by Joshua Corin
“Maybe.”
“Everyone’s just overreacting,” Cassie said, then looked at Esme. “Right?”
Esme didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, she didn’t have to reply. Rachel replied for her:
“I’ll bet when Galileo was a kid, he used to torture animals,” the redhead suggested. “I’ll bet he used to strangle rabbits and gerbils and people would wonder where their pets were and I’ll bet he enjoyed it.”
“Do you think his parents knew?”
“How could they not?”
“Then all this is just as much their fault as his.”
“So, what, Rachel, it’s your parents’ fault you’re such a spaz?”
Now it was Rachel who punched Cassie in the shoulder. Hard.
Then silence. Had the conversation run its course?
Leave it to Rachel.
“So, Mrs. Stuart, are you still scared?”
Esme cocked her head. “Still?”
“That he’ll come after you and, you know…finish the job?”
This time no one chastised Rachel with a punch to the shoulder. Everyone was too stunned to move.
“Um…” replied Esme, which showed just how coherent her thoughts were at that moment. Had she thought about Galileo coming after her? Of course she had. Every day she had. She refused to live in fear, but she also had remained indoors 24/7 and on the sofa, far from any window, until very recently. But now all that had changed. Now she was back in the world, where Galileo could end you from a mile away.
“If he wanted her dead, he would have done it in Texas,” the boy whose uncle was an EMT softly spoke.
“Well, why didn’t he?”
Esme wanted to punch Rachel, just not in the shoulder.
“Rachel,” added Cassie, “why don’t you get us another pitcher of water?”
“But the pitcher’s not empty.”
“Why put off the inevitable?”
Rachel grimaced, rose to her feet, and carried the pitcher out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” said Cassie.
“It’s okay,” lied Esme. “Why don’t we get back to work?”
The circus was in town. It always showed the first weekend of April, with the crowning of the chokecherries. Donald Chappell had attended it when he was a boy, marveling at the caged lions in the big top. The lions had been his favorite part. He had only read about lions before, in the Narnia books, and here they were, alive and beautiful, just as he had imagined. When he had a son of his own, he passed down his love of the April circus, and his collection of Narnia books. Now Donald was here with his boy’s boy, his grandson, little Joey, Joey who couldn’t stand still, Joey who had never heard of C. S. Lewis and didn’t much care when Donald tried to explain who Aslan was. Joey was more interested in his cotton candy than in the show.
When Donald was a boy, the circus seemed to come out of nowhere, like magic, and that felt right. Then one day, shortly after the Unity for a Better Tomorrow began to become successful, the managers of the circus paid Donald and his wife a call. As prominent local business owners, would they be interested in helping to subsidize the circus? It could be tax deductible, they boasted. It could provide great PR, they exclaimed.
That night, in bed, Donald almost cried.
The Unity for a Better Tomorrow did end up subsidizing the circus, and by the time Joey was born, the Unity was the circus’s primary sponsor. The cotton candy Joey enjoyed so much was “on the house.” So were today’s tickets. So would be any tickets, if Joey wanted to return, and Donald would have been more than happy to bring him.
“I’m bored,” the boy said.
The audience cheered as a lithe brunette, fifty feet in the air, walked across a line of wire while reading a book. Maybe she was reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Donald could barely see the girl, much less her book cover. He needed new glasses. Again. Damn cataracts. He rubbed his hazel eyes and tried to make out the brunette as she made her return stroll, pausing briefly in her journey to turn the page in her book.
Joey yawned. Loudly.
After the grand finale, after the bows and the standing ovation, after Joey begged for another cotton candy, Donald led him with the crowd out of the tent. The circus had a carnival fairway set up between the tent and the parking lot. Children tugged their parents toward shooting galleries, where giant teddy bears hung from poles and longed for ownership. Lines had already formed at the Ferris wheel and the Tilt-a-Whirl. To the left, middle schoolers took turns dunking their heads in a barrel of black water, bobbing for hidden prizes. To the right, high schoolers poured into the Haunted Hall of Mirrors, eager to shriek in terror. The moon looked over them all with a watchful eye, wide and unblinking, on springtime Nebraska.
