Ascension Day

12

‘I thought I should let you know — I read what happened to Raoul Ferrer.’

‘Yeah, you and half of New Orleans that read beyond the first page of the local rags,’ Nel-M said with a huffed breath. ‘And your point is?’

It had taken Truelle three full days to work up the courage to make the call. He’d turned over which path the conversation might take so many times in his mind that his concentration had started lapsing during sessions at work and he’d had to ask patients to repeat themselves. He thought he’d better make the call before it drove him and his patients mad — or ‘madder’ to be more precise with both of them — or ditch the idea completely. The final bit of Dutch courage was provided by an extra-curricular visit to Ben’s bar, but he was still uncertain about the wisdom of making the call after the first shot, his hands still shaking. He ordered another — but then eyed it hesitantly. He’d need all his wits about him tangling words with Nel-M. He could feel the warmth of the drink in his hand drawing him in. Maybe he should just knock it back and forget the idea of making the call, stay here in the warm cocoon of the bar and order another, and another, and… He slammed the drink back down on the table and pushed it at arm’s length as if it were poison, getting quickly to his feet and heading out before his resolve went completely.

He made the call to Nel-M when he was a block away from the bar — but now with just a few testy words from Nel-M, his nerves were back with a vengeance, his hand shaking on his cell-phone. He wished now that he had downed that second shot.

‘My… my point is, the timing. You visit me one day to make sure I’m okay with everything going down now with Durrant — then the next day Raoul Ferrer is dead.’

‘Coincidence. In Ferrer’s line of work, he’s just one step away from a bullet every day. In fact, annoying little snake-eyed creep that he is — or was — I’m amazed he lasted so long.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t kill Raoul Ferrer?’

‘I’m not trying to tell you anything — it’s you that’s made the call, doctor. But if you’re any good at analyzing what your patient’s say, you might have gathered from my last comment about Ferrer catching a bullet from anywhere that, yes, that’s exactly what I’m getting at.’

Nel-M’s tone was teasing, taunting. Truelle purposely kept his tone flat, matter-of-fact, didn’t want to give Nel-M the satisfaction of knowing that he’d risen to the bait.

‘You can say it whichever way you like — that doesn’t mean I have to believe it.’

‘Oh, is that what you’re saying to your patients these days? You can tell me you’re Batman as many ways as you like — but that doesn’t mean I have to believe it? I thought you guys had more subtle ways of putting things, like: as much as you might have liked to take such an action yourself, the actual taking of it is too shocking and burdensome for your conscious mind to cope with — so your sub-conscious then develops various alternative scenarios.’

Truelle bit at his lip. Nel-M was playing with him. He should never have made the call, should have known that he wouldn’t get a straight answer. But he just couldn’t resist the snipe back.

‘Yes, you’re right — we do have more subtle ways of putting things. I just dumbed it down especially for you.’

‘Ooohh, my, my. We are feeling frisky today.’ Nel-M’s voice suddenly dropped, becoming more menacing. ‘But then if you truly believe that I did waste Ferrer — maybe that’s not the wisest thing to be saying to me.’

‘Ain’t that the truth.’ Truelle said it flatly. It was probably the only bit of truth to pass between them in the past couple of minutes, and he still had strong doubts that the call in itself was the wisest move. He took a fresh breath. ‘Let’s cut to the chase and the main reason for my call now. If you were responsible for Ferrer, and if you and Roche have got it into your minds to do the same with me — then think again. I took the precaution way back of preparing a couple of insurance policies. Everything surrounding us and the Durrant affair, chapter and verse. All in sealed envelopes — only to be opened in the event of my death.’ Truelle paused to let the revelation sink home. ‘So, you see, you and Roche have a great vested interest in keeping me alive. In fact, those envelopes get opened whichever way I happen to go — even in an unsuspicious, unrelated accident. So if there’s been any talk of me being “taken care of” then, literally speaking, that’s exactly what should be happening — if you’ve got any time to spare. Making sure the road’s clear before I cross, or there’s no banana skins in my way… or I haven’t had one too many drinks before I get into my car.’

As Truelle got into his stride of taunting Nel-M in similar mode, giving as good as he got, he felt his nerves ease for the first time since he’d got on the phone. He couldn’t resist a lightly mocking chuckle as he hit the last words — but it died quickly in his throat.

‘We know all about your little insurance policies. Have done for some while now.’

‘What?’ Truelle quickly forced another chuckle to cover his surprise, but feared it had come across as quavering and uncertain. Surely Nel-M was bluffing? They might have guessed he’d somehow covered his back, but they wouldn’t know any of the details. He took a long breath to calm his voice, sound more certain of his ground. ‘I can read you like I read practically every one of my patients. You know nothing.’

‘Don’t kid yourself, Leonard. We know everything, every little move. You see, we’ve been listening, have been for some time now.’ Nel-M paused, smiling slyly as he heard Truelle swallow hard and his breathing become more rapid. Either Truelle was walking fast, or the comment had hit the mark.

