The Heir

by Paul Robertson

  “Are you? Wait, you said you have no specific suspect. Do you have an alibi?”

  Far out at sea for the whole weekend, no communications. And the night of Melvin’s wreck, I was home alone. “Actually, no.”

  “Interesting, but not news. I’m still waiting.”

  “So I’m taking Bright down first.”

  “That’s news. What do you mean?”

  “I am finding out that his dealings with my companies aren’t legitimate, and I’m going public.”

  “The public reads my newspaper. You want me to break this story?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a thud, a pause, then Stan’s voice, breathless. “Sorry, I dropped the phone. Okay, Jason, on the record, tell me stuff. Do you have any clue what this means?”

  “I have a clue and I have many documents from Melvin Boyer’s estate. They have lots of details about bribes, bid-rigging, kickbacks, and intimidation. There are lots of names of Governor Bright’s appointees.”

  “What about your side?”

  “Heads will have to roll.”

  “Where are these documents?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “I’m coming over there. This is the end of Bright. This is . . . Does Fred Spellman know you’re doing this?”

  “Yeah, I told him. He’s not real happy.”

  “I bet. Okay . . . um . . . these documents . . . Are you acknowledging that you’re giving them to me?”

  Good question. An unnamed source? Stan would be snowed under with subpoenas. And it would be better if I gave them to the police voluntarily, before the police came asking for them. “I’m meeting with the FBI tomorrow. Someone on my staff sent you an unauthorized preliminary copy.”

  “We can work with that.”

  20

  Almost nine o’clock. I sat down with Pamela to give her the sixty pages from my file cabinet and instructions.

  “Take these papers,” I said, “and make three sets of copies. Put the originals and one set of copies back in the file room. Mail one copy to Nathan Kern. At exactly nine fifteen, a man will come in here and say the word Natalie. Give him the third copy.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Is there any note to put in Mr. Kern’s envelope?”

  “I’ll call him. Mark it Personal.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Make an appointment for me. Have the most important FBI person in the state here tomorrow at nine.” Wait. “No, get someone from Boston or New York. From outside the state.”

  “All right.”

  “Have Fred Spellman there, too. And one more thing.” This was a little hard. “These four people.” I gave her the list. “Do you know them?”

  She gave me a sweet, inscrutable, grandmotherly look. “Of course, Jason.” The FBI and these four in the same breath. She knew what that meant.

  “I need to fire them.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “How would Melvin do that?”

  “That would depend on their positions and his reasons.”

  I was getting to be in a hurry now. “Take a letter. One of these to each of them, copy to their division presidents, board officers, and personnel files. ‘Dear John. After reviewing records of your performance, I find that it is no longer possible to continue your relationship with this company. I am terminating your employment effective immediately. Jason Boyer.’ Will that do?”

  “Honey, you must know what you’re doing.”

  “Not hardly.”

  She was typing faster than any human could while she asked, “How do you want them delivered?”

  “Have couriers deliver signed originals to the division presidents, and the presidents are to personally hand them to the individuals. But make sure it happens today. This morning.”

  “I’ll make sure. The copies for you are printing.”

  “And I’ll be unavailable the rest of the day.”

  By nine twenty I had navigated twenty blocks to reach the edge between downtown and the gentrified clump of historic townhouses, restaurants, and clubs that were slowly encroaching on the real working-class neighborhoods farther on. I parked in a garage under a six-story brick building, elevated to the fifth floor, and knocked on the one door in the small lobby.

  After not too long of a wait, the door opened. Eric’s blurred eyes stared at me a moment. Then he grinned.

  “Jason!”

  “Let me in,” I said.

  “Yeah, come on.”

  The maid did a good job keeping up with him. The living room was neat, and nothing was out of place in the kitchen.

  But it was uninspired—no better than his old wardrobe. No theme, no color plan, too many textures. Leather and brass sofa and matching chairs circling an unmatching slate coffee table with heavy wood legs. Thick, deep green carpet. One whole twenty-five-foot wall a single huge entertainment center with five televisions. Not a thing on the walls. Tsk, tsk. He didn’t even realize he was living in squalor. Someday Katie would have to turn her attention to this place.

  “Do you want anything?” he asked. He didn’t get to be host very often. He’d been eating breakfast, a bowl of cereal in front of one television.

  “Orange juice,” I said. He poured a glass and brought it to me.

  “So,” he said as I drank it, “did you mean it?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said.

  “Wow. Okay. So when should we go?”

  “When you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready.” He took his bowl to the kitchen, emptied it into the sink, rinsed it, and set it on the counter by the dishwasher. His maid had him well trained.

  He was well trained in general, always doing what he was told. For today at least he would be in charge. “You drive,” I said.

  “Cool.” He appreciated it. I never rode with him. “How far?”

  “New Hampshire.”

  “That’s where she was from, right?”

  He wouldn’t have dared to ask Melvin, so I was the only other person who could have told him anything.

  “Why didn’t you ever ask before?” I said. “I just thought you knew.”

  “Well . . .” He hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to know.”

  I just waited, and he went on.

