It better, she thought. From the walls Nora heard the distinct squeak and thud of the shower turning off. “I’d appreciate it if you’d clip that and mail it up to me.”
“Why mail them? Aren’t you coming to the auction next week?” Walton’s disappointment rang across the wire.
Nora hesitated. Perhaps she should make a showing, to boost the sales. While she was considering this, C.W. walked into the room, rubbing his dripping hair with a towel. Nora remembered the first time she saw him. Smiling, she held out her hand to him.
“No,” she replied to Walton. “I’m not going to New York. My duty lies here.”
After a couple of bites of bread, several gulps of Nora’s dark coffee, and a few comments from C.W. on how his hair would stand on end that day, they were off for a quick walk before C.W. left. Like two scouts out on a hike, they marched in synchronized rhythm across the gravel drive and down the mountain. When they reached Mike’s Bench, C.W. halted, then led Nora toward it.
The bench could hardly be approached through the foliage and a thick blanket of colored leaves almost obscured the bench from view. Nora made her way to the marble and brushed away the leaves. The mud streaked across the marble’s whiteness, lending it the appearance of a gravestone upon which was carved an epitaph for a season past. The ghost of the man who carved the bench rose and touched their thoughts.
“He must have loved this place to create something so beautiful, so personal,” said C.W. He spoke in reverential tones, as though he stood at MacKenzie’s gravesite.
Nora didn’t respond for a moment. “I suppose he did love it. It was probably the only nonprofit-motivated, noncorporate thing I’ve ever seen him do.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” C.W. said. “There’s too much of the man here: the design of the house, the bench.” He shook his head.
Nora languished in her memories. Happier times with Mike in the early years of their marriage crossed her angry barrier and demanded to be recognized. Days full of poring over blueprints, walks along their border, and dunks in the icy water of the pond. Nights camping out in a tent, huddling against the cold and the strange noises, and counting dreams as numerous as the stars over their heads. Mike had so many dreams.
“He did love it here once,” she conceded. “We both did.” With a brash movement, she scraped away the M she had traced in the mud.
“Then it all changed. With success came an edge so sharp that he left bleeding all who ventured a touch. After a while, I didn’t know who he was anymore. And he didn’t care who I was.”
“You speak of MacKenzie, your husband, so rarely. Was he always cruel?”
“No. He was, in the beginning, quite thoughtful.”
“Did he ever physically harm you, in any way?”
“Not physically. Only verbally. In that he excelled.”
“Did you share many interests? Your art? Love of nature?”
“My art interested him, especially at first. Then it bored him. Or perhaps not only my art bored him.”
“I suppose he was cheap, penurious. Forgot your birthday, that kind of thing?”
“He was methodically generous. At first I was overwhelmed by the size and perfection of the jewels he gave me. Birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries…all marked by a significant gift. I never like to wear large jewels. I am too small boned and feel uncomfortable in them. On occasion, Mike insisted. Later, as I grew more knowledgeable, I came to understand that the larger stones were investments. He gave his lady friends the smaller, cheaper, clustered stones. I, however, was the investment.”
Nora grew irritated. “I really don’t want to talk about Mike anymore. Not this morning.”
C.W. was haunted by a real, human Michael MacKenzie. “He must have loved this place,” he repeated. “He must have loved you.”
“No! I don’t believe he ever really loved me.”
“Nora, did you love him?”
She paused, knowing he waited on a personal precipice for her answer. “I thought I loved him. Once. But that was a different me. I didn’t know what love was. Until now.”
He took her in his arms and crushed her against his chest. She sensed in him an urgency she didn’t understand.
“C.W.,” she said as her head lay against his shoulder, “Mike is gone. I am only beginning to accept that it was his decision to end his life, not mine, or anyone else’s.”
C.W.’s tension eased and he released a long sigh.
“Nora,” he said, taking her hands and holding them tightly, “while I’m gone, come back here. To this spot. Remember Mike, the good and the bad, and put his memory to rest. There’s no room for his ghost between us.”
