Final Option

still always that moment, late at night, slipping keys in the hotel room doors, when other possibilities seemed to linger near the surface.
    Glad that moment was behind me, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the bed. It seemed like a tremendously long time since I’d woken up that morning, ready to take on the day. The clock read 10:46. There was, I was sure, something rotten at Hexter Commodities, but whenever I felt that I’d gotten a grasp on an important piece of the puzzle, another one slipped through my fingers.
    I took off my clothes and carefully laid them on the chair. In the mirror above the dresser, I admired the rapidly developing bruises on my arm and chest. Then I padded into the bathroom and took a long shower, luxuriating in the hot water and the glorious sensation of still being alive.
    I washed my hair and rinsed it. The water ran red, then pink, and finally clear. I turned off the taps and dried myself, slipping into the clean T-shirt that Elliott had left for me. It was navy blue, and in white letters across the chest it read: CHICAGO POLICE.
    I sat on the bed feeling battered and vulnerable. I looked at my briefcase. I realized, too late since I’d just dragged it all over town, that it might have been productive to dust it for fingerprints. I opened it up to have a last look at my calendar, but what stared me in the face was the long forgotten envelope that the courier had delivered to Hexter’s office earlier in the day.
    I could have kicked myself for not having remembered to give it to Barton when I saw him at the hospital earlier in the evening. With both Jane and his mother under medical care, with two new babies and a commodities firm to run, I wondered when I’d next have a chance to give it to him. Better, I decided, to open it up and see whether the contents were of any sort of immediate importance. I thrust my fingers beneath the flap and reached inside—more envelopes, three of them. I laid them on the bed. All three bore the logo of the Bank of Bermuda in the upper left-hand corner. All three were addressed to Mr. S. Bean. I opened the smaller envelopes one by one, laying the contents face up on the bedspread.
    “Elliott?” I called with a growing sense of excitement. “Elliott, come here!”
    He appeared in a flash, clad only in a pair of boxer shorts, a drawn revolver in his hand and a trace of toothpaste on his lips.
    “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”
    “I know what the man who jumped me was after,” I replied. “He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to get his hands on these.”
     

CHAPTER 22
     
    I woke up feeling as though I’d been playing football. My arms, especially, were sore from the tug of war over my briefcase, and it was with an effort that I dragged myself out of bed and back into the clothes I’d worn the day before. As I reached for my blouse I noticed tiny splatters of crimson on the collar.
    I found Elliott sitting at the kitchen table eating scrambled eggs, toast, and grapefruit sections. He was reading the sports page.
    “There are eggs on the stove,” he said, rising to his feet, “and I’ll throw in some more toast.”
    “No thanks,” I replied with a shudder. “It takes awhile for me to work up to food in the morning. Is that coffee in the pot?”
    “Yes. The cups are in the cupboard above the coffee maker. There’s cream and sugar on the table.“
    “Thanks, I just drink it black.”
    “Are you sure you won’t even have a banana or something?” ventured Elliott. “I have cereal, too.”
    “Do you make yourself breakfast like this every morning?” I asked as I poured myself a cup of coffee.
    “Not eggs every morning, naturally, but I like to sit down and have a real breakfast.”
    “I’m impressed. I don’t even know whether the stove in my apartment actually works or not.”
    “I’ve lived alone since I left the Marines. You’re going to laugh, but the thing I really hated about the military was eating that mass-produced food on metal trays. Since then I’ve always cooked and eaten off a plate. Living alone doesn’t have to mean living badly.” I thought about that for a minute.
    “I don’t think I’ve made a conscious decision to live badly,” I mused, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “But cooking, cleaning up, and going to the grocery store all take time, and right now all that time goes into my work.”
    “I’m surprised that it doesn’t bother you,” said Elliott, “considering