Jack climbed into his tub and took a shower. By then his mind was going a mile a minute. He couldn’t remember ever being in such a state of confusion, except after his family had perished. But that was different. He’d been depressed then. Now he was just confused.
Jack got out of the shower and dried himself off. He was still half debating whether or not to contact the police. In a state of indecision, he went to the phone. That’s when he noticed that his answering machine was blinking. He pushed the play button and listened to Beth Holderness’s disturbing message. Instantly he called her back. He let her phone ring ten times before giving up. What could she have found? he wondered. He also felt responsible for her having been fired. Somehow he was sure he was to blame.
Jack got a beer and took it into the living room. Sitting on the windowsill, he could see a sliver of 106th Street. There was the usual traffic and parade of people. He watched with unseeing eyes as he wrestled with his dilemma regarding calling the police.
Hours passed. Jack realized that by not making a decision he was in essence making one. By not calling the police he was agreeing with Warren. He’d become a felon. Jack went back to the phone and tried Beth for the tenth time. It was now after midnight. The phone rang interminably. Jack started to worry. He hoped she’d simply fled to a friend’s house for solace after losing her job. Yet not being able to get in touch with her nagged at him along with everything else.
27
* * *
TUESDAY, 7:30 A.M., MARCH 26, 1996
NEW YORK CITY
The first thing Jack did when he woke up was to try calling Beth Holderness. When she’d still not answered he’d tried to be optimistic about her visiting a friend, but in the face of everything that had happened, the inability to get ahold of her was progressively more distressing.
Still without a bike, Jack was forced back into the subway for his commute. But he wasn’t alone. From the moment Jack had emerged from his tenement he’d been trailed by one of the younger members of the local gang. His name was Slam, in deference to his dunking ability with the basketball. Even though he was Jack’s height, he could outjump Jack by at least twelve inches.
Jack and Slam did not talk during the train ride. They sat opposite each other, and although Slam didn’t try to avoid eye contact, his expression never changed from one of total indifference. He was dressed like most of the younger African-Americans in the city, with oversized clothes. His sweatshirt was tentlike, and Jack preferred not to imagine what it concealed. Jack didn’t believe that Warren would have sent the young man out to protect Jack without some significant weaponry.
As Jack crossed First Avenue and mounted the steps in front of the medical examiner’s office, he glanced behind him. Slam had paused on the sidewalk, obviously confused as to what he should do. Jack hesitated as well. The unreasonable thought went through Jack’s mind of inviting the man in so that he could pass the time in the second-floor canteen, but that was clearly out of the question. Jack shrugged. Although he appreciated Slam’s efforts on his behalf, it was Slam’s problem what he was going to do for the day.
Jack turned back to the building, steeling himself for the possibility of having to face one or more bodies in whose death he somehow felt complicit. Gathering his courage, Jack pulled open the door and entered.
Even though he was scheduled for a “paper day” and no autopsies, Jack wanted to see what had come in during the night. Not only was he concerned about Reginald and the vagrants, he was also concerned about the possibility of more meningococcus cases.
Jack had the receptionist buzz him into the ID area. Walking into the scheduling room, Jack knew instantly that it was not going to be a normal day. Vinnie was not sitting in his usual location with his morning newspaper.
“Where’s Vinnie?” Jack asked George.