The man dived for the gun, his legs draped over Joyce’s. He got his hand on it, scrambled to his knees, and pointed the weapon at Joyce. She’d started getting to her feet, but froze.
“Goddamn it,” the man said. “I was never going to do anything.” He angled the gun away, so that if it went off, it wouldn’t hit Joyce. “It’s all for show, a gig, a kind of social experiment, he called it.”
“What?” Joyce said.
“No one actually gets hurt or anything, so—”
There was a stirring in the bushes to the left. Then a deafening bang. One side of the attacker’s head blew clean off.
Joyce screamed.
Clive Duncomb emerged from the brush, gun in hand.
“Got the son of a bitch,” he said.
THIRTY-ONE
David
“HI,” I said, extending a hand to Dr. Jack Sturgess in Marla’s hospital room.
He took the hand, gave it a firm shake, and said, “Marla really needs her rest.”
“Sure,” I said. “I understand that.”
“You were with her this morning,” Sturgess said, keeping his voice low, drawing me toward him out of Marla’s range of hearing. “You found her with that woman’s child.”
“That’s right.”
He raised his index finger, a “give me two seconds” gesture, then stepped around me and approached Marla. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” she said.
“I’m just going to see your cousin out; then I’ll come back and check on you.”
I guessed that meant I was leaving. Sturgess led me into the hall, let the oversize door to Marla’s room close, and said, “I just wanted to thank you for looking out for her this morning.”
“I didn’t really do anything. I was just trying to sort out what happened.”
“All the same, thank you. She’s in a very delicate condition.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding.
“What did Marla tell you about how she got hold of that baby?”
“Same as she’s told everyone else, I suppose,” I said.
“Yes, yes, the mystery woman who came to her door. A delusion, more than likely.”
“You think?”
The doctor nodded. “I’d say yes. But it might be helpful, in understanding her state of mind, to know just who she believes it was who delivered this child to her.”
“I don’t know if I’m following you.”
“Well, let’s say she saw a tall, dark stranger. That might signify something totally different than if she’d seen a six-year-old girl.”
“Dr. Sturgess, are you Marla’s psychiatrist?”
“No, I’m not.”
“If anyone should be trying to read anything into Marla’s fantasies, wouldn’t it be her psychiatrist?”
Sturgess cleared his throat. “Just because I’m not Marla’s psychiatrist doesn’t mean I’m not interested in her mental health. A person’s mental state is very much related to their physical well-being. For God’s sake, I’m treating her for a slit wrist. You think that doesn’t have something to do with her state of mind?” He gave me a withering look. “I’m trying to help this girl.”
“So am I,” I said.
Eyebrows shot up. “How?”
“I don’t know. Any way I can.”
“Well, coming here, visiting her, letting her know you care, that’s good. That’s a very good thing to do. She needs that kind of love and support.”
“I was thinking of doing more than that,” I said.
“I don’t understand. What else could you possibly do?”
“I don’t know. Ask around, I guess.”
“What does that mean? ‘Ask around.’”
“What it sounds like,” I said. “Ask around.”
“Are you some sort of private detective, David? Because if you are, it’s never come up. I’m sure someone would have mentioned it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“My recollection is . . . didn’t I used to see your byline in the Standard? But that was a long time ago. You were a reporter once?”
“I used to be at the Standard. Then I was at the Globe, in Boston, for a while. Came back here to write for the Standard just as it closed down.”
“So, this asking around, then, it’d just be something to do to keep busy?”
I gave myself a couple of seconds, then asked, “What’s your problem with this, exactly?”
“Problem? I didn’t say I had a problem with it. But since you’ve asked, in case you haven’t noticed, the police are very much involved in this. They are doing plenty of asking around. That’s kind of what they do. So I don’t see what purpose there would be in your going around troubling people at a time like this with a bunch of questions. And that would begin with Marla. It’s great, your stopping by to say hello, but I don’t want you subjecting her to some kind of interrogation.”
“Really.”
“Really. The last thing anyone involved in this horrible business needs is some amateur sleuth poking his nose into things.”
“Amateur sleuth,” I said.
“I mean no offense,” Sturgess said. “But Marla’s in a delicate condition. As is Mr. Gaynor. The last thing he needs—”
“Wait,” I said, raising a hand. “You know Bill Gaynor?”
Sturgess blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You know the Gaynors?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” he said. “I’m their family physician.”