Robert Kennedy told his mother. Later, Abby was called to her side. Rose Kennedy took great comfort in her religion, and those people, from humble priest to lofty Cardinal, who were significant in it did all they could for her. Had she not forbidden him, Bobby would have flown to England that very day and killed Lacey with his bare hands. His mother insisted he put all thought of that out of his mind. Instead, she called Lacey herself. Abby was with her when she spoke to him. Abby told Walter how shaken she was at the civil nature of the conversation between Rose Kennedy and Lord Frederick Lacey. They had known each other for forty years, Abby said. At one point Rose said, “Frederick, you know why I’ve called.” She stood a few feet away from Mrs. Kennedy, but Abby could not hear Lacey’s voice. “Jack,” Rose said, in a voice cracking like broken glass, a voice fighting a losing battle with itself. Abby saw Rose Kennedy’s eyes tearing. “What…” she uttered. “What… what are you…?” And then, in a helpless wail, she cried out, “My boys, Frederick! What about my boys!” This time Abby could hear Lacey. He screamed, “What about my Audrey!”
It wasn’t until two days later that Rose told Abby that it had been Lacey who was responsible for the death of Joe Jr. “A mistake,” she said with the most sorrowful laugh Abby ever heard. Abby could hardly believe the viciousness of it. The face of evil had shown itself. Joe Jr., too? It was a little after four in the morning, the next day, when Bobby called. He had just arrived from London. He needed to talk with Abby, immediately. Not later in the day. Not tomorrow. Right then. She was waiting outside her door when his limousine pulled up. They drove through the morning darkness, past daybreak, moving about the city with no purpose other than to stay in motion. Bobby told her how he had confronted Lacey, man-to-man, how the Englishman had told him about his oldest brother, twenty years ago, and Jack on November 22, 1963. “He killed them both,” Bobby said to Abby. “That sonofabitch! I told him I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do.” She believed him. That meant Lacey had too.
Frederick Lacey was not a man to be lightly threatened. Men far more capable than Robert Kennedy had said much the same thing to him. He had endured tribal curses in savage parts of the world other Westerners had only read about. He had survived the armies of Germany, the emissaries of Russian revolutionaries, angry Turks and other assorted Middle Eastern potentates. His life had been threatened by the best. For fifty years, powerful men had boasted they would do away with Frederick Lacey. Robert Kennedy should not have concerned him.
That was when Lacey revealed the existence of his private journal, the Lacey Confession. He told Bobby Kennedy he had it all written down and hidden safely away. With cold efficiency, Lacey instructed Kennedy, lectured him, scolded him like a child. If anything happened to him, he told Kennedy, the document would be released and the legend of Camelot would come crashing to the ground in a heap of wreckage. “Hypocrisy humbles the highest,” he said. Kennedy reacted badly. He threatened Lacey again. Lacey had disdain for irrational behavior. He rejected Robert Kennedy as unworthy. He also recognized a level of instability in the younger Kennedy, a lack of self-control on his part, a wildness that Lacey felt he had no alternative but to deal with. Who could be certain what such a man as President Kennedy’s brother might do? Bobby needed to be escorted out of Lord Lacey’s presence.
“I suppose the last thing Lacey heard Bobby say was, ‘I’ll kill you!’ He must have believed him,” Abby said to Walter. “Less than a month later, Bobby lay dead on the kitchen floor of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles.”
“What is it you want from me?” Walter asked. It was a friendly question with no hint of hostility in his tone or manner. Abby felt comfortable in his company and he sensed it. She was glad he asked so directly.
“The document,” she replied. He nodded in understanding. He had asked a question that needed to be asked and she had answered it by saying what they both already knew. This was part of a dance, a necessary part. His next question was also expected.
“Why should Mr. Levine give it to you?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“If he felt as you do, don’t you think he would already have given it to you?”
“I am prepared to offer Mr. Levine an amount of money he’s only dreamed of.”
“That’s why he should give it to you? That’s why?”
“That is a great deal of why.”
“I know you-perhaps not personally-but as a Kennedy, you are guided by money, the power of money. I’m not sure Mr. Levine is motivated by money,” Walter said. “I’m not saying he isn’t. I’m only telling you I am not sure.”
“I’ve seen men quake in their boots, Walter, when the sort of money we are talking about is actually spoken out loud.”
“What sort of money are you talking about?” he asked.
“Am I bidding now? Is this money for Harry Levine or for you? Or for both of you?”
“I didn’t bring it up. You did.” Walter’s mood had changed visibly and for the worse. This kind of talk violated his sense of duty, his concept of himself, and it did so in more ways than one. He was not a negotiator. He did not strike deals. He located. He found. And then he walked away. Not this time. Chita Crystal had convinced him otherwise. Had she tricked him? He didn’t like it. And, more important, he wasn’t for sale, except by his own choosing. This woman, Abby O’Malley, was not his client. All discussion of a price-for him-was objectionable.