  “When I was little, when we were off at school, I liked to pretend I had a mother back home, like everyone else.”

  “Sure.”

  “If I didn’t know anything, I could still pretend whatever I wanted to.”

  “Are you okay with going today?”

  He nodded. “I want her to be real now.”

  “Here’s a new rule, um, Number 90. Don’t ever be afraid to talk to me about anything.”

  “Unless you’re mad.”

  “The spaghetti was a special case. I said I was sorry.”

  “And you skipped Number 89.”

  “I’m sure we’ll get to it soon.”

  Eric had opened a closet, and he took down a bright green helmet. He held it out to me. “Here you go.”

  I would maybe wear a helmet when he was driving, but that was not what he meant. This was a motorcycle helmet.

  “Uh . . . okay,” I said. Bright Kool-Aid green. Couldn’t it at least be any other color?

  “And here.” It was the matching jacket. “It’s cold. Do you want the pants?”

  I was supposed to be Motorcycle Man? Eric waited for me to not decide.

  “You want the pants. And the boots. Why be cold when you can be cool instead? And if I drop you, it won’t hurt as much.”

  Eric In Charge was a new experience for both of us. I submitted to his directions, and there we were, Evel and Knievel, tromping through the garage past my perfectly comfortable car, past all his perfectly comfortable cars, to the Boyercycle Zone.

  He selected the largest horse in the stable, a two-seat Honda Goldwing. He put on his helmet, and so did I. All systems go, Houston. Ready for countdown.

  Eric stuck his hand under my chin and moved a swit
ch.

  “Can you hear me?” he said inside my head. The helmets had speakers.

  “Yes.”

  “Cool. I’ve never had anybody to talk to before.”

  Not that we would much, but I wouldn’t have to pound on him to get his attention.

  “Don’t kill me, Eric,” I said.

  “Is that Rule 89?”

  The astronauts climbed into the space shuttle, Commander Eric first, Navigator Jason second. Five, four, three. The engine roared to life. Two, one. A jerk (the motion, not the passenger). Blast off.

  We made a wide left sweep toward the exit, then right, faster and tighter, into the road.

  “Lean into it, Jason. Don’t fight the turns.”

  The rocket sped down the quaint and historic road. “Have you ever had a rider before?”

  “No. It’s different.” Right turn. I leaned into it. “That’s better,” he said, then gunned the engine. “Hold on.”

  I held.

  He twisted the handle grip and the motorcycle accelerated hard.

  But not too hard. Lots of people drive these things, so they couldn’t be too difficult. I could feel his skill, though, and his confidence, and his exultation. He wasn’t going to drop me.

  Lean right into the entrance ramp. Around the circle, the concrete twelve inches from my shoulder, moving very rapidly. Onto the highway, back to straight ahead, back to vertical, back to fast. Increase to real fast.

  “You still there?”

  “Right behind you.”

  He gunned the engine. “Get ready.”

  I couldn’t judge the speed.We passed cars and no cars passed us.

  But he knew how to do this; he’d never had a ticket.

  “How do you like it?”

  “It’s real sweet, Eric.”

  He did this about every day. Just following the roads, every paved mile in New England, two wheels or four wheels, whatever he felt like.

  We crossed into Massachusetts. “Where are we going?”

  “You know where Laconia is?”

  “Yeah.”

  No map. He knew the way. This was his life, or his escape from life.

  How were he and I alike? The boat and the bike were both speed and power, but sailing was a contest, me against the sea and wind. He was master of this machine and the road under it, no contest.

  This was his world to be in charge of. He’d never been in charge of his life—always shuffled from school to school, told what to do, never certain of what would be permanent. I was his only permanence.

  And I was always in charge, of him and everything else. I hated anyone telling me to do anything, so they didn’t. Maybe I got along with the wind because I had to respect it. There isn’t much else in my life I have to.

  This was the same wind we were cutting through. My brother didn’t respect it, he reveled in it. He was the wind. He was a Boyer as much as I was.

  What a wonderful bright day we were in, and there were mountains around us. I’d missed the New Hampshire border.

  What about the Rove side? I just had memories of her, and Eric had nothing. How much of our mother did either of us have?

  No clouds, just blue, blue sky. The sky and the bike were the only things not moving. The mountains moved slowly.

  “There’s a place up here if you want lunch.”

  “You’re driving,” I said.

  Off the highway, lean way over to the right. Country road.

  “Up here” meant “way over there.” All the curves they’d taken out of the highway they’d put on this road. Lean left, lean right, slow behind a car, fast around it, up a hill, down a hill, fork right, hard left. This was more of a contest.

  Slow down, we were stopped. It was a diner built off a white house with a gravel parking lot, a picket fence, and some flowers. Suddenly it was easy to breathe, and quiet. The ground was solid and unmoving.

  I took a few steps and pulled off the helmet. Eric was still sitting, his helmet off, grinning and watching me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. It just takes a minute to get my balance.”

  He swung himself out of the saddle and unzipped his jacket. I was hot and I took mine off.

