The cold room

TWENTY-NINE

I went for a swim that night, hoping to work off some energy. No suck luck. I fell asleep late and woke up early, feeling like a prizefighter on the day before a big match. All those weeks of training, of devising strategies to negate my opponent’s skills, to maximize my own. Would there be a payoff? Or would I end up on the canvas, eyes glazed, tasting my own blood? There was no way to know. After breakfast, I took a small toolbox from a closet shelf, fiddled through the screwdrivers and pliers, and finally withdrew two items: an L-shaped bar about the thickness of a toothpick, and a specialized tool the size and shape of a glue gun. The bar was called a tension bar, the tool a snap gun. They were designed for folks, like myself, who sometimes need to get past a locked door but never mastered the art of picking locks.

I went to the door of my apartment, to a multi-pin, deadbolt lock similar to the one on Aslan’s door. I inserted the tension bar first, rotating the lock slightly, then the blade of the snap gun. When I pressed the gun’s trigger it lived up to it’s name, making a distinct snap, like the snap of a finger, as the blade flew up. The point here was to kick the upper pins into the cylinder. If they became trapped above the shear line, the lock would open. If they didn’t, you could always try again.

The nicest thing about a snap gun is that you can’t screw it up. The lock opens or it doesn’t. In this case, I got lucky on the third try.

I kept at it for two hours, moving from the upper to the lower locks on the door. The point was not just to open the lock. Eventually, I’d be doing this in public. I needed to be quick and casual. Over time, I improved on both counts, but there was no way to get past a snap gun’s ultimate flaw. The process was entirely random. On one pass, it took me twelve attempts before the lock opened.

When my fingers began to cramp, I finally brought the gun to my office and left it on the desk. It was now eleven o’clock. For the first time in weeks, there was nothing I absolutely had to do. Over coffee, I checked the movie listings, considered driving up to Yankee Stadium for an afternoon game, checked the hours of the Metropolitan Museum, considered a long walk in Central Park or a trip to Jones Beach on Long Island. The last was especially attractive. It had been a long time since I’d taken a swim in heavy surf.

But I didn’t drive to Jones Beach, or choose any of the alternatives in Column A. Instead, I took the subway to Riverside Park and once again settled down across the street from the Portola townhouse.

Ronald and Margaret Portola made an appearance at noon, cabbing off to place or places unknown, while David emerged at three o’clock, his skateboard tucked beneath his arm. As before, he headed north. I watched him until he disappeared behind a hill, then sat back.

Tynia’s story had confirmed Father Manicki’s. David had loved Mynka. He loved her still. Men have a powerful need to protect the women they love. The urge is visceral, an impulse as physical as hunger or thirst. David, of course, had failed to protect his beloved. Most likely, he was currently protecting her killer. It had to hurt.

Love and guilt. These would be my weapons, if I chose to interrogate David Portola. But I wouldn’t use them right away. Initially, I’d hold myself in check, endure the vitriol sure to flow from David’s mouth. Only after he wore down would I drive in the stakes. You loved her, David. I know that. But you have to face the facts. You failed to protect her in life. Are you willing to fail again?

I would pound the message home, without raising my voice, over and over, until I felt him give. Then I would show him what happened to his beloved after she left the townhouse. I’d lay the photos out, one at a time, saving the close-ups for last. Are you willing to fail her again?

The sun was going down by the time I broke off the surveillance. I felt more relaxed by then. The lights were on inside the Portola townhouse and I’d caught occasional glimpses of the family through the curtains on the windows. Nothing was out of order, as far as I could tell. Tynia’s resolve hadn’t weakened.

I went from the Upper West Side to dinner at a First Avenue restaurant in the East Village and it was almost nine when I settled the check and walked back to Rensselaer Village. I picked up the mail in the lobby of my building, glanced through it, separating the bills from the usual run of unwanted junk as I rode up in the elevator. I think I was feeling sleepy, from fatigue or from a third glass of wine, but I can’t be absolutely sure. That’s because, when I entered the apartment to find Adele Bentibi asleep on the couch, my heart took off like a rocket and I was overwhelmed by successive waves of emotion. Hope, first, then gratitude, then relief, then fear. For all I knew, Adele intended to stay just long enough to pack her things and quit New York for good.

