"A—" His hand curled into a fist, but he said, "Ginny. You're so fucking smart, what about Ginny?"
I told him about Ginny, Wally Gould, Frank Grice. He asked what it was Ginny had stolen that was so valuable, and I told him the only lie I had for him: "I don't know."
After a long silence, he asked, "Where are they?"
It took me a moment; then I caught on. "The bodies? I'll bet you'll find them if you drag the quarry."
Brinkman looked at me long and hard, his small eyes like a cold, close weight, stones on my chest. "All right," he said at last. "I'll check it out. Otis Huttner's still alive; I'll see what he has to say. And I'll drag the quarry. And you'd better be right, Smith. You'd better be right, or you're fucked."
He turned and strode out, the curtain closing behind him.
I was right, I knew I was. The part about Lena Sanderson was theory, but it fit too well to be wrong. I thought about Mark Sanderson, what it would be like for him when
Brinkman faced him with the two bodies in the quarry, the one he knew about and the one he didn't.
I was grateful for the emptiness of the room after Brinkman was gone. I'd worked hard to give him what he'd needed to know, but to hold back the one part I'd told no one. I hadn't been sure I could do it. In the end I had, but the exhaustion I felt now, alone in the curtained alcove, was in my nerves, my muscles, and bones, a tiredness so deep I was, finally, unable to move.
I lay back, my eyes closed, prepared to surrender whenever Dr. Mazzeo busted back in. I slept for a while; then I heard the metallic slide of the curtain rings. I opened my eyes to see Eve Colgate pulling the curtain shut.
I reached out my hand. She took it, smiling slightly. "Well," she said, "you don't look as bad as A1 Mazzeo said you did."
"I don't feel as bad as he says I do."
"How do you feel?"
"Battered." A thought hit me. "Jesus, you've been here all day, haven't you?"
She nodded. "I was stranded. Lydia was supposed to call me. I waited until afternoon. When I hadn't heard from her, I called the state troopers. Was it they who found you?
"Sort of," I said. That must have been why MacGregor had reached the quarry so fast after Jimmy's call came over the CB. He'd been on his way to Franklinton, to the green house. He'd known right where to head for when Eve told him Lydia and I had gone off radar.
"How's Tony?" I asked Eve.
"Improving. He was awake for a while. He asked for you. He's anxious to talk to you. But he doesn't know who shot him."
"Arnold Shea," I said. "He's dead."
"Bill, what's going on? What happened to Lydia? The sheriff's men won't tell me anything."
"Lydia'll be okay. A concussion, not serious. And it's all over, Eve."
"What do you mean, over? What happened? What's happening?"
"You're safe. You always were; you weren't the target. I'll tell you about it. And I think I know where your paintings are."
She was speechless for a moment, her clear eyes widening. "Do you?" she asked. "Do you?"
"I think so. If I'm right, I'll get them in the morning."
"Where? Who has them?"
"I don't want to tell you, in case I'm wrong." I wasn't wrong, but the whole story was something I hoped she would never know. "But Eve, I need a favor."
"What do you need?"
"A ride. The doctor wants me to stay here. I want to leave. But he says I can't drive yet and I know that's right."
She hesitated. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Yes."
Another hesitation, then an ironic smile. "All right. But what am I supposed to use for a car?"
"Oh," I said. "A car." I thought. "Mine's at the Appleseed plant. Lydia's is at Grice's condo."
"Yours is closer. I'll call a cab."
"Is the cab company still open?"
"They're open until eight. It's only four-thirty."
"Four-thirty? Jesus."
I'd thought midnight, at least.
When Eve was gone I got gingerly out of bed. I dressed, moving very carefully. At first I was light-headed, clutching the door frame for support until a wave of dizziness passed, but I was feeling more solid by the time I got to the admissions desk to check out. After I did that I asked for Lydia's room number, bought myself a cup of coffee, and rode the elevator to the second floor.
In Lydia's room the lights were out, leaving the room to settle softly into the purple dusk. I stood silently by the bed, sipped my coffee, watched the bedclothes rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of Lydia's breathing. The white bandage around her head made her features look delicate, her face small and vulnerable. She'd hate to know I was even thinking that.
When my coffee was almost gone Lydia's eyelids fluttered, opened, closed again.
"Bill?" Her voice was faint.
"I'm here."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"Thank God," she breathed. "Now go to hell."
"Lydia—"
"Passwords, for God's sake." I leaned to hear her better. "'It's only a game.' I almost broke my neck climbing down that cliff. You smell like a brewery."
"Distillery."
"Go to hell," she whispered again.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"No, you're not. You're standing there thinking how very clever you are, how you managed to save everybody after all."
Not everybody, I thought. In the twilight I saw MacGregor's ashen face.
I stood silent, not knowing what to say. She was silent too, and for a while I thought she was asleep. Then, her eyes still closed, she slipped her hand from beneath the blanket, found mine. I closed my tingling fingers around her small, soft ones. "Bill?"
"It's okay. You'll be okay."
The sky outside the window faded slowly to black. I stood holding Lydia's hand until the soft rhythm of her breathing told me she was asleep again, and for a long time after that.
When I left Lydia I took the elevator again, this time to the third floor, to Tony's room. In here the lights were on, but Tony was asleep, his face pale and, even in sleep, reflecting pain.
Suddenly deeply weary, I pulled a chair next to the bed, leaned forward in it. I spoke Tony's name once, twice. His lips moved, without sound; then his eyelids rose slowly. He looked blankly around. "Tony," I said again. With an effort, his eyes found mine.
"Smith." His whisper was almost inaudible.
"Don't talk," I said. "Just listen. I came to tell you it's over. Jimmy didn't kill anyone, Tony. Ginny Sanderson— the little blond girl—Ginny Sanderson killed Wally Gould and Frank Grice killed Ginny Sanderson. Tony, do you understand what I'm saying?"
He moved his head minutely, a nod. "Blood," he whispered. Pain shadowed his face. "All over everything."
"Uh-huh. But Jimmy wasn't involved in any of it. Any of it, Tony. He ran because he was scared. He didn't have the keys and he didn't have the truck. Do you understand?"
"The truck," he whispered. "I was followin' the truck."
"I know, Tony. Don't talk, don't tell me. All right? What Frank told you about Jimmy—he told you about Eve's burglary, right? That night at the bar? He said Jimmy did that, that he could prove it, he could get Jimmy sent away for a long time? It wasn't true.
"Jimmy told you he was going straight. That was true. He's clean, Tony. He had nothing to do with the burglary, he had nothing to do with the murders. Tony, don't talk," I said again, as he tried to speak. His mouth closed; he watched me.
"Grice is dead. Jimmy messed things up a little trying to protect Ginny Sanderson, but it probably would've come out the same anyway. He saved my life, Tony, just like you did.
"Those bullets you took, they were meant for me. From one of Grice's boys." I stood. "That's what I came to say, Tony."
"Smith—"
"No," I said. "I don't want to hear it. Rest. You need to rest, Tony. You'll be all right, but it'll take time." We looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Then I said, "I'll see you, Tony," and I left.
Eve Colgate was waiting in the lobby when I got downstairs, but so was Brinkman.
"I got to talk to you, city boy."