Nora leaned back in his arms to meet his gaze. “I’ll try,” she whispered. “I promise I’ll try. Promise me, too, that wherever you’re going today, you’ll put your ghosts behind you too.”
He hugged her to him, hard and suddenly, as though he was afraid of losing her. “I’ll try, Nora. God knows, I’ll try.”
26
C.W.’S HAND BEAT the steering wheel to the tempo of the song. Why couldn’t this Jeep go faster? His foot pushed the pedal to the metal, but the battered car wouldn’t go more than fifty-five miles per hour. When he thought of the Ferrari in his garage in New York, he ground his teeth in frustration. Then laughed. He could see himself trying to explain to Nora how a farmhand could afford a Ferrari.
Nora. Her eyes stared at him through the windshield: soft and dreamy after his kiss. Frightened yet determined when faced with a bill. Hard and vengeful at the name of Charles Blair. Ah, but she would be a vengeful angel.
His hands tightened on the wheel. His deception was be coming a nightmare. He rubbed his eyes and grabbed for his coffee as the miles stretched out ahead. So far to go.
He had asked for her trust rather than appeal to her innate kindness. Was it the better course, or was he nothing but a coward? Trust me, he had asked. Yet, for her to do so, he had to watch her suffer in her financial debt. What kind of fate would set him up in a position of champion, when honesty would destroy any hope for their relationship?
Michael MacKenzie’s ghost would be put to rest, he vowed. Nora would have to bury his memory in her own time. She was well on her way. And with the settling of MacKenzie’s accounts, he would, at last, bury the ghost as well.
“Then, MacKenzie,” he swore aloud, “leave us. And let the living live.”
C.W.’s jaw set and he cranked his window flat down. He rested his elbow on the door and ran his hand through his hair. The sun was getting higher and burning off the fog along the valley roads. As he drove past the craggy horizon in his battered Jeep, his lone shadow etched across the mountain.
C.W. made it to New York in time for his appointment. The hotel room was adequate. A bed, two chairs, and a table. Not like his apartment—but it was beyond curious eyes. He flicked on the TV, flicked it off again, then stood before the window overlooking the traffic and congestion of the west fifties. Horns blared and the people traveled in packs as the lights changed from red to green. He stared at the throngs without emotion. A lifetime he’d spent in this city, yet today he felt like a stranger.
A knock sounded on the door and he straightened his tie. It was time for business.
“Good afternoon, Henry,” he said as he opened the door. He did not extend his hand. “So good of you to come.”
“Good to see you again, Charles.”
C.W. watched his once trusted ally cross the room as he carefully laid down his briefcase and, without a pause for gossip, took out his papers. His movements were those of the efficient executive getting down to business. His face was impassive. Nothing Strauss did or said gave the impression he had anything to fear.
“Here are the reports on the twelve businesses you requested,” Strauss said, straightening. “As you suspected, they were all lent large loans from our bank.” He coughed. “From you, actually. They all defaulted on the loans, and—” he slowly turned his head “—they were all f
ronts for MacKenzie. How did you know?”
C.W. cocked his head. Henry was here to learn, for certain, if he had MacKenzie’s ledger, he thought. C.W. walked over to the small table and took a seat across from Henry.
“I wasn’t sure,” he replied evenly. “I’ve been thinking about this for some time. Putting two and two together. I followed a hunch. As you know, I’ve long been the Captain Ahab to MacKenzie’s whale.”
Henry’s eyelids fell to half-mast and he nodded slowly. He was buying it, as C.W. knew he would, because he wanted to buy it.
After briefly scanning the summaries, C.W. leaned back and, bringing his fingers together under his chin, asked, “You realize what this means?”
“You’ll be forced out.”
“And most likely you as well.”
Strauss took off his glasses and rubbed them furiously with his linen handkerchief. After returning the heavy glasses to his face, Henry sat straight in his chair and faced his former boss.
