Ark (23 page)

“The emergency room staff,” Scott added, “revived Mr. Mulligan, but not without difficulty. He had a large amount of a powerful antipsychotic drug in his system.

“Some time later, Mr. Mulligan woke up with a roar, and though he was under restraint, somehow got to his feet, and with his hospital bed strapped to his back, slammed the doctor who was treating him against the wall, knocking him unconscious, and then, with two nurses in flight before him, charged down the ward, upsetting carts, overturning several dispensing machines, and in general terrifying patients and staff. When the police arrived, he was slamming the bed into the wall in an apparent attempt to free himself. Two police officers who attempted to subdue him were injured. They called for backup, and after more humane methods failed to do the job, the police fired Tasers into Mr. Mulligan’s body. Three Taser darts were necessary to subdue him.

“The cops placed the unconscious Mulligan in a straitjacket and shackles and transported him to Bellevue Hospital, which was better equipped to deal with him. There, he was medicated and placed under heavy restraint.

“When, after Mr. Mulligan had become somewhat calmer, two police detectives interviewed him,” Scott said. “He told them, in the presence of a staff psychologist, that he had been strolling in Central Park, minding his own business, when a woman wearing a floppy beret rose up out of the wheelchair in which she had been riding and pointed a large brown pistol at him. He had no doubt that she intended to shoot him. He had no idea why she was pointing a gun at him. He assumed she was a maniac. Fearing for his life, and seeing no way to flee through the heavy crowd without causing the woman to open fire and perhaps kill innocent persons by mistake, he ran toward her, intending to disarm her, or failing that, heroically absorb the bullets that might otherwise have wounded or killed innocent bystanders.

“At that moment, someone threw a net over him and injected him with a drug that rendered him unconscious.”

Scott paused to drink a little more water.

“Mr. Mulligan then stated that he had reason to believe that his assailants were in the pay of Mr. Henry Peel,” he said, “and that you, my dear, were responsible for the attack. You had, he stated, poisoned Mr. Peel’s mind against him by telling outrageous lies about him. This had resulted in the abrupt withdrawal of Mr. Peel’s support for his, Mr. Mulligan’s, extremely important dinosaur dig in Mongolia, and in his ignominious expulsion from China by friends of Mr. Peel’s in the Chinese secret police. He stated that you and Mr. Peel are intimate friends, and that he is going to sue Henry Peel for every penny he has and also file charges of assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder against you. And that, my dear young lady, is why I am here. To help you.”

He and Clementine looked at me like a couple of bright-eyed old parrots hoping for a cracker.

I said politely, “Help me in what way?”

“With advice, with guidance,” he said. “It’s easy to put a foot wrong in this kind of situation.”

“What kind of situation would that be, Mr. Scott?”

“Surely you see the potential for embarrassment, or worse, for yourself and others.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting,” I replied, “that the police or the hospital or anyone else could possibly have believed Mulligan’s story.”

“No,” said Scott. “They took it for the ravings of a deranged person. That is not the point. The point is that this man Mulligan does not intend that it should end with the police. A jury might very well believe the story. It is, after all, largely factual. Worse, it is one hell of a story for the media. It will be published. Your picture and the most intimate details of your past and present life will be splashed all over television and the press. It will cause a sensation. You are known to the public, and you are also, if I may say so on such very short acquaintance, most photogenic. You have a reputation as the author of daring books. In terms of journalistic appetite, that’s an irresistible combination. The media will follow up. They will find out more. It will be extremely unpleasant.”

Scott’s voice did not change in any way as he spoke these words, nor did the urbane expression on his face.

“You seem to be very well informed, Mr. Scott,” I said. “I assume that you are aware of the history between Bear Mulligan and myself?”

“I am, indeed,” he said. “I have read the record. It was a revolting crime. But the charges against Mulligan were dismissed. In the eyes of the law, therefore, he is as innocent as a newborn babe. In the eyes of the media, the allegation of rape and his exoneration, not to mention the drama in Central Park, are grist for the mill—just another compelling reason to do the story and make the profit. That is the reality with which we must deal.”

“The reality is that Bear Mulligan is a monster,” I said. “He’s a psychopath. He always has been. What happened in Central Park happened because he had threatened to tear my head off and he had come there, stalking me, to do exactly that. He was entirely capable of doing it in the presence of hundreds of witnesses, crazy enough and strong enough to do it. He intended to do it. He was on the point of doing it when Clementine’s people did what they did to stop him. That’s why he was there. That’s why they were there.”

Scott sighed. This was the first sign he had given that he was not utterly imperturbable.

“I accept that to be the truth of the matter,” he said. “However.”

“However what?”

“Even if Mulligan is all the things you say he is, even if he did intend to murder you in cold blood, he is in fact also a former All-American football player, much beloved in Texas and remembered by football fans everywhere. He is also a distinguished paleontologist who has made important discoveries, written books, appeared on television, and lectured all over the country. In his way, he too is very photogenic. These facts are stored in the mother memory to which all journalists have access. They will be stimulated to recover these data and turn them into money. It is their nature.”

