Текст книги "Convicted"
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
Wheeling Claire’s dinner down the long, quiet corridor, Meredith contemplated Ms. Bali’s concerns and directives—Ms. Nichols underwent tests earlier in the day. Due to an unforeseen glitch, additional sedation was required. As Ms. Bali uttered the word glitch, the hairs on the back of Meredith’s neck prickled. The supervisor once said that she’d read Meredith’s book. Could she possibly understand the significance of that word? Fighting to remain stoic, Meredith continued listening. Ms. Bali explained that the tests were scheduled for the entire morning and the additional sedation resulted in prolonged hours of unresponsiveness. Ms. Nichols hadn’t eaten all day. Actually, she’d just recently awakened. Her sister had been here most of the afternoon and had only recently left, waiting until Claire was fully awake. The staff, who assisted with daily showers and hygiene, should be just about done. Mrs. Vandersol wasn’t happy with the day’s mishaps, including an entire day without nutrition. Ms. Bali couldn’t emphasize enough—Claire must eat! She also praised Meredith’s past interactions and offered her confidence in Meredith’s ability to accomplish their goal.
With each step toward Claire’s room, Meredith questioned that ability. She assumed that, with Claire’s new uncooperative state and today’s excessive use of sedation, tonight’s dinner could go less than smooth. Taking a deep breath, Meredith knocked respectfully and slowly opened Claire’s door. It wasn’t as though she expected a greeting.
Claire was alone. The people who helped her bathe and dress were gone; however, she wasn’t sitting in her normal seat by the window. She was pacing near her bed. Despite Meredith’s knock and greeting, Claire didn’t turn or acknowledge her entrance.
Something about Claire looked different—determined—purposeful. Meredith saw the straightness of her posture and clenching of her jaw. Each time she changed direction on her invisible track—back and forth—Meredith saw an intensity in her eyes. Meredith hadn’t seen that look for a long time; however, she had seen it before. It was the expression Claire wore during the hours recalling difficult times in her and Anthony’s relationship. Even then, when she’d repeat a particularly bad time, Meredith remembered Claire’s expression—it was as if she were seeing the scene before her, which wasn’t visible to anyone else. That was the exact expression Meredith saw now. Years ago, Meredith assumed it to be Claire’s internal debate. She’d agreed to share her story, knew it was accurate, but she felt conflicted, especially later in their interview process as her and Mr. Rawlings’ relationship began its reconciliation.
During those interviews, Meredith waited patiently and allowed Claire the necessary time to sort her thoughts. When she did, Claire would recall the scenarios with eloquence. On some occasions Meredith had to remind herself to type rather than simply listening. Later, when she’d review Claire’s dictation, rarely was there need to change or modify—everything was obviously well deliberated. Watching her now, Meredith wondered what she was thinking.
Meredith placed Claire’s food on her table and called to her, “Claire, it’s me, Meredith. I brought your dinner.” Not surprising, neither Claire’s stance nor pace wavered. If anything, her internal debate intensified—Claire’s step quickened.
Walking slowly toward her friend, Meredith spoke again, “Claire, can you hear me?—You haven’t eaten all day—Aren’t you hungry?” The pacing continued.
As Meredith reached for Claire’s arm, Claire pulled away and momentarily glared. Instinctively, Meredith stepped back to apologize; however, as she did, she realized—Claire had just acknowledged her presence. It wasn’t verbal, but she deliberately pulled away and looked right at her!
Meredith wasn’t sure where the words came from—she didn’t want to hurt her friend; nonetheless, after eight to nine weeks of interaction—or no interaction—Meredith chose to break another rule. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”—no response—“I’ve seen you like this before. I know you’re thinking about Ant”—She started to say Anthony, but remembered Claire referred to him as Tony. During the book interviews, she recalled how that familiar title was a gift, a positive consequence he bestowed upon her while she was still his captive—“I mean, Tony. Claire, it’s all right. You can think about him. Why shouldn’t you think about Tony?”