“I apologize, Walter.” She knew she had made a mistake and she sought to make amends, quickly. “I know you have no personal agenda here. I’m sorry. But tell me what Harry Levine wants,” Abby said. “I’m confident it will not be too much. And we will pay cash at the exchange or wire the money into any bank, anywhere in the world, any bank of Mr. Levine’s choosing.”
“What if Harry believes this is a document of historical significance and delivers it to the President of the United States?”
“That would not make us happy,” said Abby.
“Have you thought about the possibility that others want this document for reasons that must be obviously different than yours?”
“I’ll worry about them when I have the document.”
“If there are others, who knows why they want the document so badly they would kill for it. The intensity of their need might dwarf yours. They might think your concerns are meaningless-to them, anyway. Others might get the document and simply disregard the revelations about Lacey’s relations with the Kennedy family. Others might pay more than you.” Abby offered no response. She sipped her beer, popped the last bite of the fried grouper in her mouth and looked at Walter out of the corner of her eye, like a schoolteacher might stare down a smart-ass student. “If there are men or forces willing to kill Harry Levine to get their hands on Lacey’s confession-and if Harry gave the document to you-don’t you think, in order to get it for themselves, they might be willing to kill you too?”
“Well, anything is possible. True,” she finally concurred, still chewing. “This is good,” she added, pointing at her empty plate. “You ought to try it.”
“Do you know a man named Louis Devereaux?” Walter asked.
“Who?” she answered. But it was too late. Walter caught the surprise. Abby was not schooled at this kind of thing. She was unable to hide her lie.
“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t know what Harry Levine will do, Abby. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I’ll take your offer to him. I’ll let you know what he says.”
“As soon as possible, I hope,” she said. She badly wanted to say, “No! I can’t wait. Give me that document now, or else!” Louis was right, again. Walter Sherman knew perfectly well she was harmless. Threats would be useless. She would look foolish, or worse. Reason probably would not work either. Walter had to know the effect Lacey’s confession would have if it was ever made public. She was left only with the underlying strength of the Kennedy family, the foundation of its power. She prayed money would come through as it almost always did.
On her way out, Abby stopped to thank Ike. She said she would love to have a drink with him next time. Ike watched her walk across the square. A car he did not recognize pulled up to the curb. She got in the back seat and it drove off.
“Walter,” said Ike, ten minutes later. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Seems to me there’s been more than a few people come to see you here in Billy’s. Over time, I mean. More than a few I’ve seen with my own eyes. Now, I know you keep things close, but it appears to me that when these people come to talk business, you pick yourself up and leave-with them or without them.” The old man awaited confirmation from his friend.
“Okay,” said Walter.
“But this woman-and I like her, like her just fine-you must have talked for half an hour, maybe more. I wasn’t watching all the time. Right?”
“Okay.”
“Well, here’s what I want to know. Why? What’s different about this one? Why here? You know what I mean?”
“I do,” Walter said.
“And?”
“And, what?”
“So you ain’t talking, is that it?” said Ike. “You ain’t talking. I’m asking you and you ain’t talking?”
“I can’t help this one,” Walter said. “I can’t help her.”
“Oh, well, in that case… I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean.. .”
“It’s okay, Ike.”
There’s a bend in the road approaching Walter’s house. It’s where the two-lane asphalt takes a steep turn up toward the crest of the mountain. It’s where the newest of many potholes sits, outlined in bright orange paint. Just ahead, there’s a single-lane, heavily wooded driveway that leads from the road, down the hill, to a gravel parking area in front of Walter’s house. A wrought iron gate guards the entrance. A button, on top of a short pole on the driver’s side, must be pushed to open the gate so a car can drive in. Someone once asked Walter if the gate was for security. “Goats,” he replied. St. John is overrun with livestock, goats, cattle even a few sheep. They roam at will. The goats used to run down Walter’s driveway and eat the flowers in the small, Asian-flavored garden next to his front door. Plus, they shit in the gravel and it was damn near impossible to clean. One day Walter got so pissed he ordered the gate. That’s what he said. Some people on the island doubted that story. Walter was a subject of continuing mystery to many.
Tucker Poesy chose a spot just around the bend, near enough to Walter’s gate, to have her car break down. She did this a little after three in the afternoon. Walter’s usual schedule took him home from Billy’s about that time. As he approached, some ten minutes later, Tucker Poesy stood in the road, looking frustrated with just the right touch of anger. Next to her was a rented Jeep Wrangler. Walter pulled over to the side of the road in front of her, stopped and got out.
