Kissing the Beehive

"What about Bradley Erskine?"

"Erskine? But Sam, I told all this to your friend when she came to visit. She took copious notes. I assumed she gave them to you. No? What a charming woman. And certainly a fan of yours!"

''Veronica came to your house? You told her about Ranftl and Erskine? When was this?"

"A week ago. More. Maybe ten days."

Sirens were wailing somewhere nearby but I barely noticed them after what Durant said. I wished him well in the hospital and got off the phone as fast as I could.

For a time I forgot where I was going. Why hadn't Veronica told me she'd spoken with Durant? Why had she lied about finding Erskine through her own research when she must have known he'd tell me? The only reason I could think of was so she could find out everything possible about the men and then hand it to me as a gift. Why did she continue to interfere with my work? The night we spent together after I'd found her in the backyard had been okay, but more careful than anything else. We touched tentatively and with too much hesitation. I hadn't seen her since but we spoke on the phone a few times. Warily.

I came out of my fog when an ambulance swerved around my car and roared on to the end of the block. Two police cars were stuck precariously in the middle of the street, doors still open. Crime scene in Crane's View! Had someone snitched a magazine from the stationery store? A jaywalker caught red-handed crossing against the light?

As the ambulance pulled to a stop, I slowed and saw McCabe's silver Infiniti. It had gone up over the curb and was now blocking the sidewalk. What was going on?

I parked as close to the scene as I could. A crowd of people was standing around about ten feet from the action. I walked up and saw Do

"Do

"My uncle Fra

I pushed through the crowd and up to the scene. McCabe was lying on his back on the pavement, a big pool of glistening blood off to his right side. Paramedics were working on him. Two policemen talked to people who'd apparently seen what had happened.

Fra

The waiting room was empty. I sat and prayed for him. After I explained to a nurse who I was, she said they had to operate at once. McCabe was unconscious. The wound was grave. They had no idea who'd done it.

Half an hour later Magda Ostrova came in looking bewildered. She'd been at the market. She'd just heard. Without another word she came over and we embraced. Sitting next to each other in that hospital silence, she squeezed my hand until it hurt.

Hours went by. People came and went. Other cops, many friends. The surgery continued. Magda began to talk about Fra

As tactfully as I could, I asked Magda if she and Fra

"What's strange about Fra

The surgery was successful but we were not allowed to see him for two days. When I entered his room, his eyes rolled over to me, then back up to the ceiling. I asked how he was and he nodded. I knew they were going to have to operate again. He gestured for me to come over and sit on the side of his bed. He took my hand and held it but didn't speak. We sat there and looked out the window. A couple of times he sighed but nothing else.

"Do you know who did it?"

He shook his head.

"Maybe it was Mr. Litchfield getting back at you after all these years for burning his car."

He didn't smile. I asked if he wanted me to go. In a very quiet, un-McCabe voice, he said yes.

It turned out to be the week of the hospital. There was a message on my answering machine to call Edward Durant at the hospital in New York. When we spoke, he sounded as quiet and stricken as McCabe. He asked if it would be possible for me to come and see him soon.

He looked much worse than Fra

He had thought he had more time left, but after this examination they weren't hopeful. His once-strong body had been overthrown by a mob of lunatic cells. The situation reminded him of looters in a riot. Ru

There was no self-pity in Durant's voice, only a kind of disgusted wonder. Most of the time he spoke about his son. What was most wrenching to hear was his referring to him in the present tense.

At first I thought he was only reminiscing, but then he got to the point. Out of nowhere, he said he guessed I didn't make that much for a book. I told him it was sufficient. He said he had a great deal of money left. Originally he had pla

He wanted to know if I would consider expanding my book so that it included the life of Edward Jr. I said that was no problem – Pauline's husband had to play a very large role in the story.

That wasn't what he meant. "Don't you see, Sam, the only possible thing I can still do for Edward is vindicate him. I know it sounds crass, but I'd willingly give you any amount of money to do that so people could know what he was really like. Whatever you need that I have – money, co

I knew with his help I would have access to materials normally impossible to obtain. Yet I didn't want to commit myself. I told him to let me think about it and get back to him. He started to speak but stopped.

"What were you going to say?"

His lips trembled and he turned quickly away. He said something I couldn't hear.

"I'm sorry, Edward, I didn't hear you."

He turned back. "Who will remember him when I'm dead? Who will remember the little boy spelling d-o-g? Or how he tried to hypnotize his shoelaces into tying themselves? Sam, someone has to tell his story. Not just clear his name." He grabbed the bedsheet. "Life is not fair, but it can be just. That's all I want. Help it to be just for my son."