During the weeks I was healing, Morrell or Lotty came to see me almost every day. Lotty brought flowers that well–wishers, believing I was in a brain–damaged stupor, sent to her office. Darraugh Graham, my most important client, sent a miniature orange tree and a note that said if I ever felt able to get back to work he was eager to continue to do business with me. I was touched, and relieved as well, although Morrell, collecting mail from my office, found an ominous number of letters from clients canceling my services. (We find a large firm such as Carnifice better meets our security needs at this time. . . .)
Mr. Contreras visited me regularly while I was at Berman. Once he learned he could bring Mitch and Peppy, he’d bundle the dogs into the Rustmobile and drive down, careful to follow Morrell’s instructions to keep anyone from tailing him. The dogs helped my recovery. When I ran around the gardens behind the institute with them, I started feeling more like myself.
A bouquet of anemones came with a note from Abigail Trant, wishing me a speedy recovery from all my ailments. After her surprise visit the week before my arrest, I wasn’t exactly startled, but I was very pleased.
I saw Mrs. Trant’s name in the papers from time to time, especially as the swim meet Eleanor Baladine had organized drew near: the Herald–Star, in its new role as shill for Global Entertainment, actually treated the event as front–page news. The meet was to raise money for several children’s programs dear to Abigail Trant, Jennifer Poilevy, and Eleanor Baladine. The three women were photographed around Eleanor’s pool, looking like beauty queens in their sleekly fitting swimsuits. Tickets were a thousand dollars; anyone with a child under thirteen who wanted to compete should get in touch with Alex Fisher at Global.
Another evening Lotty arrived with an outsize bouquet of scarlet and gold flowers and a letter from Murray Ryerson.
Dear Vic,
I can’t believe you’re really lying in a stupor. Half of it’s denial, and the other half is my sources: they can’t find you in any of the nursing homes in the area. So maybe Lotty Herschel will bring you these flowers and my letter.
I’m sorry you were arrested. I’m sorry you spent time in the big house. I don’t know how you got out without posting bail, but my compliments: that took some doing. I’m sorriest of all I blew up at you over Frenada’s finances. I don’t know who or how that strange data got into his LifeStory report, but it was bogus. When his sister tried to access one of the accounts, it turned out there was nothing there. For reasons I haven’t been able to find out, Carnifice may have wanted to discredit Frenada. At any rate they certainly have the technical wizardry to plant phony data on Frenada.
Anyway, I want you to know that I tried to do the right thing. I tried to tape a follow–up to my show explaining that I had received erroneous information about Frenada. The station wouldn’t allow the tape. I tried to print a story in the Star, but the editor blocked it. I’ve been asked to take a vacation for a few weeks to see if “I can regain a sense of proportion.”
If you’re alive and well, give me a call. On the other hand, if you’re really in danger of your life, V. I., I wish I could see you to tell you I’m sorry. And beg you not to die. I don’t think I could keep working in Chicago if you weren’t part of the landscape.
Murray
I pinned one of the flowers to my blouse and danced around the Berman gardens with it. I had a moment’s euphoric impulse to phone Murray, to relieve his own anxiety. We had worked out some amazing stunts together in the past. But I couldn’t afford to take risks right now, even for an old friend. Murray’s course this past summer had been too rocky for me to trust him based on one letter.
The day I heard from him was the same day that Morrell brought in the pictures I’d taken at Coolis. There were thirty–three: I hadn’t had time to shoot the whole roll. A few showed scenes in the jail, like the time CO Polsen was trying to pull down Dolores’s jeans, or the pustular burn on the arm of a woman in the kitchen. Where I’d had time to focus, however surreptitiously, the quality was good enough to make out detail.
Many of the two dozen I’d taken in the back room were blurred because of my nervous flying around the space, but there was one clear shot of Lacey’s face on a T–shirt, with a man in an IDOC uniform standing behind it. I had two shots of women operating the stamping machines. And somehow, at the end, I’d photographed Hartigan standing over me with the stun gun pointed down at me. I didn’t remember taking it; perhaps his shooting or kicking me had inadvertently clicked the shutter. He was foreshortened by my lying on the floor, with his head, bloated and shining in sadistic pleasure, looming larger than his body. The gun appeared in one corner.
Looking at the picture made me start to sweat. I had to take a walk around the Berman gardens before I could sit down again with Morrell. I felt embarrassed by my weakness.