The Missing Piece (37 page)

Storm's over, thought Gary.

*   *   *

With Judge Conover's courtroom still an active crime scene, Foxx received instructions to set up in a different courtroom with a different clerk and six other court officers. Public proceedings be damned, no one except the lawyers and the jurors would be allowed inside. It would take Linda barely more than a few minutes to declare a mistrial and disband the jury.

Foxx removed the cardboard covers from the two small door windows, then unlocked the doors. Pinter and Braman were waiting in the corridor, along with three people with press credentials Foxx happily suggested should take a hike. The court reporter set up her steno machine. Billy Cokeley rushed in, saw that nothing was happening yet, and immediately relaxed.

Foxx tried to analyze the bad feeling in his gut. Mike and Ursula were dead. Gary was missing. And then there was this thing about the treasure piece. He was under orders not to disclose any of this to anyone. He was to observe and report, just like always. But that bad feeling still gnawed at him, and he suspected that it might be related to none of the above.

The clerk gave Foxx a sign, and Foxx went to the jury room to count heads. Seven of the eight jurors were there, the men still wearing their jackets and the women sitting with their purses clutched on their laps. Foxx put together some words of reassurance. The judge would be here soon, the proceedings wouldn't take more than a few minutes, their jury service would be over, they wouldn't be called back for at least four years.

As Foxx descended the stairs to the robing room, his cell phone buzzed.

“Is she there?” said Bernadette.

“Not in the courtroom,” said Foxx. “Don't know about chambers.”

“I was at her place,” said Bernadette. “She didn't answer her door.”

“She could be on her way.”

“Yeah, except she would have told me,” said Bernadette. “She's not answering her cell phone, either.”

“Are you still at her place?”

“No. Heading toward Broadway to pick up the two train.”

“Let me make some calls. I'll get back to you.”

*   *   *

Gary rolled back into the bedroom and began to work a sneaker onto his foot. The bathroom door was still closed and there was no sign Linda had heard the doorbell. He wondered if Linda had planned for Bernadette to drop by on her way to the courthouse. If so, somebody somewhere would figure out something was wrong. Soon.

“Gary.”

Did Linda just call his name? He wasn't sure.

“Gary.”

He definitely heard her that time. Her voice sounded weak, but tense.

“Linda.” He drove toward the bathroom.

“Gary, help me.” There was a cry in her voice.

He stopped at the door.

“It's locked,” he said.

“I can't open it. Break it. Hurry.”

He used the battle chair like a battering ram. Pulled back, shot forward. Pulled back, shot forward.

“Hurry,” she cried.

On the third try, the doorjamb splintered.

Linda sat on the toilet, her sweatpants pooled at her ankles, her head in her hands. She looked up. Her face was wet, her eyes red from crying.

“Something bad happened,” she said.

She sat back, and Gary saw the blood glistening on her thighs. She tried to stand up, but dropped back onto the seat.

“Help me,” she said.

Gary nudged the battle chair toward her.

“Give me your hands,” he said.

Linda reached toward him, and he gathered both of her hands in one of his.

“I'm going to back up slowly and pull you forward. The rug is soft. I want you to lie down.”

“Okay,” she said.

He eased back the joystick, pulling her off the toilet. There were bloody streaks on the porcelain, bloody water in the bowl. He kept easing back, and she went from standing to kneeling to lying facedown on the rug. She rolled onto her side, clutched her stomach, and groaned.

“What is it, Linda? What's wrong?”

“I need a doctor.”

“But what's going on? Why are you bleeding. Is it your period? Is it…?”

“Gary, I need a doctor. Call 911. Please.”

He reached back into the parka. Pulled out Linda's phone. Fumbled it. Caught it. Saw that Bernadette left a voicemail.

There was lots of blood, and Linda was in terrible pain.

“Hurry,” she whispered, as she drew her knees up to her chest.

He pressed the nine, and then the doorbell rang.

He backed out of the bathroom, zipped through the bedroom.

“Gary,” Linda called weakly.

But Gary had a hopeful idea, a better idea, an idea that didn't involve the police or EMTs. He drove to the sitting room window, and sure enough, Bernadette was on the stoop, punching the doorbell as if this time she would not go away. Gary went to the elevator, made it down to the first floor, drew Mike's service piece from inside the parka.

