Ascension Day

7

If nothing else, Dr Leonard Truelle was a creature of habit. He read the daily newspapers every morning in his favourite cafe on Iberville Street over coffee and croissants, except when he had outside assessments or clinical notes to review for patients that day, in which case he’d use his morning coffee break for that and delay catching up on the troubles of the world outside until he left work.

But on some occasions, like tonight, those assessment reviews also coincided with his Tuesday and Friday single drink rituals — so he’d then spread out with his papers at a corner table rather than sit up at the bar. But the order of reading, day or night, was always the same: first the majors, the NYT, Washington Post and Chicago Tribune, twelve to fifteen minutes on each, then finally the Times-Picayune, which held his attention for no more than six or eight minutes.

Truelle always felt more connected to the country at large than locally, possibly through having graduated from Cornell and spent his first eight years of practice in New York. He’d only gone to New Orleans when his mother became ill. She’d long since died, but through circumstance, the drink and a mess of other problems, he’d never managed to grasp a time when he was organized or brave enough to return.

He still felt, twenty years on from his last days of practice in the Big Apple, that he was in New Orleans through duty rather than choice. The only things he found solace in were the warmer climes and the seafood. The rest of it — the petty wrangling and corruption of city officials, the environmentalists fighting a losing battle against the oil refineries along the coast — constantly grated, and so he always gave the Picayune short shrift as he flicked through.

He was flicking through so rapidly, skimming half-blindly, that he could have easily missed the entry, tucked in the bottom left-hand corner of page fifteen: Raoul Ferrer, 36, financier and businessman, was found dead in an Algiers car lot in the early hours of Friday morning. Early police reports cite the cause as two gunshot wounds from a 9mm calibre weapon to the head. On occasion linked to the Malastra organization, Ferrer…

The noise and activity of the bar around him suddenly became more distant, muted. He wasn’t sure if the barman, Benny, had heard him above the drone from the sudden blood-rush to his head as he called out for another drink.

But Benny was certainly looking his way, having paused mid-wipe of the bar counter as he saw Truelle suddenly transfixed by the paper as if he’d seen a ghost, one hand gripping tight to the page as he read and re-read, the other reaching absently to knock back in one the bourbon that he’d usually nurse for another half hour.

‘Are you sure?’ Benny asked, eyeing him with concern. Four months into the ritual, Benny felt that enough rapport existed between them for him to breach barman’s protocol and ask why always only the one drink? From that point on, Benny had become a silent conspirator in keeping him clean.

‘Yeah, Benny, never been surer. Bring it on.’ He beckoned elaborately, but was careful not to meet Benny’s eye. Shield the demons. Then, as he watched Benny pouring, ‘In fact, bring over the whole bottle.’ This time he looked even further aslant — somewhere between New York and New Orleans, to avoid Ben’s withering gaze, only looking up with a tight smile as Benny came over and set the glass and bottle down.

‘Your funeral,’ Benny said resignedly. The tired tone of a barman who’d seen more than he dared count finally slip off the wagon.

Truelle knocked the drink down in two slugs as soon as Benny turned away. Poured, drank; poured, drank; poured, drank… but it did little to quell his panic or give him any clarity of thought. His head was still buzzing and his hands still shaking.

He pushed the bottle abruptly away, suddenly picturing the months ahead of trying to push away more and more bottles, but never quite succeeding… the lost hours and days and mental lapses, the patients neglected, the sickness and depression, friends patting his shoulder concernedly, ‘Are you okay, Len?’… the steady downward spiral that he knew so well.

Truelle’s eyes darted around the table. There was even a small article on Durrant on page nine of the NYT, obviously the first to hit the national press: ‘Anti capital punishment campaigners, both local and from out-of-state, are planning a vigil in front of Libreville’s prison gates in the run-up to the execution…’

Maybe that was it, Truelle thought. Surrounded by too many demons: the bottle, Durrant, Raoul Ferrer, the bar where Nel-M had paid him a visit just a week ago. He had to get out!