“I want a white bear!”
Joey pointed and pointed at a row of plush polar bears hanging in a nearby booth. Donald acquiesced, and they approached the barker behind the counter.
“One gets you five, two gets you fifteen,” the barker announced.
Donald handed him a dollar bill, and the barker traded it for a BB-rifle.
“I want to shoot! I want to shoot!”
“Of course you do,” mumbled Donald, and he handed the gun to his child’s child. The target was a pyramid of seven milk bottles stacked ten feet away. Joey tried to aim the rifle, but it weighed almost as much as he did. Donald supported the underside of the barrel with a finger.
“Okay, now take a deep breath,” he said.
Joey took a deep breath.
“Close one eye.”
Joey closed one eye.
“And pull the trigger.”
Joey pulled the trigger. POP! The top milk bottle tumbled to the netting below.
“I got one, I got one!”
“Four more shots, Joey.”
Joey took a deep breath and closed one eye. Donald’s attention drifted off to his left. Someone was standing close by. Did they have an audience?
“Hello, Mr. Chappell.”
POP! Another milk bottle toppled.
“Tom Piper, isn’t it? What a pleasant surprise.”
Donald let go of the gun to shake Tom’s hand, and the rifle barrel smacked against the booth countertop.
“Grandpa!”
“Oh. Sorry, Joey,” Donald said. He returned his hand to its place.
Joey took a deep breath and closed one eye.
“The trick is to aim for the bottom row,” said Tom. “You knock out the foundation, and the whole house comes tumbling down.”
Donald felt Joey lower the rifle a few inches, and compensated with his steadying hand. POP! One of the bottom milk bottles spun out of place, and the remaining four joined it in the netting.
“We have a winner!” cried the barker.
While he handed Joey a polar bear, the two grownups exchanged sentences with a few glances.
“Joey,” said Donald, “we’re going to go to the car now so this nice man and I can discuss business. Is that okay?”
“Can I have another cotton candy?”
Donald bought his grandson another cotton candy. They strolled out to the parking lot and Joey plopped in the backseat of the black Buick. The bear occupied his lap. Donald closed the door. The boy wouldn’t be able to hear them from inside the car, and even if he could, he wouldn’t understand, and even if he could, he had his cotton candy and he had his polar bear.
“So, Tom, how can I help you? I assume you’re not here for the circus.”
“No, sir.”
“That’s a shame. Everyone loves a circus. Or should.” A light breeze mussed Donald’s cowlick, which was as white as his grandson’s polar bear, and he absently corrected the errant hair. “What can I do for you?”
“Henry Booth.”
“Henry Booth? Who’s that?”
Tom nodded. “I’ll tell you. Because it’s an interesting story, and everyone loves an interesting story. Or should. Henry Booth’s a God-fearing man. Grew up in rural Maryland. Got a job with the CIA, a good
job, too, but eventually the work got to him, and he left for the private sector. He went to work for a security company out of Baltimore called Bellum Velum.”
Donald stared into space. “Bellum Velum is an interesting name.”
“Oh?”
“It’s Latin. It means ‘War for Sale.’”
Donald’s hazel gaze caught Tom’s. He’d taken the agent off-guard. Good.
“Please continue your tale. I’m most interested to hear how it all turns out.”
Above, the nighttime clouds were picking up speed. It would rain soon. The circus would have to shutter its doors.
“Henry Booth did a lot of heavy lifting for this security company. They sent him all over the world, doing this and that. Bosnia. Afghanistan. He didn’t want to be back in these places, though, so he begged for reassignment. And he got it. Turns out someone had recently hired Bellum Velum to do some small intelligence work. Bellum Velum specializes in all sorts of activities.”
“You don’t say.”
