The Art of the Devil

by John Altman

  One last bit of sangfroid, she told herself, would carry the day.

  Her stomach was flipping. She was happy to skip dinner, lying motionless as the sun slowly crossed the blue sky outside her window. By the time the sky turned red, the evening chill was growing teeth.

  FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

  Emmerich and Rudolf Wulff settled down around a crowded table.

  Both men shared their father’s piercing gray eyes, thick white hair, and stately profile. Emmerich, the elder, had the sharper wit and chin, and Rudolf the sharper nose and sartorial sense. Their guests were a high-ranking officer of the FBI, a congressman who had made his reputation chairing the House Committee on Un-American Activities, and a quartet of millionaire bankers who had earned their fortunes trading with German industrialists between the two wars. Despite widespread knowledge that their wealth had been made rearming the Fatherland on the backs of slave labor from concentration camps, these men had thrived during the past decade. As far back as 1924, the Teutonia Club of Chicago had begun an active campaign to make inroads into American business and politics, and now there was far too much money at stake for any capitalist worth his salt to stand for very long on principle.

  Wives were present, and so conversation remained light. ‘This Rauschenberg,’ said one. A dismissive wave of her hand rattled pearls on a heavy bracelet. ‘Pure tripe. An insult, is what it is.’

  ‘Making art out of trash,’ said another, and chuckled. ‘Or is it trash out of art?’

  ‘You know, he got his hands on a drawing by de Kooning – and then erased it. Then he called that art. He couldn’t have chosen a better subject, if you ask me. That one, he got right!’

  Husbands listened tolerantly, indulgently. Whenever talk veered toward the political – the back-door socialism of the Salk vaccine, or Wayne Morse’s defection from the Republican Party, or the rise of the minimum wage from seventy-five cents to one dollar, or the sudden eruption of violence between the North and the South in distant Vietnam – the men exchanged fraught glances and gently steered the discourse back toward more inoffensive channels: Lucille Ball, Ed Sullivan, Martin Melcher, The $64,000 Question. Plates were cleared, fresh wine decanted, finger bowls served on doilies, cigarettes lighted.

  At nine o’clock, the elder Wulff excused himself for a moment. In the parlor he switched on the radio, scanning through broadcasts of breaking news. Returning to the table seconds later, he caught his brother’s eye and gave his head a small shake.

  Another bottle of wine was opened. ‘Have you been to Altman’s in New York lately? They’re offering a mink-handled can opener now. And the funny thing is, I want it …’

  GETTYSBURG

  After consulting with the receiving nurse, Chief Emil Spooner was directed to a corner of the ER.

  He was met by a doctor who seemed to his weary eyes too young to be out of high school. ‘In layman’s terms,’ said the doctor, ‘one bullet punctured a lung, which collapsed and is sucking air. This is a potentially life-threatening trauma. But I can tell you: he’s a fighter. I think he’ll pull through.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘He’s in surgery. Needle decompression, tube thoracotomy.’ The young doctor’s professional courtesy did little to disguise the density of his personal indifference. ‘The endotrach is being performed now by Doctor Edmonds, the best we have.’

  ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘Once he’s out of surgery, he’ll need rest. I think it’s safe to say not before morning.’

  Inside the waiting room, Spooner lit a cigarette. Taking a seat, he scuffed vengefully with one toe at a glob of paint that had dried unevenly on the floor. He had just finished losing one old friend. He could not take losing another.

  He exhaled a contribution to the blue fog hanging in the waiting area, checked his watch. Couldn’t see Ish until morning. The immediate threat to the farm had been removed – Agent Zane, calling with the news about Isherwood, had reported Hart’s body found on the backcountry road.

  Spooner stood. He wanted to see Richard Hart, or what was left of him, face-to-face.

  Beneath the sodium glare of the Fleetwood’s headlamps, the forest at night evinced little charm. Three miles from the hospital, four black-and-whites belonging to Gettysburg’s finest served double duty as roadblocks and spotlights. Soaked with man-made illumination, the crime scene looked artificial and unreal: remnants of two automobiles, splintered and charred, on an unpaved road littered with bloodstains and shattered glass and twisted metal and spots of pumice powder.

