The Conspiracy Club

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Arthur Chess said, “Swift was one of the greatest thinkers of all time—his take on immortality is near biblical in its acuity.” The pathologist went on to describe a visit to Swift’s grave in Dublin, then segued to the pleasures of the reading rooms at the libraries of Trinity College.

  Edgar Marquis said the Irish were finally getting it right: giving up on potatoes and embracing technology. “Unlike . . . other nationalities, they know how to cook, too.”

  Norbert Levy spoke of a fabulous meal at a family-run restaurant in Dublin Harbor. Perfectly grilled black sole—the Irish would never deign to call it Dover sole because they hate the English. The husband the chef, the wife the sommelier.

  Harrison Maynard said, “What do the kids do, bake?”

  “Doctors and lawyers,” said Levy.

  “Pity.”

  Tina Balleron turned to Jeremy. “How’s your fish, dear?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  The second course was a warm salad of pigeon breast and porcini mushrooms over field greens lubricated by a pancetta-laced dressing. Another white wine was poured—deeper in color, woody and dry and fine, and Jeremy swallowed it with joy and worried giddily if he’d pass out.

  But he remained alert; his system seemed to be absorbing the alcohol better. The beautiful room was clearer, brighter, his taste buds were electric in anticipation of each new mouthful, and his companions’ voices were as soothing as poultice.

  Arthur spoke of butterflies in Australia.

  Edgar Marquis opined that Australia was the States in the fifties and New Zealand was England in the forties. “Three million people, sixty million sheep. And they don’t let reptiles in.”

  Harrison Maynard described a spot in New Zealand where one could peer down on the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific simultaneously. “It’s the ultimate contrast. The Tasman roils constantly, the South Pacific’s glass. I found a crag where the gannet birds mate. Golden-headed, gull-like creatures. They’re monogamous. The mate dies, they go into seclusion. The crag reeked of frustration.”

  Jeremy said, “Not too adaptive.”

  Five pairs of eyes aimed at him.

  “Reproduction-wise,” he said. “Is there a population control issue?”

  “Good question,” said Maynard. “I just assumed they were moral little buggers.”

  “It is a good question,” said Arthur.

  Tina Balleron said, “It should be looked into.”

  The third course was a pale pink sorbet of a flavor Jeremy couldn’t identify, accompanied by ice water.

  As if sensing his curiosity, Norbert Levy informed him, “Blood orange and pomelo. The latter’s a cousin to the grapefruit. We seem to be in a citrus thing, here.”

  “Larger than a grapefruit, no?” said Edgar Marquis. “I believe in Mexico they sell them at village markets.”

  “Huge, misshapen things,” Levy agreed. To Jeremy: “Sweeter than grapefruit but unsuitable for commercial production because of a very low pulp-to-rind ratio.”

  Harrison Maynard said, “Expediency trumps virtue.”

  “Yet, again,” said Tina Balleron.

  Arthur said, “How true.” He touched his bow tie.

  Everyone stared at their food.

  Silence.

  As if all the energy had been sucked from the room. Jeremy turned to Arthur for clarification. The pathologist offered a long, searching glance in response. A sad glance.

  “Well, then,” said Jeremy, “perhaps one should concentrate on virtue.”

  The silence stretched. Crushing silence.

  Arthur lowered his head, plunged his spoon into his sorbet.

  16

  Jeremy wasn’t sure when it happened—sometime during the meat course.

  Three meats, arranged like corporeal jewelry, along with braised root vegetables and haricots verte and toasted spinach, complemented by a velvety Burgundy.

  Jeremy, once a hearty eater, but of late poorly inclined toward pleasure, had his plate filled with a medallion of rare beef, slices of goose breast, veal loin wrapped around a foie gras nugget. Laurent distributed the flesh while Genevieve doled out the greens.

  All of which fit handily on his plate. Jeremy noticed for the first time that the dinnerware was oversize—closer to platters than chargers.

  Soft violin music streamed down from the ceiling. Had it been playing all along? Jeremy searched for the speakers and spotted eight of them, positioned around the room, nearly camouflaged by plasterwork.

