by David Black
“Not so long ago,” Caroline said.
“It’s got its own file,” Jack said, looking ahead at the car’s headlights on the curving road.
“Frank must have thought it was important,” Caroline said.
“It’s in the Flowers files,” Jack said. “Maybe Keating can help us with that, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1
The stone sphinx and harpy flanking the entrance to the Flowers estate dripped rain. It looked like the creatures were weeping.
As Caroline drove up the winding way through the grounds towards the big house, Jack noticed in the wet, jade green undergrowth huge concrete turtles with waffle-patterned backs, one of the Flowers company’s big sellers thirty years ago for playgrounds and school yards.
Yellowing vines climbed up trees and covered the branches like giant spiderwebs.
Low clouds scudding across the sky looked like curdled milk.
Through the car windows came the reek of chicken shit—sharp, a yellow stink, more unpleasant than the maroon odor of cow or horse manure. Worse than skunk.
The smell made Jack’s eyes water.
They parked on the circular gravel drive in front of the chipped and cracked stone staircase leading up to the house.
You’d think a family in the concrete business could keep the staircase patched, Jack thought.
Withered rolled-up morning glory blossoms, looking like joints, littered the ground near the entrance.
“What’s that?” Caroline asked.
She was looking at the left side back panel of the car.
Jack walked around to her and followed her gaze.
In the metal was a round hole.
Jack touched it with his forefinger.
“Someone shot at us?” Caroline asked.
Jack didn’t answer.
“When?” Caroline said. “Not while we were in the car. We would’ve noticed.”
Jack was silent.
“And why would they shoot when we weren’t in the car?” Caroline said.
Jack walked away from the car. Up the chipped stone steps.
“It’s probably not a bullet hole,” Caroline said, following him.
“It’s a bullet hole,” Jack said.
2
Someone shot at him? At Caroline? At the car?
Jack assumed it was to discourage him. Them. From trying to find out who killed Frank.
But that question ramified into questions Jack couldn’t even frame. A constellation of unknowns and uncertainties.
Don’t get distracted, Jack told himself. Keep it simple. Who killed Frank?
But how could he untangle that from who killed Jean? Who killed Stickman? And why?
And what all that had to do with Robert and his father?
Caroline watched Jack charge up the steps and throw open the huge, heavy, oak front door, which was half again their height, as if designed for a generation of giants.
Jack’s face was pale, drawn, his eyes narrowed. A vein throbbed in his forehead. Not the good-looking, battered face she’d gotten used to, but fierce. She felt a stirring in her belly and realized she was getting wet.
Inside the gothic front hall—its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows—was the double staircase like calipers curving down to measure the stone floor on which they stood.
The right staircase was rigged out with an Easy Climber, a track with a seat driven by a cable, so Keating—Caroline assumed it was Keating—wouldn’t have to climb the steps.
Keating hadn’t seemed that infirm to Caroline.
“Mr. Flowers!” Jack called, his voice echoing. “Robert!”
Jack strode from one side of the hall to the other, glancing through doors, calling: “Mr. Flowers! Robert!”
Jack froze.
In a corner, on a chair, sat Jack.
Or rather, one of Keating’s simulations.
Keating had used the photograph he’d taken of Jack to make a duplicate.
Jack took the left-hand stairs two at a time. Caroline followed.
At the top of the steps, Jack vanished down the hallway. Caroline faintly heard a song—a CD? Radio? TV?
A big band swing sound. Lots of brass.
Hoagy Carmichael? she thought. Johnny Mercer?
Under the music was another sound coming from an open door. A bestial noise. A growl, snarl of anger, followed by a grunt—a second voice—and a cry, a whimper, also the second voice.
When she got to the door, she saw—inside the room—Robert half sitting, supporting himself on one elbow on the floor, his white terry-cloth bathrobe splayed open, revealing his pale belly, an almost hairless crotch, and a flaccid fat cock. His lip was split. His tongue, pink and quick, licked the blood dripping down his chin.
