Брайан Гарфилд - What of Terry Conniston?

Floyd opened his wallet again and took out a one-column newspaper clipping. It was yellow and brittle, ready to break at the folded seams. Mitch scanned it briefly. The article, clipped from a three-year-old New York Times , was an inside-page feature tracing the whereabouts of Nazi war criminals who had been released from prison after serving Nuremberg sentences. One paragraph was circled in ball-point ink:

Gerhard von Roon, 71, was once a surgeon at the Vorbeckberg hospital complex, where human guinea pigs suffered and died in surgical experiments. Israeli sources allege von Roon, a plastic surgeon, has disguised a score of top Nazi fugitives who have disappeared and never been brought to trial. Authorities in Mexico, where von Roon now has a pharmacy in a small village, have been unable to confirm such charges. Recently interviewed, von Roon laughed with the expansive air of a man without secrets. He said, “They suffer from paranoia. I am only a pharmacist — see for yourself.” He lives quietly, seems well liked in the community of Caborca where he works, and talks freely about any subject except the Nazi years — a subject he considers closed. “I have served my sentence.”

Floyd Rymer said quietly, “The point is, old cock, I was forced to tell you the truth. Otherwise if you thought you had no way out you’d most likely turn yourself in to the law. But I’m giving you a way out. A hundred thousand dollars tax-free and a new face.”

“Aeah,” Mitch said dully.

“It’s my only guarantee you won’t betray me — you see? Because if I didn’t give you this choice you’d turn state’s evidence and put the FBI on my tail. But even with time off you wouldn’t get out in less then ten or fifteen years. This way you’re free and rich. And so am I.”

“And nobody gets killed?”

Floyd smiled. “Now you’ve got it.”

It made a kind of sense. But he still didn’t trust Floyd.

Floyd added, as an afterthought, “One thing, Mitch. When you dump Terry out make sure she’s far enough from civilization to give you a good head start before she gets a chance to start talking. Ditch her car somewhere and buy a clean car — don’t take buses or planes. Always travel by car. It’s hardest for anyone to find out where you came from or where you went.”

Mitch half-heard the last of it: he was looking past Floyd at the crumpled shape by the far wall. He said nervously, “What’s wrong with him?”

“Who?” Floyd swiveled to look. “Georgie?” He got to his feet and raised his voice: “George!”

Georgie didn’t stir. Floyd walked forward, increasing the pace as he approached; he was almost running when he reached his brother. He went down on one knee and gripped Georgie’s shoulder and shook him. Georgie rolled over sluggishly, blinked and laughed. “The hell time’s it?”

Floyd said without turning, “Mitch. Bring that food sack over here.”

The noise had roused the others. Terry was sitting up, looking back and forth, puzzled; the two in the back corner came forward into the lamplight and watched. Mitch took the knapsack over to Floyd and watched him paw through it. Floyd dumped everything out, opened a cracker tin and drew several packets from it. His eyes counted them; he tossed them aside and said something in his throat. Mitch couldn’t make out the words.

Floyd’s head skewed back. “Well?” he demanded.

“Well what? I didn’t hear what you said.”

Georgie mumbled, “The hell time’s it?”

Mitch said uncertainly, “He’s freaked out.”

Georgie cackled. His mouth worked and after a moment he said in a slurred breathless whisper, “Man, blowin’ my — mind!” He simpered and crawled around on the floor, rolling up in a fetal ball. The pupils of his eyes were pinpoints; the irises around them seemed enlarged with bloodshot veins. He was having a great deal of trouble getting his breath.

Floyd said lamely, “Take it easy — take it easy.”

Georgie made no response. His eyes turned dull like slate; they closed. He lay curled up, wheezing.

Mitch said, “What’s the matter with him?”

Floyd didn’t answer for the longest time. Mitch felt a hand on his arm — Terry, clutching him for strength. Billie Jean and Theodore hung back at the edge of the shadows, watching, afraid to speak. Afterward, remembering it, Mitch’ wondered how it was that they had all known , before anyone had said much of anything at all.

Finally Floyd said without tone, “I think he’s had it — I think he’s had it.”

Mitch felt his muscles go rigid. He cleared his throat. Floyd seemed to think the sound was a question. He said, “Overdose of heroin depresses the respiratory system. Slows down all the vital functions. He’s got congestion in his lungs now — I think he’s had it.”

None of them moved. Floyd said, “You may leave me alone now. All of you.” When he looked up his expression was astringent, unforgiving. It lay against Theodore and then it came around against Mitch like a bladed weapon. Mitch backed up, dragging Terry with him. The four of them retreated beyond the lamp and stood in a loose knot. None of them said anything. From where he stood, Mitch saw Georgie’s face change. Georgie began to frown like a small child sleeping — solemn, innocent. The sound of his labored wheezing became louder and slower in the silent dim store.

Georgie must have found the heroin in the cracker tin when Theodore left him alone inside; Georgie’s trips to the bathroom had given him the time to mainline the stuff. He had injected too many shots in too short a time — that was all.

Mitch felt Terry’s fingers crawl up his arm and clamp onto his shoulder. She turned her face against his chest. He slipped his arm around her and gripped her waist. She stopped shaking and stood rigid, waiting. The only sound was the rattle of Georgie’s breath. It became raspy and irregular; the intervals of silence grew longer. All the while, Floyd squatted on his heels with one hand on Georgie’s neck, not blinking, not stirring. Georgie’s skin turned gray and grainy like a matte finish. Hunched over him, Floyd resembled a pagan priest entranced in some macabre rite. It was as if he intended the power of life to flow through the tips of his fingers, lightly resting on the side of Georgie’s neck, to resurrect the dying: as if by the sheer force of mental concentration he could will life into Georgie.

A time came when Mitch took a deep breath and realized he had himself stopped breathing; it had been a long time since he had last breathed; he panted to get air in his lungs — and realized in that moment that he had begun to hold his breath when Georgie had stopped gasping.

Floyd stood up briskly and turned. His face was composed: his expression like a natural law left nothing open to dispute. “Strip off his clothes — don’t forget his watch and ring. Dump him out in the desert.”

Billie Jean said, “You mean bury him?”

“No.” Moving like a mechanism, Floyd walked to the back of the room and sat down in the debris with his back against the wall. “No. Leave him out there naked where the coyotes and buzzards can get at his face. The ants will finish the job.” Momentarily his eyes flashed: “Or do you want the cops to identify him and track us all down through him?”

Terry shuddered violently. Her little cries were muffled against Mitch’s chest. He tightened his grip and muttered, “You do it, Theodore.”

Theodore glanced at him, lugubrious; if Theodore had any feelings about it he did not display them. He went slowly toward Georgie and bent down and Mitch turned away, unable to watch; he cupped his hand at the back of Terry’s head to keep her face against his chest. Floyd, sitting with his knees drawn up, lowered his face and closed his eyes. Billie Jean began to whimper.