Each time Meredith uttered his name, Claire’s pace slowed. By the fourth or fifth time, her neck, shoulders, and jaw relaxed. Finally, Meredith tried one more plea, “Claire, Tony would want you to eat. He loved you very much. You don’t want”—she stuttered, wondering if she should say what she was thinking. Swallowing her hesitation, Meredith continued—“You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”
Claire didn’t speak; however, stepping around Meredith, she walked to the table with the food and sat. When she didn’t feed herself, Meredith went to the table, sat opposite her, and lifted the lid on Claire’s plate. “Well, it looks like you have salmon. That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?” Her eyes didn’t register, and the earlier intensity was gone, but each time Meredith lifted the fork, Claire obediently opened her mouth and ate. The exercise continued slowly—food—food—and then drink. By the time Claire finished, her plate was mostly empty. She didn’t stand and move to the window as she usually did. Instead, her head dropped, and she looked down with her hands demurely resting on her lap, compliant and obedient.
Meredith praised Claire for her cooperation; nevertheless, it wasn’t until she whispered, “I know Tony would be proud of you. Thank you for helping me,” that Claire raised her chin and looked toward the still light sky.
August 10, 2016
...Claire didn’t speak, but she acknowledged...she cooperated! I want to tell someone what happened today, but if I do, they’ll probably fire me. I mean—I’m not supposed to mention Anthony’s name or have as much knowledge about Claire as I do.
I can’t believe how she responded! She ate! Ms. Bali said she hadn’t eaten all day. That wasn’t all. When she looked out at the sky, I asked her if she wanted to go outside. For the last two weeks, she hasn’t wanted to do anything—but sit in that damn chair. When I asked if she wanted to go outside—she walked toward the door! I don’t think that’s ever happened. Usually, she’ll stand, but wait for someone to lead her to the door. I barely had time to call and request permission to take her out.
I know what did it—it was the mention of Tony’s name. Emily will never listen to me, but she’s wrong to keep the truth from Claire. How can Claire deal with everything if she isn’t allowed to face it? I wonder how much she remembers. I mean, I don’t know what happened for sure—just the information I read and saw on the news. There was the information released from the trial, but despite it being such a high profile case, the courtroom was closed to the public, and very little information was made available. I’ve tapped every resource I know. Everything is sealed. I guess it goes with the money—that can keep everything quiet.
That’s why I started this—to learn what happened, but now I wish I knew so that I could help her face it. Emily probably knows. I’m sure she does. She and her husband were at the courthouse every day of testimony. I remember seeing images of them coming and going from the courtroom on the news. Who else was there? What about Claire’s friend—Courtney? I don’t know if she’ll talk to me. If I contact her and she calls Emily, then I’m screwed.
I guess this needs more thought. Maybe I should just wait and see if this behavior continues or if it ends as fast as it began. I’m not scheduled again for two days. I sure hope the progress we made today isn’t lost in that amount of time.
Oh! Did I mention when we went outside, Claire lifted her face up to the sun and closed her eyes? I think we need to find her sunglasses. She’s never needed them before. She never raised her face or opened her eyes enough. I know I have an extra pair somewhere—I need to remember to take them in Friday! I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to get back to Everwood!
For an accomplished attorney, who at one time specialized in courtroom tactics, John Vandersol’s voice revealed more emotion than he intended. “Dr. Brown, I’m directing this inquiry to you, because after three hours of trying, I’ve been unable to reach Dr. Fairfield!” “I understand you’re no longer in charge of Claire’s care, but my wife and I want answers.” “So, are you saying you weren’t briefed on yesterday’s mishaps?” “I see.” “Yes, I’m well aware of confidentiality regulations. I’m also confident you’re well aware that Emily and I are Claire’s documented next of kin and as such are named under her HIPPA clause to be privy to any pertinent information.” “Yes, Emily was with Claire until she woke yesterday, which I’ll add wasn’t until after 3:00 PM.” “I understand.” “I hope I’m being perfectly clear, if I don’t hear from Dr. Fairfield by noon, then my wife and I will be at Everwood by 1:00 PM. When we arrive, make no mistake, we will put an end to this new protocol. It seems that...”
