“Absolutely not, Blake. I would never accept it. But I thank you, with all my heart.”
“I should have done something before this.”
“What do you mean?”
His gloved hands gripped the wide steering wheel, and his gaze was fixed on something beyond the windscreen. “I tried once,” he said, his accent softening and broadening into the old Southern drawl. “I spoke to Mr. Dickson, because I knew Mrs. Edith wouldn’t believe me.”
“When was that?”
“It was getting bad,” he said. “You were ten, I think, and Mr. Preston was eight.”
“Oh. The stairs.”
“Yes.” He drew a slow breath. “No one could believe that a little boy like that . . .” His voice trailed off.
It was true. Despite the bite marks, the bruises, the cuts, once a burned hand, no one had believed Preston capable of deliberate violence. It had become a conspiracy of silence, and Blake had been Margot’s only protector. Preston was the shadow that had darkened all of her childhood and adolescence.
Now, he had found an even more damaging way to hurt her.
She put her hand on the door. Blake made a move as if to get out and help her, but she said, “No. Don’t get out, Blake, please.”
She climbed out of the car and stood looking down at him. “It’s worse since he came back from the war,” she said. “He shouldn’t have had any power in this. Any power over me.”
Blake said, in a voice she barely recognized, “Never you mind, Dr. Margot.” Nevah. “You let me handle it.”
Her indrawn breath ached in her chest. “Be careful, Blake. He’s strong now.”
“Yes.” Blake put his hand on the gearshift. “Don’t you worry. Go to your clinic, see your patients.”
“But what are you going to do? What can you do?”
He smiled up at her, a bleak smile that made her eyes sting. He started to say something, then evidently thought better of it, and turned his face forward.
As he put the car in gear, she stepped back. She stood very still, watching him turn the car and proceed up the street at his usual deliberate pace. She had a terrible feeling she should do something, call him back, stop him. She was tempted, despite the indignity of it, to run after the car, shouting his name.
She didn’t, of course. He would have hated that. But she would wish, later, that she had done it anyway.
Blake had never been to Dickson Benedict’s office. In the normal way of things, he would pull the Essex up in front of the Smith Tower and wait for his employer to emerge. Now, for the first time, he parked the automobile on the street. He brushed his coat with his gloved hands before he walked up the steps and into the paneled lobby.
The elevator operator, a Negro like himself, wearing a neat red-and-black uniform, gave him a strange look. “Floor?”
“Eighteen.” He stood at the back, stiffly, as the bars of the elevator swept past floor after floor.
When the doors of the elevator opened, the operator said, “Eighteen. Uh, sir.” Blake nodded to him as he stepped out.
He scanned the doors until he found the Benedict name. He lifted his hand to knock, then judged it was better to simply open the door. A receptionist seated behind a large black typewriter glanced up. “Good morning,” she said in a frosty tone.
He crossed the room, taking off his cap as he went. “Good morning, ma’am. I’d like to see Mr. Benedict, please.”
“Senior?” The young woman was pretty, rosy-cheeked and smoothly coiffed, but there was ice in her gaze. Briefly, Blake wondered if that ice melted when she was away from her wide, official-looking desk.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Mr. Benedict’s driver.”
“Oh, yes. Blake, isn’t it.” This was not a question. She rose immediately. “Let me see if Mr. Benedict is free.”
She went through a heavy oak door, closing it behind her, but she was back in only seconds. “Mr. Benedict will see you, Blake,” she said. She stood to one side, holding the door, and shut it after he had walked through.
Dickson sat at a massive mahogany desk. Papers and ledgers were scattered across it, with an assortment of pens and ink bottles of different colors. He looked up as Blake came in, lifting his bushy eyebrows high. “I hope nothing’s wrong, Blake?”
“I can’t reassure you on that count, Mr. Dickson.” Blake stood opposite the desk, his hat in his two hands, looking down at the man who had made the renaissance of his life possible.
Dickson’s brows fell, drew together. “Everyone all right at home?” Blake nodded, and Dickson waved at a chair. “Sit down.”
