The Fallen

by David Baldacci

  “Not so’s I know. But he sold drugs, so he might have.”

  “Did he have a car?”

  “No. But he had a bike. He took it with him when he left.”

  “Do you know what it looked like?” asked Decker.

  “Yeah, it had two wheels.”

  They walked out of the place not knowing much more than when they’d walked in.

  Jamison leaned against the side of their truck and said, “Well, this case is moving about as fast as a bike without two wheels.”

  Decker looked over her shoulder. “You really can see it from just about everywhere in Baronville. Must be a sore point for the locals.”

  Jamison looked at where he was indicating.

  “John Baron’s ancestral estate?”

  “And our next stop.” Decker checked his watch. “He should be up by now.”

  Chapter 26

  DECREPIT.

  That was the word that came to mind as Decker studied the outside of the Baron mansion.

  He had pounded twice on the battered double front doors and had heard nothing in return.

  Jamison said, “Maybe he’s not home.”

  “It’s a big house. Maybe he has to walk a long way to answer the door. And he told me he’s usually here.”

  A few moments later they indeed heard footsteps approaching.

  The door swung open and John Baron the Fourth looked back at them.

  Decker noted that he was wearing the same clothes as the other night. His hair was just as disheveled and his eyes were full of sleep.

  “Did we wake you?” Decker asked, giving him a long look, since it was late in the afternoon.

  Baron smiled and stretched out his long frame.

  “Actually, you did. I was up before, of course. Rolled out of bed right around noon as usual. This was just a refresher nap before I go to bed tonight.”

  He glanced at a wide-eyed Jamison. “And who do we have here?” he said.

  “We have here, Alex Jamison,” said Jamison. “I’m Decker’s partner.”

  “Lucky you, Decker,” said Baron. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “We’re investigating the murders,” said Decker.

  “So you told me.”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The smile remained at full wattage. “And why’s that?”

  “Just routine.”

  “Right. That’s what they say when they have no grounds to ask questions but want to come in anyway. Well, I would be delighted, but only if the charming Alex here gets to ask questions too.”

  He backed away and waved them in.

  They stepped through and he closed the door behind them.

  Jamison immediately shivered, because there was a chilly draft in the hall.

  Baron noted this and said, “I don’t turn the heat on officially until January. So we have some months to go until warmth returns. Oil-fired furnace. Beastly expensive. And one must live within one’s means.”

  He led them down the hall. As they passed open doorways on both sides of the grand passage they glimpsed rooms of immense size with decorations and furnishings from many decades ago. The atmosphere in each was one of decay.

  “Quite a place,” said Jamison.

  “Actually the craftsmanship was abysmal and the materials were the cheapest available.”

  “Why is that?” asked Decker.

  “Because Baron the First was loath to part with a dime. I think his role model was Ebenezer Scrooge. But he wanted a symbol of his wealth on display for all the town to see. And this was the result.”

  “And the workers? They weren’t any good?”

  “Oh, I heard they were excellent. But they hated their employer and so they did crappy work. At least that’s the family gossip.”

  He pointed through an open doorway. “The gun room.”

  He led them inside a space about twenty feet square. On three walls were rows and rows of gun racks, but they only contained a few long guns: one antique over-and-under shotgun, three hunting rifles, and an elegant-looking flintlock. In glass cabinets in the center of the room were a few sets of pistols, blunderbusses, old bullets, and assorted hunting accessories.

  “Baron the First fancied himself lord of the fiefdom, and he liked to look the part.”

  “Did he hunt?” asked Decker.

  “Only for money. And he didn’t use a gun. Just a knife to stab people in the back.”

  Jamison raised her eyebrows at this remark. “There were obviously a lot more guns in here at one time,” she observed.

  “There was a lot more of everything here at one time. As for the guns, I sell them off occasionally to help pay the expenses on this place. But as you can clearly see, I’m running out of assets. Now, on to my little inner sanctum.”

  Baron ushered them down the hall and into what looked to be a large study straight out of an early-twentieth-century period piece. There was an enormous partner’s desk set near the rear wall. Resting on it was an old computer, which still looked out of place with all the other antiquated trappings. Bookcases, low tables stacked with books and papers, an ancient freestanding metal globe, and a leather couch that sagged nearly to the floor were set around the room. Against one wall was a heavily carved credenza upon which sat a line of half-empty bottles of alcohol with cut crystal glasses set in front of them. There were two other upholstered chairs in the room across from the desk, which Baron waved them into as he settled himself down behind his desk and moved some stacks of papers and books out of the way.

  Decker’s chair creaked ominously with his weight, but it held. Behind Baron were dark green drapes that were heavily stained.

  Decker eyed the boxy computer. “So, what is it that you do for a living?”

  “How do you know I don’t live off an immense fortune left to me?” asked Baron, but his grin showed that the question was not serious. He pointed to the computer. “I actually do research for a number of professors at Penn State and U Penn. It doesn’t pay all that well, but I can do it from here and it provides some income.”

