Authors: John R. Maxim
And she was frightened. The physical stuff aside, there
was that gun. Awful things had happened around it. It was
all a stew in her mind but she felt certain that she'd seen
him mixed in with it. She had not seen him using the gun,
not actually firing it, but she felt that he wanted to, planned
to, hoped to. One of those.
And there was still some of that anger in him, she said.
And fear. Not as much. Just some. But the house, this
house, seemed okay. It had been a happy house. Always.
There were no dumb ghosts. He would be fine here.
“So where do I get mad?” he asked her.
She wet her lips. “Never mind. That's not important.”
Fallon groaned aloud. Yup. That'll do it. Someone asks,
Michael, do you know what's wrong with you?. . . No, what?. . . Never mind. Someone asks, Michael, do you
know what women say about you?. . . No, what?. . .
Never mind.
“Megan,” he told her, “there is a poker by the fire
place. I'm about to pick it up and hit you with it.”
She almost smiled. “Okay. Give me a second.”
Another grimace as in here goes nothing.
“Michael, I know about Bronwyn Kelsey. I know how
she died.”
He felt his head go light.
“And your uncle. I know where you lived, where you
worked. I know how you broke your arm.”
He stared, disbelieving.
“It was from the newspapers, Michael. I went to a
library.”
He began to understand. “Your sail to Newport?”
She nodded. “They've got a big microfilm section.”
She had not intended to research him, she said. She'd
simply taken the boat out because she had a sense that he
might come that weekend to confront her, attack her, say
all the hurtful things he must have been saving up. She
wanted to be someplace else when he did. But she couldn't
get away from him. Even out on the water. There was this
great bubbling stew that she mentioned. And all those dead
that she felt.
She knew that he had come from New York, that he
seemed to be running from something, and anything that
big, she reasoned, had to have been in the papers. It was
no more than a hunch. But she spent last evening and
early this morning scanning back issues of the
New York
Times
and the
Post.
Then she spotted the name. His un
cle's name, actually. And his own a few issues later.
“I'm very sorry, Michael. About your loss, I mean.”
He said nothing.
“Are you angry?”
,”I don't know.”
“I'd never say a word. And I won't mention it again unless you feel like talking about it.”
”I don't. At least not tonight.”
She peeled back her sleeve, turned her watch to the
light. She drummed her fingers, then rose to her feet.
“Do you . . . need a ride?” he asked her.
She shook her head, cocking it toward the Edgartown
marina. It was only a two-minute walk.
“Megan, if you'd care to stay over . . .”
“No, Michael.”
“This is an inn, Megan. I didn't mean with me.”
She dropped her eyes. “I'm sure you didn't.”
Michael looked for sarcasm. He didn't see it. He saw
sadness.
“Megan, you explained that. The other night . . . that
wasn't you, exactly.”
She said nothing. The shoulders seemed to come to
gether again. She looked small again.
“What if we just sat here?” he offered. “We have the
fire. You can tell me where you've been with your boat.
The Caribbean, maybe. I've never been there myself.”
Still nothing. But she did look tired.
“We can lay out some cushions. You take one side of
the fireplace and I'll take the other. I'll get some quilts and pillows, make a couple of Irish coffees . . .”
She shook her head. She seemed ready to cry again.
Now what?
“Megan, tell me what's wrong.”
“You wouldn't see much difference,” she blurted. With
that, she turned toward the door.
He went after her. He reached to touch her shoulder, then drew back when she recoiled.
“Are you going to tell me what that means?”
A weary sigh. “Come on, Michael. You're not that
dumb.”
“You'd be amazed. Tell me.”
”I freeze up, okay? I'm good at one thing and it isn't screwing.”
Oh, boy.
“Megan, can't we just . . .” He almost said can't we
be friends? “Can't we just sort of be with each other
without that coming up? I mean, no one pinned any medals
on me, either.”
She wavered.
“Stay for one more log. And one Irish coffee.”
“One log?”
“Scout's honor.”
She did fall asleep by the fire.
Michael fetched a pillow and comforter. He covered
her. Carefully, he eased the pillow under her head and
straightened the arm that it replaced. He was relieved that she didn't stir. Lying there, finally at peace, she really was
a lovely woman.
He had kept his word and his distance with some diffi
culty. He found himself wanting to hold her. But if he did
she might read his thoughts and get them wrong again.
He'd be thinking,
Go ahead, Megan. Doze off. You're safe
here with me,
but she'd hear,
Come on, tootsie. Let's get
naked and give it another shot.
One eye fluttered. It opened just a bit.
She whispered, “You're a nice man, Michael.”
And then she was asleep again.
The fire was down to a few glowing coals.
Fallon took off his jacket and shoes. He lined up some cushions well to his side of the fireplace and eased himself
onto them. Megan was snoring softly. One arm was
stretched out where he left it. Her hand was within reach.
He wanted to touch it. He hesitated, for fear of waking
her again.
But he did reach out. Very lightly, he placed his hand
over hers. The part of it nearest the fire was warm. He
could feel her heartbeat through it. Her hand did not move
or otherwise react until he started to take his own away.
Her fingers arched, just a little. He waited. Then her hand
slid out from under his and came to rest on top of it. Ever
so lightly, she squeezed his hand.
”I freeze up,” she had said to him.
He would like to have tried. He would like to have
had the chance to show her that he could be patient . . .
encouraging . . . kind. He had no idea whether he could ever get her to trust him or, more importantly, to trust herself. Maybe not. It probably wouldn't happen.
But whether or not it did, even if they never made love or even touched again, he knew one thing. He knew that
this, right here and now, was as tender a moment as he'd
ever had in his life.
Chapter
17
Brendan Doyle,
like Megan, had been to the
library.
On that Sunday afternoon, he had photocopied every
page from Moody's, Standard & Poor's, and the Dun &
Bradstreet World Business Directory that made reference to AdlerChemiker AG and one from Moody's Financial listing the officers and owners of Lehman-Stone. He had
also used the library's Wilsondisc computer to find any
and all recent articles on the subject of counterfeit drugs.
There were only a few and Amie Aaronson had been right. Most of these were in the magazine called
FDA Consumer.
He photocopied those as well. Once home, he arranged
them in two stacks and made himself comfortable.
Before he began, his yellow Hi-Liter in hand, he tried
the number of Jake's Florida condo one more time. Moon
still wasn't answering. It had been two days now.
Doyle regretted lying to Michael. But if he'd told him
where Moon was, Michael might have been on the next
plane to Naples. And it wasn't strictly a lie. Moon's pri
mary address these past several-months had been a neuro
logical ward up in Fort Myers and then a rehab and
therapy clinic in Naples. He got worse before he got better.
It had been only three weeks since his therapist said that
he could try living alone.
Jake's apartment had seemed a safe enough address.
Anyone who thought to look for him there would have
done so months ago.
But now Doyle was worried.
He wished now that he hadn't given Julie Moon's num
ber. It's just that it was hard to say no, all things consid
ered. All Julie wanted to hear, he said, was that Michael
and Jake were clean. He would have believed it, coming
from Moon. No one ever believes a lawyer.
But what Julie had also said was “Always keep some
thing in your pocket.” Doyle knew what he hoped that
didn't
mean. He hoped it didn't mean, “Doyle's okay but
he's slow. He's too legal. Doyle likes to see proof. Fuck
it. Let's just give this to Moon.”