The gates to Colline were closed. Gibson pulled his car up to the intercom. A man’s voice answered after a long wait, and Gibson told him who he was. The gate swung open, and he drove up to the house.
A butler in a black suit opened the door and welcomed him.
“Good evening, sir. My name is Davis. Ms. Dauplaise is expecting you.”
“She is?”
“Yes. She’s been waiting for… one of you.”
“Well, I’m here.”
“May I offer you anything? A drink, perhaps?”
Being invited in and offered a drink by a butler wasn’t exactly how Gibson had imagined this playing out, but since he was offering…
“I’d take a beer.”
“Very good, sir.”
Davis left him alone in the entry hall filled with portraits, sculptures, and the hollow echo of disappearing footfalls. Colline was enormous in its silence.
Waiting in a hideously expensive armchair, Gibson adjusted Billy’s gun, which rested uncomfortably against the small of his back. On the top step of the tall staircase at the far end of the hall, Catherine Dauplaise sat watching him. It had only been a little more than a month since she had introduced herself to him at her birthday party—it seemed many lifetimes ago. Catherine was wearing a pretty blue dress. Her hands were on her knees, chin resting on her balled-up fists.
He waved, and, after a moment, she waved back.
Davis came back with his beer wrapped in a yellow cloth napkin. Fancy.
“If you’ll follow me, sir.”
Davis led him through the house and out to the veranda where Gibson had first met Calista. The tables and tents from the birthday party were long gone, and Colline appeared all the more regal and expansive without the clutter. Wrought-iron furniture looked out over the property, and enormous planters blazed with every kind of flower. Somehow he’d missed the koi pond altogether. At the top of the stairs, Davis stopped and pointed to the cupola at the far end of the gardens.
“Ms. Dauplaise is just there. I apologize, but she instructed that I send you on alone. If you follow the footpath, it will take you around the hedgerow.”
“Get the girl packed.”
“She already is, sir.”
Of course she was. “This fucking woman.”
“Yes, sir.”
Like so much nineteenth-century architecture in Washington, the cupola was inspired by the city’s early obsession with the Greeks. Doric columns supported the domed roof and flanked a set of heavy, metal-banded doors. A low wall circled the central crypt, and several rows of identical white headstones stood symmetrically along the inside.
Calista Dauplaise sat on a green metal chair between two graves. One appeared older, fully grown over. A simple white stone cross. A heavy gray marble headstone marked the other, which was topped with freshly laid sod.
Gibson detected none of Calista’s haughty imperiousness. She looked tired and aged. Her formally immaculate hair had been hastily tied up, and chaotic strands hung free. On her face was the faraway look of someone waiting for a bus that they were no longer sure would come. She clutched a handkerchief and didn’t look up when he approached.
“A safe trip, I trust?” she asked.
“Benjamin Lombard is dead.”
“Yes, I heard. It’s regrettable that some lack the fortitude to weather life’s hardships.”
“Should I thank you?”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said. “Won’t you sit?”
There was a second chair, but he didn’t want to be that close to her. Instead he circled around and leaned on the headstone of the fresh grave. It read, “Evelyn Furst.” She looked at him and anger flared in her eyes, but there wasn’t fuel enough to keep it burning.
“Please. A little respect. That is my sister.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Please.”
He took out the gun and rested it on the headstone. “Where is Suzanne?”
Surprise crossed Calista’s face.
“Don’t you know? Truly?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s right here. She always has been.”
He followed her eyes to the grave beside him with the simple white cross. There was no inscription. In Somerset, Hendricks had told him that Suzanne must be dead. He could still see Hendricks shaking his head at him. Hope is a cancer. Either you never learn the truth, or you do and go through that windshield at ninety because hope told you it was safe to make the drive without a seat belt.
He went through that windshield now, inertia flinging him cruelly away.
Oh, Bear, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Gibson reached for the gun.
“In childbirth,” Calista said. “She waited too long to contact me. She was already deep into labor when we arrived. It was complicated—a breach delivery. She’d lost so much blood. Evelyn did everything in her power, but the damage was profound. There was nothing at all we could do for her.”
“So you brought her here and buried her? I thought this was only for the ‘family Dauplaise.’ ”
“I made an exception. She was my goddaughter. I wasn’t about to abandon her body in the woods like an animal. My poor girl.”
“Your poor girl?” Gibson said. The gun was by his side now, the trigger cool against his finger. “Stop it. It’s pitiful. This charade that you’re avenging her somehow. My father came to you, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Told you his suspicions about Lombard. About Suzanne. You could have stopped it then. But you didn’t. Instead you sent that man to kill my father. You let it go on and on. You killed Suzanne.”
Calista shook her head. “Duke couldn’t be reasoned with. He didn’t understand how much was at stake. Benjamin could have been brought to his senses. If your father had only listened, none of this would have been necessary.”
“Shut up,” he said and raised the gun. “Not one more word.”
