Killer Move

I drifted quickly past the corridor that led to it. This area was less hectic now, though there remained a knot of people down at the end, including at least one person who looked like a reporter. I didn’t know whether Steph would have thought being surrounded by people was a good or a bad thing. She’d been very foggy when I saw her that morning, and I doubted the intervening time would have been enough to clear her head. I should have given her a better idea of what I’d been afraid of. I should have laid it out for her. It would have been easier to predict what she might do if I knew she understood.

I tried calling her cell again. As it rang I realized I was close to hyperventilating and tried to calm myself down.

Suddenly I heard her voice in my ear, querulous, dislocated. “Bill?”

“Steph? Where are you?”

“Cafeteria. Are . . . are you here yet?”

“Yes, I’m here at the hospital,” I said. “I’m here. It’s all good. Why . . . are you in the cafeteria?”

“I want everything to be right. And now is the time, yes? You always say that. Now is always the best time for action. Tomorrow starts now.”

“Steph—what are you talking about?” I was in movement again, searching the walls for signs, trying to find a map of the hospital. “Wanted what to be right?”

“Everything.” She sounded confused but determined, as if trying to piece complex matters together in a mind that wasn’t up to it. “He called, five minutes after you. And I thought it didn’t mean anything. It was just dumb. I was mad at you, that’s all. So sort it out.”

“Who called, honey?” I finally found a map and located the cafeteria on it—it was at the other end of the hospital. I got my bearings and started to hurry in that direction. “Who are you talking about?”

“You know,” she said reluctantly. “He said we should meet, talk. And I thought, yes, get it done. Wasn’t anything, anyway. I’m so sorry.”

And then I got it. “Nick’s here?”

Nick—a man who’d started working at her office six weeks before, around about the time this whole thing had started to be put in motion. Who’d just happened to run into my wife last night downtown. Who’d now called her to arrange a meeting, just a few minutes after I’d run from my house, and from Barclay, who doubtless had a phone and could have made a call.

“Yes.”

“Is he there with you now?”

“Getting coffees. He wanted to go somewhere else, but I said no way, my husband’s coming to see me. I’m staying right here in the hospital. I said that.”

“That’s right. That was a good thing to say. Stay there, Steph. Don’t move. Don’t drink anything he gives you. Do not go anywhere with him.”

I started to run.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

When I banged through the cafeteria doors I found myself in a long open space with low Musak and racks of things to eat, a place to pretend you or some friend or relative wasn’t so sick after all and everything was fine and fixable through a latte and a skinny muffin. I hurried straight down the side of the room, scanning the tables. The room was scattered with a cross section of local humanity balanced on little designer chairs. It was hard to pick out anyone in particular.

Finally I saw her, slumped over a table right in the middle. She was in work clothes—the outfit she’d been wearing to go into the office yesterday, of course, before the meeting—but looked like she’d put them on in the dark. Her face was very pale. Her hair was lank. She looked like an old woman, far from home.

I scooted between the tables to her, leaned down, and put my hand gently on her shoulder.

“Honey, let’s go.”

She swung her head up, took a second to recognize me. Close up she looked far too thin.

“Hey,” she said, and smiled. Her voice was weak, despite the warmth in it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry about this. Just thought it was a good idea, you know?”

“Yeah, but it’s not. We need to go.”

She blinked at me, then swung her head robotically to the side. I followed her gaze and saw Nick coming from the counter, a cup in each hand. He saw me, too.

“Don’t know whether I can drink a coffee, in fact,” Steph said. “Still feel sick.”

“That’s right, honey. Your stomach’s messed up. Coffee is a bad idea right now. Come on. Let’s leave.”

Nick was quick getting over, but he stayed in character all the way. He looked cowed, as if he knew he was in the wrong but was determined to make things right. He was diffident. He looked exactly as he should.

He started talking from ten feet away. “Hey,” he said. Muted, cautious. Concerned.

“So which is it?” I asked. “Are you just an actor, or are you actually one of them?”

Nick looked at me warily. “What?”

“Don’t bother pretending. I know what’s going on. So which is it? Player or filler? Emily never mentioned you. So I’m guessing you’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

Steph looked more confused than ever. “Bill, what are you talking about? Who’s Emily?”

“Steph, seriously—we’re going. We’re leaving this hospital right now.”

“Leaving the hospital?” Nick said. “You’re not serious? Ste—Your wife is sick, sir.”