“You see, there was a presidential campaign coming up, and the client was looking to invest a great deal of time and money in some of the candidates. But they needed to vet them first to determine which candidates were worthy. They needed it done low-key and professionally. After all, they had a reputation to maintain. And wouldn’t you know it? Henry Booth found some dirt on one of the candidates.”
Donald turned away from the wind. It was beginning to irritate his eyes. He glanced into the car.
“What did he find out, Mr. Chappell?”
Joey had fallen asleep. What was left of the cotton candy was stuck to the bear’s fur. The boy had his index finger in his mouth.
“Mr. Chappell, what did Henry learn about Bob Kellerman?”
“You don’t know?” Donald let slip a small smile. “No, you wouldn’t. You know why out of all the private investigators at my disposal I chose Bellum Velum for this job?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s because I’m tired of saints. Sanctimony has gotten stale for me. There comes a point when preaching to the choir loses its appeal. After my wife passed, may she rest in peace, I made a decision to use my resources in a different way. I’ve been doing it subtly, but surely. I’ve been funding the sinners, Tom.”
“Why?”
Donald chuckled at Tom’s confusion. “I get in a room with someone like the owners of Bellum Velum, now there’s men who need to hear the Good Word, and don’t you think with me paying them what I’m paying them they’re going to have to listen?”
“And that’s why you continued to fund Kellerman, even after finding out whatever it is you found out.”
Donald shrugged: exactly.
“Mr. Chappell, Henry Booth has been doing what he’s been doing and you’ve just stood by. All those people are dead and you just stood by.”
This raised a sudden fury out of Donald. “I didn’t know it was him! I swear! I suspected, but I didn’t know! What was I supposed to do? There is a man whose soul is in agony. There is a man who has been betrayed all of his life. By his country. By his faith. Which I thought I could restore! I was being selfish. I thought… I…”
“Do you know where he is?”
Donald shook his head.
“I need to know what he found out about Kellerman. It may help us find him.”
“What do you think he found out, Tom? I can see it in your face. You have your suspicions. What is it you’re thinking? That Henry found out Bob Kellerman is gay? You think it’s something as mundane as homosexuality? Bob Kellerman’s not gay. I’m sorry to disappoint you. No, the secret he’s hiding—the secret that’s driven Henry to commit these unspeakable acts—has much larger ramifications than mere sexual orientation.”
22
After his conversation with Donald Chappell, Tom flew back to Washington. He holed up in an office with Norm Petrosky and the Bureau’s top profilers. Tom presented them with the facts. They churned them into speculation. For confirmation, they needed to talk with Bob Kellerman. But the candidate had just begun a vacation.
“The day he’s back on the clock, we blitz him. What’s his first event after his vacation is over?”
“A fundraiser in Long Island.”
“What day?”
“April 12.”
Like millions of Americans, the Kellermans wanted to vacation in Orlando, Florida. Few of those other hardworking Americans, though, had the media shadowing them 24/7. In order to achieve some semblance of privacy, the Kellerman campaign struck a deal with the major networks: leave the family in peace for one week, and upon his return to civilization the governor’s first public speech, at a fundraiser in Long Island, of all places, would be the announcement of his running mate. April was extraordinarily early in the calendar for such an announcement to be made, but it was the highest card Bob Kellerman had that he was willing to play. The media accepted the deal. No one, of course, could keep the unregulated at bay—the bloggers, the paparazzi—but Kellerman’s campaign manager came up with a solution for that problem, as well, a solution as old as public fame. Look-alikes of Bob, his wife Betsy, their two children, even their golden retriever were hired, given a paid vacation to Disney World, and sent on their way.
The real family spent the week in Southern California. They went on Space Mountain four times. They shared a chicken dinner at Knott’s Berry Farm. They spent a day at Catalina Island. On the ferry ride back to the mainland, they saw dolphins. Everyone on the ferry rushed to the rail and pointed at the sea mammals and whipped out their digital cameras and no one—no one—gave a second’s glance to Bob, his wife Betsy, their two children and their golden retriever.
