“Were they nice people?”
“The Cantwells?” he asked sadly. “Yeah. The old guy was a character. English lord right out of central casting.”
“And the granddaughter?”
“Beautiful girl. Smart.” He almost choked up. “She had a lot to live for, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
Will wondered if he’d just spilled a confession, but if Nancy had any suspicions, she let it pass. “Did Jim call you back?”
“Yeah. He’s letting us have his place up in Alton. They won’t find us up there. I’ve got a prepaid phone to give your parents so you can stay in touch.”
“At least Mom and Dad are happy. They’ve got Philly for the night.”
Frazier hated the lack of autonomy. He felt like a peon having to call Secretary Lester every few hours, but if he wasn’t regular as a clock, Lester’s aide would call him instead. The DeCorso business had sealed his fate. The shit was flowing downhill.
Lester picked up. It sounded like he was at a party, with background chatter and clinking glasses. “Hang on,” Lester said. “Let me find someplace quiet.”
Frazier was alone in his car. He’d kicked his men out into the cool night air for privacy. They were sullen, milling outside his window, a couple of them smoking.
“All right. I’m here,” Frazier said. “What’s your status?”
“It’s done. Now we wait.”
“Probability of success?”
“High. It’s high.”
“I just can’t have a screwup, Frazier. You have no idea how damaging it was letting your man get caught. This has gone all the way up. I heard that the Prime Minister got the President out of the crapper to scream down the phone at him. He went on and on about a breach of trust among allies, damage to the special relationship et cetera, et cetera. Then the Brits threatened to pull their naval support for Helping Hand which, I don’t need to tell you, screws up my life on multiple levels. You have no idea of the logistics that’ve gone into this. It’s almost as big as the Iraq invasion. The minute the Caracas Event is over, we’ve got to be ready to move. With the Brits or without.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Frazier said flatly.
“I wonder if you do. Well, your reward is coming. To keep the peace, the President’s agreed to open the kimono for the first time. He’s letting the Brits into Area 51. They’re sending an SIS team next week, and you’re going to be their host, on your goddamn best behavior. But I swear to you, Frazier, screw this operation up, and you’ll be their hostess instead.”
On the way back from dinner at an Applebee’s, Joseph stopped at a late-night UPS store to let Will mail a cell phone to Zeckendorf. Phillip was peacefully asleep in his infant seat. When Will got back in the car, he remarked on how chilly it had become. There was a sleety, cold rain falling. Joseph, ever cost-conscious, clucked, “Since Philly’s here, I’ll turn the heat on tonight.”
The family settled in for the evening, the oil furnace rumbling in the cellar like an old friend. They tucked Philly into his crib and Nancy went to bed with a magazine. The Lipinskis disappeared into their bedroom to watch a TV show, and Will was left to himself to brood in the living room, tired beyond belief but too restless to sleep.
Suddenly he was seized by a powerful urge for a drink, not a glass of Joseph’s ubiquitous Merlot but a proper glass of scotch. He knew that the Lipinskis weren’t spirits drinkers but he had a rummage around in case someone had bought them a house gift. Finding none, he helped himself to Joseph’s car keys and stole out of the house, destination, a bar.
He drove over to Mamaroneck Avenue, the main commercial drag, and parked the car at a meter near Main Street. It was a bleak, wet, miserable night and the street wasn’t busy. Ahead of him, he saw the only cheerfully lit-up building, the new Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and he headed for it, his collar up against the rain.
The bar was up at the top of the high-rise, on the forty-second floor, and Will settled into an armchair and took in the spaceship view. To the south, Manhattan was a finger of pinpoint lights floating in the darkness. The bar wasn’t busy. He ordered a Johnnie Walker. He promised himself he wouldn’t go overboard.
An hour and three drinks later, he wasn’t drunk but he wasn’t exactly sober either. He was vaguely aware that a group of three middle-aged women across the room were fixated on him and that the waitress was awfully attentive. Typical. He got it all the time, and he usually milked it, but tonight he was in no mood.
In a way, he had been hopelessly naive to think he could have signed a secrecy agreement and walked away from the Library without being saddled by its knowledge and a slave to its fate. He had tried to ignore it, live his life without thinking about the ball and chain of predestination, and he had been successful for a while, until Spence and Kenyon rolled into town on their bus.
Now he was in it up to his eyeballs, suffocated by the realization that Isabelle and her grandfather had to die because he had to visit them. And Spence had to persuade him to go to England. And Will had to retire because of the Doomsday case. And Shackleton had to steal the database and perpetrate his crimes. And Will had to be his college roommate. And Will had to have the athletic skills and brains to get into Harvard. And Will’s alcohol-wicked father had to get it up and be able to perform the night he was conceived. And so on, and so on.
It was enough to make you crazy, or at least make you drink.
He stopped at three and paid the bill. He was overcome by an urge to hurry back to the house, lumber into bed noisily enough to wake Nancy, hold her in his arms, tell her again how sorry he was and how much he cherished her and maybe, if she wanted, make love, make absolution. He trotted back to the car and ten minutes later he was creeping back into the warm and cozy Lipinski house.
He sat on the edge of the bed undressing, the raindrops pinging the roof. Philly was peaceful in his crib. He slid under the sheets and put his hand on Nancy’s thigh. It was warm and smooth. His head was swimming. He ought to let her sleep, but he wanted her. “Nancy?” She didn’t stir. “Honey?”
He gave her a little squeeze but she didn’t respond. Then another squeeze. Then, a shake. Nothing!
Alarmed, he sat up and turned on the light. She was on her side and didn’t wake up to the harsh glare of the overhead fixture. He rolled her over onto her back. She was breathing shallowly. Her cheeks were red. Cherry red.
That’s when he noticed his own brain was operating slowly, not a drunkenness, a sluggishness, like gears that were clogged with gritty sludge. With all his might he yelled, “Gas!” and forced himself off the bed to open both windows wide.
He threw himself over the side of his son’s crib and picked him up. He was limp, his skin like shiny red plastic. “Joseph!” he screamed. “Mary!”
He began to give Philly mouth-to-mouth while he ran down the stairs. In the front hall he grabbed a phone, threw open the front door then put the infant on the rough welcome mat. He fell to his knees. In between chest- expanding breaths into his son’s little nose and mouth, he called 911.
Then, he made a desperate decision. He left the baby on the mat and ran back inside for Nancy, screaming for her at the top of his lungs, like a man who was trying to wake the dead.
Chapter 29
Will heard his name. The voice was coming from far away. Or was it close but whispered? Either way, it caused him to snap from a disturbingly light sleep to the reality of the moment: a hospital room streaming with daylight.
At the instant of wakening he was uncertain whether he was patient or visitor, in the bed or beside it, having his hand held or holding someone’s.
Then, with a blink, it came back.
He was holding Nancy’s hand, and she was staring up into his bloodshot eyes and pitifully squeezing his thick fingers. “Will?”
“Hey.” He wanted to cry.
He could see the confusion on her face. The flashing, beeping ICU machinery didn’t make sense to her.
