“Recognize this?” she says, holding it up.
“Looks like a garage door opener.”
She tosses it to me and says, “Think about it, Gideon.”
I do. It’s Chris Fowler’s garage door opener. The one I removed from the burgundy Escalade in his garage after breaking into his home. I must have left it in the rental car.
Perhaps I’m not suited to a life of crime.
“How’s this a peace offering?” I say.
“The police are seeking the hit man who killed Kathy Fowler. Your fingerprints are all over her garage door opener.”
It hits me like a ton of bricks.
“You could have framed me for murder,” I say.
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
I think about it some more. “A few minutes ago you said you were dying, angry, and had nothing to lose. But you weren’t angry. If you were angry, there are a thousand ways you could have gotten this into the hands of the police.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me to go to jail.”
“No.”
“Because you want me to help you.”
“It would be nice if you helped me. But I would’ve given this to you either way.”
“Because you know I didn’t kill Kathy.”
“And because I’m not a vindictive person.”
“Except you humiliated me just now.”
“Except for that. And that was for your benefit, not mine.”
“ My benefit?”
“You didn’t just humiliate me and Cameron that night, you scared the shit out of us. And I could tell it gave you a rush.”
“You and Cameron snort cocaine for a rush.”
“Yeah, but we never broke into anyone’s house or stole things.”
She catches my look and adds, “Until we met you, anyway.”
She sighs. “Look, I’m sure you do good things at the hospital. But you do some really shitty things in the real world.”
“You wanted me to see what it feels like to be on the receiving end.”
She nods.
“It worked. I felt humiliated and shamed.”
“Good.”
“But if I’m being completely honest, what you did to me won’t change my behavior. If you had done this a few weeks from now, I would’ve felt exhilarated instead of shamed. Assuming I thought you might kill me.”
“Why?”
“Like we said, I have issues. These kids I work on? They’re rag dolls that have to be brought back to life. I…have to bring them back to life. And if I manage to do it, the orderlies quickly wheel in another one. After a few months of that, a bomb goes off inside me. I have to find new ways to keep myself from going insane.”
“I think you’re overlooking the real problem here, Gideon.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re already insane.”
“I know. But I’m still saving lives.”
“Are you, Gideon? Because on my scorecard, you’re oh and two.”
I shake my head. “That’s not fair. I’ll take full responsibility for Bobby’s death. But I’ve never even met Kathy Fowler.”
“I’m not talking about Kathy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Cameron died.”
35
Willow pauses, then hands me her gun, then starts to cry.
“Cameron’s dead?” I say. “ Shit! What happened?”
Willow’s crying escalates. She tries to speak, but can’t. I use the time to remove the bullets from her gun and drop them in my pocket. She falls to the couch and buries her face in one of my designer pillows. I feel terrible for Cameron but I’m also wondering if Willow’s getting tears and snot all over my pillow.
I might be crazy, but I trust Willow. She could have killed me just now, or had Bobby kill me at the park, or when we arrived at Maggie’s farm. She probably saved my life when Bobby tried to shoot me the second time, by taking his knees out from under him.
Willow had plenty of reasons to kill me, and plenty of opportunities, and chose not to.
When she finishes crying herself out she says, “You should’ve stayed at the hospital. You would’ve protected her.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes are closed and she’s swaying slightly from side to side, but not at all similar to the way she’d strip for a man. As she grieves quietly in my living room, it all comes down to this in my mind: her best friend is dead because of me.
I choose this moment to offer her my guest room for the night and she accepts. Perhaps she’ll kill me in my sleep. Do I care?
Not really.
Am I afraid she’ll rob me?
No.
Like Willow said, everything in my penthouse, other than the wooden stool, was put here by decorators. People who don’t know me, who expected me to accept their vision of what belongs here, instead of mine. If she somehow manages to steal my stuff I’ll simply replace it with something I like. It might not be proper, or elegant, but it’ll reflect who I am.
Of course, it would help if I knew who I am.
Willow explains what motivated her to come to New York City.
After I dropped her off at the park, after I tried to hug her and she slapped me, she drove to her place to pick up some of her things. The police were there, searching the place, treating it like a crime scene. They wouldn’t allow her to touch or remove anything. The landlord was there as well, madder than a hornet. They got into a shouting match, and he evicted her. She drove back to Dayton, entered Cameron’s hospital room, and found an empty bed, freshly made. At first she thought they’d taken her friend somewhere to run tests, so she sat in the big chair in Cameron’s room. After an hour, she went to the nurse’s station and learned Cameron had been moved to intensive care. They said she caught a serious infection. Hours later, to Willow’s horror, Cameron was dead.
Two hours pass and we’re still talking about Cameron.
We order Chinese and eat it.
She says, “Is that possible? Can someone go into the hospital for one thing and die from something else within hours?”
“Hospitals are the eighth leading cause of death.”
“Hospitals? How?”
“They’re a breeding ground for bacteria-resistant germs and viruses we call superbugs. It’s a catch-22.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’re so smart I sometimes forget how young you are. Catch-22 is an old expression that means you’re screwed either way. Hospitals are one of the most sterile places on earth. Housekeepers constantly clean and scrub and wipe down surfaces with chemicals and cleaning agents. But the strongest, most-deadly viruses develop a resistance to the chemicals. They become invincible.”
“The super bugs?”
I nod.
“They told Cameron she was healthy enough to leave the next day. How could she die a few hours later?”
“Lots of ways.”
“Name one.”
“Maybe there’s a colony of super bugs on the door knob of the bathroom across the hall from Cameron’s room, and a colony of different super bugs on her bedrail. If a lazy housekeeper wipes the restroom doorknob with an antibacterial wipe and fails to throw the towel away, then uses the same towel to wipe down Cameron’s bedrails, he’s combined the two. Within minutes they mutate into something so deadly, when Cameron touches the bedrail, then her nose or eyes, the bug gets into her bloodstream.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Higher than you might think. Or maybe a nurse or orderly forgot to wash their hands as they went from one room to the next, and transferred MRSA to Cameron through direct contact.”
“What’s MRSA?”
“Methicillin Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus.”
She frowns. “That sounds like something you just made up.”
“That’s why we use initials.”
“Is it common?”
“It’s in the noses or on the skin of one percent of all Americans.”
“Are you saying one percent of all people can kill the rest of us?”
“No. MRSA isn’t deadly unless you’re very young, old, ill, or in a hospital, recovering from a surgery. In that case, anything you touch-a toilet seat, a door handle, a tray-can kill you.”
“You think that’s what killed Cameron?”