Then he answered the door.

“Gary?!” said Bernadette.

She spotted the gun and tried to back away, but Gary grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside.

“What are you doing? Where's Linda?”

“Upstairs bathroom. She's in trouble. Come.”

He pushed her into the elevator.

“What kind of trouble?” said Bernadette.

“She's bleeding.”

“Bleeding from what? Gary, what are you doing here?”

He didn't answer. The elevator stopped on the second floor, and Bernadette ran off. Gary rolled after her. Bernadette already was kneeling over Linda when he reached the bathroom.

“Holy shit,” said Bernadette. She patted Linda's cheek. Linda groaned, then opened her eyes.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” said Bernadette. “You okay?”

“Do I look it?”

“Is it like a heavy period?” said Gary.

“Period?” said Bernadette. “Are you an imbecile? She needs a doctor.”

“No doctor. You need to fix it.”

“Gary, that's crazy. I can't fix this.”

“You'll fix it,” said Gary. He waved the gun. “Give me your cell phone.”

Bernadette took it from her jacket pocket, looked at it as if weighing exactly how stupid it would be to punch in 911, then handed it over.

“Now fix it,” said Gary.

Bernadette opened the door to the vanity.

“Dammit, Linda. Don't you have maxi pads?”

“Ran out. Didn't think to buy any.”

“Towels. I need towels,” said Bernadette.

“Linen closet in the hallway,” said Linda.

Bernadette turned to Gary. “Get 'em. As many as you can.” She snorted. “Fix it. What an asshole.”

Gary backed quickly down the corridor. The linens were behind a door in the hallway that looked just like the door to the elevator. Gary pulled towels off the shelves, piling them on his lap.

Staccato thoughts zipped through his head. Was he too rough with her last night? Cuffing her, dragging her, bowling her over with the battle chair. She had whaled at him, and he had bear-hugged her until she calmed down. Could he have caused her to hemorrhage?

Something didn't seem right, but he wasn't sure what it could be. He had no time, either. He needed to get back to Linda. He added one more towel to the pile on his lap, then turned toward the bedroom.

And then he had it.

There was one thing he hadn't told Linda last night, a small detail from the day he was shot that didn't seem important at the time. He hadn't realized he was shot, but as he lay on the courtroom floor and the blood seeped into his shirt, he noticed a funny smell that evoked a boyhood memory—the smell of his palm after holding a handful of old pennies. It was later that he learned it was the smell of his own blood.

If anything, all that blood in the bathroom should have a distinctive smell. He didn't know what that smell might be—salty, funky, maybe even fishy. But he knew one thing with certainty: there was no smell in that bathroom.

He rolled back into the bedroom, slowly now because the emergency was over. He stopped at the bathroom door. Linda was sitting up now, her back against the vanity. Bernadette knelt beside her. She seemed to be working between Linda's legs, but her back was to Gary and she blocked his view.

“Towel,” she said, raising a hand over her shoulder.

Gary dropped the whole pile of towels on the floor beside the battle chair.

“Towel,” Bernadette said again. When Gary didn't respond, she began to turn around.

Gary lifted the gun off his lap.

“Get up,” he said.

“I need those towels,” said Bernadette. “She's lost a lot of blood.”

“Get up,” said Gary. “And step away from her.”

Bernadette stood up, allowing Gary to see Linda. Linda's sweatpants were pushed down to her knees, but her panties were in place. As if Gary needed any further proof.

He tossed Linda a towel.

“Clean yourself up,” he said.

She started to protest, but he cut her off.

“Clean yourself up. I don't know whether that's paint or some kind of makeup, but it isn't blood.”

Linda wiped her thighs, pulled up her sweatpants, and stood up.

“You stay in here.” Gary pointed the gun at Bernadette. “You come with me.”

Linda slowly walked to Gary. Once she was in reach, he yanked her onto his lap and pressed the gun against her chin.

“I don't like being played for a fool,” he said.

In the bedroom, he raised the seat of the battle chair and spilled Linda onto the bed. Neither said a word as he cuffed her by the ankles to a spindle. He gave the cuffs a shake, then drove back to the bathroom.

