Rizzoli looked up at the helicopter and yelled frantically, “Come back. I’ll give you anything!” The wind whipped his words away.
The last thing Tony Rizzoli saw before the ship heeled over and his eyes filled with the burning salt water was the helicopter zooming toward the moon.
Chapter Seventeen
St. Moritz
Catherine was in a state of shock. She sat on the couch in her hotel room, listening to Lieutenant Hans Bergman, head of the ski patrol, tell her that Kirk Reynolds was dead. The sound of Bergman’s voice flowed over Catherine in waves, but she was not listening to the words. She was too numbed by the horror of what had happened. All the people around me die, she thought despairingly. Larry’s dead, and now Kirk. And there were the others: Noelle, Napoleon Chotas, Frederick Stavros. It was an unending nightmare.
Vaguely, through the fog of her despair, she heard Hans Bergman’s voice. “Mrs. Reynolds…Mrs. Reynolds…”
She raised her head. “I’m not Mrs. Reynolds,” she said wearily. “I’m Catherine Alexander. Kirk and I were…were friends.”
I see.
Catherine took a deep breath. “How…how did it happen? Kirk was such a good skier.”
“I know. He skied here many times.” He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, Miss Alexander, I’m puzzled about what happened. We found his body on the Lagalp, a slope that was closed because of an avalanche last week. The sign must have been blown down by the wind. I’m terribly sorry.”
Sorry. What a weak word, what a stupid word.
“How would you like us to handle the funeral arrangements, Miss Alexander?”
So death was not the end. No, there were arrangements to be made. Coffins and burial plots, and flowers, and relatives to be notified. Catherine wanted to scream.
“Miss Alexander?”
Catherine looked up. “I’ll notify Kirk’s family.”
“Thank you.”
The trip back to London was a mourning. She had come up to the mountains with Kirk filled with eager hope, thinking that it was, perhaps, a new beginning, a door to a new life.
Kirk had been so gentle and so patient. I should have made love with him, Catherine thought. But in the end, would it really have mattered? What did anything matter? I’m under some kind of curse. I destroy everyone who comes near me.
When Catherine returned to London, she was too depressed to go back to work. She stayed in the flat, refusing to see anyone or talk to anyone. Anna, the housekeeper, prepared meals for her and took them to Catherine’s room, but the trays were returned untouched.
“You must eat something, Miss Alexander.”
But the thought of food made Catherine ill.
The next day Catherine was feeling worse. She felt as though her chest were filled with iron. She found it difficult to breathe.
I can’t go on like this, Catherine thought. I have to do something.
She discussed it with Evelyn Kaye.
“I keep blaming myself for what happened.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Catherine.”
“I know it doesn’t, but I can’t help it. I feel responsible. I need someone to talk to. Maybe if I saw a psychiatrist…”
“I know one who’s awfully good,” Evelyn said. “As a matter of fact, he sees Wim from time to time. His name is Alan Hamilton. I had a friend who was suicidal, and by the time Dr. Hamilton was through treating her, she was in great shape. Would you like to see him?”
What if he tells me I’m crazy? What if I am? “All right,” Catherine said reluctantly.
“I’ll try to make the appointment for you. He’s pretty busy.”
“Thanks, Evelyn. I appreciate it.”
Catherine went into Wim’s office. He would want to know about Kirk, she thought.
“Wim—do you remember Kirk Reynolds? He was killed a few days ago in a skiing accident.”
“Yeah? Westminster-oh-four-seven-one.”
Catherine blinked. “What?” And she suddenly realized that Wim was reciting Kirk’s telephone number. Was that all people meant to Wim? A series of numbers? Didn’t he have any feelings for them? Was he really unable to love or hate or feel compassion?
Perhaps he’s better off than I am, Catherine thought. At least he’s spared the terrible pain that the rest of us can feel.