by Daniel Hecht
"You're evading me. I asked ifyou thought your son had done this. Is that why you don't want the police in? Are you protecting him?"
"My son," she said. Her voice had gone flat—unyielding, filled with world-weariness. "No, I assure you I am not protecting Royce. But you appear to have been giving this a great deal of thought, Paulie."
"You've asked me many questions about my son. I thought I'd reciprocate."
"And it's a fascinating topic. Perhaps we'll have the opportunity to continue this conversation when we see each other."
She'd deflected him again, but he was tiring of their fencing. "I will hold you to that, Vivien."
"Now, I will be arriving early on Saturday, the seventeenth, staying at a hotel in Manhattan. I intend to rent a car and see you that afternoon. You needn't worry about transporting me. I'm sure you'll have other things to occupy you."
"Yes." Eight days. Not long enough to get everything done. Yet in so many ways not soon enough, either.
She chuckled. "And if you have any other fantastic theories to grill me about, you can wait until I arrive."
"I'll make a list," he said dryly.
"Paulie." Her voice had changed again, husky and full of insinuation. "Our recent . . . association has come to mean more to me than you could possibly know. I am so looking forward to seeing you again."
Right, Paul thought as he hung up the phone. Amazingly, he believed she meant it—that in her loneliness and isolation and strangeness these thorny conversations meant a lot to her. Maybe he was more like Ben than he knew.
Over the granite spine of theridgebeneath the big trees, ducking, beneath a huge fallen trunk that leans against a boulder. Then the crows rise up like ashes, making just a tingle of being afraid, but going on because an explorer doesn't let himself be afraid, he's always more curious than afraid, Father says.
Farther down, deep in the folded woods: The dog hears it first, the strange noise, the knife-sharpening noise. Then the shadowy ledge of rock, and something moving on the other side.
Then seeing them, the pink shapes. The tree jerks like something dying, helpless. The man's pink-brown back, arching, and the black triangle between the woman's legs and the jerking way she moves. How wrong their naked skin is in the woods, how out of place and shocking, and the red parts, and the dirt on their skin. And the fast in-out rough noise.
The dog bolts, running tuck-tailed away. Starting to turn, tripping over the thing on the ground and getting up and thefear strikes like lightning, painfulfear, too afraid to look, afraid to look back, and knowing you're not supposed to see or tell ever, and running away, and then the pain of skinned hands and shins and the tangled woods snatching.
"Paul!" Lia shook him, drops of moisture falling onto his face from her hair. "Paul! Wake up!"
He sat up, lost. "What's the matter?"
" You are! You were moaning and thrashing around. Are you okay?" Lia had come out of her bath and stood before him naked, hair tangled and dark from the water.
"I guess I fell asleep," Paul said lamely.
After the images of his memory, or dream, the sight of Lia was like a life preserver in a stormy ocean. He put his arms around her waist and drew her to him, inhaling her smell with gratitude. She massaged his head, tugging at his hair. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could explain. Gradually, the terror began to evaporate.
The memory was clearer now. His ability to recall images and hold them in his mind's eye was far better. Maybe it was the circuits reawakening, he thought, his neurochemistry changing. Maybe it was just being at Highwood, the saturation of his mind with images from the past.
Or maybe he was going crazy.
Lia held him at arm's length, looking searchingly into his eyes. "Your turn for the tub," she said at last. "It'll make you feel better. You've been under a lot of stress."
She smoothed his hair, still nailing him with her eyes—a look of wary concern, almost of accusation.
50
MO MADE A POINT of taking a seat far back in the bleachers. The White Plains High School gym echoed with the voices of five hundred excited kids and parents. For this event, the basketball backboards had been cranked up, light green mats laid over the court floor. Mo had grudgingly paid five dollars at the entrance of the gym, doing his bit to benefit the school's sports teams. It was Saturday morning, but he thought of himself as very definitely on duty.
On Friday he'd gone on to the Lewisboro town hall and gotten lucky looking through the property records. Very lucky. Another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. One more and he could go to Lia and Paul with a pretty complete picture.