Emily sat wide-eyed, listening to John’s side of the conversation while nursing her third cup of coffee. Though she tried to decipher what Dr. Brown was saying on the other end, she wouldn’t know for sure until John hung up the phone. It had been a long night. Neither of them had slept much. When Emily got home, the nanny, Becca, was still there. Usually, her day was done after dinner. Luckily, they had a few trusted people they could call at the last minute if there were evening emergencies. Having help was especially nice on occasions like yesterday, when calls came demanding Emily’s immediate attention at Everwood. Last night, instead of taking the risk of the children overhearing their conversation, she and John left the house so that she could fill him in on the problems at Everwood. With each word, each description, John’s anger grew. Ever since the new protocol began, Claire’s response has been negative instead of positive, add to that the recent sedation incident, and Emily was ready to call it quits.
Yesterday, the nurse tried to explain—too much sedation would reduce the necessary brain activity keeping Claire from her visions—hallucinations—whatever they wanted to call them; nevertheless, it was obvious, too little resulted in a traumatic episode for Claire—and for Emily. It was almost 4:00 PM before she left Everwood, and Claire still hadn’t eaten. Emily refocused on John’s words.
His tone was more inquisitive. “...do you have any more specifics?” “Has this aide worked with Claire in the past?”
Emily tapped his arm and raised her eyebrows in question. When he didn’t respond, Emily whispered, “Does she know if Claire ate anything yesterday?”
John nodded as he continued, “All right, thank you, Dr. Brown, but we still need to hear from Dr. Fairfield. I have questions about yesterday’s DTI—questions which apparently only he can answer.” “I will, thank you.” “Goodbye.”
Emily sat her coffee cup down, as sleep deprivation overtook her tone. “Why didn’t you ask her about eating?”
For the first time since he came home last night, John smiled. “I didn’t ask, because she volunteered. Claire not only ate last night—compliantly—she went outside. According to the aide who works with her”—John’s eyes widened—“Claire wanted to go outside.”
“Really”—sarcasm prevailed—“and how did this aide know that? Did she say that Claire spoke?”
Shrugging his shoulders, John replied, “I didn’t ask. I’m just happy she ate and moved from that chair where she always sits. Maybe you should be too?”
Emily stood to leave John’s home office. “You know that if I believed them—I would be, but come on—she was incoherent all day—couldn’t sit—much less stand—for hours after the last dose of sedative. Now they want me to believe she ate and wanted to go outside. Fine—I’ll play their game; however, if she’s not greeting me with a Hi, Em today, I’ll know they’re lying to pacify us.”
As she reached the doorway, Emily turned around. “Are you going into Rawlings today?”
“No, I’m waiting for Dr. Fairfield’s call. If it doesn’t come, then you and I are going to Everwood. Be sure Becca isn’t planning on going home anytime soon.”
“Thanks, John. I know things have been difficult at work since Patricia left.”
Shifting in his chair, John replied, “It was at first. Her knowledge was invaluable; however, the new assistant is catching on fast.”
“You never told me, why was she let go?”
Smiling, he said, “You know the old saying—I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you—and well, I like having you around”—smiling wider, he added—“most of the time.”
Emily shook her head. “Yes, sorry. Sometimes I forget that Rawlings Industries is as top secret as the government.”
“Even more so...” she heard John say as she walked away.
Strength does not come from winning. Your struggles develop your strengths. When you go through hardships and decide not to surrender, that is strength.
—Arnold Schwarzenegger
Harry’s head throbbed, his face ached, and breathing was more comfortable with shallow breaths. Pushing through the dark veil of unconsciousness, he tried to make sense of his condition. Momentarily, the memories wouldn’t come. There were sounds that Harry didn’t recognize as he tried to focus on his surroundings. Through blurred vision, he realized he was in a hospital room, and for some reason, his left eye refused to open. An IV ran from his left arm to someplace behind him. Looking beyond his bed, Harry saw SAC Williams in a chair near the window. Fighting to find his voice, Harry whispered, “What happened?”
As if propelled by an electric shock, Williams was instantly at Harry’s bedside. “Baldwin, nice of you to finally join the party.”
Harry winced as he reached for the controls to raise the bed, so Williams pushed the button for him. As the bed began to move, Harry held his breath—the pain in his side was excruciating.
“Hey, son,” Williams said. “You have a few broken ribs—you might want to take it easy for a while.”
At that moment, Harry’s last memories returned with a vengeance. Suddenly, the pain was forgotten—panic flooded his system, causing his heart to accelerate and his voice to come too loud. “Jillian! SAC? Jillian, someone needs to make sure she’s all right.”
