“Malcolm, the Police are pretty sure that Jack did it.”
“What? Are you kidding me? How could they…”
“Look, I don’t fucking know! I don’t know. Sorry. It’s a delicate subject for me. You didn’t see him.” Fred sighed long and hard and then continued. I felt slightly guilty for even bringing it up.
“One of the investigating Officers confided in me. It’s an unofficial opinion. They won’t release any evidence in an ongoing investigation. But they’re sure that it was Jack.”
Christ.
“Anyway, it’s over.” Inwardly I laughed. It wasn’t over. I knew Jack better than that.
It hadn’t even started.
Chapter 64
This the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn
“Listen. Now that it’s formalized, I have some official business with you.” I already knew where he was going, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know. I gripped the phone as a strong gust of wind pounded my living room window. Branches scraped their long tendrils against the panes and I winced at the sound. It was only slightly more tolerable than fingernails running down a chalkboard.
“Official business? Okay.” I spoke slowly and gripped the phone. Waiting for what was about to happen next.
“Malcolm, Jack named you executor to his will.” I sighed and let the receiver fall to my side for a moment. I closed my eyes.
Why? Why me? I heard Fred’s voice on the line. Distant and hollow while the handset dangled at my side. Slowly, I lifted it to my ear again.
“You still there?” I told him I was.
“Good. Well, we should meet to discuss the details and particulars. But I need to tell you. He’s giving you the house.” Shock and panic filled my mind and I stared out the window as Fred rambled on.
Jack’s final practical joke.
“According to his instructions, the artwork is to be sold at auction or donated to museums. He gave me a comprehensive list along with appraisals. Jesus, Malcolm, did you realize that he had over six hundred and fifty million dollars in artwork?” I nodded. As if Fred could hear me. I wondered where he was.
“Has.” Even then, I couldn’t accept the simple, desirable fact that he was dead.
“Anyway, we need to go over the list. It’s a long one. There’s a fortune tied up in that museum of his.” I didn’t doubt it. But I wondered what the net effect of breaking it apart would have.
“Okay, when do you want to get together?” The line became muffled for a moment as Fred thumbed through his schedule.
“I’m tied up for the rest of the week, but I can be in Montreal on Monday.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
“Good. Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” God! There’s more?
“Jack bequeathed you three pieces from his collection. He didn’t specify which ones, but he did state that they aren’t on the list and that you’d know when you saw them.” I nodded and sighed.
“Great. See you on Monday.”
I slammed the phone down and sat dejectedly on the couch. Was he really gone, or was this just an illusion? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. It was time to heal.
Or so I thought.
***
Fred arrived promptly at 10 AM on Monday. We wasted no time and began to pore over the documents in Jack’s will.
The largest and most troublesome part of it – besides of course the house, which I couldn’t get out of my mind – was the inordinately long list of artwork that Jack had amassed over the years. The greatest artists in history were on his exclusive guest list: da Vinci, Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Monet, Renoir, Botticelli, Degas, Gaugin, Picasso, Manet, Dali, Matisse, Michelangelo, Rodin…the list went on-and-on.
But he had also amassed quite an impressive collection of other types of art. Books, first editions or original manuscripts – a collection that would have made the Library of Congress envious; collections of works by great poets and playwrights.
And collections of original work by some of the greatest writers and thinkers. He had original writings by Wordsworth, Franklin, Galileo, Nietzsche, Shakespeare, Jefferson, Lord Byron, More, the Brontës, Copernicus, Freud, Bacon, Shelley, Walter Scott, Swift, Keats, Jung, Adam Smith…the list went on for pages. I was stunned by the sheer number of original documents that he had accumulated. And the dollar value that was attached to it.
But Jack had accumulated an equally-long list of junk. There were forty-six pages of items that had no apparent value. Listed simply as “Unknown artist,” under the ‘value’ column there was a great big goose egg. These were undoubtedly the pieces which he had acquired on his visits to street markets all over the world.
As I looked down the list, I sought the description of the statue that he had shown me in Varadero – the one with the sexual position that was still etched in my brain. But the descriptions were vague. They appeared to be the work of a reputable art appraiser who couldn’t be bothered with worthless pieces of junk by obscure artists. We unfortunately, didn’t have the same latitude. Jack’s will clearly stated that we sell or donate every piece.
We covered a modest portion of the list that day. By the time 6 PM rolled around, we were both ready for a break. Fred took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. He hadn’t fully recovered from seeing the decapitated body of Alberto. Then again, who would?
“Do you have anything to drink?” I picked up the remote, flipped on the stereo and smiled.
“Sure do. Hang on. Scotch okay?”
“If it’s good Scotch, absolutely. If it’s cheap Scotch, even better!” I chuckled and went to the kitchen, coming back with a bottle and two glasses. I poured generous portions and asked Fred if he wanted to order a pizza.
“That sounds about my speed right now.” Fred sipped on the Scotch. After tasting it he stopped to raise his glass in approval.
“This is good stuff.” I nodded.
“It should be. I had it shipped from Edinburgh. It’s a Private Reserve. Only 2,000 bottles were made.
