McNally's caper

I pushed Jack into the back of the Cutlass. Just threw him onto the floor. I doubled his legs, jammed them in, slammed the door.

I got behind the wheel, started the engine. I accelerated in a jackrabbit start, spun the wheels, slowed until I had traction. Then I pushed the pedal to the floor, swerving around the parked Cadillac.

I had a hazy impression of more shouts, curses, explosions of guns. Men running toward us.

And, from the corner of my eye, saw that black trundling figure coming on. Not running. Not firing a gun. But just coming on, coming on …

A WALK ON THE BEACH

His first words were: ‘Are you all right?’

I tried to smile, bit my lower lip, blinked rapidly. I put a hand on his forehead. Fevered. I soaked a towel under the tap, wrung it out, draped it softly across his brow.

‘They came by boat,’ he breathed painfully. ‘We should have watched for that.’ It was an old man’s voice: faint, harsh, bubbling with phlegm.

I nodded. He was right; we had been outguessed.

‘Was Garcia in on it?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’ Speaking was an effort for him; I could hear it. ‘His price was probably the necklace. Or more. Did vou see him?’

I knew whom he meant.

‘I tried to kill him,’ I said. ‘I emptied my pistol at the bastard. But he just kept coming toward us.’

‘You did fine. Just fine. Real class. What happened after I caught it? Tell me everything.’

He closed his eyes. I hoped he was sleeping. But I kept talking.

‘I found Federal Highway,’ I said. ‘But I made a mistake; I turned south instead of north.’

Then I knew he was awake and listening. And understanding. But his eyes were still closed.

‘Road blocked?’

‘No. I thought it would be, but it wasn’t.’

‘They were so sure,’ he said. ‘So sure. Followed?’

‘No, Jack, we weren’t. I kept looking back to make certain. Garcia probably had the Cadillac keys. Anyway, I took a turnoff and went east to A1A. Then I came directly home.’ ‘Home,’ he repeated faintly. ‘Was I out?’

‘Half-and-half. I thought that I’d get you here and look in the back seat and you’d be — you know.’

Something like a cruel smile moved his mouth.

‘Not me. I’m too mean to die. How’d you get me in?’

‘You leaned on me,’ I told him. ‘Arm around my neck. We passed a couple coming in and I yelled at you about drinking too much. They smiled at me sympathetically. No one else saw us.’

‘Blood?’

‘Not as much as I thought. Very little in the car.’

That was a lie. There had been a flood.

‘How does it look?’

‘Okay. It looks fine. Just a small hole, kind of puffed up. I got a towel around you and tied it tight. Then I went out and found a drugstore that was still open. I bought pads and bandages and tape. Antiseptics. Things like that. I’ve got you all bandaged up now. I gave you some brandy and aspirin.’

‘A small hole? Where?’

‘Under your ribs. A few inches left of the spine. Above your waist.’

‘Did it come out?’ he asked in a low voice.

I was silent.

‘Did it come out?’ he repeated.

‘No. The bullet’s still in there. We’ve got to get you to a doctor, Jack. To a hospital.’

‘No. No doctor. No hospital. No need for that. I feel grand.’

He didn’t look grand. He was lying in bed, naked, covered with a sheet and a light blanket. Because frequently he would get the shakes. In spite of the fever his whole body would tremble, stricken with a sudden chill.

‘Jack,’ I said. ‘Let’s give it up. I’ll call the cops. We’ll get you to a hospital.’

He opened his eyes. He stared at me.

‘After what we’ve gone through? Give it up now? Don’t say that, Jan. I can take this. This isn’t so bad. I feel better already.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I’m not lying,’ he said patiently. ‘I really feel better.

Hardly any pain at all. Listen, one pill is nothing. It could heal by itself. It doesn’t have to come out.’

I didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes again.

‘Promise me,’ he said faintly.

‘What, Jack?’

‘You won’t call the cops or a doctor unless I say okay. Promise?’

‘I promise.’

He fell asleep smiling. I washed out the bloody towel and tried to rinse the stains from his shirt, jacket, and raincoat. There was blood on his pants, undershorts, socks. There was blood in his shoes. I didn’t want to think of that puddle caking on the back floor of the Oldsmobile.

I poured myself a brandy and sat in a chair alongside the bed. I watched him breathe: slow, almost lazy breathing. I told myself it was normal: no coughing, no gasping. Maybe the wound would heal by itself.

I know now that during that night and the day that followed, I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t think. The outside fog Was inside me now. A thought would drift into my mind — doctor, hospital, police, escape — and then it would just fade into smoke and cobwebs. I couldn’t concentrate. I could not pin down a single rational idea. All I could do was float in the swirl, numbed, moving like a zombie.

I did what had to be done. I made food for myself and ate it. I made food for Jack and fed him. I bathed him and myself. I mixed drinks. I made certain the door was locked and the blinds drawn. I mean, I functioned. But all the time I wasn’t aware, either of myself or what I was doing. Those twenty-four hours were a mindless blank.

I think now it was nature’s way of protecting me. I think that somnambulism was a mechanism to preserve my sanity. I didn’t weep. No hysterics. I just felt divorced from what was happening. I was a stranger in a foreign world. I breathed, ate, slept, and never once did I ask, why? I was Jannie Shean, the mechanical woman. Wind her up and away she goes.

That night, Thursday, I slept sitting up in an armchair. Jack woke me once, and I brought him more brandy and water and put another wet cloth across his forehead. He muttered something I couldn’t understand, then slept again. I thought his sleeping was a good sign. I thought everything was a good sign.

There was sunshine in the morning — another good sign. Not much brightness, but the clouds were breaking up and there were patches of blue. I locked Jack in and ran out to buy some food, orange juice, the Miami papers. There was nothing in the papers about the shootout at the deserted hotel on Dumfoundling Bay. And nothing on the TV news broadcast. I figured Antonio Rossi had cleaned up neatly behind him.

Jack woke about 10:00, and I fed him some hot beef broth with bits of bread soaked in it. He got a few spoonsful down, then turned his head away.

He didn’t look at all good. His face was waxen, sheened, white as the pillow. His features seemed to be shrinking, tightening. He was getting a hawk profile. I had to roll him over to change the dressing on the wound. The bleeding had stopped; the bullet hole was closing. It was a blue pucker. But his body was a shock: pale, flaccid, bones jutting. And there was a smell. Not just sweat and blood and soiled sheets. But something else. Something sweetish, curdled, and piercing.

He drowsed, fitfully, all that Friday. He had an enormous thirst, drank water, milk, coffee, brandy, orange juice. Four times I had to help him into the bathroom. He wouldn’t let me stay with him in there. I wanted to; it didn’t bother me. But he insisted on closing the door. Then I would assist him back to bed, half-carrying him, his