Jack stood, humpbacked, like a werewolf, above Robert.
“I’ve been suspected of murder, I’ve lost my job, I’ve been beaten up, I’ve been shot at,” Jack said very softly to Robert, “and far as I can tell it’s got something to do with your family.”
Robert was wiping the blood on his face with the back of his hand.
“I want to know what’s going on,” Jack said.
“Jack!” Caroline said. Horrified at his violence.
But the flutter in her belly didn’t go away.
3
Caroline helped Robert up.
Jack glared at her.
Robert shook off her hands, cinched the bathrobe, tight, around him, crossed to a mirror, and examined his wounds.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” he asked, catching Jack’s eye in the mirror.
“Where’s your father?” Jack asked.
“Some political event,” Robert said. “The Van Buren Testimonial Dinner.” Robert dabbed a forefinger on his lip, blinked with the pain. “He’s on the Eleanor Roosevelt Legacy Committee. The governor’s there. The attorney general … Maybe you should go over there and punch Dad out, too.”
“Jean called here three times the night she died,” Jack said.
Robert crossed the room and opened a window wider, closed his eyes as he let the breeze hit his face.
“I keep telling Dad, we should get central AC,” he said.
“Why did Jean call?” Jack asked.
Robert kept his back to Jack.
Behind Jack, Caroline could see Jack’s shoulders, still hunched.
Robert’s shoulders, pulled back, looked like the stubs of emerging wings. Robert’s head was erect, his chin raised—reminding Caroline of a history book photograph of Mussolini on a balcony posing for the crowd below.
Robert pulled his bathrobe belt tighter.
He’s embarrassed, Caroline thought.
The rain had stopped.
Beyond Robert, through the window, the sky was lurid. Just above the treetops, the clouds momentarily parted. The moon was huge, as if it had moved close to the Earth.
Too close.
The lawn, which looked black, not green, in the night, extended the length of a football field on this side of the house. And it was filled with an army of … children? Right arms stretched forward in a … Hitler salute?
No, Caroline thought, not children.… Midgets? Dwarves?
She moved closer to the window, crowding Jack who stood with his fists balled at his side.
Not people, Caroline realized. Not humans.
The lawn was filled with plaster jockeys, arms out to hold missing lanterns. White faced. An army of concrete mimes.
More of the Flowers company products.
Were they being stored on the lawn? Caroline wondered. Or did Keating like the display?
Or Robert?
Robert turned to face Jack.
Jack’s right hand shot out—as if he’d become one of the plaster jockeys—and grabbed Robert by the throat.
“Why?” Jack asked again.
Robert gargled in Jack’s grip.
Caroline realized she was backing up—until she was now half a room away from the two men.
“Why?” Jack whispered, relaxing his hold.
“Who knew you were such a violent man,” Robert croaked. He looked over Jack’s shoulder at Caroline. “Did you?”
Without releasing Robert, Jack glanced back at her.
Her eyes were wide. Her mouth open. Lips so dry they looked cracked—as if she too were made of plaster.
As she looked into Jack’s eyes, she licked her lips. Unconsciously. Slowly.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” Robert said to Jack, who swung his head around to Robert as if he’d forgotten about him while he’d gazed at Caroline’s tongue wetting her lips.
“120.10,” Robert said. “Assault in the first degree.” Lawyerlike, he quoted the New York State Penal Law: “… with intent to cause physical injury. To destroy, amputate, or disable permanently a member or organ of his body…”
Jack kneed Robert in the balls.
Robert gasped. The blood drained from his face. He tried to bend over, but Jack held him up by the throat.
“Why?” Jack repeated.
Robert gasped for breath. His eyes watered.
“I’m not going away,” Jack said, “until you tell me.”
Robert moaned. Breathed a stink into Jack’s face. Meth breath? Jack wondered if Robert was also using drugs. More likely Pritikin breath, the stench of vegetable compost.
