“Not this time.”
Ian rolled up his window and eased the van through the widening gap. At the top of the curved driveway, he parked in the same spot as before and dashed through a light sprinkle of rain to the covered front porch. The moment his foot hit the top step, the front door opened.
“A pleasure to see you again so soon, sir,” said Archibald.
The young man was impeccably dressed as before, his blue tie swapped for a soft salmon but ornamented by the same golden tack-pin.
“How is he?” asked Ian, brushing the rain off his shoulders.
The man’s smile faltered only slightly. “Mr. Ragano is doing rather well today. Thank you for asking. You’ll find him in the library. He so loves his books. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Brandy?”
“No, I only stopped for a short chat.”
“Certainly.” The man moved aside and gestured to his right. “The library is straight through those doors.”
Since their first meeting, Ian had wondered how his grandfather became friendly with such a high-profile criminal lawyer. He still didn’t know how the connection came to be, but Ragano certainly possessed the intimate knowledge, guile and resources to help people disappear.
The library was toasty, the cavernous space warmed by a roaring wood fireplace that dominated its center. It was difficult not to be distracted by the opulence; the room was the epitome of every library Ian ever imagined owning in those daydream moments when he gambled a dollar on a lottery ticket; a fantasy he stopped believing in on the day the light left his daughter’s eyes, and a darkness entered his own.
Surrounded by oak and brass bookshelves that climbed two stories high, Ragano sat comfortably on a high-backed leather armchair. Despite the heat, a woolen blanket lay draped across his lap, while an eclectic stack of hardcover books — The Voyage of the Beagle by Charles Darwin, Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler, and Papillon by Henri Charrière — was piled on a small table by his arm. He looked up when Ian entered and smiled with what appeared to be genuine recognition. But then he spoke.
“Augustus! My Lord you are looking well. How is everything? Sit, sit, tell me all.”
“It’s not…I’m not—” Ian silenced himself. What was the harm in playing along? He didn’t know much about dementia, but perhaps like sleepwalking it was best not to shatter the illusion. Besides, Ragano trusted Augustus.
“Everything is good,” Ian said, moving to an armchair facing the lawyer. “Constance is safe.”
“Constance?”
“Zelig’s daughter.”
“Quiet, man!” Ragano barked. “We vowed never to discuss that.” He looked around nervously. “One never knows who is listening.”
“Zelig knows it was me,” said Ian, thinking of the bodies being unearthed in his basement. “He’s already sniffing around.”
“Damn it! I knew we shouldn’t have got involved.”
“We had no choice.”
“I had no choice, you mean. I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess, August, but, but—” He raised his gaze to the high ceiling, his lips moving without sound as though in silent prayer. “She reminded me so much of my own sister, of the nightmare she endured at my step-father’s hand before…” He fell into silence again.
“That’s what we do, isn’t it?” pressed Ian, reaching for answers. “Help women escape.”
“It’s what you do.” Ragano shook his head. “Even in ’Nam, you worked harder to save the damn natives than kill them. But what did I do? The exact opposite. I defended the psychopathic bastards who treated the land like their own personal Gomorrah.”
“We were in Vietnam together?” Ian was surprised. He hadn’t known his grandfather had done any military service. It was certainly never talked about. Then again, who was there to talk to? After his father left, his mother slipped ever deeper into her glass cage, the gin a balm that pickled her emotions and slurred her memories.
Ragano’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “What are you talking about, man? If it weren’t for me, you would still be rotting in that cell or worse. The company wanted your ass six feet under, but I got you discharged and on the first plane home.”
“What did I do?” Ian asked hesitantly, fully aware that he was risking the disintegration of Ragano’s delusion by his own lack of knowledge.
“You fucked up is what you did,” said Ragano. “You put six American soldiers in the ground for the sake of two Gooks. And worse, you got caught.”
“Two Gooks?”
“The girls. Twins.”
“How old?”
Ragano’s voice cracked unintelligibly as he shook his head in pain and disgust at the memory.
“Did they survive?” Ian’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Only one. You know that. Christ, you brought her back with you.”
Ian hesitated for a moment, his mind whirling with possibilities, but then a smile broke on his lips as he thought of the small woman sitting on a tall stool and making wontons by hand. A woman who had lived to become a grandmother.
“Mrs. Song,” he said under his breath.
If true, it would explain why the Songs guarded his grandfather’s secret with such devotion.
Ragano’s eyes narrowed further, his crow’s feet deepening into tremulous fault lines; the Bermuda tan cracking to reveal soggy Portland underneath.
Ian changed the subject, not wanting Ragano to realize he wasn’t Augustus — not yet. “Zelig sent thugs to threaten me.”
“And?”
“I didn’t send them back.”
Ragano chuckled. “That doesn’t surprise me. Does Walter suspect my involvement?”
“You know I’d never talk.” Ian decided to push it a little further, adding, “But I need your copy of the code book.”
“Code book? What are you talking about?”
“The code I use in my ledgers. I gave you a copy of the decipher key, didn’t I?”
“No, why would you? I have my own.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. Do you think I’ve gone senile?”