“Need help?” he asked.
“Oh, you’ve saved my life!” she gushed. “I’m so… so furious. This damn car just quit on me. What am I going to do?” Her shoulder-length, brown hair was pulled back, tucked under a baseball cap with a St. John logo. Walter recognized it as a cap from the Caneel Bay Resort. She wore running shoes without socks, loose, light blue shorts and a black halter-top showing off plenty of what cleavage she had to show. She was not beautiful, but she was an attractive woman. Walter noticed the VI Rent-a-Car sticker on her rear bumper. The vehicle belonged to Virgin Islands Rent-a-Car, a company operated by Ike’s son Roosevelt.
“Do you have a phone?” he asked. “A cell phone?” She shook her head no. “You can make a call from my house, if you like. I live right over there.” He pointed to the big iron gate only ten or fifteen yards ahead. “I know the rent-a-car company. I’m sure they’ll send someone to help you in no time at all.”
“Thank you, Mr…?”
“Walter Sherman,” he said, extending his hand. She came closer to shake it and Walter noticed the sweat on the rim of her cap. She had been in the sun for some time. “How long have you been stranded here?”
“It just happened,” said Tucker Poesy. “A minute before you drove up. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. My name is Caroline Henley.” She smiled at Walter and he smiled back. She acted as any reasonable tourist would. She made friends with him and now it was safe for her to allow him to help her.
“Hop in,” he said. “It’s a short trip. My housekeeper can give you a cold drink or something to eat, if you need it.” Tucker Poesy, posing as Caroline Henley, was effusive in her thanks. She reached into her stalled vehicle, pulled out a colorful, canvas handbag, big enough to carry beach clothes and other tourist essentials. She jumped into Walter’s car and they were off, past the gate, down the driveway, into his home.
“You have a beautiful house,” Walter’s visitor said. “May I?” she asked, indicating she wanted to open the glass sliding doors to the deck. No one seemed able to resist the view, the blue sea, the lush green, hilly islands to the north, and St. Thomas in the distance. “Wow!” she said.
“Please, sit down,” Walter said. “I’ll call Roosevelt and he’ll send someone out with a new car for you.” He called for Denise, who was downstairs in the laundry room. When she came up, he asked her to “bring something cold, for Miss Henley to drink.” Walter sat in the chair next to the small table with the telephone. His back was to the deck and he faced the kitchen. His guest sat across from him. Still unable to resist the incredible view over his shoulder, she quite purposely sat facing the deck. A few puffy, white clouds drifted their way from the west. The mid-afternoon sun was high in an otherwise clear blue sky. It shone behind Walter and directly in Tucker Poesy’s eyes. Denise brought out fruit punch over ice for the girl, “Miss Henley,” and the usual for Walter. He watched closely as the girl’s expression changed from stranded tourist to determined actor. “I don’t really have to call Roosevelt, do I?” he said.
“No,” she said. “All you need to do is give me the document.” As she said that, Tucker Poesy’s right hand came out of her bag holding a pistol she pointed at Walter. “You’re good,” she said. “You figured it out pretty quickly. Couldn’t surprise you for long, could I?”
“You didn’t surprise me at all,” Walter said, taking a sip from his small bottle of Diet Coke. “I recognized you immediately. Made you before I stopped the car.”
“Really. How so?” She hadn’t figured him for a braggart.
“You were waiting for me-long enough to work up a nice sweat under that little baseball cap. I saw that, but that wasn’t the main thing. As I said, I spotted you before I got out of my car. I already knew who you were. I’ve seen you before. You have less clothes on now. Lovely breasts. I’m sure many men have regretted looking at those.” He pointed to her chest, and to his satisfaction, her eyes went with his finger just long enough to tell him what he needed to know. “You look a little different, but not that much.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Amsterdam Central Station. And, of course, you were standing on the other side of the canal, the Heerensgracht. You saw me. And I saw you.”
“If that’s true, why am I the one sitting here with a gun on you? How did you let this happen?” She looked very serious. Walter, on the other hand, smiled warmly and chuckled a little as he might have had she instead been Ike and the subject, well almost anything with that old man. He crossed his legs and took another, longer drink.
