Hathorne snorted. “This is absurd.”
“I assume it was his brother Robbie who told you about it, but I’ll bet he didn’t have a copy of it. It intrigued you, though, didn’t it? The idea of that poem, and what he wrote. You saw it as something cryptic. Something you could use.”
“I won’t dignify this any longer.” He called out for the attendant.
“The phone call you made was recorded,” Craig said. Hathorne stopped in his tracks. “Darndest thing. It had nothing to do with you. Elaine’s husband, Arthur Benedetto, has been wrapped up in some litigation with a guy who owns a beach house next to theirs, down on the Jersey Shore. Can you believe that? It got nasty a couple of years ago, so old Mr. Benedetto started recording all incoming calls.”
“You expect me to believe this?”
“I don’t really care, because we got lucky. Elaine definitely remembered talking with you. A nice old man, she said, who told her he was an old friend of Joe’s. This nice man wanted to see if he could round up a copy of the literary magazine where Joe’s heartbreaker of a poem was published, way back when. He said something about a presentation for Joe’s fiftieth birthday. Elaine keeps archives of the literary magazine going back to the ’60s. You knew that too.”
“This is a fantasy,” Hathorne said, but his eyes were wide and his face pale.
“I can’t remember the name you gave her or the address near Saratoga to send the copy to. The amazing thing was that—sure enough—your call to her was one of the seventy-five or so that old Arthur recorded and stored on a hard drive that year. I’ve heard the call, Doc. It’s you, and I’ll be able to establish your voice pattern.” The attendant, a stocky Black guy about Craig’s age, was at the door now. He gave Craig a questioning look. Craig put up a finger as if to ask for one more minute.
“This is utter nonsense. Try to scare a younger man, Mr. Flynn. I know what can convict someone in a court of law and what cannot.”
“It’s not about convictions anymore, though, is it, Doc?” Craig asked, again feigning the exaggeratedly confused face. “I mean, it’s a lesser standard now, isn’t it? When it comes to how long you’ll stay in here, it’s really about whether you’re mentally ill.” He paused for effect. “And dangerous.”
Every muscle in Hathorne’s frame seemed to freeze. His hands shook minutely. Craig stared back at him. The attendant moved a little closer.
“Let’s go, Doctor,” he said.
“You’re an ugly man, Mr. Flynn,” Hathorne said, his rigid mouth finally spreading into a leering purplish smile. “An ugly man with a tragic face.” The attendant looked at him with alarm, but Craig just grinned back.
“My dog loves me anyway,” he said. The grin disappeared. “You’ll die in here. I’ll see to it.” His eyes shifted to the attendant. “Get him out of here.”
CHAPTER 75
Monday, April 15, 1985
Bayley Seton Hospital
Staten Island
9:15 p.m.
Lady Blue was the ABC Monday Night Movie playing in Uncle Mike’s room. A cop movie with a redheaded woman as the star. The sound was off, but Joe got the gist. He was following it mostly because he had no idea what else to do.
He was standing between his uncle’s bed and the window, still in the rumpled shirt and tie he had worn on the flight from Dublin. He felt guilty for not paying more attention to the figure in the bed, but it hurt just to glance. His uncle looked skeletal under a white sheet, his arms like matchsticks tethered to bags and machines.
“Hi, Joe?” In the doorway was a thin young man with a clipboard in his hands. He was neatly dressed in jeans and a collared shirt with a knitted maroon tie. “My name is Stephen. I work with the hospital.” He had kind, softened eyes under wispy blond hair. It looked like he’d been crying not long ago.
“Oh, hi.”
“I understand you were traveling. Have you been home yet?”
“No. I came straight from the airport. I was on a school trip. Um . . . my uncle has been sick for about a year.” He pictured Mike’s crowded nightstand at home—pill bottles, tissues, the plastic thing he threw up into sometimes. His uncle had never—not once—asked Joe for help. Still, Joe felt he should have known better.
“Your uncle’s condition deteriorated rapidly. He lost consciousness before you got back, but he was in a lot of pain.”
“Do they know how long he has?”