Robert Crais_Elvis Cole_10, page 27
"I know."
Me, rolling my eyes because that's what normal mid-American kids in normal mid-American towns always do; television said so, and television doesn't lie.
Neither of them turned.
My mother stayed at the sink, and my father stayed in the fridge. The kitchen drapes swayed, but their slight movement made the house feel still.
"Hey, I'm hungry. I thought we were going to eat."
Water burbled in the sink. Eggs fried in bacon grease on the stove. Outside, boys and girls chased the ice-cream man, and fathers and mothers laughed. Outside, the day was so beautiful you could hear sunlight and taste its joy.
My perfect house felt hollow.
"Dad? Daddy, look at me. You have to look at me. I'm supposed to know you! Hey, that's why we're here. That's why I made this place. I took it in the chest to know you1."
The man in the fridge grew milky and pale, and faded as he stood.
"Daddy!"
He stood, but it was too late. I told myself he tried. I told myself he wanted to know me, and would have if he could.
"Mama, don't let him go!"
He thinned until he vanished, and then she faded, too. The refrigerator swung open. The door bounced once, and was still. Cool air came through the windows, carrying faraway voices. The hour could not have been more pleasant in that perfect little house.
It isn't so bad, not knowing who you are. You get to make up whatever you want.
I walked back through the house. The hall was long. My footsteps echoed. The living room was smaller than you might think, but comfortable with Early American furniture, framed pictures on the mantel, and a grandfather clock. It ticked like a dying heart.
The voices I heard earlier grew louder, riding in on the breeze. They sounded familiar. I ran back to the kitchen.
"Mom?"
The voices came even louder, a man and a woman, all jumbled and mixed, and I got the crazy notion she was bringing him back. I didn't see anyone out the kitchen window, so I ran back to the living room.
"Is that you? Where are you?"
Footsteps came from the ceiling; someone was moving. I ran to the stairs, and took the steps three at a time. We could still do it. I could still find them.
"Where are you?"
I ran upstairs, following the voices.
Chapter 61
* * *
The Intensive Care people weren't big on chairs, though they said visitors were good so long as they didn't stay too long. Because lengthy visits were discouraged, they provided only the one chair. Pike had been at Cole's side since the beginning, and had not left the hospital. He slept in the chair when the others had gone, or stood in the room or the hall. He washed in the lavatory, and Starkey or the guys from his gun shop brought fresh clothes and food. Pike was particular about what he ate. He was a vegetarian.
Visitors came and went throughout the days and evenings, and Pike felt them move around him with barely a word or nod exchanged. Lou Poitras and his family came by almost every evening. Starkey visited twice a day, usually once for a few minutes during the day shift, then again in the evening. The first time, she stood quietly in the corner, arms tightly crossed, bunched together, eyes red, mumbling, I knew this was going to happen, goddamnit, I knew it. The second time, she came in blowing gin, and sat in the chair with her face in her hands.
Pike gently pulled her to her feet. He removed his dark glasses, then held her. He smoothed her hair, and made his voice soft.
"Don't do this. Be stronger than this."
Starkey told him to fuck himself, but the next time she came she didn't smell of gin. She left every five minutes to cheat a cigarette in the bathroom, and often smelled of Binaca.
Detective Jeff Pardy showed up on the third night. He eyed Pike like he was embarrassed by the scene he had made in Cole's home, and then he apologized. Pike respected him for the apology, and told him so.
Pardy said, "Well, listen, I'm going to go. We're having a service for Diaz."
Pike nodded.
"If Cole wakes up, tell him we found Reinnike's Accord in a long-term parking lot at LAX. We found Diaz's prints on the seat. It looks like she put it there, but we can't be sure."
"I'll tell him."
"We wouldn't have found it if you guys hadn't gotten the tag. That was good work."
"I'll let him know."
One of their former clients, a film director named Peter Alan Nelsen, came by late one evening. He came alone, wearing a fishing cap and a high-collared shirt, hoping he wouldn't be recognized. Pike and Nelsen stood in the hall outside Cole's ICU bed for a long time, talking about what happened. Nelsen sat by Cole's side for a while, praying, and didn't leave until much later. The next day, one thousand roses were delivered, so many roses that the floor staff put roses in every room on the floor, and spread them throughout the hospital.
The following day, another former client arrived, but he did not come alone. Frank Garcia had once been a White Fence gang-banger, but he built a billion-dollar food empire that included salsas, chips, Mexican food products, and his legendary Monsterito tortillas. When Frank's daughter was murdered, Pike and Cole found the killer. Now, Frank arrived with his attorney, Abbot Montoya, a city councilman named Henry Maldenado, and an army of hospital directors in tow. Frank Garcia had built the hospital's children's wing.
Frank wasn't as strong as he used to be, and latched on to Joe's arm for support.
"How is he?"
Pike glanced at the bed.
Frank made the sign of the cross, then waved angrily toward Montoya.
"The best. Put him in the same room they put the fucking president. Is this the best these bastards can do? This man avenged Karen. He carries my heart!"
Pike said, "Frank."
"The best doctors, the best nurses – take care of it, Abbot. Para siempre."
Frank stood clutching Pike's arm, weeping like a child as he stared at the bed.