I draped my bag over the back of a dining room chair, then walked to the couch and dropped to my knees. I didn’t touch Adele, didn’t want to disturb her sleep. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was pale, as though she’d spent the last few weeks indoors. She was lying with her arms folded across her chest, her fingers curled as though about to make a fist. I’d been thinking of Adele all day, trying to evade little bullets of guilt. I knew I’d relegated her needs to a category that might be called, ‘I’ll worry about it tomorrow.’ Now, tomorrow was lying on the couch.

‘Corbin?’ Adele rubbed her eyes, then sat up to give me a chaste peck on the cheek. ‘If my breath smells anything like my mouth tastes,’ she announced, ‘watch out for your fillings. I need to brush my teeth.’

I observed her march down the hall the way soothsayers watch birds in flight. I was looking for a sign, but I could make nothing of her confident stride. Then the door closed and I went into the kitchen to set up the coffee maker. The shower came on a moment later.

The next fifteen minutes were long and difficult, but when Adele finally emerged, wrapped in a sea-green towel, I began to relax. Adele had made a similar appearance in the hallway ten months before, on the night we first made love. That she hadn’t forgotten was clear from the amused sparkle in her eyes.

‘Did you really think I’d let you confront Aslan without backup?’ she asked.

The question was entirely unexpected and it took me a moment to recall our last conversation. Adele had forced me to admit that I’d be on my own when I liberated Domestic Solutions’ workers and their children.

Though I wasn’t sure I’d need help, I was definitely touched. I reached out to lay my fingertips on the side of her throat, to take the pulse of her life. ‘I don’t care why you came,’ I told her. ‘I’m just glad to have you back.’

Adele smiled. ‘Do I smell coffee brewing?’ she asked.

‘Decaf. You look tired as hell.’ A few minutes later, I walked out of the kitchen to find that Adele had replaced the towel with a flowered Japanese robe. I sat down next to her on the couch and was immensely gratified when she reached out to take my hand. ‘I wasn’t kidding about the main reason for my being here,’ she announced. ‘I won’t let you play lone wolf. I don’t care if the part is dear to your soul.’

‘I can accept that, but I was wondering, besides the main reason, what were your other reasons for coming home? If there were any.’

Adele was nothing if not direct, but this time she chose to evade the question. ‘We have to let it go, Corbin, until this whole business is behind us. I’m not here to distract you. The stakes are too high for that.’ She leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘You know what I want, Corbin? Right now, more than anything else in the world? I want to lie next to you in bed. I want to feel your body next to mine, to hold you in my arms, to feel your heart beating in your chest.’

I hastened to grant Adele’s wish, and without complaint. True, I was anticipating a bit more action after we got through with the heart-to-heart thing, but it didn’t happen, not then. Adele settled down next to me with her leg across my belly and her head tucked beneath my shoulder. She was in a mood to talk.

‘You’re so big, Corbin,’ she said as she ran a finger across my chest. ‘You’re an immense man. Why don’t you act your size?’

I thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘I’m whatever size I need to be.’

‘I know. In the box, I’ve seen you shrink down until you’re smaller than the suspect, until you’re no threat at all. How much do you weigh?’

‘Somewhere between two-twenty and two-thirty.’

‘I feel small lying next to you. I never felt that way with my husband.’

‘Small and helpless?’

Adele pinched my nipple and I jumped. ‘No, not helpless,’ she said. ‘Not while I still have a gun.’

A few minutes later, she fell asleep. I stayed as I was, on my back with my arm encircling her head and shoulders, finally drifting off. It was still dark when I awakened. Adele was already astride me, mouth open as she rose and fell. I reached out to take her breasts in my hands and she looked down at me for a moment. Then she said, ‘I missed you, Corbin. I missed you every fucking minute.’