Your cousins have stolen your inheritance, my darling. They have taken what’s yours and cast you out like a serpent in the desert. Just as I was cast out.
Max’s mother made their struggle sound mythical. And so it was. Eve had been cast out of the Garden of Eden. Max was the chosen one, the prophet, the messiah. It was Max who would restore the promised land to Eve.
Only by returning Kruger-Brent to his mother would Max win the greatest prize of all: her love. That was their covenant, sealed with the blood of his birth. Max thought about it constantly.
Until that day, the glorious day when he fulfilled his destiny, he must learn to survive on the scraps of love Eve tossed him. Usually his mother was cold and distant. Her constant physical presence in the apartment was like exquisite torture. Max longed for her embrace like a scorched riverbed longs for rain, but time after time he was denied. Keith Webster could touch her, with his sick, cold hands. But Max could not. On the rare occasions when his mother held him close, like today, the little boy felt he could move mountains. Pressed against her, lost in the intoxicating smell of her skin, joy coursed through his child’s body like heroin.
Eve stood up. Drawing her silk robe more tightly around her, she walked over to the window.
Max sat alone on the bed. As always, he felt his mother’s leaving like a physical pain. He clasped the gun, her gift, pressing it lovingly to his cheek.
“Your great-grandfather David never used that pistol. Never fired a single shot.”
Eve was looking out the window. She seemed to be speaking to herself rather than to him.
“He was too much of a coward.”
Max took the bait, an innocent lamb gamboling to the slaughter. “I’m not a coward, Mommy. I’m not afraid to use it.”
Eve turned around.
“Is that so? And what will you use it for, my darling?”
Max didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
They both knew what the gift was for.
I’ll use it to kill Keith Webster.
I’ll use it to kill my father.
♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥
SIX
LIONEL NEUMAN LOOKED AT THE YOUNG MAN SITTING OPPOSITE him and found his mind wandering back into the past.
It was 1952, a similar bright June morning. Kate Blackwell was sitting in the very same chair as the young man. Counting back, Lionel Neuman realized with a shock that Kate must already have been sixty at the time. The image his mind’s eye had carefully filed away was of a middle-aged but still beautiful woman: slim, impeccably dressed, and with a full head of glossy black hair only intermittently laced with silver threads. She was worried about her son.
Tony isn’t himself, Lionel. It’s as if something has died inside. I’ve tried everything I can to make him happy, but it’s no use. He’s determined not to marry.
The problem with Kate Blackwell was that although she sought advice from time to time, from Lionel Neuman, Brad Rogers and a few other Kruger-Brent lifers, she never took any of it. Any fool could see what was wrong with Tony Blackwell. The boy wanted to be an artist, and Kate wouldn’t let him. Her ruthless trampling on his dreams eventually cost poor Tony his sanity. But Kate Blackwell could never see it that way. She went to her grave believing she’d done the best for her son. That it was Tony who had let her down.
Of course, Tony Blackwell did marry. For a few short months he was happy, blissfully happy, until his wife, Marianne, died giving birth to their twins, Eve and Alexandra.
They’re all dead now. Kate, Tony, Marianne, Alexandra. But I’m still here. Same office. Same family. Same problems. What a curious thing life is.
The young man sitting opposite Lionel Neuman was Kate Blackwell’s great-grandson, Robert Templeton. Had Tony not married, of course, young Robert wouldn’t be here. Neither here in this office nor here on this earth. But Kate Blackwell had gotten her way on that as on all things. It hardly seemed possible, but the child was nineteen years old already, six feet tall in his socks and as blond and chiseled as any matinee idol.
He’s not a child, though, is he? He’s a man. That’s the problem.
“There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Robbie’s tone was surly and aggressive. He sat forward, his delicate pianist’s fingers resting on his knees, and glared at the old man defiantly.
“I’m legally an adult now. This is my decision and mine alone, so show me where to sign and I’ll get out of here.”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as that, Robert.”