“I’ve been doing everything possible to ensure that the extent of MacKenzie’s ruin remains quiet. At least until after the auction.”
“You have not been entirely successful, have you?”
Strauss’s eyes were haunted. “No.”
“The stock is falling.”
“A few points. It happens.”
“We both know that is only the beginning. The pattern is too obvious. They will plummet.”
Color rose along Strauss’s collar.
“Has it not occurred to you, Henry, that someone is deliberately leaking this information? That someone wants me out?”
Strauss’s silence spoke volumes.
“I see that it has. Well, that someone is going to a lot of trouble for naught.” C.W. proffered a cold, silent stare. When he spoke his voice was hard. “I have returned to New York because I have made a decision.”
Henry leaned forward slightly. His ears almost wagged in their attentiveness.
“I intend to resign from the bank.”
The surprise was evident in Henry’s face. He was, for the moment, speechless.
“The fact is the loans bear my name. The bank cannot afford another scandal.” He leaned forward on the table. “Nor, frankly, can I.”
Relief visibly flooded Strauss’s face. His chest actually heaved. “I am sorry it came to this,” Strauss said. “Your immediate resignation may very well prevent further action.” His eyes widened slightly. Henry had slipped, for a fraction of a second, but it revealed too much knowledge. They both knew it.
C.W.’s response was visceral. He wanted to go in for the kill.
“Somebody set you up,” Henry said quickly, offering C.W. a look of conspiracy. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have found out who.”
C.W. tapped his fingers together. “That somebody is either Sidney Teller or Agatha Blair. Any comments?”
“Sidney Teller. Got to be. He’s had a bad year, and his name will be tied to this MacKenzie fiasco as well.”
“Yes, but I’ll take the fall for the MacKenzie scandal. With my sister’s share of stock, Sidney would be able to pull out from under and rebuild the stockholders’ confidence.”
“That may be a problem. Apparently—” he shuffled his papers “—their marriage is in trouble.”
C.W.’s gaze sharpened. He observed the slight smugness in Strauss’s features. Gossipy old woman, he thought with distaste. Still, the comment rankled.
“Yes. Well. My resignation should ensure that no scandal touches the bank.” He paused to capture Henry’s full attention. “You’ll pass the word on, I trust?”
Henry Strauss did not even shift his weight. C.W. realized that the man was incapable of feeling guilt.
Henry waited, with surprising calm, for Charles’s next move.
C.W. leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee. He wanted to enjoy the moment. “I’d like your resignation,” he said in an icy voice.
Henry sat up straighter in the cheap chair. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t be a fool, or take me for one. You were the one who processed the loans.”
“You have no proof of that.”
“No, that is true. But it’s only a matter of time.”
For the first time, Henry smiled. It was a faint, sickly move of his muscles. The smile of a man pulling his last trick.
“You’re finished, Charles. Your reputation’s shot. Nobody would consider risking their neck for you. Quite simply, dear boy, you can’t do anything anymore.” He eased back in his chair with relaxed arrogance.
C.W. gripped the arms of the chair lest he reach out and grip Strauss by his fat neck. Fury surged through his veins. At his peak Strauss would never have dared such a comment. That he dared now meant he was confident of the power behind him. Fool.
Strauss was watching him now, with those pale gray eyes, gauging his reaction. C.W. would not give him the satisfaction of revealing his anger. He stood up, abruptly terminating the interview. When he turned to face Henry, he offered not anger, not fear, only boredom.
“You are a small fish, Henry. As I said, I am after the whale.”
Henry’s lids fluttered, but he staunchly fixed his smile.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“I should think it was rather simple. I no longer need you. You are entirely expendable, which I am sure someone else figured when he—or she—sent you here today.”
Henry shifted his gaze to the TV and stared at the blank screen with seeming avid interest while a small muscle worked in his cheek.
C.W. closed the books on the table before him and neatly stacked them. When he spoke, it was as in summary of a long, unspoken lecture.
