Under the Knife(102)

Rita glanced toward a nearby nurses’ station. One of the nurses, who she didn’t recognize, was staring at them with an arched eyebrow. The last thing Rita needed now was a scene.

The girl said other things. A man in an expensive suit who said he was from the hospital had come to see how her mom was doing, and what was that all about? A lady from the Wall Street Journal had left a message on her voice mail, and sent her a bunch of e-mails—and maybe she should be, like, talking to her? She said her boyfriend’s mom was a lawyer, a really important one in Beverly Hills, and that she was going to talk to her first thing tomorrow morning …

The nurse with the arched eyebrow was walking toward them.

Chastened by a college kid.

The girl was still talking as Rita slunk back to the staircase.

Any other humiliations I can look forward to today?

She headed downstairs, dazed, wondering where her body was going to take her next. It seemed to be going toward the parking garage. Good as anywhere, I guess. From there, who knew?

Darcy. I need to go get Darcy.

Yes. Her thoughts sharpened with each step. And then the two of them would get out of here. Pick up some cash, empty as much as the ATM would let her. Then leave. She hadn’t worked out the details yet, but that’s what she was going to do. Leave.

Rita had just planted her feet on the first-floor landing when she heard a loud pop, and felt a sharp pain in her back, like a jab from four hot needles. Then all her muscles seized up, and she dropped, helpless, to the floor.





FINNEY


Finney sat in his favorite leather armchair, in his study, in his twelve-thousand-square-foot hacienda-style house.

The house was too big for one person. He knew that: When they’d been house hunting, Jenny had fallen in love with it because she’d wanted to fill it with children. He hadn’t gotten around to selling it because he liked his privacy. And he had plenty of it here: in big, empty, echoing rooms on three acres surrounded by high walls. He had little contact with other people. There was Sebastian, and a few other intermediaries, and the (carefully vetted) house staff who’d left for the night. Since Jenny’s death, he’d otherwise withdrawn from the world.

The rain streamed down the windows in waterfalls. What had Sebastian said earlier? Something about a flash-flood warning? Mudslides? The storm seemed to be dumping as much water, in as short a period of time, as they’d predicted.

He stroked the cover of his notebook as if it were a cat sitting on his lap; and, like the purring of a cat, the worn-leather dimples of its cover transmitted soothing vibrations to his fingertips. His skin tingled, and he felt alive with anticipation.

He’d been sitting in this chair since arriving home several hours ago. He hadn’t eaten or slept. He’d wanted to sleep, to rest up for tonight—had every intention of sleeping. But how could he? He was too keyed up. The universe was on the verge of righting itself. Just one more piece to put in its place, one last nudge in the right direction, and everything would be as it should be. As it had been before. The imbalance that had existed since Jenny’s death would be gone, and with it his pain.

And yet … would it?

Would the pain really be gone?

He wasn’t so certain anymore.

His eyes moved to the large, framed portrait of Jenny on the wall: the same one he’d given a copy of to Dr. Wu (murdering whore), the one of her sitting on the grass and smiling. A lifetime ago.

He closed his eyes; and in his mind the beautiful face in the picture transformed into what it had been when the ICU doctors came and told him she was brain-dead, and that it was time to pull the plug: a grotesque mockery of its former self, puffy and pale and lifeless. Like a corpse.

He opened his eyes, laid the notebook aside, and picked up the gun from the table next to the chair.

He chambered a round and put the barrel in his mouth.

The steel was cold, but he was expecting that, because this was not the first time he’d done this. Sitting in this chair, staring at her picture.

What he’d never done was pull the trigger.

Which, gazing at Jenny’s portrait, he did now.

Nothing happened.

The trigger didn’t yield.

The gun didn’t fire.

He frowned, took the gun out of his mouth, and examined it.

Yes: There was the round in the chamber. He’d done it properly, exactly as the man who’d sold him the gun had shown him. So why hadn’t it gone off? And ended his pain?

Ah. The safety. It was on. You could tell because the little lever above the trigger was pointed toward the word safe etched in small letters in the metal, and away from the orange dot. He’d never owned a gun, and was still getting used to it. He supposed he should have practiced with it. Maybe gone to a firing range. But he hadn’t wanted to attract attention. Especially Sebastian’s.

With his thumb, he flipped the lever toward the orange dot (safety off) and put the gun back in his mouth.

His finger twitched on the trigger.

No.

He took the gun out of his mouth, flipped the lever back to safe, and carefully placed it back on the table.

This was no coincidence. The universe had stopped him, left the safety on the gun, for a reason. He wasn’t meant to pull the trigger. The universe wanted him to finish this task. To bring order out of the chaos.

The tablet on his lap hummed with an incoming text: Sebastian, telling him it was time for him to come back to Turner.