Nerve Damage (29 page)

“It didn't have to be like this,” he said. “We envisioned something more humane.”

Fuck you.
But Roy lacked the strength to say it, to go out the way he wanted.

Tom pointed the gun at the center of Roy's forehead. Roy felt a tiny prickle, right where the bullet was going to strike. At that moment, as the gun went off, or just before, the ambulance leaned around another bend and the urn tipped from the shelf and fell, bouncing off Tom's shoulder. The gun fell and rattled across the floor. Tom rolled toward it. Roy rolled, too, the IV tube still wrapped around his right arm; and the end of it, with the needle, now in his hand. They were both on their knees, Tom reaching for the gun, when Roy jabbed the needle toward Tom's eyes.

“Don't move,” he said. “It's contagious.”

“No,” said Tom. But he looked terrified. He threw a punch, wild and spasmodic, grazing the side of Roy's head—only grazing, but with the
way Roy was now, even that had the power to make him dizzy. Roy slumped forward. The IV needle sank into Tom's neck, all of Roy's dead-weight behind it.

When Roy's head cleared—maybe just a few seconds later—there was blood all over the place, and more spurting from Tom's neck. Roy rose, picked up the gun.

“Where is she?” he said.

Tom watched him, said nothing. Or was it just that Tom's eyes were locked in his direction? Roy realized the ambulance wasn't moving. The door to the front swung open and the driver, a man Roy had never seen, looked in.

“What the hell?” he said, saw the gun and ducked back into the front, slamming the door shut. Roy heard him say, “Bus one to base. Bus one to base. Code red. Code red.”

Roy didn't know what any of that meant. All he knew was that no one good would be answering the driver's call. He found the IV bag, opened the back doors of the ambulance and climbed out.

Nighttime, and the Washington Monument again in view. Roy, clutching the IV bag to his chest, found himself on a Georgetown street lined with bars and restaurants, all deserted at this hour. But around the corner, a long line of kids waited at the door of a late-night club. His pajamas attracted some attention, all favorable. Roy borrowed a phone and made a couple calls, Jerry first. He felt pretty good—he had Mr. Blenny on his side; Mr. Blenny and maybe hockey itself.

“Mom?”
Roy said. “Sorry to call so late.”

“That's all right, Roy. I was up anyway. Something the matter? Sounds like you're still fighting that cold.”

“Everything's all right, Mom.” He had a printout of the obituary in his hand, still hours before the morning edition of the paper hit the streets. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“Don't tell me you made another big score.”

“In a different way,” Roy said.

“Losing me, son.”

“You'll be hearing an”—how to put this?—“…odd story about me tomorrow. It's a kind of experiment—an artistic experiment. Don't believe it for a second. But I want you to play along.”

“What kind of story?”

Roy told her.

She was silent for a moment or two. “How is this a big score?”

“Shouldn't have put it that way,” Roy said.

“Is it what they call that performance art?”

“Not really. I'll explain later.”

Another silence. “Maybe till then I just won't answer the phone,” his mother said.

 

“How did that go?”
Turk said.

They rode in Turk's Caddy—Turk driving, Freddy Boudreau up front beside him, Roy in back. “Not so good,” he said. “She's worried.”

“Me too,” said Freddy; although he sounded like he was having a good time. He cracked open a beer, passed it back to Roy. Roy took a sip, more than he wanted, but just the feel of the cold can in his hand was nice. They crossed the Texas state line. Freddy hadn't smoked a single cigarette the whole way. Roy shifted around, lay on his side, a position the demon liked, for now. It was good to be with guys from the team. Who else could he trust? He rested his head on the IV bag.

 

“I was wrong.”

Those were the first words Freddy spoke when he arrived in D.C. with the Caddy. Turk had flown down ahead of him; in fact, been on a plane a few hours after Roy's call the night of the ambulance ride. Freddy had gone over the call records on Skippy's cell phone, printed out the three saved photos—a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles, the girl from Dunkin' Donuts, the
Delia
sculpture—dusted the phone for prints and finally gotten around to checking the record function. “Turned out to be a pretty smart kid,” Freddy said, pressing a button. “This first voice is the wine-store woman?”