‘You’ve been what?’

‘You heard, man. Listening. You know — what you’re meant to do every day with your patients. When I get off the phone from you now, I can go to a little room where a man will replay everything we’ve just discussed. And that’s been the way for many a year now. We got more tapes with labels on them than the Friends re-runs library. Every little detail. Most of it painfully boring — but, hey, some of it, pure magic.’ Nel-M’s jocular, taunting tone was back. ‘Especially where you’ve tried to outwit us and we’ve been listening in, knowing that you’ve failed before you’ve even started.’

‘You’re bluffing,’ Truelle said, but his voice was suddenly hoarse, lacking any conviction. The blood was pounding so heavily through his head that when a large truck rolled past close by, the sounds merged; one thunderous, vibrating roar that seemed to fill the street.

‘You just keep telling yourself that, Leonard. Our little man in his room is laughing himself stupid right now as we speak.’

Nel-M started laughing then, and it too became a roar that merged with the noise of the passing truck — until Truelle cut it short by ending the call.

And left there in the silence of the street as the noise of the truck faded into the distance, at least now Truelle had his answer: he shouldn’t have made the call. His legs felt weak and unsteady, and there was a sudden wave of acid bile in his stomach that made him want to retch. Though when he shuffled to the kerb and leant over, nothing came up.

As he straightened and noticed a man passing on the opposite pavement looking over at him, he was reminded of past times when this had happened. He felt like shouting out, ‘I haven’t been drinking!’ But of the two, sick with fear or from drink, he knew now which he preferred.

He looked pensively back along the street towards Ben’s bar, wondering whether the drink he’d left on the table might not have been cleared away yet.

A faint tremble ran through Jac’s body as he walked back into his apartment after work that evening; a combination of what he’d seen on the video tape from Internet-ional an hour before he left the office — the first undisturbed moment he’d been able to grab on the video player in the boardroom annexe — and his earlier confrontation with Beaton.

‘You see, Mr Beaton, the reason that I didn’t say anything to you, or indeed anyone, was that Warden Haveling specifically asked me not to. Not, that is, until he’d had time to deliberate more on a certain situation with Lawrence Durrant.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, McElroy. I wanted to see you because I discovered you’ve been withholding information from me — and you’re still doing that now.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Beaton… but, as you can see, it’s awkward with my hands tied like this by client confidentiality.’

Before the meeting, Jac had quizzed Langfranc again; but there wasn’t even a hint as to which withheld secret Beaton knew about. So Jac hoped that if he fumbled around vaguely in the opening minutes, Beaton might let it slip — but there’d been several anxious, scrambling moments before he finally did, Beaton eyeing him as if he was some sort of alien bug as Jac explained about the differing accounts between the prison guards and Durrant giving Haveling pause for thought, and, in turn, Haveling asking Jac to maintain secrecy until he’d decided which account had the most validity.

As soon as Jac was inside his apartment, he slotted the video tape in his machine, his jaw setting tighter as it played; then stopped, rewound and played the segment again. Then one final play, this time stopping it at intervals and moving closer to the screen to gauge angles and clarity.

Beaton had made it clear though that he was far from happy, ‘You’ve stretched confidentiality by the thinnest of threads here, McElroy. One more incidence like this, just one…’ his parting words settling as a dull ache of tension at the back of Jac’s neck as he’d returned to his desk; no doubt left in his mind what would happen if Beaton ever found out about Durrant’s death-wish, let alone their planned e-mail ruse.

And Jac felt that same ache now. He went across to the side cabinet and poured himself a brandy, closing his eyes as he felt the first mouthful trickle down. It looked like Mr Mystery had been well aware of the camera’s position — had kept his head tilted down, peak of his baseball-cap obscuring his face on the way in and out — and had chosen a computer with his back to it throughout. There were only a few seconds with a part profile from cheekbone to chin, and only a split-second with slightly more, from bottom of one eye to chin — but it was so fleeting and indistinct that it could still be anyone: Busta Rhymes, 5 °Cent, Martin Lawrence — take your pick.

Jac took another quick slug, trying to focus on what he did have: a video that could fit three hundred thousand male African-Americans in New Orleans, a description that at most would narrow that down by half, an untraceable e-mail address, and a sender that might well have been spooked and so wouldn’t make contact again. Jac rubbed his forehead.

But in that moment, as Jac turned it all over in his mind once more, the images on tape, Tracy’s description and Langfranc’s earlier comment all coalesced, and another unease suddenly gripped Jac’s stomach. While, yes, it could well be a hoaxer or one of Durrant’s friends, from all of that it could also be, as Langfranc suggested, the murderer himself.

Jac noticed his hands start to shake as he opened out the earlier e-mail and read it again:

I couldn’t give my name or come forward before, because I’d have incriminated myself. And that still stands now. But I was there, and I know what I saw. Larry Durrant didn’t kill Jessica Roche.

Jac bit at his lip. Recalling something else criminologists said — that often those guilty gave a clue to what they’d done by only telling half the truth — along with I was there, another phrase now leapt out at him… I’d have incriminated myself.

