Seeing as I was only in my undershorts, I think Bob Culpepper was anxious to get me out of his arms and onto the ground as quickly as possible. As he set me down on the grass by the perimeter of the parking lot—had we never left Treasure Island? I could have sworn we really had traveled, as Gunther had promised, to hell—I saw Gail being wrapped in a blanket by Nancy, who did this as caringly as would the mother of a nearly drowned child.

Chapter 57

57

Breathing Space

Officer Ciancimino was trying to determine where the little fire extinguisher he’d removed from the trunk of the squad car might be most effectively employed against the inferno at the front of the truck, which was somewhat like determining where to apply Mercurochrome to Marie Antoinette’s neck, post-guillotine.

Culpepper said to Nancy, “There ought to be a small tank of oxygen in the trunk of the squad car as well,” then stepped away quickly to get it.

I coughed out my words to Nancy. “Her clothes should be behind the truck. Mine, too. Don’t you get too close, though.”

Nancy said she’d be right back and went toward Ciancimino.

I crawled over to Gail and put my face close to hers.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

She nodded yes.

“Okay, listen. The Swing chart . . . I changed it before it left the country. Whoever has it now has nothing.” Despite our ordeal, Gail’s face immediately became twice as alive. “If they get Martha and she talks—listen carefully—say you only made the first few bars in code; the rest was gibberish. If the music ever turns up, it’ll bear this out.”

She looked up at me like a child, showing more gratitude than I’d ever been offered. My head shook the offering away. “No, don’t think I’m your hero. The Swing chart, that’s my gift to you, but the rest of it . . . I’m telling the police what I know. You’ll have to answer to them.”

She spoke through grime-crusted lips. “Ray. So you know . . . All I did was make that phone call to Adeline after she was dead.”

I frowned. She didn’t understand yet, but she would. “Gail, you knew about a murder and you didn’t tell anyone.”

“But . . . my father would have died.”

“I know. And we have his letters, and yours, and my testimony to everything that Martha admitted. You’ll tell this to the police—” I gasped for air “—and if you must, to a judge and jury, and they’ll decide what should be done. That’s not up to me.”

I was no longer her big hero. That was okay. I was no longer her father either.

I told her, “You got me caught up in this. That was wrong.”

“Forgive me.”