Authors: Hilary Norman
“You have to keep them quiet, Al.”
“We’d better all hope and pray that I can.” Hagen’s eyes were very grim. “Because if I can’t, and if they do insist on making this public, all hell is going
to break loose.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Leary said.
Though ribbing, gentle or otherwise, was as much a part of life in the Chicago Police Department as drinking with the guys at the end of a shift, ever since Lieutenant Joseph
Duval had almost single-handedly doused the flames of the multiple arsonist-killer known as
The Inhuman Torch
, few of his colleagues mocked his hunches. They teased the sharp-nosed,
sharp-jawed detective because he stayed thin no matter how much he ate, and they scoffed at him because he could get drunk on one bottle of beer, but they respected his well-known tenacity and they
seldom kidded around when Duval had one of his gut feelings.
Within fifteen minutes of entering the president’s office at Hagen Pacing early on Friday afternoon, Joe’s sixth sense – which always began in the form of a weird prickling
along his spinal cord – had warned him that not only was this going to turn into a case, but that, sure as shit, it was going to be a big one.
“I hate scientists,” he confided to Commander Jackson on Saturday morning at the station. “They’re on another planet. We have two bodies, a man and a woman nine hundred
miles apart, their chests blown to chopped liver by their pacemakers, both made by these guys, and all they can say is that it couldn’t happen.”
“According to Al Hagen, it couldn’t,” Jackson said.
“But it
has
happened.” Joe shook his dark head. “Apples don’t explode either, but if forensics sent me a report proving that two Red Delicious had blasted into
atoms, that would be good enough for me. But not for these people, with their formulae and their lists of components.”
“All of which supposedly prove there’s nothing in these things that could explode.”
“Which means either they’re wrong, and there’s been some kind of chemical reaction they never envisaged – ”
“Impossible, according to Hagen.”
“ – or,” Joe continued, “those two devices contained a little something extra.”
“You’re talking about sabotage, Duval.”
“I’m talking about homicide.”
“You’re talking about bombs.”
“I guess.”
“There’s no real evidence.”
“Not yet.”
“I want you to be wrong on this one, Duval,” Jackson said.
“I want me to be wrong, too.”
“But you don’t think you are?”
“No.”
“Jesus.” The word was softly spoken, almost a murmur.
“All they seem to know so far is that both pacemakers were produced months ago,” Joe said. “The Quality Assurance Manager – a guy called Schwartz – swears the
factory is clean.”
“Hagen says they need time,” Jackson said.
“How much time can we give them, Commander? It’s been almost a week since Long died.”
The two men fell silent. Within the dark wood-lined walls of the commander’s office, with its framed certificates and photographs of its occupant shaking hands with distinguished men and
women from the mayor to the Superintendent of Police, it was generally possible to seize a fragment of calm, while outside in the big open-plan office filled with chipped desks, dented filing
cabinets, a bunch of detectives and secretaries, there was usually an atmosphere of noisy chaos. Isaiah Jackson, always trim, always well dressed, hated noise, disliked people who tried to yell at
him to get a point across, and despite his deep, resonant voice, was known for his ability to bawl people out in a whisper.
“Do you trust Hagen?” Joe asked.
“I’ve never met him.” The commander paused. “But I told you I knew Marie Ferguson’s father, William Howe.” He leaned back in his chair and pointed at one of
the black and white photographs on the wall to his left. “That’s him – the tall guy in the hat. If he were alive today, Al Hagen might have been boiled in oil by now.”
“The folks at Hagen are nervous of Sean Ferguson. You know he’s a freelance journalist?”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
“Maybe not, not if they’re scared he might write a piece that’s going to give thousands of patients heart attacks.” Joe was grim. “But I had the distinct feeling
when I met Howard Leary – that’s the Head of Production – that he, for one, was more interested in covering his backside.”
“I take it you didn’t care for Leary.”
“I thought he was an arrogant asshole, but I think he’s probably right about keeping it away from the press for as long as possible.”
“If you’re right about this,” Jackson said, “Leary’s a prime suspect.”