SAC placed his hand on Harry’s arm. “She is, son. Your daughter and ex-wife have been moved to a safe house.”
Relief replaced the panic as the pain from his ribs came back. Exhaling, Harry winced and said, “Good—but I bet Ilona’s pissed!”
“Her daughter is safe, but you’re right, Ilona isn’t happy about the situation, but she understands the threat. We need to know what happened.”
Before he could respond, SAC William’s phone rang. He held up a finger and walked toward the window to talk.
Harry closed his eyes, laid his head against his pillow, and remembered the whole terrible episode. Behind his closed lids, he saw the driver of the SUV, the one who picked him up at the airport. When he’d first entered the dark vehicle, Harry hadn’t paid the man much attention. He was a driver—the FBI had plenty. It wasn’t until he’d saved Claire’s message and was listening to Rawlings’ that he began to notice the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, periodically watching him; then Harry heard the voicemail from the bureau. Before he asked the driver why they were no longer headed toward the field office, Harry casually removed his gun from his holster.
“Give that to me.” The man’s voice held the slightest of a Lebanese accent. Harry couldn’t remember if he hadn’t noticed the accent before, or if the man hadn’t spoken until that moment.
Harry pointed the gun to the side of the driver’s head and calmly commanded, “Pull the car over, asshole.”
Laughter filled the otherwise silent vehicle. Seemingly undeterred by the threat, the driver tilted his head to the right. Harry glanced toward the passenger seat, half expecting to see someone materialize. No one did. Instead, the driver reached over and pulled down the sun visor. Taped, where the mirror should’ve been, was a picture. Staring at Harry, with big, beautiful, blue eyes and light, blonde hair was Jillian. The picture could’ve come from Facebook or been taken in person. Either way, it didn’t matter—Harry was living his worst nightmare—his Achilles heel—his vulnerability. This asshole was threatening Harry’s four-year-old daughter. Panic erupted in his gut as adrenaline flooded his system.
“Where is she?” Harry growled.
“She’s still with that pretty little ex-wife of yours.”
“How do I know she’s safe?”
“You don’t.” The driver lifted a well-worn stuffed bunny—pink and thread bore. Harry had only seen the bunny once—in person—when he purchased it. At the time, he wasn’t even sure Ilona would give it to their daughter; however, through the years it’d been a reoccurring item in many of Jillian’s pictures. Harry knew, without a doubt, it belonged to her.
Turning the barrel around, Harry willingly handed his gun to the driver. Through the windows, Harry saw that the neighborhood was becoming seedier by the second. He pushed his fear inward and summoned his negotiating voice. “There, you’ve got my gun. Now, tell me what the hell you want?”
The driver didn’t answer. Instead, he spoke into his phone, “Yes, we’re almost there.” “No idea.” “Fuck’n FBI and clueless!”
While the driver was talking, Harry eased his own phone out of his pocket and began to text the bureau while simultaneously turning on his GPS finder.
“No way, asshole! Give me your phone—now!”
When Harry hesitated, the driver tilted his head toward Jillian’s picture. Harry had the training, and he knew the protocol; none of it mattered. He’d activated the GPS but hadn’t had time to complete the text. His life no longer counted; protecting his daughter was Harry’s only thought.
Jillian’s safety and well-being was why Harry had signed away his parental rights, and why he’d only corresponded with Ilona in secret. Jillian had a father—in reality, he was her step-father, but she considered him her dad. One evening, about three years ago, Harry had flown East and met with Ilona and her fiancé. It wasn’t an easy meeting, but Harry knew, without a doubt, the man across the table from him would add more to Jillian’s life than he could. Seeing the gleam in Ilona’s eyes and feeling the ache in the pit of his stomach, Harry knew the man had already done more for his ex-wife than Harry ever had.
The legal arrangement didn’t stop Harry’s interest. He watched his daughter’s childhood from a distance. Each birthday and Christmas, each recital and soccer game—social media was a wonderful thing, and thankfully, Ilona allowed Harry’s voyeurism. After Harry signed the documents surrendering his rights, Jillian’s last name changed. Today it was George, the same as her mother and father’s.