“Denise is in the kitchen, right behind you,” he said. “She is, at this moment, aiming a Glock nine millimeter at your skull. She’s a crack shot. If I raise my left hand off the armrest of this chair, she will pull the trigger and blow your head off. Most likely, the bullet will exit right where the last remnants of your high school acne are still visible.” He saw the movement in Tucker Poesy’s eyes. It wasn’t much. Few people would have seen anything. It took only an instant, but it was there. She couldn’t help herself. Instinctively, she looked down toward an area of her face just below her nose on the right cheek, then to the side where Denise should be. She had to look-she had to try to look-to see if Walter’s housekeeper really was behind her, really was ready to kill her. Her rational mind, of course, said no. Don’t look. It wasn’t possible. Surely no one was behind her. That was the oldest trick in the book. School children used it. Grade B Westerns and detective movies used it. Her rational mind was sure she had not only the upper hand, the only hand. But her rational mind had to wait until her instincts played themselves out. When her eyes darted, Walter’s right fist smashed flush into Tucker Poesy’s jaw. She tumbled over, dropped the pistol and lay unconscious on the floor. When she came to, she was sitting at a marble table, under a covered roof on Walter’s deck. Her hands rested on the arms of a wicker chair, held there by duct tape. Her legs were pulled apart and back slightly, taped securely, with the same metallic duct tape, to the legs of the chair. To her great discomfort, she was totally naked. Denise was pressing an icepack, wrapped in a towel, to the side of her face. She hurt too much to talk. Walter could see she was still woozy.
“Billy,” Walter said into the cell phone. “I need you. It’s important, my friend.”
“Name it,” said Billy.
“Come to my house…”
“I’m there already. Ten minutes?”
“Make it a half-hour. Come prepared.”
“Understood,” Billy answered without missing a beat. “You okay till then?”
“I’m fine. Thirty minutes.” He slapped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket, looked at Tucker Poesy, motioned to Denise to give the girl some water. “Put a bathrobe on her,” he said. Denise went downstairs and returned with one of her own. When Tucker Poesy’s dignity was partially restored, Walter rose, turned and went to the kitchen. When he returned he was munching a Granny Smith apple.
“I’ll talk. You listen,” he said. “When I’m wrong, you correct me. Do you understand?” Tucker Poesy shook her head appropriately. “If you were in Central Station, you were also on the train. That means you were in Bergen op Zoom, weren’t you?” Again she shook her head, yes. “No way you could have known I would be in Bergen op Zoom unless you followed me. You did know I was coming to Holland. You had to know that. You were at the airport. You followed me. I led you to Harry Levine. You followed us both to Amsterdam.” He leaned toward her to see if she was hurt worse than he thought. She was not. “You haven’t said anything. I’m right, so far?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where did you come from?”
“London.”
“Good,” said Walter. “Good.”
“What’s good?”
“It’s good you’re telling me the truth, right away. I hate it when people don’t cooperate. So,” he continued, “someone told you I was on my way to Holland and you arranged to be there when I arrived. You had plenty of time. My flight would take eight or nine hours. London is a short hop.” He was watching her injured face carefully. The muscles in her cheeks were relaxed. There was a swelling on the left side, a big one, and her lip had been cracked at its outer edge. The bleeding had subsided. Only a little drip at the corner of her mouth still ran. The lines in her forehead showed no unusual disturbance. He asked, “How long have you known Louis Devereaux?” No sooner had he asked that, than everything in Tucker Poesy’s face changed. She didn’t know it, but he did. He could see her thinking of an answer and finally giving in to the simple truth.
“A few years,” she said.
“I looked at your gun,” Walter said, holding it up. “Israeli. Hard to find, I think. You don’t see too many of these.” She said nothing. She knew she didn’t have to acknowledge everything Walter said. “You don’t follow people. That’s for sure,” he said with a laugh. “You don’t follow people if you carry a unique and very dangerous weapon. What do you do?”
“Kill.”
“Good,” said Walter, holding her pistol in his hands, examining it. “I don’t mean it’s good you kill-you kill people I assume-I mean it’s good you’re telling me. I respect that.”
“Bullshit,” she mumbled.
“Huh?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“What did you say?” Walter said. “Fuck me? Fuck you! This is my house!” he bellowed. “You came into my house! You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. You’re lucky I don’t kill you now.” He wanted to reach out and grab her swollen jaw. It was hard to restrain himself. He needed a moment. Finally, he looked at her, naked except for a bathrobe thrown over her like a light blanket. “Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said.
“Clothes. My clothes,” she whimpered.
“No,” Walter said sternly. “You’re fine the way you are.” He heard her curse him again as he walked away.
When Billy arrived, Tucker Poesy could see the two men talking. Walter gestured, pointed to her out on the deck. He was still unnerved, angry, his raw edge showing. She took note that Billy registered no surprise or shock. He removed a gun from his belt and showed it to Walter, then shoved it back in his pants. Here she was tied to a chair, barely covered, otherwise completely naked, legs spread apart and this guy just glanced at her and then returned his attention to Walter. Shit! she said to herself. A professional!
The two men talked for another minute or two and Billy left. Walter returned to the deck where she had pushed aside most of the cobwebs clouding her brain and regained her sense that she was buried neck-high in shit and had not the slightest idea how to extricate herself. Not yet, anyway.
