she stood there for a moment longer, then turned and went up the spiral staircase to the guest bedroom above.
I sat there wondering if I was supposed to follow. I sat there wondering if I wasn’t supposed to follow. I sat there wondering.
The answer came to me as I finally noticed the sheets, blanket, and pillow that made up a makeshift bed on the epic sofa. I reached up with the protector on my index finger and used the other digits to feel the gauze padding where the EMTs had patched my neck. I picked up my hat, turning it over and looking at the marks where one of the pellets had raced across the brim and missed my head by a quarter inch.
Cady was lying at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania in a coma after having been pushed down the stairs at the Franklin Institute by Devon Conliffe.
Devon Conliffe was dead after being thrown from the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.
Osgood was dead, shot in the head by Shankar DuVall.
Shankar DuVall was dead after being shot by Gowder for trying to kill me behind a Greyhound bus.
That’s all I knew.
I turned out the lights, put my hat on since it was easier to wear than to carry, and wondered who was next. I picked up my sidearm, jacking the slide mechanism to make sure that it was empty, glanced up at the balcony, where the light from the guest bedroom was off, and limped over to the sofa. Even after having Vic call and finding there was no change, I wanted to get to the hospital at a reasonable hour in the morning, so I thought that maybe I should try to get to sleep.
My hat seemed out of shape; maybe the shotgun blast had done more damage than I’d thought. I flipped it onto the coffee table and placed my gun under the brim, pulled off my boots, and shrugged off my filthy jacket, shirt, and tie, trying carefully to avoid my numerous and sundry injuries. I stripped off my blood-spattered jeans and collapsed gently onto the sofa with a groan that caused Dog to come over and rest his head on the cushion beside mine. I petted him with the back of my hand and watched as he curled up on the floor, the ever-vigilant protector.
The ambient glow from the bridge cast blue through the glass of the cupola. The rain had subsided to a soft drizzle that shifted the light from above. There was probably a comforting sound that went along with it, but I couldn’t hear it; all I had was the ringing.
Cady’s eyes had opened. I thought of going to the hospital now. I wanted to see those clear, cool, gray eyes again. I wanted to watch them blink and know that her fine mind was working in there somewhere, finding its way back, but that was stupid. I was tired, filthy, and couldn’t hear.
I pulled the covers up and started to roll over, but my ribs reminded me that I couldn’t, and my eyes wouldn’t stay closed, so I stared at my hat. It would be a shame if it was ruined-it had gone through so much-but if it no longer fit, it no longer fit. I thought of trying it on again and started to reach for it. The inner band was brown and the lining a shiny rayon red, but something was poking up from the liner that was pointed and white.
“Well, hell.” I was still underwater, but I know the words had slipped from my mouth. I blinked and looked again, hoping that perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me along with my ears, but it was still there. I let sleeping Dog lie and reached over, using my middle and ring fingers to pull the tiny envelope from the battered piece of beaver. The usual typewritten word struck across the crisp stock, and again it read: SHERIFF.
I thumbed open the flap, pulled out the tiny place card, and flipped it over: MEDICINE MAN.
I stared at it, trying to figure out the significance of the two words, but again all I could think of was Henry. He wasn’t the only medicine man I knew, but he was definitely the only one I knew in Philadelphia. I thought about the last note. SEE PAGE 72. LOOK WEST, YOU CAN FIGHT CITY HALL. I assumed that one had to do with the ledgers but, in combination with the earlier note, I wasn’t sure.
GO BACK TO THE INDIAN had been a location, and perhaps a portion of the note about CITY HALL was, too; if that was the case, then MEDICINE MAN might also be a location. I thought about the Indian sculpture at Logan Circle and started wondering about Billy White Eyes’ fixation with all things native and the public art of the greater Philadelphia region.
I woke up still wondering. When Vic came down the stairs in the morning in an oversized green T-shirt, I had coffee waiting for her.
I slid her the mug; she yawned and perched on a stool. I tried not to notice her legs. “What’re you doing up?”
I sipped my own coffee and sat down to look over the collection of books I had scattered over the surface of the counter. “I needed to call the hospital, and I had some thoughts.”
She looked at me for a moment. “Your hearing’s back?”
I continued to study the open books. “Not completely, but it’s a lot better.”
I had discovered Cady’s library along one of the long walls of the living area. When the law firm in Philadelphia had hired her, she had begun accumulating books on what was to be her adopted city. There were books on its history, its architecture, politics, food, sports and, most important for the moment, its statuary.
“Did you know that Philadelphia has one of the largest collections of public sculpture in the world?”
“So?”
I thought about the prophet having no honor in his own country and that if you wanted a shitty impression of Philadelphia all you had to do was ask a Philadelphian. I held up the note from the crease of the book. “I got another note last night.”
Now she was awake. “Where?”
“I literally pulled it out of my hat.” I looked at her. “Who gave it back to you last night?”
She studied the note and glanced up at me, distracted. “The coat check guys. They said that one of the serving staff had picked it up in the alley behind the Academy.”
I thought of the dark-haired kid smoking the cigarette. “I’ll be damned…”
“What?”
I shook my head at my own stupidity. “There was a kid at the back door of the Academy, and I ran into him when I was chasing Shankar DuVall.” I looked up at her. “It had to be William White Eyes.” I thought back. “He was wearing sunglasses and a cap to disguise himself, but it was the same voice as the one who was driving the SUV, using the same phrase ‘hey man’ or ‘yo man.’ Something like that.”
“Walt, I would say that a full 70 percent of the residents of Philadelphia use the term ‘yo man.’”
I kept my eyes steady with hers. “It was him, and that was also him on the bridge.”
“What bridge?”
“When I met you here in Philadelphia.”
“All right, just for argument’s sake, let’s say it was. Why is this kid following you around?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t think it’s possible that he’s involved with this Toy Diaz group and the recently deceased Shankar DuVall?”
“He was, but I don’t think he is now, and I don’t think he’s a killer. I think he was the cook and the accountant.” She started shaking her head before I could finish. “Look, the drug business is like any other business; if you don’t keep track of your money, you don’t make money.”
“Granted.”
“If you’re running a drug operation, you can’t exactly walk into the office of the nearest CPA. You need somebody good with numbers, somebody you can trust, but somebody under the radar.”
She nodded. “Gladwyne on the Main Line, Ivy League, Phi Beta Kappa, and Rhodes Scholar William Carlisle.”
I refilled my mug and held onto the pot. “But somehow Billy Carlisle became a loose cannon in the Diaz organization somewhere around the same time he became William White Eyes, and I think that happened because of Cady.”
“In the pro bono appeal?”
“Yep.”
She smiled. “You think your daughter had a strong enough moral influence on this guy that it turned him?”
I poured her some more coffee. “You’d be amazed at the influence a woman can have for good or bad.”
