silence permeated the air around them, longer and more awkward than before.
“I … uh … wanted to say something else. Something about … well, back at the refinery. Sure, I took some bad bumps on the head, but I came around a few minutes later. You—well … you didn’t.”
He realized that the strange tone in Mike’s voice was not so much discomfort as … guilt.
“Damn it, I never should have let this happen. How could I let that old creep get the drop on me? It was just so damn dark. I yelled at you for running in there by yourself, and then what did I do? The same idiot thing. I took the threats seriously enough that I didn’t call for backup before I ran in. An incredibly stupid mistake. And now you’re paying the price for it.”
Ben heard the chair scrape the linoleum a few more times; he heard the heavy intake and outflow of breath.
“Let’s face it, Ben. You pulled my fat out of the fire and it cost you. I know I make fun of you sometimes, and I know I’ve been bitter about your sister dumping me and the whole thing with your family, but … Jesus.”
Ben heard the chair scrape again, this time coming closer. “It’s not easy for me to say this kind of stuff. You know that. But I just wanted you to know that whatever the hell I might have said, and however I might have acted, I think you’re pretty damn all right, okay? Even though we do things differently, you’ve got a lot of guts. I consider you a friend, a good one. And I’m not just saying that because you’re … you’re …” His voice faded. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
The voice moved away, circling at the outer edges of the room. “Jesus, I feel like I’ve been talking forever. Can’t we get some music in here or something? Maybe some of that folk crap he likes. Christ, some of those songs go on forever.”
His eyes were so swollen they felt as if they’d been glued shut. Was it the beating or the fall? He couldn’t be sure, and frankly, what did it matter? He wasn’t going anywhere; he didn’t seem to be able to move at all. So why worry about it?
For the brief moments that he knew anything, he knew he was completely nauseated. Movement would only make it worse. There was a tube taped to his mouth, and he could hear the balloon beside his cheek inflating and deflating with each breath. Another tube was strapped to his wrist, feeding him something cold and sweet. It hurt a little, but at the moment, what didn’t? Frankly, consciousness was not all it was cracked up to be. He decided not to force it, to relax, to let himself go. One moment he was in a Tulsa hospital bed, and then he was somewhere else. But mostly he was nowhere at all.
“Are you the wife?” There was a stiff impersonal tone. He did not recognize the voice.
“No. Just a good friend.” That voice was a different matter. Definitely Christina.
“Does he have any living family?”
“A mother and a sister. But the mother is out of the country and the sister … well, we don’t know where she is. His mother is rushing here, but she probably won’t arrive today. I’m his emergency contact person.”
“Very well. I need to discuss his situation with you. I’m afraid there’s been little change. When Mr. Kincaid was brought to St. John’s several days ago, he was in critical condition, and he’s remained there ever since. He is completely comatose. We believe he is entirely unaware of himself and his environment. He does not respond to external stimuli. There is no evidence of language comprehension. A respirator has been helping him breathe. If the respirator were removed … well, we just don’t know.”
“There must be something you can do.”
“If so, I’m afraid no one here knows what it would be.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well, we wait. We hope he comes around. But eventually …”