“Billy will be back to get you,” Walter said. “He just went to get a piece of equipment he needs to move you in that chair.”
“What? You can’t keep me in this chair… like this.”
“When he does come back, he’ll take you somewhere else. If you keep your mouth shut, you won’t be gagged. If you make noise, we’ll tape your mouth too. So, if you’re going to fuck around, get ready to breathe through your nose. Billy will keep you until I’m done.”
“Like… this?”
“Someone will feed you. If they feel up to it, you’ll be taken to use the toilet. It’ll be a hardship. You’ll be hosed down to stay clean.” Tucker Poesy looked at Walter in disbelief. Fear crept over her like red ants on a helpless grasshopper, some pinning the poor insect down, others boring into its head, eating it alive. “You’ll be alive,” he said. “But not much more.”
When the telephone rang, Sadie Fagan was preparing dinner. She was also watching the Six O’Clock News on channel 2. She gathered a bunch of long celery stalks on a wooden cutting board, sliced them into small pieces and threw the pieces into the same bowl where she had already put shredded carrots and cut cucumbers. Then she looked around for a green pepper. The local TV anchorwoman had her serious face on. She reported on a home invasion in one of Atlanta’s finest neighborhoods, Inman Park. No one was injured, but a man named Otto Heinrich, a violinist for the famed Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, had been home when the break-in occurred. Nothing had been taken and Mr. Heinrich said the man who entered his house surprised him but said nothing. Police were investigating the incident and offered no more information at this time. She didn’t mention it, but the anchorwoman herself lived only a few blocks away from the scene of the crime. The touch of real fear in her eyes played well on screen. They cut to a reporter standing outside the violinist’s gable-roofed, Victorian-style house. It was already dark outside. Behind the reporter, the lights of neighboring homes could be seen twinkling through the leaves and branches of the tree-lined block. Inman Park always had that gingerbread look about it. The television camera caught a street scene of bucolic splendor, right there in the middle of the city. A home invasion? Sadie was mortified. How could such a thing happen-there? It was almost as if it happened in her subdivision. When the reporter, a lovely young woman with perfect hair threw it back to the studio, the anchorwoman, still appropriately grim, wrapped the piece with the news that Mr. Heinrich was the husband of Isobel Gitlin, Executive Director of the Center for Consumer Concerns. Isobel’s fifteen minutes ended a while ago, and she was glad of it. Apparently beyond her control, a residue lingered. Isobel Gitlin? Sadie had heard the name, but couldn’t place it. Anyway, the phone rang. She turned from the TV, wiped her hands dry with a paper towel, and answered it. She never heard the anchorwoman say, “Isobel Gitlin will be remembered, of course, for the pivotal role she played in the Leonard Martin affair.”
“Hello,” said Sadie.
“Aunt Sadie, it’s me.”
“Harry! Where are you, my darling? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Aunt Sadie. Really, I am. I wanted you to know everything’s going to be all right. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Worry? Me? Oh, Harry, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“I would have called sooner, but things have been kind of hectic. I’ve been traveling.”
“I know, dear,” said Sadie, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her kitchen apron. “I spoke with Chita. She told me. And I met Mr. Sherman. He found you? And you’re safe now?”
Harry assured his aunt of his safety. He told her about his trip to Holland, to Bergen op Zoom, Roswell’s sister city. He mentioned that Walter had located him and how he and Walter went through Belgium and Spain on their way to Mexico and finally to the cabin in the mountains of New Mexico. No one would ever find him there. “Walter said this was a safe place. It certainly is in the middle of nowhere. It’s really amazingly beautiful here.”
“How long will you be there?” she asked. “What’s going to happen with all this?”
“I can’t say, Aunt Sadie. I don’t know. Chita said to trust Walter Sherman, and I do. I am.”
“I love you, Harry.”
“I love you too. I really shouldn’t talk too long.” Walter had warned him not to use the phone at all. “Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me again for a while.”
“Have you spoken with your Aunt Chita?”
“No, not since we got here. I’ll try her, but you know she’s tough to get a hold of. If you talk to her first, tell her I’m all right and tell her I love her. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Sadie hung the phone up thinking about her brother David. Missing, what a terrible word. It had no ending. David would always be missing. It broke Sadie’s heart, all these years later. He had never seen his son. Never held him as a baby. Never rocked him to sleep when his belly hurt. Never… She started crying all over her vegetables.
Earlier in the day, a few minutes after nine that morning, a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man walked into the lobby of building number two at Atlanta’s Colony Square complex on Peachtree at 14th Street. He rode an elevator to the seventh floor, where he made his way to the reception area at the Center for Consumer Concerns. He smiled at the receptionist and said, “Isobel Gitlin, please. Christopher Hopman to see her.” A moment later the girl at the front desk looked up, with concern written all over her face, and asked, “Mr. Hopman? Mr. Christopher Hopman, is that right?”
