More Twisted: Collected Stories - 2

  "He survived."

  "He's not at home. He staying here?"

  Lescroix shook his head. "He didn't think he'd be too welcome in Hamilton for a while. He's at a place on Route 32 West. Skyview Motel. I think he wants to see you. Thank you in person."

  "We'll give him a call, the wife and I, take him out to dinner." The man finished the whiskey and set the glass down. "Well, mister, it's a hard job you have. I don't envy you it." He appraised the lawyer with those sharp eyes. "Mostly I don't envy you staying up at night. With that conscience of yours."

  A faint frown crossed Lescroix's face, hearing this. But then it blossomed into a smile. "I sleep like a baby, sir. Always have."

  They shook hands and walked to the door. Jerry's uncle stepped into the corridor but then stopped and turned. "Oh, 'nother thing. I'd listen to the news, I was you." He added cryptically, "You'll be hearing some things you might want to think on."

  Lescroix closed the door and returned to the uncomfortable chair and his sumptuous whiskey.

  Things I want to think on?

  At six he picked up the remote control and clicked the TV set on, found the local news. He was watching a pretty young newscaster holding a microphone in front of her mouth.

  "It was this afternoon, while prosecutors were asking freed suspect Gerald Pilsett about the role of Charles Cabot in his wife's death, that Pilsett gave the shocking admission. A claim he later repeated for reporters."

  Oh, my Lord. No. He didn't!

  Lescroix sat forward, mouth agape.

  Jerry came on-screen, grinning that crooked smile and tapping a finger against his earlobe. "Sure I killed her. I told my lawyer that right up front. But there's nothing nobody can do about it. He said they can't try me again. It's called double jeopardy. Hey, their case wasn't good enough to get me the first time, that ain't my fault."

  Lescroix's skin crawled.

  Back to the blonde newscaster. "That very lawyer, Paul Lescroix, of New York City, created a stir in court earlier today when he suggested that Hamilton businessman Charles Cabot himself killed his wife because he was in love with another woman. Police, however, have discovered that the woman Lescroix accused Cabot of having an affair with is Sister Mary Helen Henstroth, a seventy-five-year-old nun who runs a youth center in Gilroy. Cabot and his wife frequently served as volunteers at the center and donated thousands of dollars to it.

  "Police also dispelled Lescroix's other theory that Cabot might have killed his wife to take control of the company of which he is president. Even though he owned a minority of the shares, a review of the corporate documents revealed that Patricia Cabot and her father had voluntarily handed over one hundred percent voting control to Cabot after he paid back fifty thousand dollars her father had loaned him to start the business five years ago.

  "State prosecutors are looking into whether charges can be brought against Lescroix for defamation and misuse of the legal process."

  Furious, Lescroix flung the remote control across the room. It shattered in a dozen pieces.

  The phone rang.

  "Mr. Lescroix, I'm with WPIJ news. Could you comment on the claim that you knowingly accused an innocent man--"

  "No." Click.

  It rang again.

  "'Lo?"

  "I'm a reporter with the New York Times--"

  Click.

  "Yeah?"

  "This that gawdamn shyster? I find you I'm gonna--"

  Click.

  Lescroix unplugged the phone, stood and paced. Don't panic. It's no big deal. Everybody'd forget about it in a few days. This wasn't his fault. His duty was to represent a client to the best of his ability. Though even as he tried to reassure himself, he was picturing the ethics investigation, explaining the matter to his clients, his golfing buddies, his girlfriends . . . .

  Pilsett. What an utter fool. He--

  Lescroix froze. On the TV screen was a man in his fifties. Unshaven. Rumpled white shirt. An unseen newscaster was asking him his reaction to the Pilsett verdict. But what had snagged Lescroix's attention was the super at the bottom of the screen: James Pilsett, Uncle of Acquitted Suspect.

  It wasn't the man who'd hired him, who'd been here in the room an hour ago to deliver his fee.

  "Wayl," the uncle drawled. "Jurry wus alwus a problem. Weren't never doing what he ought. Deserved ever' lick he got. Him gitting off today . . . I don' unnerstand that one bit. Don' seem right to me."