Jack pulled Robert towards him, twisting as he did so, and slammed Robert’s head so hard against the wall next to the window that the plaster cracked.
“Jack,” Robert gasped.
Jack kneed Robert again.
Robert made a sound like a deflating balloon.
“Why did Jean call three times the night she died?” Jack asked.
Robert’s face, no longer pale, was now flushed. He tried to take a breath.
Jack released him.
Robert crumpled. On the floor, he curled up like a worm on a hot sidewalk.
Jack squatted beside him.
Robert turned his head to look at Jack with watery, glittering eyes.
“Prick,” Robert croaked.
On the breeze coming through the window, Jack smelled something like lemon peel. Tart, bittersweet. Wondered what it could be.
Robert pushed himself into a semisitting position.
“What if I call the cops?” Robert said.
“Who’s your witness?” Jack said.
Robert turned his gaze on Caroline, who looked from Jack to Robert and back to Jack.
“You wouldn’t perjure yourself in court?” Robert said to Caroline.
Caroline stood very still.
“For him?” Robert asked.
The breeze fluttered her hair.
“Under oath?” Robert added.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1
Jack looked around the room.
Lying on a long library table was a green fiberglass fishing rod and an old creel, the wicker dark with age. Lined up next to the rod were an assortment of lures: jigs, plugs, spoons. One of the spoons, dimpled silver, glinted in the lamp light.
On the other end of the table, under a library lamp with a green shade, were a few magazines: Horse & Rider, Dressage Today, The Practical Rider.…
Buying A Weanling: Great Tips For Getting A Good One … Over Fences Training: On Course Confidence … 27 Grooming Tips From The Pros …
Leaning against a straight-back chair was a shotgun: very expensive looking, walnut stock and gold chasing. On the chair seat were two closed boxes of shotgun shells and one open box, shells spilling out, the brass bases catching the light, the paper shells dried-cranberry red. Slung over the chair back was a threadbare green hunting sweater with a worn leather shoulder patch.
On the rug, by one of the chair legs was a dead … mouse? Vole? A paw open, claws spread.
The windows lit up—lightning cut across the sky like a knife slashing a painting.
Jack turned his attention back to Robert, who was biting a strip of skin from his thumb.
“What time is it?” Robert asked.
Caroline slipped her cell phone from her jacket pocket, glanced at it.
“Nine-oh-seven,” she said.
“A digital answer,” Robert said.
Thunder cracked.
“I don’t want to keep you, Jack,” Robert said.
“I wasn’t going,” Jack said.
There were plaster flecks in Robert’s hair.
Behind Robert, on the wall where Jack had slammed his head, was a squashed-spider-shaped blood spot.
“Then, excuse me if I leave you,” Robert said. “I’m going to my room to lie down.” He started for the door. “I’ve got a terrible headache.”
Jack took a vase off a side table.
“Beautiful piece,” Jack said.
Robert blinked at Jack, who held the vase up to a light.
“Not a flaw,” Jack said.
“My great-great-something grandfather brought it back from China,” Robert said.
Jack threw it against the wall, shattering it.
“Shit!” Robert said.
Jack picked up the creel, dropped it on the floor, and stepped on it, splitting the wicker.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” Robert asked.
“This looks like an antique,” Jack said, picking up the shotgun and, grabbing its barrel in two hands as if it were a bat—Maris beating the Babe’s record?—he raised it over his shoulder about to swing against the stone fireplace.
“Jean was arguing about money,” Robert said. “As usual. When my father refused to talk to her—she kept calling back—I had to. She was going on about Frank, how she was going to meet him—apparently, my father had asked her to meet him, don’t ask me why—and he’d given her some money to arrange it. And she wanted more—more than he promised. I told her I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t. I don’t. Frank had been up to the house a few times in the weeks just before all this happened—talking to my father about something, something my father wasn’t happy about.”
