Chapter 3 - THE VOTE AT SOUTH QUAY
Cormac Rourke came to dinner every Wednesday.
I learned that because Mrs. Delaney told the kitchen staff to use the silver with the tiny anchors.
Families with money apparently had utensils for specific relatives.
Maxwell’s younger brother, Caleb, joined too.
Caleb was thirty-five.
Eight years younger than Maxwell.
Same dark hair.
Different energy.
Where Maxwell entered a room and made people quiet, Caleb entered and made everyone feel included.
He remembered staff birthdays.
Asked about children.
Tipped drivers at Christmas.
I distrusted him immediately.
That was probably unfair.
My ability to trust charming men had been damaged by divorce.
Wednesday dinner was served in the formal dining room.
I had no reason to be there.
Maxwell invented one.
“Martha will assist me.”
Mrs. Delaney looked displeased.
“With dinner?”
“Yes.”
“You have a valet.”
“I fired him for tonight.”
The valet had not been fired.
He was watching baseball in the security room with Ward.
I stood behind Maxwell as Cormac arrived.
Sixty-four.
Silver hair.
Broad frame.
Old-school Providence confidence.
He kissed Maxwell’s forehead.
Maxwell looked offended.
“You’re not ninety.”
Cormac laughed.
“Good to see you too.”
Caleb arrived next.
He hugged Maxwell.
Then crouched beside the wheelchair.
“How’s the pain?”
“Annoying.”
“Vale coming tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Lie.
Vale believed he was.
Lena would be controlling all real treatment now.
Dinner began.
I poured water.
Watched.
Listened.
The conversation eventually reached South Quay.
One of Rourke Harbor’s oldest marine terminals.
Cormac spoke casually.
“The board votes Monday.”
Maxwell cut his steak.
“Delay.”
Cormac stopped.
“Why?”
“I haven’t reviewed the final sale terms.”
“You delegated operational authority.”
“Not ownership judgment.”
Caleb leaned back.
“The consortium increased the offer.”
“I don’t care.”
“You usually care about forty-eight million dollars.”
Maxwell looked at his brother.
“I care when somebody offers forty-eight million for something worth seventy.”
Silence.
Cormac wiped his mouth.
“You’ve been away from the terminals fourteen months.”
Maxwell’s face changed by half a degree.
Away.
Meaning helpless.
Meaning outdated.
Caleb intervened.
“He didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what he meant.”
Cormac stared at Maxwell.
Then softened.
“You nearly died.”
“You’re still recovering.”
“I’ve been keeping the companies moving.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Then let me finish it.”
Maxwell smiled without warmth.
“No.”
Under the table, I saw his right shoe twitch.
Once.
He had begun moving his ankle more reliably.
Nobody else noticed.
Cormac sighed.
“The vote proceeds Monday.”
“No.”
The room changed.
Maxwell’s voice was quiet.
“I am still chairman.”
Cormac responded:
“And you granted me emergency operating authority.”
“I can revoke it.”
Caleb looked alarmed.
“Max.”
Cormac became still.
“Is that what this is?”
“What?”
“You’ve been trapped in this house for a year and now you need to prove you still control something?”
I felt the air change.
Wrong thing to say.
Maxwell’s face emptied.
“You can leave.”
Cormac stared.
“Maxwell.”
“Dinner is over.”
Caleb looked between them.
“Can we not do this?”
Maxwell did not blink.
Cormac stood.
Before leaving, he leaned close to Maxwell.
Not close enough to touch.
“South Quay is bigger than pride.”
Maxwell replied:
“So is betrayal.”
Cormac’s face changed.
Only for a second.
Then he walked out.
Caleb remained.
“What was that?”
Maxwell looked exhausted.
“Business.”
“No.”
Caleb shook his head.
“That was you accusing Uncle Cormac of something.”
Maxwell stared.
“Are you worried?”
Caleb looked genuinely hurt.
“I’m worried about you.”
That answer bothered me because I believed it.
After Caleb left, Ward entered.
“He’s going straight to Vale.”
