CHAPTER NINE

IT WAS ANOTHER calm night, the November winds mysteriously absent. I figured that was a good thing. I would be able to hear him outside if he came to my door.

The policeman had stopped by in his unmarked vehicle to set up the watch. I felt bad for the guy, having to sit there all night in his car. I remembered having to do that myself in Detroit.

I plugged in the phone unit Maven had given me. Any incoming calls would automatically trigger a trace record, and the recorder would turn on. All I had to do was pick up the phone and talk. If it was the same guy and he wanted to know what I thought of his latest murder, I would play along, get him to tell me all about it. That was the plan, at least.

The cop gave me a walkie-talkie, too. I called him as soon as he had taken up his position on the logging road, just around the bend. “I hear you loud and clear, Mr. McKnight,” he said. “If anyone shows up, I should be able to see him from here. But give me a yell on this thing just in case you hear anything.”

“You got it,” I said. “I hope they’re paying you double overtime for this.” I signed off and put the walkie-talkie and my revolver on the table next to my bed. All I could do now was wait.

I lay on the bed, listening to the silence. It felt like a long time. I looked at the clock. It wasn’t even eleven yet.

And then the phone rang. I sat up and grabbed the gun.

Easy, Alex. For God’s sake.

I heard the machine click on automatically. The number would be traced before I even answered it. And the faint whirring sound meant that the tape recording had already started.

I picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Alex, it’s me, Lane. I’m at the Fultons’ house. We had a nice dinner, sorry you couldn’t be here. You were right, Mrs. Fulton is a great cook.”

“Say hello to her for me,” I said.

“I will. Listen, I just wanted to make sure you were all right over there. Is everything set up?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Good. Okay, I’ll get off the phone then. Hey, by the way, I tried calling the prison today. They were having a lockdown. There was some sort of disturbance on Rose’s block. The guy sounded like it happens once a week. Anyway, I couldn’t get through to Rose. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Alex. You call me if anything happens, okay?”

“You got it.”

“I mean, call the police first, of course. Ha! Then call me.”

“Of course,” I said.

“All right, I’m off to guard the palace. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I lay back down on the bed. The gun was still in my hand. I looked at it closely, checked that it was loaded. It looked exactly like the gun I once carried as a policeman. I suppose that’s why Lane bought it. He figured I’d be accustomed to a service revolver. But holding it in my hand only made me think of one thing. Why didn’t I go for my gun right away? Could I have gotten it out of the holster in time? Would he have shot me first instead? Maybe I’d be dead now and Franklin would still be alive. Would that be such a bad thing?

The phone rang again. The machine turned on. Another trace, another recording. I answered it.

“Mr. McKnight? This is Theodora Fulton.”

“Mrs. Fulton,” I said. “Is everything all right over there?”

“For the moment, yes. Although I have to say, I would feel much safer if you were here.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I said. “Lane is a good man.”

“He’s Edwin’s lawyer, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is, ma’am.”

“Do they allow lawyers to carry guns?”

“Uh … sure. Of course,” I said. “Why not?”

“It doesn’t seem right to me. Lawyers are dangerous enough without being armed, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ah, you’re being funny now, Mrs. Fulton.”

“Please forgive me,” she said. “I just had to hear your voice and to say good night to you, Alex … . You don’t think that person will show up here, do you?”

“No,” I said. “I really don’t think so.”

“All right, Alex. Do take care of yourself. Good night.”

I walked around the cabin for a while, stood looking out each window into the night. I picked up the walkie-talkie and hit the button. “You okay out there?”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m gonna just step out of the car a second to water the bushes, but don’t worry, I’ll have the radio with me at all times.”

I signed off and put the unit back on the table. I checked the gun again. Alex, you are going to drive yourself fucking insane before this night is over.

The phone rang again. It was almost midnight. I picked it up.

“Alex, it’s me, Edwin.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Edwin, for God’s sake. Uttley already called, and so did your mother.”

“You’re kidding me. I didn’t hear them. I was in the Jacuzzi.”

“I’m fine, Edwin.”

“You should try this jacuzzi sometime,” he said. “It really helps you to relax.”

“I can’t imagine what relaxed feels like right now,” I said. Truth was, I had been in his jacuzzi. It was the one time I had actually spent the night over there with Sylvia, when Edwin had gone down to Detroit to accept some kind of humanitarian award. All the other times were just quick exchanges in the afternoon, or maybe a stolen hour in the night when we were sure he was out at the casinos. Just thinking about it made me feel bad again. It was guilt, yes. But also the horrible realization that I would do it again if I had the chance. And the equally horrible realization that I wouldn’t get the chance.

This is just what you need to be thinking about, Alex. While you wait for a killer to come pay you a visit. Now the night is complete.

“Are you still there, Alex?”

“Yes, sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m a little on edge here.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll let you go. Just wanted to say we’re all thinking about you.”

“You sure you guys don’t want to go back to Grosse Pointe for a while,” I said.

“No dice, Alex. You’re stuck with us. Good night.”

I put the phone down. Sylvia will be next, right? Just a quick good night and I hate your guts. Then I will have spoken to everyone in the house.

She didn’t call. I finally lay back down on the bed with my clothes on. I turned the light off. I knew that having a light on inside might make me feel better, but that it was better to wait in the dark, where I could see him as well as he could see me.

