Strachey's Folly - Stevenson Richard (читать книги онлайн регистрации .TXT) 📗

Craig also asked, "Did Sudbury bring men back here for sex?" This came just as Craig was about to leave. It was a rea­sonable question for an investigator to ask following an assault on an urban gay man in the nineties. But the faint trace of a leer on Craig's ordinarily blank face lent the question a quality that was both lubricious and gratuitous. Also, it seemed to come as an afterthought, a bow to investigatory convention.

Timmy had told Craig, "Maynard is a sexually alive adult male who dates from time to time. It wouldn't surprise me if some of his dates have spent the night with him. But Maynard is old-fashioned in some respects, and I think cautious. He wouldn't have invited anybody into his house whom he didn't know reasonably well."

Craig sniffed and said, "Yeah, sure."

I told him, "We were lucky you had a chance to stop over here tonight, Lieutenant. This must have taken you away from more important cases."

"This is important," he replied, but added nothing more. He told us it would be a good idea if we did not spend the rest of the night in Maynard's house. He said he'd ask a patrol car to check the front and rear of the house periodically. Craig recom­mended a hotel several blocks away on Pennsylvania Avenue, just east of the Capitol, and he offered us a ride. We declined the ride. We waited ten minutes after Craig had left, then hiked the three blocks up to the Capitol Hill Hotel on Second Street, SE. It was not the hotel Craig had recommended, just one we'd seen, while walking in the neighborhood, that looked quiet, comfort­able, and, as Timmy had put it, "unthreatening."

In the morning, we'd slept but we did not sparkle. After I called GW, Timmy checked off the names of people in Maynard's address book who were friends Maynard had mentioned to Timmy, and while he showered, I made calls. It was an hour ear­lier in Southern Illinois on a Sunday morning, so I figured I'd phone Maynard's family last and let them know that he had been shot and badly wounded.

No actual human beings answered my first three calls, but I left messages explaining who and where I was and informed Maynard's friends of his misfortune. On the fourth and fifth calls, I reached a man and a woman respectively, and they turned out to be writers, too. The man was another freelancer, the woman, Dana Mosel, a reporter at the Post. I nearly asked Mosel how I could locate a D.C. police official of undisputed high integrity, someone I could confide in on a matter that law-enforcement higher-ups might refer to as "sensitive." But I decided that a more roundabout route to a clean cop was called for, so I let it go.

Both of Maynard's writer friends were shaken by the news of the shooting—which had taken place too late to make the Sunday papers—and his friends said they would notify others and would visit Maynard at GW as soon as his condition al­lowed. Both asked, "Was it a robbery?" I said that that was still unclear.

I was about to make another call when Timmy came out of the bathroom. "I'd better talk to his parents," he said. "I've never met them, but Maynard might have mentioned me. You know the way Peace Corps people tell stories back home."

I said I knew. The eleven-year-old son of another of Timmy's old Peace Corps friends liked to refer to the tales of India that his father told as "Dad's twelve stories."

"Do you think Maynard is really safe even in the hospital?" Timmy said. Ray Craig had assured us that the hospital's security staff would keep constant watch over Maynard, and at GW he was in no danger of being attacked again by his E Street as­sailant.

I said, "Why? Are you afraid that whoever shot Maynard is going to sneak into the hospital, dress up in a surgical gown swiped from a closet, walk into Maynard's room carrying a clip­board, and stick a hypodermic needle in his ear? Timothy, I'm surprised your feverish imagination can't come up with some­thing cleverer than that old TV Pi-show cliche."

"As a matter of fact, my feverish imagination has. Jim Suter's letter talked about people who sounded as if they were power­ful enough to place somebody inside the hospital."

"You mean to say 'deep' inside the hospital, don't you? That's the way it's usually phrased in the mall-movie trailers and doctor-show promos."

Timmy tugged his pants up around his slender waist and said sourly, "I really don't know what's going on with you, Don­ald. But you seem to be in total denial of the meaning of the events of the past eighteen hours. First, we discover a black, fu­nereal AIDS quilt panel for Jim Suter, a man who apparently isn't dead. The panel has pages from Betty Krumfutz's campaign biography on it. Then Betty herself shows up, examines the panel, and flees in horror. A few hours later, the panel is vandalized and the pages stolen. Meanwhile, Maynard receives a let­ter from Jim Suter saying Suter's life is in danger because he knows something—or somebody thinks he knows something— that can put important people in prison."

I said, "The letter actually said 'muchos anos'—'big enchi­ladas' being jailed for 'muchos anos.' Maybe that means these people are Mexican."

"Possibly, yes. And then," Timmy went on, yanking a shirt over his head, "somebody shoots Maynard—shoots him! With a gun! Poor Maynard—Maynard, one of the sweetest, most de­cent ..." His voice caught, and he shook his head in despair.

I reached out, took Timmy's hand, and pulled him onto the bed next to me. "And then," he continued in a tremulous voice, "this cop shows up who's some cold-blooded, suspicious, creep-show weirdo, asking all the wrong questions. And then May­nard's house is ransacked in an obvious search for something somebody desperately wants to get hold of—something incrim­inating, presumably. And then, and then, and then—you say I'm being paranoid?"

I kissed him lightly on his big, white, beautifully shaped ear and spoke into it. "Yes and no."

"Oh, I see. Yes, I'm being paranoid, and no, I'm not. Oh." He flopped back on the bed. I lay down beside him and lit a mental cigarette. I said, "Look, I understand that a lot of these awful things that are going on must be interconnected. Betty Krumfutz and the quilt vandalism, the shooting and the search of the house, and probably the quilt panel and Jim Suter's letter— yes, some or all of those form part of something bigger and even worse than the sum of all those ugly parts. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have observed Jim Suter's wishes—and Maynard's— and feigned ignorance with that strange, obnoxious cop.

"I'm only suggesting, Timothy, that even actual conspiracies have limits that are nearly always narrow. Whole hospitals, whole police departments, whole taxi fleets, are not parts of plots, except in Orwell, or Kafka's imagination, or—what? Oliver Stone? Nixon's tapes? A Pat Robertson fund-raising letter?" Timmy smiled weakly. Then quickly he grew somber again and said, "You're right, but . . . how are we supposed to know which cop, or which taxi driver, or which hospital employee is the one not to trust? That's the problem I'm having right now." Skeptical as I was of conspiracy theories to explain evil in human affairs, it was plain enough that Timmy's fears were not groundless, just, it seemed to me, highly exaggerated. Even more important, his fear was interfering with his analytical powers and clouding his judgment—often far keener than mine—in a way I knew was not going to help. I believed that taking the first train home to Albany would have been the smartest thing for him to do until he regained his perspective. But I knew he wasn't about to do that: he wouldn't leave Maynard; lie wouldn't leave me.