* * *
Richard’s late grandfather had been a partner in the local attorneys’ office that still handled Richard’s affairs. Morton, Alpert, Fox, and Jemison had been, and still was, one of the most respected firms in town. That they’d kept the old man’s name years after his death reaffirmed the respect he’d commanded.
Daniel Jemison, son of the last of the original partners, was about Richard’s age. Dressed in a drab gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie, the trim, sandy-haired lawyer didn’t impress me as a man with much imagination. Throughout Richard’s narration, Jemison’s face remained impassive; only a raised eyebrow now and then betrayed he was even listening. I sat hunched in my chair, massaging my forehead, wishing the steady thumping would stop.
When Richard finished, Jemison swiveled his chair to gaze out the window, which overlooked the HSBC Arena, home of the Buffalo Sabres hockey team. We waited for long moments before he finally spoke.
“My advice is to go home and devote yourself to TV reruns.”
I glanced at Richard in the adjacent chair. He looked as baffled as I felt.
“I beg your pardon,” Richard said.
“Don’t do anything. Don’t even leave the house if you can manage it.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “But I know—”
“Whatever you ‘think’ you know is immaterial, Mr. Resnick. There are any number of possible litigants who could drag you into court. The woman you suspect. The police. Any of the people you’ve interviewed. It wouldn’t hurt for you both to leave town—lose yourself in a big metropolitan area: New York, L.A. Let this whole situation blow over.”
The pain in my skull flared.
Richard stood. “Thanks, Dan. And thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”
Jemison rose. “Always a pleasure.” He shook hands with Richard, but I turned away before I’d have to.
I shuffled out the door to the reception area.
Brenda put down a magazine, rose from her seat, and joined me as I headed for the elevator. “You look awful.”
“That’s just how I feel.”
“Did it go badly?”
“You’ll have to ask Rich. I just want to go home.”
Richard had joined us by the time the elevator arrived. We rode down in silence with several others. The walk to the parking garage seemed liked miles. Several times I almost stumbled on the sidewalk. It was only Brenda’s steadying grasp on my arm that kept me upright. I tried to catch a glimpse of Richard’s expression, but he kept a pace or two ahead of us until we got to the car. He opened the back door and helped me in. A minute later, he’d started the car and we headed home.
I shut my eyes, concentrating all my energy on controlling my gag reflex. I was determined not to throw up on Richard’s beautiful leather upholstery. I heard them conversing quietly, but couldn’t spare the effort to listen.
It seemed a long time before Richard pulled up the driveway and stopped the car by the back door. Brenda helped me into the house, and I waved her off as I staggered to my room. I pulled off my raincoat, the tie came next, then I blindly fumbled with the belt at my waist. I kicked off my shoes and walked out of my pants, all the while ripping open the Velcro fasteners on the brace, and dumped everything into an untidy pile on the floor. Then I crawled onto my bed, wrapped myself in the spread, and collapsed.
My pulse pounded through my skull. Sound and light were my enemies as I huddled into a ball of misery, pain, and despair. I hadn’t felt this bad since I’d regained consciousness back in the hospital after the mugging.
I heard a faint rustle and cracked an eye open far enough to see Brenda picking up my clothes, hanging them on hangers. “Hon, you really shouldn’t take off that brace.”
“Not now,” I murmured.
“You going to be sick?”
“Maybe.”
She bent low by my bedside. “If you can’t get to the john, the wastebasket’s here. Okay?”
I tried to nod and ground my teeth against the nausea. Then she was gone.
It’s scary that a headache can be so thoroughly incapacitating. This was worse than the worst hangover.
I lay there, barely breathing, as even that sound jarred my brains. It seemed like hours before I dozed off. At some point I found myself in the tiny bathroom, worshiping the porcelain god with the dry heaves, but the next thing I knew, it was dark and Brenda was back in my room. The light from the hallway gouged my eyes like knife thrusts.
“Jeffy? You want some dinner?” she asked, her voice gentle.
I groaned. “No.”
“How about soup?”
It seemed like she’d asked me to explain a complicated math problem rather than answer with a simple yes or no.
Then Richard crouched beside me, his face only inches from mine. “When was the last time you took your medication?”
I had to think about it, and thinking was an effort. “Lunchtime. I—I ran out.”
“Jesus,” he swore, and then he went away, too.
