11
Make Way for the Great Man
I’m not sure what I was expecting from my first meeting with the world-renowned Will Compton, but the robust, tanned, bull-chested man in front of me isn’t it. I’ve seen pictures, of course; Will Compton is a legend in his own right, not only the father of a genius. His work is all over the internet, as are his well-documented exploits. He got his start shooting military footage in Vietnam, then pivoted into the entertainment industry in the late seventies. The movies he worked on are classics, shot in foreign locales with beautiful actresses and brooding actors. Worldly, cosmopolitan Will Compton, the great cinematographer.
But in person, he is something more. I’m not at all prepared for his presence, his stature. His thick, steel-gray hair sweeps back from his forehead, hanging to his shoulders like a well-aged surfer. He is exceedingly handsome still; I can see echoes of Jack’s face in cheekbone and chin. This is what Jack will look like when he is seventy-five. Not like his father, with his nervous rabbit demeanor and shifty eyes, or his severe great-grandfather, but like his compelling grandfather.
I put out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Compton.”
That’s when I realize as physically imposing as Will Compton is, something is off. When he locks eyes on me, he seems frail. Damaged. Sad, and frightened. He searches my face, wariness creeping over his craggy features.
“Who is this?” he demands in a deep, rusty, ancient voice. He looks from me to Jack, who says, “Hey, Grandpa. This is my fiancée, the painter, Claire Hunter. You remember, I told you we were going to be here for the wedding? I sent you one of her paintings. You loved it.”
We sent him Silvia, a small oil I’d painted in school, layered grays and whites and blacks that Jack said reminded him of the waters on Isola during a storm.
Will stares at us, standing there side by side with hopeful smiles, then surges into the room, eyes suddenly wild, an angry snarl on his face.
“No, it is not. Who do you think you are, bringing that girl here? You get away from her.” He heads for Jack, and throws a punch, connecting solidly with Jack’s cheek. Jack stumbles back in surprise, hands up to ward off the attack.
“Gran, stop. I’m Jack. Your grandson.”
“You know what’s going to happen. It happens every time. You get away from her, right now. You don’t touch my girl.” The old man grabs my bicep, his grip like steel, and Jack pulls me away, putting himself between us.
“Hey, now. Lay off, old man.”
“Signore Compton!” The nurse is yanking at her charge’s arm. “Basta! Stop that, right now.”
“He killed her. He killed her. You know that he killed her.”
Will is jabbing a thick finger at Jack, shrieking, while the nurse tries to manhandle him away, toward the door. Her voice is gentle again, soothing.
“Va bene, Signore Compton, va bene, va bene. That’s your grandson Jack, he’s here to get married to that sweet girl with the blond hair. Nobody killed anyone.”
The nurse speaks over her shoulder, whispering, “He’s just confused. He has good days and bad days. Ignore him.” She tugs at his arm, hard. “Signore Compton, let’s get you back to your room.”
Will Compton is having nothing of it. He whirls toward us again and rages on. “I am not confused. He killed her. I saw it with my own eyes. We must see justice done. I can’t let it happen again. It will happen again if I don’t stop him now.” And to me, “Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.” He starts back into the room, lasering in on Jack, who steps toward him, ready now, fists clenched. I am reminded of two lions squaring off. One will hurt the other, badly, before this is through, whether physical or emotional, I don’t know.
The nurse finally gets a solid grip on Will’s arm and hauls him back toward the hall.
“I know, Signore. Let’s go back to your room, and we’ll call the polizia.” To Jack, she says, “Mi dispiace. So sorry. He gets like this sometimes. Let me get him to his rooms and you can come see him in a little while. Sometimes he gets upset when we change his schedule. There’s been quite a bit of disruption these past few days.”
The old man finally settles, muttering to himself as he is led away.
The nurse calls back over her shoulder, “Allora, I nearly forgot. Signore Jackson, your mother is looking for you. She says it’s important she speak with you immediately.”
“Grazie, Petra,” he replies.
Shaken, I reach for Jack’s hand, surprised to see tears in his eyes. He is horrified. Or is he terrified?
“Oh, honey, are you okay? He really clocked you.”
Jack clears his throat, swipes a hand across his face. “I didn’t know he’d gotten so bad. I knew about the dementia, but I didn’t realize how much it had progressed. My parents didn’t tell me. I’m so sorry, darling. I didn’t want you to meet him like that.”
I smooth his ruffled hair, the widow’s peak so reminiscent of his grandfather’s, and kiss the spot where Will punched him. “It’s not your fault, Jack. How old is he?”
“Seventy-eight. God, that was...unsettling. Do I have a bruise? He hit me pretty hard.”
I examine his face. “It’s a little red, but I don’t think it’s going to mar your beauty. Why don’t we get you some ice? That will help so it doesn’t swell.”
“Good idea.” He doesn’t move, though, is staring at the empty doorway like he’s worried his grandfather is lying in wait in the hallway.
I hesitate only a moment. “Jack? Do you know who he was talking about? Who was killed?”
“I have no idea what he’s talking about, Claire,” Jack says flatly. “Why don’t you rest for a few minutes. I’ll grab some ice and go see what my mom needs. Love you.”
