Nerve Damage (20 page)

She nodded.

“Can I speak to one of them?”

“My mom's at work. Daddy's making stir-fry.”

“Could you call him?”

“Daa-aaddyy.”

A man appeared: the right age perhaps, but nothing at all like Paul Habib. He was tall, thin, with a bony, ascetic face. “Anya,” he said. “You know you're not supposed to answer the door.”

“I didn't,” Anya said.

Anya's father glanced at Roy, took her arm, drew her behind him.

“Sorry to bother you,” Roy said. “I'm looking for Paul Habib.”

“No one here by that name,” the man said.

“I'm pretty sure he used to live at this address.”

Something changed in the man's eyes. “Habib, did you say?”

“Paul.”

The man shook his head. “I don't remember any Paul,” the man said, “but the woman we bought the house from was named Habib. She lived alone.”

“When was this?” Roy said.

“Almost fourteen years ago,” the man said.

Behind him, Anya said, “Before I was even borned.”

“What was her first name?” Roy said.

“I don't recall,” the man said.

“Maybe you've got it on one of the original documents,” Roy said.

The man gazed at him, said nothing.

“It's important,” Roy said.

“How so?”

Roy didn't have much to go on, just that sticker on the doorpost. “My wife and Paul Habib started a third-world agricultural project. The country involved wants to give him a prize.” Roy was stunned at this sudden facility for lying; maybe all it took was practice.

“What country?” the man said.

That was an easy one. “Cuba,” Roy said.

Two minutes later, Roy had the name: Janet. “And here's the forwarding address she left,” the man said, handing him a file card. “On Cape Cod. A long time ago, but you never know. Good luck.”

For some reason, Roy had always thought
boy.
But
it could have been a girl. They still hadn't made up their minds about how much prebirth information they wanted to know before Delia left for Venezuela. An Anya-like daughter: that made sense, especially now that he'd seen one in life: a little Delia. So it could have been either:
Isn't that part of the fun?
He'd said that to Delia. She hadn't been sure. Delia had an expression for not being sure, a quick frown, as though annoyed with herself. Now, in light traffic, with the sky clearing the closer he got to Cape Cod, Roy could picture that expression exactly, down to the finest detail, like the slight darkening of those gold flecks in her eyes. Was it the kind of look that stayed with you for life, or would she have outgrown it? He wanted to hear her voice now, saying
fight like bastards,
or
can he do it?
or anything.

Roy crossed the Bourne Bridge. Down below, the sinking sun burned on the surface of the canal. A kid on in-line skates was gliding along a bike path on the far side, trailing a long shadow. Roy came down off the bridge, circled a rotary and headed south. He took out his cell phone and called Skippy's number.

“Yo. This is the Skipster. Leave a message or not. Up to—”

A little burst of static. And then:

“Hello?”

A man's voice; not Skippy.

Roy jerked the wheel to the right, stopped by the side of the road.

“Hello?” the man said again.

“Who is this?” said Roy. “Where's Skippy?”

“I don't know any Skippy,” the man said. “This phone's not mine—I found it about ten minutes ago.”

“Where?” Roy said.

“In Ethan Valley, Vermont,” the man said.

“I'm from there,” Roy said. “Where did you find the phone?”

“What's your name?” the man said. “Do I know you?”

“Roy Valois,” Roy said. “Where did—”

“Hey—you're, ah, were, um, Jen's friend, right?”

“You know Jen?”

“I'm on the ski patrol,” the man said. “I'm working right now. That's how come I found the phone.”

“Where?”

“How well do you know the mountain?”

“I know the mountain,” Roy said.

“The back side, too?”

“Why?”

“Because that's where I found it,” the man said. “Familiar with the warming hut at the end of the Appalachian Trail spur? The phone was sticking out of a snowbank near the door. Just the little antenna, but it kind of gleamed, you know?”

“The phone belongs to Skippy Bedard,” Roy said.

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

“He's a kid—sixteen, skinny, long hair, wears a brown-and-yellow jacket.”

“Didn't see anybody like that.”

“What about a light-skinned black woman, tall, midforties? Or a younger guy, maybe six-three, two-fifty?”

“Nope,” said the ski patroller. “Didn't see anybody, in fact. I was doing the last sweep—just got down. The mountain's clear.”

“Did you look in the hut?”

“Sure. We always do. It was empty.”