He pushed the table back, its legs grating roughly and turning a few heads from the bar. He felt himself sway uncertainly as he took the first few steps — he had been off the wagon a long while. In the good old days, he’d have put away a few stiff ones like that without hardly blinking. He waved briefly towards Benny as he passed, again careful not to meet his eye, or for that matter those at the bar who were now watching his exit with curious smiles.

‘Tab-it, Benny. I’ll catch you next time.’

It was worse outside. A confusion of traffic noise, horns beeping, people rushing by and calling out — the height of the rush hour and happy hour on Chartres Street. All of it seemed amplified in his head along with the buzzing, and he felt himself swaying more — or was it the street and all the people around tilting? He bumped into a woman with her shopping bags, and reached out to steady himself on the man just behind — who pushed the arm brusquely away with a sneer. Another horn blaring, sharper, more immediate, the sudden flare of headlamps making him realize he’d staggered into the road.

He jumped back and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and his nerves. Maybe he was panicking for nothing. In Ferrer’s line of work, it was only a matter of time before he was found in an empty car lot or ditch. But it was the timing in the run-up to Durrant’s execution that made it ominous. Nel-M pays himself a visit to make sure that everything is ‘cool’ — then next on the list is Raoul Ferrer. This time, though, Nel-M had obviously decided that everything wasn’t so cool.

The only way he could know for sure was by calling Nel-M. Nel-M probably wouldn’t admit it outright, but he’d glean enough from the cadence and inflection of what was said. The trained psychiatrist’s ear. But the call in itself might be the one thing to alert Nel-M that things might not be so cool with himself either, would make him next on the list.

Cool. It was a warm and sultry night, but Truelle felt ice-cold, his whole body starting to tremble and shiver. Rooted to the spot amongst the milling throng, his stance underlined how isolated he felt at that moment, with nobody he felt he could turn to. Advising thousands through the years — but who had ever been there for him when he most needed it? And his burden had been far, far beyond that of any of those he’d had to sit patiently listening to through the years.

Perhaps it was time to tell Nel-M and Adelay Roche about his insurance policies. No point in them finding out after the event that killing him was the one thing that would throw everything into the open.

Jac was waiting in the ante-room to the Payne, Beaton and Sawyer boardroom along with seventeen other lawyers and paralegals for the company’s regular Wednesday morning progress meeting, when the call came through on his cell-phone.

The ritual meetings were presided over by either Jeremiah Payne or Clive Beaton — Dougy Sawyer would take the role of company secretary, saying little but making furious notes throughout — and order of importance in the company was all but determined by time of arrival. Junior lawyers and paralegals were expected at 8.20 a.m. sharp, senior lawyers at 8.25, and, finally, the presiding partners at 8.30.

The message was patently clear: when the company gods arrived, woe betide any laggers that might hold up proceedings, even for a second.

The ten-minute wait for the juniors, though, was often insufferable. It was intended to give them more time to prepare their notes or get comments clearer in their minds — but more often than not it just gave them more time to dwell and become increasingly anxious.

Jac was no exception, particularly this morning. He’d been turning over and over in his mind just how much to show and tell about Durrant. If he told about the attempted prison break, Beaton might well axe the case; but then if Haveling decided finally to go with the guards’ account of events, the whole thing would come out later. How was he going to cover for that? And he certainly couldn’t reveal that Durrant wanted to die — didn’t want a plea made on his behalf. For sure, Beaton would axe the whole case instantly.

His cell-phone ringing broke his train of thought. He looked at the number: same area code as Libreville prison, but it wasn’t Haveling’s direct number. Durrant!

Jac quickly answered. Perhaps Durrant had had a change of heart, and he wouldn’t have to go through any subterfuge now at Beaton’s meeting.

‘Mr McElroy. It’s about something you said the other day.’