Lionel Neuman ran a crepey hand through his wiry, salt-and-pepper hair. He reminded Robbie of an elderly rabbit. His nose seemed to be permanently twitching, as if he could pick up nuances of legal language purely through smell. Even his office had the air of a burrow, with its dark wood, dimly lit Tiffany lamps and wine-red leather-bound legal tomes stuffed into every nook and cranny.
“Your father-”
“My father has nothing to do with this.”
Robbie slammed his fist down on the desk. The top pages of Lionel Neuman’s neat pile of documents fluttered in consternation, then lay still. The old man himself remained unperturbed.
I see you have your great-grandmother’s hot temper. But you don’t scare me, kid. I’ve been shouted at by more angry Blackwells than you’ve had hot dinners.
Such a pity. Robert had been an adorable little boy. No wonder Kate had loved him as she did. But he had grown, in Lionel Neuman’s opinion anyway, into a thoroughly spoiled, thuggish young man. At nineteen, Robert Templeton already had a juvenile police record for theft and drug-related offenses. Theft! What on earth could the heir to Kruger-Brent possibly need to steal?
Lionel Neuman had been around long enough to know that wealth on the Blackwells’ scale, obscene wealth, was often more of a curse than a blessing. Robbie Templeton showed every sign of going the same way as poor Christina Onassis, lost to drugs, booze and depression. He reminded Lionel of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Denmark’s prince suffered “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” Robert Templeton’s fortune was certainly outrageous. Come to think of it, Kruger-Brent’s market cap was probably higher than the entire GDP of Denmark. As for the “slings and arrows,” young Robert brought those upon himself.
Lionel Neuman blamed the boy’s father. Ever since that unfortunate incident with the gun, Peter Templeton seemed to have abnegated his paternal responsibilities entirely. He was too guilt-ridden to discipline his own children.
A stint in the army, that was what Robert needed.
Nothing like a taste of war to whip a young hoodlum like him into shape.
“As chairman and a life member of the Kruger-Brent board, your father has a right to be informed of decisions that may materially affect the company.”
“But he can’t stop me from signing away my inheritance. He can rant and rave about it if it makes him feel better. But there’s nothing he can actually do. Is there?”
Lionel Neuman shook his head. So much anger. And arrogance. The arrogance of youth.
“Ultimately, Robert, you are correct. The decision rests with you. However, as your family’s attorney for more than four decades, it is my duty to inform you…”
Robbie wasn’t listening.
Save it for someone who cares, Grandpa. I don’t want Kruger-Brent. I never did. And I don’t care about the goddamn family. Apart from Lexi, not one of them is worth a damn.
He’d come to a decision last night. Admittedly he’d been looped at the time, lost in a heroin and tequila haze while playing the filthy, dilapidated piano at Tommy’s, a gay bar in Brooklyn.
Some older guy who’d been coming on to him all evening yelled out: “You know what, kid? You could do that shit for a living.”
It was a throwaway remark. But it hit Robbie like a bullet between the eyes.
I could do this for a living. I could run away. Away from Dad, away from Kruger-Brent, away from my demons. Change my name. Play piano in some anonymous bar somewhere. Find
out who I really am.
Robbie Templeton wasn’t interested in Old Man Neuman’s concerns and warnings and quid pro quos. He wanted out.
“Here.” He grabbed a piece of paper from Lionel Neuman’s blotter. Using the lawyer’s pen, he scrawled two lines that were to change his life forever.
I, Robert Peter Templeton, hereby renounce all claims, entitlement and inheritance left to me by my great-grandmother, Kate Blackwell, including all rights and shareholdings in Kruger-Brent, Ltd. I transfer those claims in their entirety to my sister, Alexandra Templeton.
“It’s signed and dated. And you just witnessed it.”
Handing the paper to the alarmed attorney, Robbie stood up to leave. Lionel Neuman was struck again by how unusually good-looking the boy was. Truly a gilded youth. But the telltale signs of substance abuse were already beginning to show. Bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks, bouts of uncontrolled shivering.
