BARTLEBY

       "She's dead, Señor. The doctors did everything they could, but . . . I'm very sorry." The Mexican had identified himself as Alberto Pateros with the national police when he entered Nick Cowan's room. He wore a brown sports coat over a checked shirt, brown pants with a crease as sharp as his face, and he offered his condolences in a flat, disinterested tone. "The injuries were simply too great, you understand? It was impossible."
        Cowan knew it before the man spoke. He knew it last night, when he hung in the car and waited for help while the horn blared. He'd whispered her name then. Janice. It had hurt too much to breath. He couldn't get enough air. That was why he hadn't shouted it, screamed it over the screaming horn. That was the only reason, except for a horrible fear that she might not answer no matter how loud he--
        He used the metal rail on the hospital bed to pull himself to a sitting position. Despite the layers of tape that bound his chest, he felt the ribs move and winced. The pain slid across a thin border, turned to anger. He glared at Pateros. "They killed her. The sons of bitches killed my wife."
        "Which sons of bitches are those?" The cop could have been asking about a recipe for soup. It might have meant more to him.
        "Vincente Guzman. His men."
        Pateros took the only chair in the room and crossed his legs. He lifted his foot and stared at the toe idly, as if to check the polish on his shoe. "Señor Guzman is a respected businessman in Mazatlán, Mr. Cowan. It doesn't help your case to speak of him like this."
        "My case? What case?"
        "Attempted bribery is a crime here as well as on your side of the border." He spoke casually. "And then there is the matter of la Señora."
        "Janice?" Cowan felt lightheaded. "What about her?"
        "You should be aware that a blood sample was taken when you were brought to the hospital." He seemed fascinated by his shoe. Cowan wondered if he saw his reflection in its glassy shine. "The tests may show the presence of alcohol. Of course, they may not. But if they do, the charges against you could be rather more severe."
        "You bastards." Cowan's mouth was dry. He swallowed. "I gave a statement last night. I wasn't drinking. I told the cops I wasn't. I told them about the pickup. The shots. There must be bullet holes in the window!"
        "Unfortunately, all of the glass was shattered when you rolled your car, and there are no bullet holes in you. Or in your wife's body. She died of a broken neck, you see." A smile flickered across the policeman's face. "Also, there were no witnesses so late at night. Your story about men shooting at you from that pickup sounds like the invention of a desperate man, a man under suspicion of a crime against the Mexican people."
        He finally moved his gaze from his shoe to Cowan's face and added slowly, "A man who was worried, who maybe had too much to drink and caused a terrible tragedy. The death of his innocent wife. As a result of his own foolishness."
        Cowan met his eyes for a moment, then eased himself back on his bed. He stared at the ceiling. White acoustic tile. Thousands of little holes. Uncountable holes. He said, "I want to see the consul. Someone from my embassy."
        Pateros sighed and stood. "Of course, Señor. There is a man waiting outside. Another gringo. I don't think he is from your embassy, but maybe you should talk to him first. Are you ready?"
        Cowan said nothing. After a few moments, the cop shrugged and left him. He lay there, bathed in the light from the fluorescent lamps and the bright afternoon sun that made the white drapes over the window glow, and waited for whatever came next. He listened to soft voices from the hall and the sighing of the airconditioner as it fought the heat that leaked in with the sun's harsh light.
        The door opened. It was Leonard Nelson, of course, with a vase of flowers in his hand. At least he had the decency to look subdued.
        Nelson didn't quite know what to do with the flowers. He looked around the room helplessly for a few moments, then muttered, "I brought these," and set them in the chair Pateros had just vacated.
        Cowan watched him and waited. Eventually the man took a deep breath and said, "I was sorry to hear about Janice. We all were."
        "Why? You killed her."
        "Don't say that, Nick."
        "Just as sure as if you were in that pickup, Len. Pulling the trigger yourself."
        "I didn't . . . we didn't have anything to do with it."
        "You set me up. You pushed me into this goddamned corner. You knew Guzman wouldn't bite, not for a lousy fifty grand!"
        "We had to try. We thought he'd go for it."