Calista had spent years twisting her evil into a logic that excused itself. What words could he speak to it? She had made right what was unforgivably wrong, and there would never be an argument against it that she would allow. But he would kill her if she said one word more.
“Why send us after her kidnapper? Why bother? Did you need revenge that badly?”
Calista looked up at him. “Do you really want an answer?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Do you know the value of a secret? I don’t mean some juicy tidbit known by a handful of insiders and gossiped about over drinks, but a real secret that would cause ruin if it were revealed. Do you know its value? Being the only one to know it. Just you and the person who fears it. Such a secret places that person’s life in your hands. They will do anything for you to keep it a little longer. Anything.” She stretched the word out to stress the implications. “It grants one absolute power over their lives. But only if you, and only you, know the truth.”
“So you waited all this time. Kept his secret. Just to ruin him now?”
“Is that the limit of your imagination, Mr. Vaughn? That I waited ten years to snatch his life’s ambition from him? Is that what you think you saw in Atlanta? Oh, you are a small-minded boy. I did what I’ve always done. What Benjamin was always too arrogant to admit he needed. I protected him.”
“Protected him?”
“What do you think a secret like this getting out would do to the president of the United States? It would be the end of him; the end of his presidency. And what do you think he would have done to ensure I kept his secret? Anything. I didn’t keep his secret to ruin him. Please. I kept Benjamin’s secret so that he would achieve his destiny.”
“And his presidency would have belonged to you.”
“To my family,” Calista corrected. “You asked why I sent you a
fter the man who took Suzanne’s photograph. I thought Terrance Musgrove closed that door long ago; I was mistaken. The photograph meant that there was someone else who knew the secret. If it were ever uncovered, my hold on Benjamin would have been erased. And I had sacrificed far too much to allow it.”
“My father.”
“Yes.”
“Kirby Tate. Terrance Musgrove. Billy Casper.”
“And Jenn Charles and Daniel Hendricks and Gibson Vaughn, had things gone to plan.”
George Abe, Michael Rilling, Gibson added silently to the list.
“Does Catherine know who she really is? That she’s ten, not eight?”
“She has her suspicions, but I’ll leave that to you.”
“What have you told her?”
“Only that her time here at Colline is at an end.”
He shook his head. “You talk about the decline of your family. Lady, you are the decline of your family.” He held up the gun. “This belonged to Billy Casper. He would have wanted you to have it.”
“Ah. When we met, you didn’t strike me as an ironist.”
“When you get sent looking for a missing girl who wasn’t missing… well, you pick it up quick.”
“You intend to kill me?”
“No, I intend for you to follow Benjamin’s example.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Imagine what will happen to your precious family name when all of this goes public.”
“Please. You would have gone to the police if you had enough to charge me.”
“What was it you said to me when we met? The only court that matters is the court of public opinion.”
“Oh, is it to be my life for my family’s reputation?”
“Yes.”
“Generous, but I must decline your offer.”
“It’s not a bluff.”
“It is a bluff. Don’t be petulant. I know your penchant for revenge, but you aren’t man enough to inflict that suffering on Catherine.”
“Catherine? What does she have to do with it?”
“Since you remember what I say with such clarity, I’m sure you recall what I said about secrets. Their power to destroy. You may hold my secret, but it is also Catherine’s secret, is it not? You cannot expose me without exposing her. And in exposing her, you’ll make her a pariah. A pathetic curiosity. Never to have a normal life.”
He stared at her in disgust.
“One moves the pieces one has left on the board, Mr. Vaughn. If you want me dead, it will only be by your hand. However, police response times are exceptional in this part of the city, so I do hope your affairs are in order.”
He eased his finger off the trigger.
“A wise decision.”
“I wish I could,” he said.
“And I you,” she said. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Stay away from Catherine. From all of us.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Vaughn.”
Gibson walked back to the house. His thoughts went back to Suzanne and to his father, and he felt himself go through the windshield again. The sensation of rudderless drifting returned, and he stood still until his nausea passed. It would be back. The windshield wasn’t done with him yet.
Catherine was sitting by the front door. As he neared the girl, he could see that her eyes were red and swollen from tears.
“Is it time to go?” she asked, her voice soft like falling paper.
“Yes. Do you want to come with me?”
She nodded. “Is Aunt C. coming to say good-bye?”
He shook his head. For a moment, he thought Catherine would start to cry again, but she composed herself and stood.
“Will you help me with my suitcase? It’s very heavy.”
It was. An entire lifetime was packed inside.
EPILOGUE
The Nighthawk Diner was busy, but they found two stools by the cash register. Gibson helped himself to a couple of menus. Toby Kalpar was busy behind the counter, and it took him a few minutes to work his way down to them. He put down ice water and looked questioningly at Gibson’s throat.
“Who’s your friend?” Toby asked.
“Catherine, this is my good friend Toby.”
She put her hand out. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Toby.”