‘Yes.’ Jac felt his hopes rise.

‘About the book that Elden left at the hospital for Marmont.’

‘Pet Sematary?’ Jac subdued his voice to a mumble. He could feel a few eyes on him, particularly Kyle Everett. No calls during the meeting, obviously, but even those prior to it were frowned upon, might disturb the thoughts and note-making of others.

‘Yeah. Well, thing is, Marmont has already read that book — several times. In fact, it’s his favourite book, and he’ll readily quote from it to anyone who’s got the time and inclination to listen. Particularly the scene where the dog’s brought back to life. Apparently, Marmont lost a much-loved pet dog years back, a Golden Retriever — and he’s read and re-read that passage as if wishing the same might happen with his own dog.’ Durrant sniggered lightly. ‘Of course, on the way completely missing King’s underlying message with what eventually happens with the dog.’

‘I see.’ Jac saw quickly where Durrant was heading. ‘You mean there’d be absolutely no point in giving that book to Marmont — unless of course there was an ulterior motive. Such as, say, getting some sort of message to him?’

‘Got it in one, Counselor. Like I said the other day, you’re brighter than I thought.’

‘You’re so kind. But you know, when I first took the call I was hoping it might have been about…’ In his side vision, Jac could now see Clive Beaton and the other partners approaching the ante-room. He broke off from saying more.

After a second, Durrant prompted. ‘About what, Mr McElroy?’

‘You know, about…’ After a peremptory survey of the room, Beaton’s eagle eye settled on him. Jac nodded and held one hand up to indicate he’d be finished post haste. ‘About what we were discussing the other day.’

‘About me wanting to die, Mr McElroy… is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s right — about that. I thought you might have had a change of heart.’ After a quick aside to a colleague, Beaton’s eyes were back on him, keenly. Jac felt himself flush and a tingle rise at the back of his neck. If he was feeling uncomfortable after just a quick glance, how on earth was he going to carry off the subterfuge through the entire meeting?

‘Afraid of saying it, are we Mr McElroy?’ Durrant’s voice was jocular, taunting. ‘Don’t want to face it, so maybe if you don’t even say it — you can push the spectre further away. Like it was a dirty word.’

‘No, it’s not that… it’s…’

Durrant rolled straight over him. ‘Well, I’ve done nothing but face death these past years, Mr McElroy, had precious little else worth thinking about — so it don’t hold any fears for me any more. So that’s why I’m not afraid to say it, use the word.’

‘I understand.’ All Jac could think of was getting off the line. Half the assembled group had already filed through to the boardroom, and Beaton’s stare towards him was now penetrating, bordering on hostile.

‘Yeah, you understand,’ Durrant mocked. ‘So you’ll understand too that having thought about it for that long — it ain’t exactly the sort of thing I’m going to change my mind about overnight.’

‘No, really. I do understand. And I’ll get somebody onto that book thing with Marmont straightaway. But if you’ll excuse me now, I’ve got to go. I’m already late for a meeting.’ Jac rang off and followed Beaton and the last few into the boardroom.

Probably sounded more flippant than he’d intended. I’ve got a meeting to attend, so if you want to die — you just go right ahead. But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to mislead Durrant that he didn’t care that much after all. If as a result Durrant dropped his defences, he might see a clearer way through.

Jac checked his e-mails as soon as he got out of the meeting. Still no reply as yet. He checked first thing every morning and kept half an eye on it through each day, but now four days had passed with nothing, it was starting to look more and more like a prank or hoax. Or a friend or relative of Durrant’s that couldn’t reveal themselves. If it was real, then why not say who they were or somehow back up their claim?

In the end, Jac hadn’t said anything about the dramas with Durrant in the meeting; hopefully there’d be some clearer resolve on both fronts over the coming days, and then he could say something.

Jac didn’t want to call Stratton from inside the office, so told Penny Vance that he was going to grab a coffee. He hit the buttons of his cell-phone as his feet hit the pavement outside.