  “What sort of research?” asked Jamison.

  “Mostly history. I like looking into the past. Allows me to forget my present circumstances and leaves me no time to dwell on my possible future prospects, or, more accurately, the lack thereof.”

  “Have you researched your own family history?” asked Decker.

  “Just what’s been passed down from generation to generation. It’s nothing you haven’t seen with other friendly neighborhood robber barons.”

  “Speaking of Barons,” said Jamison. “I was wondering if that was really the family name, or if it was chosen by John Baron the First.”

  “As far as I know it’s our real name, though I would put nothing past my ancestor in pretty much any department.”

  He put his hands behind his head, sat back, placed his long feet on the desk, and said, “Okay, I’m ready for your routine questioning.”

  Jamison took out her recorder.

  When Decker didn’t do likewise, Baron said, “Does your partner docket everything for you?”

  “No, I have a pretty good memory.”

  “I’m sure that comes in incredibly handy.”

  “Yeah, it can.”

  “So, the routine questions?”

  “I asked you before if you knew any of the victims.”

  “I vaguely remember that.”

  “And do you vaguely remember telling me you didn’t?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Either you do or you don’t, Mr. Baron,” interjected Jamison.

  He looked at her and smiled disarmingly. “My dear Alex, normally I would answer such a question without hesitation, but at the time it was asked by your colleague here, I had imbibed quite a bit of alcohol. In other words, I was drunk. I should have walked home. As it was, I nearly drove my truck into the river. But may I say your query was exceptionally well phrased and spot-on with its content?”


  Jamison looked taken aback. “Oh, okay.”

  Baron turned back to Decker. “Now that I’m reasonably sober, shall we try again?”

  Decker once more told him the names, leaving out the now identified DEA agents.

  “Well, I’ve lived in Baronville really my whole life, other than a truncated stint in college. I suppose if these people lived here their whole lives I could have met them, or run into them, or known them in some way without actually remembering precise details.”

  “Joyce Tanner lived here for over forty years. She was about your age. Swanson lived here his whole life but he was in his thirties. Costa and Babbot were more recent arrivals.”

  “I can’t say that any of them ring a bell.”

  “We found a photo of you and a Little League team. The kids were holding a championship banner. It was dated from last year.”

  Baron smiled. “That’s because we won the state championship last year.”

  “Congratulations. The bank sponsored your team. Costa was an SVP there. He had the photo in his home.”

  “Did he? I wonder why?” Baron turned to Jamison. “I played baseball in college, on scholarship. I was actually drafted by the Braves my freshman year.”

  “Impressive,” Jamison said.

  “I was a pitcher. Had a good, live arm. And I could hit too. Good wheels.”

  “So what happened?”

  Baron once more smiled disarmingly. “It’s otherwise known as life.” He looked at Decker. “I coached the Little League teams here for about ten years. But my last was the year we won the championship.”

  “Why your last year? They don’t like winning here?”

  “People said I was too controversial. Translation: I was too Baron for them.”

  “So why did they allow you to coach for a decade?” asked Decker. “Were you less Baron back then?”

  “I’m not sure. You’d have to take that up with the good people of the town. It might be because they got to order me around and scream at me if we did poorly. So, to play that theory out to its logical conclusion, maybe they were pissed off that I coached a state championship team and that’s why when I showed up for the season’s spring training this year I was politely told that my services would no longer be required.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I don’t remember the gentleman’s name. Just that his tone was…gleeful.”

  “Why do you stay, Mr. Baron?” asked Decker. “Why stay and take all this crap every day?”

  Baron took his feet off his desk and sat forward. Though his look was more serious, there was amusement still in his light blue eyes. “It may sound a bit masochistic, but I’ve come to enjoy the duel. And if I leave, that means they’ve won. And besides, where else would I go?”

  “Hell of a way to live your life.”

  “Isn’t it, though? Still, it is my humble life after all.”

  “So you still say you don’t know Bradley Costa?”

  “Can’t say that I do. I just coached the kids. The bank paid for the uniforms, baseballs, and juice boxes.” He abruptly stood. “I’d show you around the house, but you might need a tetanus booster first. How about I take you both on a tour of the grounds? They’re not nearly as grand as they used to be, but it might provide a diversion from life in Baronville for about a half hour. And there is a lovely if rather ghoulish walk to the family crypt.”

  Before they could answer he simply walked from the room.

  Jamison looked over at Decker. “Wow, just walking out like that. Who does that remind you of?”

  He looked at her. “Who?”

  Her only response was an exaggerated eye roll.

  Chapter 27

  BARON HAD SLIPPED an arm through Jamison’s as they took a winding paved road down to the family burial ground.

  “It’s an old-fashioned concept now, of course,” remarked Baron. “Burying ourselves on our property. But back then it was the thing to do. That’s why there’s a paved road like this, because the funeral procession would drive down to it. I even have a spot ready and waiting for me when my time is up. I hope the funds will be there to actually allow me to be interred.”

  Jamison said, “Do you want to be buried here?”