On the fifth day, Pike was standing beside Cole's bed at one-sixteen that afternoon. Starkey had just left. Earlier, Ellen Lang and Jodi Taylor had dropped by, but at one-sixteen, Pike was the only one.
Cole appeared to be dreaming. His eyes, though closed, fluttered in REM sleep.
Pike took his hand.
Cole's eyes opened, just little slits, squinting at the light.
Pike said, "Welcome home."
Cole wet his lips and tried to speak.
Pike said, "Don't talk."
Cole went back to sleep. Pike held his friend's hand, and never once moved as he held on, and held, waiting.
That evening, Pike stood at the foot of Cole's bed, and it was Starkey who held Cole's hand.
"Hey, buddy. Cole, can you hear me?"
Throughout the afternoon, his eyes opened a little more each time. The nurses told Pike that talking to Cole was good, and would help him come back.
When Pike told Starkey that Cole was waking, her strained miserable expression blossomed into a sunburst smile, and she stormed straight to Cole's bed.
"That's great, man! That's fantastic! Hey, buddy, you with us? You hear me?"
They took turns talking to Cole, and holding his hand, and Pike was pleased to see Starkey in such good spirits. She seemed like her old self again, saying funny outrageous things, and bouncing around the room.
– "Cole, check this out – I'm flashing my boobies."
–"Guess what, Cole? I moved into your house. You're not using it, so I figured what the hell. I shot your cat."
– "You know, Cole, this is a really stupid way to avoid buying me dinner."
At seven-thirty that night, Pike left Starkey with Cole, and stepped into the hall. He stretched deeply, bending far forward to ease the stiffness in his back. When he stood, Lucy Chenier was rushing toward him. She slowed to a fast walk. Her face was gray with fatigue and strain, and sagging with worry.
She said, "Where is he?"
Pike nodded toward the door.
Lucy blew past him into the room. Pike watched Starkey as Lucy went to the bed. The edgy light in Starkey's face dulled, and her energy, it seemed to Pike, faded. Starkey stepped away from the bed to make room for Lucy, and Pike resumed his place at the foot of the bed.
Lucy took Cole's hand in hers. Her eyes filled, and the tears showered onto the sheets.
She said, "You better not die on me. You better not. Do you hear me, Elvis Cole? You –"
Lucy heaved with a terrible sob, and she gasped as she cried.
Cole's eyes fluttered. His left eye opened more than his right.
"Luce?"
Lucy cried harder, but now her face broke into a smile.
Cole's rolling eyes focused.
"Luce –"
"Yes, baby. I'm here. I'm here. You come back to me now. You come back."
Starkey hacked away. Pike saw her watch Lucy, then turn her eyes to the floor. After a while, Starkey left to stand in the hall. Pike considered the meaning, but would not leave Cole's side. He patted Cole's leg.
"Elvis."
Cole looked at him.
Pike said, "I'm the one who's supposed to get shot."
Cole managed a smile, then slipped back into sleep.
Pike stayed. Every day visitors came and left, but Pike remained at the hospital. He stayed at the hospital nonstop for twelve days before taking a break, and, then, he left only because they were sure his friend was past the worst of it; Elvis Cole was with them, again; he would live.
PART FIVE
* * *
The Forgiven Man
Chapter 62
* * *
I said, "Here is good."
Pike eased the rental car to the side of the gravel road under the lush canopy of a beautiful willow tree.
"You know where it is?"
"Over there somewhere. I can find it."
Pike had flown with me back to the place she lies buried. I still had trouble walking, and didn't trust myself to drive. I would rather have come alone, but having Pike's company was good.
Pike said, "You want me to come with you?"
"No, you wait. I won't be long."
I had to use a cane, and my side stitched with sharp pains when I moved. The therapists warned me the pain would linger for months, and might never completely leave, so I had made peace with it.
My grandparents and my mother were buried near each other at the rear of the grounds. My aunt had died in an auto accident fifteen years earlier, and was buried outside Chicago where she had lived with her husband. I had two cousins, but I never saw them. I had not been to my mother's grave since the day she was buried.
I found the little black rectangle and stared down at her name. The stone was dirty and weathered, but green grass softened its edges and made it look better than it was. No one was left to put flowers. Probably no one had put flowers since my aunt moved away. It hurt to bend, but I bent anyway, and placed the roses on her name.
I said, "Hi, Mama."
My eyes filled, and I cried for a while. I felt bad that I never came to see her, and bad that I had blamed her for so much over the years, because now it all seemed selfish and cruel. Her sickness was a sad thing, and beyond anyone's measure. Her only true crime was giving me a dream, and I had resented her for it. My true crimes were greater. Like the pain in my side, some things simply need to be accepted, and overcome.
I limped back to the car, and tried to make myself comfortable. It wasn't easy.
"Okay. I'm done."
"You good?"
"Yeah. We had a nice talk."
Pike and I drove back to the airport, and returned to Los Angeles the same day.
It was good to be home.
END OF THE FORGOTTEN MAN
Table of Contents
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART TWO
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
PART THREE
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
PART FOUR
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
PART FIVE
Chapter 62
The Forgotten Man, Robert Crais_Elvis Cole_10