Toby raised an eyebrow. “Not yours, obviously.”
“Kid, you’re making me look bad here,” Gibson said, elbowing her playfully in the ribs.
Catherine giggled. She sounded just like Bear. For the first time, he saw his small companion for who she was: Bear’s daughter. Bear had fought for this little girl. Given her life to keep her away from Benjamin Lombard. And in that light, it was amazing to look at Catherine now. Smiling, laughing. Bear’s little girl. Healthy and safe.
When Toby came back again, they ordered a large dinner. Gibson insisted on chocolate milkshakes when Catherine admitted she’d never had one before. When the food came, she ate tentatively at first, but then gobbled down her burger and fries. She slurped her milkshake and swung her feet under the stool. After dinner, they split a piece of apple pie.
“How old am I, really?” she asked in between bites.
“You’re ten.”
She thought that over.
“When is my real birthday?”
“February 6.”
“It’s always been in May before.”
“I know.”
“Do you think I can have another one this year?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“It’s not greedy?”
“Kiddo, it’s not greedy. It’ll be our secret, okay?”
“Okay.” She smiled at him. “Will you come to the party?”
“If I’m invited.”
She beamed. “I’ll invite you.”
“Then I’ll be there. But I want you to have one present early.”
He slid a photo across the counter to her.
“That’s a big frog,” she said. “Is that you?”
“It is.”
“Who is she?”
“That’s your mother.”
She looked again, more carefully this time.
“Did you know her well?” she asked.
“Yes, I knew her very well. She was smart like you. Do you like to read?”
Catherine nodded enthusiastically.
“So did your mom. She always had a book in her hands.”
“What was her favorite?”
He told her about The Fellowship of the Ring, about how he’d read it to Suzanne. Catherine seemed to like the story and studied the picture again as he told it to her. When he was done, he excused himself and stepped outside to make the phone call.
When they got back in the car, Catherine asked where they were going. “Home,” he said. She nodded and went right to sleep. If diner food was good for one thing, it was conking out kids.
Gibson drove south, alone with his thoughts. He thought about his childhood. Memories he’d suppressed for more than a decade. Of Bear and his dad. Good memories. Next season, he would take Ellie to her first baseball game. Although he wouldn’t ask her to listen to it on the radio. Not at first.
When they pulled into Pamsrest, the shops in the center of town were mostly closed. The town felt familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember the way. He found a gas station that was open and stopped to ask directions. A beautiful day was becoming an equally lovely night. He looked up at the faint stars before climbing back in the car.
Catherine was awake now.
They drove along the county road until they crossed the wood bridge over a dry creek bed. The fork hooked them toward the ocean, and a little after ten they pulled up at the house. It looked just as he’d remembered it.
“Is this it?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Ready to meet your grandma?”
“Do you think she’ll like me?”
“Are you kidding me? She’s going to love you.”
Out in the dark, he heard the creak and slam of a screen door.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a solitary pursuit, or so goes the familiar refrain. But for myself, the opposite proved true—in writing The Short Drop, I discovered that it was I who had been the solitary pursuit. I am surrounded by brilliant and loving people: family and friends—it took writing a novel for me to grasp fully how fortunate I am. It is to my shame that I am so late in learning that lesson, but I am grateful that in most cases it was not learned too late. I must begin with Mike Tyner, who provided the grist for Gibson Vaughn and who made me look considerably smarter than, in fact, I am; I continue to be amazed and alarmed at the breadth of your knowledge. Eric Schwerin and Gerald Smith gave me shelter from the storm that first difficult year; I am sorry I was not better company, but in retrospect that appears, selfishly, to have been for the best. Steve Feldhaus, who has always set the highest bar, was an irreplaceable conspirator; it would be a far different book without your peerless clarity. David and Linda Gibson opened their home at Blue Run Farm with boundless hospitality when I needed to get out of the city; the best pages of this book were written there. Lori Feathers made the introduction of a lifetime in David Hale Smith, who has already proven to be a home run of a man and an agent; it was the lunch that changed my life. Alan Turkus of Thomas & Mercer—your belief in The Short Drop made this next chapter in my life possible; I am deeply grateful for your guidance and passion. The brilliant Ed Stackler taught me invaluable lessons about editing while also making the process feel like working with an old friend. And to the readers who lent me a gentle shoulder on which to bang my head against stubborn characters and tangled plot points—Nathan Hughes, Karen Hooper, Allie Heiman, Christine Lopez, Brian Orzechowski, Giovanna Baffico, Tom Hughes, Michelle Mutert, David Kongstvedt, Drew Hughes, Daisy Weill, Ali FitzSimmons, Kit Manougian, Rennie O’Connor, Vanessa Brimner—your generosity astounds me. Lastly, I must thank my parents—I began with a cliché, and so I think I will end with one: this book would not exist without your love, support, and wisdom. This is not a figurative platitude but an honest and literal truth.
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