I squinted at the bottle. Augmentin: antibiotics. “I should have thought of that.”
She snatched the bottle back. “Gee thanks, Tammy, for probably saving my life. Hey, Aud, no problem: I get such a kick out of nursing crazy people with a death wish who threaten to kill me every five minutes.”
“To kill you?”
“Well, hey Tammy, sorry for any inconvenience, sorry for scaring the shit out of you.” She turned away and wiped at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “Ungrateful asshole.”
I was too tired for this. “Tammy.” She wouldn’t turn around. “I’m sorry.” I looked out of the window. Early afternoon. But what day? “I really said I’d kill you?”
She turned round. “A hundred times. You never shut up.”
“What did I say?”
“A lot of things. To do with the girl, mostly.”
“Julia’s not a girl.”
“Not Julia, the kid. The girl.”
At my blank look, she slid off the bed, and retrieved a folder from the table. She wore a thick cable-knit sweater, blue: mine. I realized it was cold in the trailer. She held out the folder. Bloody glove print on the cover.
“Luz. Her. It was in the car.”
I touched it with a fingertip but didn’t take it. Nine years old and being trained like a dog. “I’ll have to do something about her.”
Tammy dropped the folder back on the table. “Like what?”
I hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “I don’t know.” Nine years old. No one to love her. “What else did I say?”
“Bunch of stuff about glaciers and hospitals. Didn’t make much sense. You cried a lot. And sort of snarled like you were fighting someone. And at me when I said I was calling 911. ‘White!’ you shouted. ‘White!’ And you got out of bed and started to crawl to the door. I had to practically swear on the Bible I wouldn’t call a doctor before I could get you back to bed. But by then the antibiotics had started to work, anyhow. And then you started snarling again, only this time it was different. It—Is that what you’re like when—Was what you said before true? Did you kill him?”
“I don’t know.” I would have to do something about that, too.
When I woke, it was late afternoon.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.” The fever was more or less gone. My neck and knee hurt, I was thirsty. The folder was still on the table. Nine years old. I sat up. It was still cold. “Give me the phone.”
“Who are you calling?”
I just looked at her. She gave me the phone.
My head ached, and I couldn’t remember Eddie’s number at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, so I had to scroll through the names menu. When it rang, the man who answered was not Eddie. After a moment’s confusion, I discovered Eddie had been promoted to late-shift manager of the weekend edition. I was put through.
“Aud!” His voice was textured and rich, like nineteenth-century brocade. “Delightful to hear from you, as always. Where have you been?”
I’ve been up to London to visit the queen. “Renovating an old cabin in the woods. I need a favor.”
“But of course. Though you and your latest client’s expense account still owe me a dinner at the Horseradish Grill.”
“I’ll buy you two, just as soon as I’m back in town. But if you could get on the wires for me and find out if a man called George Karp was hurt or killed in New York, SoHo, three or four days ago, I’d be grateful.”
“And I suppose you need this information yesterday?” I could hear him clicking on the keyboard as we spoke.
“Even the day before.”
“Well. I seem to recall that last time I looked someone up for you, he turned up dead a month or so later, in a public bathroom.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
“On this particular occasion, I believe you. Ah ha. Here we go. George Karp, white male, assaulted by unknown assailants inside his own home, a fashionable loft in—How much detail do you want?”
“The extent of his injuries, whether or not he’s dead.”
“As good as, according to this. ‘Deep coma.’ Somebody really did a number on him. Cervical vertebrae fractured in two places, spinal cord disrupted. Left eye ruptured—associated orbital fractures. Both shoulders dislocated, some muscles torn out. Ruptured spleen, both kidneys severely damaged. Ribs splintered, which probably caused the pneumothorax and liver laceration. Jaw broken, and teeth. Legs more or less untouched, strangely enough. Cranial fracture—that’s what did the damage, they think, although it’s possible that the injury to the larynx, and one to the spinal cord, led to oxygen deprivation before the head trauma. Police are looking for two assailants, white male and white female. From the descriptions you’d think they were brother and sister. Description one is from a group of young men and women passing the loft just after the incident: male, six-two, blond hair, possibly something wrong with his eyes. Description two is from a woman who was apparently accompanying Karp home from a restaurant, who says the attacker was female—still tall, though, another six-footer, and blond hair again, very pale blue…” His voice trailed off. “Aud, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Always,” I said lightly. It was an effort. “Any other details?”
Click click click. “Ah. Now this is interesting. Tabloid stuff, though. Want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“After the news hit the real papers—apparently this Karp is some kind of minor celebrity in the retail universe—a woman talked to the Daily Post, said Karp abused her so much he drove her insane and she ended up in a psychiatric facility. She says, and I quote, ‘He’s a perv and a wacko.’ ” The colloquialisms sounded alien in his smooth diction. “Though, of course, she herself is certifiably insane, so it’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black.” He clicked away. “Lurid tale of kink and coercion follows. According to the tabloid, her statement is corroborated by videotapes found in Karp’s apartment. Although they were all erased somehow, the labeling is apparently suggestive. The tabloid hints that the police now believe this to be some kind of revenge attack.” More tapping. “Officially, the police will say only that they’re pursuing leads.”
“No mention of anything missing?”
“Not that I can see, although a few items of obvious value were left untouched.” A few more clicks. “No. Nothing. Anything else I can do for you?”
A sudden picture of Eddie in his cubicle, smiling down the phone, relaxed and calm, made my eyes smart. “Just keep being yourself.”
There was a startled pause. “Is everything all right with you?”
“Fine. And thank you. I’ll buy you that dinner very soon.”
I folded the phone and dropped it on the bed. Tammy put it on the table with the folder.
“He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“In a coma. A deep coma. He’s not going to recover.”
“He would hate that,” she said, “lying there totally helpless,” and her whole face curved in a predatory smile: the old Tammy coming out to play.
I pushed away the blanket and swang my legs off the couch bed. Instead of lead, my bones felt filled with polystyrene.
“Now what are you doing?” she said.
“There’s still Luz to take care of.”
She stood in front of me. “You’re joking, right?”
I stood on the second try, and shivered. It was definitely cold in the trailer, and I was still naked.
“Jesus, you’re not, are you?” I ignored her and concentrated on moving. Styrofoam was not reliable construction material. “What are you going to do? You can’t even drive with that knee.”