“Your father was unhappy about what Frank wanted,” Jack said, “and was using Jean to set Frank up.”
“You can’t think Robert’s father arranged Frank’s murder,” Caroline said.
“Maybe he was trying to get something on Frank,” Robert said, “to blackmail him. To get him to back off. And things went wrong.”
Jack didn’t say anything. His head was tilted to one side, studying Robert, who held out his hand for the shotgun, which Jack didn’t relinquish, still holding it by the barrel, but no longer threatening to smash it against the fireplace.
“It’s a Purdey,” Robert said. “1872. One of only a hundred-seventy-five. When Rosebery was in the States, he gave it to Tilden. Jack, Rosebery became prime minister. Tilden became—”
“I know who they were,” Jack said.
Robert gave a small smile.
“Somehow it ended up belonging to Horace Howard Furness, the Shakespeare scholar. Story is an uncle, a great-uncle, won it on a bet from a groundskeeper at the University of Pennsylvania, I don’t know how it ended up with the groundskeeper. My grandfather taught me how to shoot on it.…”
Robert’s hand was still out.
“Hunting season,” Robert said. “Bow, gun, muzzle loader. I’ve never tried a muzzle loader.… They still make them, you know. For hunters, re-enactors who aren’t obsessed with authentic equipment. Or who can’t afford the antiques.”
Robert’s hand was still out.
“A guy I knew—a reenactor—collected Civil War pornography,” Robert said. “It wasn’t all Matthew Brady.… Just like the Internet—the minute there were photographs, there were pornographic photographs.”
Robert’s hand was still out.
“The gun is worth a lot of money,” Robert said.
“Fuck you, Robert,” Jack said—but handed the gun to Robert, who held it protectively. He was sure Robert’s interest in the gun was only sentimental.
“Last Christmas,” Robert sa
id, “I got a new Evans, a St. James, beautiful gun, over/under, twenty-bore, but I never use it.”
Holding the Purdey in the crook of his left arm, Robert knelt and picked up what was left of the creel, looked at the shards of china from the vase.
“You didn’t have to do that, Jack,” he said.
Robert stood, put the creel on the table, and almost casually scooped up two shells from the chair seat.
Jack took a step forward, but before he could get close enough to stop him, Robert had cracked open the shotgun, loaded, snapped it shut, and aimed it at Jack.
“Get undressed,” he said.
2
“You come into my home, knock me down, bare-assed, in front of Caroline, and think I’m going to show you nicely to the door and kiss you good night?” Robert said. “Get undressed, or I’ll blow your head off. No,” he said, swinging the gun toward Caroline, “I’ll blow her head off.”
Robert took a step toward Caroline and pressed the shotgun muzzle against her head.
“Before you try to jump me, Jack,” Robert said, “the questions you have to ask yourself are: Am I crazy? Am I trying to protect my father? Am I just pissed off at you?”
Jack stripped. He stood naked in the middle of the room. Felt a chill at the small of his back.
There was another flash of lightning, followed this time almost immediately by thunder.
“Your turn, Caroline,” Robert said.
“You shit,” Caroline said.
Caroline kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her skirt, which she let drop to her feet. She crossed her arms, took hold of the bottom of her sweater and pulled it over her head, revealing her shadowed shaved underarms. She reached behind her back, unsnapped her bra, and shrugged it off. Her breasts were covered in goose bumps. Her nipples were the rusty rose of the shotgun shells. She took off her panties.
“Pick up your clothes,” Robert said, “go out the door and turn left down the hall.”
3
At the end of the hall, Jack and Caroline, followed by Robert and the shotgun, took two steps down to a landing, feeling dwarfed by the landing’s cathedral-size window, which overlooked the swimming pool in the side yard. In the pool, Jack saw a body floating facedown.
Another corpse?
Jack stopped to take a closer look.
Or one of Keating’s resin constructions?