  We went up the steps and in the door. The inside was the same as the outside, nice, plain, a little worn. The floor was tile. One table had people.

  The woman behind the counter had been there a long time, thirty years maybe. She glanced up from the cash register.

  “Eric. You brought a friend.” She stared at me. “Looks like he’s your brother.”

  Eric smiled real big. “Yeah, he is. I’ve told you about him? This is Jason.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute. What do you want to drink?” she asked me.

  “Just water.”

  She was already filling a cup with lemonade. She brought the two drinks to the table.

  “Hamburger, mushroom and Swiss,” she said, writing, without asking him.

  “Two of them,” he said. “It’s great,” he said to me.

  “Okay.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Onion rings,” I said.

  “Me too,” little brother said. “Thanks, Hazel.”

  Hazel was friendly but not talkative, and someone else came in for her to attend to.

  “So you come here often.”

  Eric nodded. “It’s one of my places.” Hazel’s lingering aura left just the right mood.

  “So, what do you remember about our mother?” I didn’t even really know what to call her.

  “Wow. Um, I don’t know. All the pictures make me think I remember her. I wouldn’t though, would I?”

  “You were two,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “I remember . . .” It’s hard to put in words what you experienced before you knew the words. “I remember her in bed, or sitting. She sang lullabies to us. I remember thinking she was different from other people because she didn’t move. She just sat in her chair or in her bed.” Only to Eric could I say this. “I remember feeling loved. I loved her. I wish you could remember.”

  We ate the food, which was passable, and we dealt with our tragedy. It was the first time we had.

  Melvin was thirty-two and she was twenty-one. His father had died, and he was already rich and getting richer. His mother introduced them at a Christmas party. The Roves were a respectable old New Hampshire family, and she was very pretty. He swept her off her feet. They honeymooned in Paris and Rome and Athens. She was shy but brave, and he was bold, and together they were dashing. They had those two free and golden years together, then three more as happy parents. He had become very busy by then.

  Then, partway through her second pregnancy, the doctors found something wrong. The baby was fine, the delivery was easy, but the cancer could not be stopped. There were two more years as she weakened. She had the best care, but he had many other cares, and she understood that he could not be with her as much. Her affection had only her children to be lavished upon. As her life faded, it intensified, and she lived fifty years in only half that many months. When she died she was young and wise, both full and emptied of life, her husband, for once, at her side. I had pieced it together from the fragments I had.

  And I think, I think, she learned what she had lived for. Maybe she had always known, or maybe it was in the last years that she came to know. As a child, I put everything I could into my memories of her—impressions and details I didn’t understand but I knew were important. And now as an adult I sift through the memories, artifacts left by an ancient world, and I try to decipher what they mean. And . . . I think they mean that she knew, absolutely, why she lived the life she did.

  “You were at her funeral, weren’t you?” Eric asked.

  I was, and again my memory of it was of a five-year-old’s impression— of a big church with big pews and the casket far away, and endless sitting, and my first smell of death: flowers and candles. At my funeral I will have neither.

&nb
sp; After the service I did not go to the cemetery. I was packed off to someplace that had toys, and a woman with a sharp nose read books to me about rabbits.

  “Have you ever been to her grave?”

  We were back on the motorcycle, ready to pull out onto the road.

  “Twice. Somebody took me a couple years later. I don’t know why. Then I came once when I was in college.”

  We were not far. Eric kept going on the two-lane road, winding, climbing, and falling, and then I told him where to turn. And then it was ahead of us, a simple white wooden country church and its timeless churchyard.

  There was nothing to say. We got off the bike, and I doubted the suitability of our appearance. I took my jacket off and left it. I would have even taken off the leather pants, which were over my regular pants, but it would have been awkward; and then I would have had to put them back on, which would have been even more awkward.

  So we disturbed the cemetery with our gaudy presence. But that small, quiet place was strong enough; its presence dwarfed ours. When the first graves were dug here, it may have been clear and open. Now huge ancient trees shaded it.

  I knew where her grave was, and we walked straight to it. It was proper for the surroundings—calm, modest, and meaningful. We stood beside it, and I was completely lost.

  Why am I here? There had to be a betrayal here, somewhere. She died of cancer, not a broken heart, but Melvin still betrayed her. He betrayed her by betraying us, me and Eric. And now I had betrayed Angela, and we’d both done it for the same reason—that money and power had rendered inconvenient what should have been important.

  Why was I killing Governor Bright, or at least his career? Because I don’t like people telling me what to do? Jason is in charge—nobody bosses me around? Because the money is in charge.

  Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life?

  There was a conflagration back home that I’d ignited. I was going to pull down the governor and half his administration. I was going to rock the state—people would go to prison, lives would be ruined. There was a lot at stake. But it had to be done. What other choice did I have?

  What would my mother think of me?

  “Ready?” I said. It was time to get back.

  “Yeah.”

  We walked back to the church, but then I turned to look in. This was not where the funeral had been, but it should have been. A real church, hallowed by generations of lives centered around it and what it stood for. I only smelled wood. Was this the church her family had been part of? She had gone to church. She had taken me; I suddenly remembered that.