Blake would have preferred to stand, but he thought if he sat this conversation might seem less like a confrontation. He pulled the chair forward, so that when he sat down, he was facing Dickson directly. He held his cap on his lap. “Sir,” he began. Suh. A pronunciation he had schooled out of himself years ago.
Dickson said, “Something to drink, Blake?”
Blake shook his head. “No, thank you, sir.”
Dickson leaned back in his heavy wooden chair. It had armrests six inches wide, and he propped his elbows on these, steepling his fingers before him. “You sound very Southern today, Blake. What’s happened?”
“It’s the hospital, Mr. Dickson.”
There was no mistaking the look of sorrow that pulled at Dickson Benedict’s features. He gave a slight groan. “They didn’t,” he said, half under his breath.
“Yes, sir. They revoked Dr. Margot’s privileges.”
“Goddamn it. Those chickenhearted bastards.” Dickson made a fist of one hand, and punched it into his other palm. “I wish Margot had let me—”
“Mr. Preston was there this morning, Mr. Dickson. At the hospital.”
Dickson’s brows rose again. “Preston? Why on earth? Was he visiting Loena?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“What was he doing there, then?”
Blake drew a deep breath. “I have something to say, Mr. Dickson. It’s not easy. I would appreciate it if you would hear me out.”
“Of course, Blake. You’ve earned the right to tell me whatever you think I should hear.”
Blake nodded. It was the best thing Dickson could have said, and it was no surprise. He had always been fair. Hard sometimes, but fair. As he thought for a moment how best to begin, his employer waited, watching his face.
Blake let his gaze rise to the wide window. Beyond the glass, the clouds had dropped to hide the Olympics from view. A freighter chugged across the bay, its gray hull nearly the same color as the water. He said, “I blame myself for not trying harder to make you understand, years ago.” Dickson shifted in his chair, but he didn’t speak. “It’s not seemly, a full-grown man complaining about a little boy. Especially a Negro telling tales about a white child.”
Blake heard the short, small hiss of Dickson’s breath. He kept his eyes on the somber view, watching the plume of smoke from the freighter’s chimneys rise to blend with the rain-laden clouds. He began a slow nod, a rhythmic, repetitive movement to accompany the painful words he spoke. “It started when he was very young, no more than four. He bit Miss Margot, and he hit Mr. Dick with his toys. They complained, but everyone put it down to childish fights. As Mr. Dick got bigger, Preston left him alone. But Miss Margot—”
Blake dragged his gaze back to Dickson. Dickson was watching him from beneath his brows, his lips pulled into a hard line. He didn’t speak.
Blake said, “He burned her, and got scolded for playing with matches. He drowned a kitten she was fond of, but no one believed he did it. I hoped he would grow out of it. I tried to believe it was just sibling jealousy, as you and Mrs. Edith did. Until the day he pushed Miss Margot down the stairs. She could have been terribly injured then, even killed.” He hesitated. “I started watching, trying to be there as much as I could. He wouldn’t hurt her if Mrs. Edith was around, or Mr. Dick. You may remember, sir, I spoke to you about it once.”
Dickson nodded, gazing at Blake
through heavy-lidded eyes.
One way or the other, Blake thought, this was the end of his position at Benedict Hall. He had understood that the moment he heard the news. It made him immensely sad, but he saw no other choice. He said, “We thought it might be better after he came back from the war.”
Dickson growled, “Who thought?”
“Dr. Margot and I, sir.” He hesitated. “It’s worse, though. Worse than ever.” Evuh.
“How?”
Blake explained the night visit of the man Carter. “I gave him what money I had, Mr. Benedict, and he confessed to me that Mr. Preston had paid him to spread rumors. And then today—sir, Mr. Preston went to the board and told them Dr. Margot performed Loena’s abortion.”
Dickson closed his eyes, and pressed his forefingers against the lids. He said in a voice like gravel, “Blake. Are you sure she didn’t?”
Blake stared at Dickson in disbelief. “I am,” he finally said. Ah am. “Aren’t you?”