On cue, a team of men and women bounded into the center of the gym, taking wide-legged stances in neat rows. All had bare feet and were dressed in baggy black or white martial-arts outfits, belted at the waist with black belts. As the audience quieted, they began their warm-up exercises, thrusting mean-looking punches, left-right, perfectly synchronized. Their explosions of breath with each punch shook the big room. Mo looked for Rizal and found him in the first row, throwing truly nasty jabs, enjoying himself.
Pizal had put up posters for the demonstration at the barracks and had talked it up. Mo had overheard a couple of the younger troopers talking about Rizal's various black belts. Apparently he was to be one of the stars of this show.
The showmaster was a portly man in a black martial-arts suit and incongruous brown oxfords, maybe the principal of the school, who dragged a microphone with him as he turned to the bleachers and back again to the fighters, reading from a sheet of paper. The audience had a real treat in store for them today, courtesy of the Southern New York State Martial Arts Association, which had assembled this production to benefit high school sports and to enhance awareness and appreciation of the martial arts. The audience could look forward to dazzling displays of karate, savate, judo, tae kwon do, tai chi, by various regional and national champions. To top it off, they'd be among the first in the United States to witness some more esoteric forms: ba chi, the top-secret fighting art from China, some secret ninja killing arts, and displays of the incredible fighting techniques of the warrior monks of Shaolin monastery in China. Big-time gratitude and rounds of applause were in order for the various martial-arts clubs, diverse financial sponsors, and of course the terrific kids of White Plains Central High.
After the warm-ups came bouts between combatants in various disciplines. Down on the mats, a Japanese man leapt with both feet at the head of his opponent, his body fully five feet off the ground, only to be swept down by a scything circular kick. Yet he landed well, somersaulted, and delivered a vicious kick of his own as he came upright. It was incredible what the human body was capable of, Mo thought. The audience screamed its appreciation.
Rizal came on against a bigger, blond guy. The bastard was good, Mo admitted. Too fast. Like a snake. A couple of times when Rizal made contact, the other guy was genuinely hurt, giving Rizal a look like, Hey, this is a demonstration, pull the contact. When the other guy opened up a little himself, scoring a hard hit to Pazal's temple, Rizal was all over him instantly. When it was over, the blond fighter's smile looked forced.
Then the hand-to-hand phase came to an end and the more exotic demonstrations began. Which apparently would feature Rizal, who stood at the sidelines, now stripped to the waist, tying on a black headband. The master of ceremonies announced a demonstration of ninjitsu, and a man dressed theatrically in black, complete with black tabis and black face mask, came out with nunchuks whistling around him, the two short sticks a blur at the end of their chain. After the nunchuks, he demonstrated hand-to-hand with short and long spears, whirling and jabbing, and ended by pitching shuriken, the ninja's six pointed steel throwing stars. He held the first one aloft to show the audience his two-fingered grip on the palm-size star. Then with a series of flicks he sent one after another in flat streaks to a man-shaped cutout propped against the wall.
Then it was Pdzal's turn. He came out bare-chested, the overhead
lights cutting the muscles of his torso into sharp shadows. He raised his hands above his head, relishing the crowd's approval, flexing a bit. He didn't weigh over 155, Mo guessed, but he had zero body fat. The perfectly delineated muscles of his chest and striated shoulders looked as if they'd been carved with a chisel. His whole body's a weapon, Mo thought, he's tried to make himself into metal. Man of steel. Superman? Rizal made a show of preparing for his next feat by taking sharp, convulsive breaths that puffed his cheeks as the air burst from his mouth.
Pdzal had apparently specialized in some classic karate showmanship, breaking first two-inch wooden planks, and then stacks of two, three, and four concrete blocks, with sharp blows from the edge of his hands. His focus was fiendish.
You've got my attention, Pete, Mo thought.
"Next," the MC announced, "Trooper Rizal will demonstrate some of the techniques of the legendary monks of Shaolin monastery. Over the centuries, these reclusive monks have developed fighting skills unknown anywhere else in the world. The Shaolin tradition includes the discipline of turning common household items into lethal weapons. As Trooper Pdzal will show you."