“Yes, it is,” the man answered, still smiling and keeping a respectful distance from the reception desk, allowing the girl to talk into her phone with some assurance of privacy. She did just that, then took the phone, and pressing her other hand over the mouthpiece, said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Gitlin has no Christopher Hopman on her schedule.”
“Please tell Ms. Gitlin I’m here because of Walter Sherman.” The smile was still there, warm, friendly, engaging. He was a handsome man, the receptionist thought. Finally, after one last whispered phone conversation, she said, “Someone will be right out to show you in.”
Isobel had no idea what this could be about. In her years as a reporter with The New York Times, she had fine-tuned an attention to words, a deep respect for language. “Words have meaning, don’t they?” a Times editor once said to her. “There’s no need for you to answer that, is there?” he immediately added. “Or, for that matter, that question either. Why? Because my words meant something and you understood their meaning as soon as I said them. That should be your goal for everything you write. Your reader should never wonder ‘what did she mean.’” The man calling himself Christopher Hopman-that absolutely could not be his name-said he was here because of Walter Sherman. He did not say Walter had sent him. For just a second she wondered if she should have alerted Security.
“Ms. Gitlin, pleased to meet you,” the man said. Apparently the smile had been pasted on with epoxy. He extended his hand. Isobel stood; they shook hands. It started like any normal business meeting.
“What’s your name?” Isobel asked. The man’s smile opened to a polite chuckle. “You can’t be Christopher Hopman because he was killed, shot down on a golf course outside Boston, by…?”
“I’ll take your word for that,” he said.
“By…?” Isobel repeated.
“I believe a man named Leonard Martin confessed to that murder, among others.”
“So, what is your name and why are you here? What does this have to do with Walter Sherman? He didn’t send you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t send me. He is, however, responsible for my visit. As for my name, that’s not important.”
“Well, you can get the hell out of here!”
“I represent some people who need to know where Mr. Sherman took Harry Levine. They believe you know where that is.”
“What are you talking about? Who the hell is Harry Levine? Get the fuck out of here!”
“Calm down, Ms. Gitlin. This is a very serious matter. You need to hear what I have to say. You also need to provide me with whatever information you have that might be helpful. This is, I assure you, not a matter to be taken lightly.” He paused, removed his coat, which he carefully laid down on the chair next to him and then pulled his seat forward, directly across from her. She said nothing more, which he took to be agreement on her part, at least to pay attention. He looked her in the eye and spoke with an ease of manner that, considering what he said, was more than a little frightening.
“Harry Levine-you don’t know Mr. Levine, or so it would appear-is in the company of Mr. Sherman. To be frank, Mr. Sherman is hiding him. The people I work for desire to talk to Mr. Levine. I have no idea why-they didn’t feel a need to tell me, and that’s fine with me. I am little more than a facilitator in this matter. As you have already guessed, Leonard Martin fits in here too. My employers believe that Mr. Sherman has taken Mr. Levine to whatever location Leonard Martin used during that period of time when he was avoiding the rest of the world, including the authorities. If that’s so, if that is where he is, everyone agrees Harry Levine can’t and won’t be found. Not without help, anyway. Your help, Ms. Gitlin.”
“I have no…”
“Please stop,” the man said, sounding less like an unnamed menace and more like an Assistant Principal who knows he’s about to be regaled with a tale something akin to, “an elephant ate my homework.” “We do not want to begin this way,” he said. “I certainly don’t want to, and I don’t believe you really want to either. Lies are uncalled for. They’re counterproductive. Of course you know where this location is. That is not in question. Actually, there is no question here. I am merely trying to be polite by asking you. You have to tell me. You are the only one. We-and now I include you too-we are aware that Walter Sherman is a man, a very capable man, a man with numerous resources. He will tell us nothing and there’s an element of risk even approaching him. That leaves only you, Ms. Gitlin.”
“They can’t pay you enough to go after Walter, can they?” Isobel angrily interrupted.
“So,” he continued, “we’re asking you. My employer will not stop at asking.”
“You can’t hurt me!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. Please. I never meant to say you would be hurt in any way.” For some reason Isobel breathed easier. Why, she asked herself, do I think I’ve won something? “Is that a picture of you and your husband?” he asked, pointing to a cube-framed photo on her desk. “Your husband, Otto Heinrich, plays with the Atlanta Symphony, doesn’t he?” Isobel’s sense of satisfaction left her as quickly and completely as her last breath. “A violinist, right? I’m told he plays beautifully. A man like that must have exceptional fingers, especially on his left hand. Isn’t that right? How does he manage to care for his hands, his fingers? Exercise? Warm water and soap? Custom-made gloves? Some sort of special lotion, probably. I could never know. You do, of course. Tell me about his hands.”