Dickson opened his eyes, dropping his hands to the arms of his chair. “I can’t see why Preston would lie.”
Blake paused as he searched for the words he needed. He decided, in the end, there were none good enough, none that could explain. He could only be blunt. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Dickson.” He spoke ponderously, painfully. “There’s something wrong with Mr. Preston. There’s something wrong in his soul.”
Dickson gripped the armrests of his chair as he spoke. “Blake. I don’t know the man you’re describing. That’s not my son. It couldn’t be.” He didn’t sound angry, which was odd, Blake thought. He sounded sad.
“No one wants to hear such things, Mr. Dickson. I understand that.”
“He can be foolish. He’s a bit frivolous—young men are.”
Something sharp and hurtful twisted in Blake’s chest. He said, “Yes, sir,” very quietly.
Dickson said, a little defensively, “I offered to help Margot with the board.”
“Yes, sir. She wanted to handle it on her own. Perhaps now—”
“I don’t see why Preston would speak against her. But I’ll ask him.”
It was the same old argument. Justification. Rationalization. Blake turned his cap in his lap, one revolution, then lifted his hands from it. He had no further argument to make.
Dickson said, with some gentleness, “What is it you would have me do, Blake?”
Blake could only shake his head. He had run out of words. There was nothing left for him to do but take action. He would have to confront Preston himself.
He wished he had done it when he was a younger man.
CHAPTER 14
The rain cleared away in the middle of the afternoon, and the roads and lawns and sidewalks dried quickly in the mild sunshine. The populace adopted a sort of giddy mood, celebrating the fragile summer weather. They walked the streets in shirtsleeves, hatless, tipping up their faces to feel the sun on their cheeks. It still felt cool to Blake, despite thirty years in this northern city. He should have gotten used to the pallid Seattle summers by now, but somehow, when August came, he yearned for the melting heat of the Carolinas. Old bones, he thought now. Old bones are always cold.
He drove home from the Smith Tower to Benedict Hall, and left the Essex in the drive. He saw no point in going into the house. There was no one he could confide in.
He felt every one of his years as he climbed the stairs to his apartment over the carriage house. How had it come to be that he was so lonely? He was hardly ever alone, yet there was no one to share this burden with him. The only person who would understand would also adamantly try to dissuade him, and he couldn’t allow that. He would do this for her sake.
He spent the afternoon alone, gathering his few defenses. He wished he had said just one more word to Dr. Margot, something she would understand later, but it was too late for that now. He took comfort in knowing she would understand. Someone had to protect her, or one of these days Preston would do more than just ruin her reputation and destroy everything she had worked so hard to achieve. One of these days, Preston Benedict would succeed in killing his sister.
Blake carried his teacup to the sink, rinsed it, and set it in the strainer. He stared through his window at the elegant house on the other side of the lawn. It looked peaceful and well organized. The lawn was clipped and green. The walls glowed clean and white in the sunshine. The camellia stood proud and tall, its glossy leaves shading the north-facing windows. It was the most beautiful place Blake had ever lived, and it was hard to leave it.
But it was time. He took off his driving coat and hung it over the back of a chair. He took his old canvas jacket from its peg and put it on. He left his cap on the table. On his way out, he picked up his marble-topped cane. He opened the front passenger door of the Essex and laid the cane on the seat, where he could quickly put his hand on it. He saw Hattie looking at him from the kitchen window, where she had begun dinner preparations. He nodded to her as if there was nothing unusual about the afternoon. He got into the driver’s seat, pressed the ignition, and rolled the big car out of the drive, turning left on Fourteenth Avenue, then right down Aloha.
Preston was just emerging from the Times building, chatting with an older man, when Blake pulled up to the curb. Blake didn’t get out of the car, but waited while Preston, looking pleased to have the car come for him, said good-bye to his companion and opened the door to let himself into the backseat.
As he settled himself, he said, “Blake? Where’s your cap?”
“I left it home.” Blake heard the soft slur of his Carolina accent, but Preston didn’t seem to notice. He pulled the car out into the road, and drove south on Fifth, then east on Madison.