“Cormac?”
“Yes.”
We had a man on him.
Maxwell looked at me.
“You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you think evidence is suspiciously convenient.”
I hated that he knew.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Cormac meeting Vale right after you challenged the sale is terrible.”
“Correct.”
“Almost too terrible.”
Ward said:
“You think someone wants him blamed?”
“I think I’ve known your uncle for six days.”
“Long enough?”
“Long enough to know he doesn’t strike me as stupid.”
Maxwell looked toward the door.
“He isn’t.”
“So if he’s secretly conspiring with your doctor, why meet him in visible parking lots?”
Ward nodded reluctantly.
Maxwell looked irritated.
“You two are ruining a satisfying theory.”
The following afternoon we found Rebecca Sloan.
Maxwell’s former home physical therapist.
She lived in Worcester.
Ward drove.
I went.
Maxwell stayed home because a paralyzed crime boss disappearing into Massachusetts attracted questions.
Rebecca opened the door.
Saw me.
Then Ward.
Started closing it.
Ward put one hand against the door.
“We’re not here to threaten you.”
“Men like you always say that.”
Fair.
I stepped forward.
“I’m Martha Hale.”
She stared.
“The nurse?”
My pulse jumped.
“How do you know my name?”
“Vale talked about you.”
Three years later and Nathan Vale was still reaching into my life.
Rebecca let us inside.
She told the story quickly.
During Maxwell’s third month home, she noticed trace activity in his right hip.
Then sensation changes.
She documented them.
Vale told her the movements were spasms.
Rebecca disagreed.
She requested updated imaging and a specialist consult.
It never happened.
Then she found her note altered.
My stomach twisted.
“Altered how?”
The words possible voluntary activation disappeared.
Vale replaced them with non-purposeful spastic response.
“What did you do?”
“I confronted him.”
“And?”
“He told me Rourke House was not a teaching hospital.”
“He said my job was to follow the plan.”
“Then Cormac came.”
Maxwell’s uncle.
“What did he say?”
Rebecca swallowed.
“He asked if Maxwell’s recovery could put him in danger.”
I frowned.
“Danger from rehabilitation?”
“No.”
“From going back to work.”
Ward and I exchanged a look.
Rebecca continued.
“I thought he meant medically.”
“Stress.”
“Falls.”
“Autonomic complications.”
“Then he said something weird.”
“What?”
“He said: ‘If Maxwell walks back into South Quay before we know who touched that car, we may have to bury him instead of rehabilitate him.’”
My skin prickled.
Cormac wasn’t talking like someone who wanted Maxwell helpless.
He was talking like someone terrified Maxwell would become visible again.
Ward asked:
“What car?”
“The crash.”
Fourteen months earlier, Maxwell’s SUV had gone through a barrier on Route 195 during heavy rain.
Driver Jonas Pike died.
Maxwell survived.
Police blamed mechanical failure aggravated by weather.
Rebecca said:
“Cormac believed it wasn’t an accident.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“What happened after that?”
“Vale increased Maxwell’s medication.”
“Did Cormac order him?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at me.
“But I resigned because everybody was talking about Maxwell like keeping him weak was safer than finding out why he was getting stronger.”
On the drive home, I called Maxwell.
“Cormac may not be the person you think.”
He was silent.
Then:
“He knew about the movement.”
“Yes.”
“That is still betrayal.”
“Yes.”
“But maybe not the same betrayal.”
“No.”
Another silence.
Then Maxwell said:
“Ward.”
“Yes?”
“Find Jonas Pike’s original accident file.”
Ward glanced at me.
“We have the police report.”
“No.”
Maxwell’s voice hardened through the phone.
“I want the maintenance records.”
“Every service order.”
“Every replacement part.”
“And find out who benefited from South Quay before the crash.”
Ward said:
“Cormac.”
Maxwell answered:
“That’s the obvious answer.”
Then he repeated something I had told him days earlier.
“Obvious isn’t the same as accurate.”
May you like
I hated hearing my own lessons used against me.
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