Beneath the Cracks (12 page)

"But you knew he was coming, a couple of
weeks ago by accounts of friends who noticed I was being followed
and started watching him."

"Helen, the bureau grew weary of my constant
defense of your actions.  I've been essentially cut out of the
loop on this one.  I heard a rumor that he was returning to
Darkwater Bay to take another run at questioning you over a month
ago.  I considered calling you about it, but I had no
proof.  When nothing happened, when you didn't call about
seeing him, I assumed that the rumor was wrong.  I couldn't
see upsetting you when every time we've talked, you've sounded a
bit more like the Helen I know and love than I've heard in a very
long time."

"He told me they found the gun."

"I see."  Now the chair creaked.

"And then he implied that the weapon was
registered to me."

"Helen –"

"Of course that's a lie," I said.  "I
knew it.  He's not very good at using psychological tactics,
David.  His attempt to scare me into admitting that I knew
something was moot.  I don't know anything."

"I believe you, my dear.  You don't
have to convince me."

"Can I tell you something in strict
confidence?"

"Always."

I believed David.  He was one of those
honorable guys, who when he gave his word it still meant
something.  I detailed how I learned of Seleeby's extended
surveillance and Johnny Orion's plan to put a stop to it.  "I
doubt that Orion's connection to the governor and a friendship with
the president and the director will sway Seleeby one little bit,
but I can't help wondering if they're aware that he's been – as
Orion put it – cozying up to Danny Datello during his time in
Darkwater Bay."

"Don't discount those personal connections,
Helen.  This is still Washington after all.  Politics
trump a lot of things they shouldn't.  In this case, I think
that good ol' boy system might be exactly what you need to put an
end to Mark's witch hunt once and for all.  The only other
conceivable way that will happen is if they
do
find the
weapon that was used to kill Rick and it completely exonerates
you."

"I don't see that happening," I said. 
"It's antithetical to the MO of someone who gets paid to kill for
men like Sully Marcos."

"I agree," David said.  "Barring that
or a confession, Seleeby will never be satisfied.  The only
thing that will slap the skids on his investigation is a direct
order from above.  Far above my pay grade, I'm afraid."

I drained half the glass of wine and let its
warmth soothe away some of my perpetual state of panic
tonight.  "I'm glad I called you.  Even before Seleeby's
appearance at my gate this was a rotten day."

The slow groan told me David was leaning
back in his chair, another practiced motion I remembered so very
well.  I waited for the words I knew were coming.

"Want to talk about it?"

Like crazy.  "Thought you'd never
ask."

Chapter 10

I parked the Expedition in Maya's
driveway.  Pre-dawn fog floated past the windows like ghosts
searching for their final rest.  The headlights barely
illuminated the garage door.  Before I could get out and find
my way to the front door, Maya appeared with a bag slung over one
shoulder.  She opened the passenger door and climbed inside,
tucking the overnight bag at her feet.

"I hate hospital gowns, and I swear to God,
it'll be a cold day in hell before I ever use their watered down
lotion on this skin."

"How are you?"

Maya grinned.  "I may come out of the
butcher shop one breast light, but I go in a very happy woman."

"Who is he?  Anyone I know?"

She reached across the counsel and gripped
my hand.  "Oh Helen, for someone so observant, you can be the
most obtuse woman on the planet.  Yes you know him.  I'm
surprised you never noticed the way I've shamelessly flirted with
him after all these months."

I felt my forehead wrinkle.  "You've
been flirting with someone – and I've seen this?"

"Ken Forsythe," she said.

"Oh!  Really?  I thought he was
married and had kids."

"Divorced and two daughters in college."

"Well, this is a surprise.  And here he
was determined to hate you until the end of time when I talked to
him yesterday."

"You, my dearest friend, are far more
persuasive than you know."

I wished.  If that were true, Mark
Seleeby would be nothing but a distant memory.  A buzzing
mosquito that I effectively swatted away in search of sweeter blood
instead of the sour venom that masqueraded as mine.  "Tell me
what happened."