  Lescroix leapt to the desk and opened the envelope. The full amount of the rest of the fee was enclosed. But it wasn't a check. It was cash, like the retainer. There was no note, nothing with a name on it.

  Who the hell was he?

  He plugged the phone in and dialed the Skyview Motel.

  The phone rang, rang, rang.

  Finally it was answered. "Hello?"

  "Jerry, it's Lescroix. Listen to me--"

  "I'm sorry," the man's voice said. "Jerry's tied up right now."

  "Who's this?"

  A pause.

  "Hello, counselor."

  "Who are you?" Lescroix demanded.

  There was a soft chuckle on the other end. "Don't you recognize me? And after our long talk in court this morning. I'm disappointed."

  Cabot! It was Charles Cabot.

  How had he gotten to Jerry's motel room? Lescroix was the only one who knew where the man was hiding out.

  "Confused, counselor?"

  But, no, Lescroix recalled, he wasn't the only one who knew. He'd told the man impersonating Jerry's uncle about the Skyview. "Who was he?" Lescroix whispered. "Who was the man who paid me?"

  "Can't you guess?"

  "No."

  But even as he said that, he understood. Lescroix closed his eyes. Sat on the bed. "Your father-in-law."

  The rich businessman. Patricia's father.

  I'm a firm believer in kin sticking together. . . .

  "He hired me?"

  "We both did," Cabot said.

  "To defend your wife's killer? Why?"

  Cabot sighed. "Why do you think, counselor?"

  Slowly, Lescroix's thoughts were forming--like ice on a November pond. He said, "Because there's no death penalty in this state."

  "That's right, counselor. Maybe Jerry'd go to prison for life but that wasn't good enough for us."

  And the only way Cabot and his father-in-law could get to Jerry was to make sure he was acquitted. So they hired the best criminal attorney in the country.

  Lescroix laughed in disgust. Why, Cabot was the one playing him in the trial. Acting guilty, never explaining what he might've explained, cringing at Lescroix's far-fetched innuendos.

  Suddenly the lawyer remembered Cabot's words: Jerry's tied up right now . . .

  "Oh my God, are you going to kill him?"

  "Jerry? Oh, we're just visiting right now," Cabot said. "Jerry and I and Patsy's dad. But I should tell you, I'm afraid he's pretty depressed, Jerry is. I'm worried that he might do himself some harm. He's even threatened to hang himself. That'd be a shame. But of course it's a man's own decision. Who'm I to interfere?"

  "I'll tell the police," Lescroix warned.

  "Will you now, counselor? I guess you could do that. But it'll be my word against yours, and I have to say that after the trial today your stock's none too high 'round here at the moment. And neither's Jerry's."

  "So what're you buying?"

  "Peace of mind. That's what."

  "Sorry to cut this short," Cabot continued. "I think I hear some funny noises from the other room. Where Jerry is. I better run, check on him. Seem to recall seeing a rope in there."

  A low, desperate moaning sounded through the line, distant.

  "What was that?" Lescroix cried.

  "Oh-oh, looks like I better go. So long, counselor. Hope you enjoyed your stay in Hamilton."

  "Wait!"

  Click.

  TUNNEL GIRL

  Sorry to bother you so early, sir."

  An alarmed Ron Badgett, in a 6:00 a.m. morning daze, blink
ed at the suited man on his doorstep, holding a police department shield.

  "I'm Detective Larry Perillo."

  "What's wrong, officer?"

  "You own the building at Seventy-seven Humbolt Way?"

  "That's right. My company's there." Ron Badgett felt another jolt of concern course through him. He'd been fuzzy-headed and exhausted three minutes ago. Now he was thoroughly awake. "There been a fire or something?" The paunchy, middle-aged man, with thinning hair, pulled his beige terry-cloth bathrobe belt tight.

  It was a cool September Saturday morning, and the two men were standing in the doorway of Ron's well-worn suburban colonial house, which hadn't quite recovered from the previous owners' three children, who'd apparently run and jumped and pounded on every accessible surface. Ron and his wife spent most of their free time fixing it up.

  "No, sir, your office's fine. But we're hoping you can help us. You know the old building behind yours, across the parking lot?"

  "The condemned one?"

  "That's it."

