Right To Die

23

"NOW THAT WEJRE HALFWAY THROUGH FEBRUARY, JOHN, YOU' VE got to start thinking specifics, not just general stuff anymore. The distances are coming along fine, and you're running on the packed snow like it was a groomed, gravel track. But it's time to start planning the race in your mind. Go out and drive the course, all the way from Hopkinton into Boston. But drive her like a runner, not a driver. You're gonna notice something. Except for some miles in the middle, you've got rolling hills. That means you have to run a little different. On the way up, keep your knees high to synchronize the arm and leg motion. Don't look down at the ground unless you've got paper cups and orange peels to step around. Keep your eyes on the horizon. That way, you don't get discouraged by glancing up and seeing how far you still have to climb. The idea is to run up the hill, not into the hill. So lean forward on that incline, like you're riding a horse and coming forward in the saddle for him. On the decline, lean back, like you're still on that horse and laying back in the saddle to balance him. Don't let gravity help defeat you.

"People talk a lot about Heartbreak Hill. Fact is, Heartbreak isn't just one hill, it's a series of them, with plateaus in between. From mile seventeen to mile twenty-one. That's the firehouse at the inter-section of Route 16 and Commonwealth all the way to the top of Chestnut Hill at Boston College. The inclines are bad, but the plateaus are worse. The plateaus, they remind your legs of how much nicer it is to run on a flat surface. Remind you just enough to take the starch out of those legs for the next incline. Then you think, 'Well, at least I get to go downhill too,' but the decline is the worst of all, because it stretches the wrong muscles at the wrong time.

"Yes, you've got to respect Heartbreak, John, respect it and learn it. Go out to the firehouse and run just Heartbreak, when you're good and fresh. Run it nice and easy. See how it feels, how long it really is. Spot some landmarks and memorize them. Marathon day, it's the landmarks that'll tell your mind how much farther you've got to go after you can't depend on your legs for messages no more. Yes, once you train a little on Heartbreak, you'll know you have to ease off earlier in the race.

"What I 'm saying is, save some for Heartbreak, John. Save a lot."

Absolute temperature, five above. With the wind chill along the frozen river, nearly thirty below. Doing eight miles instead of ten, a concession to the February weather. Thanking God and Nancy for the Gore-Tex suit, I wore longjohns underneath it, wool mittens and ski mask over it. I even stuck the temples of a pair of sunglasses through the edges of the eye slits on the mask, the lenses reducing both the glare and the bite of the wind. If you're not too cold, you're not too old, right?

The temperature made the running paths icy. By the time I'd turned for home at the four-mile point, my stride and my breathing were on automatic pilot, my mind drifting to the Andrus case. It had been a month since I'd seen the professor at the Ritz for breakfast, and she was due back in Boston that day to deliver a lecture. In the interim I'd helped a defense attorney on a questionable manslaughter charge. I'd also called Inés Roja three times: no more notes at the school or house, Andrus telling Inés the same thing from San Diego.

The notes. Our boy sends one when Andrus leaves for Sint Maarten, but none when she comes back. And none when she leaves for San Diego. Does that mean he knew about the Caribbean trip but not the California one? Walter Strock, Tucker Hebert, and Manolo obviously knew about both junkets, Louis Doleman probably neither. Ray Cuervo and Gunther Yary each were sharp enough to find out where Andrus was at any time.

Another thing. The mode of delivery varies: U.S. mail, by-hand delivery, pasted label, intraschool system. Why be erratic in both when and how the notes are sent? To throw Andrus even more off balance?

My frustration level was lowered by Andrus being three thousand miles away as her case went nowhere. Passing the Hyatt Regency, however, I decided to burn off the frustration I did feel by upping my pace a little, the wind flapping the Gore-Tex jacket against my shoulders as I ran before it.

At the office that day, Inés Roja called. The professor had arrived from the coast for her lecture that night. If possible, Andrus wanted me to come to the town house by five P.M. and ride with her to the site. I said I'd be there.

After spending the afternoon on the manslaughter case, I walked through the cold to the mansion, the sidewalks nearly as glazed as the running paths had been. It was just getting dark as Manolo opened the door for me. If he'd been out in the sun of San Diego much, he didn't show it. He was sweating heavily, the foyer like an oven. I took off my coat, Inés coming downstairs in a short-sleeved blouse and dark skirt.

"John, it is so good to see you."

"Same here. Have you had your furnace adjusted recently?"

"I am sorry?"

"It's pretty hot in here."

She smiled. "The professor is no longer used to the winter. It was eighty degrees Fahrenheit when she left California."

"She's upstairs?"

"Yes."

"Can I see her?"

"I will ask."

I watched Inés clop back up the stairs. Lithe and attractive when she didn't think about it.

I turned. Manolo, a long parka over his arm, was staring at me. He moved his mouth as if to spit, but just went out the front door, slamming it behind him.

"John, have you been sick?"