“So, what’s the occasion? You made me look important to my editor, back there.” Preston leaned back in the seat, and chuckled. “Thanks for that, Blake.”
Blake said nothing.
A moment later, Preston said, “Blake—you missed the turn.”
“Yes, sir.” Suh.
Preston leaned forward to peer out through the windscreen. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”
For answer, Blake depressed the accelerator, and shifted into a higher gear. Preston fell back against the seat with a little intake of breath. A moment later he laughed. “A surprise, eh? You must have something up your sleeve!”
Blake still didn’t speak, but he glanced into the rearview mirror. He saw Preston smooth his tie, then slip his hand beneath it and hold it there. He didn’t notice Blake watching him. He had turned his head to gaze out the window in an unconcerned fashion.
Blake turned south again, toward the Rainier Valley, where the Italian farmers grew peas and corn and summer squash. He turned into an unpaved road that ran up a gentle hill and wound through groves of pine and fir and cedar. Every detail of the landscape, the blue sky, the scudding clouds, seemed preternaturally sharp. The air through his open window smelled sweeter than he could ever remember. Below the rise stretched the Jefferson Park golf links, green and rolling, with flashes of blue water here and there. The road dwindled to a track, ending in a cleared space, where broken wagons and outdated farm equipment had been abandoned. Blake pulled the car up between a rusted axle and half an iron plough, turned off the motor, and set the brake.
Preston said lightly, “What is it you want, Blake? Why have you brought me here?”
Blake secured the keys in the breast pocket of his jacket before he unlatched his door and climbed out. He reached back inside the front seat for his cane, then opened the passenger door and held it wide. “Get out of the car, Mr. Preston.”
Preston gave his most cherubic smile. “Are we having a picnic?” His eyes flicked over the cane, but he had seen it many times before, propped innocently against the wall of Blake’s apartment. He didn’t move.
“Get out.”
Preston appeared to consider for a moment, then, with a negligent shrug, slid across the seat. He stepped out of the car without glancing again at the cane. He stood for a moment, looking down
at the golf links. “Funny,” he said. “The golf course looks different from here.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Blake took a firmer grip on the cane as Preston turned to face him.
“What are you doing with that?” Preston asked. His smile was as cheery and untroubled as a child’s. “You always told us never to touch it.”
Blake turned the cane so he held it in both hands. “I have used this twice as a weapon, Mr. Preston,” he said slowly, pedantically, the way he used to teach the children the alphabet or instruct them in the use of a hammer. “I spent six years of my life in Chatham County Convict Camp for murdering one Mr. Franklin Blake. That murder, as it happens, I didn’t do. I did, however, commit two others. I went into the camp an innocent boy. I was not the same when I came out.” The marble lion’s head glittered in the lowering sun as he reversed the cane to point its rubber tip at Preston.
Preston’s brows lifted, and his mouth quirked in amusement. “And why should you need to worry about that now? Faithful retainer of Benedict Hall, longtime butler of Mr. Dickson—”
His words broke off. He flinched as Blake pressed the tip of the cane against his chest.
Blake said, “When I was a good deal younger than you, I felt the bite of this wood more times than I can count.”
Preston’s smile faded.
Blake’s resolve hardened his mind. It was a tool in itself, like iron molded in the fire, then chilled in a barrel of water. He had reached his destination. There was no going back. “I’m nearly fifty-five years old now, Preston. An old man.”
Preston tilted his head to one side, and regarded him, unsmiling now. “You are old, aren’t you, Blake? You probably feel you can waste away an evening, lazing in the sunshine. But I’m a young man, and I have things to do. Could we get on with—whatever this is?”
Blake pressed harder with the cane. Something moved beneath the tip, something hard that rolled beneath Preston’s shirt. “I want you to set things right for Dr. Margot. Tell the hospital board the truth.”
Preston laughed in his face. “You want? Who are you to tell me what you want, Blake?” He didn’t look at the cane, and he didn’t flinch again.
Benedict Hall Page 24
