CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
When I banged through the cafeteria doors I found myself in a long open space with low Musak and racks of things to eat, a place to pretend you or some friend or relative wasn’t so sick after all and everything was fine and fixable through a latte and a skinny muffin. I hurried straight down the side of the room, scanning the tables. The room was scattered with a cross section of local humanity balanced on little designer chairs. It was hard to pick out anyone in particular.
Finally I saw her, slumped over a table right in the middle. She was in work clothes—the outfit she’d been wearing to go into the office yesterday, of course, before the meeting—but looked like she’d put them on in the dark. Her face was very pale. Her hair was lank. She looked like an old woman, far from home.
I scooted between the tables to her, leaned down, and put my hand gently on her shoulder.
“Honey, let’s go.”
She swung her head up, took a second to recognize me. Close up she looked far too thin.
“Hey,” she said, and smiled. Her voice was weak, despite the warmth in it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
“I’m sorry about this. Just thought it was a good idea, you know?”
“Yeah, but it’s not. We need to go.”
She blinked at me, then swung her head robotically to the side. I followed her gaze and saw Nick coming from the counter, a cup in each hand. He saw me, too.
“Don’t know whether I can drink a coffee, in fact,” Steph said. “Still feel sick.”
“That’s right, honey. Your stomach’s messed up. Coffee is a bad idea right now. Come on. Let’s leave.”
Nick was quick getting over, but he stayed in character all the way. He looked cowed, as if he knew he was in the wrong but was determined to make things right. He was diffident. He looked exactly as he should.
He started talking from ten feet away. “Hey,” he said. Muted, cautious. Concerned.
“So which is it?” I asked. “Are you just an actor, or are you actually one of them?”
Nick looked at me warily. “What?”
“Don’t bother pretending. I know what’s going on. So which is it? Player or filler? Emily never mentioned you. So I’m guessing you’re one of them.”
“One of who?”
Steph looked more confused than ever. “Bill, what are you talking about? Who’s Emily?”
“Steph, seriously—we’re going. We’re leaving this hospital right now.”
“Leaving the hospital?” Nick said. “You’re not serious? Ste—Your wife is sick, sir.”
“I’m aware of that. And you and I both know how and why it happened, too.”
“I really don’t, sir,” Nick said, with maddening calm. “I brought the wine bottle in, like you asked. I . . . I really think that the hospital is the place for her to be right now.”
“Is that so? I heard you tried to make my wife leave here just a few minutes ago.”
“Uh, no,” he said, looking confused. “I just suggested we should go to the outside seating, so she could get some fresh air.”
“Bullshit.”
“Mr. Moore, I understand you’re going to have a problem with me, in the, uh, light of things, and probably I should go, leave you guys to it now you’re here, but her health is the priority, right?”
“We’re leaving now,” I said, trying to ignore him, gripping Steph’s arm in my hand, fairly gently.
A nearby table had started taking an interest—two middle-aged women and a man—and were making no bones about staring. I knew how it must look. A woman who really did look like the hospital was the only sensible place for her. A neat young man in pressed chinos and a spotless shirt, speaking calmly, talking sense. A wild-eyed older guy, in stained trousers and an old sweatshirt, last night’s alcohol in a rank fog around him—and who was possibly also broadcasting on some psychic level the effects of having just seen two people shot to death near a swimming pool full of blood.
“Honey, please, let’s just go.”
Steph wouldn’t get up. Either she was too weak or confused, or she’d got it fixed in her head that the situation with Nick needed to be resolved, and was brooking no deviation until that was done. She’d always been like that, since college, since childhood, most likely. She wanted things sorted out. Squared away. That’s a good quality in a partner, and I’d always loved it about her. I didn’t right now.
“Bill, I . . . I don’t know.”
The man from the nearby table was staring at me. He was bulky, wearing a cap, big gray mustache. He reminded me forcibly of the guys who’d got in my way when I’d seen the actor playing David Warner on the street opposite Kranks, and I wondered—had they been real? They’d certainly been very quick to intervene on behalf of a stranger. Did people do that kind of thing anymore? Had Emily told me everything? Had there been enough time to fill me in on all the levels, or were there lies out there I didn’t even know about? Was the big guy in front of me running backup for Nick? Would there be other people in this room doing the same?
The guy stood. He was tall, paunchy. “The kid’s right,” he said. “This lady doesn’t look good. You shouldn’t be taking her anywhere.”
He put his hand on my arm.
I shook it off. “Get out of my face, asshole.”
Nick looked concerned. He looked insanely reasonable. He looked like the good guy, without a doubt. For a second I even questioned myself—wondered if I’d got this wrong, if I’d somehow got turned 180 degrees from reality and was doing nothing but swimming further and harder in the wrong direction.
“Mr. Moore,” Nick said, taking a step that, probably not accidentally, put his body between me and the main doors. “Why don’t we just—”
“I don’t know who the hell you really are,” I said. “But get out of my way. Now.”
Nick glanced at the other man, making a mute appeal in the face of a tide of unreason. The guy saw his chance to be a hero, to aid this nice young fellow in front of the two women he’d been sitting with.
He put his meaty hand up, gave me a shove in the chest. “Listen, buddy . . .”
I’d gripped the back of a chair before I even had a plan for it, then whipped my hand up and across like a vicious crosscourt half volley.
The chair caught the guy a glancing upward blow before making to where I’d intended—smack into the side of Nick’s head. It was a light chair, but I’d swung it very hard and very fast, and Nick went straight down.
Suddenly there was a lot of noise—people gasping, standing, chairs being knocked back and over, somebody shouting for security, immediately, as if they’d been waiting all their life for the chance.
“Bill, for god’s sake,” Stephanie said, aghast, staring at Nick on the floor. “What are you doing?”
I was done with trying to talk anyone into anything, done trying to explain myself, done trying to deal with anyone at all except in the most basic terms. I slung my arm around Stephanie’s back and started trying to get her out of her chair. The guy with the baseball cap threw a punch at me. It caught me on the side of the head, but I turned away, head ringing.
“Come at me again and I’ll kill you,” I said, in a voice I barely recognized.
The guy wasn’t to know I was a Realtor, that I was just some asshole, the guy everyone over on Longboat had thought it would be fun to mess with. Bill Moore, everybody’s punch, this season’s recreational bitch. My voice said I meant serious harm, and he was closest to the firing line. He hesitated just long enough for me to get Steph’s feet into stuttery movement.
I half dragged and half carried her toward the exit. People stared. People muttered. My heart was pounding, but I knew there were still cops in the building and we had to get out of here before they started taking an interest—or this whole thing was over.