  A room put together with care. And big money.

  The old people ate with continued alacrity. Edgar Marquis said, “Genevieve, be a dear and bring me the goose leg.”

  The woman left the room and returned shortly with a daunting cudgel of meat. Marquis lifted the leg with both hands, attacked at the top, and proceeded to gnaw his way down the limb. Jeremy tried not to stare—no one else seemed to consider the behavior unusual. Marquis made slow but steady progress, seemed no less shrunken for the accomplishment.

  Jeremy recalled something he’d never really been conscious of knowing: a joke some distant relative had tossed his way during a family gathering. Back when he’d been part of a family. Somewhat. How old had he been? Not much more than a toddler.

  Where do you put it, kid? Got a hollow leg?

  Who’d said it? An uncle? A cousin? Had he really been a ravenous child? What had happened to his appetites? Where had his life gone?

  Next to him, Tina Balleron fanned her napkin and dabbed daintily at her lips. Across the table, Arthur Chess chewed away like a stud horse.

  Norbert Levy said, “Yum.”

  Jeremy faced the food. Dug in.

  It wasn’t Arthur who brought it up, of that Jeremy was nearly certain. Nearly, because red wine and protein overload had pushed him to the brink of stupor.

  Who had it been . . . Maynard? Or possibly Levy.

  Someone had raised the topic of criminal violence.

  Ah, thought Jeremy. The punch line, this is why they’ve brought me here.

  But no one consulted him. Not in the least. They talked among themselves, as if he weren’t there.

  Might as well seat me at the kids’ table.

  He decided to withdraw into his own mental space. But the old people’s voices were hard to ignore.

  Harrison Maynard was saying, “Punditry is nothing but fatuous prigs reciting the same nonsense so many times they come to believe it. Poverty causes crime. Hah.” He placed his knife down. “I won’t bore you with yet another sad reminiscence of my wretched, racism-blighted, brutally segregated youth, but suffice it to say that no matter where you grow up it becomes apparent, early, who the bad guys are, and that’s a color-blind phenomenon. Villains stand out like boils on a supermodel.”

  Tina Balleron made an index-finger gun and pointed it at no one in particular.

  “Pardon, dear?” said Maynard.

  “Bad guys and good guys, Harry. Very macho, it’s rather . . . Louis L’Amour.”

  “Great writer,” said Maynard. “Great human being. Do you quibble with the concept?”

  “I was a judge, darling. Bad guys were my stock-in-trade. It’s the alleged good guys I’m not sure of.”

  Edgar Marquis said, “I encountered a good deal of evil in the corridors of foreign service. Lying for fun and profit, if you will—at times venality seemed to be the department’s primary product. The profession attracts rapscallions.”

  Maynard said, “Ah, the things they don’t tell you in diplomat school.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Marquis. Mournfully, as if it really troubled him.

  “Don’t fret, Edgar, the same goes for academia,” said Norbert Levy. “I coped by ignoring the fools and concentrating on my work. I suppose your work didn’t afford you that privilege, Eddie. The collaborative nature and all that. How did you stand it?”

  “For years I didn’t, lad. My Washington days were a torment. I finally figured out the key was to avoid what passed f
or civilization. I was offered a position in England—the Court of Saint James, as it were. Assistant to the harlot who’d been appointed ambassador. I couldn’t imagine anything more repugnant than that particular amalgam of double talk and peerage. I turned the job down, doomed my future, sought out remote outposts where I could be useful without succumbing to the culture of cravenness.”

  “Micronesia,” Arthur explained to Jeremy. The first indication, in a while, that anyone was aware of his presence.

  “The smaller, more obscure islands of Micronesia and Indonesia,” said Marquis. “Places where antibiotics and common sense could make a difference.”

  “Why, Eddie,” said Judge Balleron, “you’re a social worker at heart.”

  The old man sighed. “There was a time when good deeds went unpunished.”

  Another silence engulfed the room and, once again, Jeremy thought they all looked sad.

