He had not spoken to her since the incident. He did not want to be too close to her as it was. Her husband would be taking care of her as she recovered and he had no part to play in that.
For days now he had kept to himself. He had stayed in his house, playing his guitar and his piano like a depressed kid. He realized he behaved like one as well. He recalled a scene from a New Zealand cartoon in which Jesus spent Easter playing sad rock songs in his room, blaming his Father for what he did and is remembered around the world each Easter. He felt a bit like that. He saw the horrifically mutilated bodies, the bleeding Naomh Walsh and the broken girl on the asphalt. And every day, he walked around his office and his house he remembered everything that had happened. He could not shake it off.
He was not being self-pitying and he was not suffering from post-traumatic stress over the incident. He had shot people before, but somehow this had been different. This had been something connected to him. It had been about him. It had been a client of his who had committed these atrocities. Someone who had walked through his office, who had sat in his chair. And he simply did not know how to deal with that reality.
About a week after the death of Justine Lavoie, with the papers and the television still buzzing about it, a well-shaped woman with lush, curly hair walked into the office. She walked strangely, keeping her back as straight and rigid as possible. She asked one of the junior partners in the firm where his office was and then made her way to his door. He did not recognize her at first. Her face was a mask of pain which hid her usual vivacity.
He got to his feet when he did recognize her. “Ms. Walsh.”
She smiled. “Hi, Donovan.” She stood just inside his door for a moment, quite indecisively. “I, um... I never did thank you for saving my life.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Donovan muttered, looking down. He did not quite know what to say, which was rare.
“You're not going to offer me coffee or something?” Naomh smiled at him.
“Yeah, yeah sure.” He lead the way to the kitchen and set about making some lattés. Giving her one of the large cups, he still did not know what to say. “How've you been?” he eventually asked, knowing it was a crappy question to ask.
“Fine,” she answered, stirring some sugar into her coffee. “In pain. My stitches keep tearing out. I've been wearing a corset for the last two days now; it has stopped me moving about so much, so there is less strain on them.”
Donovan nodded. “Not been busy? I didn’t see anything on the news about your client having been on a killing spree.”
Naomh shook her head. “There is a big corporation behind her... there was... they thought it better to keep it out of the news. Cecilia, that's Cecilia O'Hourihane, my business partner, has been working around the clock on it. She knows what happened, but it has been a nightmare trying to contain it.”
“I can imagine...”
“Still, that’s why we get paid the big bucks, exactly this.”
Donovan nodded, still unsure what to say. Naomh knew she had to say something.
“Look, Donovan...” she began. “If it were different, if Max weren't in the picture...” Her voice trailed off.
It took Donovan a moment to realize Max was her husband, but he knew what she was trying to say. “You don't need to say anything. I had a great time getting to know you. And that's worth more than anything.”
She smiled, finished her coffee and got up. She ran a hand along his cheek and kissed him tenderly. “Goodbye, Donovan. It was fun. And if you ever need some help with public relations....”
“I'll know where to find you.”
There was an issue resolved, he reckoned as he drove the racing-car-green Jaguar home, but it hardly served to make him feel any better. Back home, he sat down in his smoking room, again, with a whiskey and a Cohiba Cuban cigar and picked up his guitar. It was the usual routine. Next he would go to the dining room for his dinner. He found some things were different around the house. His new housekeeper was still learning the ropes. The new janitor, too, was making some mistakes; there were 40 watt bulbs in his office now and a light scratch on the wooden floor in the humidor. But he was young and Johnson, thank goodness for him, had high standards and was keeping his eye on both of them.
That evening, his musings and his musical meditation were interrupted by a call. A cheerful, chirpy voice sounded through his phone and he had Johnson let the person in. Frankie Saunders sat down in the chair opposite his moments later. She crossed her legs and her arms as she waited for Donovan to put his guitar down. “You need to take a chill pill,” she said as he just sat there strumming his guitar in a depressed manner. “None of this was your fault and you need to let it go.”
Donovan frowned and stopped picking the strings. “I know all of that,” He sighed. “I don't know why I can't shake it off.” He was silent for a moment and played a single chord. “Why are you here, Frankie?”
Frankie sighed and leaned forward. “I don't like the guy I'm engaged to, but you know that already. Good guy, but I don't want him.”
“Ah,” was Donovan's only answer. He had a feeling about what was about to come.
“There's only one guy I want, and anyone else is second best. I'll settle for second best if I have to, but I don't want to.”
“Still doesn't explain why you're here, Frankie.”
Frankie Saunders sighed. “This thing with the mayor... he cares too much. I couldn't let him and Michael meet, so I had to avoid both of them. I can't keep doing that. Given the way this world here works, I'll have to settle down, get married and all. And soon...”
“But you don't want to settle for second best?” Donovan guessed.
“I only want my first choice, but I need to know soon.”
“How soon is soon?” Donovan frowned.
“We moved the wedding up. It'll be next week in California. I'm flying over tomorrow morning.” For the first time Frankie fidgeted. “I'd hoped to get an answer from the guy tonight.”
Donovan sighed and put the guitar down. “I don't know Frankie. I really don't know.”
Frankie Saunders nodded and got up. Donovan thought he saw a glint of a tear in her eye. “I'll see you around then, Donovan. Sometime after the wedding maybe?” She hurried from the room and Donovan buried his face in his hands.
Slowly he got up and walked up the stairs. He went to the top bedroom suite and got undressed. He took a quick shower and sat down on the bed. Here was another problem to add to the big list of things that had gone wrong in the last weeks. In frustration, he threw a pillow across the room and then picked up the television remote control. He turned on the big flat screen and tried to find something he wanted to watch. Eventually he just left one of the news channels on and leaned back against the head of the bed.
“FBI agents in the Caribbean have arrested a Jamaican national by the name of Marcel Brown, nicknamed Moses, on suspicion of drug trafficking, weapons trafficking and forgery. As we speak, we have learned the man is being transported to Washington where he will face charges.”
Donovan turned the television off. He did not want to think about international affairs right now. He closed the curtains and tried to go to sleep, but the image of Justine Lavoie's body on the road below him haunted him.
In the morning he woke up early. He had slept badly again and he was short tempered. He snapped at Johnson for bringing him orange juice with pulp with his breakfast. He cheered up a bit as he drove his E-type Jag as fast as he could down Sunset Boulevard, but he knew he had to find another way to deal with everything than driving fast.
He ran up the stairs and sat down behind his desk again. He checked his emails and answered them. There was a reminder from Frankie Saunders that she was flying to California for her wedding and another dinner invitation from Gregoris Sedakis and Maria, his 19 year old wife.