The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [87]
“He will be uncomfortable and unsure without you, Joanna. You will stay, won’t you?” Von Holden’s smile was kindhearted and genuine. Moreover, the way he asked her to stay made it seem it was he, not Lybarger, who was encouraging her. She took another sip of the cognac and felt flushed.
“Yes, all right,” she heard herself say. “If it’s that important to Mr. Lybarger, I’ll stay, of course.”
In the background the oompah band struck up a Viennese waltz and the young German couple got up from their table to dance. Looking around, Joanna saw other people get up as well.
“Joanna?”
She turned and saw Von Holden standing behind her chair.
“May I?” he askèd.
A broad smile unintentionally crossed her face. “Sure. Why not?” she said. She stood up and Von Holden drew back her chair. A moment later he led her past Elton Lybarger and out onto the floor among the others. And, to the outlandish strains of the oompah band, he took her in his arms and they danced.
46
* * *
“I ALWAYS tell the kids it won’t hurt. Just a little jab under the skin,” Osborn said, watching Vera draw 5ml of tetanus toxoid out of a vial and into a syringe. “They know I’m lying and I know I’m lying. I don’t know why I tell them.”
Vera smiled. “You tell them because it’s your job.” Withdrawing the needle, she broke it off, wrapped the syringe in tissue paper, did the same with the vial, then put them both in her jacket pocket. “The wound is clean and healing well. Tomorrow we’ll start you on exercises.”
“Then what? I can’t stay here for the rest of my life,” Osborn said, sullenly.
“You might want to.” Vera plopped a folded newspaper down in front of him. It was the late edition of Le Figaro. “Page two,” she said.
Opening the paper, Osborn saw two grainy photographs. One was of himself, a mug shot taken by the Paris police, the other was of uniformed police carrying a blanket-covered body up a steep river embankment. Linking both was a caption in French: “American doctor suspect in Albert Merriman murder.”
All right, so they’d dusted the Citroën and found his prints on it. He knew it would happen. No need to be surprised or shocked. But—“Albert Merriman? Where did they get that?”
“It was Henri Kanarack’s real name. He was an American. Did you know that?”
“I could have guessed. From the way he talked.”
“He was a professional killer.”
“That part he told me—” Suddenly Osborn saw Kanarack’s face staring up at him from the rushing water, terrified that Osborn would give him another shot of the succinylcholine. At the same time he heard Kanarack’s horror-stricken voice, as distinctly as if he were in the room with him now.
“I was paid—”
Again, Osborn felt the shock of disbelief—that his father’s murder had been cold, detached business.
“Erwin Scholl—” he heard Kanarack say.
“No!” he shouted out loud.
Vera looked up sharply. Osborn’s jaw was set and he was staring straight ahead, focused on nothing.
“Paul—”
Osborn rolled over and slid his legs over the side of the bed. Unsteadily, he pulled himself to his feet. Wavering, he stood there, his face white as stone, his eyes utterly vacant. Sweat stood out on his forehead and his chest heaved thunderously with every breath. Everything was catching up. He was on the edge of a breakdown and knew it, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“Paul.” Vera came toward him. “It’s all right. It’s all right—”
His head snapped around to look at her and his eyes narrowed. She was crazy. Her reasoning came from the outside world where no one understood. “The hell it’s all right!” His voice was thick with rage. But it was the tortured rage of a child. “You think I can do it, don’t you? Well, I can’t.”
“Can’t what—” Vera was very gentle.
“You know what I mean!”
“I don’t . . . .”
“The hell you don’t!”
“No—”
“You want me to say it?”
“Say what?”
“That. That . . .” He stammered. “That I can find Erwin Scholl! Well, I can’t. That’s all! I can’t! Not start all over again! So don’t ask again. Is that clear?” Osborn was leaning over her,