The nature of the call was becoming clear to me. “That’s right,” I lied. “What’s her condition?”

“I’m afraid that Mrs. Lear has passed away.”

I didn’t say anything. The room was dissolving. Not just the room, the world.

“Hello?”

I made an effort to swallow. “Yes, I’m here.”

“She was unconscious when they brought her in. I was alone with her when she woke up. She gave me your name and number.”

“Was there a message?”

“I’m sorry, no. She was very weak. I wasn’t even sure I heard the number right. She died just a few minutes later. We tried to reach her husband, but apparently he’s overseas. Is there anybody else we should notify?”

I hung up. I placed a pillow over my face. Then I began to scream.

* * *

22

The story of the girl’s death was plastered on the front pages of the tabloids for several days, and in this manner I learned more about her. She was twenty-nine, from College Park, Maryland, the daughter of Iranian immigrants. Her father was an engineer, her mother a school librarian; she had three siblings. For six years she had worked at Beckworth and Grimes, ascending to the rank of associate editor; she and the baby’s father, an actor, were recently divorced. Everything about her was ordinary and admirable. A hard worker. A devoted friend. A beloved daughter and doting mother. For a time, she had wanted to be a dancer. There were many photos of her. In one, she was just a child herself, wearing a leotard and performing a little-girl plié.

Two days later I received a call from Jonas, relaying the news of Liz’s death. I did my best to act surprised and discovered that I actually was a little, as if, hearing his broken voice, I were experiencing the loss of her for the first time all over again. We talked awhile, sharing stories of the past. From time to time we laughed over something funny she had done or said; at others, the phone went silent for long intervals in which I heard him crying. I listened to the spaces in the conversation for any indication that he’d known, or suspected, about the two of us. But I detected nothing. It was just as Liz had said: his blindness was total. He couldn’t even imagine such a thing.

I was still slightly amazed that nothing had happened to me: no knock on the door, no dark men in suits standing beyond the chain, displaying their badges. Dr. Fanning, mind if we have a word with you? None of the stories mentioned the bartender or the cabbie, which I took to be a good sign, though eventually, I believed, the law would come calling. My penance would be extracted; I would fall to my knees and confess. The universe could simply make no sense otherwise.

I took a shuttle to Boston for the funeral. The ceremony was held in Cambridge, within sight of Harvard Yard. The church was packed. Family, friends, colleagues, former students; in her too-short years, Liz had been much loved. I took a pew in back, wanting to be invisible. I knew many, recognized others, felt the weight of all. Among the mourners was a man whom, beneath his puffy alcoholic’s face, I knew to be Alcott Spence. Our eyes met briefly as we followed Liz’s casket outside, though I do not think he remembered who I was.

After the burial, the inner circle repaired to the Spee Club for a catered lunch. I had told Jonas that I needed to return early and couldn’t make it, but he insisted so ardently that I had little choice. There were toasts, remembrances, a great deal of drinking. Every second was torture. As people were leaving, Jonas pulled me aside.

“Let’s go out to the garden. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

So here it was, I thought. The whole mess was about to come out. We exited through the library and sat on the steps that led down to the courtyard. The day was unusually warm, a mocking foretaste of spring—a spring I believed I would not see. Surely I would be living in a cell by then.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a flask. He took a long pull and passed it to me.

“Old times,” he said.

I didn’t know how to respond. The conversation was his to steer.

“You don’t have to say it. I know I fucked up. I should have been there. That may be the worst thing.”

“I’m sure she understood.”

“How could she?” He drank again and wiped his mouth. “The truth is, I think she was leaving me. Probably I deserved it.”

I felt my stomach drop. On the other hand, if he’d known it was me, he would have already said so. “Don’t be ridiculous. She was probably just going to see her mother.”

He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Yeah, well, last time I checked, you don’t need a passport to go to Connecticut.”

I had failed to consider this. There was nothing to say.

“That’s not the reason I asked you out here, though,” he went on. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about me.”

“A little.”

“Everybody thinks I’m a big joke. Well, they’re wrong.”

“Maybe this isn’t the day for this, Jonas.”

“Actually, it’s the perfect day. I’m close, Tim. Very, very close. There’s a site in Bolivia. A temple, at least a thousand years old. The legends say there’s a grave there, the body of a man infected with the virus I’ve been searching for. It’s nothing new—there are lots of stories like that. Too many for all this to be nothing, in my opinion, but that’s another argument. The thing is, I’ve got hard evidence now. A friend at the CDC came to me a few months back. He’d heard about my work, and he’d happened across something he thought would interest me. Five years ago, a group of four American tourists showed up at a hospital in La Paz. All of them had what looked like hantavirus. They’d been on some kind of ecotour in the jungle. But here’s the thing. They all had terminal cancer. The tour was one of those last-wish things. You know, do the stuff you always wanted to do before you check out.”