Presently Trey's death was reported, as accidental. There were interviews with several NASCAR- involved individuals, whose comments were probably less than honest, each saying something on the order of what a unique individual Trey Dibble had been. Flash Dibble was reported to be in seclusion, and his assistant said that he and his wife wanted to thank everyone who had offered their prayers and consolation.
“You seen the news?” Gene asked.
“I have.”
“Flash called me,” Gene said. “He asked me to pass on his deep sorrow for his son's actions. He told me to tell you that he didn't have any idea about any of it. He still wants RGI and said he'd like to keep it just the way it is. He also mentioned that he might be open to a partnership involvement.”
“Jesus, Gene, he's still able to think about business?”
“What can I say?”
“Call him back. Tell him to work with you and get the deal drawn up for my signature. Tell him I'll stay through a reasonable transaction period, but maybe Unk would be open to something more permanent with him.”
“Did you just say what I thought you said?”
“Yes. The sooner the better. You can figure out how to spend your commission now. But the video game is not part of the sale.”
“I don't know why that would ever come up. He doesn't know about it.”
That was something Ward was no longer sure of. It was possible that his uncle had told Flash about the game, and that was why he wanted RGI so badly. It didn't matter, because if Flash backed out, Ward would continue to run RGI as he had before, and he'd keep Unk in place and pay Flash the six hundred thousand his uncle owed him. Ward wanted everybody happy because, for the first time in a year, he was.
Gene continued, “Oh, yeah, and the most amazing thing of all. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes, I am. Would you get to it?”
“Tom Wiggins told me to tell you there's no charge for his services.”
“That's very generous, but I want to pay him for his time.”
“He thought you'd say that. He said you could send a check for twelve hundred to his favorite charity.”
“The children's oncology center. Tell him it's as good as in their account.”
“I will. Okay, buddy. I'll call Flash and I'll get on the deal as soon as I hang up.”
“So, why are you still talking to me?” Ward clicked off the phone and tapped it on the back of the couch.
He looked up to see Natasha standing in the doorway. “That was Gene. He…”
Ward stopped because he knew Natasha wasn't hearing a word he said. She was staring at him, a look of horror on her face.
“What?” Ward asked. “Natasha?” He jumped up and ran across the room, taking her by the shoulders.
“Gizmo. I know who he is.”
“Who? How do you know him?”
“I killed him.”
FIFTY-NINE
It was dark when Alice lucked out and found a parking spot very close to a towering green painted metal sculpture resembling blades of grass. She wondered if it was designed to make people see what it felt like to be insects. It seemed to her that lots of things in society were designed to make people feel less significant than they were.
Alice walked toward three young men smoking cigarettes near the entrance. She straightened as she approached, and measured them for attractiveness. Two of the boys were sort of fat, and all three were wearing baggy shorts and T-shirts with smart- ass messages printed on them. There was one guy who was taller, and skinny-just her type-and she made eye contact with him. He looked over at her and his eyes lit up, so she slowed.
“Hey, good looking!” he said, smiling. “Where you been all my life?”
Alice stopped and smiled widely, keeping her lips together so her braces didn't show. And she waved.
“Looking for you,” a high- pitched voice re plied from behind her.
Alice turned to see three girls closing from behind, and, as they passed Alice, the boys straightened and posed like models in anticipation.
“You're late,” one of the fat boys said to the girls.
Alice felt embarrassed, disappointed, and invisible. And she felt anger growing within her.
She slumped, tightened the grip on her black cloth carry bag, and strode purposefully into the entrance, the sounds of youthful laughter closing on her back in rhythmic waves. She heard n one of the girls say, “That little kid thought you were talking to her!”
Alice walked slowly past the shop windows, pausing here and there to check out merchandise, imagining owning some of the items and picturing as well how ownership of each would make her feel. In a matter of minutes she found herself nearing the food court entrance and the smells of a hundred food items hit her like a wave. She skulked on, clenching the strap of her bag like someone was going to grab it and take off running.
Alice checked herself out in a dark shop window, and what she saw made her wonder why the boys hadn't been attracted to her. She looked younger than she was, and she supposed they had imagined that she was too young for them, but she was prettier than any of the other girls had been by a mile.
She thought about Mr. McCarty and how nice he'd been to her, and she had been sure that was because he was attracted to her. He deserved to have his toy car taken, since he was a sexual predator. Everybody knew it. In fact he deserved to be punished, and giving her his money-which was just to keep her from telling the cops that he tried his moves on her-was him being afraid of additional proof that he was guilty of being an old pedophile.
She braced herself and walked into the food court, scanning the tables, looking for the man who'd stopped her on campus.
After a few seconds she saw him seated at a table, waving just his fingers at her. She hesitated a few seconds, then nodded and walked over to him.
SIXTY
Natasha led Ward to the kitchen and showed him the obituary.
Louis A. Gismano, Jr., seven years of age, died of complications from injuries sustained when he was struck by an automobile on April 3, 2005, at NorthEast Medical Center. Louis, known as Gizmo to friends and family, was the beloved son of U.S. Army Sergeant Louis Anthony and Evelyn Gismano of Fayetteville, N.C. Burial services are being handled by Sullivan's Highland Funeral Service in Fayetteville.
“Jesus,” Ward said. “You knew him?”
“He was hit by a car. The driver was a drunk, a boy named Howard Lindley. The child was brought to the emergency room. I'd have to look at his records to be sure, but I remember that he had multiple fractures, and internal bleeding, so I went in to address the bleeding. I removed a ruptured kidney and his spleen. After surgery he was in critical condition, but he should have lived. They put off setting the fractures to allow him time to gain strength, and there was too much swelling to address that anyway.”
“You just said you killed him,” Ward added.
“I didn't murder him, but I missed something that wasn't immediately apparent in the initial workup, or during my first surgery. He was unconscious, and there was a damaged wall in his aorta that blew out. They rushed him back into surgery. I cracked his chest but there was nothing I could do. The father didn't get to the hospital until after the child died. I wasn't there when he arrived, but I got a call and was on my way to explain what had happened, but before I got to the ICU, security stopped me. They'd called the cops, so I never talked to the father. I was told not to talk to him, and I was also told he was screaming, ‘Gizmo. You bastards murdered Gizmo!’ ”
“I remember that,” Ward said, remembering how upset his wife had been at the time.
“A panel of physicians reviewed the case, and they ruled that there was no contributory negligence. Nobody could have known about the weak wall in his aorta, and there was no evidence to support a malpractice suit. I never heard another word. I'd forgotten all about it. I mean, I did the best I could given what was known.”