„You know it’ll be a year before this comes to trial. The doctors say I’ll be dead by then.“
„I know.“ But there was all that pain. The screams. Franny would not stop calling out for help.
„Then what’s the point, Mallory?“
„I’ll still have Nick Prado and Emile St. John.“
His hand gripped the back of a leather chair, as if he might need this support.
She moved closer for the final shot. They were almost done. „I’m going for a triple indictment, naming them as coconspirators. It makes a stronger case with three of you. You can’t all plead insanity. But Prado never saw that far ahead – freaking amateur.“
„Emile had nothing to do with this.“
„I know that. You think I care? If he had cooperated with me – “ If he had betrayed every friend – „He withheld information.“ He had understood why Franny killed Louisa. Mallory had given him the motive when she told him about Prado’s betrayal. St. John had elected not to destroy the survivors with the truth. Mallory had no such qualms about destruction – and yet she stopped short of telling Malakhai he had killed the wrong man.
Malakhai was already badly wounded – they both were. Mallory could not shake the images of a pendulum’s slicing razor.
„St. John was a first-rate cop,“ said Mallory. „He was always the strongest one – and the weak link – too moral for cold-blooded murder.“ She could still hear Franny screaming. „St. John’s part was so passive he could walk if he turned state’s evidence. But we both know he’ll never do that. I’ll get all of you.“ She forced a smile and gave equal weight to each word of the bluff. „I can’t lose.“
„You’re wrong, Mallory. Emile is innocent.“
„He had guilty knowledge. That’s all I need for conspiracy.“ Blood streamed down the faces in the audience. „And here’s the kicker.“ Malakhai, can you hear the pendulum hissing through the air? „I won’t even have to prove it. St. John will write out a full confession and save the state the cost of a trial. And since he’s taking the fall anyway, he’ll take it for you and Nick. He’ll go to jail for you, maybe die for you.“ Penance for the executioner of the Maquis.
„He’s innocent.“
Franny screamed again. All that pain.
„What do I care who goes down?“ said Mallory. „As long as somebody pays.“ She was seeing the blood as it flew off the pendulum and struck the faces in the audience. „I don’t have any more time to waste on you. I’ll do my deal with St. John.“ She turned her back on him and walked toward the door, and Franny went with her, crying out for help, bleeding from his wounds.
„Mallory?“
Malakhai came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders to keep her from leaving him. She felt his face pressing into her hair. The blood, all that blood. This was her mantra. He whispered, „Suppose I save the state the cost of a trial? If I confess, you don’t need Nick or Emile, do you? They don’t even have to know about this conversation.“
Mallory saw the shadow move across the wall, but there was no one to cast it. She closed her eyes, so tired, seeing things that were not there. Franny was crying.
„What do I care?“ All that blood. „So long as somebody pays.“ One conviction was better than none. „But there are conditions.“
Mallory was thinking ahead to the defense attorney who would demolish the case before it ever went to court. Did she smell gardenias? Had she ever been this tired? She could hear Riker say again that she was only human. His voice was drowned out by Franny, who would not stop crying and screaming.
This had to end, and quickly.
The attorney – right. With documentation of insanity, any first-year law student could nullify a signed confession.
„Conditions.“ She opened her eyes. There was no shadow on the wall, and the interior screams had stopped. „You’ll waive your right to a lawyer when you write out your statement. There won’t be any case for extenuating circumstances – no medical reports, no psych evaluations.“
She could feel his warmth behind her, so close. His breath was in her hair.
„You’ll make a second confession in open court. After sentencing, you’ll be taken into custody.“ Something dark was moving in the corner of her eye, a shadow rising up the length of the wall, ready to strike.
No, there’s nothing there.
„Then you’ll go straight to prison. No postponements, no legal games to buy you any time.“ There was no woman to make that shadow. Louisa had died more than half a century ago.
„Agreed,“ said Malakhai. „Tomorrow morning I’ll write it all down. And tonight we’ll close the deal with a drink – one last glass of wine.“
His hands fell away from her shoulders as she turned around to face him, saying, „I won’t drink with you.“
Malakhai stepped back. „No, of course you won’t.“ He was finally altogether broken. It was in his face, more sorrow than she had ever seen. He inclined his head in the ghost of a bow, a gesture of good night, then turned away from her and strode across the lobby to cut a solitary swath through the partyers. She watched his back until he was swallowed by the crowd.
„You won’t drink with me either, will you?“ The front door was swinging shut as Emile St. John walked toward her. He carried no umbrella, and the rain ran off the brim of his hat when he tipped it in salute, saying, „It’s about choosing up sides.“
She nodded.
„You’re a good cop, Mallory.“ He turned away from her and walked into the dining area, where Charles Butler rose from his chair to slap the man’s back in a warm greeting. A young brunette sallied over to Nick Prado with a wineglass in her hand. He swept her up under one arm and ran with her across the room, stepping in time to music – upbeat, alive. The wine spilled, the smoke swirled. Mallory could hear the high notes of laughter across the narrow divide.
Life was always going on in another room.
Epilogue
Charles Butler had not been invited to the funeral. He would be slow to forgive her for that, but he was no good at covert things. Mallory had prepared for this death long in advance, determined that Malakhai’s interment would not become a mass media event.
She had traveled to the prison with her entourage of undertakers and collected his body in the dark hours of early morning. The coffin was airborne before the first reporters converged on the prison gates.
Mallory wanted no flights of doves, no tricks, nor a legion of magicians in white satin. She had hurried Malakhai over the ocean and into this foreign soil. Now she stood before the monument ordered from a French stonecutter months before the death. Once the grave was filled with dirt, this slab of marble would cover husband and wife, reunited in a common grave.
She could not have done this without the influence of Emile St. John. Long ago, this historic cemetery had been closed to any more traffic with the dead. St. John had dealt with the officials and cut through reams of paperwork to expand Louisa’s plot and lay Malakhai beside her. He took no credit for his work, modestly explaining that the French would always favor lovers over bureaucracy.
He stared at the blue Paris sky, then slowly bowed his head to read a passage from the Old Testament. He had also done this service for Franny. And after today, St. John and Mallory could stop meeting like this.
The cover of his Bible opened to a rush of wings as two doves appeared to fly from the pages. St. John looked up from the book with a deep apology on his face, for this was not what they had agreed upon.
„Old habit,“ he said. „They just slipped out.“ He turned his eyes down to the text of Solomon, and read aloud from the Song of Songs.