  Sandra, Ron's wife of eighteen years, appeared in the doorway, frowning. She wore a blue quilted robe and slippers. Her hair was mussed, and she had a sleepy, morning look that Ron still found appealing, even after eighteen years of marriage. "What's the matter, honey?"

  "There's some problem with an old building behind the office." He introduced her to the policeman.

  "Oh, that one they're going to tear down?" Sandra, at the moment working only occasional freelance jobs, had spent a week helping Ron move into the building. One day, at the back loading dock, she'd commented that the old building looked dangerous.

  "That's right, ma'am." Perillo then added, "It seems that yesterday evening a coed from City College was taking a shortcut through the courtyard back there. Part of the building collapsed. She's trapped in one of those old delivery tunnels that used to connect the factories and warehouses in the neighborhood."

  "My God," Sandra whispered.

  "But she's alive?" Ron asked.

  "So far. We can hear her calling for help but she doesn't sound very strong."

  His wife shook her head. Ron and Sandra had a seventeen-year-old daughter, currently in school in Washington, DC, and the woman was undoubtedly thinking about their own child hurt or trapped. Nobody's as sympathetic as fellow parents.

  The policeman glanced down at the morning newspaper, sitting nearby in a plastic bag on the lawn. He picked it up and extracted the paper, showed them the headline: CAN THEY SAVE TUNNEL GIRL?

  A photo revealed dozens of rescue workers standing around a pile of rubble. A police dog was in the foreground, sniffing at a gaping hole in the ground. A grim-faced couple stood nearby; they were identified as the parents of the trapped girl, Tonya Gilbert. Another photo was the girl's high school yearbook picture. Ron scanned the article and learned some things about Tonya. She'd just started her senior year at City College, after spending the summer as a hiking guide at a state park on the Appalachian Trail. She was a public health major. Her father was a businessman, her mother a volunteer for a number of local charities. Tonya was an only child.

  Ron tapped a sidebar article. "Hey, look at that." PARENTS OFFER $500K REWARD FOR GIRL'S RESCUE read this headline.

  A half million? he thought. Then he recalled the girl's last name sounded familiar. Her father was probably the same Gilbert who owned a big financial analysis and investment bank in the city and was always appearing in the press at charity auctions and cultural benefits.

  Sandra asked the detective, "How can we help?"

  Perillo said, "Our rescue teams tried to get to her from the surface but it's too dangerous. The rest of the building could collapse at any minute. The city engineers'd like to try to get to her through the basement of your office."

  Sandra shook her head. "But how will that help? It's nowhere near the old building."

  "Our people looked over old maps of buildings that used to be in the area. There're some basements under the parking lot between your building and the collapsed one that we think haven't been filled in. We're hoping somebody can work their way to the girl from underground."

  "Oh, sure, of course," Ron said. "Whatever we can do."

  "Thanks much, sir."

  "I'll come down right away and let you in. Just give us a few minutes to throw on some clothes."

  "You can follow me." The detective gestured toward his dark blue unmarked police car.

  Ron and Sandra hurried back into the house, his wife whispering, "That poor girl . . . . Let's hurry."

  In the bedroom, Ron tossed his robe and pajamas onto the floor, while Sandra stepped into her dressing room to change. As he pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, Ron clicked on the local TV station. A news crew was at the scene, and a reporter was telling the anchorman that another portion of the wall had just collapsed, but the debris had missed Tonya. She was still alive.

  Thank God for that, Ron thought. He slipped on his jacket, staring at the TV screen. The camera panned to two young women standing at the police line. One wiped tears while the other held up a sign. It read: We You, Tunnel Girl.

  RB Graphic Design was in an old coffee warehouse, a small one, near the river and across the street from City College.

  Two years ago a dozen developers had decided to turn around this former industrial district of the city and convert it to lofts, chic restaurants, theaters and artsy professional quarters--the way a lot of towns seemed to be doing lately, in more or less desperate attempts to reverse the trend of flight to the homogenous mall-land of the 'burbs.