  “I don’t want to die at all, but it’s not up to me, is it?”

  There was a brick wall over six feet high set around the site, surrounded by thick trees, which threw everything into gloomy relief.

  “Yes, it is very oppressive here,” said Baron, perhaps reacting to Jamison’s subdued expression.

  He took a key from his pocket and opened a rusty wrought iron gate, the only entrance to the burial ground.

  He pointed to an inscription written on a brass plate bolted to the wall next to the gate.

  “That’s Latin?” said Jamison.

  “Very good, Alex,” said Baron.

  “What does it say?” asked Decker.

  “Something like, ‘Screw unto others as you would have them screw unto you,’” replied Baron.

  “It does not say that,” Jamison said with a laugh.

  “Well, perhaps just in spirit. The loose translation is something like, ‘Here lie the mighty Barons for all time. Peons take notice.’”

  Jamison laughed again.

  He led them inside the spacious grounds. Most of the graves were marked by an elaborate piece of marble or granite with the name of the dead on them. The stones were all neatly arranged and perfectly straight and upright. Someone clearly had been taking care of them. In the very center of the site was a large marble mausoleum badly stained by the elements.

  Baron led them over to it and patted the rusted wrought iron door that was the entrance to the structure. All around the door the marble was stained with patina from the metal leaching onto the stone. The exterior walls were covered in dirt and grime and streaks of white mixed with rust stains and clumps of fungus.

  “In here lies our founder and benefactor, the aforementioned John Quarles Baron the First,” he announced. “He along with his wife, Abigail, and their children reside in there. Along with other family members who died after them.”

  “It must be spacious inside,” noted Decker.

  “It represents another bone of contention with those living in Baronville that the Baron dead here are housed better than they are.”

  Decker noted that on one side the mausoleum had sunk a few inches into the ground. “Structural problems?” he asked.

  “I think we can blame it on his being cheap, even with his final resting place.”

  “It’s pretty grimy,” observed Jamison.

  “I come down here from time to time to take care of the grounds and the other grave markers. But I don’t bother with this one. You can’t power wash this thing or use acid. It would just damage it or cause the marble to disintegrate. And I’m not scrubbing it by hand. I wouldn’t do that even if I had loved Baron the First, which I don’t.”

  He held up another key. “Would you like to see inside?”

  Jamison immediately drew back, but Decker said, “Sure.”

  Baron unlocked the door and pushed it open. He led the way inside.

  Decker followed and Jamison reluctantly brought up the rear.

  On either side of the space were crypts set in long shelves on the walls. In the very center was a large granite crypt stained with age and moisture. Baron led them up to it.

  “My ancestor, if not in the flesh, at least in the bone. He of course had to take center stage.”

  Decker and Jamison gazed down at the last resting place of John Baron the First.

  “Impressive,” said Decker. “Is everyone in here a Baron?”

  Baron shrugged. “I haven’t actually been in here since I was a little boy and my grandmother died. That’s her spot over there,” he added, pointing to a crypt along the left side of the wall. “I remember that this was the creepiest place I’d ever been in, and could barely wait to get out.”

  Decker continued to look around the space. The
smell of mildew was fierce in here. Two of the walls were blackened with what looked like mold or fungus. Another wall had heavy smears of white, which mirrored those on the outside. The ceiling was blotched and stained with water damage.

  He moved forward and bumped his leg against one crypt that jutted out into the main space.

  Rubbing his thigh, he looked down at the etched name on the marble.

  Abigail Baron.

  Baron noted what Decker was looking at and said, “The man obviously wanted his eternal life all to himself, with even his wife shunted off to the side.” He looked around. “It’s full now, so no more admissions are possible. My spot is outside.”

  “I can see why you wanted to get out of here when you were little,” said Jamison, slowly looking around. “I mean, it’s all about…death.”

  Baron led them back outside and locked the door.

  Jamison stepped off to one side of the mausoleum and inspected what looked to be the newest graves on the grounds, though from the dates on the tombstones they were over thirty years old.

  “Are these your parents?” she asked.

  Baron slowly turned from the mausoleum and looked at the twin tombstones.

  “My father, Benjamin, and my mother, Dorothy. Dearly departed, as they say.”

  Decker walked over and read the information on the grave markers. “They were only in their forties. And they died on the same day. What happened?”

  “Not really sure,” said Baron as he joined them.

  Decker and Jamison stared at him. “What do you mean?” Decker asked. “You should know how they died.”

  “There are certain people who believe they died in an accident. And there are certain people who believe they committed suicide.”

  “Which one do you believe?” asked Jamison.

  “Neither.”

  “So how do you think they died?” she said.

  He looked directly at her. “I think they were murdered.”

  “Those are three very different possibilities,” said a clearly surprised Jamison.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Why do you think they were murdered?” asked Decker.

  “Let’s take a walk. There’s a large pond on the grounds. And while their blooming period is long over, the foliage of the rhododendrons is still quite lovely,” he added in a somber tone.