Sometime later, I came to again and found the bedside lamp blazing. I covered my eyes with my hand, surprised to find my face damp. Sweat? Tears? I wasn’t sure.
I barely managed to raise myself from the oblivion of misery. Richard hovered somewhere above me. I heard him talking, but caught only fragments. “Ease the pain . . . non-narcotic . . . better by tomorrow . . . .”
A needle pricked the inside of my right arm. He kept on talking, his voice a soothing croon, and I sank back into a fog bank of exquisite pain.
Whatever that magic syringe contained must have done the trick, for although I tossed and turned all night, plagued by dreams of teenagers wielding baseball bats and clubbing me senseless, I did sleep. When I woke the next morning, the pain was bearable.
At some time during the previous day, someone had taken off my dress shirt and the brace was back on my arm. They’d taken good care of me. Now I needed find out if Richard intended to throw me out on my ass. I couldn’t blame him if he did.
I stumbled from bed and found a navy velour robe draped across the top of my dresser. I put it on, awkwardly knotting the belt at my waist.
I must have looked a sight when I staggered out into the kitchen and found Richard and Brenda seated at the table with the breakfast dishes still in front of them. “Any coffee left?” My voice sounded husky as a chain-smoker’s.
“Sit down. You really want coffee? How about some hot chocolate?” Brenda asked.
I sat. “I’ll take the chocolate.” Settling my weight on my good arm, I closed my eyes, breathing shallowly.
“You want something to eat?” Richard asked.
“I’m not ready for food.”
“You going to live?”
I squinted up at him. “You tell me.”
Instead he got up, grabbed a white paper bag off the counter, and took out a whole pharmacy of new and different drugs, setting them in front of me. His expression was stern, but his voice was gentle. “I’m telling you this as your concerned brother and as a licensed quack. Don’t fuck with your health.”
I blinked, surprised at his choice of words.
“You ever read the instructions that came with your prescription?”
“Of course. Well, kind of. Only what was on the bottle.”
“Do you know what happened yesterday? You overdosed. Every pill you took made the headache ten times worse. You can’t pop those things like candy. There’s a regimen involved when taking this stuff.”
“Well, I didn’t know.” It sounded lame, even to me. The whole episode should have terrified me, but I’d instinctively known that Richard would be there for me, that he’d take care of me. Exactly what I hadn’t wanted only weeks before.
“I can’t take care of you,” he continued, as though reading my mind. “I’m too emotionally involved. I’ve arranged for someone at the UB clinic to see you on Monday.” He took two of the pills from one of the bottles. “Take these now. We’ll go over the rest of the routine when you can
think straight.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured with respect. He spoke to me like I was a five-year-old, but I was too tired to complain, and ready to do just about anything so not to endure a repeat of the previous day. Brenda put a small glass of water in front of me and I downed the pills.
“Anything break on the Sumner case yesterday?”
“Jeff!”
“Rich, I gotta know.”
“No. Nothing happened. No one was arrested.”
Brenda placed a steaming mug before me and took her seat.
I took a sip of chocolate, avoiding both their gazes. “Sorry I crapped out on you yesterday. We should’ve talked about . . . .” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“About Dan’s advice?” Richard said.
I nodded. “I’m sorry I dragged you into all this, Rich. I—”
He held up a hand to stop me. “I’ve had a day to think about it. If you want to continue looking into Sumner’s murder, I won’t stop you. Hell, how could I?”
“But, Jemison said—”
“I know this is important to you. I just want you to consider the consequences if you continue with your—” It cost him to say it. “—investigation.”
I thought carefully before answering. “I keep asking myself, what’re the consequences if I don’t? I know what I know. I can’t explain to you why I feel obligated to keep looking for answers. I just have to do this.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “Okay, then let’s talk about what you’re going to do today—which is nothing,” Richard said.
“No argument there,” I said, glad he’d changed the subject. And I didn’t do anything else that day but rest. I managed to drink the whole mug of chocolate before crashing for a three-hour nap. For lunch, I kept down an entire bowl of soup. By Wednesday evening I began to feel almost human again and choked down at least half the dinner Brenda served me. I watched the evening news, glanced at the newspaper to look for anything new on the Sumner investigation, and was in bed and asleep by eight o’clock.
Thursday morning, I was ready to go back to work.