Rizal's helpers brought out various pieces of furniture: a table, a chair, a squat wooden footstool, an iron frying pan, a short garden spade. Rizal began with the spade, sending it spinning around his bare waist, twirling it like a baton, under his armpits and over his shoulders, between his legs. Incredible reflexes, Mo thought. Unbelievable hand speed. The muscles of his chest looked as if they were made of cut crystal.
Pdzal showed off some elaborate moves with the chair, then took a break from the furniture for some Shaolin hand-to-hand fighting.
The announcer gave a spiel about the miraculous powers of the Shaolin monks. "This next technique has never before been mastered outside the ancient walls of Shaolin," he said. "I need to request your silence to allow Trooper Rizal to concentrate fully. He is actually risking serious injury to demonstrate for you the incredible mental and physical state required for this astonishing defensive technique." The audience leaned forward. Why not some snare drums while we're at it, Mo thought. He had to assume Rizal had written the script.
Rizal stood, legs slightly spread, jaw clenched. The Japanese fighter came out, bowed, and abruptly delivered a hard upward kick to Rizal's crotch. The force of the kick lifted Rizal off the ground, yet he retained his posture, landed taut and ready. The crowd gasped. The Japanese guy repeated the kick five or six times, Rizal turning so that the whole crowd could get an optimum view. People were shaking their heads, amazed.
"Don't, I repeat, do not try this one at home, ladies and gentlemen," the MC quipped.
Rizal's final act was with the stool, which he whirled around him in a blur, spun at shin height, over his head, using both hands and arms to wield it in a dazzling variety of swipes, jabs, spins. At last he brought it out of an overhead spin and unexpectedly brought it down on the wooden table with a crash that forced a collective gasp from the crowd.
The table buckled and broke in half, scattering splinters across the gym floor.
Mo got up to leave. He'd gotten what he'd come for. Anyway, he thought, you didn't want to get caught in the crush in the parking lot. Watching Rizal eat up the applause was enough to give you gas. On the bright side, it had been an engrossing spectacle, and he'd avoided thinking about Heather Mason or pining after Lia for fully ten, fifteen minutes at a stretch. Definitely worth five bucks.
Half an hour later, Mo sat in his car outside the Burger King, finishing off a Whopper and fries, thinking. Rizal could be an answer to Paul's concern about the how of it. He certainly knew how to bust up furniture. And probably, if you used that stuff on a human body, if you really had a lot of pressure to let off, anger to vent, you could probably manage a lot of bone fractures, or dismember somebody.
His mind recoiled from the idea: Rizal's a State Police trooper! On the other hand, Rizal seemed pretty well capable of anything. The next question, the one that would help him unravel the case, was why? There were obviously some deep motives at work, and while Rizal was lethal as a pit viper, he didn't seem to have anything to gain from the destruction of Highwood. And he wasn't smart enough to concoct anything complex—if he had any real brains, he wouldn't have tipped his hand by overtly threatening Paul. Therefore the motives and the brains were elsewhere. Which was where Royce came in. Put Royce and Rizal together, buddies since childhood—
Mo looked up from his fries to see Rizal walking toward him, dressed now in black Levi's and a black leather jacket. He was grinning, the big star after his show, probably still pumped up on adrenaline. Mo rolled down his window.
"I was driving home when I thought I saw a pile of shit in a car, " Rizal said. "I couldn't believe my eyes, so I stopped to verify."
"YQU were right. Anything else I can do for you?"
"You were at the show just now. I never imagined you were such a big fan. Like it?"
"It was amazing, I have to admit," Mo said. "I especially liked the one where the guy kicked you in the balls."
Still flushed with the thrill of performing, Rizal took an instant to hear it right. His face changed from a smug smile to a quick frown and back to the smile in less than a second. "Takes balls of steel," he said. "Balls of brass, Ford."
It wasn't a bad recovery. Mo nodded, trying to look first impressed, then a little concerned. "That, or no balls at all, I suppose."