“Why do you keep on telling me there is no hope?” I asked.

“If I thought there was no hope, I wouldn’t be here,” Scott said.

Scott shot his cuff and looked at his watch.

“I must run,” he said.

He smiled at me—big square, well-kept teeth, avuncular twinkle, eyes on my chest. Then he said, “May I have your answer before I go?”

“What is the question?”

“Shall we work together on this problem?”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Fine,” Scott said. “Perhaps we can chat some more over dinner tonight. I know a nice quiet little place just around the corner.”

I said, “I think we’ve chatted enough for one day, thank you.”

Scott looked through me as if I were someone who happened to be on the same elevator as he was. Clementine opened her eyes wide, cocked her head, looked annoyed. I was
such
a bother.

Downstairs, the chaps awaited—one in the lobby, one on the sidewalk, one across the street. Now that I knew they were there, I was a camera, searching the blurred crowd and pulling Tom (
whirr-click),
Dick
(whirr-click
), and Harry (
whirr-click)
out of the multitude and into focus.

~ * ~

3

AS I WALKED WITH THE crowd, I called Melissa. When she picked up, I heard her kids having a fight in the background. She sounded disheartened. Ordinarily I would have shouted something encouraging over the din and hung up, but I needed her counsel. I asked if I could come over.

“You do hear what’s going on here?” she said.

“Yeah, but I figure you’ll have sent them to their rooms by the time I get there.”

“You should be so lucky.”

By the time I got to her apartment, the kids were in angelic mode. We knew one another well. I had been their babysitter of last resort ever since they were born. On Melissa’s instructions, they called me Auntie. They were as beautiful as Greeks on an urn and painfully bright—no surprise considering who their mother was and the fact that Melissa wasn’t the sort of girl who married stupid, homely men. We ate kiddies’ macaroni and cheese for dinner. If you put ketchup on it, it’s almost as good as Chef Boyardee. The kids cleaned their plates—a peace offering to their mother, I supposed. She responded in kind by not insisting that they eat their salad. Dutiful kisses for Auntie followed, real ones for Mom. Then the kids disappeared into their rooms.

Melissa knew all about the capture of Bear Mulligan and his plans for the future. I told her about Adam, including his neurotic break on seeing the apartment for the first time. To my surprise, this was news to her. She listened attentively, asking nudging little questions from time to time. She didn’t ask why I had been crazy enough to invite Adam into the apartment in the first place. Some things are too stupid to be mentioned.

“I’ve got to say you’re worrying about the right things,” Melissa said when I had finished. “This guy—Adam?—doesn’t sound like a share person.”

“He’s pretty square.”

“Then he’ll be easy to replace. He’s the least of your worries.”

She was right, of course. For Melissa, that was not enough. Without skipping a breath, she told me the reasons why she was right.

“First of all, the story is false. You and Henry are not sexual partners.”

“You’re absolutely sure of that?”

Melissa snorted. “Yes, I am,” she replied. “The story will be published. Elway Scott was right. It’s irresistible.”

“I’ve always gotten along fine with the media. Mostly, they’re nice people.”

“This time you’re not going on a book tour.”

“So what are you advising me to do?”

“Shut up and weather the storm,” Melissa said. “Neither confirm nor deny anything. Do not speak a word to the media. Confide in no one—no one—about anything. Avoid cameras if you can, but don’t cover your face like a perp when the media starts camping outside your building.”

“How would they find it?”

“They have ways. If Adam is pissed enough at your alleged infidelity, and he certainly sounds like the type, he could give a reporter the address, plus a glimpse of the splendor in which you live on Henry’s nickel. A virtual tour of the apartment would be grist for a week’s stories. ‘Artist’s impression of love nest.’ If Adam keeps his mouth shut, they might follow you.”

“In spite of Clementine’s chaps?”

“The chaps don’t have enough nets to capture this particular plague of locusts,” Melissa said. “Those people are like the secret police—no warrants required, no limits, no consequences, no conscience. Show trials are their bread and butter.”

“Maybe I’m the one who should go away,” I said.

“Not a bad idea,” Melissa said. “You could move to Nuku Hiva if it gets too bad. Or Hsi-tau. The chow chows would deal with the press. Bear is banned from China, but if he does find you and you want the creep shot or locked up forever, General Yao is your man. You could finish your novel in peace and quiet.”

“And celibacy.”

“Celibacy worked for Catherine of Siena.”

From the lobby of Melissa’s building, I called Adam. There was no harm in finding out if he was still mad. He knew my voice at once. He acted as if nothing had happened.

I decided to be charming, too. I said, “What are you up to?”

“Waiting for the phone to ring,” he said. “Please hold. I have to make a call.”

He was back on the line in thirty seconds.

“Same hotel, as quick as you can get there,” he said. “They upgraded us to a suite.”

“Lovely,” I said.