  The real estate companies sunk big bucks into renovation and new construction in the eight-square-block area, while the city itself agreed to some tax breaks to get people and companies to move in and paid for some cheap street sculpture, signage and a public relations firm, which came up with a name for the district: "NeDo," for "New Downtown." This term had already been printed up on street signs and in promotional materials when it was discovered that people weren't pronouncing it "Nue-Dow," as planned, but "Nee-Due," which sounded pretty lame, like a hair spray or soft drink. But by then the name had stuck. Despite the awkward name and some other bad planning (such as forgetting that those going to chic restaurants, theaters and jobs in artsy offices might want to park their cars someplace), the development caught on. Ron Badgett, for one, knew immediately that he wanted to move his company into the area and was particularly taken by the former coffee warehouse. He couldn't explain it, he told Sandra, but he knew instinctively that it suited his personality perfectly.

  Ron was also ready to move from his original office. He felt he'd exhausted the benefits of the old place, which was in the traditional city center, a boring neighborhood of 1950s office buildings, the bus station and a recently defunct secretarial school. It was a ghost town at night. Violent crime had increased in the past couple of years and Sandra hated driving to the area alone in the evenings to meet Ron after work.

  But even though NeDo was starting to catch on, the move didn't work out financially for his company the way Ron had hoped. It seemed that a number of his clients preferred the old neighborhood (which offered uncongested streets, ample parking and restaurants that weren't noisy and pretentious). He'd lost a half-dozen clients, and though he'd picked up a few new ones he was still hurting from the dip in business and the cost of the move, which had been more than he'd figured on.

  The money was a problem, especially to Sandra. She was more ambitious--and had more expensive tastes--than her husband, and their income had taken a hit when she'd been laid off from her job as an engineer with an energy company six months ago. He knew she would've liked him to get a steady job with a big ad agency, but he couldn't bring himself to. Ron Badgett had always been open with his wife about the fact that he had other goals than amassing money. "I have to work for myself. You know, I need to follow my creative spirit." He'd grinned ruefully. "I know that sounds stupid. But I can't help it. I have to be true to myself."

  Ultimately, he believed, Sandra
understood this and supported him. Besides, he loved being in NeDo and had no desire to move.

  As the Badgetts now followed the speeding police car, these thoughts about the neighborhood and their fiscal situation, and personalities, however, were far from his mind; all he could think of was Tonya Gilbert, Tunnel Girl, lying beneath the collapsed building.

  Ahead of them they saw the bustle of the drama: scores of emergency workers, fire trucks, police cars, onlookers kept back by yellow police tape. The press too, of course, a half-dozen vans with their station logos on the sides and crowned with satellite dishes pointed skyward.

  Ron skidded to a stop in front of his building--under a prominent No Parking sign--and, with Sandra, jumped out. They followed the detective to the front door of RB Graphic Design, where several somber police and fire officials stood. They were big men, and solid women, some wearing jumpsuits and belts encrusted with rescue equipment, some in business suits or uniforms.

  One of them, a white-haired man in a navy-blue uniform that had ribbons and badges on the chest, shook the Badgetts' hands as Perillo introduced them. "I'm Fire Chief Knoblock. Sure appreciate you coming down to help us out. We've got ourselves some situation here."

  "My Lord, she's underneath all of that?" Sandra asked, staring through the alley beside Ron's building at a huge pile of rubble. The remaining walls of the building hovered precariously above gaping holes in the ground. They seemed ready to tumble down at any minute. A cloud of dust from the recent collapse hung in the air like gray fog.

  "'Fraid so." The chief continued, "She's down about twenty-five, thirty feet in a section of an old tunnel they used to make deliveries in when these were working factories and warehouses. Miracle she's alive." The tall man, with perfect posture, shook his head. "All to save a couple blocks' walk."

  "They should've had warning signs up, or something," Ron said.

  "Probably did," the chief responded. "I'd guess she just ignored 'em. You know kids," Knoblock added with the air of a man who'd seen a lot of tragedy caused by teenage foolishness.

  "Why did it collapse?" Ron asked.

  "Nobody quite knows. The inspectors said a lot of the support beams were rotting but they didn't think it was in danger of coming down anytime soon, otherwise they would've fenced it off."

  "Well, come on inside," Ron said. He opened the door and led Knoblock and the others into the building, then down into the basement. The developer hadn't spent much time renovating this part of the building and it was musty and dimly lit, but clean, thanks to Sandra's hard work during the move.