  Spooner’s driver pulled onto the shoulder, killed the engine. The Chief of the Secret Service stepped from the car. As he approached the cordon, a chill moved from the rear of his neck, stiffening the hairs, down to the small of his back. When was the last time he’d visited an actual incident? Years ago … no, decades.

  He ran his eyes over the baker’s dozen of men on the scene, trying to find the officer in charge. He saw cops from two counties, investigators, a medical examiner from the State Police, and various technical experts from both township and borough. Noting a human-shaped chalk outline on the road, he felt a sour flash of disappointment. Unless he wanted to tramp down to the morgue and pull rank, it seemed the conquering hero would be cheated the sight of his vanquished foe, after all.

  He sighted a man wearing a dun-colored sheriff’s uniform and gleaming silver star: heavyset, friendly-looking, with flushed cheeks and a thick brown beard. When the man passed close by, Spooner chose his moment and stepped forward, unfolding his shield. ‘Emil Spooner,’ he announced. ‘Chief of the Secret Service.’

  Inspecting the credentials, the man did a slight double-take. Then he removed his hat, as if receiving a lady. ‘Hell,’ he said. ‘It’s an honor. Sheriff Howard Knox.’

  ‘Lead me through the scene, Sheriff?’

  Knox provided escort through the border of security. As a forensic photographer circled, snapping smoky photos with a blinding magnesium flash, the sheriff guided Spooner between the carcasses of the cars.

  ‘Here,’ said Knox, pointing out a row of ejected shell casings running unevenly toward a nearby fringe of forest. ‘Now here,’ he said, taking a knee.

  Aping him, Spooner found the residue of muddy footprints pacing the shells – and wandering beside the footprints, small round marks, sometimes ground into bloody smears of viscera. He looked away, retying a shoelace that didn’t need it.

  ‘Tread from the soles belongs to your perp. Circles are from his crutch.’ Each word puffed heavenward on a fragile wisp of steam. ‘Your man Isherwood gutshot this prick. You can see how he staggered away through his own intestines – and then, here, ended up crawling; these marks are knees and elbows. And he checked out –’ as Knox directed Spooner’s attention to the chalk outline – ‘over here.’

  Spooner nodded.

  ‘Here’s how I break it down. Perp parks his Chevy around the blind curve …’ Knox’s index finger followed the trail of shells and faint footprints toward the forest. ‘Vehicle reported stolen, by the way, thirty-six hours ago in New York. You can see the tire prints where he pulls off here, and then where he pulls back into the road, when he sees your man coming, here. Hurries back to the forest, gun drawn. Your man comes around the corner, as indicated by tire marks here; and hits the automobile here. Dazed. Perp leaves his blind and comes forward, firing six shots from his Colt Python – which we find over here. And over here –’ indicating a spot about two feet away – ‘a knife. Vicious little number: twelve inches. Entry points into the Mayfair correspond with the perp walking forward as he fires – but your man has ducked down his head. Suffers multiple gunshot wounds, but gets lucky – nothing fatal. There’s a lot of smoke and radiator steam and confusion going on. But he’s already banged up pretty good by the crash. Still, he’s enough on the ball to get his head down and pull his service pistol. Waits until the perp is right up beside the vehicle. At which point he gets off his shot. Makes it count. Perp has swapped gu
n for knife, by this point; drops the knife here, and goes for the gun again, which he drops here, along with the crutch. Hurt pretty bad. Evidently decides that discretion is the better part, et cetera.’ The index finger followed a purplish series of stains back toward the treeline. ‘Only, he’s dripping his innards the whole way. Goes down for the count. Meanwhile, your man drags himself out and away from the burning car, onto the road here, which is where our patrolman finds him. That’s how I read it.’

  Spooner lit a Winston with a shaky hand. ‘No sign of a rifle?’

  ‘Rifle?’ The sheriff frowned. ‘No, sir.’

