After much oily commiseration, sanctimonious babble about Naomi having gone to a better place, and insincere talk of the government's desire always to ensure the public safety and to treat every citizen with compassion, Knacker or Hisscus, or Nork, finally got around to the issue of compensation.
No word as crass as compensation was used, of course. Redress.
Requital. Restitutional apology, which must have been learned in a law school where English was the second language. Even atonement.
Junior drove them a little crazy by pretending not to understand their intent as they circled the issue like novice snake handlers warily looking for a safe grip on a coiled cobra.
He was surprised they had come so soon, less than twenty-four hours after the tragedy. This was especially unusual, considering that a homicide detective was obsessed with the idea that rotting wood, alone, was not responsible for Naomi's death.
Indeed, Junior suspected that they might be here at Vanadium's urging. The cop would be interested in determining how avaricious the mourning husband would prove to be when presented with the opportunity to turn his wife's cold flesh into cash.
Knacker or Hisscus, or Nork, was talking about an offering, as though Naomi were a goddess to whom they wished to present a penance of gold and jewels.
Sick of them, Junior pretended that he was just now getting their I drift. He didn't fake outrage or even distaste, because he knew he might unwittingly oversell any strong reaction, striking a false note and raising suspicions.
Instead, with grave courtesy, he quietly told them that he wanted no settlement for his wife's death or for his own suffering. 'Money can't replace her. I'd never be able to spend a penny of it. Not a penny. I'd have to give it away. What would be the point?'
After a silent moment of surprise, Nork or Knacker, or Hisscus, said, 'Your sentiment is understandable, Mr. Cain, but it's customary in these matters-'
Junior's throat wasn't half as sore as it had been the previous afternoon, and to these men, his soft, coarse voice must have sounded not abraded, but raw with emotion. 'I don't care what's customary. I don't want anything. I don't blame anyone. These things happen. If you have a liability release with you, I'll sign it right now.'
Hisscus, Nork, and Knacker exchanged sharp glances, nonplussed. Finally, one of them said, 'We couldn't do that, Mr. Cain. Not until you've consulted an attorney.'
'I don't want an attorney.' He closed his eyes, lowered his head to the pillow, and sighed. 'I just want? peace.'
Knacker, Hisscus, and Nork, all talking at once, then failing silent as if they were a single organism, then talking in rotation but interrupting one another, tried to advance their agenda.
Although he had made no effort to summon them, tears spilled from Junior's closed eyes. They weren't drawn from him by thoughts of poor Naomi. These next few days-perhaps weeks-were going to be tedious, until he could have Nurse Victoria Bressler. Under the circumstances, he had good reason to feel sorry for himself.
His silent tears accomplished what his words could not: Nork, Knacker, and Hisscus retreated, urging him to speak to his attorney, promising to return, once more expressing their deepest condolences, perhaps as abashed as attorneys and political appointees could get, but certainly confused and unsure how to proceed when dealing with a man so untouched by greed, so free of anger, so forgiving as the widower Cain.
Everything was proceeding precisely as Junior had envisioned in the instant when Naomi had first discovered the rotten section of railing and had nearly fallen without assistance. The entire plan had come to him, wholly formed, in a blink, and during the following two circuits of the observation deck, he had mulled it over, seeking flaws but finding none.
Thus far, there were only two unexpected developments, the first being his explosive vomiting. He hoped he would never have to endure another such episode.
That Olympian purge had, however, made him appear to be both emotionally and physically devastated by the loss of his wife. He couldn't have calculated any stratagem more likely to convince most people that he was innocent and, in fact, constitutionally incapable of premeditated murder.
He had experienced considerable self-revelation during the past eighteen hours, but of all the new qualities he had discovered in himself, Junior was most proud of the realization that he was such a profoundly sensitive person. This was an admirable character trait, but it would also be a useful screen behind which to commit whatever ruthless acts were required in this dangerous new life he'd chosen.
The other of the two unexpected developments was Vanadium, the lunatic lawman. Tenacity personified. Tenacity with a bad haircut.
As his drying tears became stiff on his cheeks, Junior decided that he would most likely have to kill Vanadium to be rid of him and fully safe. No problem. And in spite of his exquisite sensitivity, he was convinced that wasting the detective would not trigger in him another bout of vomiting. If anything, he might pee his pants in sheer delight.
Chapter 23
Celestina returned to Room 724 to collect Phimie's belongings from the tiny closet and from the nightstand.
Her hands trembled as she attempted to fold her sister's clothes into the small suitcase. What should have been a simple task became a daunting challenge; the fabric seemed to come alive in her hands and slip through her fingers, resisting every attempt to organize it. When eventually she realized there was no reason to be neat, she tossed the garments into the bag without concern for wrinkling them.
Just as Celestina snapped shut the latches on the suitcase and turned to the door, a nurse's aide entered, pushing a cart loaded with towels and bed linens.
This was the same woman who had been stripping the second bed when Celestina arrived earlier. Now she was here to remake the first.
'I'm so sorry about your sister,' the aide said.
'Thank you.
'She was so sweet.'
Celestina nodded, unable to respond to the aide's kindness. Sometimes kindness can shatter as easily as soothe.
'What room has Mrs. Lombardi been moved to?' she asked. 'I'd like to? to see her before I go.'
'Oh, didn't you know? I'm sorry, but she's gone, too.'
'Gone?' Celestina said, but understood.
Indeed, subconsciously, she had known that Nella was gone since receiving the call at 4:15 this morning. When the old woman had finished what she needed to say, the silence on the line had been eerily perfect, without one crackle of static or electronic murmur, unlike anything Celestina had ever heard on a telephone before.
'She died last night,' said the aide.
Do you know when? The time of death?'
'A few minutes after midnight.'
'You're sure? Of the time, I mean?'
'I'd Just come on duty. I'm working a shift and a half today. She passed away in the coma, without waking.'
In Celestina's mind, as clear as it had been on the phone at 4:15 A.M., the frail voice of an old woman warned of Phimie's crisis:
Come now.
What?
Come now. Come quickly.
Who's this?
Nella Lombardi. Come now. Your sister will soon be dying.
If the call had really come from Mrs. Lombardi, she had placed it more than four hours after she died.