Esme spent the week in nerves. By day two, her fingernails had been gnawed to stubs. By day three, her pacing had inlaid a path on the living room carpet. She looked forward to her daily trips out to Amy Lieb’s mansion, if only for the distraction that party-planning provided. April 12 would be her official reintroduction into Long Island society, the return of the old Esme. But was she the same? Could she be the same? Her neighbors had watched the news. They knew what had happened to her. When she walked into the fundraiser, dolled up in a $2000 evening gown, who would they really see?
And did she really care?
That didn’t matter. Her actions affected her family, reflected on her family. They affected Sophie. If Esme wasn’t looked upon as an everyday mom, the parents wouldn’t allow their children to play with hers. It was that simple. And so April 12 was, more than anything else, for her.
Esme hid her anxiety well. At night, when Rafe came home, when the four of them sat at the dinner table (because Lester just refused her kind offer of getting the fuck out of Dodge), she pretended that everything was pre-Amarillo. Everything was copacetic. Pass the broccoli? Sure. Lean forward, lift the plate, ignore the fist knuckle-punching your spine, here you go. When it came time for bed, she would slide into her spot beside her husband. They would kiss and say good-night. He would tell her he loved her. He would tell her he was proud of her. She would spend the next three hours trying to get comfortable, trying to go to sleep. Some nights it helped to tuck a small pillow under her lower back. April 12 approached.
And then there were the phone calls from Tom.
She didn’t listen to his messages. She couldn’t listen to his messages. He called at least once a day, and she deleted whatever voice mail he left. She deleted his e-mails. She felt awful treating him like this, but she’d made it clear to him how she felt. Sometimes bridges needed to be burned. She knew she was making the rational choice. But logic was a poor salve for a broken heart. If you answered the phone when he called, if they got into another discussion, she didn’t trust herself enough to resist whatever he had to say. Maybe after the fundraiser, if she was able to make it through April 12 without a catastrophe, maybe then she would have the fortitude but not now. No way. Not to mention the fact that his messages just served to remind her of the extant, deadly connection between the fundraiser and G
alileo.
As days piled on days, as she indoctrinated herself deeper and deeper into her old life, a curious transformation began to happen to Esme’s feelings about Tom. She began to resent him. Her therapist played a part in this, as did Rafe, but some of the resentment had to have come from her own psyche. Here she was, trying to do what was best for the people she loved, and he kept tempting her away from them and he had no right. She had been perfectly clear to him on the phone. Did he want her family to crumble?
Tom, for his part, also suffered, each time he picked up his phone to call. Of course he knew how she felt. Of course he remembered their last conversation. He could replay it, word for word, in his mind, like a bad song. He didn’t want to be a burden to her. But the April 12 fundraiser was practically in her backyard! Despite the preponderance of facts, the federal judge had deemed the evidence too circumstantial to issue a warrant to investigate the Kellerman campaign, and so Tom needed Esme, once again. He needed her to help him get to the governor. He wasn’t even sure she would be at the event, but she was his only hope. He wanted to fly to Long Island in advance and talk with her in person, but the judge kept calling him back into chambers to justify his warrant application and the operation in Kansas City—probable site of Galileo’s next attack—kept requiring his presence and so it wasn’t until the afternoon of the day itself, April 12, that Tom was able to finally catch a flight to Oyster Bay.
He flew into LaGuardia. Traffic in the airport was ridiculous, probably because the Kellerman campaign had also just arrived, and with them the national press. Baggage claim was a zoo of grabby tourists, and by the time Tom made it to his motorcycle, which he’d had the foresight to have shipped in advance, it was already six o’clock. He motored east through blue-tinged dusk, and to battle.
Rafe was already in his tuxedo. Once he’d showered, shaved and deodorized, it took him a full ten minutes to get dressed. This included his silk-smooth black boxers, his silk-smooth black socks, his corrugated white shirt, his pleated black slacks, his pressed black jacket, and his red bow tie. The bow tie was a clip-on.
