Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [182]
“Thanks.” Younger smoked; it settled his clattering teeth. “You realize there’s a silver lining.”
“Oh, yeah—what?”
“If I die fast enough, you’ll be in the clear at my hearing tomorrow. They can’t make you pay a man’s bail bond posthumously.”
“I already talked to the DA,” said Littlemore. “He dropped the charges against you.”
“Ah. Excellent. Then my death will be completely pointless.”
There was a long pause.
“Good thing I’m not a believer,” said Younger, smoke curling into his eyes.
Another silence.
“Not even to my own family,” said Younger.
“What’s that?” asked Littlemore.
“Nothing,” said Younger. “Ash?”
Littlemore took the cigarette, tamped it into an ashtray, and returned it to Younger’s mouth.
“I wasn’t kind, Jim,” said Younger quietly.
“What are you talking about?”
“I was never kind. Not to one person. Not even to my family.”
“Sure you were,” said Littlemore. “You took care of your mom when she got sick. I remember.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Younger. “And my father. All he ever wanted from me was a show of respect. That’s all. Never gave it to him.” He laughed through the smoke. “Funny thing was I did respect him. I wasn’t like you. You visit your father every weekend. You make him part of your life. You talk about Washington.”
“My dad?” said Littlemore.
“Yes.”
“My dad?”
Younger looked at him.
“My dad’s a drunk,” said Littlemore. “He’s been a drunk his whole life. He cheated. And he was crooked. Got kicked off the force for taking bribes. They took his badge, took his gun. Everything I ever said about him was a lie.”
“I know.”
“I know you know,” said Littlemore. “But you let me tell my lies.”
Neither spoke.
“That was kind,” added Littlemore.
Younger grimaced. His head jerked back; his teeth clenched. The cigarette broke off, and the lit end flew in a little arc like a miniature rocket, bouncing off the sheet near his chin, then falling to the floor. At the same time, the door to the room opened.
“I’ll get that,” said Colette, hurrying in, brushing a hot red ember off the sheet and cleaning up the floor. She placed her palm wordlessly below Younger’s lips. From his mouth, he let slip the unsmoked butt end of the cigarette, which fell into her hand. He began to shake again and sweat.
No one said anything.
At last Littlemore asked, “You in a lot of pain, Doc?”
“I never understood it,” said Younger.
“What?” asked Littlemore.
“Why I was alive. Why any of us were.”
“You understand now?” asked Colette.
Younger nodded. “Not happiness. Not meaning. It’s just—”
He stopped.
“What?” asked Colette.
“War.”
“Only some people aren’t fighting,” said Littlemore, remembering something Younger had once said to him.
“No. Everyone’s fighting. And I know what it’s between, this war.” He looked at Colette.
“What?” asked Littlemore.
“Too late,” said Younger. He lost control of his torso, which began to convulse. Fresh blood appeared on his bandages. Whether the expression on his face was another grimace or a smile, Littlemore couldn’t tell.
Colette stared. Betty called for the nurse.
In the middle of the night, Colette knelt alone at Younger’s bed. A candle burned on the table. “Can you hear me?” she whispered.
His eyes were closed. He was still prone, his back rising and falling so shallowly there was hardly any respiration at all. His forehead was drenched. A hollow light glowed in his cheeks.
“If you die,” she said quietly, “I’ll never forgive you.”
He lay there.
Abruptly she stood, letting go his hand. “Go ahead and die then if you’re so weak,” she cried. “I thought you were strong. You’re a weakling. Nothing but a weakling.”
“Not very sympathetic,” he said softly, without opening his eyes.
She gasped and covered her mouth. She took his hand again and whispered in his ear. “If you live,” she said, “I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be your slave.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” she whispered.
His eyes blinked open—and shut again. “Incentive. That’s good. Nevertheless, I’m dying. You have to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”