Rizal's face took it with a flash of anger. Then he shook his head sadly. "Very funny, asshole. You are a regular Jerry Lewis, so help me. Or at least one ofJerry's Kids. You know what I think? I think you'd be a pushover in a fight, Ford, I think you'd piss your pants. That's something maybe you should think about—what you would do if somebody who knew what he was doing came at you."
Mo dutifully thought about it, letting his face take on a troubled expression. "Like that Japanese guy? Like you? Shit," he said, shrugging, "I guess I'd have to shoot him."
He looked at Rizal deadpan, kept his eyes on Rizal's snake eyes. You could always see a move coming in the eyes. He put another french fry in his mouth.
51
"I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I wouldn't be able to carry it off," Dempsey said. "I thought it was for your own good. I thought I'd spare you that disillusionment, or whatever you want to call it."
Paul had considered ways to catch Dempsey in the act as he searched through papers, but as it turned out no subterfuge was necessary. Sorting the next box of papers, he found what he needed to put it together—Dempsey's sneaking around, his inability to meet Paul's eyes.
"How long were Ben and Vivien having an affair?"
Dempsey shrugged. "Maybe a year? I was never sure when it started."
"How'd it end?"
"Your father jumped off a goddamned cliff, that's how." Dempsey turned a circle on the rug. "Actually, I don't know. Things he told me, toward the end, it sounded like he was beginning to want out of it but didn't know how. I think he was afraid she'd tell your mother. After Hoffmann, Vivien had this thing about rejection. She was dying for company, for closeness. Everything she did, it was . . . larger than life. Big appetites, big hungers, big hurts. Big grudges. I have no doubt she could do something lousy to Ben if he blew her off."
"What about Aster? Did Vivien tell her? Did Ben? Is that why the two sisters split apart after he died?"
"I don't know. And you can't ask your mother, can you? Lose-lose situation. If she knows, you revive the humiliation and anger. And if it's news to her—"
A complicated tic twisted Paul's head on his neck and caused his hand to grip and turn an invisible doorknob. The motor tics were changing, he noted, less frequent but more severe, complex, and prolonged.
In frustration he swatted the sheaf of letters he'd found, some of them clearly referring to trysts Ben and Vivien had managed to conceal from everybody. Probably Dempsey was telling the truth when he said Ben had wanted to call if off. In one of the later letters, Ben talked about Vivien's "yearning for companionship." "You mu
st face the fact that to know another human being, in the way that you so hunger for, may not be possible. I doubt that I am capable of offering you that kind and degree of companionship." Ben went on about loneliness: "The lot of all human beings, ultimately . . . take solace in our uniqueness. . . try to cherish our splendid solitude." It could easily be the preparatory rhetoric for a parting of the ways.
"You have to put it in perspective," Dempsey said. "Here's somebody Ben is really close to, and she's dying of loneliness. Waiting for her ex-husband to come back to her for twelve years or so while her youth was fading. Not to sound like Zorba the Greek, but here's a beautiful woman, going to waste. I meant that about the chivalry stuff, and your father was a perfect candidate for the white-knight syndrome. It probably started out of sympathy, or compassion—"
"Spare me, huh?" Paul said.
"I mean it."
"Dempsey, do me a favor."
"I'll try."
Paul slammed his fist on the table, and the old fighter startled. "No! I want you to do better than try I want you, Dempsey Corrigan, never to lie to me again. If you want to honor Ben, or me, or yourself, then you've got to tell me how it really was."
"Probably that's right, yeah."
"I want to know if there's anything else you're not telling me.
Anything else you know about this house or this mess."
"Like what?"
"Like, did you do this?"
"What, to get myself some furniture repair work? Hey, I'm poor, but I'm not that desperate."
"Why do you think Ben killed himself?"
"You're acting like you've got me up against the ropes, like you can throw anything at me you want. Watch out, Paulie. The guy on the ropes may have a surprise punch waiting for you." Paul had never seen Dempsey angry. It was intimidating. "You think I haven't searched my soul, wondering why? This man was like a brother to me. Maybe if Vivien told Aster, as I said. Only a couple of other possibilities occur to me."
