Exact Revenge

by Tim Green

  “I used to have a place on Skaneateles Lake, gosh, fifteen years ago,” he says. “Have you eaten at Krebs?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about it.”

  “Are you on the east side or the west?”

  There is a strain in his voice.

  “I think east,” I say.

  He clears his throat and says, “So you get the sunsets. My place was on the west side. Actually, it belonged to my first wife’s family.”

  “I can’t believe more people don’t know about it,” I say. “The first time I saw it-that aqua green color-it reminded me of the Caribbean.”

  “We used to drink the water straight out of the lake,” he says. “I don’t know if they still do.”

  “They do,” I say. “Haven’t you been back?”

  “No. That’s kind of my past life.”

  “Great,” I say. “There’s nothing like the old days.”

  47

  WHEN I WAKE UP, I am sweating. My spine is rigid and my fingers are clenched. I open my eyes and realize where I am. Sometimes, in that moment between being asleep and awake, I think I’m still in the box. I turn my head into the feather pillow to wipe away the dampness. The sheet and pillowcases are combed cotton.

  I don’t like to sleep. Not just because I sometimes forget I’m free, but because I have already lost so much time. I inhale the smell of the tall pines whispering outside my window and wonder if any of my weekend guests will appreciate the smell and sound of those trees as much as I do. I wonder if Lexis still would, or if the cesspool she’s chosen to live in has deadened her senses.

  I push her from my mind and get out of bed. I do my pull-ups on the doorframe, working my arms until they’re numb. Now I’m sweating and ready for a run. As I descend the carved wooden staircase, I run my hand over the smooth shiny railing, admiring the work. The foyer has newly laid tile and a crystal chandelier the size of an armchair that throws bite-size prisms of light across the face of the oil paintings on the paneled wall.

  Outside, I stretch for a few minutes. A male bluebird boasts from his treetop and swallows twitter and swoop in the pale light. I start in an easy lope down the curving drive and look back up through the thick old maples at the gleaming yellow house flanked by blue spruce. The white trim around the lancet-arched windows and the new slate mansard roof is crisp and clean.

  Out on the blacktop road, a colorful troop of cyclists passes me, drafting one another up the long country hill. To my right, a tractor rumbles across a field, spraying manure. The smell turns my stomach, but at the top of the next rise, the wind from the south brings me a face full of fresh lake air and I can see for twenty miles to the south end. Out on the water a handful of triangular sails glides back and forth in the dawn.

  I love to run without stopping. Sweating. Free. Gliding like the boats. Soon the sun turns the sky from red to pink, then white before it rises in a blinding ball. I am numb. The sound of my breathing and the steady stream of sweat seem far away. When I reach Mandana, a small hamlet halfway down the lake, I turn back. Bert has seen to it that the staff has breakfast waiting for me at the small linen-dressed table on the back porch. Even though he is cleanly shaven and neatly dressed, there are bags under Bert’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Bad night?” I say.

  He glares at me and says, “You expect me to sleep good here?”

  “What about soaring with the spirit of the night?” I say. “Isn’t that what your grandmother used to say?”

  “The night sky in this place is too thick with crows,” he says. “I’ll sleep tomorrow night. If it comes.”

  I take a sip of coffee and say, “Our guests haven’t even arrived and you’re ready for it to end.”

  Bert sits down across from me and puts a napkin in his lap before taking a piece of grilled salmon off the serving plate and eating it with his fingers like a bear.

  “I just hope that you don’t go so far down this river of darkness that you can’t get back,” he says, looking steadily at me without blinking his big dark eyes. “Because you know where that river goes.”

  “I think with the money I have,” I say, taking a bite of toast, “that I can buy a boat with a motor.”

  “Even a boat with a motor can’t go up a falls,” he says.

  “I thought you hated the man,” I say.

  “I do hate him,” he says. “I’d like him dead, but I wouldn’t invite him to stay at my house before I killed him. Besides, I don’t think you should mess with the spirits, man. Make them angry.”

