It was all his fault.
* * *
The sidewalks of Rockwood Place were empty, the sky coal-black. Osborne was driving in a state of confusion close to stupor. Reaching the corner of Castle Drive, he parked the Chevrolet and dragged his way to the white wooden gate. Tom Culhane’s house was at the end of the cul-de-sac.
It was close to ten but no light filtered through the open windows. Only the shutters upstairs were shut—the bedroom. A few mosquitoes were buzzing in the garden. Osborne looked at the front of the house, then without too much difficulty forced open the sliding door from the terrace. Hearing him coming from a distance, Toby had already leaped from the couch where he had been sleeping.
“Calm down.”
Toby’s tail had already lashed the round table in the hall, the mat and the ten-cent vase. Osborne let the dog out, closed the French windows as the animal watched tearfully and, with a taste of blood and saliva in his mouth, climbed the stairs.
Tom Culhane had only just fallen asleep, and was blissfully dreaming. This was the first time in years that he had fallen asleep like this, and with good reason: against all expectation, just as their hopes had dwindled to nothing, his wife was pregnant. Dr. Boorman couldn’t understand it either. It was a miracle. The tests hadn’t been good, but when a woman wants something . . . They had celebrated the news with champagne. He had insisted she have at least one glass, and Rosemary was so happy that in her confusion she forgot she had already gone teetotal. They had dined by candlelight, the way they used to do, then they had made love in the bedroom—they knew of course that it wasn’t going to harm the embryo—before falling asleep, drained but happy. Culhane was probably dreaming of the child they would have when a hand came to rest on his mouth. He woke with a start and saw Osborne’s face above him, his finger on his lips, motioning him to come outside.
He turned toward Rosemary. Not only had she not woken up, she was fast asleep. He regained his composure. He slipped out of bed, and taking care not to disturb his wife, followed the shadow onto the landing.
“Paul, what are you doing here?”
Without replying, Osborne dragged him downstairs and out into the garden, where Toby was waiting on the damp lawn. Osborne’s face was pale in the moonlight.
“What’s going on?” Culhane whispered.
“Has Umaga been questioned?”
The young Maori he had saved from Gallagher’s clutches.
“Haven’t you heard?” Culhane said, surprised. “He killed himself. Just after he came around from the anesthetic. He apparently managed to steal a syringe. We don’t know what Umaga had to hide, but he injected an air bubble into his vein. He died before the duty nurse came around to see him. Is that why you woke me up in the middle of the night?”
Osborne was grimacing in the gloom of the garden. Not that it mattered anymore. “I need your help,” he said.
Culhane shook his head—this must have been the first time he’d said he needed him. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” he said in a low voice. “Rosemary’s just found out she’s pregnant, she may worry if I—”
“No, it can’t wait until tomorrow. It wasn’t Zinzan Bee we should have been looking for, but Nepia, an old tattooist from South Auckland. I’ll tell you everything in the car. Right now, get dressed.”
Culhane shivered in his striped pajamas. “To go where?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“But—”
“I also need bullets. .38 caliber. I’ve run out.”
Culhane hesitated. This was all going too fast for him. He didn’t want to leave Rosemary. Especially not now that she was carrying their child.
A cold shadow in the moonlight, Osborne was looking at him with his crazy eyes. Strangely, he looked larger than life.
“All right,” Culhane said.
On the lawn, Toby was shaking his head as if he was running. Osborne held the dog back while his partner went upstairs to change.
Culhane soon returned, dressed in a pair of jeans and a light sweater, a box of bullets in his hands. He also had his service weapon, a .38 Special. Osborne stuffed half the bullets in his pockets. Culhane watched him, still dazed by this whole turn of events. Now wasn’t the moment, but it would never be the moment.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“My wife,” Osborne replied.
“Your wife?”
“She’s with the killers,” he said without batting an eyelid. “I have to get her out of there.”
Standing there in his excessively tight sweater, Culhane looked annoyed. “Paul,” he said, with pursed lips, “I’ve been doing some research. You don’t have a wife. You’ve never even been married.”
Osborne had finished loading his gun. “What difference does that make?”
He moved off toward the gate.
Culhane sighed.
As for Toby, he was rolling in the grass.
* * *