There’d been a heavy storm overnight, and with the sun burning off the last of the cloud and haze, humidity was high. Early November, but it was still in the seventies. Jac could feel his shirt sticking to his back after only a few paces.

Bob Stratton answered quickly, but there was a confusion of noise in the background from a busy shopping mall or store, and Jac had to raise his voice above the passing traffic as he explained about Marmont and Pet Sematary.

‘So if you think it might be some sort of message, did Durrant give any hint as to what form it might take?’ Stratton pressed. ‘Do we know what we might be looking for?’

‘No, that’s it. All we know is that Marmont has these favourite scenes in the book due to his own dog dying years back, and that it’s odd he should be given a book he’s already read several times…’

‘Especially when he’s still in a coma.’

‘That aside.’ Jac joined Stratton briefly in a muted chuckle. ‘We’re assuming that if he doesn’t wake up — whatever problem exists goes with him. It’s only if and when he does come to… so perhaps there’s a note with the book. Or maybe something inside the book itself. Outside of that, we’re fishing.’

‘And you want yours truly, the fisherman, to head out there and start reading Stephen King?’

‘Yeah.’ Jac stopped by the deli window, held back from going inside. He didn’t want to add to the noise coming from Stratton’s end. ‘As soon as.’

‘The only problem is, I’m not due out there until nine this evening — and I’ve got one of those days ahead of me. The earliest I could rearrange things to get out there is late afternoon: four or five.’

‘Okay.’ Jac recalled that Stratton had an arrangement running with a couple of shift nurses to block any visitors and phone him the minute there were signs of Marmont awakening. ‘But could you meanwhile phone your friendly nurses and ask them to remove any cards and packages from Marmont’s room for you to inspect when you arrive? He’s not under any circumstances to see them.’

‘Will do. And I’ll phone as soon as I have news.’

Jac stepped inside the deli as he wished Stratton luck and rang off. With a busy mid-morning crowd and the steam from the espresso machine, it seemed even hotter than outside.

Shirt sticking to his back; the last time he recalled that was when he’d first walked through Libreville prison. Not just from nerves, but as the heat, stench and oppression — the staleness of thousands of caged hopes and emotions — sank through his skin. He felt as if he was still sticky and unclean hours later, even after showering as soon as he got home. That was how he felt after only minutes inside Libreville: Durrant had been there eleven years.

‘Latte and a Danish, Mr Jac?’

‘Yeah, Joe. Thanks.’ His usual daily take-out.

For the first time Jac began to question his own motives. Probably Durrant had every right to want to die; he himself might well feel the same after all those years inside somewhere like Libreville. Was he hoping to save Durrant’s life for Durrant’s benefit, or merely for his own reputation, to stop his first significant case collapsing at the first hurdle?

Bob Stratton found the note straightaway, but it was brief, told him nothing:

Thought you might like to read again your favourite scene.

Remember how the locks and light switches were tagged for your shift? Seek and ye shall find!

The only useful thing was that the note had been slotted as a bookmark in Marmont’s favourite scene — the dog coming back to life. Stratton didn’t need to hunt through to find it.

But there was nothing else on the pages, no underlining, circling or cryptic notes. Stratton flicked through the rest of the book and tipped it upside down in case there were other notes inside, but there was nothing.

He decided to grab a quick coffee from the canteen to clear his throat and his thoughts, and, while sipping, he studied the note again, hoping that something more might leap out at him.

The favourite scene was mentioned, so that was no secret — or perhaps they wanted in particular to bring Marmont’s attention to it. But why mention tagging the locks and light switches? Why was that so important? Seek and ye shall find?

Stratton scanned and re-scanned the note in between sips. Find what? What on earth was there to find in just a three-line note? And why say your shift? Surely there were only two shifts: day and…

Stratton sat up with a jolt, almost spilling his coffee. Night-shift! If they’d put it like that, it might have given too strong a clue to an inquisitive third-party.