“No, certainly not. Zelig has me on edge. Where do you keep it?”
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
Ragano swept the blanket off his lap and stood up. He studied the massive library for a second before crossing the room and plucking an old hardcover off the shelf. When he returned, he handed the book to Ian. The mustard slipcover had a woodcut-style illustration of a predatory bird perched above a jewel-laden hand. The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett.
Ian opened the book to discover it wasn’t a book at all. Nestled inside was a slim, red notebook stamped with the word Albatross on its cover. The circular seal of the Central Intelligence Agency was watermarked in one, easily rippable corner.
“Satisfied?” asked Ragano as he settled back into his chair and took a large swallow of brandy from a snifter hidden behind his stack of books.
“Yes, but if something happens to me, do you know how to contact Constance?”
“Of course not,” Ragano chided. “I told you I never wanted to know the details. What has gotten into you? I’ve never seen you this rattled. Not since Walter threatened your grand—” Ragano paused in mid-sentence, puzzlement furrowing his brow again as timelines jumped their tracks and a paradox formed in his brain. “You moved her, right?”
Ian didn’t know how to answer. He had always been told that Abbie went missing, most likely ran away just as his father would do, not that his grandfather had her relocated.
“Yes,” said Ian, his voice cracking. “Abbie is safe.”
“They’ll look after her in Boston. Good family there.”
“Boston,” said Ian quietly. That’s where Zelig’s men found and killed his father.
“What about the boy?” asked Ragano. “What’s his name again?”
“Ian,” said Ian.
“Any threats against him?”
Ian shook his head numbly.
“Good. Walter is a monst
er, but even he has a twisted set of rules.”
“What do you mean?”
“Boys, of course. His peccadilloes don’t lie in that direction. Until they’re old enough to hold a gun, he pays them little heed.” Ragano tilted his head to refocus on the man sitting across from him. “You sure you’re okay? You’re acting very oddly. Would you like a brandy?”
“I’m fine,” said Ian. “What about your granddaughter?”
“My granddaughter?” Timelines shifted again, causing pain between Ragano’s eyes. He squeezed the folds of skin to ease the pressure.
“Rossella,” said Ian.
Ragano smiled and drained his snifter. “She is a beautiful baby. Takes after her mother, God rest her soul.”
“Is she safe from Zelig?”
The man paled before an angry, hot flush returned to his cheeks. “He wouldn’t dare. I know far too many secrets for him to ever cross me.”
“Perhaps you should share them,” said Ian. “For insurance.”
“Hmmm.” He pondered the suggestion, tucking his arms under his blanket and turning his face toward the crackling fire. “You might have something there, gunnery sergeant.”
Ian wanted other secrets, too. Why was Augustus in Vietnam? What was his mission? And was it being judge, jury and executioner following the rape of the twin girls that turned him into a secret protector of women when he returned home? Or was there something more, other secrets hidden away in the family vault of lies, abandonment and betrayal?
But before Ian could ask any more questions, Ragano released a heavy sigh followed by the near-immediate nasal rumble of deep sleep.
The conversation was over.
Tucking The Maltese Falcon under his arm, Ian rose to his feet and exited the room.
In the foyer, Archibald approached and asked, “Did you get what you were looking for?”
“He was very lucid.”
The comment pleased him.
“He has good days and bad. One can never predict.”
“He fell asleep in his chair,” said Ian. “I’m rather envious. A beautiful spot for a nap.”
“He does love his library.”
“And why not,” said Ian. “I’m sure he earned it. Does Walter Zelig still drop by to visit him?”
“You know Mr. Zelig?”
“We’ve met on several occasions. He’s been associated with my family for generations.”
“Oh, I see.”
Picking up on the man’s hesitancy, Ian asked, “What do you know?”
“N-n-nothing,” he stammered. “I didn’t know you were part of…of that social circle.”
“Relax,” said Ian. “I’m not. Zelig and I have history on my grandfather’s side, but we don’t play golf together. Does he come around?”
“On occasion.”
“And how does Mr. Ragano react?”
Although there was nobody else within sight, Archibald looked left and right before answering, “I can honestly say those are some of his worst days. His agitation levels climb off the charts and it takes strong medication and massage to make him calm again.”
“And Zelig. What’s his reaction?”
“I shouldn’t say this, but the more agitated Mr. Ragano becomes, the less prickly it makes Mr. Zelig.”
“He gets pleasure from watching your boss suffer?”
“Those are not my words, but that is a fair assumption.”
Ian handed over a business card with his cell number on it. “If Mr. Ragano ever asks you to deliver files to Augustus Quinn, let me know. He gets me confused with my grandfather at times, but he means for the files to be delivered to me.”
“If he makes such a request, I will let Ms. Ragano know to inform you.”
Ian accepted the compromise.
27
The book made his palm sweat, the skin moist with anticipation of breaking the code and shining light onto a mystery that had haunted him most of his life. The coded ledgers in his grandfather’s secret office would contain not only the whereabouts of Constance Zelig, but perhaps the location and new identity of his sister.