How long before he winds up on the street, another hopeless, helpless, faceless addict?
Six months. Tops.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Neuman. I’ll see myself out.”
SEVEN
LEXI TEMPLETON WAS NOT LIKE OTHER LITTLE GIRLS.
When she was five years old, her father received a phone call at the office.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come and pick Lexi up right away.”
It was Mrs. Thackeray, the principal of Lexi’s kindergarten. She sounded distressed.
“Has something happened? Is Lexi okay?”
“Your daughter is fine, Mr. Templeton. It’s the other children I’m worried about.”
When Peter arrived at the Little Cherubs Preschool, a tearful Lexi hurtled into his arms. “I didn’t do anything, Daddy! It wasn’t my fault.”
Mrs. Thackeray pulled Peter to one side.
“I’ve had to send two children to the emergency room this morning. Your daughter attacked them with scissors. One little boy was lucky not to lose an eye.”
“But that’s ridiculous.” Peter looked at Lexi. Clinging to his legs in a yellow cotton sundress with matching yellow ribbons in her hair, she looked the picture of innocence. “Why would she do a thing like that?”
“I have no idea. My staff assures me that the attack was entirely unprovoked. I’m afraid we won’t be able to have Lexi back at Little Cherubs. You must make alternative arrangements.”
In the back of the limousine, Peter asked his daughter what had happened.
“It was nothing.” Lexi swung her legs merrily, entirely unrepentant. “I don’t know why they all made such a fuss. I was doing my collage. It was a picture of Kruger-Brent. You know, your big tower where you go to work?”
Peter nodded.
“It was really pretty and silvery and I did all tinfoil on it. But then Timmy Willard said my picture was ‘damn stupid.’ And Malcolm Malloy laughed at me.”
“That was mean of them, honey. So what did you do?”
Lexi looked at him pityingly, as if to say, What sort of a question is that?
“I stuck up for myself, like you told me. I stabbed Timmy in his head. Don’t worry, Daddy,” she added, seeing Peter’s stricken face. “He didn’t get dead. Can we go to McDonald’s for lunch?”
The child psychologists were all in agreement.
Lexi was highly intelligent and highly sensitive. Her behavioral problems all stemmed from the loss of her mother.
Peter asked: “But what about this vengeful streak? Her lack of moral boundaries?”
The answer was always the same.
She’ll grow out of it.
“Don’t let me hear your excuses! You have poisoned the queen. You will have your head chopped off straight away.”
Lexi grappled with her limited-edition Little Mermaid Barbie doll.
“That’ll teach you, you fishy-tailed crin-i-mal.” She grinned triumphantly as the head came free. “Now you are absolutely DEAD!”
“Lexi!”
Mrs. Grainger, the new nanny, walked into the bedroom. A sea of decapitated dolls littered the floor. She sighed.
Again? Whatever happened to tea parties and teddy bear’s picnics?
Eight-year-old girls had sure changed since her day.
In her midfifties, widowed, with no children of her own, Mrs. Grainger had been hired as a replacement to the infamous Mrs. Carter. (The Templetons’ former housekeeper had made the most of her blood money, divorcing her grumpy husband, Mike, and running off to Hawaii. She was last seen on a beach in Maui having coconut oil massaged into her ample backside by a half-naked twenty-year-old called Keanu. Mrs. Grainger had never gotten along with coconut oil.)
Mrs. Grainger was fond of Lexi, but she was no pushover. Those Barbie dolls cost money. She’d scolded Lexi more times than she could remember about taking better care of them.
“What’s going on?”
Lexi’s mind began to whir: Mrs. Grainger is mad. What will stop her being mad? What does she want to hear?
“Don’t worry, Mrs. G. I was just playing a game. I can easily fix them again. Look.”
Retrieving Ariel’s head from the far side of the room, Lexi struggled vainly to reattach it to the body. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. The stump of the neck was too fat for the hole above the shoulders that seemed to have magically shrunk since she ripped the head off. Strands of red nylon hair kept getting tangled around Lexi’s fingers. Sweat began to bead on her forehead.