Roy sat in his truck by the roadside. Should he go back? Was this news about Skippy's cell phone good or bad? Skippy was no match for people like Lenore and Westie, perhaps not much of a match for anyone. But Roy could think of ways it might be good: the other side—he had no doubt about its existence—didn't leave loose ends hanging, so the phone lying in the snow might suggest he was safe. Plus Roy was already on the Cape, close to the address he had for Janet Habib and four or five hours from Ethan Valley.

“I'm walking into the lodge as we speak,” the ski patroller said. “I was gonna drop it in the lost and found.”

“Don't do that,” Roy said.

“No?”

“Please do me a favor,” Roy said. “I'm out of town right now. Do you know Freddy Boudreau?”

“Who's he?”

“Police sergeant.”

“The mean one, with the mustache?”

“He's really not mean, when you get to know him,” Roy said. “Can you give him the phone?”

“I guess so.”

“Now,” Roy said.

“Now?”

“I'll pay you for your time.”

“Hey, man.” The ski patroller sounded embarrassed. “Not necessary.”

“Thanks,” Roy said. “Tell him where you found it. And mention me—say I'd like him to go up to the hut, look around.”

“Is he going to bite my head off?”

“He'll save any head biting for me,” Roy said.

“What's this about?” the ski patroller said. “Is the kid in some kind of trouble?”

Roy felt a faint twinge in his shoulder—here and gone—where Lenore had found a nerve.

 

He'd never been
to the Cape. Roy pictured beaches, the ocean, seagulls, but ended up seeing none of that. The address he had—1 Kettle Lane, Hatchville—turned out to be deep in a piney woods, last house on a dirt road. He had to stop for directions three times, and it was almost fully dark when he found the place—a few yellow lights blinking through the trees, gold sparks rising from a chimney. A small shingled house with a brick path in disrepair: he heard wind chimes as he walked to the door.

Roy's hand was raised to knock when a woman called from the other side. “Who is it?”

“Roy Valois.”

“I don't know anyone by that name.”

“I'm looking for Janet Habib.”

“Why?”

“My wife worked with Paul Habib. I'd like to talk to him.”

Silence.

Roy had a thought. “If you're no longer together, maybe you can tell me how to get in touch.”

“She worked with him at MIT?” the woman said.

“No,” said Roy. “The Hobbes Institute.”

More silence. Then: “What's your wife's name?”

“Delia,” said Roy. “Delia Stern.”

Twenty or thirty seconds passed. Then the woman said something that stunned him: “Is the bitch with you?”

“What did you say?”

No answer. Roy thought he heard footsteps leave and return. A bolt slid aside with a soft thump. Then another, heavier. Finally a chain clinked, falling loose. The door opened a foot or two, revealing a woman with wild graying hair, and a fire crackling in the background. The woman wore big hoop earrings, jeans, a colorful Scandinavian sweater: all adding up to a coherent picture, a physical type also found in the mountains of Vermont. The only thing that didn't fit was the gun in her
hand, so out of place, so unexpected that Roy had to look twice. But the gun—bigger than the one found in Skippy's glove box, and different in other ways that Roy, not knowing guns, couldn't define—dominated everything, ordered all visible space around it.

Roy raised his hands, an involuntary gesture, its source in the primitive depths of the brain.

“Are you armed?” she said.

“Of course not. And point that somewhere else.”

The gun didn't waver. She took a quick sweeping glance past him, taking in the truck, just inside the reach of the light from the house, and the surrounding woods. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Roy said. “Were you talking about my wife just now?”

She flicked the barrel of the gun, swatting the question away. “How did you find me?” she said.

“Through the art dealer Krishna Madapan—he sold you a Moroccan bowl.”

Janet Habib's eyes shifted, came back to him. “You're the sculptor?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I told you—to talk to Paul.”

“You can't be serious.”

“What do you mean?”

She gazed at his face for a moment or two, then lowered the gun and stepped aside. Roy went in. The first thing he saw was a charcoal sketch of Paul Habib, hanging above the fireplace. Roy moved closer: the artist had softened Habib's features, made him less interesting. He was trying to read the signature in the lower right corner when the bolts slid back into place; the chain clicked into its groove.

Roy turned. Janet's hands—bony and small—were now empty and he didn't see the gun anywhere. She wore rings on just about every finger; it made the ringless third finger on her left hand look a little forlorn.

“Is this a recent sketch?” Roy said. “He's hardly changed.”

“Are you toying with me?” she said. Firelight flickered across her face, leaving her eyes in shadow. “Or drunk? Or what?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What are
you
talking about?” Janet said, her voice rising. “Paul died fifteen years ago. Fifteen years next spring, to be more exact.”