How long since he had seen her? If Abbie walked past him on the street today, would he even recognize her? Would something in his brain click and make him turn, stare at the passing stranger, trying to fit her face into some abstract jigsaw of memory? Would she know him?
Every fiber of his being was on fire, but he tamped it down with measured patience. He had waited this long, but for now he had other responsibilities, other vulnerable people who required his attention.
*
“How much do I say?” asked the woman who was becoming a man.
Gender dysphoria, the anxiety individuals felt when their gender identity was at odds with their biological sex, was a condition that Ian still struggled with. He understood and sympathized with the pain and confusion that transgender individuals had to endure; the struggle was in making his brain register the person’s true gender rather than what he saw before him.
For now, Mrs. Anderson still presented to the outside world as a woman, but her physicality was changing. Hormone replacement therapy was deepening her voice and bringing the bloom of dark shadow to her cheeks and chin. She had cut her hair, bound her breasts and simplified her makeup — a light touch of lipstick and mascara, a morning routine so ingrained it was difficult to shake — but for the sake of her son was still dressing in a feminine manner. Today that meant a purple silk blouse over fitted jeans.
As the drugs and surgery progressed, even these remnants would disappear.
“You need to be honest,” said Ian. “Children understand much more complicated issues than parents like to think. Hiding the truth only leads to distrust, and distrust always leads to anger.”
Mrs. Anderson watched her son, Cody, playing with Legos on the short table in the corner of Ian’s office. He was building a small army of brightly colored, stiff-limbed robots with long, rectangular noses and small square helmets.
Ian’s large bucket of bricks contained only the essential building blocks — squares and rectangles — that were popular during his own childhood. Today, Lego was a whole other industry with specialized pieces designed to create a singular object from a movie franchise, such as Batman or Star Wars, rather than the unlimited boundaries of a child’s imagination.
With Ian’s blocks, he often had to ask the child what he or she was creating, and what a gift it was when the child’s eyes lit up with engaged conversation about forts and robots and flying pirate ships piloted by brave captains and peg-legged first mates.
That Lego didn’t have an assigned gender, it could be whatever you wanted it to be.
“Cody?” Ian raised his voice to attract the boy’s attention. “Do you understand what is happening to your mother?”
Cody’s eyes never left his Legos as he nodded and said, “Mom’s unhappy. She wants to be a man.”
“And how does that make you feel?” asked Ian.
Cody turned to his mother, his eyes damp but strong, with building blocks filling his hands. “I don’t want you to be sad, Mom.”
Tears dripped onto Mrs. Anderson’s cheeks.
“Is it okay that your mom is becoming a man?” asked Ian.
Cody shrugged. “I guess.”
“What part of this transformation troubles you the most?”
Cody wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to stop calling her my mom.”
Mrs. Anderson sniffled and choked out a laugh.
“You never have to stop calling me mom, sweetie. Never. Ever.”
“Even when you’re a dad?” asked Cody.
“Even then. No matter what I look like, I will always, always, always be your mom.”
“Okay, then,” said Cody before returning to his Legos.
Mrs. Anderson turned to Ian and held out a trembling hand. Ian took hold of it and squeezed. She held on for a long time while tremors of relief made her bound chest shudder.
“Thank you,” she mouthed, her words
struggling to find enough breath to leave her lips with any volume.
“None of us are born with prejudice,” said Ian, lowering his voice again so that it was just the two of them. “It’s something we’re taught by people we trust.”
“My husband?”
“He’ll come around. At the moment, he’s hurt and feels betrayed. I’ll recommend that he gets counseling, make him understand that your transformation doesn’t make him any less of a man.”
“He would think that?”
“Absolutely. When he’s lashing out at you, the angry voice in his brain is probably screaming ‘If I had only fucked her better this wouldn’t be happening.’”
Mrs. Anderson gasped.
“Sorry, but you need to be aware of that part of him, that frustrated and bruised male ego. Right now, he’s feeling trapped in his own emotional cage with nobody to talk to. Unfortunately, men don’t share like women do. They’re solitary creatures with shallow friendships that require little more maintenance than support for the same baseball team. So how do you tell your drinking buddies that your wife wants to be a man?”
Ian read the alarm in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes, but he needed to continue. “I don’t believe Cody is any physical danger, but you may be. Your husband’s masculine pride has been hurt, and until he realizes that this has nothing to do with him, that fury could turn violent. He needs to punch something. Let’s make sure it isn’t you.”
*
After Cody was picked up by his aunt, who he was staying with until the custody agreement between his parents could be ironed out, Ian called Jersey.
“Body removal,” quipped the detective. “You find ’em, we collect ’em.”
“Ha-ha,” said Ian dryly. “Did your crew find anything unusual?”
“Apart from four dead gangsters?”
“Apart from that, yes.”
“No. They’ve removed the bodies and transported them to the morgue. We’ll verify their identities there.”
“So just the four?”
“Yep, nothing in the other two graves and no signs of any extra bits.”
“Bits?”
“Spare teeth, bones, the usual.”
“Good to know.”
“Many a killer has been done in by the tenacity of a tooth or two. Little buggers don’t like to dissolve. Even pigs shit them out.”
The Butcher's Son Page 17
