He knew of a twenty-four hour wine merchant in Rochester who had the best fine wine offerings in the northeast. He called and got an assistant manager who assured him, yes, they did carry ChâteauNeuf-du-Pape, some very good vintages, and could give a reasonable discount by the case, along with a lower invoice, if required, to offset excessive Canadian tariffs.
Miranda heard the telephone ring. She was still sitting on the bathroom floor. She had been there for four or five hours. She could remember time expanding as if she were an observer watching two women, neither of whom seemed familiar.
Post-traumatic stress disorder; the observing Miranda knew about such things and even thought it might be an appropriate term, perhaps for both women. It didn’t mean anything — it was not a diagnosis, it was a description.
She could envision Morgan on the other end of the line giving his Clint Eastwood scowl, which would shift too quickly into a sly Kevin Spacey grin and then, because no one was answering, his face would collapse into a Jack Nicholson sneer or a Mel Gibson smirk, or, if he could muster it, a blue-eyed Paul Newman smile, even though his eyes were deep brown.
No, that sequence would be if he thought she was in bed with her lover. He would have another set of faces for this, whatever was happening now.
He doesn’t know how he looks, she thought. Maybe nobody does. For the most part he was stone-faced, displaying only the subtlest nuances of character, like all the great screen actors. Some people thought he was cold. Others thought he was cool.
He was only forty-two, but she never thought of him in terms of young actors like Ewan McGregor or Brad Pitt. They had not yet done enough in their lives to transcend the roles they played. And never like Al Pacino, De Niro, or Hoffman, who were inseparable from their roles.
The phone kept ringing in a monotonous jangle, like a giant insect blindly searching its prey.
Morgan was childish, sometimes, but only with her. He would recite bits of nursery rhymes or schoolyard jingles, sometimes delightfully, absurdly obscene, always inappropriate, although he almost never swore. You can take the boy out of the schoolyard, she thought, but …
Time passed, and she could hear voices and a key rattling in her door.
Then Morgan was beside her. The building caretaker who let him in had gone back to bed. Morgan touched her, and she touched the blond woman’s cheek.
“Hello, Morgan,” she said.
“My goodness, it stinks in here,” said Morgan.
“I’m okay,” she said. “You were going to ask if I’m okay. I’m okay. This is my friend, she’s okay.”
“You’re not,” said Morgan. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
Suddenly, as if she had been slapped in the face or jarred with defibrillators, Miranda returned to herself.
“Morgan! No ambulance, no cops.” She placed her hand around the back of his neck and drew herself upward as he rose to his feet.
“My God,” she said. “I’m stiff.”
“And who is this?” said Morgan. “You’re both filthy.”
“I’m okay, Morgan. I’m okay. Let’s get cleaned up here.”
Morgan turned on the shower and in a surreal, almost balletic sequence of movements, he and Miranda got the young woman into the streaming water, where Miranda, still in her pajamas, stripped off the woman’s soiled clothes and handed them out to Morgan, who tossed them in the tub and then went for a bathrobe, which they wrapped around the young woman, who appeared conscious of what they were doing but did nothing to assist. He took her into the bedroom and spread her out on top of the sheets, noticing there was still residue around her wrists, possibly from duct tape, then he returned to assist Miranda, who was tangled trying to get out of her drenched moose-grazing flannel pajamas. He helped her into and out of the shower then towelled her off before wrapping her in a clean white beach towel and leading her into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed beside her erstwhile companion.
“Why are you here?” said Miranda ingenuously, implying it was a pleasant thing to have him drop in, but a bit of an intrusion.
“I wanted to talk about wine. When I called, there was no answer — who is this? She obviously needs help? So do you —”
“And you’re here, Morgan. She came to me, I’m the help she was looking for. We’ll help each other, Morgan. How can I help you? You want to know about wine? You’re the expert, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Miranda …”
“She came to me, Morgan, because she needs me. Philip sent her.”
“Philip!”
“I know he’s dead. I’m not confused. But she’s a link between him and the man who killed us, killed him.”
“How do you know?”
“Statistics. Logic. How often does a discombobulated blond turn up at your door, how often does a corpse turn up in your bed? Both extremely unlikely. The chances of these two events happening in the same week to the same person, astronomically unlikely. Ergo, it’s magic, or there’s a causal connection.”
“We’ve got to call Spivak, see what he can make of her. We’ve got to get her to a doctor. Does she talk?”
“Call Ellen Ravenscroft.”
“What?”
“Call Ellen Ravenscroft, she’s a doctor.
“She’s a coroner, this woman’s alive —”
“Morgan, are you with me on this? She came to me. Not to the police, not to the hospital, she came to me.”
Morgan reached out and felt her forehead. Miranda leaned against the pressure of his hand. He stood up, and bending over her, he lowered her back onto the bed beside her new friend, who had closed her eyes and seemed to be asleep. Miranda closed her eyes as well and drifted off as he watched her.
He wandered out into the living room and down the hallway. The floor was sticky with drying urine. He got a sponge-mop from the kitchen, dampened it with a little water and some vinegar from under the sink, and cleaned the floor from the hall through to the bathroom. He put the mop away after rinsing it and stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the strange scene of the two women asleep on the bed.
He started back to the living room, then turned and taking a light blanket from the back of a chair, he covered the sleeping women, tucking the blanket close around them as if they might catch a chill, even though the night air was seasonably balmy. Through an open window he could hear the ambient hush of the city.
When the security door buzzed, he let Ravenscroft in without checking to see who it was. She had been surprisingly cheerful when his call wakened her. He met her at the door.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Where is she? And there’s no point in whispering, we’ll have to wake her up anyway.”
Ellen walked into the bedroom and flicked on the overhead. “My God!” she said. “There are two of them?”
Morgan had not told her about the stranger. He had said Miranda seemed to be suffering from post-trauma shock and had asked for Ellen by name.
Miranda stirred, and without opening her eyes mumbled, “Hello, Ellen Ravenscroft.”
“Hello, Miranda Quin. And who are we in bed with this time?”
Miranda’s eyes flashed open. She glared at the medical examiner, then shut them again and smiled. “She’s my friend.”
“And what’s your friend’s name?”
“I