'Fine,' I lied, admiring the neat way they had managed to deal with Aunt Zoe's failure to recognize me.
They ushered me into the living room. The last time I had seen it, it was crowded with Frank's mourners. It still bore some signs of that day. The mirror on the wall was covered with black cloth, and a photograph of Frank as a handsome young man had been pushed to the front of a crowd on top of the piano. In fact, looking at Zoe now, I could see a resemblance to her brother: she was tall, long limbed, with the same kindly hazel eyes. There was something warm and approachable about her. I saw why she was Lisa's favourite aunt.
Zoe' made us all coffee, and I indulged in small talk with the two of them. I said Lisa was in California doing some research work, and left it at that. I had been lucky to catch Carl, apparently he was just leaving for the College. I was glad of his presence, although Zoe seemed to have no problems following the conversation at all. Apart from her initial well-disguised confusion over who I was, there was no sign that her brain was steadily decaying.
After a few minutes I steered the conversation round to the purpose of my visit.
'You remember my firm backed BioOne, the company that makes neuroxil-5?' I began.
'Oh, yes,' said Carl.
'I wondered if you had noticed any problems since Zoe started taking it?'
'I don't think so, do you dear?' said Carl, turning to Zoe.
'No,' she said. 'I have to go to the hospital pretty frequently so they can check up on me. But they haven't come across anything out of the ordinary, at least nothing they've told me about. Ever since Lisa called, I've been keeping a good look out for any problems, but I feel fine. And the good news is that I don't seem to be getting any worse up here.' She tapped her temple.
'That is good news,' I said, sipping my coffee. 'You said Lisa called you?'
'Yes,' said Carl. 'Last week. I assumed that was why you were here.'
'Er, no.' I said. 'As I mentioned, she's in California at the moment. She didn't tell me she'd spoken to you.' I smiled nervously. 'Breakdown in communication.'
Carl looked at me oddly for a moment. 'She said she wasn't sure, but she was worried that neuroxil-5 could have some dangerous side-effects. When I pressed her on it, she said she couldn't be specific. It sounded more like a hunch. Zoe and I talked it over with our doctor, and we decided that we'd carry on with the drug. I mean it's working in Zoe's case, and the doctor assured us that the FDA monitors these trials very thoroughly, so if there was a dangerous side-effect, they'd let him know.'
I paused, pondering how to answer the question. 'Not really. It's just a suspicion from things I've seen at work. But I don't have any hard evidence, no.'
'Do you know what this side-effect might be?' Zoe asked.
I shook my head. 'No. Sorry. That was why I wondered whether you had noticed anything.'
Zoe turned to her husband. 'I don't know, Carl. Maybe I should stop taking the stuff.'
Carl took his wife's hands. 'When Frank introduced you to this drug, it gave us some hope that we might be able to beat this disease. I don't want to give up on that hope. Sure, it might not work. It might even be dangerous. But it's the best shot we've got.'
Zoe looked at her husband and turned to Simon. 'Carl's right. I don't want to lose any more of my marbles.' She smiled faintly at her own joke. 'But you will let us know if you discover anything more, won't you?'
I promised I would, and left.
27
I walked home that evening. It was clear, cold and windy. I buttoned up my jacket and hunched my shoulders. Everyone else I passed was wearing a coat. I had held out that morning, but it would be an overcoat from now until the spring. That seemed a long way away.
I wondered whether I would be walking through the Common next spring, or whether I would be sitting it out in jail somewhere, waiting for my trial. And would Lisa be waiting with me, or would she still be thousands of miles away in California, settling in to her new life?
She had said there was something rotten in BioOne. But what was it? And how could I find it?
Deep in thought, I turned off Charles Street into the warren of little tree-lined roads that make up the 'flat' of Beacon Hill. I turned the corner on to my short street. It was quiet. My apartment would be empty. I remembered the sensation of anticipation I used to feel coming home, the hope that Lisa might have arrived before me, the warmth of an evening together which would melt away the aggravations of ten hours at the office.
No longer.
I slowed to reach for my keys in my trouser pocket. I fumbled and dropped them. I bent down to pick them up.
At that moment, I heard a crack, crack, crack to my right, and the thud of brickwork shattering above my head. The fragments of brick spattered my face. I spun round and threw myself to the ground behind a parked four-wheel drive. More cracks of an automatic rifle, and the sound of bullets smashing into the metal of the car, and shattering the glass.
I crawled under the car, my body pressed down hard against the cold tarmac. My face stung hot. Silence. If the gunman ran from his hiding place to finish me off, I would have no chance. I strained my ears, trying to listen over the loud thumping of my heart. Then I heard the sound of rapid light footsteps on the other side of the road. Damn.
I pulled myself to my feet and, crouching low, dashed up the street behind the parked cars. An engine roared into life a few yards up the road. A burst of gunfire shattered windows above me. Close. Very close.
The car accelerated down the road. I heard shots, pistol shots. The sound of brakes, car doors slamming, people running. I stopped and peered out from behind a parked motorcycle, and saw a car in the middle of the road, doors wide open.
Sirens blared from all directions, and within a minute the road was a mess of flashing lights and burly blue uniforms. A young man in jeans and a casual black jacket ran up to me, fighting for breath.
Are you OK?'
I recognized him as the Hispanic I had seen following me through the Common a couple of weeks before.
I stood up. 'Yes,' I said. 'I think so.'
My face felt warm and wet. I touched it with my fingertips. Blood.
Are you hit?'
I shook my head. 'Just masonry. Thank you.' I managed a smile.
'No problem. Looks like the guy got away. He was a pro, you were lucky.'
I had been. Just like I had been that day in Armagh when a bullet had blown away Binns's face instead of mine. At least this time no one was hurt.
My hands were trembling so much it was difficult to pick up the keys I had dropped. I stood upright and took a few deep breaths to try to slow my racing heart. I let myself into my apartment and poured myself a stiff whisky, offering one to my saviour, who of course refused it.
His name was Martinez. He asked me some basic questions about whether I saw anything or knew who might have been shooting at me, but it was more for form's sake than anything else. A parade of people came and went, Cole, Mahoney's Boston partner, a paramedic who cleared up my scratched face, and some others. Eventually Mahoney himself arrived.
'So, you were shot at?' he began brightly.
'I believe that's what happened,' I replied.
'Lucky we had some people watching you.'
'I didn't know I had my own personal bodyguard. How long has this been going on for?'
'Oh, three weeks or so. On and off. More off than on, really. It's expensive tailing people.'
'Well, I'm glad you had the spare cash this evening'
Mahoney sat down. Martinez had whipped out a notebook. 'Any idea who it was?'