  Spooner frowned back. ‘The Python,’ he said after a moment. ‘Modified?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Nifty work. Down at the office now.’

  ‘Modified how?’

  ‘Balance, grip, sight – custom job.’

  ‘Made to look like something else?’

  Knox ran fingers through his thick brown beard. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You know. Hidden inside something else, innocent looking? A lamp, a book, a length of pipe, like that?’

  The sheriff looked at him closely. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘A harness,’ Spooner suggested. ‘To keep the weapon hidden under the clothing, evade a search …?’

  ‘Nossir.’

  ‘The clothing itself: some kind of uniform, some kind of disguise?’

  ‘Nossir. Street clothes. Little bit ripe, too.’

  ‘But how did he plan on …?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Spooner shook his head. A bracket had formed on either side of his mouth, a cross-hatching on his high forehead.

  Elisabeth opened her eyes.

  Enough moonlight came through the window to limn the bureau, the blanket and pillows, the JESUS LOVES YOU wall plaque. When she pulled the guitar case out from under the bed – inch by cautious inch, holding her breath – the clasps gleamed like precious metal.

  Hitting the high and low catches, she removed the steel-string Gibson from its backing of red velvet. The gunsmith’s work had been excellent; the guitar looked exactly as it had when she had purchased it at the pawn shop eight days before.

  Setting the instrument on the bed, she explored from top to bottom, feeling for hidden seams or screws. After the initial examination, she loosened the tuning keys, relaxing the strings until they fell free. Setting the strings out of the way inside the case, she examined the guitar again. Removable screws held pick guard and bridge to body, and headstock to neck. From the dresser’s bottom drawer she fetched a butter knife, palmed days earlier from the kitchen.

  She labored for ten minutes before the pick guard came off. Beneath the nicked plate she found only pale wood. After five more minutes of work, the saddle bridge came loose. She immediately sensed that it was more tubular than strictly necessary. A moment’s exploration revealed the reason: stuck against the back was a high-powered scope, cunningly concealed.

  Two open clips would attach the scope to the rifle’s stock. Two tiny grub screws, for adjusting the cross hairs, had been glued into place. She had made clear that she expected no chance to sight the rifle, and would need the weapon to fire true the first time.

  Placing the scope inside the case beside the strings, she returned her attention to the guitar. Working the screws connecting headstock to neck took forever. But finally the stock had been emancipated. Inside, she found a magazine containing eight .30-06 cartridges. Removing the bullets, she inspected each individually before repacking the clip.

  The magazine went into the tweed case, beside the scope.

  Peering inside the neck she found the truss rod, traveling the length of the instrument, glinting mellowly in the moonlight. Usually the truss would have been attached to a nut on one end and held carefully in place by longitudinal bracing – a guitar was essentially an air pump – but this rod was thicker, unbraced, floating free except for loose padding. Still, the thing had played sweetly enough to get past the guard at the front gate – although he had needed to tune it, she remembered. It had also passed two other cursory inspections coming up the long driveway. Considering the loosey-goosey inner workings, however, a few good thumps would probably knock it out of pitch irrevocably. No matter; its days of making music were past.

  She managed to work one end of the tube out of the headless neck and then upended the guitar, bringing the rod sliding out another few inches. Reaching in through the soundhole, she located the far extreme of the truss and nudged it down, watching as the instrument disgorged a perfect rifle barrel—

  —then her forearm bumped against the guitar’s body; a booming dull thud reverberated across the darkened room.

  She froze. For the longest moment of her life she remained motionless, one hand inside the soundhole, the other teasing the truss rod out through the headless neck, wondering if she must return instrument to case and feign sleep, or if she could continue with her work.

  Seconds pooled, formed a minute, and then repeated the trick.

  At last, furrowing her brow, she returned to the task of shimmying the rod from the neck. The barrel was particularly thick and heavy: a so-called bull barrel, which would decrease vibration during shooting and hence increase accuracy. Once the piece was free she raised it to the moon-glowing window and peered through, pleased by the intricacy of the groove tracing the interior of the cylinder. Extra grooving meant extra spin stabilization, which in turn meant still-greater accuracy. In every respect, the workmanship was first-rate.