“Honestly, I can do it. I’ve done it before.”
“That’s not the point, Lexi. You shouldn’t have pulled her head off in the first place. This carpet looks like The Night of the Living Dead.”
“It’s not my fault. Ariel was trying to kill the queen.”
Lexi gestured toward one of the few Barbie dolls still sporting a full complement of limbs. Dressed in regal red velvet, with a string of tinsel wrapped around her head, the blond effigy lay prostrate on the extortionately overpriced “Barbie’s Four-Poster” that Robbie had bought his sister last week.
Just what Lexi needed. More toys.
“She’s been poisoned. See? That’s why she’s gone a funny color.”
With a groan, Mrs. Grainger noticed that the doll’s cheeks had been defaced in what could only be described as a frenzied attack with a green felt-tip pen. She prayed that Lexi hadn’t gotten green ink all over her clothes and bedding as well. That stuff was murder to get out.
Lexi said solemnly: “If you poison someone, you do get your head chopped off. That is a real, true fact, Mrs. G. I learned it in history.”
Her expression was so adorably earnest, it was a struggle not to laugh.
“Yes, well. I’d prefer it if history didn’t repeat itself quite so often all over the bedroom floor.”
The nanny’s tone was stern. But Lexi knew she had won. There was mad and there was pretend mad, and she was smart enough to know the difference.
Raised adult voices drifted up from downstairs. Lexi’s face clouded with anxiety.
“Daddy’s shouting. You think Robbie’s in trouble again?”
“I have no idea.” Mrs. Grainger shut the bedroom door firmly. “If he is, it’s nothing for you to worry about. Your brother’s big and ugly enough to take care of himself.”
Lexi looked furious. “Robbie isn’t ugly. He’s the handsomest brother in the entire universe in space. Everyone says so.”
Mrs. Grainger sighed. She wished Lexi wouldn’t take everything quite so literally. She also wished Mr. Templeton would learn to keep his voice down. He had no idea how sensitive his daughter was, or how bright. Lexi was like a tiny satellite receiver, picking up all the tension in the house and translating it into a view of the world that was becoming increasingly skewed.
Today she was chopping the heads off her dollies.
But what about tomorrow?
Pervert!…Preying on innocent children…Sickos like him should be castrated.
Peter Templeton tried to focus on his breathing. He must keep calm. He must not lose his
temper with the dreadful woman standing in his drawing room, screaming obscenities at him like a crack whore.
Ludo and I could go to the police, you know.
The woman might sound like a crack whore. In fact, her name was Angelica Dellal, wife of prominent JPMorgan banker Ludo Dellal and mother of sixteen-year-old Dominic Dellal: football star, head boy at Andover and (if Peter had interpreted her potty-mouthed ranting correctly) his son Robert’s homosexual lover.
Homo! Freak!
The abuse washed in and out of Peter’s consciousness like a toxic tide of effluence spewing from a sewer.
In her early forties, with handsome, aristocratic features and the sort of immaculately blow-dried, highlighted hair that immediately stamped her a rich man’s wife, Angelica Dellal must once have been a great beauty. But any sex appeal she might once have possessed had long since been groomed to death, buffed and manicured and Botoxed into oblivion. At this moment she looked positively ugly, mouth stretched wide, face contorted with rage, diamond-encrusted hands flailing wildly.
“So…?”
With a jolt, Peter realized that she had finally exhausted herself.
“I’m sorry. What was the question?”
Angelica Dellal looked as if she might spontaneously combust with indignation.
“The question is what are you going to do to ensure your disgusting, perverted son stays the hell away from my boy?”
“I’ll talk to Robert.”
“Talk? Is that it? My husband caught them in the back of a car together, okay? Your kid was sucking my kid’s dick. Are you hearing this? Am I getting through?”
Mistress of the Game Page 7
