Third man out - Stevenson Richard (читать хорошую книгу полностью .TXT) 📗

I said, "That's enough."

"What?"

"I can't take this. Every word you speak gives me a headache and I've had enough. I resign."

"No, please!"

"I'll mail you back your check, John. I can't work for you. I think you lie as naturally as you eat candy, and I think both the shooting and the fire are stunts you and Eddie staged to get sympathy and attention for you and your cause. It's a good cause overall-it's my good cause, too-but you're going about it in a way that goes too far and hurts innocent people and is self-defeating. I can't participate, I'm sorry."

"But you agreed! You said you would help protect me for twenty-four hours and you're not keeping your promise. You can't leave me alone like this when I'm in real danger! It's unfair! Look, I know I've cut a few corners. Can you tell me you've never cut a corner or two for a good cause? No, no, you can't, I know it. And even if I am too assertive sometimes, and I step on a few toes that maybe I shouldn't, do I deserve to be murdered for it? This is fucking insane! This is unfair! This is-"

I hung up on him. I couldn't stand to hear him speak another word. I quickly disconnected the answering machine and plugged the phone line back into the wall outlet. A few seconds later, when the phone began to ring, I let it ring and ring. Then I wrote a note for Timmy and left the house. end user

10

How is he?" I said.

"The same."

It was a quarter after eight that night and we were in the corridor outside room F-5912 at Albany Med.

"Is Mike in there?"

"Yes, and Rhoda and Al."

"I'll go in and say hello."

"Your note said you quit working for John Rutka. What happened?"

"You can guess."

"He's insufferable."

"That sums it up. It's not just his views, either. Those I can cope with or even agree with. He lies habitually."

"It wouldn't be the first time a client lied to you. Not that I mean to defend Rutka."

"I don't think he knows the difference between when he's lying and when he's not. It seems to be pathological."

Three nuns came out of room F-5913 across the corridor, where the bishop lay comatose, and Timmy gave them a friendly nod. "Did you get a look at the famous files?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Anything I should know about?"

"That's confidential investigator-client information."

"Ha-ha. Cough it up."

"Nothing much, really. The governor and his entire cabinet are transvestites who dress up in a basement room in the capitol every Thursday morning at eleven. The governor is Arlene Francis and the commissioner of corrections is Miss Kitty Carlisle."

"Oh, everybody knows that. It's why he'll never run for president."

"Other than that, there was nothing in the files you didn't already know, I'm pretty sure."

"That's probably true. So who shot Rutka?"

"I think he did it himself, or Sandifer did. It's their little bit of guerrilla theater. Their house was set on fire today and all the evidence points to their being responsible for that, too. The Handbag police chief just wants them to leave town, and at this point I think that's the best deal they're going to get and they should take it."

"Cripes, Rutka is even scuzzier than I thought."

The wife of the unconscious truck driver who shared the room with the bishop came out into the corridor looking red-eyed and defeated, and plodded toward the elevators.

"Rutka is pretty confused," I said. "It's surreal the way he mixes keen perceptions of real threats with screwy paranoid delusions.

Me, I've had enough of it."

"So you're off the case entirely?"

"I'm returning his check. It's as if I was never on it. I've never done that with a client, but the guy was driving me nuts. I had such a headache this afternoon I drove out to Thatcher Park and ambled around in the woods for four hours to clear my head. It was lovely. I loafed and invited my soul."

"Did it show up?"

"Yes, and we had a nice exchange of views. I'm going to go in now and say hello to Mike and then go get something to eat. Have you eaten?"

"Sure, but I'll go with you. Mike has been bugging me and I have to go away and think about something."

"What?"

"You'll hear about it. You'll get it too."

I walked past the skinny, gape-mouthed man who never had any visitors and into Stu Meserole's curtained-off end of the room.

Stu's father, Al, a gray-faced, middle-aged man in a windbreaker, was sprawled dozing in a small wooden armchair at the foot of Stu's bed. Rhoda Meserole, squat and pretty with fresh lipstick and a new perm, was seated in the folding chair alongside the bed and was massaging Stu's unresponsive right hand. Mike Sciola was perched on the stool on the other side of the bed and held Stu's limp left hand.

"Hi, Stu," I said quietly, and could hardly resist the urge to say it more loudly. Maybe he's not brain-dead, just hard of hearing, I thought, and we ought to be yelling in his ear, as if he were Reagan, and that

would make him wake up: "HI, STU! HOPE YOU'RE FEELING BETTER AND ARE UP AND AROUND SOON!"

"It was nice of you to come, Donald," Mrs. Meserole said. It was what she always said. "As you can see, Stuart is still in his coma."

"I'm sorry."

"He's so peaceful."

"I want to talk to you before you leave," Mike said. "Are you in a hurry?"

"No."

"Why don't we go outside now?"

Rhoda Meserole smiled and lowered her eyelids, and her sleeping husband snored comfortably. Mike followed me into the corridor.

"This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do or will ever have to do," he said to me quietly. Timmy came over and listened. "I talked to the doctor today."

"Is there any hope at all?"

"He says no, there isn't. It's not that parts of Stu's brain are dead. It's that-parts of his brain aren't even there anymore." He began to choke up, then struggled and recovered himself. "There's no hope. He's gone. Stu is gone and that's his corpse in that room."

"I believe it. That's the way it feels to go in there."

"For a long time," he said, "I was afraid maybe Stu was alive inside that body and going crazy and screaming to die. I don't believe that anymore. The doctor explained some things to me about how the brain works, and the part of Stu's brain that could think like that is gone."

"Good."

"But the thing is- This is the thing." He started to breathe heavily again and struggled with his words. "I can't leave him there like that-a corpse in a bed with people pretending he's a living human being and pumping food into him. It's gruesome. It's an insult to Stu's dignity." He screwed up his face in disgust. I could see what was coming. I was surprised it hadn't come sooner.

"And the thing is," Mike went on, "I have to go back to school in three weeks. I have a contract. I'm obligated, and anyway I have no other means of support except for what I earn. So I have to go back. But the thing is"-he gave me a look of consuming desperation-"the thing is, I can't leave him like that."

I waited.

"Will you help me?"

He looked at me.

I had heard of situations such as this one, where rules, even laws, had been broken in order to do what was all but indisputably right and humane. But I'd never heard of it done in a hospital, except by physicians in collusion with the patient's legal caretaker, and never with the patient's family sitting guard nearby in order to prevent just such an eventuality.