“My wallet’s in my jacket. I don’t have anything of value other than the cash and credit cards,” Carvelli said, his words sounding slurred to his ear, probably the result of the drug.
“That’s fine. Very good. But we’re not here to rob you, professor,” the man said in a surprisingly feminine voice, the tone soft, his consonants sibilant with a latent lisp. “We’re here to discuss your meeting schedule.”
Carvelli’s eyes darted from the man to his companion by the window, the curtains drawn, the only illumination in the room provided by the overhead lamp. “I… I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps. But I want you to think. Who were you supposed to meet with this week?”
“Meet? What do you mean, meet? Nobody. I don’t know what you’re asking.”
The two men exchanged a glance that chilled Carvelli’s blood, and his pulse quickened as he read the intent in their expressions.
“Really. I don’t understand the question. I’m not trying to be difficult,” he tried again. This was some sort of mistake. It had to be. Why were two thugs mugging him in his own house, talking in riddles?
“Are you quite sure, professor? Or should I say, doctor? That’s right. We know all about you. Now let’s try again. Did you receive any calls over the last week? Maybe from a foreigner asking questions, or wanting to meet?”
“A foreigner? I really have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. Who are you people? What do you want?”
His interrogator shook his head, a humorless smile playing over his face, a cold thing at home in a graveyard or a slaughterhouse, cruel, no amusement in it.
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy, professor.”
Carvelli’s body was found two days later. When the police broke into the apartment it had already begun decomposing, aided by the warm water in the bathtub the professor had decided to make his final resting place. Long slashes on each arm had stained the water red, and a hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table explained his inability to go on anymore in the face of the insurmountable depression he’d been battling for months.
The postmortem was perfunctory, no evidence of foul play apparent. The funeral service filled one of the larger cathedrals, the revered man honored by his friends, co-workers and students, as well as a Who’s Who of dignitaries from the government and pharmaceutical industries. Everyone agreed that it was a shame such a brilliant mind had decided that the cold embrace of death was preferable to one more day on the planet, but then it was impossible to predict these things, and it was best to remember his notable accomplishments and contributions to the human condition rather than dwell on the manner of his passing.
Two days later an impassioned editorial from the nation’s highest medical authority argued for greater investment in mental health, using the professor’s last act as a cautionary tale about the risks in ignoring a problem that could affect anyone, at any time.
It was, as were all such editorials, routinely ignored by a populace weary of being taxed to death by an administration as profligate in its waste as it was larcenous in its diversion of funds to cronies and pet causes.
A week later, the incident had been forgotten, and another scandal involving a porn starlet and the president occupied the front page, the passing of an academic lacking the necessary weight to warrant a more than transient position in the news.
FOUR
Flight Redux
Jeffrey’s remaining time at the office was a blur of apologies to his coworkers and condolences from the law firm as he scrambled to hand his work off to others in preparation for catching a plane. This was one of the times that his eidetic memory came in handy — he had photographic recall of every document and detail that he had in process, and so was able to delegate the minutiae on the most important projects with digital efficiency. It had been a part of him since birth, and he’d long ago moved from embarrassment over what he viewed as his freakish gift to acceptance. But he still didn’t share the fact that he could recall everything he memorized to the tiniest detail, preferring to avoid calling attention to himself — although he’d won his fair share of bar bets during his college days using it to his advantage.
Becky had told him that a memorial service was planned for the following day, graciously organized by Keith’s employer, the equivalent of a funeral when there was no body to inter. He’d checked flights and could get an afternoon non-stop if he hustled. She’d offered to postpone the service for another day, but Jeffrey, in a state of shock and operating on automatic pilot, had assured her that he could make it.
He ground to a halt after twenty minutes of triage on his open files. Realizing that he’d done all he could, he opened an internet browser and pulled up the news coverage on the crash. The accounts were interchangeable, long on speculation but bereft of facts. What he learned was that the plane had taken off on time, climbed per the flight plan, that the communications with the tower were routine, and that sixteen miles east of Long Island the plane disappeared, with no warning or hint of anything amiss. A big weather front had been pounding the coast, but the jet had been above the clouds by the time it dropped out of the sky. Theories abounded, but they were nothing more than hurried ad hoc rationalizations for a mystery. The plain truth was that nobody knew why the plane exploded — and that it had exploded was now confirmed by the Coast Guard and search boats, which had found the debris.
He shut down his computer and estimated his timing. He’d have to leave the bike there and take a cab home, spend no more than ten minutes packing an overnight bag, and then haul ass to the airport if he was going to make it onboard. With the security screening procedures, it was an easy two-hour delay once at the airport, and he was quite sure that after a plane had gone down for no good reason the mood wouldn’t be relaxed.
Jeffrey threw three fat files into his satchel, usually left in the office on bicycle days, and then pulled on his backpack. With a final glance around his modest space he moved to the door and then stopped, a sudden bout of dizziness throwing him momentarily off-balance. He took several deep breaths and the disequilibrium subsided — probably a combination of shock and a blood sugar crash from the commute; he’d skipped his post-ride breakfast bar, Becky’s call having thrown his morning into disarray.
One of the senior partners met him in the hallway, a somber expression on his wizened face, his polka-dotted red bow tie a jaunty nod at what passed for creativity in the stodgy offices, and stopped in front of Jeffrey, managing to block the way with his small, wiry frame.
“Jeffrey. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you in person — you have the full support of the firm. Take as much time as you need,” he said, his eyes revealing the lie as his lips formed the words. Every day Jeffrey wasn’t working, every hour, a client would go unbilled, and money made the legal mare run. It was the lifeblood of all firms. Billable hours. A grieving sibling out of the office for days, or God forbid, a whole week, was cataclysmic. Clients paid through the nose for Jeffrey’s expertise because they expected timely results, not excuses for non-performance laced with personal problems.
None of which he said. He didn’t have to. Both he and Jeffrey knew the game.
“Thank you,” Jeffrey said, glancing at his watch in what he hoped was an obvious manner. “I’m on my way to the airport right now. I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Anything you need, you can rely on us for.”
“That’s comforting, sir. I appreciate it. Now, not to be rude…”
“Go do what you need to do. I just wanted to convey my deepest condolences. I’ve lost as well, so I know what it’s like.”