Harry believed his own happiness was inconsequential to Jillian’s safety. Now, the man slowing the SUV near a seemingly abandoned building made all of Harry’s sacrifices worthless. For some reason—Jillian was in danger. In Harry’s opinion, during their short conversation, the driver had even made veiled threats against Ilona.
Damn, Harry wasn’t prepared. Usually, he wore an extra revolver in a leg holster; however, since part of his trip was on a commercial flight, the gun was packed away in a sealed container. Easing the shoestring from his boot, Harry gripped it firmly in each fist and quickly brought it down over the man’s head. With all his strength, he pulled it tight against his throat. As garbled sounds came from the driver, the SUV spun wildly. Gasping for air, the driver simultaneously slammed his feet against the brake and gas pedals and released the steering wheel. His hands fought Harry’s grip as he clawed backwards.
When the SUV finally came to a stop, the driver’s head fell to one side and his hands quit the fight. Harry’s relief was short-lived. The doors to the vehicle flew open, and he was pulled to the ground. The concrete was wet as he assessed his situation. Three large men were shouting things he couldn’t understand. Harry’s linguistics training told him the language was Middle-Eastern, but he didn’t recognize the dialect. His heart raced even faster when the sound of a woman’s crying came into range. Harry didn’t need to see the woman to recognize the voice calling out to him between sobs.
SAC Williams touched Agent Baldwin’s arm, bringing him back to present. “Agent, what can you tell us?”
Harry’s right eye opened wide with concern. “Liz”—his voice cracked—“is she—all right?”
“Yes, son, she wasn’t harmed. Apparently, Ms. Matherly’s presence was meant only as a witness. She’s filled us in on her story and is anxious to see you, but first, we need your version.”
Harry inhaled, taking the throbbing in his ribs as penitence for the pain he’d caused those he loved and cared about. After he explained the pick-up and ride, Harry went on, “I got up off the concrete and asked what they wanted, what it was all about. Instead of answering, they taunted, punched me, and yelled. I fought back, more than once, I connected.” Harry looked down at his hands. The right one was covered in bandages. “They said I needed to stop. I asked stop—what? They kept saying—Leave the past alone. It won’t change anything now. Just stop digging around where you don’t belong. When I asked who they were working for, they laughed and said I mustn’t be a very good FBI agent if I couldn’t figure that out.”
Harry’s voice lowered with determination. “SAC, I know it was Rawlings—I know it was! I saw his face in Geneva. When he left that pub, he was mad! He’s the one who’s responsible for this. I’m getting too close to something in my research.”
Williams pulled the chair beside Harry’s bed. “Did you tell Rawlings about your research?”
With his head and ribs throbbing, Harry reached up and touched his left cheekbone and confirmed his suspicions. The skin was tender and felt swollen.
Williams nodded. “You have quite a shiner. Ms. Matherly said you put up a good fight, but once the driver came to, you were outnumbered four to one.”
Harry remembered. He was thrown to the ground, and the driver started to kick him. Finally, one of the other guys pulled the driver off. Liz was crying. The men all got back into the SUV and left. “Did Liz get help?”
“Yes, the men took your phone, but Ms. Matherly still had hers. She called 911. Once the police arrived, she called the bureau. Son, do you remember any more details? Did you tell Rawlings about your research?”
Harry shook his head. “No, I didn’t have the chance to tell him, but somehow, he found out. It’s the only thing that makes sense”—he paused—“My phone—did you say they took my phone?”
“Yes, the bureau tracked it, and it was found with your other belongings in an ally dumpster about a half of a mile from where you were attacked. Your phone was destroyed.”
Harry exhaled. “Good.” He knew the saved information was backed up on the bureau’s servers. Suddenly, he had a thought. “Was the SD card still in the phone?”
“I don’t remember seeing it, but the phone was pretty mangled. Besides, everything should be on the server.”
Harry tried not to reveal too much emotion in his voice. “Not everything, sir. There’s a picture of Claire Nichols with me on that card.”
SAC Williams sat straighter. “With you?”
“No, not like that—just sitting together in a booth in Venice.”
“We received that picture.”
“There were two. The one I sent and another one.” He swallowed. “Now I’m concerned about her safety too.”
“We haven’t located her yet, but according to the messages we accessed from your phone, it sounds like she’s with Rawlings. If you think he’s responsible, and he sees that picture, then she may be in danger.”