Andrus appeared weary, a pile of opened mail on the desk behind her.

"No, I've been running a little more. Probably dropped a few pounds."

"Good. For a… Alec told me that you and he talked."

"Last month, after I saw you at the Ritz. How is he?"

"I've spoken with him, and sometimes Del, from California. They seem buoyant. I'm going to see them after the lecture tonight."

Andrus massaged her eyes with the heels of her hands. I said, "Would you like me to wait downstairs?"

"Oh, no. It was just the flight."

"Bad?"

"Bumpy. Storms everywhere east of the Mississippi. I must concede that San Diego offers considerable meteorological charm, if it weren't for the fact that I'd probably never get anything done out there."

"Tuck come back with you?"

"Yes. He's off running errands." She indicated the pile of correspondence. "I'm left to wade through all this."

"Any surprises?"

"Any…? Oh, you mean notes. No, nothing."

"No incidents in San Diego either?"

"None. Tuck was with me most of the time, Manolo the balance. I must say, I believe my demented pen pal has lost interest."

"Yet you asked Inés to have me come over tonight."

"For two reasons. First, have you made any progress?"

I explained how I'd played out the string of people to see. "What's the second reason?"

Andrus frowned. "I'm mindful that the labeled book appeared after my last speaking appearance here."

I nodded. "What's your speech tonight?"

"The same one you heard at the Rabb debate, I'm afraid."

"Doesn't the audience notice that?"

Andrus shook her head. "Most of the people will be different. But even the faithful feel reinforced, hearing the same things."

"Where is the lecture?"

"Sanders Theater."

"In Cambridge?"

"Yes. Part of the Harvard Law School Forum."

"Harvard invites a professor from another law school to come talk?"

"Yes. Rather daring of them, but it's more a students' speaker series, really." She checked the digital clock on her desk. "Manolo ought to have gotten the Benz by now. Let me gather myself, and I'll see you downstairs."

"We going to wait for your husband?"

"No. Tuck said to go on without him."

In the foyer, Inés Roja and I made small talk until Maisy Andrus joined us. In a full-length fur with matching hat. Sensible against the cold, but I started to hope that there wouldn't be any animal rights folks at the speech.

I helped Roja into her coat, then pulled on mine. The secretary opened the front door, me moving across the threshold and out to the sidewalk. Cars were pushed up on the curb to park and yet allow a lane wide enough for traffic to pass. No sign of Manolo and the Mercedes.

As Roja closed the door behind the three of us, Andrus stepped by me, hugging herself against the night wind. Tugging on my gloves, I heard a flat crack and, just over my head, a sound like someone whistling in water.

Glass shattered as I tackled Andrus, shoving her behind the engine block of the closest car. Roja was already crawling behind me as another flat crack came from across the street and high. The mailbox next to the front door of the house clanged on its screws. The first bullet had gotten the imitation gas lamp over the doorway. Andrus pushed herself to her knees and said, "What the hell is…”

"Shut up and stay down."

Roja said shakily, "We are being shot."

The rooflines across the street seemed even and empty. No silhouette, no muzzle flash.

I took a quick look at Roja, but didn't see any blood. "Inés, are you all right?"

She shifted her weight, one leg on a snowbank, the other on the icy cement. "Yes. Can you see anything?"

"No."

Andrus said very quietly, "Are you going to shoot back?"

Looking down at the revolver in my bare right hand, I couldn't recall taking off my glove or drawing the gun. "Not from this angle. I might go through a window or throw one high and over to another street or building."

Andrus faced her house. "Shouldn't we call the police?"

Eight feet separated us from the locked door. "Not till I'm sure we'd get to the phone."

Five or six minutes passed. I was thinking about the shooter's aim when a powerful engine approached, charging hard. Brakes squealed on the other side of the parked cars. A door was flung open, creaking on its hinges, and Manolo squeezed himself between two bumpers.

I motioned for him to get down, but he was signing frantically to Inés Roja. When there were no more shots, I let out a breath. Manolo rushed over to Andrus, helped her up, and reverently brushed the snow off her coat.

Roja said to me, "Manolo was caught in traffic, behind a truck that stalled or something. He saw us from the corner" – she pointed behind her – "and was afraid for us."

I watched Manolo, who seemed awfully agitated. Almost theatrically so.

Then I moved toward the mailbox. My shoes crunched shards of glass from the light over the door. There was a perfectly round hole in the front of the box, off center but not by much. I put my right glove back on. Using a pen, I lifted the lid of the box and looked in.

Andrus said, "What are you doing?"

I coaxed out the folded white paper, undamaged from the shot. At the bottom of the box, bits of brick from the exit hole on the back wall lay around a flattened slug.

I unfolded the paper. Headline-sized words again, but twice as big as the snips from the earlier notes.

"ALL BAD THINGS COME TO AN END CU-NT."

I doubted Roja could read what it said, but she certainly could see what it was. The secretary began to cry.