“I suppose you can afford it now.” I laughed and winked
“Jack got me hooked on the stuff. I figured it was only right to use some of his money to keep the tradition alive.”
Fred scowled. There was anguish in his face. We had completed our business for the day, and the mere mention of his name put both of us in a mood. I took a sip of my Scotch and set it down. I scoured the room for cigarettes and found them on the table beside the couch. I offered him one but he declined.
“Ask me again when I’ve had a few more of these.” He raised his glass and took another draught.
“You know, we should have a memorial service.” Without looking at him I nodded and lit the smoke. I picked up the phone. I dialed the number for the pizza joint I always used – I had the number memorized. As the phone rang I looked at him.
“How does smoked meat sound?” He winced.
“Sounds like a strange thing to put on pizza.”
“C’mon, you’re in Montreal. Get with the program! Jeez. Trust me.” He nodded and shrugged. I smiled. I’d seen him eat stranger things than smoked meat pizza in university. I placed the order and then hung up, puffing on my smoke and flicking it in the ashtray that sat in front of me. He sat quietly for several minutes, sipping Scotch and listening to Bocelli, but I could tell by the look on his face that he had something else he wanted to talk about. I knew him almost as well as I had known Jack.
“What’s on your mind?” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was almost fully reclined in my lounger and I knew that whatever was about to come out wasn’t good. I steeled myself and sighed.
“Out with it.”
“Malcolm, there’s something that we haven’t talked about.” I looked at him and puffed on my cigarette. I exhaled and placed it in the ashtray, picked up my glass of Scotch and looked at him impatiently. I’m waiting.
“Elizabeth.” When I heard him speak her name I nearly choked on my
Scotch. Fred hadn’t known her that well. But he knew our history, and it appeared that he also knew what had happened to her. Jack must have told him. No big shock there. I took a sip and picked up my cigarette.
“What about her?” I said the words with stone in my voice. It was a difficult topic. Before that day, Jack was the only person I could talk to. But he was gone. Fred winced and I could tell he regretted even bringing it up. Maybe it was the tone in my voice. He squirmed for a few minutes, but I knew he was preparing himself to come out with it. So I sipped my Scotch and puffed on my cigarette until he was ready to continue.
“Malcolm. God, I can’t believe we’re talking about this. I know what she meant to you. And I know how close you and Jack were.”
“Goddammit Fred, just FUCKING SAY IT!” I half-yelled the words and instantly regretted it. My lips snarled and I shot him a sour look. Dammit, just say it. He looked at me and nodded, taking another long draw from his glass.
“The Police think that Jack killed her.”
I sighed. A long, hard, contemplative sigh. I sneered and looked around the room. Looked at anything but him. Angrily, I took a gulp of my drink and butted out my cigarette.
“That so? How do they know that?” The words that I spoke were short, aloof, slightly sarcastic and filled with denial. But my anger wasn’t directed at Fred. It wasn’t even directed at Jack. It was directed at me for denying something which I had known only too well.
Fred frowned and looked at me.
“C’mon Malcolm. They had a history. And the manner of death…” he grimaced, “…it had to be someone with a personal grudge.” My nostrils could have expelled flames. I didn’t like being reminded of the way she died.
But he was right, and I’d already thought about everything he said. It had to be personal. And since I knew it wasn’t me, that only left one alternative. I clenched my jaw.
“Yeah.” The words came out in a whisper. I took a drink.
“Malcolm, there’s something else. They found his DNA on her body.” I stopped in mid-drink and turned my head to look at him.
“What?” He nodded.
“They found his DNA. It was only a matter of time. After what happened in Nova Scotia, it hit the National Crime Database. It’s standard procedure to cross-check violent crimes with similar circumstances.”
I started to piece it together but Fred beat me to it.
“Elizabeth was originally listed as a witness for the prosecution. In Detroit. They drew a straight line to Jack.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. No fucking way. No way would Jack do this to me. I looked at Fred. I wanted to beat the living shit out of him. But I controlled myself, even though my chest pounded and my left arm tingled.
“Where.” I asked in a tone that sounded like I stated fact. And even though it may have sounded like an obscure question, Fred knew exactly what I wanted to know.
“Malcolm, I think you need to find the positive in this. The Police painted you early on as their prime suspect. You’ve probably been under surveillance for several months. This new evidence clears you.” I chuckled vociferously. Just like a fucking lawyer.
“That’s great. That’s just fucking great.”
“Malcolm, I don’t think...” I jumped up off the couch and looked at him with all the rage of Heaven, Earth and Hell animating my face.
“Enough! You MOTHERFUCKER! Tell me where they found the FUCKING DNA!” He shrunk back in his chair for a moment, and then nodded. He took a long drink and replied simply and matter-of-factly.
“She was raped. Before she was killed, she was raped.” His implication was a simple statement. I’m sure that he hoped I didn’t push him for further clarification.
I was raped.
I slumped onto the couch. Memories from another lifetime came back to me. She told me that she had been raped, and by my best friend. With the years that passed I managed to bury that knowledge far away. I relived the pain all over again. I began to sob.
But you were with Jack…
Believe me: adolescent memories are best left dead and buried.