“No,” said Isobel in a voice no louder than a whimper.
“A man like your husband has to make sure nothing happens to his hands. I guess they’re as much a part of his instrument as… as the bow.”
“Y-y-you can’t…”
She had never been there, but she knew where it was. Long ago, Walter told her. He told her about his drive from Santa Fe, up into the mountains near Albert, New Mexico, near the Indian forest. She remembered his description of the cabin, even the road leading to it. He met Michael DelGrazo there-Leonard Martin, the Cowboy with the floppy hat. She had never been there, but she knew exactly where it was. She paid the taxes on the property. Each year since Leonard Martin walked off into the void. She paid the electricity. The water bill. The Center cut the checks. She never questioned the expense. It was, after all, Leonard Martin who founded the institution she headed. She was following his instructions. Would Leonard ever return? Is he even alive? She didn’t know. Who did? Walter? The genial, well-groomed imitation of a businessman, sitting in front of her, was totally correct. She knew where it was, yet her natural inclination was to tell this thug to go fuck himself. My God! she thought, Otto!
Washington, that was where Walter was headed. Headed to Devereaux. To Devereaux, whose arrogance had so unhinged him in Atlanta. And now-the sonofabitch sent someone into his home! There was a late flight out of St. Thomas he could still catch. It would take him to Miami. He’d stay over there and fly to Washington in the morning. He knew he would be calm by then, calmer anyway. Passing the cruise ships, on the long cab ride from the St. Thomas ferry dock to the airport, the sight of those massive floating resort hotels, all done up in pastels, blue and sea green, yellows and light shades of red, towering like buildings many stories above the water, he realized his blood pressure had gone from a boil to a simmer sooner than he expected. A few minutes later his cell phone rang as he waited in the airport.
“Yes,” he said.
“Walter, Walter,” came a familiar voice, with an unfamiliar tone. It jolted his awareness to a sharp point. The frustration and anger he felt about Devereaux and his hired girl was counterproductive. He knew that and was grateful for the intrusion. It was Isobel Gitlin’s voice he heard.
“Yes,” he said, hoping his hurt pride was not showing too much.
“I had no choice,” she said. Was she crying or coughing? Did he hear the sound of a stuffy nose, a simple cold or something else? “It was Otto. Otto.” Definitely crying, thought Walter. He decided to let her cry it out. He waited.
“Walter, I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. They took Otto and threatened to c-c-cut off the fingers! B-b-break his hands. His arms. His elbows. Oh, my god! I’m sorry, Walter. I’m sorry. Otto, he could never play again. They came to our house, into our house. Walter. I had to.”
“Had to what, Isobel?”
“Had to tell them. Tell them where. Where it is. They knew it was somewhere. They just didn’t know where.”
“Where what?”
“Where Leonard was, before. In New Mexico.” Walter closed his eyes. He was getting lightheaded. He felt cold sweat across the back of his neck. His arms and legs tingled. His stomach growled in disgust, tightening with newfound fear. He was a deer, alone on a dark lonely road near Rhinebeck, in upstate New York. He saw the truck come barreling around the turn. The headlights blinded him. He was unable to move, every inch of his body paralyzed. He shuddered as the truck ran over him, bone and blood and soft tissue pushed together like a pasty soup. He saw his brain shut down.
“Who?” he said, breathing deeply, slowly. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The one who came to see me was in his forties, tall, lean, light complexion, light brown hair, well dressed, well spoken. I thought I detected an accent, but I’m not sure. Very confident. He was very confident.”
“Name?”
“He said his name was Christopher Hopman.”
“Oh shit!” said Walter.
“He knew you. He knew who you were. I think he’s afraid of you. I think so. He said he wanted something somebody named Harry Levine had. You too. He knew you were involved.”
“He thought Harry Levine was in New Mexico?”
“Yes. He didn’t know it was New Mexico. He said they thought you had taken him to wherever Leonard had been.”
“They? Who’s they?”
“He just referred to them as ‘his employers.’ I remembered what you said, where you said it was.”
“I know,” Walter said. “You’ve been paying the bills there since Leonard Martin disappeared.”
“How did you know? Oh, my God!”
“Yes, that’s right, Isobel. That’s where I took him. And that’s where I left him.”
“Oh, m-m-my God!” she mumbled again. “I’m so sorry. Otto…”
“Goodbye,” said Walter.