  I look at my watch and say, “Speaking of angry spirits, Mr. Lawrence should be here by now.”

  “You better hope the real spirits don’t get mad,” Bert says.

  “They’re okay with it. I checked,” I say.

  I smell the smoke from a cigarette. A moment later, a man in dark slacks and leather jacket with long red hair rounds the corner of the house. He waves without speaking and tosses what’s left of his butt down on the grass, grinding it with his toe. Chuck Lawrence was recommended to me by Vance. He’s a former government employee. Very smart. Very connected. Very effective.

  Chuck and I go upstairs to the guestroom where the Villays will be staying. Chuck holds out his palm. In his hand is something not much bigger than a pin. He points to a spot high up on the wall.

  “I inserted one just like this right here,” he says. “It’s a projection filament. I took off the baseboard and put the transmission unit in the wall. There’s another one over here that’s a camera so you can see what’s going on. There’s a speaker here and a microphone there.

  “I’ll do the same thing in their house tonight,” he says. “I just wanted you to see that you really can’t detect it. They’ll have no idea. Come on, I’ll show you how it works.”

  He draws the shades in the room and turns out the lights, shutting the door behind us. We go into my master suite, and Chuck sits down at the desk. He opens the laptop that’s hooked into the ISDN line and boots it up.

  “I can call it up from my computer too. Everything is transmitted digitally,” he says. “Like a cell phone. The guy who put the artistic part of it together is a special effects genius out in Hollywood. You said spend whatever it takes. What till you see how good this looks.”

  He shows me what the images will look and sound like, then gives me two small vials.

  “Green is for him,” he says, closing up his computer. “Red for her. One drop on each of their toothbrushes. Just one, and remember, green for go, he’ll be the one up all night. She gets red. Stop. She’ll be out of it.”

  “And you’ve got their maid in Hewlett Harbor all set?” I ask.

  “Took some doing,” he said. “I had to go all the way to a quarter million, but we’ll be watching her and she knows it, so we should be fine. Now, they’re definitely out of there tonight, right?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And if something happens, I’ll call you right away.”

  “I’ll be in and out in a couple of hours,” he says, “so, as long as they’re on that airplane this afternoon, we should be fine.”

  “I like it, Chuck,” I say. “I like it all.”

  He shakes his head and says, “This one’s different, I tell you that. Could have had the guy terminated a lot quicker and a lot easier.”

  “Too easy,” I say.

  48

  I FIND BERT on the back porch leafing through Travel amp; Leisure. “Find anything interesting?” I ask. “Not that you care,” he says, “but there’s a dude ranch out in Montana that I’d like to visit someday.”

  “We have to get to the airport.”

  “You don’t want me to get them by myself?” he asks, getting up.

  “No,” I say. “I want to give them a proper greeting.”

  Bert purses his lips and slowly shakes his head, looking away from me and down toward the water.

  We take the black Suburban to the private airport in Syracuse. The day is warm enough for Bert to put on the AC. The G-V is landing as we pull i
nto the terminal, long and gleaming white with its super-size engines and its upturned wingtips. It streaks past, then taxis quickly around, meeting us out on the tarmac. The pilot hurries out and hands down my guests while one of the ground crew pulls the suitcases out of the plane’s cargo hold and places them in the back of my truck.

  Rangle’s wife, Katie Vanderhorn, is first off in a cloud of perfume. I take her hand and kiss her cheek, then say hello to the former congressman himself. Allen Steffano and Dani Rangle step down to join us. Finally, the Villays appear in the cabin door. His curly blond hair has faded to the color of frozen butter over the last twenty years, but the odd tears in his pupils still give him that faraway look. He steps down and grips my hand firmly, showing his white teeth and introducing his wife, Christina, who is lean and creamy-skinned with lustrous black hair. She looks like a model from Victoria’s Secret and stands two inches taller than her little husband. Her big eyes are looking past me when she offers a limp hand. On her face is a small frown.

  “Christina swore she’d never come back to Syracuse,” Villay says. “Hates it here.”