“Along with everybody else at Hagen Pacing.” Joe paused. “So what’s the plan, Commander? Do we bring in Bomb and Arson and close the place down?”
“Hagen agrees with Schwartz – says they need time.”
Joe shrugged. “I guess we don’t have much choice if we want to keep things under wraps. And they are the experts.” He thought. “How about we give them the rest of the
weekend, but start moving in, discreetly? Give them all the help we can and do some checking of our own.”
“What do you need?” the commander asked.
“I’d like to wander around the factory the rest of today and tomorrow. Then from Monday, I think two of us should go in – just two – keep it tight. Go in undercover, make
out we’re doing some kind of time-and-motion study.” Joe pondered. “Lipman would make a pretty good scientist-type, if she’s free.”
Jackson nodded. “I’ll consult with Chief Hankin, then call Hagen and set it up.”
“On a strictly need-to-know basis,” Joe added. “Only those who already know what’s going on.” He glanced down at his notes. “Leary, Olivia Ashcroft and
Schwartz.” He paused again. “I liked Schwartz. He was too busy to talk to me, but he looked haunted, like this thing was killing him.”
“What about Ashcroft?”
“I didn’t meet her, she was home with her family.”
“What did you make of Hagen?”
“He reminded me of one of my college professors.” Joe considered. “First impression, I thought he cared – not necessarily just because of the business.”
The commander looked intently at the lieutenant. “This could just be a terrible accident, you know, Duval.”
“I hope it is.”
“But you’ve got one of your damned hunches, haven’t you?”
Joe grinned as he got to his feet.
“Thank God I’m not infallible,” he said.
After Chris Webber had come to take Katy to school on Friday morning, Lally had found her house uncommonly quiet. He had arrived early to have time for a word with his daughter
before they left, and Lally had found their conversation almost unbearably poignant.
“Mommy’s fine this morning, sweetheart,” Chris had begun. “But we both know that doesn’t mean she isn’t sick any more. And I think the time has come for us to
make sure that she gets the treatment she needs to make her better.”
“But Mommy isn’t really sick, Daddy, is she?” Katy said. “It only happens when she’s had too much to drink.”
“But that’s just it, Katy, that
is
the illness.” Chris’s eyes were distressed. “We’ve talked about it before, remember? The different ways too much
liquor affects people?”
“I remember,” Katy said. “Some people fall down, and some get sick to their stomachs, and some people get real dumb or real sad.”
“Usually,” her father went on, “they’re just a big pain in the neck, but with a few people, alcohol really changes them. Even if they’re usually kind and normal and
gentle, a few drinks makes them mad.”
“Like Mommy,” Katy said.
“Exactly like Mommy.”
“So how will they make her better, Daddy? Will the doctor give her medicine, or what?”
Chris took his daughter’s hand. “This isn’t like having the flu or tonsillitis, Katy. It’s possible that Mommy may have to go to a hospital for a little while.”
“How long?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Two days?”
“More than that,” Chris said.
“A whole week?”
“Maybe a little longer than that.” Seeing Katy’s expression, Chris squeezed her hand more tightly. “But you’ll be able to see her, sweetheart, and it’ll be
worth it, don’t you think, if the doctors can make Mommy feel better again?”
“I guess.” Katy sounded doubtful.
Alone again, Lally had tried to busy herself with baking for the café, but she had felt strangely lonely. Hugo often stayed out at night with friends, and Lally was happy enough by
herself as a rule, but having Katy stay over, and then having Chris to dinner – all those confidences, all that unburdening and sharing – had given her a sense of rare intimacy. In
practical terms, of course, Lally hardly knew the Webbers at all, yet there could be no denying that as of now, she was involved with them, like it or not.
But do I like it?
she asked herself, folding eggs into her dough mixture.
There was no simple answer to the question. She hated the fact that a ten-year-old girl was being exposed to fear and hurt and too much adult misery. She’d loathed seeing Andrea Webber
transformed by drink, and she certainly hadn’t liked seeing the pain and dismay in her husband’s eyes. But she had to admit that she had liked the hours she and Chris had spent together
and, if she was entirely honest with herself, she’d liked hearing him say that his marriage had been over for years. Though of course he’d said nothing of the kind to Katy that
morning.