And with that, he disappears into the hall, leaving me in our suite, alone.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, kick off my Chucks, and lie back, staring at the wood-beamed ceiling.
What, exactly, was that about?
And what, exactly, am I getting myself into?
12
Bad, Bad News
Jack hurries down the main stairs, swings through the kitchen for some ice, and makes his way to the library. Ana is waiting for him in the hall outside the double doors. Something is wrong, he can see it in his mother’s stance. Her hip is cocked, she is smoking a cigarette. She and Fatima are talking, but at Jack’s appearance, Fatima nods to him and hurries away. He can hear her giving instructions to someone down the hall, her voice fading as she moves toward the kitchens. Jack waits until he’s sure they are alone. He runs a knuckle along his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard and the lingering soreness of his grandfather’s knotty fist.
“Where’s Claire?” Ana asks.
“I left her to freshen up. I had a feeling you wanted to see me alone.”
“You were right.” She touches his jawline. “What happened to you?”
“I got slugged. Gran attacked me. Accused me of killing someone, in front of Claire, no less.”
“Will attacked you? Whatever for? What did you say to him?”
“It was totally unprovoked. He took one look at Claire standing next to me and tried to pull her from my side, shouting I’d killed someone. Then he lunged in and punched me. Claire was terrified. You said he was in decline, you didn’t say he’d gotten violent. Why didn’t you warn me?”
His mother presses a hand to her forehead. “Oh, Jack. I’m so sorry. I know that must have been very difficult for you. For Claire, too. Will is...challenging right now.”
“If he’s attacking me, what happens when he comes across someone he isn’t familiar with? We have to do something.”
“I’ll speak to your father.”
Jack has heard those words from his mother at least a thousand times over the years. It is the foundation of their family dynamic. Their catchphrase. He and his brothers would come t
o Ana with their grievances; she’d say calmly, “I’ll speak to your father.” And the grievances would be resolved.
As he’s grown older, he understands the dynamic behind it better. Jack doubts Ana ever actually said anything to Brice unless it was impossible to avoid. Ana didn’t need Brice’s permission or attention to resolve matters with her boys. His dad was constantly consumed by his work, by the company, by his legacy. He was rarely present in their childhood lives in any meaningful way. Oh, Brice was there physically, most of the time, just not emotionally. Who could be present when they were constantly hooked into the office? Granted, he’d been more involved with their lives as they entered their twenties, looping all three boys into the company in various areas, one after another. But could you ever get past that initial sense of abandonment? At least Ana had been there. Always, even though she was running the magazine and traveling, she’d somehow managed to be at nearly everything important in the boys’ lives.
It is hard on her, Jack thinks, having them so distant. Ana is happiest when all her chicks are in the nest.
She doesn’t look happy now, though. Watching her smoke, he is struck for a moment at just how much she’s aged in the past year. At fifty-nine she is far from old, but new lines crease the skin of her forehead and bracket her mouth, and in the right light, sparkles of platinum dust her hair. She’s had extremely discreet work, done, nothing invasive, and, for the most part, looks as graceful and elegant as she had at forty. But there is something else now, a haunted depth to her eyes that ensures that despite age or intervention, she will never be considered a young girl again.
“Anyway, Gran’s nurse said you needed to speak to me?”
Ana smiles, but it’s tremulous at best. “Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I thought you should be made aware of something.”
“What’s that?”
“The body they found? The bones draped at the pier? We believe... It’s her. It’s Morgan.”
Jack is too stunned to speak. Horror sparks, deep in his gut. Now? Of all times, now the bitch washes up?
This is insanity. This is impossible.
This is dangerous.
This is very, very dangerous.
There was a narrative. A well-planned, well-thought-out, well-executed narrative. It had taken extensive effort to make it work. For the media. For the police. For those few outside the small circle of family who knew the truth.
My wife died when she fell off the boat.
My wife died when she fell off the boat.
My wife died when she fell off the boat.
He’d even identified the partial remains of the body months later, for God’s sake.
And now, with the events in Nashville, they have another narrative to keep track of.
Jack finally gathers himself. “How do you know? What makes them think that it’s her, after all this time?”
His voice sounds remote, lost, even to himself.
“The bones of the hands have the deformity she was born with, that bend in her pinkie finger.”
“Fuck.” He ignores his mother’s wince—she hates vulgar language—paces a few steps away, then back, then away again. “There’s nothing that can be done. I have to tell Claire. I can’t keep this from her.”
Ana lights another cigarette, blows blue smoke toward the ceiling. “Let’s not get hasty. I know this comes as a shock, Jackson. It was a surprise to us, too. No one ever expected her to actually surface. But we have a plan, we always have had one, just in case.”
“Another plan, Mother? The last one nearly took us all down.”
“And who’s fault is that, Jackson?”
“I’m not like you, Mother. Lying isn’t my strong suit.”
Ana’s lips tighten but she continues on. “If you stick to the plan, there won’t be any problems. We’re going to share that the DNA tests have shown this is Elevana, Fatima’s mother. It’s been so many years since she went missing, without exceptional scrutiny of the body by outsiders, the identification will hold. The documents are being fixed as we speak. Karmen has already taken care of things.”