‘Hi. Bell-South. My name’s Leonard Truelle and I made an earlier call requesting an engineer’s visit to check my line.’

‘Telephone number and zip-code?’

Nel-M gave them, and waited anxiously while the girl checked the details on the computer. As agreed with Roche, he’d left it twenty-four hours from his conversation with Truelle before making the call. If there was no request made, he’d have to back-track quickly and say that he’d instructed his secretary but she obviously hadn’t made the request yet. ‘Staff these days!’ Then make the same call twenty-four hours later. Nel-M felt the tension ease from his chest as the girl started speaking again.

‘Yes. Here it is. Appointment for an engineer to call at four-thirty p.m. at the number you gave me. And another one here under the same name the following morning, but a different number and address.’

‘Yes, that ones for my office,’ Nel-M said. ‘But the problem is, I didn’t have my diary with me at the time I made the appointments, and I fear those times might now be a problem. You said four-thirty tomorrow for my home visit… and what time was it for my office?’

‘Eleven the following morning, Thursday.’

Nel-M sighed. ‘I feared as much. Something’s cropped up, and I just don’t think I’m going to be able to make those now.’

‘Do you want me to re-schedule them for you?’

‘No, no. It’s okay. If you cancel them for now, I’ll phone in and book them again when I’ve got my schedule a bit clearer. As it is, I might have been worrying for nothing with the checks I wanted made.’

‘That’s been done for you now, sir. Those engineer visits have been cancelled — and we look forward to your contact again when you’re ready. Thank you for calling Bell-South.’

Nel-M phoned Roche straightaway.

‘He’s taken the bait. But not just with his home-line — he’s having his office checked as well.’

‘You really did light a fire under him.’

‘I think it was that bit about a man in a little room listening in for the past few years.’

‘Well, that’s exactly what’s going to be happening from here on in.’ Roche’s chuckle rode a laboured wheeze. ‘Nothing like a touch of irony to brighten the day.’

Tally Shavell counted down the last of forty push-ups on his cell floor, then, with a sharp sucking in of his breath changed from flat palms to closed fists on the cell floor for a further twenty.

As he finished, his breathing hardly faltering from the exertion, he straightened up and admired himself.

Nothing larger than small shaving mirrors were allowed at Libreville; not only because of the danger of all that jagged glass if they were broken, but because vanity was frowned upon by Haveling. But pictures and paintings were allowed, again with Haveling’s approval, and as long as they had Perspex rather than glass covering.

So Tally had chosen a five-foot high poster print of Othello from a production at Chicago’s Shakespeare Theater. The poster depicted Othello looking towards a light high in the wings to which he was making an impassioned, hand-outstretched, plea. The light picked out only his face, part of one shoulder, and his outstretched hand. Everything else — the rest of his body and the surrounding stage scenery — was blacked out.

Tally knew that with its strong cultural and ‘black roots’ tag, Haveling wouldn’t dare give it the thumbs-down. But it wasn’t the image itself or its message that had attracted Tally, it was its blackness. He could see his reflection in the darkness surrounding Othello’s lit face.

And perhaps, in an ironic way, he felt it also mirrored how he saw himself at Libreville: operating in the darker shadows beyond what everyone saw on the surface.

He took a deep breath and pumped up his torso and biceps. He wasn’t as dark as the actor in Othello: his father’s Arcadian Indian/Creole French blood had tempered his mother’s African lineage to make his skin tone a dark bronze with grey undertone. It showed up well against the darkness of the poster, his skin shining and glistening with the sweat from his press-ups.

He tensed more, until the veins stood up proud and blue-grey on his skin, then kept his left arm rigid as he reached with his right hand for the syringe on the table to one side.

He found the vein without hardly looking and slowly and firmly squeezed it home.

‘Ice’ or ‘chalk’, it was favoured by those in the prison who wanted a sharper, adrenalin-pumped high — which included most of his crew — rather than become zombies from crack or heroin.

Tally had his hand in the supply chain of nearly everything at Libreville, and most ‘chalk’ or ‘ice’ was supplied in tablet form or in crystals for smoking, though Tally preferred it intravenously: he liked to feel that hit after only seconds, preferably while he was still looking at his reflection and could see it practically coursing like a lit fuse through his bulging veins before exploding at the back of his brain.

His head jolted back as it hit, and every nerve end tensed of its own accord. He felt like that scene in Highlander, electrical surges connecting his body to the sky and half the universe beyond, lifting him off his feet. And he savoured the sensation, knowing that’s how he’d feel when he made his next move against Rodriguez.

He knew that he couldn’t leave it long. People were starting to talk: ‘Can’t even finish off a midget Mexican these days.’ He knew that each day he left Rodriguez alive he risked letting slip his power grip over Libreville; and, as if echoing that thought, he felt the effects of the methamphetamine start to slide away from his body. He stared back at his image through the blackness, his widely dilated pupils settling back as he focused and started to plan where and when.