'What's it?'
'Crazy. I figured you'd get around to using that word eventually.'
'Rick.'
'What?'
'Shut the hell up, will you? I'm half an hour off the plane and I'm already ass-deep into one of these things you insist on us having.'
And then Rick reached inside his sport jacket, felt for his shirt pocket and took out the photo, the lone photo he'd kept from the envelope in Adam's bottom drawer.
'Where the hell did you get that?'
'Where do you think, Adam?'
'That cuts it, pal. That cuts it clean. Once we start snooping in each other's private business…'
Rick tried not to smile. He was enjoying himself. Something about the photo of fifteen-year-old Peter Tappley had alarmed Adam greatly.
They reached the Dan Ryan.
'Adam?'
'God, Rick. You don't get it, do you?'
'Get what?'
'Who you are.'
'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'
'God,' Adam said. 'That youthat you're Peter Tappley.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' Rick said.
'The headaches, Rick, and the blackouts. They're part of the multiple personality thing. I did some reading about them.'
'You're saying I have this multiple personality thing?'
Adam looked at him and shook his head. Crazy sonofabitch. Pitiful crazy sonofabitch. That's what Rick was.
'Just drive,' Adam said. ''Just goddamm drive.'
CHAPTER 61
Evelyn sat in her den, looking out the mullioned windows at the fading day. November always depressed her, land and sky blanched of all color, nights when the winds howled out here on the plains like the cries of some animal dying.
She tried not to think of her daughter Doris.
Of how her daughter Doris had been about to betray her.
Of how her daughter Doris preferred the esteem of Jill Coffey to her own mother.
Of how her daughter Doris would set her own mother in jeopardy with the law.
A knock.
'Ma'am?'
'Yes.'
'Would you like a lamb chop for dinner?'
'There'll be no dinner tonight.'
'No dinner?'
'Are you deaf, girl? I said no dinner.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Now go find something useful to do. And don't sit in the bathroom so long. I'm well aware that you sit in there and read magazines.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Evelyn went back to her thoughts.
On such a dusk as this, she felt old far beyond her years. There was no one to comfort her. Nobody ever pitied or tried to understand the truly wealthy. All the prattle today about minorities who weren't treated well, from blacks to gays. Well, in many respects, the minority of rich people were treated far worse than all the other minorities put together. When a rich person got very ill, the masses were spiteful: 'He deserves it, the rich old bastard.' When the congress decided it needed money, to whom did it always turn? 'Rich people, let's tax rich people.' And when a rich person's son got in trouble with the law… Well, if Peter had been the son of a black man who lived in inner-city Chicago, the press would hardly have paid attention at all. Certainly, no army of press would have besieged his trial, his prison years and his execution. But no… rich people were always fair game for the press. And so she'd had to endure the media circus all those years. They'd even taken to helicopters so they could get video film of her playing croquet on sunny Sunday afternoons…
But on this dusk, Evelyn knew an even deeper bitterness than being held up to public scrutiny and spectacle. She had lost her children.
Maybe, she sometimes thought, maybe she'd been lucky to lose the first one to the rattlesnake and the vaccine. She did not have to watch as he grew up and turned against her… the way Peter and Doris had.
Peter… dragging Jill Coffey into this place to live. Jill, who could barely contain her contempt for Evelyn and all she stood for. Who silently accused Evelyn of having over-protected her children. Who wanted to smirk every time Evelyn asked her to give up her photography career and live here with Peter and Doris. If she hadn't gone back to taking her inane pictures then Peter would never have been driven to killing those women.
And now Doris…
In the end, you were left alone, utterly alone, to face your own death and extinction.
For years, Evelyn had felt that Doris would be there to comfort her, help her.
But now she knew better…
Well, when Doris came out of the sedative, Evelyn was going to have a little talk with her, remind Doris that she had better not take for granted that she was going to be part of Evelyn's will. A simple phone call to Arthur K. Halliwell could change all that.
Evelyn amused herself with images of Doris trying to make her way in the world. There was nothing the girl could do to support herself; absolutely nothing.
Knock.
'Ma'am?'
'I told you not to interrupt me.'
'It's Doris, ma'am.'
'What about her?'
'I was walking by her room I think she might be waking up.'
'Impossible. I gave her a triple dosage.'
'Maybe you'd better check, ma'am.'
'I can't even have a few minutes peace, can I?'
'No, ma'am.'
'I've worked so hard all my life and I can't even have a few minutes peace.'
'No, ma'am. I'm sorry, ma'am.'
'She'd damned well better be waking up or you're going to answer to me, girl.'
'Yes, ma'am. I just thought'
'Just get out of here and quit pestering me.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Evelyn stood up, brittle bones hard at work beneath aged flesh.
Oh yes, she'd have a few unpleasant surprises for Doris the next time they had a long conversation.
She'd tell Doris to imagine herself in a McDonald's uniform asking some sweat-reeking black man if he'd like fries with his Big Mac…
Let's just see how Doris likes that.