  There’s some back story I’m not privy to. Something they share—something they’re not going to explain because I’m temporary.

  Why am I here?

  Another attempt to catch Arthur’s eye was unsuccessful. The pathologist’s eyes were back on his plate as he dissected his veal.

  Norbert Levy said, “I think your point is well-taken, Harry. There will always be bad guys among us and they’re not that hard to spot. On the contrary, they’re banal.”

  “Banal and cruel,” said Harrison Maynard. “Entitlement, callousness, the inability to control one’s drives.”

  Jeremy heard himself speak up: “That’s exactly what the data show, Mr. Maynard. Habitually violent criminals are impulsive and callous.”

  Five sets of eyes upon him.

  Tina Balleron said, “Doctor, are we talking about actual psychological data, or mere supposition?”

  “Data.”

  “Case histories or group studies?”

  “Both.”

  “Conclusive or preliminary?” The woman’s murmur did nothing to blunt the force of her questions. Judges start out as lawyers. Jeremy imagined Balleron cross-examining strong men and reducing them to whimpering sots.

  “Preliminary but highly suggestive.” Jeremy filled in details. No one responded. He went on, elaborating, quoting sources, getting specific.

  Now they were interested.

  He continued. Delivered a little speech. Found himself heating up, having trouble separating the cold facts from the images that danced in his head.

  Humpty-Dumpty situation.

  Science was woefully inadequate.

  He felt a sob rising in his throat. Stopped. Said, “That’s all.”

  Arthur Chess said, “Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”

  Harrison Maynard nodded. The others followed suit.

  Even Tina Balleron looked subdued. “I suppose I’ve learned something,” she said. “And for that, I thank you, Dr. Jeremy Carrier.”

  An awkward moment. Jeremy didn’t know what to say.

  Edgar Marquis said, “Will anyone be offended if I call for the goose wing?”

  “Knock yourself out, Eddie,” said Harrison Maynard. “I’m calling for champagne.”

  This time, a toast.

  Clean, dry Möet & Chandon bubbled in the repousse goblets, the chill seeping through the glass insets, frosting the silver.

  The wine fizzed in Jeremy’s cheap flute. He took hold of the glass and raised it as Arthur toasted.

  “To our articulate guest.”

  The others repeated it.

  Five smiles. Real smiles, pure welcome.

  The evening had gone well.

  Jeremy had done well. He was sure of it.

  He sipped his champagne, thought he’d never tasted anything quite so wonderful.

  Never before had he felt so accepted.

  17

  More small talk and sacher torte and cognac finished him off.

  Arthur Chess said, “My friends, we’d best be going.” He got up from the table, and Jeremy staggered as he did the same.

  Tina Balleron touched his elbow.

  He mumbled, “I’m okay.”

  She said, “I’m sure you are,” but she kept her fingers on his sleeve until he stood. It was well into the morning, but the others remained in their seats. Jeremy circulated the table, shaking hands, offering thanks. Arthur came up to him, escorted him out. As though Jeremy had lingered too long on the pleasantries.

  Genevieve was just outside the door with their coats, and, as Jeremy passed under the capstone, he glanced back at the triplet of C’s carved into the wood.

  The black Lincoln was waiting at the curb, engine running, and Genevieve stayed with them, sticking especially close to Jeremy.

  Once again, he felt like a child. Cosseted. Not an unpleasant feeling. He allowed Genevieve to open his door. She waited until he’d latched his seat belt, waved, closed the door, and stepped back into darkness.

  The rain had let up, replaced by a soupy fog that smelled of old wool. Jeremy was in no condition to drive, wondered about Arthur. Arthur sat upright, both hands on the wheel. Looked fine.

  The Lincoln pulled away from the curb and glided.

  “Arthur, what does CCC stand for?”

  Arthur’s hesitation lasted long enough to make an impression. “Just a little joke. Are you comfortable?”

  “Very.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine cuisine, no?”

  “Excellent.”

  Arthur smiled.

