“You’re hanging around the hospital,” Parker told him. “You don’t have a job there.”
“He’s my patient, I want to be sure.”
“He’s not your patient now. You come in there,” Parker said, “and you act like a little boy with a secret. You talk to Jake about what’s happening—”
“No, no, I wouldn’t!”
“You hint about what’s happening. You hint in front of his sister. Who else do you hint in front of?”
“Nobody! No one! I swear, I wouldn’t— I need this! I need it, you don’t understand, the life I live, I need this, I don’t want to die—”
“I got that,” Parker said.
“I don’t want to die,” the doctor said, more calmly. This time, it was a humble statement, as though he were asking permission. “If this doesn’t happen,” he told them, “this thing you two are doing, if this thing doesn’t happen, I’m going to die.”
Parker watched him. “You are?”
“I can’t live. This is my last, you’re my last hope.”
Parker and Dalesia shared a glance. Dalesia said, “So you don’t want to louse things up.”
“No! No! Anything but!”
Parker said, “Stay away from the hospital.”
“I will,” the doctor said. “I hadn’t realized, but you’re right, you’re absolutely right, I—”
“Stay away from Jake,” Parker said.
“I will. I promise.”
“No more hints.”
“No.”
“No more hanging around.”
“No.”
“Not a word out of you to anybody.”
“No,” the doctor said, and sat up straighter, and crossed his heart and held his right hand up like a Boy Scout. “I swear to God,” he said. “Hope to die.”
7
From the rear of the Trails End Motor Inne, where Parker and the others had been placed by Jake Beckham, you could see and hear the MassPike, just to the south, beyond a chain-link fence and a wooded gully. The sound was undifferentiated rush, steady enough to become white noise, and the constant streaming by of toy-size vehicles was soothing to watch, in its own strange way. Most of the regular customers of the motel were around on the other side, facing the local road and the swimming pool, which was still open though too cold for anybody to swim. Their three rooms were not contiguous, but spaced apart half a dozen units or so, along the ground floor. This time of year, there were no customers at all upstairs.
The day after they’d cooled off Dr. Madchen, in the middle of the afternoon, Parker sat in the open doorway of his room, looking out toward the MassPike, doing nothing but wait until tomorrow, when the work would be done. He’d been there for a while, empty and relaxed, when McWhitney drove slowly past in his red Dodge Ram pickup. He pointed at Parker, as though to say, don’t move, wait for me, and Parker nodded. McWhitney went on, parking the pickup in front of his own room, then came walking heavily back to where Parker had now gotten to his feet.
“This woman cop of yours,” McWhitney said, by way of greeting.
“What about her?”
“Describe her to me.”
“Blonde, late twenties, good-looking, dresses well.”
“I don’t know about the ‘dresses well,’” McWhitney said.
Where they stood, facing south, the MassPike a flat barrier wall in front of them, the thin September sun shone down at them from a slant. Parker turned away from it to look more closely at McWhitney. “What do you mean?”
“I think she’s tailing me,” McWhitney said.
“You? Why does she even know you?”
“That’s the question in my mind, all right.”
“Where did you see her?”
“There’s a town near here with a drugstore with a phone booth in it,” McWhitney said. “A real phone booth, for a little privacy, I went there to check in with the guy who’s taking care of my bar while I’m gone. On the way out, I noticed this woman, because she’s the kind of woman you’ll notice—”
“Sure.”
“And then,” McWhitney said, “coming out of the drugstore, there she was, parked across the street, looking at a roadmap.”
Parker frowned. “I’d think she was smarter than that.”
“Maybe she figures I’m not worth all her smarts. Anyway, I’m walking back to my truck, I see her, I remember seeing her before, and all of a sudden I’m thinking, wait a minute, I saw her before this, too. Before today.”
“You’re sure it’s the same woman.”
“Good-looking blonde, late twenties. Could be a cop, I suppose, how can you tell?”
“You can’t.”
“No.” McWhitney scratched his head, looking aggravated. “The question is, what’s she doing bird-dogging me?”
“Makes no sense,” Parker said.
“With you there’s a link,” McWhitney pointed out. “She’s got you through your car here, your car there. I’m not around any of this stuff, I showed up late. How come she made me all of a sudden?”
“I don’t get it,” Parker admitted.
“Neither do I.” McWhitney glowered back at the sun. “It’s making me mad,” he said. “But who the hell am I mad at? And for what? If somebody screwed up, who was it? Nick? You? But how would you even screw up?”
“I want to see this woman,” Parker said.
“Be my guest.”
“Drive out again. I’ll come with you.”
“That links us pretty tight.”
“If she’s tailing you,” Parker said, “she’s already linked us. I just want to see what she’s doing, try to figure out why she’s doing it.”
McWhitney considered. He was angry, and wanted to relieve his feelings somehow, but couldn’t figure out how. “Fuck it,” he said. “Come along.”
Parker closed his room door and walked with McWhitney down the row of closed green doors, past his own Dodge and Dalesia’s Audi to the pickup. He slid in on the passenger side, and McWhitney said, “Anywhere in particular?”
“Do your drugstore run again.”
“Fine.”
They left the motel, and McWhitney took his time on the local roads, constantly checking his rearview mirror. “I don’t know where the hell she is,” he said.
“She’ll show up.”
McWhitney stopped at a stop sign, took his time, looked all over the place, started through the intersection, then looked down to his left and said, “Son of a bitch, there she is! Parked down there, see? Here she comes.”
Parker looked past McWhitney’s jutting jaw and saw the car down there pulling away from the shoulder, saw the blonde at the wheel. “I see her,” he said.
“So?” McWhitney’s belligerence was increasing, now that she was actually there, hanging discreetly back in his mirror. “What do you think now?”
“Head back to the motel,” Parker said. “I think you and Nick and I have to talk.”
McWhitney gave him a quick look. “Why? Something wrong? What is it? Isn’t that your cop?”
“No.”
“I give up,” McWhitney said. “Do you know her? Who is she?”
“I’ve seen her,” Parker said. “Her name is Sandra. She was a friend of Roy Keenan.”
8
We don’t need this,” Dalesia said.
“Well, we got it,” McWhitney growled. Now that he’d found out the one he should be mad at was himself, he sat hunkered, beetle-browed, as though waiting for a chance to counterattack.
The three sat in Dalesia’s room, the door closed against the evening view of the MassPike. There were two chairs, flanking the round fake-wood table, and Dalesia and McWhitney sat there, each with an elbow on the table, while Parker stood, sometimes paced, sometimes stopped to watch one or the other face.
“That’s a few hundred miles,” Dalesia complained. “From Long Island to here. But you never saw her before today.”