Today’s call from Harry wasn’t due for another ninety minutes. He knew there would be no call. It would never come. Never. He went to the ticket counter and changed his flight plans. No matter where he was going, he had to fly to Miami first. He dropped his Washington flight and found a late-night opening, Miami to Houston. It was an awful flight, turbulent over the Gulf, and local thunderstorms in the Houston area. He felt like crap and took two antacid tablets as soon as he landed. A six-hour layover in Houston and then on to Albuquerque. Four more hours after that to Albert. Twenty minutes to the cabin.
Harry Levine’s body lay crumpled, face down on the floor near the small refrigerator. A single shot in the heart had killed him. Walter noticed powder burns on Harry’s shirt. The hole was small. Someone must have held Harry very close, perhaps right up against him. Whoever it was had reached in with a small caliber pistol, pushed it hard against Harry’s chest and fired. There was no exit wound. The bullet had not been very powerful, just deadly. It would take a coldhearted bastard to kill this way. The body was otherwise unmarked. Whoever killed him didn’t have to beat him to find the document. Harry wouldn’t have hidden it. After all, Walter told him he would be safe here. “Damnit!” Walter said out loud. On the floor, not far from Harry’s feet, Walter found a cigarette butt. The ash was only halfway down and it had been stepped on, apparently casually ground into the kitchen floor. Something about it looked familiar. When he picked it up he saw it was not a regular cigarette, certainly not an American cigarette. The paper was unusual. He slid it around between his fingers. It felt like rice paper. And the cigarette itself came with its own cardboard holder. The brand name had been smudged. All he could make out were the letters MOPKAHA.
The cabin was freezing. The fire was dead, burned to cold ash. The space heaters were not turned on. The killer was long gone. Walter’s coat was all he had. He could see his own breath, still he felt a sweat come over him. A dull pain grew in his chest, his stomach gone sour again. He sat down at the table, in the same wooden chair he dragged out to the porch when Harry marveled at the stars and the purity of the night sky. The horizon was much closer now. Walter felt suddenly overcome by fatigue. His eyelids closed. They balked at his feeble attempts to raise them open. Sleep. He needed sleep. He couldn’t help himself. He fell asleep right there, in the chair, still in his coat. He awoke about five. It was already dark and colder than before. He thought back to everything he had touched, now and when he had been there earlier and wiped all of it clean until there was no trace he was ever there. This was not the first time Walter had covered his tracks this way. He made no mistakes. He looked for any sign to tell him who did this-who killed Harry Levine. He found nothing. He, who could find anything, found nothing. The anger rose within him. He shivered, the cold radiating into his chin, down his left arm. “Harry,” he said although no one could hear him. Walter wondered, was the Cowboy in him?
It was the beef and the greed that killed Leonard Martin’s family. Walter remembered, better than most. Bad beef, born of corruption and venality, deception and disregard. Hamburgers. And where was Leonard Martin when he was needed? Where was he? Walter remembered that too. While Leonard’s wife, daughter and grandsons were joyfully broiling the poisoned meat, he was with another woman. When his family needed him most, he was absent, cheating, fucking. The only reason Leonard Martin lived was because he skipped that poolside barbeque, skipped it to have sex with a woman who was not his wife, not the mother of his child or grandmother to his grandsons. For Leonard, getting laid that morning gave an evil twist to getting lucky. He always felt his affair was manageable, acceptable so long as Nina didn’t know, so long as no one got hurt. He never thought the hurt would come like this. Afterward, when he held Nina’s lifeless hand, and then tried to comfort his daughter, Ellie, as she died, frantically worrying about her boys, Leonard’s cowardly soul burned in Hell, charred from head to toe with dirty ash, the filthy soot of his guilty fire. His life became an inferno, the flames quenched only with the blood of vengeance. Walter accused Leonard of that, confronted him with the charge that his revenge was not so righteous after all. “Where were you?” Walter shouted at him. And now. “Where were you?” he screamed at himself. “Where were you?” He saw Michael DelGrazo, the Cowboy, Leonard Martin, each pointing an accusing finger. “Where were you?”
He made three phone calls before driving away, this time for good. He would never set foot upon this place again. He swore it. The first call was to Isobel. “It’s Walter Sherman,” he told the receptionist, and when Isobel picked up the phone, before she could speak, he said, “He’s dead.” He shut the cover on his cell phone before Isobel said a word. The second call was to the New Mexico State Police. There was a body, he told them, in a cabin… He told them where, then hung up. His final call was to Billy. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?” he asked the bartender.
“Yeah,” said Billy.
“I need a few more days. I’ll be back Friday. Everything all right?”
“Yeah.”
“No problems?”
“None.”
“Turn her loose.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. You tell her I know she had nothing to do with it. Tell her if I ever see her again, I’ll kill her. She’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Just tell her.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her.”