Kaiser’s face darkened, but before he could say a word, I walked to the door and made my exit. I no longer cared what he had to say, and as for Stone . . . there’s no good way to say farewell to a dying friend.
As I leave the bathroom to return to Annie’s room, my mother calls my name from the landing halfway down the stairs. She stares up at me, her eyes freighted with deep concern. Could she have heard any of that tape? I wonder.
“What is it, Mom? Are you okay?”
“Why did you ask me about our old Fairlane? Is it something to do with Carlos Marcello?”
“I honestly don’t know. The thing that confuses me about Marcello is that you told me Dad treated him in the Orleans Parish Prison back in 1959, but as far as I can find out, Marcello didn’t serve a day in jail while you and Dad lived in New Orleans.”
Her eyes narrow, and she rubs her hand over her mouth, but even before she speaks I know my mother is not trying to deceive me. I’ve seen that look ten thousand times. She’s simply thinking back, trying to be sure of her memory.
“I guess I could have been mistaken,” she says finally. “But I don’t think so. Tom told me some story about treating Marcello at the jail, because when we saw him later on at those restaurants, Tom said that was the only reason ‘Uncle Carlos’ knew who he was.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t keep worrying about it.”
The concern carved into her features tells me how little chance there is that she’ll follow my advice.
“Is Annie all right?” she asks.
“She’s doing good. We’re watching a movie.”
“You spend all the time with her you can. I think she’s more upset than she’s letting on.”
Aren’t we all?
“I will. You try to get some sleep. I’ll wake you up if I have to go out again.”
“Is there any chance of that?”
“I hope not. But if I have to, I’ll wake you. I promise.”
Mom nods, but her eyes are still troubled. “We needed that car, Penn,” she says softly. “But there was nothing improper about it. I’d tell you if there was.”
“I know you would.” If you knew about it. “Don’t sit up thinking about it. I know how you are.”
She sighs heavily, then turns and walks back toward the kitchen.
“Dad?” Annie calls from the top of the stairs.
CHAPTER 42
DESPITE TOM’S EDICT that they not watch any medical show, he and Melba were on their second episode of House, M.D., a program that his granddaughter had always begged him to watch. While some of the social situations were outrageous, Tom had to admit that the medical dilemmas were real enough, and Hugh Laurie’s sarcastic disdain for bureaucratic meddling was something every doctor in the world could relate to.
About twenty minutes ago, during a commercial break, Melba had thought she’d heard a helicopter in the distance. Tom had been unable to hear it, but that was no surprise, given his progressive hearing loss, and she’d heard nothing since. He told her it was probably nothing to worry about. Statistically, Mississippi had some of the worst drivers in the nation, so LifeFlight helicopters were common at all hours, even over rural counties.
Tom had thought Melba felt reassured, but five minutes ago she’d left him on the sofa and begun her long circuit of the ground-floor windows again. Waiting alone was starting to bother Tom. He wanted to switch on his old burn phone and check to see if Walt had sent any additional messages. The cell phone was in his hand when he heard a strange, muted phtt sound from the garage side of the huge house.
“Mel?” he called.
She didn’t answer.
“Melba!”
Nothing.
With his heartbeat picking up, Tom switched on the new burn phone and waited for the device to find a tower. As soon as it did, a single text message came through, and popped up on the tiny screen.
Almost sure trouble’s headed your way. SWAT team deploying. Get out ASAP. Sorry I’m late. Phone jamming here. Listen for chopper on your way out. Good luck. Text me when safe. Walt.
“Listen for chopper,” Tom whispered, and then his heart hammered in his chest. The hard-pumping blood made his shoulder scream with pain, but two seconds later he was on his feet with his .357 in his hand. He wanted to call out to Melba, but she hadn’t answered the first time, and if there were men in the house, his shout would only bring them to him.
As quickly as he could, Tom moved toward the darkest part of the living room, a short pass-through that led to the hall that ran half the length of the great house. His only hope was to find Melba and get outside into the dark, then into the nearby forest. A SWAT team would have night-vision devices, but the dense trees might be enough of a shield to conceal two fleeing figures.
As Tom reached the spot where the pass-through made a T with the main hall, a man wearing a black mask and body armor appeared in profile less than a foot away from him. Knowing the head would turn toward him at any moment, Tom jammed the .357 under the man’s chin and said quietly: “I’ll pull the trigger if you do anything but drop your gun.”
He meant it, for surrender would mean not only his death, but Melba’s also. Tom jabbed the barrel of his pistol hard under the mandible of the SWAT officer and kept pressing until he heard the thud of metal hitting carpet.
“Now what?” the man croaked, his eyes obscured by his insectile face mask. “You’ve got no play, Doc.”
“Where’s my nurse?”
“Who?”
Tom didn’t like being exposed in the hall. He was about to drag the guy back into the pass-through when a voice with an accent he recognized from medical school in New Orleans shouted from the kitchen at the right end of the corridor.
“Let him go, Doc! Nuttin’ to be gained by killin’ nobody.”
Tom looked up the hall at the man who’d yelled at him. He, too, wore a mask and body armor and carried a short submachine gun in his hands. His accent was pure New Orleans—Brooklyn sautéed in crawfish.
“Then why’d you bring all the guns?” Tom asked.