"I was up in my office getting ready to go
home and drown my tears in a case of Heineken when he knocked," she
said.  "I figured this was round one of the
knock-down-drag-out rematch, you know?  I told him I was
really tired and not up to another go over how much garbage
should've been collected from the dumpster by CSD as evidence."

"Ah, so that's why you were going for the
jugular when I walked in."

"At the time, I thought it was a reasonable
notion that all the garbage be carefully searched for drug
paraphernalia.  If there was a needle in there, it could've
given us something to go on in terms of identifying the specific
methamphetamine that killed our vic, right?  I mean, none of
it is chemically identical.  It could've provided another
avenue of investigation."

"I'm not arguing."

"Anyway, Ken comes in my office, even though
I was really in a foul mood and ready to attack if he insisted on
continuing the fight.  He closes the door and leans against
it."

"And?"

"He says,
I won't pretend to know what's
got you out of sorts, Maya, but I didn't come up here to fight with
you.  I figured that if something is wrong, maybe you ought to
know that you've got a lot of friends around here.  We're here
for you too, you know.  Even if we haven't known you as long
as Eriksson has.
"

"Bastard," I muttered.

"Oh, Helen, don't be upset with him."

"I'm not.  Not really anyway.  How
did this declaration of friendship make you feel like you're going
into the hospital a very happy woman who no longer seems to dread
whatever lies ahead?"

"You just missed him."

"Ah.  Congratulations then.  I'm
curious how the olive branch of friendship ended up in a sleep
over."

She laughed softly.  "Who said we
slept?"

"You're awful.  Now tell me, what
happened?"

"I guess it hit me wrong.  I don't mean
another meltdown wrong.  I was mortified.  Here was this
man, being kind to me after I had been a complete ass –"

"Tears?"

She nodded.  "I couldn't stop
crying.  So he just held me and told me that whatever was
wrong, he hoped I knew I could trust him."

"And you told him about today?"

"Not at first.  I apologized for acting
so mental and tried to compose myself.  He suggested we have
dinner and talk.  I tried to beg off on the grounds of fatigue
and not really wanting to be around people."

"And he didn't take that personally?"

"Thank God no.  He suggested we pick up
takeout and hide out at my house.  After about beer number
four, I told him the truth."

"I see."

"Will you do something for me, Helen?"

"Anything.  Name it."

"After it's over this morning, and you know
what happened, will you call him?  He wanted to take the day
and be there, but I couldn't let him do that.  I mean, it
might've been an offer out of pity anyway…"

"Do you think it was just pity?"

"I don't know," insecurity crept into my
friend's voice.  "I guess we'll know how much of last night
was sincere and how much was pity when the day is done, won't
we?"

"He'd better hope for his sake that he
wasn't lying," I muttered.

"It's a lot to ask of someone, Helen. 
I mean, if it's the worst case scenario, I could be looking at
chemo and radiation and a terminal diagnosis."

"You are
not
going to die."

"I appreciate your optimism, especially
knowing how out of character that is for you, but I have to be
prepared for the worst case scenario.  If I let myself
hope…"

"You know, studies have been done that
conclusively prove that optimism aids in recovery far more than
anybody believed it would," I said.  "I think a little
positive thinking is in order here."

"If I expect the worst, and the news is
devastating, I'll be a little more prepared for the blow.  If
the news is better than the worst, I'll be so thrilled that I'm not
dying of cancer that even if a mastectomy is the only option, I'll
feel like I just heard the best news possible."

"That is some seriously twisted
psychology."

"Will you call him?"

"Of course."

"He wants to know either way, but I told him
I completely get it if he doesn't want to have anything to do with
me if…well, if I'm terminal or they lop off a boob or
something."

I knew.  Forsythe would be there for
her.  The attraction was mutual between them, which made his
reaction to my apology on her behalf make all the sense in the
world.  What I saw as hate was really hurt.  And Forsythe
couldn't hold onto it without seeing for himself if he missed a
huge clue that something else was going on in Maya's
life. 