I drifted off, thinking about that day in Detroit again. Whatever I had said into my radio was enough for them to finally find us there. My memories shifted from the ceiling of that apartment to the ceiling in the hospital. A doctor looking down at me, shining a light into my eyes. More darkness. Then another doctor and a nurse.

And then my wife looking down at me, biting her lip. I tried to speak, but I could not. I closed my eyes. The next time I opened them, she was gone.

And then a reporter, I think, trying to ask me questions. And then a nurse shooing him away.

I don’t know how many days I spent in that hospital bed. Finally I was able to focus my eyes for more than a fleeting moment. And then soon after that I could lift my head up. I felt a thick wrapping of bandages on my right shoulder. A doctor came in and sat in a chair next to my bed.

“Mr. McKnight,” he said. “How do you feel today?”

“How long has it been?” I said. “What happened?”

“It’s been six days,” he said. “You were shot three times.”

“My partner,” I said. “Franklin.”

“He was gone when they found him.”

“Yes,” I said. I let my head fall back on the pillow. “I thought so.”

“They had the funeral on Sunday,” the doctor said.

“What about the man who shot me. Us. Did they catch him?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t believe so.”

I nodded. “Was Mayor Young there? At Franklin’s funeral?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Good,” I said. “Franklin always liked Mayor Young. It was one of the things we argued about.”

“Mr. McKnight, I need to tell you what’s going on. We were only able to remove two of the bullets.”

“Two of them? Where’s the third one?”

“It’s still inside you,” he said. “As a matter of fact, it’s right next to your heart. It apparently bounced off your collar bone and stopped just outside the pericardial membrane.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

“What that means is that you are a very lucky person. Although I don’t suppose you feel very lucky right now.”

“Not really.”

“If the bullet had gone maybe a quarter of an inch more, it would have ruptured the membrane. Your heart would have drowned in its own blood.”

“Why can’t you take it out?”

“Well, we may be able to. We’re going to have to think about this. You had lost a lot of blood when they brought you in. It took a long time just to stabilize you. Later we went in and took the two bullets out. One of them just nicked your lung and stopped at your shoulder blade. The other went into your rotator cuff. I’m afraid you’ll never pitch again.”

“I’m a catcher,” I said.

He looked up from his chart. “Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Go on.”

“I don’t like where that third bullet is, Mr. McKnight. It’s in what we call a retrocardiac location in the inferior mediastinum, which means that it’s between the heart and the spinal cord. An operation would be a matter of risk versus benefit at this point. We decided to hold off on it, see how you’re doing. If there had been any sign of danger, we would have gone right in, of course.”

“So now what?”

“Believe it or not, that bullet doesn’t seem to be doing you any harm right now. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time we left a bullet in somebody. When it’s imbedded deep in a muscle, for instance, we often decide that we’d cause even more damage going in to get it.”

“But this is next to my heart,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s a little unusual. Like I said, you’re very fortunate to be alive.”

Very fortunate. That’s me, all right.

Five months later, my right arm was still in a sling. I had just left the police force. My marriage was all but over. And then they caught Rose one night over at the other hospital across town. My old commanding officer came to my house and picked me up, drove me to the station. They led five men into the lineup room. I had stood on the other side of the glass a few times while a witness looked at all the faces. Now I was the witness.

Rose was the second man from the left. Even without the big blond wig, I would know him anywhere.

At the trial, I sat in the box and I pointed to the man named Maximilian Rose sitting at the defense table, and I said, that’s the man right there. He looked at me with those same penetrating eyes.

They found him guilty and they sent him away. I watched the two bailiffs lead him out of the courtroom. He was going to prison for the rest of his—

A sound. The phone.

The phone was ringing.

I woke up. I grabbed the gun off the table, my heart pounding. The clock read 2:57.

The phone rang again. The machine went on. The call was traced. I could see the number right there on the readout.

I picked up the receiver. I didn’t hear anything.

“Hello?” I said.

Silence.

“Are you there?”

Silence.

“Say something,” I said.

Silence.

“Goddamn it, say something!”

Silence.

“Tell me about what you did,” I said. “I want to hear about it. Tell me everything.”

Silence.

“You motherfucking piece of shit, who are you?”

He hung up.

I was just about to throw the phone, but stopped myself. I picked up the walkie-talkie. “Come in,” I said.

“Right here, Mr. McKnight. Is everything all right?”

“He just called.” I gave him the number from the machine.

“Hold on,” he said. I heard him calling in the number. I knew it would only take a few seconds for them to look it up, then another couple minutes to get to the phone. Something in my gut told me that it would be a pay phone. Two squad cars would come racing into the deserted parking lot of a gas station or a restaurant. The pay phone would stand alone under a street lamp, not a soul in sight.

I thought about what the note had said. I didn’t have it with me, of course. I couldn’t look at it to convince myself that it was real. I couldn’t read it to try to make sense of it. What did it say? What were the exact words?

It can’t be Rose. He can’t be here. He’s in prison. There’s no way he could be anywhere else.

The note. What did it say? Something about microwaves, about the chosen one, about me being in disguise.

I never told anyone about that.

I didn’t tell my wife. I didn’t tell the shrink the department sent me to. I never told anyone.

There were only three people in that room when he said those things. Rose, myself, and Franklin. And Franklin is dead.