  “I like the city,” she says, offering a small smile.

  “Well, I’m honored that you’re willing to indulge me,” I say with a slight bow. “I think you’ll like it. My lake house has been completely remodeled. You’ll think you’re at the Four Seasons.”

  “Until I go outside and smell some farmer spreading manure,” she says. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m sorry. I’m almost as excited about this Supreme Court appointment as Dean.”

  “We’re a long way from that,” Villay says. “But even the possibility was enough to get her to come.”

  “You’re a lawyer as well, I understand?” I say to her.

  “Bankruptcy,” she says. “Latham amp; Watkins.”

  “Excellent. Well, this is Bert and we should get going.”

  When we get off the interstate and onto the Thruway, it is Villay who says, “I thought we were going to Skaneateles.”

  “There’s some construction on the bypass,” I say, “and it’s actually quicker to take the Thruway and get off at Weedsport.”

  “I think that’s a lot longer,” Villay says, but he shrugs and closes his mouth and looks out the window.

  The drive is pleasant enough. Rangle and Villay don’t try to hide the fact that they know of each other and there’s no tension between the two of them. If they were co-conspirators, their acting would be brilliant. For a moment, I am swamped with a sensation of uncertainty, as if my mind has been bent by prison, my reality imagined. But I remind myself that although they both are guilty of destroying me, neither knows about the other.

  For his part, Bert is quiet. His eyes are blank and his face sags like a glob of dough. The only sign of his hatred for Villay is the way his fingers clench the steering wheel.

  From Weedsport, we go south. When we crest the hill of State Street in Auburn, I can see the guard towers. My stomach twists and I can hear a sound like waterfalls in my ears. It isn’t until we are right alongside the looming walls that Rangle’s wife asks, “What is that thing?”

  “Auburn Prison,” Villay says, before I can answer. “The worst of the worst. Mass murderers. Rapists. Maximum security.”

  “It’s actually a landmark,” I say. “Bert, drive around the wall.”

  Bert crosses the bridge where Lester lost his life. I look down into the Owasco Outlet at the water glinting in the sunlight. We go right on Route 5, separated from the south wall by the outlet. Everyone looks at the long gray canker rising up from the center of the town.

  “Imagine,” I say, “we’re only seven miles from the most pristine and exclusive waterfront in the state.”

  “The Hamptons are farther than that,” Rangle’s wife says.

  I look in the back to see Rangle nodding with a smug smile, beaming at his wife’s comment.

  “Of course,” I say.

  We pass the powerhouse and turn right again on Washington Street where the road runs right smack beside the west wall.

  “How high is it?” Allen asks, craning his neck.

  “Forty feet,” I say.

  “My God,” Villay’s young wife says in disgust, and no one speaks until we are on our way out of town.

  When we get into the village of Skaneateles, Bert turns right on West Lake Street. Villay goes bolt upright and grabs the back of Bert’s seat. When I look back at him, his yellow eyes are wide and the skin on his tan face is pulled tight.

  “Where are we going?” he asks.

  “To the house,” I say.

  His hand is on his young wife’s leg and she is clutching it as if he’s not squeezing her hard enough.

  “But you’re on the east side,” he says, forcing a smile. “That’s what you said.”

  “Oh, I don’t really know,” I say with a shrug, not taking my eyes off of him. “East, west, I don’t pay too much attention.”

  “You said the sunsets. You get the sunsets. I said that and you said you did.”

  “Did I?” I say, raising my eyebrows and glancing at Bert as if he might know. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it mattered.”

  “No,” he says, eyeing his wife. “I’m just…”

  As his voice fades, tension fills the truck. No one speaks.

  “Pretty homes,” Rangle’s wife says with a sigh. “I suppose if I’ve got to be here, this is the right street.”

  “That place belonged to Teddy Roosevelt’s sister,” I say, pointing to the classical white monster on the hilltop between the lake and us.