“I cannot put you in jail, where you belong. So instead I will personally see to it that you are never hired in a position of trust or authority again. To put it simply, you are through.”
C.W. paused, briefly, changing to a menacing tone. “I will destroy you.”
Henry looked back now and C.W. leaned forward slightly.
“Investment by investment, dollar by dollar. You will never realize your newfound profits. I shall pursue you, relentlessly, until you truly understand the meaning of finished. You know me, Henry. You know I can do this. Easily. You know I will.”
For the first time, Henry Strauss looked afraid.
Now, only now, did C.W. ease into a smile. The knowing smile of a man with great power and wealth. Of a man in complete control.
“You may go now.”
C.W. didn’t watch Strauss leave. Whether he ran under the skirts of Agatha Blair or off the nearest bridge, he didn’t care. Soon, it would all become perfectly clear.
C.W. walked again to the window and looked out at the blur of traffic lights. Slowly, he brought his hand to the curtain and squeezed the grimy Herculon fabric into a tight ball in his fist. A gut-wrenching realization surged through his veins.
My God, he had enjoyed it.
Watching Henry squirm. Playing with him like a cat with a fat mouse. He had relished the power that only his immense wealth and influence could wield. It was like a drug, an addiction. One entirely more seductive than alcohol ever was. Tonight he tasted it again, after a year, and it was intoxicatingly sweet.
He brought his hand to his forehead and rubbed it hard.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he swore under his breath. “Got to get out of this business. If I don’t, I’m going to kill someone else.”
C.W. stood and stared out the grimy hotel window at the autumn moon. He wanted to go home.
Miles away, Nora stared out at the same moon. The air outdoors was too temperate for October and too inviting for a troubled soul. She couldn’t breathe in the stagnant air of the house. Three times she paced the floor. On the fourth round she grabbed her jacket and headed down the dark road. She walked fast, her boots kicking rocks down the steep incline. The sound of her footfall in the gravel echoed in the dark.
It was a black night. The moon, shadowed by the drifting clouds
, left eerie patterns upon the woods. Only the light from her flashlight cut through the darkness, bobbing on the road ahead as she marched down the hill. She didn’t know where she was going. She wasn’t afraid. Whatever menace this mountain held was minor compared to the disaster that loomed outside it.
As she rounded the final curve and entered the lower pasture, she passed the rams, Studly and Brutus, in their small fenced partition. The stud and the teaser—what a pair, she thought as she stopped to flash the light upon them. Studly stood at attention, ears pricked. Beside him, lying in the tall grass, Brutus eyed her lazily. Which was C.W.?
As she approached the barn, she heard the rustle of a large animal along the fence. The hairs on her neck stood as she stopped short and swung her flashlight toward the noise.
“The Bible says not to hide your light under a bushel, but you don’t have to blind a soul with it, neither.”
“Seth,” she cried in relief. She moved the light away from his face and walked toward the figure leaning on the railing of the fence. She wondered how the rotted wood supported his heavy frame. “What are you doing out here at this time of the night?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
“I needed a walk.”
She sensed his nod in the darkness.
“If you flick off that light, your eyes will get used to the dark and your senses will pick up the rest. Go ahead. Trust your senses, like the animals do.”
She clicked off the light and closed her eyes while she took long, deep breaths. The pounding of her heart subsided and she stood, motionless, in the darkness. As she stood, she became aware of a new world of sounds and sensations. The wind caressed her cheeks with its cool, dry breath. The air smelled sweet, like water.
And she heard the nightsongs. The sheep were quiet, and from the distance she heard the music of Seth’s coon dogs baying at the moon and the mysterious, atonal cry of an owl. When the howling ceased, to her ears sprang the raspy sound of dried stalks rustling in the wind. A branch snapped to her left—a rustling beyond. The quiet was so intense she could almost hear the clouds move in the sky.
The Long Road Home Page 28
