I got the snub-nosed Chief's Special from the bedroom. What was seven blocks after twenty-six miles?
This time, though, I. didn't run it.
It was a moonless night, not much activity on the holiday now that the marathon crowd had dispersed. As I turned onto the little mews, there was no one in sight.
I hobbled to the front steps and used the knocker. Nothing. I waited, tried again. Still nothing. Then I heard it.
The sound of glass breaking, followed by a strangled cry. The door was locked. My legs didn't want to work, but I finally braced a shoulder against the hinge jamb and generated enough force to smash my right foot through the wood at the lock.
Inside the foyer, weapon in hand, I could hear the sounds of a struggle from the kitchen. I crossed to the swinging door, hitting it and diving onto the linoleum.
I slid to a stop three feet from Maisy Andrus, thrashing around on the floor.
Arms outstretched, back arched, her legs pistoned like a brat throwing a tantrum. Her eyes and throat bulged, and her mouth was locked half open, saliva cascading down her chin and cheeks. One leg kicked out, toppling a breakfast stool.
I realized that she was alone. A windowpane over the sink was broken, but only as if something had been thrown through it from the inside. Water drummed from the faucet.
Then Andrus began to choke, and I got on the phone for 911 and the closest hospital I knew before trying to help her.
Dr. Paul Eisenberg came around the corner, a chart in his hand. I worked my way up from the cheap plastic chair in the waiting room. "How is she?"
The skin on his forehead wrinkled toward the baldness above it.
"Not good. Coma, signs very low. Where's her husband?"
"Europe. Tennis tournament in Paris, I think she said."
"He should be notified."
"What the hell is wrong with her?"
Eisenberg consulted the chart. "You told the EMTs that Andrus was choking when you got there?"
"She was having a fit of some kind when I got there. The choking started after that."
"How long before you got to her did the fit start?"
"I don't know for sure. I heard glass breaking, turned out to be a window in the kitchen. I was to her within two, three minutes after that."
"In the kitchen, you say?"
"Yes. I thought it was somebody trying to get at her, but maybe it was her trying to signal for help with the fit."
Eisenberg sighed. "Probably not. Not consciously, I mean. Was there any water near her?"
"Water?"
"Yes."
"Doc, she was writhing on the floor like she'd been gutshot. The only water was the faucet running in the sink."
"And which window was broken?"
"The one over the sink. Why'?"
"Have you seen her much the last few weeks?"
"Yes. Well, no, just a couple of times."
"How did she seem to you?"
"Pretty tired. Haggard, even."
"Irritable?"
"Yes. Much more than before she went out to San Diego."
"Sensitive to breezes or drafts?"
I stared at him. "Yes."
"Has she been in any wilderness in the last six months?"
"Wilderness? Not that I know of."
"Camping? Or maybe on a farm?"
"No."
"Out of the continental U.S. at all?"
"No. Wait, yes, down to Sint Maarten."
"Caribbean?"
"Right."
"When?"
"December into January."
Eisenberg jotted something on the chart. "Incubation period is within the brackets. That's a possible, but not likely."
"What's a possible'?"
"Sorry. A possible source of the infection."
"What infection?"
"You have to understand, we don't see this anymore, not in cities. I saw it only twice in Brazil, and I don't think there have been six deaths in the whole U.S. over the last – "
"Dr. Eisenberg, what the hell is wrong with her?"
He told me.
"Sweet Jesus of God."
I lay awake until after midnight Monday, when the effects of the marathon finally overcame everything else. Tuesday morning I got on the phone. First, I called in a favor from a friend at an airline. He patched his computer into four other carriers before finding what I needed to know and making reservations for me too. By Tuesday afternoon my legs were recovered enough to drive south to Providence. I hand-carried Steven O'Brien from counting beans at work to leafing through old clippings at home. Just to be certain.
When I got back to Boston, I dialed Mass General. Paul Eisenberg's voice told me Maisy Andrus had died two hours earlier. That left only one stop more.
"Oh. John."
Del Wonsley's voice and face both showed surprise in seeing me.
"I was afraid you might not have gotten my message."
A polite way to ask what the hell had taken me so long.
"Can I come in?"
"Oh, sure. Sorry."
I stepped over the threshold into a first-level entry, the walls lined with tapestries.
Wonsley said, "Please, come up."
We climbed the stairs of the Bay Village town house to a second, living room floor. Two men I'd never seen were there, chatting quietly over cheese and crackers and fruit. The men looked surprised, too, as if they had been expecting Wonsley to bring up someone they knew.
Wonsley introduced us, then said, "Would you like to see Alec?"
"If I can."
"I think he'd like that."
Wonsley led me up another flight to a door off the corridor, then whispered so no one below us or behind the door could hear him.
"Try not to stay too long."
"How strong is he?"
Wonsley's tongue darted out and back. "As strong as he'll ever be. Why?"
"I should ask him some things and tell him some things."
"John, it… it won't matter soon."
"Tomorrow?"
"I think so. He's asked me to be ready then."
Wonsley went downstairs, and I opened the door.
The bedroom was dark, just some muted track lighting near the four-poster. Alec's head was framed by the pillows under and behind it. The covers were pulled up close to his chin, the left arm out but with no tubes in it. There was a lot of medicinal stuff on the night table beside him. Small bottles of pills and tablets, the leather case holding some ampules of insulin, a couple of syringes in cellophane blister packs arrayed around it. From two corners I could hear solo piano, a stereo secreted somewhere.
I got close enough to Alec for him to become aware of me.
"John? John, good to see you."
Much of the hair was gone. Deep pouches under the eyes shaded his cheekbones like a charcoal sketch.
"Alec."
His hand came up from the comforter a few inches. I took it, felt him squeeze. I squeezed back with a little less pressure.
"Del called you?"
"Yes."
The wry smile. "I'm afraid the time for makeup has passed. Something about Maisy?"
He hadn't heard. I thought about what I'd gone there to tell him, thought about how I'd want to spend the time if I were Bacall. Thought about Beth.
I said, "No, Alec. I came to have that talk."
His eyes asked the question.
"About life," I said.
After a short while he drifted off in mid-sentence, breathing pretty steadily. I squeezed his hand one more time and said good-bye.
33
FROM BEHIND THE WHEEL, ANGEL SAID, "YOU SEE, ESPANA IS not a morning country."
I nodded at him as we bounced around another bright but unpopulated corner in Gijon, a picturesque city that reminded me of New Orleans. My passenger seat was black leatherette with no headrest, an after-market chrome stickshift rising from a rubber nipple on the floor. The speedometer optimistically suggested that Angel's SEAT 600 was capable of hitting 120 kilometers per hour, or about seventy-two mph. I decided the plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard couldn't hurt.
The flight that was supposed to leave Kennedy at eight-thirty P.M. didn't actually take off until ten-thirty. I cadged a nap during the six and a half hours in the air, but with an additional time difference of six hours, it was 11:00 A.M. Spain time before the plane landed in Madrid. At customs, the officer in a tan shirt and black epaulets checked only my passport, not the small duffel bag.