Stratton darted down the corridor and found one of his friendly nurses.

‘Josie! Is there a cupboard or store-room that can be grabbed for a moment? Somewhere where it’s dark.’

Josie raised an eyebrow and smiled slyly. ‘Well, you sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.’

Stratton returned the smile, but a flush rose quickly from his collar. ‘No, it’s not that. I just need to be alone with this for a moment.’ Stratton pointed to the book in his hand.

From the way Josie’s eyebrow stayed arched quizzically as she led him along the corridor, he’d made the request seem no less odd.

Stratton found the first word on the second page of Marmont’s favourite scene — highlighted silver-grey in the darkness — then two more on the next page, one on the next, two pages with nothing, then another word. Stratton flicked through almost thirty pages before the highlighted words petered out. He then went back to the beginning to put it all together, making notes on a pad as he went. When he’d finished, he flicked on the store-room light and read what he’d written:

Don’t say anything about the fight until you’ve had a chance to speak to us. It’s important we get our stories straight.

Stratton punched the air. ‘Got em!’

‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Josie commented as he exited. ‘I didn’t know Stephen King had that type of scene in his books.’

Only a weak half-smile this time from Stratton. He was too busy concentrating on tapping out Jac McElroy’s number on his cell-phone.

Jac took the call as he was walking along Camp Street, only a block away from his apartment. He’d got used to walking back and forth to work. Just over a mile, it was better than braving rush-hour traffic and paying all-day car-park charges on St Charles Street. Only the firm’s senior partners had reserved places in the back parking lot.

Jac beamed widely as Stratton told him the news from St Tereseville General. To those passing, they probably thought he’d just arranged a hot date. That was tomorrow night, and wouldn’t raise much of a smile.

‘That’s great,’ Jac said. ‘Looks like we’ve got the guards’ account roped and tied, even if Marmont does wake up.’ Then, realizing that probably sounded flippant, ‘Though obviously it would be better if he did — not least for Marmont himself.’ In their brief association, he’d enjoyed Stratton’s offbeat patter. Hopefully Stratton appreciated it being bounced back.

‘If nothing else, so that he can read Pet Sematary for the hundredth time.’

‘Might send him back into a coma again.’

Stratton’s chuckle faded as they came onto the mechanics of just where and when he’d be able to get a written report to Jac.

‘I’m hoping to head back out to Libreville again this weekend,’ Jac said. ‘There’s one final person I want to see who was involved in this. And, combined with your report, that should nail things once and for all with Haveling.’

As Jac swung open the door to his apartment block, the hall light was already on, so he didn’t bother to push the timed switch.

Stratton said that he’d type up his report either when he got back that night or first thing in the morning. ‘It’ll be sitting here for you to pick up anytime after eleven tomorrow. Or, if you’re not going to Libreville until Sunday — I’ve got time to messenger it over to you.’

‘I’ve got a couple of calls to make first.’ Jac had heard that Rodriguez was finally in a fit state to be interviewed, but aside from him verifying Durrant’s account of the guards’ assault, there was another vital reason to see him. ‘I’ll phone you back as soon as I know when I’m heading out there.’

Jac had just reached the top of the entrance stairs as he signed off and was slightly breathless, not just from walking and talking at the same time, but from the adrenalin rush of Stratton’s news.

Only a second later the hallway light clicked off, plunging him into darkness.

Jac reached out and made contact with the wall to one side, feeling his way along. Three more paces to the corner of the corridor, then five or six feet the other side was the light switch. Surely he knew the positioning so off-by-heart now that he could locate it even in the pitch dark?

The fall of his own breathing seemed somehow heavier in the darkness — though suddenly he became aware of some other sound beyond it. He froze and held his breath, listening intently above his own rapid heartbeat. Someone else was there, only a few paces away. Moving stealthily towards him in the darkness.