I dropped the jugs off at a commercial substance-testing laboratory we regularly used, then went back to the brownstone. I parked in the underground garage, then went up the stairs that led to my offices on the first floor. When I walked in, Francisco jumped up out of his chair as if someone had stuck him with a pin. My secretary's razor-cut black hair was rumpled, as if he had been running his fingers through it; he looked pale, his paisley tie was askew, and there were sweat stains around the collar and in the armpits of his blue silk shirt.
'What is it, Francisco? What's the matter?'
He grabbed a piece of paper off the top of his desk, held it out to me with a hand that trembled. 'Sir, you're to call this number right away. Garth. . Sir, your brother's dead.'
Chapter Six
I took the piece of paper from the slight Puerto Rican's hand and stared stupidly at the writing on it, trying to figure out just what it was I felt on hearing the news that my brother was dead. All I seemed able to identify were the things I didn't feel: I didn't feel the shock I thought I should be experiencing; I didn't feel ill; I didn't feel grief. I didn't even feel sad. I didn't feel anything at all, except stupid; suddenly I couldn't remember what day it was, or what I had been doing since I'd gotten up that morning. I couldn't even remember why I'd come into the office; I wondered if it might not be a good idea to go out and come back in again to see what would happen, as if this were a bad dream that might come out differently if I repeated some action. I busied myself with working at the details of the day and time, and why I'd asked Francisco to come in on a Saturday to help me with a backlog of paperwork, and where I'd been, and when I finally remembered it all, I found myself right back where I had been when I'd forgotten, standing beside my secretary's desk, staring vacantly at the number written on the piece of paper, my vision blurring.
Francisco tentatively reached out to touch me, then drew his hand back. 'Mongo, I'm so sorry.'
'Yeah,' I replied in a perfectly normal tone of voice. 'Me too.'
'Are you all right?'
'I don't think so, Francisco. I don't think so.'
'I. . Do you want me to make the call?'
'No, Francisco.'
'Mongo?'
'Yes, Francisco?'
'I, uh. . You had four appointments on Monday morning, and you were due in court in the afternoon to testify in the Handley industrial espionage case. I've canceled the appointments, and the D.A. has agreed to reschedule your testimony. I was able to reach him at home.'
'Thank you, Francisco.'
'Sir, I … I don't know what to say.'
'What's to say? You can take the rest of the day off.'
'Sir?'
'You can go home now. Thanks for coming in.'
'Mongo,' Francisco stammered, 'it's your
'Thank you, Francisco. There's nothing to do. It's really not that big a deal. People die all the time. Living, you know, is a very risky business; like they say, nobody gets out of it alive anyway. Haven't you heard that? By rights, Garth and I should have been dead a long time ago. Hell, we've certainly been responsible for enough other people kicking off. Today was Garth's turn. No big deal.'
'Mongo, you don't look or sound good at all. Please let me-'
'Please just let yourself go home, Francisco. I want to be alone, if that's all right with you. I don't need any help. I'm okay.'
My secretary looked at me strangely for a few moments, then finally picked up his sports coat from the back of the chair and walked around me. I felt, rather than saw, him pause in the doorway.
I continued, 'Just come in on Monday morning and run the office the way you usually do. I'll check in with you. Don't schedule anything until I give the okay. Have a nice day, Francisco.'
When I heard the door close behind me, I sat down at the secretary's desk, rubbed my eyes and blew my nose, then looked again at the number he had written down on the slip of paper. Now I wished I'd had the presence of mind to ask Francisco who had called, and just what they'd said, but it was too late. It probably didn't make any difference. The number was in the 914 area code, Rockland County, but it wasn't a Cairn exchange, so it hadn't been Mary or the Cairn police who'd called. Whoever answered would undoubtedly tell me again that Garth was dead, and presumably tell me how he'd died.
Actually, it didn't-as far as I could tell-make much difference to me how he had died, only that he was dead. If Sacra Silver had killed Garth, I was going to kill Sacra Silver, but Garth would still be dead.
My hands were perfectly steady as I picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the number Francisco had written down. It was busy. For some reason that made me angrier than the news that Garth was dead or the possibility that Sacra Silver might have killed him; somebody had a lot of nerve tying up the phone line while I was trying to get through to get information about my brother's death. Some people had no manners at all.
It occurred to me that my emotional thermostat was slightly askew.
I punched the redial button. The line was still busy.
I started going over in my mind the things that would have to be done as soon as I got this stupid phone call out of the way. First, I would have to leave for Cairn as soon as possible to be with Mary and try to comfort her as best I could. Funeral arrangements would have to be made, our parents and other relatives would have to be notified. I would have to make arrangements for relatives around the country to come to the funeral, if they wished, and afterward I would have to arrange to have Garth's body shipped back to Nebraska for burial in the family plot. I would have to contact our lawyer and make arrangements for Garth's will to be read.
Dead brothers necessitate lots of arrangements.
Before I left for Cairn, I was going to have to make out a list of instructions for Francisco; there were clients to call, matters that had to be attended to; it would probably be a good idea to make arrangements for some of Frederickson and dead Frederickson's work load for the coming week or two to be farmed out to other agencies.
Now I was sorry I had sent Francisco home. I was suddenly hungry, with a ravenous craving for pizza. I could have sent Francisco out for pizza.
Damn Garth anyway for getting himself killed. It was all such a distraction, and there was so much to do.
But all I could do at the moment was sit and stare at the beige telephone and the number on the slip of paper in front of me. I'd already picked up the receiver and tried the number twice, so I couldn't understand why I couldn't do it again. But suddenly I felt frozen in place, paralyzed.
I was certain I would be all right if only I could eat two or three slices of pizza. Damn Francisco anyway for going home when I'd ordered him to. What kind of secretary was he? He should have known that I didn't really want him to go, that I needed help. It wasn't every day that your brother died.
I willed myself to move, to reach out for the telephone. But then I started to move too much; my hand had begun to shake uncontrollably, and I dropped it back into my lap, hunching over in an effort to keep it still.
Then the crushing weight of my grief settled over me like a black blanket of lead, and the tears came. With Garth gone, I felt less than half a person. He had carried me, both literally and figuratively, on his broad shoulders throughout a tormented childhood and had helped me to grow up reasonably whole. As things had turned out, much of my life had been defined by danger, both psychological and physical, perils I had undoubtedly, if not consciously, sought out to prove something to the world, or to myself. Always, Garth had been at my side, and he had saved my life on countless occasions. A half hour before, I'd been afraid of nothing; now it seemed I was afraid of everything, even to pick up a telephone and call a number to see what the person on the other end might have to say. Only now, with Garth dead, did I realize the extent to which my brother had been my courage, my heart, my spine.
I leaned forward on the desk, resting my head on my arms, and sobbed uncontrollably, letting the tears flow freely as my sorrow washed through me like some tidal wave of acid. When my tears were spent I didn't feel all