“Malcolm, I’m sorry, but I thought you should…” I held up a hand, silently directing him to stop talking. My other hand held my face. Cupped it and comforted it as I thought about the implications.
My entire life had been a lie. The man I befriended was a serial rapist – even worse, a killer. And the worst agony of all: he had killed the woman I love.
I sobbed for several minutes until the pizza arrived. After that, I managed to gain a little composure. I watched Fred while he munched on pizza and told me how surprised he was that it was good. I nodded and downed more Scotch, thankful that I had several bottles in the liquor cabinet. As I got drunker and more open with my words, I loosened up. But the shock of what he just told me was consuming me entirely. I ended up telling him things that I shouldn’t have said. To anyone.
At one point, the phone began to ring. I didn’t react. I sat on the couch and watched it ring while Fred darted me an understanding look while I sipped my drink and puffed on a cigarette.
“You want me to get that?” I looked at him. If he hadn’t been there I’d have let the thing ring. I clenched my jaw and picked up the handset.
‘Unknown Caller.’
I muttered under my breath and put it back on the table. How do I forget? I sighed. I want to forget with a vengeance. I uncorked the bottle that sat on the coffee table and poured until the liquid reached the top of the glass. As if I believed that Scotch would make me forget.
Malcolm, I never should have been with Jack.
Chapter 65
This is the farmer sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn
Fred slept over and the next morning, we started early. We spent the entire day finalizing Jack’s art collection. We decided on Christie’s for the pieces that Jack earmarked for sale. Then we developed a shortlist of museums and art galleries for the pieces that Jack had identified for benevolence. Then we struggled with how we were going to donate the pieces that had no apparent value.
Fred tried to apologize for the ‘discussion’ we had the night before. But I shrugged it off and said that I was grateful that he told me. That it answered a lot of previously unanswered questions. He didn’t suggest the memorial service again, for which I was thankful. At that point I didn’t want to remember Jack. Ever.
I made it perfectly clear that there was no way I was going back to that house. Fred assured me that it wasn’t necessary and that he would take care of everything. I was relieved when he said he’d look after the details. This ordeal needed to be over. I wanted to start over and begin living a billionaire’s life.
I had to leave everything in the past. And the sooner the better, so that the past would become just that. The past.
***
On D-Day I sat on my couch and sipped Scotch. It was June 19th and I was relieved that I didn’t have to be there for the move. The extraction of Jack’s artwork began that morning, and I tried to find ways to keep myself occupied as the day waned into dusk.
I paced my house and wondered if I’d ever be entirely free of the nightmares that occupied my waking hours. Scotch began to hold me and caress me, and I zoned out to Pink Floyd. For a brief time, the tight grip that he held me in began to release. I revelled in that rare moment.
But when the remaining rays of the day’s sun set on my troubled mind, the horror set in again. The darkness poured through my bay windows like waves of ugly black fear. Even the random flickering warmth of the fire couldn’t thaw the frost on my heart. I drank more Scotch – for it was the only way that I knew, the only way I could deal with the knowledge that they were both gone. I patted myself on the back: I was finally free from the horrible, thirty-three year-long nightmare.
I watched the lockbox that dominated my coffee table. I had brought it out the night before because something still ate at me. I thought that by going over his scrawls again I might find some kind of sens
e that would give meaning and closure to the horrible cancer that ate my soul.
It sat as if in stubborn defiance. Just the way Jack used to. I had managed to pore over most of his random rants, but there were pages that quite frankly, I had no desire to read. He became more manic as the pages progressed, and I grew tired of trying to decipher what he was trying to tell me. I was terrified of knowing what really went on in his mind.
While I sat and puffed a cigarette however, I thought about the move. And I despised myself when curiosity got the best of me.
I reached into the box and grabbed the last remaining stack. Placing it on the table, I flipped through the first few pages. Hell, they weren’t pages. They were pieces of cardboard boxes and tissue paper. One ‘page’ was etched into something that looked like leather – just no type of leather that I’d ever seen. I shuddered and tried not to wonder what creature it came from. I placed it on the table and examined the last page. It was square and carefully folded into an eighth of its original size. After I unfolded it, I trembled.
It was the original blueprint for the house. The same one, I assumed, that he showed me that fateful day in Montreal.
Easy, Mate. This can only be touched by me.
I placed the box on the floor and spread the blueprint on the coffee table. Taking a long remaining draw from my cigarette, I stamped it out and studied the page that sat before me. The house’s strange design still seemed familiar. But like first time that I saw it, it still eluded me. I read the computer-generated script along the top of the page: Icarus Manor. I shivered and noticed that the fire was beginning to die, so I got up and tossed more wood on it. Even though it was almost summer it was a chilly night. Either that or I suffered from poor circulation.
I carefully sipped Scotch and peered at the blueprint. That and the yellow sticky note that was attached to the upper right hand corner. I peeled it off with trembling fingers.
Jack’s messy and sometimes illegible handwriting. Actually, it bore a strong resemblance to mine. Maybe that made it easier for me to decipher, I don’t know. It contained a simple message, but I knew there was a deeper meaning in it.
The House that Jack Built Page 43