Of course, she has. Karmen is beholden to the family too deeply. There is nothing she won’t do to keep them safe. She’d offered to take the blame for Morgan’s death herself when the accident happened. Jack wouldn’t hear of it.
He runs a hand through his hair. “How do you know this is really her, Mom? How do you know this is Morgan? Clinodactyly is not that uncommon a malformation. These remains could be from anyone. The hand could have been broken at the time of death, from a fall, just as easily. There’s no way to know for sure.”
Ana’s eyes grow distant. “You’ll just have to trust me, Jack.”
“This is unbelievable.” He feels rage brewing in him, knows he must shut it down until he can figure out the right way through this.
Ana, too, is struggling to keep it together. She’s not used to arguing with her son. Her word has always been the last, and the law. Since Morgan’s death, they’ve clashed too often.
“I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for us all. But we need to stick together, like always, and we’ll get through it. We’ll get you married to your pretty little artist and your life can start again, unsullied by this mess. Honestly, knowing it’s her makes things better, doesn’t it? This is real closure, Jackson.”
“I want to see the body.”
Alarm flashes in his mother’s eyes. “No.”
“I insist.”
“What good will that do? It’s been a decade, there’s nothing to see but the bones.”
He starts to speak again but she puts a finger across his lips. Moments later a servant rushes past, head down, red hair streaming. Jack can’t help it, his heart stutters for a moment. Any time he sees a woman with long, loose red hair, it’s the same, a sudden rush of adrenaline and then the endorphin release that feels like panic, leaving him out of breath as if he’d just run a mile at top speed. Morgan affected him that deeply. Still does.
Yes, it makes him feel better to know her remains have been recovered. As sick and awful as it sounds, there is a certain sense of closure. Not that the lies can be reversed, not that their lives won’t be affected, not that the specter of Morgan won’t hang over the wedding, and his new life, forever.
Putting her bones in the ground and knowing there is six feet of earth on top of them will allow him to at least try and close this chapter. He can go into his marriage to Claire with an open heart and open mind.
Still.
“I want to see the body, and I refuse to take no for an answer.”
“Fine,” his mother snaps at him, finished. “She’s been taken to the crypt. I trust you can manage to say your goodbyes without alerting Claire to this story? There’s no need for her to know Morgan died here. Let her, like the rest of the world, think she went missing in California. I refuse to have you implicated, Jackson. That tramp wasn’t worth it.”
“Mother—”
“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Claire. Do you think she’d really understand if she knew the whole truth?”
“Yes, I do. You underestimate her, Mom. Trust me, she is stronger than you know.”
“Perhaps I do.” She delicately grinds out the butt of her cigarette in a crystal ashtray on the marble table to their right. “But there’s no sense cluing her in on the whole story before the wedding. Let this be. We have an answer now, and we can finally, truly put the chapter behind us. I must go—your father needs me. I’ll see you later.”
She presents her cheek for a kiss, which he dutifully provides, then sweeps off down the hall, leaving Jack with the lingering scent of cigarettes and the still smoking butt in the ashtray. The ash is the color of bones.
Her bones.
Her bones.
Morgan’s bones.
He refuses to think about that night.
That awful, terrible, unforgettable, inevitable night.
The night Morgan died.
13
A Watcher in the Night
I was there the night he met her, you know. He wasn’t hard to track at all. A few keystrokes and his weekend itinerary appeared on my screen. Alfred Hotel. Nashville, Tennessee. Penthouse and three rooms under the name Jack William. A bachelor weekend for Elliot, the scum.
Drunk, Jack had wandered into the studio, spied that gaudy painting, signaled to the owner. A blonde in the corner, slightly tipsy from the cheap champagne, was summoned. She strolled over, the excitement on her face clear. She looked a mess, like she hadn’t brushed her hair in weeks. It twisted and twined around her face and all I could see were snakes, snakes, everywhere.
He bought the painting and took her back to the hotel bar to celebrate. The room was quiet and elegant, and in the darkness, she had something transcendent about her, some ineffable quality that drew all the eyes in the room. When she laughed, he acted like it was cashmere against chilly skin. When she picked up her champagne glass, he watched every move as if imagining her hand gripping something other than the flute’s stem. Her hair glowed like a halo; her lips were the color of rubies. The slender ring through her septum sparkled despite the bar’s dim light, as did the diamond stud in her nose and the parade of silver up the edges of her left ear.
She wasn’t his type. Not in the least. Jack had never shown the slightest interest in the bohemian. But here was this ethereal, artsy, snaky blonde with her piercings and her well-worn leather jacket and her Doc Martens and her cashmere laugh and her glowing emerald eyes and her questionable talent with a canvas, and Jackson Compton was lost.
The moment he dipped his wick, she had him by the balls. Fucking predictable.
He bought her a studio, launched her career, pushed a reconciliation with her mother and sister, controlled, controlled, controlled. I watched him wine her, dine her, and sixty-nine her—they fucked like bunnies; Jackson’s hip, hot Goth girl had bedroom eyes.
Her Dark Lies Page 6