  He drove without comment as Jeremy alternated between nodding off and springing awake. Cracking the window a couple of inches helped a bit, and by the time they approached the hospital, Jeremy’s brain had settled, and his breathing was slow and easy.

  Arthur reached the doctors’ parking lot and drove through the nearly empty tier to Jeremy’s car.

  “I do hope you had a good time,” said Arthur.

  “It was great, thanks. Your friends are interesting.”

  Arthur didn’t answer.

  “They seem,” said Jeremy, “to have lived full lives.”

  Pause. “They have.”

  “How often do you meet?”

  Another pause, longer. “Irregularly.” Arthur touched his bow tie, flicked a button, and unlocked Jeremy’s door. Avoiding eye contact, he pulled out his pocket watch and consulted the dial.

  Curt dismissal.

  Jeremy said, “An interesting bunch.”

  Arthur clicked the watch shut and stared straight ahead.

  What had become of Arthur’s amiability? Jeremy had found the old man’s gregariousness off-putting, but now—maddeningly—he missed it.

  He wondered if he’d given his little performance undue credit. Had his discourse been too long-winded? Boring? Offensive, in some way?

  Did I screw up, somehow?

  Why should I care?

  Unable to summon up apathy; he hoped he hadn’t blundered. The Lincoln idled, and Arthur stared out the windshield.

  Jeremy opened his door, gave Arthur one more chance.

  The warmth of being part of something lingered in his belly. Suddenly—inexplicably—he wanted to be popular.

  Arthur kept staring straight ahead.

  “Well,” said Jeremy.

  “Good night,” said Arthur.

  “Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Arthur. And nothing more.

  18

  By the time he reached home, Jeremy had put Arthur’s strange, sudden coolness aside. There were worse things in life than social error. When he crawled into bed, his mind was empty, and he slept like a corpse.

  The cold light of morning—and a hangover—killed further introspection. He popped aspirin, hazarded a run in the icy air, took a scalding shower, called Angela at home but got no answer. It was Saturday morning, but patients depended on him, and he suddenly felt like working. He was at his desk by nine, trying to ignore the grit in his eyelids and the throbbing in his temples.

  His pathetic stab at the book chapter glared at him r
eproachfully. He decided to do personal rounds earlier than usual, see all his patients before lunch, spend more time with each one of them.

  He’d dressed as he always did but felt rumpled and uncouth. Grabbing his white coat off the door hook, he threw it on. The coat was something he generally avoided, wanting to separate himself from the physicians.

  I’m the doctor who doesn’t hurt you.

  That helped with kids. Not that he saw many kids anymore. Too much pain. Some things he just couldn’t handle.

  Adult patients didn’t seem to care how you dressed as long as you avoided extremes of grooming and demeanor. Some were even comforted by the image the lab coat imparted.

  Clinical rites, priestly vestments. Here’s an expert.

  If they only knew.

  A few minor crises kept him working past noon, and he stretched the day farther by extending his bedside contacts, taking time to sit down with the nursing staff, charting carefully, with atypical legibility.

  A page-message from Angela said, “Sorry about today, got called in.”

  A major crisis arose just before three: man with a gun near the Ob-Gyn Clinic, and the page operator was adamant that Dr. Carrier was needed.

  The threat turned out to be the husband of a hysterectomy patient who’d been spotted by a nurse with a telltale bulge under his sweater and now sat alone and smoldering in a vacated waiting room.

  Security had been called, the charge nurse informed Jeremy. The husband was an angry man, he’d always made her nervous. Hospital regulations said someone from Mental Health needed to be there, and the department said he was next up.

  The affair turned out to be sad rather than frightening. Against everyone’s advice, Jeremy entered the room before the guards arrived. The man was unshaven, red-eyed, and under the influence of depression. Jeremy sat down and talked to him and listened and when the man said, “Why’s everyone so nervous?” Jeremy pointed to the bulge.

  The man laughed and lifted his sweater and shirt. Underneath was a colostomy bag. The man said, “They can frisk me if they want. At their own fucking risk.”