Harry nodded. He wasn’t ready to tell his supervisor that Rawlings had already seen the picture. “I need my phone back. It’s the number Clai—Ms. Nichols called. It’s her only way to get in touch with me or the FBI.”
“We have your number being monitored. If she or Rawlings calls, it’ll be answered.”
“Yes, sir.” Harry wanted to be the one to answer either one of those calls; however, he understood. Right now, he wasn’t in the best condition to do that. “Can I see Liz now?”
SAC Williams smiled. “We have more to discuss, but I don’t see any harm in that. First, I believe you need to be checked out by the doctor. They made me promise I’d alert them when you woke.” As he began to leave the room, he paused and said, “Oh, Agent, your sister’s here too.”
Harry grinned. “Good, I’d like to see both of them as soon as the doctor’s done.”
By the time the nurses were done checking Harry out from every angle—yes, he knew that wasn’t their intent, but he sure felt like it was—he was exhausted. He wondered how he could be tired after being unconscious for over ten hours. Next, the doctor came in and probed and prodded; then he asked Harry questions. The doctor didn’t ask how Harry received his injuries—Harry couldn’t have answered if he did; however, he asked questions like, does this hurt? How many fingers am I holding up? Do you know who the president is? All in all, Harry believed he passed.
He was just about to doze off when his door opened again. Each time someone passed the threshold, Harry saw the uniformed officers posted outside of his door. Their presence gave him comfort. If Rawlings was bold enough to have him attacked in broad daylight—anything was possible.
The expressions on Liz and Amber’s faces told him more about his appearance than SAC Williams or any of the nurses or doctors. He must really look like shit! “So, do I really look that bad?” His attempt at levity was lost as both women began to cry.
It was Amber who reached his bedside first. She started to hug him and stopped. “Oh my God, will I hurt you if I hug you?”
Harry lifted his arms and Amber leaned in. When she backed away, she asked, “Why Harry? Why would someone do this?”
He heard her question, but it was Liz standing near the wall with her arms crossed over her chest who had his attention. She was looking his direction with her lower lip sucked into her mouth as she tried to control the sobs she muffled. His heart broke—he couldn’t imagine how scared she must have been when those men took her. He reached out his hand. It seemed like she was moving in slow motion; however, after an eternity her hand finally touched his. “I’m so sorry they involved you in this. You must have been petrified!”
Liz nodded. “I didn’t know what they were going to do to me...” She allowed the ragged breaths to overtake her words. Amber got up from the side of Harry’s bed and Liz sat down. He pulled her close. As she collapsed across his chest, Harry’s ribs screamed out in pain; however, he didn’t wince. He wrapped his arm over her shoulder.
“Shhh, you’re all right. Williams said they didn’t hurt you.” His voice changed—hardened—slowed—deepened. “They didn’t hurt you...did they?”
Liz looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy. “No, but I couldn’t help you. I wanted to save you...they made me watch...” Her voice trailed away as she buried her head into his chest.
“Hey, I’m fine. No saving necessary.”
Amber laughed sarcastically. “Yeah bro, you look great! Maybe now you’ll decide to take that SiJo job for real?”
He looked at his sister like she had three heads. “What are you talking about?”
“If being in the FBI is going to do this to you and Liz, you need to have a safer job.”
“No freak’n way! This wasn’t about the FBI—it’s about my research. Rawlings wants me to stop, but I’m not doing it.”
Liz lifted her head. “Please, Harry, think about this. He didn’t stop at anything when he wanted Claire back. You already know he’s capable of murder. Think about Jillian. You have to end this madness—now!”
“Jillian is safe and so is Ilona”—he took a deep, painful breath—“and so are we. All three of us will have around the clock surveillance until Rawlings is found.”
“Three?” Amber asked. “I don’t need to be watched by the FBI. I’ll have SiJo take care of me.”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t think it’s my call, sis. It’s pretty standard procedure in cases like this. Why do you think I have those nice greeters at my door?”
Amber asked, “How do you know Jillian is safe?”
“I really can’t say. I just do.”
“Well, I’m going to call Ilona.”
“No, you’re not.”
Amber’s eyes narrowed. “The FBI has them, don’t they?”
“I can’t say.” Of course, that was all he needed to say.
