Every time the phone rang he paused to listen to Gloria’s end of the conversation, imaginary dialogue running on a loop inside his head: “Oh, yes, Pete, he’s right here” and “Jack, Jesus, we found a body up here, somebody got in over the weekend and buried a dead guy in Chesterton’s wine cellar.” It didn’t happen. None of the calls were from Dulac or anyone else connected with PAD Construction.
His tension was obvious to Gloria, but she took it to be a reaction to the kids’ departure; she left him alone and took care of most of the callers herself. Mannix wandered in at ten-thirty, looking even more hungover than yesterday. He had little to say, worked less than an hour, and wandered out again before noon.
Hollis insisted on staying in between twelve and one. To give Gloria a chance for a restaurant meal instead of her usual brown-bag lunch, he said, but the real reason was that he could not have choked down a bite of food without gagging. The phone didn’t ring at all during that hour. He should have begun to relax by then; perversely, the waiting and the uncertainty increased the strain. By the time Gloria returned, he’d had as much as he could stand. He went into his cubicle and called Pete Dulac’s cell phone number.
“Jack Hollis, Pete. How’s it going?”
“Same as last Thursday,” Dulac said shortly. “On schedule.”
“Well, I just wanted to tell you Chesterton was pleased. Nothing but good things to say about you and your crew.”
“I’d be damn surprised if he’d had any complaints.”
“He particularly liked the way the wine cellar looked.”
“Yeah, well, rich people and their priorities. Listen, Jack, I’m glad about Chesterton, but I’m busy as hell here. They’re pouring the slab right now.”
“You mean in the wine cellar?”
“That’s what I mean. Anything else you wanted?”
“No,” Hollis said. “No, nothing else.”
He sat slumped in his chair. The release of tension made him feel light-headed, as if he were melting inside. Pouring the slab right now: sealing Rakubian in his grave. The murder weapon, the bloody carpet, the body with its shattered skull... all hidden where no one could ever find them, under two feet of solid concrete. Eric was safe. Angela, Kenny, Eric — all safe.
Not himself, though, not yet. Still wriggling on the hook. He wondered how long it would be before Rakubian was reported missing and the San Francisco police got around to him.
12
Tuesday Evening
April Sayers, the woman from the Santa Rosa support group, called before dinner with a brief message: Safe arrival. No incidents, no difficulties. They’d be receiving an e-mail shortly.
Now, at least for the time being, he could quit worrying about Angela and Kenny.
Wednesday Afternoon
Stan Otaki was a well-regarded urologist and usually too busy to make short-notice, nonemergency appointments. But Hollis had known him for thirty years — they’d been classmates at Los Alegres High — and when he apologized for canceling his last two appointments and indicated he was ready to begin treatment, Otaki squeezed him at one o’clock.
He disliked doctors’ offices almost as much as hospitals — the medicinal odors, the gleaming equipment, the admixture of sterility and implied suffering. He sat uncomfortably in Otaki’s private office, offering another round of weak excuses and answering probing questions about urination, erectile dysfunction, levels of pain and discomfort. Then he submitted to a teeth-gritting rectal exam, a check of his blood pressure and vital signs. Otaki was not much for his words in the examining room; he waited until they were back in his office.
“Of course, I can’t tell you how far the cancer has progressed until we do a blood workup,” he said, “but my guess is that it hasn’t reached an advanced stage. If that’s the case, and your health is otherwise good, we should be able to control it with aggressive treatment.”
Advanced stage. Number III on the chart: cancer cells have spread outside the prostate capsule to tissues around the prostate, possibly into the glands that produce semen. It was probably too soon to worry about Stage IV — cancer cells have metastasized to the lymph nodes or to organs and tissues far away from the prostate such as bone, liver, or lungs — but then, you never knew with cancer; it could spread like wildfire. Number III was bad enough. Number IV was the next thing to a death sentence.
“I won’t make a definite recommendation until I see the test results,” Otaki said. “If they show no radical change, however, your best option is still going to be a prostatectomy. And the sooner the better.”
“No.”
“Look, Jack, you’ve made it plain how you feel about surgery, but—”
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to let you or anybody else cut me open, no matter how far the cancer has progressed. There’s radiation therapy, isn’t there?”
“Yes. Five days a week, six to seven consecutive weeks. Are you willing to undergo that kind of rigid schedule, endure the probable side effects?”
“If necessary.”
“Well, the decision is yours,” Otaki said. He ran a knuckle over his neat salt-and-pepper mustache, a gesture Hollis took to be disapproving. “Your body, your health.”
“Are you telling me radiation probably won’t work?”
“Of course not. It may well do the job.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Ruling out surgery under any circumstances radically increases the risk factor. That’s a fact — that’s what I’m trying to make you understand. If you doubt me, get a second or third opinion—”
“I don’t need any other opinions. I don’t doubt you.”
“Will you at least give it some more thought? Talk to Cassie about it?”
“Yes, all right.”
But he knew he wouldn’t.
Thursday Morning
There, at last, on page 3 of the Chronicle:
It was the second item in the Bay Area Report section devoted to minor news stories. Less than three column inches — another good sign. He read the paragraphs avidly.
David J. Rakubian, 35, personal injury attorney known for his tenacious courtroom tactics... last seen late Friday afternoon at his South Beach offices... reported missing by his paralegal, Valerie Burke, on Monday afternoon... mandatory waiting period before police could take official action... Rakubian’s car found in the garage of his St. Francis Wood home... no evidence of foul play... recently divorced from his wife of nine months... arrested in Los Alegres three weeks ago for public battery on his ex-wife...
No evidence of foul play. That was the key phrase. The police hadn’t found anything suspicious in the house; it would take a thorough forensic examination to bring out blood traces, and it wasn’t likely there’d be one without something concrete to support it.
The paralegal would be the source of information about the marriage breakup, coloring it to favor Rakubian; the part about public battery probably had been dug up by the reporter. The police had Hollis’s name from Valerie Burke, too, and a full account of his angry outburst in Rakubian’s office, plus the fact of his second visit last week. It would not be long before he was contacted — today, tomorrow at the latest. Unless he took the initiative first.