        "You thought. And I went along with you." Cowan couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Janice is dead! You sons of bitches played me for a damned fool, and I went along for the ride. Some ride. It ended upside down in an arroyo. You know that? Upside down, hanging by my goddamned seatbelt with the steering wheel shoved through my fucking ribs and Janice . . . Janice . . . ."
        He had a hard time breathing. The bandages felt too tight. They kept him from getting enough air. He pushed on anyway. "The lights didn't go off, did you know that? The damned headlights didn't go off and the rocks bounced them back inside and I saw Janice staring at me, except her eyes were coming through her armpit. Through her god-damned armpit!"
        "I said we were sorry." Nelson paused, then added, "The rest of the money has been transferred into the account. Another two hundred and fifty thou."
        "What?" Cowan was so surprised that he couldn't think of anything to say for a few seconds. "Do you still think Guzman is going to bite? After all this? Does the board of directors think that?"
        "He'll play. Those leases aren't doing anyone any good as things stand. Not Guzman and not the Mexican government, and he knows it. It may take some time for things to settle down, but eventually he'll play." Nelson shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and added, "The money isn't for Guzman."
        Cowan stared at him while the words sank in. "Is that what you think Janice was worth? Three hundred thousand? You can go to hell!"
        Nelson was shaking his head. "The money isn't . . . you're misunderstanding, Nick. Think of it as an indication of how much we valued your, your contribution. How much we appreciate what you did for us. Your sacrifice."
        "It's a kiss-off." A sharp pain shot through Cowan's chest. He grimaced.
        "Think of it as a bonus. A retirement bonus, if you like." He swallowed and loosened his tie. "The money was already off the books anyway."
        "I won't take it."
        "That's up to you, Nick, but I'd advise you to think about it very carefully. You may have a hard time finding new employment. There's already been some publicity. Your name has been mentioned."
        "And you want it to stop with me. With my name."
        "What good would it do to bring us into it?"
        "It might give me a little satisfaction!"
        "There's another thing." Nelson hesitated. "The locals are up in arms. They want someone punished, and they'd prefer it to be an American. A gringo."
        "Me." The pain shot through his chest again.
        Nelson nodded.
        "And if I take this money, if I hide somewhere, you'll see that no charges are filed here?"
        "You'll be on a plane this afternoon."
        "They won't discharge me for a week," Cowan said. "They said something about a possible rupture. My spleen or liver. Something. They said it could be dangerous."
        "The doctors will agree." He sounded positive. "Check into a hospital in the states if you like. Get some decent care. ManDeCor will pick up the tab, of course."
        Cowan closed his eyes. Nelson watched him silently for a few minutes and then said, "You're making the right choice, Nick."
        "You're a son of a bitch. A real asshole, you know that, Leonard?"
        "Yes, well . . . you're just upset." He took a deep breath. "There's one other thing. Janice."
        "What about her?"
        "Where do you want her shipped?"
        Her body. Cowan thought about it. Her parents were dead, just as his were. They had no family except each other. No home. And in the six years they'd been married, the company had reassigned him eight times. There'd been no opportunity to put down roots. Where could he take her that would mean anything to either of them? There was nowhere. He became aware that his cheeks were wet and tried to wipe them before Nelson saw. The movement triggered another spasm, this time deep in his belly. He ignored it. He asked, "Is there a place for her here?"
        "There's a cemetery. I'm told it's nice. Pretty."
        "I'd never be able to see her."
        Nelson waited.
        Cowan wiped his eyes again. "Okay. Put her there. If it's nice. She liked Mazatlan as well as anyplace we lived together."
        "You're making the right choice," Nelson repeated.
        Cowan shook his head. He didn't dare open his eyes. They were too full of the decision, of Janice, of loss. He asked, "What about Ralph?
        "Who?"
        "Our dog. He was in the car."
        Nelson hesitated. "He's gone too. I'm sorry."
        "I heard him. After the accident, I heard him. He was alive. He was crying."
        "He was hurt. His legs were crushed. They had to put him to sleep, Nick."
        The tape around his chest kept Cowan from taking a deep breath, from groaning. "Could he be put with Janice? Can you arrange that? So she won't be alone here. Since I can't come back."
        "I'll see to it," Nelson said. "I promise."