“Your turn,” he told Bernadette, patting his lap.

 

CHAPTER 42

Foxx used the robing room phone to call Linda's chambers and then Judge Belcher's chambers. No one in either chambers had seen or heard from Linda, and that bad feeling in Foxx's gut worsened. He replayed last night's taxi ride and his short time in Linda's house. The bittersweet feel of his departure had lingered into the night before fading. Now he wondered if it was a clue to something he might have missed.

He used his cell phone to call Bernadette. Her phone rang and rang, then kicked into voicemail. He started to leave a message, then cut the call because at that moment, Judge Belcher burst through the stage entrance, already wearing her robe.

“I've decided I can't keep these lawyers and jurors waiting around,” she said. “Obviously something's come up with Judge Conover. Everyone here?”

“The lawyers are,” said Foxx. “Missing one juror at last count.”

“Count again. I need to get this done and move on to the other seventy-five problems on my desk.”

Foxx climbed to the jury room and counted the same seven jurors. Then he descended all the way to the basement and out the back door.

*   *   *

Linda sat up as soon as the elevator door opened.

“What did you do with Bernadette?” she said. She had tried to listen as Gary took her friend away, but after the elevator landed and the whirr of the wheelchair faded, she heard nothing.

“She called me an imbecile,” said Gary. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his hand quivering on the joystick, which caused the whole wheelchair to tremble. He did not look at her.

“That's just Bernadette, Gary. She always talks like that. She doesn't mean anything by it.”

“She called me an imbecile,” he repeated. “An asshole, too. I'm not an imbecile. I'm not an asshole. I found the missing piece.”

“And that was amazing,” said Linda. “But I still need to know. What did you do with Bernadette?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Look, Gary, it's not too late. You can leave. I won't press charges. Bernadette won't press charges. You can take the piece. I never saw it. I'll deny to the death that I ever saw it. We'll give you an hour, two hours, whatever head start you need. You can go wherever you want, sell the piece to whoever you want.”

“No, no,” Gary wailed. “That piece means nothing to me. When I go, you're coming with me.”

“Well,” said Linda. She reminded herself to stay calm, to measure her words. “Here is where things get complicated. Bernadette panicked when she saw me because she knows something that you don't know. Gary, I'm pregnant. I was pregnant once before, and it ended in a miscarriage. She knows that, too.”

Gary pressed his hands to his temples.

“I don't want to hear it,” he said.

“It's the truth. Sorry. I know how much it hurts you. But it's the truth.”

“Enough!” Gary shouted. “I don't want to hear any more.”

He spun out of the bedroom.

*   *   *

Gary bumped the battle chair up to the sitting room window. The early morning sunshine had dimmed behind a line of clouds. The sky was a flat gray, the leaves still hanging on the sidewalk trees were a dull brown.

His problem was not so much Linda's resistance than his own failure to think things through. He'd started this without a firm grip on all the consequences. It all seemed so simple: show her the missing piece, read her
The Missing Piece
, return her to that day, and let the gears of their lives reengage. After that, forward motion, smooth rolling, the cheese wheel with its missing piece firmly and perfectly in place. But it didn't work out, not the way he envisioned it, so he went to plan B. Hold her, lie beside her, wait for her to come to him and fit herself into the big missing piece of himself.

Well, that didn't happen.

She'd warned him, he realized now, when she said she wasn't perfect. It wasn't modesty, it wasn't even denial. She had an appendage. A baby. Some goddam appendage. And then she tricked him. And then Bernadette showed up to make it two against one. He had a mess on his hands now, with no plan C.

Mike had an old saying about girlfriends and girlfriends' friends. “It's not your girlfriend who fucks you up,” he'd say. “It's your girlfriend's friends you need to worry about.” Nobody ever gave Mike much credence, probably because he never seemed to have a girlfriend. But damn, thought Gary, Mike might have had more wisdom than he got credit for. Too bad Mike and the missing piece were mutually exclusive. He would have been a good guy to have around right now. An extra set of eyes, an extra pair of hands, a different set of ideas. Someone who could think up a plan C.