With the sound of Percy's backhoe grinding away, Jack tried to think of what else he had to do. He checked his watch. It was close to ten thirty. The way things were going, Jack's intuition told him that he'd be lucky to get Patience Stanhope back to the Langley-Peerson Home in the mid- to late afternoon, which meant that Dr. Latasha Wylie might be available. He wasn't sure her offer to help was entirely sincere, but he thought he'd give her the benefit of the doubt. With help the case would go faster, and he'd have someone to bounce ideas off of and to offer opinions. He also wanted the bone saw she offered to bring. Although he didn't think that the brain would be important in this particular case, Jack hated to do anything half-assed. More important, he thought there might be a chance he would want to use a microscope or a dissecting scope, and Latasha's presence would make that a viable possibility. Most important was her boss's offer of help with toxicology, which Latasha would be able to make happen. Now that Jack had the idea of an overdose or a wrong medication given at the hospital, he definitely wanted a toxicology screen, and he'd need it done immediately for it to be included in the report.
Such thoughts made Jack concede a distinct possibility that he had been unconsciously avoiding, namely, that there was a good chance he might not make the last shuttle flight from Boston to New York, meaning he'd be forced to fly in the morning. Since he knew the first flights were at the crack of dawn, there was no worry about making the one thirty church service, even with a stop at the apartment for his tuxedo. The concern was telling Laurie.
Acknowledging that he was not up to such a conversation and rationalizing that he didn't know for sure he wouldn't make the flight that evening, Jack opted not to try to phone at that time. He rationalized further that it would be far better to speak to her when he had definitive information.
Leaning to the side to facilitate getting his wallet from his back pocket, Jack got out Latasha Wylie's card and dialed her cell number. Considering the time, he wasn't surprised he got her voicemail. Undoubtedly, she was in the autopsy room. The message he left was simple. The exhumation was delayed, so the autopsy would be late in the afternoon, and he'd love to have help if she was inclined. He left his cell phone number.
With his telephoning out of the way, Jack switched his attention to a practical problem. Thanks to his amateurish bribing of
Walter and Percy in which he'd obviously offered too much considering how rapidly they had accepted, he was now obligated to come up with the promised cash. The twenty or thirty dollars he normally carried in his wallet wasn't going to get him far. But cash wasn't a problem, thanks to his credit card. All he needed was an ATM, and there had to be plenty in the city.
When Jack had done everything he could think of, he resigned himself to going back to the courtroom. He wasn't excited about the idea. He'd seen quite enough of his sister being humiliated, and the initial slight twinge of schadenfreude he'd felt but barely admitted to himself at Craig's comeuppance had long since disappeared. Jack had come to have strong empathy for both individuals and found it distasteful to witness them being skewered and their relationship debased by the likes of Tony Fasano for his venal self-interest.
On the other hand, Jack had promised both individuals he'd show up, and both had in their own ways expressed appreciation for his being there. With these thoughts in mind, Jack started his rent-a-car, managed a three-point turn, and drove out of the cemetery. Just outside the elaborate statue-encrusted gate, he pulled to the side of the road to glance at the map. It was a good thing, because he immediately discerned there was a much better way to get into Boston proper than retracing the route back past the funeral home.
Once under way, Jack found himself smiling. He wasn't quite laughing, but he was suddenly amused. He'd been to Boston for two and a half days, had been racking his brain over a senseless medical malpractice lawsuit, had been slapped and punched, had been shot at, and had been terrorized by a thug in a black Cadillac, and yet had, in reality, accomplished nothing. There was a kind of comic irony to the whole affair that appealed to his admittedly warped sense of humor.
Then another thought occurred to him. He'd become progressively concerned about Laurie's response to his being delayed in Boston to the point that he had become progressively reluctant to talk with her for fear of her response. But he wasn't concerned about the delay itself. If doing the autopsy forced him to fly to New York in the morning, he had to acknowledge that he might not make the wedding. Even though the chances were small that that would be the case, since there was a flight scheduled every thirty minutes from six thirty a.m. on, the probability was not zero, yet it didn't bother him. And the fact that it didn't bother him made him question his unconscious motivations. He loved Laurie, of that he was certain, and he believed he wanted to remarry. So why wasn't he more concerned?
Jack had no answers other than a concession that life was more complicated than his usual devil-may-care attitude would suggest. He apparently functioned on multiple levels, some of which were guarded if not actively suppressed.
With no cars chasing him, no misty fog to negotiate, and no rush-hour traffic, Jack made excellent time driving into downtown Boston. Even though he was approaching from a new direction, he was able to stumble onto the Boston Public Garden and the Boston Common where the two were bisected by Charles Street. And once he found that, he'd also found the underground garage he'd previously used.
After parking the car, Jack walked back to the attendant and asked about an ATM. He was directed to the commercial section of Charles Street and found the machine across from the hardware store where he'd purchased the unused pepper spray. With the upper limit of cash he could withdraw in hand, Jack followed his previous day's route in reverse. He walked up Beacon Hill, enjoying the neighborly ambience of the handsome town houses, many with carefully cultivated window boxes overflowing with flowers.
The recent rain had washed the streets and the bricked sidewalks. The overcast sky made him aware of something he'd not noticed in the sunlight the day before: The nineteenth-century gas lamps were all ablaze, apparently day in, day out.
Pushing into the courtroom, Jack hesitated by the exit. Superficially, the scene looked exactly as he'd left it the afternoon before, except that Craig was on the stand instead of Leona. There was the same cast of characters mirroring the same attitudes. The jurors were impassive, as if they were cutout figures, save for the plumber's assistant, who made examining his nails a continuous endeavor. The judge was preoccupied with the papers on his desk, similar to the day before, and the spectators were contrarily attentive.
As Jack's eyes scanned the spectators, he saw Alexis in her usual spot with a seat next to her apparently saved for him. On the opposite side of the spectator gallery in the spot normally occupied by Franco sat Antonio. He was a smaller version of Franco but significantly more handsome. He was now wearing the Fasano team apparel: gray suit, black shirt, and black tie. Although Jack had been reasonably confident Franco would be out of the picture for a few days, he wondered if he'd have trouble with Antonio. He also wondered if either Franco or Antonio or both had anything to do with the assault on Craig's children.
Appropriately excusing himself, Craig moved into the aisle where Alexis was sitting at the very end, the closest seat to the jury box. She saw him coming and flashed a quick, nervous smile. Jack didn't take it as auspicious. She gathered up her belongings so he could sit. They gripped hands briefly before he sat.