The morning dragged on for me, waiting in
chairs outside surgery for the doors to swing open and tell me
Maya's fate.  I defied hospital rules and kept my cell phone
on.  I checked email religiously.  Somehow, the address
landed on several mass mailing lists, including one for cheap
Rolexes (cheap knock-offs is more like it).  I sighed,
deleted, refreshed.  Drank more coffee than a camel's hump
could hold.  Paced.  Got sick to my stomach.  The
horrible magazine collection in the waiting room consisted of
Field and Stream
and some local women's rag called
Sync!
which held zero interest for me.  Its
Cosmopolitan
-style test-your-love-life quizzes seemed oddly
inappropriate as reading material while people waited for news in
life and death situations.

It was just after one when the doors to the
inner sanctum of the surgical department swung open and the surgeon
who spoke to me before Maya went under the knife appeared looking
completely fatigued.  I leapt to my feet.

"Dr. Eriksson, she's in recovery right
now.  I'm afraid the frozen section revealed news we hoped we
wouldn’t get – not the worst, but not great either."

"Oh God."

"Don't despair.  I'm reasonably certain
we got all of it.  Unfortunately, it included a modified
radical mastectomy.  She'll have to go through at least one
course of chemotherapy, but despite the less than optimal result,
we think she stands an excellent chance of recovery without
recurrence."

"Modified?  I’m sorry, you’re going to
have to refresh my memory on what that is exactly."

"Of course.  A modified radical
mastectomy is the removal of the breast and lymph nodes, but it
preserves the underlying chest muscle. Your friend had pair of
widely spaced tumors that prevented simple lumpectomy with
preservation of a normal breast appearance."

I dashed at the drizzle from my nose. 
"How soon can I see her?  I don't want her waking up alone to
this."

"I've made arrangements with her nurse in
the PACU.  She's going to come get you as soon as Maya is
settled.  We don't usually allow visitors back there, but
since you're a doctor…"

I didn't correct him on the assumption that
my PhD was actually an MD.  Not if it meant the difference
between Maya waking up alone to her bad news in the post-anesthesia
care unit versus having me there to help soften the blow. 
"Thank you, doctor."

I dialed Forsythe's cell phone number that
Maya had entrusted to my care before going to surgery.  He
answered half way through the first ring.  "Helen?"

"Yeah."

"Is she out?"

"Yeah."

The pause stretched.  "I'll be right
there."

"She's in recovery.  They aren't going
to allow you to see her until she's transferred to the surgical
care floor, Ken."

"I won't stand for her being alone when she
wakes up."

"The surgeon is letting me go into the PACU
as a professional courtesy," I said.  "Aren't you going to ask
me…?  I mean…"

"I don't care how bad it is," he said. 
"I told her that this morning when she insisted that I come to work
instead of going to the hospital with her.  I'm in this for
the long haul, Helen."

Relief washed over me in waves.  "It
wasn't as bad as it could've been.  The surgeon said he thinks
she has a shot at recovery without recurrence.  She's still
going to be devastated.  They did the mastectomy."

"She's alive.  That's all that
matters."

"I agree, but I suspect that Maya will feel
differently about this.  She's not out of the woods yet. 
The doctor said she'll have to have chemotherapy."

"She will get through this.  We won't
abandon her, Helen."

"I wasn't suggesting that we would."

"Can you help her understand that I'm not
leaving her?"

A tear leaked from the corner of my eye and
seeped into the fine lines around it.  "I don't think I'll
have to do that, Ken.  Be here for her today, and she'll know
the truth."

She wasn't awake until long after the
transfer to the surgical care unit.  In fact, she woke up too
groggy the first three times to realize where she was or what was
happening.  Ken Forsythe sat silently on one side of the bed,
petting the back of Maya's hand and watching for signs of
lucidity.