Just sit down on that bunk
—
we're not going to hurt you.

Roy nodded. “Lenore.”

Yeah?
Skippy: his voice not quite steady, but that might have been from the way the cold wind blew up at the mountain hut, and that light windbreaker of his.
Then why is he pointing that gun at me?

Just sit. We'll have a little talk, that's all.

Um. I don't think so
. Then a pause.
The gun. It's like that other one. Hey. It was you guys.

What was?
Westie.

Planted the gun. Got me in trouble. How come?

Nothing personal. We'll make it up to you. How does five hundred dollars sound?

Get away.

Click.

“Autopsy report came back—he was strangled,” Freddy said. “A smart kid.”

“And brave,” said Turk.

Roy didn't speak. For the first time in his life he felt murderous.

 

“How're you doin',
Roy?”

“Good.”

“Want anything?”

“Nope.”

He had everything, there in the backseat of Turk's Caddy—not the cooler full of sandwiches and drinks, no longer needed, or the bottle of seized OxyContins Freddy had borrowed from the station, pills that made him a bit stupid and that the demon shrugged aside anyway—but the mismatched pair of shin pads, lying on the floor; a “Kings of the Penalty Box” T-shirt balled up beside it; and the rumble of the road. So many hockey road trips, going way back, so many long rides: he remembered the second-string goalie at Maine, a quiet kid who, without any warning, had mooned a passing state police cruiser on the turnpike.

“What's funny?” Turk said.

“Nothing,” said Roy. His eyes closed. The demon napped, too.

 

Roy sat up.
It looked hot out there. He didn't like that, not in winter.

“Where are we?”

“Near San Antonio,” Freddy said.

Roy's heart sped up, beating very fast and light. That must have been nervousness, anticipation, excitement. Roy tried to calm himself, tried to save his strength.

“Been getting some calls about the funeral,” said Turk. “Including Dr. Chu.”

“Dr. Chu wants to come to the funeral?”

“I told him we're thinking of a memorial service in a month or two,” Turk said. “I kept it vague. He gave me all his numbers.”

That was nice. They'd considered letting Dr. Chu in on the truth, but decided against—partly to protect the plan, partly to protect Dr. Chu. Freddy had called Dr. Chu, telling him that Roy must have checked himself out of the hospital and gone home, where Freddy found the body. Turk had called the
New York Times,
spoken to the reporter Myra Burns, told her about Dr. Chu in case she needed to do any fact-checking for the obit. Same MO applied to Krishna: no one would have to do any acting. It was all working perfectly, a leak-proof plan.

“Whenever it is,” Roy said, “I'm not going.”

Laughter from the front seat of the Caddy. Roy laughed, too, even though it was his own joke, and for a moment this could have been anytime in road trips past; except for that heartbeat, soaring to heights unknown.

Turk's phone rang. “Yeah?” he said. His voice changed. “Oh, hi.” He was quiet for a moment or two. “Yes,” he said. “It's terrible.” He listened some more. “Sorry,” he said. “Don't know the answer to that.” Roy thought he heard crying on the other end. “I'll be in touch,” Turk said. “Take care of yourself.” He clicked off.

“Who was that?” Roy said.

“Aw, you don't want to know.”

“Who?”

“Jen.”

Silence in the car.

“Hell,” said Freddy. “Didn't see that one coming.”

Neither had Roy. And that probably proved that Jen had been right:
something in him got damaged—in a helicopter crash that hadn't taken place in Venezuela, maybe hadn't taken place at all. But Jen was wrong that some feeling part had been wiped out; instead those nerve ends were still there, but now mixed up, twisted, unreliable. A deformation that had actually improved his work? That was possible.

“What didn't you know the answer to?” Roy said.

Turk turned. Roy, lying on his side, looked up at him. “How long you knew about it,” Turk said. “The diagnosis.” Turk's eyes shifted away. “In terms of when the two of you split up.”

