the pavement.
“You OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m OK. There’s somebody trapped in there.”
The flashing light of a police car dazzled him suddenly. Someone shouted to the policeman to call an ambulance.
“Boy, she nearly got you,” said the one who’d pulled him away-big powerfully built black man in a leather coat, shaking his grizzled head. “Didn’t you see that car coming straight at you?”
“No. You saved my life, you know it?”
“Hell, I just pulled you out of the way. It was nothing. Didn’t even think about it.” Dismissive wave of his hand as he went on, eyes lingering for a moment on the red car, and on the two men trying to free the woman inside, who was screaming. The crowd was growing, and a policewoman was shouting for everyone to get back.
A bus was now blocking the intersection, and another police car had pulled up. Newspapers were lying all over the sidewalk from the overturned box, and the glass was sparkling in the rain like so many scattered diamonds.
“Look, I don’t know how to thank you.” Michael called out.
But the black man was already far away, loping up Castro, with just a glance over his shoulder and a last casual wave of his hand.
Michael stood shivering against the wall of the bar. People pushed past those who had stopped to stare. There was that squeezing in his chest, not quite a pain but a tightening, and the pounding pulse, and a numbness creeping through the fingers of his left hand.
Christ, what actually happened? He couldn’t get sick here, had to get back to the hotel.
He moved clumsily out into the street, and past the policewoman who asked him suddenly if he’d seen the car hit the light pole. No, he had to confess, he sure hadn’t. Cab over there. Get the cab.
The driver could get him out of here if he backed up on Eighteenth and made a sharp right onto Castro.
“Gotta get to the St. Francis, Union Square,” he said.
“You OK?”
“Yeah. Just barely.”
It had been Julien who had spoken to him, no doubt about it, Julien whom he’d seen through the bus window! But what about that damned car?
Ryan could not have been more obliging. “Of course, we could have helped you with all this before, Michael. That’s what we’re here for. I’ll have someone there tomorrow morning to inventory and crate the entire stock. I’ll find a qualified real estate agent and we can discuss the listing price when you get here.”
“I hate to bother you, but I can’t reach Rowan and I have this feeling that I have to get back.”
“Nonsense, we’re here to take care of things for you, large and small. Now, do you have your plane reservation? Why don’t you let me handle that? Stay right where you are and wait for my call.”
He lay on the bed afterwards, smoking his last Camel cigarette, staring at the ceiling. The numbness in his left hand was gone, and he felt all right now. No nausea or dizziness or anything major, as far as he was concerned. And he didn’t care. That part wasn’t real.
What was real was the face of Julien in the bus window. And then that fragment of the visions catching hold of him, as powerfully as ever.
But had it all been planned, just to get him to that dangerous corner? Just to dazzle him and plant him motionless in the path of that careening car? The way he’d been planted in the path of Rowan’s boat?
Oh, so engulfing that fragment of memory. He closed his eyes, saw their faces again, Deborah and Julien, heard their voices.
I do, I have it. I believe in you! It’s a war between you and him, and once again, you reached down and you touched me at the very moment of his contrivance, as his carefully orchestrated calamity was taking place.
I have to believe that. Because if I don’t I’ll go out of my mind.
He was lying there, his eyes closed, dozing, when the phone rang.
“Michael?” It was Ryan.
“Yeah.”
“Listen; I’ve arranged for you to come back by private plane. It’s much simpler that way. It’s the Markham Harris Hotels plane, and they’re more than delighted to assist us. I have someone coming to pick you up. If you need help with your bags … ”
“No, just tell me the time, I’ll be ready.” What was that smell? Had he put his cigarette out?
“How about an hour from now? They’ll call you from the lobby. And Michael, please, from now on, don’t hesitate to ask us for anything, anything at all.”
“Yeah, thanks, Ryan, yeah, I really appreciate it.” He was staring at the smoldering hole in the bedspread where he’d dropped the cigarette when he fell asleep. God, the first time in his life he’d ever done anything like this! And the room was already full of smoke. “Thanks, Ryan, thanks for everything!”
He hung up, went into the bathroom, and filled the empty ice bucket with water, splashing it quickly onto the bed. Then he pulled the burnt spread away, and the sheet, and poured more water into the dark, smelly hole in the mattress. His heart was tripping again. He went to the window, struggled with it, realized it wasn’t going to open, and then sat down heavily in a chair and watched the smoke gradually drift away.
When he was all packed, he tried Rowan again. Still no answer. Fifteen rings, no answer. He was just about to give up when he heard her groggy voice.
“Michael? Oh, I was asleep, I’m sorry, Michael.”
“Listen to me, honey. I’m Irish, and I’m a very superstitious guy, as we both know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m having a string of bad luck, very bad luck. Do a little Mayfair witchcraft for me, will you, Rowan? Throw a white light around me. Ever hear of that?”
“No. Michael, what’s happening?”
“I’m on my way home, Rowan. Now just imagine it, honey, a white light around me protecting me from everything bad in this world until I get there. You see what I’m saying? Ryan’s arranged a plane for me. I’ll be leaving within the hour.”
“Michael, what’s going on?”
Was she crying?
“Do it, Rowan, about the white light. Just trust me on this. Work on protecting me.”
“A white light,” she whispered. “All around you.”
“Yeah. A white light. I love you, honey. I’m coming home.”
Forty-five
“OH, THIS IS the very worst winter,” said Beatrice. “You know they’re even saying we might have snow?” She stood up and put her wineglass on the cart. “Well, darling, you’ve been very patient. And I was so worried. Now that I see you’re all right, and that this great big house is so deliciously warm and cheerful, I’ll be going.”
“It was nothing, Bea,” said Rowan, merely repeating what she had already explained. “Just depressed because Michael has been gone so long.”
“And what time do you expect him?”
“Ryan said before morning. He was supposed to leave an hour ago but San Francisco International is fogged in.”
“Winter, I hate it!” she said.
Rowan didn’t bother to explain that San Francisco International was often fogged in during the summer. She simply watched Beatrice put on her cashmere cape, drawing the graceful hood up over her beautifully groomed gray hair.