  We’re almost there now and I wonder if Villay will feel anything close to the shock I experienced on the night I was to be given the party nomination twenty years ago. Bert begins to slow and I hear Christina Villay suck in a mouthful of air as we turn into the two stone gateposts and start up the winding drive. The big yellow Second Empire house appears through the trees, and a small moan escapes Villay. I look back. His and his wife’s faces are frozen and their bodies have gone rigid.

  “Are you all right, Christina?” I ask.

  “I’m… I think carsick. The motion.”

  Bert pulls to a stop in front of the house.

  “Let’s get you out,” I say, jogging around to Villay’s side of the truck. I open the door and Villay slides out. I hold out my hand to his wife. But she isn’t moving.

  “I’ll… just… sit here for a few minutes,” she says, staring straight ahead. Her creamy complexion has a green cast and her teeth are clenched.

  “Honey, come on,” Villay says, wedging in beside me and taking her arm. “You’ll be all right.”

  She snatches her arm free and glares at him. “You let me go!”

  Dani gets out on the other side, looking away. She pushes the seat forward. Allen, Rangle, and his wife slip out of the truck and make their way to the front steps, where they pause to look back at the scene.

  “She’ll be all right,” Villay says to me, wide-eyed. “She’s not feeling well. Please, you all go on in. I’ll stay with her for a minute.”

  I shrug and turn to the others, pointing up the steps. Bert is unloading the luggage from the back.

  “Come on,” I say, “I’ll show you to your rooms and you can change before lunch if you’d like. Bert will take care of the bags.”

  “I’ll get mine,” Allen says. He hurries back, pulls his bag out of Bert’s hands, and takes Dani’s too.

  I apologize for being old-fashioned, but tell them since I didn’t know how they normally do things that I’ve prepared separate rooms for Dani and Allen. I show them to their rooms and ask them to make themselves at home. Lunch will be at one and until then they can either head out on the lake with me for some fishing or relax down on the dock or on the back porch.

  “I have a woman, Verna, who’ll be down in the boathouse giving massages for anyone who’d like one,” I say. “She’s the best there is. Hands like an ironworker.”

  Allen asks if he can do anything to help. I tell him just have a
beer down on the dock and that I’ll meet him there to go fishing in a few minutes. On my way downstairs, I pass Bert coming up.

  “Still there?” I ask.

  He looks back and grunts. When I walk out onto the porch, Villay and his wife are shouting at each other. When they see me, they stop and stare. Villay runs a hand through his curly hair and forces a smile.

  “Your room is the first one on the left when you go upstairs,” I say with a smile that suggests it’s perfectly normal for them to be acting this way. “I’ll be down at the dock. We’ll hold the boat for you, Dean. I think you should join us and throw a line in the water. Christina, just ask one of the girls if you need anything. And I’ve got a masseuse down at the boathouse if you’d like a massage.”

  “Thank you,” Dean Villay says. “I’m sorry. Christina’s feeling better. We’ll be there soon.”

  I nod, then go back into the house. My bedroom suite takes up the entire south end of the house, and from the sitting room, I peer out behind the curtains at the two of them, watching their hands stab the air as they bare their teeth. Finally, ten minutes later, they embrace and then Villay helps his wife down out of the truck.

  BOOK FOUR. REVENGE

  You’re a noble and honorable woman and you disarmed me for a moment with your sorrow, but behind me, invisible, unknown and wrathful, there was God, of whom I was only the agent and who did not choose to prevent my blows from reaching their mark.

  THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO

  49

  WHEN PEOPLE THINK of upstate New York, they think of winter. Brutal cold and storms that dump four or five feet of snow. But the most vicious weather comes in the summer when a warm placid day is suddenly transformed by violent thunder, lightning, and wind that makes children whimper and smells like the end of the world.

  Bert has the TV in the living room on without the sound. He points to the screen as I walk past.

  “See that?” he says.

  I stop and look at the radar map. A dark green wall with a belly of red, yellow, and orange oozes slowly from west to east across the backside of Ohio toward western New York.