“I'll—” Roy was about to say
I'll make it right with her
. But would he? And in what way? He was going to see Delia, and soon.

“Get some rest, Roy,” Turk said.

Roy closed his eyes. Turned out that death didn't simplify your life. How many people had been in a position to learn that one?

 

He awoke
in darkness. A soft breeze was blowing. Roy sat up.

“Good timin',” said Freddy, from the front seat.

They were in the Caddy, parked in the middle of some vast landscape, windows down, lights off. Roy thought he could make out a line of rounded hills in the distance.

“How're you doing?” Turk said.

“Good.”

“Better eat something.”

“Yeah.” But he wasn't hungry.

A light appeared in the sky, faint at first, soon brighter and brighter. Ten or twenty seconds passed; then more lights flashed on, these on the ground and not far away—a yellow one that illuminated a small square building, plus two long parallel strings of glowing blue. Now Roy could hear it: first a faint buzz, then a growing drone, finally a roar overhead. The plane made a semicircle, came in low, landed at the end of the string of lights, kicking up clouds of blue dust, and rolled to a stop near the yellow-lit building, propellers motionless.

Silence. The soft breeze blew. Now it had a faint gasoline smell.

Doors opened in the building and the plane. Columns of lights spilled out; human silhouettes moved in and out of them. They got busy at the rear of the plane, in a while hoisted their long, lumpy cargo onto the blades of a big forklift truck. Motor throbbing low, the forklift drove slowly past the building, dull headlight glinting on the chain-link fence of a small compound. The silhouettes moved around some more. Then the lights started going off: forklift, blue runway strings, in the building. After a minute or two of darkness, other lights flashed on behind the building. Two big SUVs that had been blocked from view swung around the compound and headed toward the distant hills, their taillights fading, fading and gone. The moon rose, here and there adding some shine to the night.

“Okey-doke,” said Freddy.

Turk switched on the parking lights; the Caddy bumped across scrubby desert, stopping by the chain-link compound. A metal plaque on the door read
PROPERTY OF TRUESDALE RANCH
—
KEEP OUT
. The plane, not far away, had writing on the fuselage, just visible in the moonlight:
VRAI TRANSPORT
. They stepped out of the car.

“Gotta piss,” said Freddy.

They pissed against the chain-link fence, a fence about eight feet high, topped with barbed wire. Roy felt that bladder pressure meaning he had to, but hardly anything came out. Turk's and Freddy's piss made splashing sounds on the hardpacked ground.

“Ah,” said Freddy.

The forklift stood only a few yards away on the other side. Its long, lumpy load lay sideways on the forks, a tarpaulin cover tied down to a plywood platform at the ends. Freddy walked around to the compound gate, rattled the padlock, shook his head. Turk opened the trunk of the Caddy, took out an aluminum ladder.

He extended the ladder until it topped the barbed wire, climbed up, pivoted around while hanging on to the highest rung and dropped down on the other side. Then Freddy, same thing. And last, Roy. He climbed up, no problem except for the breathlessness that made him take one short break halfway up. But at the top, he had some trouble with the
pivoting part, mostly on account of that left arm. Roy lost his grip and fell. Turk caught him—gentle, absorbing all the shock—and lowered him to the ground.

“That wasn't necessary,” Roy said.

“I know,” said Turk.

They walked over to the forklift truck. Freddy untied one of the ends of the tarp. Roy reached in, felt cold steel, twisted and braided: the rotor blades that filled the broken arch on
Delia.
He turned and nodded.

“Hey,” said Freddy. “This could work.”

“Why not?” Turk said, his eyes full of moonlight. “It's a classic.”

“How's that?” said Freddy.

“From Homer,” Turk said.

Freddy shrugged. “Don't have time for TV.”

Life could be sweet.

 

They rolled
the tarp back, sat on the plywood platform. The moon rose higher. The air turned colder, as though the moon's power reversed the sun. Roy breathed a little better. Was he beginning to prefer the night?

“How're you doing?” Turk said.

“Good,” said Roy.

Freddy reached into his jacket pocket. “Take this,” he said. “You just press the button.”