Roy sat down, or found himself sitting, on the raised flagstone hearth, his legs weak. “He was in the helicopter?”

“Helicopter?”

“That crashed,” Roy said. “In Venezuela.”

Janet came forward a step; her eyes, now in the light, narrowed and angry. “A helicopter crash in Venezuela? Is that what she told you?”

“She?”

“Delia,” Janet said, as though the word itself were repellent.

“Delia didn't tell me anything,” Roy said. “She died in that goddamned crash.”

Janet shook her head. “You're not making sense.”

“Sure I am,” Roy said. “I'm talking about the pineapple project.”

“Never heard of it,” said Janet.

“What do you mean?” Roy said. “That was the whole idea—getting the Venezuelans to grow pineapples. Your husband picked Delia up to take her to the airport. They flew to Venezuela. She died there in a helicopter crash. What I can't understand is why no one ever told me that Paul died, too.”

Janet's mouth was open. “Where are you getting all this?”

“It's what happened.”

“Says who?”

“Me,” said Roy. “I'm saying it.”

“Were you in Venezuela? Did you see the crash?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?” Janet said. “What's your source?”

His source: Did he need a source? It was a historical event, like the Chicago fire or D-day. In this case, Delia's death, was there one actual source? Yes: “I heard the news from Tom Parish.”

Janet snorted. “Oh, well then.”

“What are you implying?” Roy said. “He was their boss.”

Janet gave him a hard look. Then she took a Kleenex from a box on the mantel, handed it to him. “Your nose is bleeding.”

Roy dabbed at his nose, checked the Kleenex: red blotches.

“Tilt your head back,” she said.

But Roy didn't want to tilt his head back, didn't have time; he wanted to understand what this woman was saying, to understand now. He dabbed impatiently—even furiously—at his nose again, said, “Tom Parish brought her body back. He spoke at her funeral.”

“What's your angle?” she said.

“No angle,” said Roy. “Why?”

“Because what you're telling me—helicopter crash, Tom Parish bringing the body back, all that—is impossible.”

“How so?”

“Because of the simple fact,” Janet said, “that
she
got home safely.”

“Delia?”

“Delia.”

“That's insane.”

“It's a lot of things, all negative, but insane isn't one of them,” Janet said. “Sick, cynical, brutal—yes. Insane, no—not in the sense you mean.”

Roy started to feel light-headed. A pale aura appeared, vibrating around Janet's face. “What are you telling me?” he said.

“I'm telling you this,” Janet said. “Tom knocked on my door. ‘There's been an accident. I'm sorry. Paul's dead.' Exact words.”

“Your door in Cambridge?”

“Correct.”

“This was after the trip?”

“Of course.”

“That trip in springtime?”

“What other trip are we talking about?” Janet said. “And I asked, ‘What kind of accident?' Tom said, ‘A car crash. Delia was driving too fast. They went over a cliff.'”

Delia did drive too fast. That was the only credible part. But car
crash or helicopter crash: Was there a fundamental difference? No. Roy could think of only one fundamental. “Why did you say she got home safely?”

“Tom came in a limo,” Janet said. “You know, with the rear windows blacked out. But I watched from behind the curtain as he went back down to the street. When he opened the back door, there she was.”

There was some mistake, huge—but didn't a mistake always mean an explanation was out there, waiting to be uncovered? “How did you know it was her?” Roy said.

Janet shrugged. “The way you'd know anybody,” she said. “We'd met several times.”

“Where?”

“In Cambridge, once or twice—and there was a lunch in D.C.,” Janet said. “It was her, all right, in the middle seat, with some guy beside her. She had a bandage around her head, but I recognized her. A distinctive face, as I'm sure you're aware.”

Janet's aura—Roy didn't believe in auras, knew this was a manifestation of things going wrong somewhere else—began to grow, spread toward him, reaching out. “A bandage around her head?” he said. His voice sounded small and far away.

“But very much alive,” said Janet.

“I don't believe you,” Roy said.

“Believe what you want,” Janet said. “If you can believe the Venezuelan part, you can believe anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“If Venezuela,” Janet said, “why Paul?”

“I don't understand.”

“What's so hard?” she said. “His surname wasn't Hernandez or Rodriguez—it was Habib.”

“He didn't speak Spanish—is that your point?” Roy said. “Neither did Delia.”

“That wasn't her role,” Janet said.

Roy nodded. “They were economists.”

“Paul was a historian, not an economist.”

“I didn't know.”