Speared abruptly by guilt, Lally shook herself. There was nothing between her and Chris Webber, and even if she had been attracted to him, there had been not the slightest indication that the
feeling had been mutual. The man had a hundred things on his mind, and she was certainly not one of them. Besides, so far as the Webbers’ marriage was concerned, nothing was over until it was
over. And wouldn’t it be far better for Katy if her family life could still be salvaged?
Certainly that’s what Katy feels,
Lally thought,
and that’s what matters.
They did not come back after school that afternoon, and Lally, who’d given just one class that morning and then gone directly to
Hugo’s
, had to admit to
herself that she felt a sharp sense of disappointment that Chris had not called to let her know what was going on. Probably, she told herself, he was embarrassed about having talked too much to an
outsider – for that was, of course, what she still was to him: his daughter’s ballet teacher who’d poked her nose into their private business and gotten more than she’d
bargained for.
Chris did call Friday evening, just after nine, while Lally and Hugo were watching an old movie on TV.
“Sorry it’s so late,” he said. “I’ve only just got Katy to bed.” He sounded awkward.
“You didn’t have to call at all,” Lally said, carefully and politely. “It was a pleasure having Katy stay over.” She was aware of Hugo, sitting four feet away,
listening to every word she said, could feel his disapproval without looking at him.
“I wanted to call,” Chris said. “I wanted to let you know what happened.”
“Don’t feel you have to,” Lally said swiftly. “I mean if I can do anything more, I’ll be glad to, but otherwise – ”
“Do you mind hearing about it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Because to be candid, talking to you feels like the first sane, halfway normal thing I’ve done all day.”
Chris told Lally that he had persuaded Andrea to admit herself to a clinic near Springfield that afternoon. He didn’t say much about what it had taken to talk her around and to get her
there, but Lally read between the lines and guessed that it had been a nightmare for them both. She thanked him for telling her, and Chris asked her if she was feeling better, and the conversation
ended warmly enough, but it seemed to Lally more than ever that she had misread the atmosphere the night before. There was nothing going on between them, nor could there be.
“Careful, Lally,” Hugo said after she put down the phone.
“Of what?”
“You know what.”
“Do I?”
“I think so.”
That was all Hugo said, but Lally knew that he could almost always read her mind, and she knew, too, aggravatingly enough, that Hugo’s warnings were usually valid. She often accused him of
being overly cautious, especially in human relationships, but Hugo was her best friend, more constant than anyone she knew except her brother Joe, and she generally paid more attention to his
advice than she would have him believe.
Chris Webber, when all was said and done, was a nice man, desperate to share his problems with another adult. Lally couldn’t even kid herself that he had chosen her to confide in, because
she’d been the one who’d stumbled in on their disaster. She had achieved what she had set out to: a possible end, ultimately, to Katy’s nightmare. Andrea was going to get help now
and, with luck, before too long, she’d be home again and the Webber marriage would be back on track.
Now, however, on this grey and snowy Sunday morning, Lally had to admit that Chris and Katy Webber were not paramount in her thoughts. She had her first dizzy spell of the day
right after rising, and then another one, less than twenty minutes later, at the foot of the staircase. Hugo, just coming out of the kitchen, almost dropped his coffee cup, and insisted on picking
her up and carrying her to the sofa in the sitting room.
“I’m not moving an inch from here until you tell me exactly how long this has been going on,” he said, standing over her.
“It’s nothing,” she said, too weakly to be credible.
“Bull.”
“That’s not very nice, especially on a Sunday.”
Hugo was wearing a robe, and his long hair was loose, and with his hawkish nose and tall, lean body, Lally thought he looked almost biblical.
“I don’t feel very nice,” he said. “My favourite person just passed out – ”
“
Almost
passed out, and I’m feeling better already.”
“ – just almost passed out, and she’s already let slip that it’s happened before, and I want to know why in hell you never said anything.”