Cornelius Drake sat in the comfort of his Rolls while a light rain whispered sedately against the roof. It had been forty-five minutes, but he was in no hurry. He jotted some notes in a leather-bound journal perched on his lap, pausing every few moments to tap his chin with the tip of his pen. The upcoming sermon this week would be on the Lord’s vengeance. God was all about putting down those who defied his will. Drake could appreciate that in a deity, not to mention that that sort of rhetoric got his congregation swimming around in guilt.
Guilt made human beings so utterly malleable, and they so often performed actions that infused them with it. They lived and breathed the choking dust of their guilty consciences. You could count on people to pull around guilt’s weight until their dying breath. Nicholas Anderson dragged around that ball and chain with stubborn pride, and Drake had used it against him time and again. Some things never changed.
Drake hit the intercom button. “Wendall? What secret guilt do you carry around with you? Surely, you have some?”
There was a long silence before his crackling voice came back. “I suppose pilfering your Scotch from the cellar, sir. Good stuff is hard to come by on my salary.”
Drake laughed. “Will you be seeking penance to absolve yourself of this sin?”
“Not likely, sir,” Wendall said. “God himself can’t distill such sweet nectar.”
“Indeed. I suppose some prices are worth paying.”
“That they are, sir. That they are.”
Bernard arrived a moment later, stepping through the wall of the car and seating himself across from Drake. “Boy’s recital is finally over. Christ, that was awful stuff. Kid deserves to die on that alone.”
“Now, now, Bernard. We all have our passions.”
“Just sayin’, sir. Hope the next one is into something quiet, like knitting.”
Drake smiled. “Nothing so simple as that, my friend.” He put his journal into a slot in the door. “Go keep the riff-raff away, my boy. They shall be here soon.”
“Aye, sir.” Bernard slipped away through the trunk and walked back into the rows of parked cars.
People were filing out of the high school, parents with their children, many carrying their cases filled with violins and trombones. Some paused to put up their umbrellas, while others, not so wise as to have planned ahead, held programs or purses or coats over their heads and made their way quickly out toward their cars. The Morelands, due to circumstances beyond their control, had been running late and had parked at the fringes of the lot, pulling their car onto the edges of the football field. Moments after they had hurried away, violin case banging at the boy’s side, Drake had pulled in next to their Honda Accord and patiently awaited their return.
Drake watched them approach in the side view mirror, saw the mother hesitate at the sight of a dark blue Rolls-Royce parked next to their car before continuing forward. He opened his door and stepped out when she was between the cars.
“Ah, Mrs. Moreland!” Drake’s thin lips split into a toothy smile. He popped open the umbrella. “Wonderful recital this evening. Your son, Adam, was particularly good.”
The boy stopped directly behind her, and Mrs. Moreland’s brief turn of annoyance melted into confusion. “Oh. Hello. Thank you. Adam did very well tonight, I think, didn’t you, sweetie?”
Adam shrugged. “Sure, Mom. We could’ve been better.”
“Always room for improvement, isn’t that right, Adam?” Drake stood before his open door, allowing no possible way around. “Even the masters look for ways to play better.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s true,” he said.
“Pardon me, but do we know you?” She was trying to smile and cover her irritation as the rain continued to fall. The music program held over her head provided little relief. “Do your children go to school here?”
“We met briefly,” Drake said, his grin fading. He drew the glasses down to the end of his nose. “I realized your boy here was a perfect match.”
Her free hand came to her mouth, covering the gasp. Adam dropped his violin case on the grass. “A match for what?” she whispered.
“He looks just like an old friend’s son, if you can believe that.” He motioned at Adam, who quickly pushed his way around his mother. “Come, let me have a closer look at you.”
“I… I don’t know,” she began, but faltered, her mouth moving in silence like a gaping fish.
“Hush, Mrs. Moreland. Everything is just fine. No worries at all.” She nodded, and Drake turned back to Adam, reaching up to take his chin in his hand. “Indeed. The bone structure is very similar. The eyes are the same. And I shall not have to dye your hair. Wonderful. Wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Moreland?” They both nodded. “Adam, look me in the eye, son, and tell me if you don’t see the key to your life’s dreams within them.”
Adam stared, head cocked slightly to one side, like a dog who has heard a peculiar sound. “I think I do.”
“Of course you do.” He patted him on the shoulder. “They are dreams of death and quiet and peace of mind.”
“I really hate music,” he said.
Drake’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “I know. Parents always believe they know best, do they not?”
He nodded. “She’s a real bitch about it sometimes.”
“Why don’t you get in out of the rain, my boy? You can leave that wretched violin outside.”
“Yeah, cool. Thanks.” He stepped into the darkness of the car.
Drake stepped forward and placed his hand on Mrs. Moreland’s wet cheek. “I shall be taking your boy here, Mrs. Moreland. Perfectly safe, I assure you. You will think nothing of it. He shall be well taken care of.”
She nodded. “I’ll just head home then. Will you be bringing him by the house later?”
“You are very tired, Mrs. Moreland. Those lovely eyes are completely stressed. You need to sleep. You can worry about your boy in the morning.”
“Okay. I’ll worry in the morning.”
He folded up the umbrella and laid it down inside the car, taking both of her cheeks in his hands. “And you shall worry a lot when you find his bed empty. You will be sure your precious boy has come to great harm, that he may in fact be dead.”
She stared into the glowing, soulless orbs. “But he’ll be with you.”
“He will be dead, and you will know who did it, but the image shall elude you, like chasing a dandelion upon the wind.”
“Oh.” The rain running down her cheeks looked like tears. “I won’t remember?”
Drake shook his head. “I am afraid not, my dear. You will only know that if you had not made him play music, he might still be alive. Now go, rest. Sleep the sleep of the dead, Mrs. Moreland.”
He stepped into the Rolls and pulled the door closed so she could walk by. She drove away without looking back.
Adam sat in the seat, staring straight ahead. “Your eyes are full of death.”
He clasped the boy’s knee with his hand. “You will be fine, son. Death is not the end.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
Drake grabbed Adam’s chin and turned his head to face him. “Does it look so terrible in there, Adam?”
“It looks cold.”
“Indeed. Indeed, it is very cold. You shall make new friends though. You shall see.”
“And what then?”
“Hmmm? What then?” Drake sat back in the seat, giving Adam a sidelong glance. “Well, then you truly shall die.” When Adam merely nodded and continued to stare ahead, Drake pushed the intercom button. “Take us away from here, Wendall. Perhaps later you may have a glass of Scotch with me.”
Wendall looked back at the one-way glass dividing them, a smile upon his lined face. “That would be lovely, sir.”