"Garth, help me up, will you? You've made your point."
His response was to abruptly drop his laundry bag into my lap, where it landed with rustling and clicking sounds as its contents shifted. "Here's a little Christmas present for your friends, Pilgrim. Round 'em up and move 'em out. There's a string of ambulances waiting for you up at the curb on Fifth, and they'll take you all to the sawbones. I'm going to stay here and help Sheriff MacWhorter and his posse clean up this town."
I started to say something else, but Garth abruptly wheeled around and skated back toward the center of the rink, which was still a scene of pandemonium and confusion. However, from what I could make out, the police seemed to have things under control, and they were handcuffing men. I sat on the ice next to Raymond Rogers feeling at once deliriously elated and eminently foolish. I opened the top of the laundry bag and peered down at its contents, what must have been upwards of a thousand large black-and-yellow capsules.
I glanced to my right, where Jack was being attended to by a team of paramedics. On the steps leading up to the promenade, Sharon Stephens and her lost flock were being escorted by Veil, Moira, and a half dozen uniformed police officers. I got to my feet, slung the laundry bag over my shoulder, and went after them.
Aftermath of a Storm
The Chill Shop was thoroughly burned, and the government's reaction to the story told by the survivors of Rivercliff was refreshingly candid and swift. In less than an hour after the story broke, the President, flanked by both the Secretary of Health and Education and the CIA Director, appeared on national television. The President offered no lame excuses, only an apology to the patients and the entire country for what had been allowed to happen, and a pledge that the patients would be compensated. The CIA Director, in announcing his resignation and that of his immediate deputy, took full responsibility for the activities of the Bureau of Unusual Human Resources. However, he claimed that BUHR's existence had been a closely held secret within the Company itself, an operation kept alive by a few old hands, and he had not, in the three years of his term, ever been told of its existence or activities. The Director's forthright statement and behavior were so untypical of the clouds of smoke that usually belched out of Langley that I tended to believe him, and I listened with at least a measure of sympathy to his plea not to blame the entire American intelligence community for the criminal behavior of a handful of bureaucrats who would be going to prison, probably for life.
Lorminix, while predictably denying all accusations, was having a severe public relations problem, and both Garth and I had been asked if we would agree to serve as consultants to the Swiss authorities as they investigated the drug and chemical cartel. We most certainly would.
The patients had been granted permission to continue on their present, still unnamed medication until such time as a special task force-headed by Bailey Kramer, who was overnight being hailed as a genius, national hero, and scientific pioneer-could build upon the work Bailey had already done and reformulate the compound so as to provide a medication that would be as effective as the original, but without the original compound's deadly side effects. Early predictions were that the compound, for which Bailey had already received certain technical and procedural patents, would revolutionize drug therapy not only for schizophrenics but also for sufferers of other forms of mental illness as well. Frank Lemengello had accepted Bailey's invitation to become his partner in a company that would produce and distribute the new medication, a venture that Wall Street experts estimated would net both men tens of millions of dollars.
And, of course, my name and picture, and Garth's, were in all the newspapers, and we were turning down requests for interviews left and right, referring all book and movie offers to Sharon Stephens and her patients, and especially to Margaret Dutton. There was already a television movie in the works, called Mama Spit. I had politely but very firmly refused a request to appear in the film in some cameo role; rumor had it that the producers were trying to get Tom Selleck or Sylvester Stallone to play my part. In return for any cooperation at all, like maybe acting with my brother as a consultant for a ton of money, I insisted that the character of Felix MacWhorter be given a prominent role in the script so as to extol the virtues and valor of the NYPD and his own handling of the situation that had made such a successful outcome possible.
A week after New Year's, a nationally televised memorial service for all of the patients who had died at Rivercliff was held at St. Patrick's Cathedral. Garth, Mary Tree, and I were seated in a relatively private viewing area, which I appreciated since I'd had all the public exposure I wanted for a very long time. The service, presided over by the Cardinal, was quite lovely. No chain of events that involved the deaths of so many people and Michael Stout's sacrifice of his own life could be said to have a happy ending, but I decided it was close. Emily and Margaret had happy beginnings. Eleven of the lost flock and their shepherdess were alive, Garth and I were alive, BUHR had been dismantled, and Lorminix was going to have a lot more trouble than it could handle.
But Garth was still mad at me, which meant I had still not found out how he had found out what was going on, or how he'd obtained the capsules. I was still getting nothing from him but John Wayne homilies, and that meant I was not forgiven.
After the service we walked out and stood together off to the side at the top of the cathedral's great stone steps, looking out on a fine, snow-dusted New York Sunday in the new year.
I said, "Come on, Garth. How long is it going to be before you tell me how you got the capsules?"
"Well, I don't know, little pilgrim," the Duke drawled. "How long were you planning on waiting before calling me to tell me you were up to your ass in Apaches? You had people wanting to plug you, and a couple of them hombres tortured you. I guess you just plumb downright didn't want to bother this old hoss with those details, right? I guess you plumb downright didn't give much of a hoot as to how I'd feel if I came home and found my old pardner had been killed while I was away off up in the mountains."
"Garth, I just didn't think there was anything you could do."
"Then the joke's on you, isn't it, you hardheaded little heifer? It was your trusty old pardner here who got the capsules, and if it wasn't for your trusty old pardner here, you'd have a bullet in the heart, or an ice pick in the brain. It seems to me that it's a good thing for you this hoss crashed the square dance. If you'd been sitting in my saddle and I'd done the same thing to you, not told you what was happening or asked for your help, you'd have come looking to carve out my heart with a rusty bowie knife."
"Look, Duke, I'm grateful. Okay? So I made a mistake in not bringing you in. Does that mean I get this crap from you for the rest of my life?"
"Could be, Pilgrim."
"Come on. Gerard called you, didn't he?"
"I can't rightly recollect who it was who told me that my pardner and a dozen other people he was trying to help were in serious danger of winding up on Boot Hill."
I turned to my beautiful and famous sister-in-law. Her long, gray-streaked yellow hair gleamed like gold in the afternoon sun, and her eyes sparkled as she stared back at me. She seemed highly amused by the situation, and I had the strong suspicion that it was all she could do to keep from laughing. I said to her, "You know, don't you?"
Mary Tree's response was an enigmatic, almost apologetic, smile. It meant she knew, but wasn't about to upstage my ham brother, or step on his lines.
John Wayne said, "I hear tell you didn't even let the sheriff back in there know what was going on until it was almost too late. You must have tumbleweed for brains, little pilgrim."