He lifted the side of the sheet and took one of his brother’s hands. It was cold, but the fingers were supple. He squeezed them gently. Fiske looked down at the concrete floor and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few minutes later only two tears had collected on the concrete. He quickly looked up and a gush of air came out of his lungs. It felt forced, all of it, and he suddenly felt unworthy to be here.
As a cop, he had sat with the parents of too many drunken kids who had wrapped themselves around a tree or telephone pole. He had consoled them, expressed empathy, even held them. He had truly believed that he had approached, even touched the depths of their despair. He often wondered what it would feel like when it happened to him. He plainly knew this was not it.
He forced himself to think about his parents. How exactly would he tell his father that his golden child was dead? And his mother? At least there was an easy answer to that question: He couldn’t and shouldn’t tell her.
Raised Catholic, but not a religious man, Fiske chose to speak with his brother instead of God. He pressed his brother’s hand against his chest and talked to him of things he was sorry for, of how much he loved him, how much he wanted him not to be dead, in case his brother’s spirit was lingering behind, waiting for this communication, this quiet rupture of guilt and remorse from his older brother. Then Fiske fell silent, his eyes closed again. He could hear each solid drum of his heart, a sound that was somehow dwarfed by the stillness of the body next to his.
The attendant poked his head in. “Mr. Fiske, we need to take your brother on down. It’s been half an hour.”
Fiske rose and passed the attendant without a word. His brother’s body was going to a terrifying place, where strangers would forage through his remains for clues as to who had killed him. As they wheeled the gurney away, Fiske walked back out into the sunlight and left his little brother behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
* * *
You’re sure you covered your tracks?”
Rayfield nodded into the phone. “Every record of his being here has been expunged. I’ve already transferred all the personnel who saw Fiske to other facilities. Even if someone figures out somehow that he came here, there won’t be anyone left to tell them anything.”
“And no one saw you dump the body?”
“Vic drove his car back. I followed him. We picked a good place. The police will think it was a robbery. Nobody saw us. And even if they did, it’s not the sort of place where people are real cooperative with the law.”
“Nothing left in the car?”
“We took his wallet to further the robbery angle. His briefcase too. A map. There wasn’t anything else. Of course we filled the radiator back up with fluid.”
“And Harms?”
“He’s still in the hospital. Looks like he’s going to make it.”
“Damn. Just our luck.”
“Don’t sweat it. When he comes back here, we’ll deal with him. Weak heart and all, you never know what might happen to you.”
“Don’t wait too long. You can’t hit him in the hospital?”
“Too dangerous. Too many people around.”
“And you’ve got him well guarded?”
“He’s chained to the bed with a guard posted twenty-four hours a day outside his door. He’s being released tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night he’ll be dead. Vic’s already working on the details.”
“And there’s nobody out there who can help him? You’re sure?”
Rayfield laughed. “Hell, no one even knows he’s there. He’s got nobody. Never has, never will.”
“No mistakes, Frank.”
“I’ll call you when he’s dead.”
* * *
Fiske sat in the car and cranked up the air-conditioning, which, in his fourteen-year-old Ford, merely caused the slow movement of muggy air from left to right. Sweat trickling down his face and staining his shirt collar, Fiske finally eased down the window as he stared at the building. Average-looking on the outside, it was not on the inside. There, the people spent all of their time searching for those who killed other people. And Fiske was trying to decide whether to join them in their pursuit or drive back home. He had identified his brother’s remains, his official duty as next of kin completed. He could go home, tell his father, make the funeral arrangements, see to his brother’s final affairs, bury him and then get on with his life. That’s what everyone else did.