  The missing piece was the stock, which would hold all the rest together, which must be inside the body of the guitar itself, accessible only by cracking open the wood – hardly a silent proposition. She inspected the instrument’s ribs, tapping gently with her knuckles, determining exactly which sections were hollow. Presently, she decided that anything hidden inside was beneath the soundhole. Therefore she concentrated on opening the section above the hole, so as not to risk damaging anything vital. First she tried the butter knife to pry off the guitar’s side, and then her fingernails. When neither proved effective, she resorted to brute force: Wrapping the guitar’s body in a blanket, forming a vise of two pillows in an effort to further absorb the sound, and then using a swift sharp blow from one elbow to splinter the wood.

  Unwrapping the instrument again, she discovered a long winding crevice wandering from fretboard down to missing pick guard. Inserting the knife into the crack, she widened the crevice and used her fingers to tear off a plank of wood. Peeling strips from the guitar’s body, she deposited them in the empty case. Thus did she uncover, more than withdraw, the stock. Tucked within the last shards of the guitar’s shell she found the rifle’s butt and trigger mechanism. Fitting barrel to stock, she lined up grooves and smacked them together – the snap was louder than she might have liked, but time was short. The scope clipped neatly above the breech. The butt went onto the rear of the stock, helped home by another smack. That left the trigger mechanism: trickier than the rest, requiring careful insertion and adjustment.

  But the rifle felt good – better than good. Keeping well away from the window, she socked the butt into her shoulder and placed wood against cheek. Her left hand steadied the barrel, her right closing over the trigger. She brought eye to scope. Perfect. Pluperfect, as Josette would have said. The thumb of her right hand extended seamlessly over the small of the stock, creating a spot weld between cheek, thumb, and gun. The rifle was an extension of her body. Her body was an extension of the rifle. If she kept the contact firm, she would not lose her aim between shots, if indeed more than one shot proved necessary.

  She sighted on the wall plaque, the letters of which had been magnified by the scope to ridiculous proportions. Closing her eyes, she made herself relax, exhaling. When she opened her eyes again, the cross hairs remained dead on target: she read a giant E from the name JESUS.

  Gently, she squeezed the trigger.

  From within the breech came a soft answering snap.

  Satisfied, she lowered the rifle.

  A
faint knock at the door. In the next heartbeat Josette stepped into the room, wearing a white nylon peignoir. ‘I heard you moving around,’ the younger girl stage-whispered. ‘I’m sorry about before, Libby. I guess I can be …’

  Trailing off, she took in the scene before her.

  TWENTY

  Isherwood dreamed.

  Sometimes silhouettes blocked out the light above him, coming and going and then coming again. Sometimes the edges of the silhouettes took on a brush stroke of gold, making him think of Evy, her hair backlit as she read a book in bed at night. Sometimes the darkness intensified – an undertow, a sucking rip tide – and then the dreams surfaced, finely hewn, pressing away everything else.

  He dreamed he was sitting with the Chief and Evy and the President in the parlor of a big, empty country house. On an upper floor, something larger than a man clumped around noisily. Outside, the wind lifted, rattling windows in their panes. But one window, facing east, stood open to a keening blade of freezing air. And the footsteps – or were they beating hooves? – from the house’s second floor sounded ever louder …

  Then he and Eisenhower sat together in a fancy hotel lobby, carried with nary a ripple from one setting to another by the fluid logic of dreams, facing each other in matching red-upholstered armchairs. They held dainty teacups filled with whiskey and tried to speak politely above the overwhelming bustle of bellhops and desk clerks and knocking machinery in the walls. But neither man could make himself heard. Nevertheless, it struck Isherwood as absolutely vital, in the dream, that he find and raise his voice – in fact, the very fate of the free world might depend upon it. But he had already sampled the whiskey, and a warm glow tangled his tongue. He found himself unable to speak, unable even to resist raising the teacup for another taste …