The Dreaming Tree

by Matthew Mather

  Sam said, “Heard you went to one of your mother’s vampire parties the other night. Is that some creepy-ass stuff, or what? Think I’ll stick to my beer and just let aging do its thing.”

  “My mother wasn’t there.”

  “Now, that would have been weird. I mean, it’s hard enough to imagine your own mother having sex, but seeing her drinking the blood of some young man? And not just metaphorically like she usually does?” Sam couldn’t help trying to be funny, even at funerals. His grin had returned, but he sensed his humor had missed the mark. “You talk to Brixton more at the support groups?”

  “He’s helping me find out who my donor body is, but I need to dig up dirt on Dr. Danesti.”

  “You sure it’s smart to bite the hand that sewed you together?”

  “I’m feeling like I want to bite all the hands right now.”

  “I’m sorry if I haven’t been a great friend. Maybe this was all my fault. Anything you need, I’m here for you.”

  Roy finished his beer. “I gotta go talk to my wife.”

  * * *

  The old Chevy crunched across the gravel driveway, and Roy parked under the elms toward the end. No crush of beachgoers today. The sand at the end of Ocean Drive was empty, the boardwalk shops shuttered for the season, but the seagulls still squawked their lonely cries.

  “You can’t park that—” Penny was halfway out the front door before she recognized Roy in the driver’s seat. “Sweetheart! I’m so glad you’re back!” They always had problems with people parking in their driveway.

  Somehow, she looked surprised to see him. It was a Monday afternoon, but she was done up as if on her way out for the evening: a lace silk shawl over her shoulders, a black dress, and two-inch heels. Maybe because she knew he was coming. But he’d said he was coming tonight. He had wanted to surprise her.

  Roy got out of the car and inspected his house. Two stories of white-painted cedar siding, black windows. Small, for these parts—just four bedrooms, three thousand square feet. And yet, worth five million dollars in this corner of East Hampton next to the beach. It made no sense. What did Angel say? Follow the money? But the money here was everywhere.

  “Come inside,” Penny urged, still hanging in the doorway.

  * * *

  Roy sat on the same leather couch he remembered, saw the same white-themed walls and pictures and folding glass patio doors onto the pool deck. Why did it feel as if he hadn’t lived here for years? Why did he get the sense that this wasn’t his house? Instead of déjà vu, it was more like jamais vu.

  Penny worked the coffee-pod machine in the kitchen and came back with two cups. “That car—I’ve never seen you drive something like that.”

  She put one cup on the mahogany coffee table—on a coaster—and cupped the other in her hands. She sat beside him, close enough that he smelled her perfume. Chanel. She was beautiful, perfect. The same woman he’d said yes to. Perfect teeth, perfect blond hair. Yet all he felt was a kind of revulsion.

  She said, “I’m so glad you’re home,” again and took a sip.

  “I’m not here for long.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I know you weren’t driving the car.”

  She’d never been a good liar. “But, I was, it was—”

  “I read the medical examiner’s report—from Suffolk County, not the East Hampton one.”

  Her hands trembled. “But Captain Harris … He said that—”

  “The steering column went most of the way through my body. You couldn’t have been driving.”

  Now the tears, her cup shaking so violently that Roy had to take it from her and put it down. No more revulsion. Just pity. He’d spent six years of his life with this woman, this fellow human, and seeing her cry made him want to cry. Her tears were honest. No artifice. The innocent—that had always been Penny, for all her other faults.

  “I was trying to protect you,” she said. “You already had two arrests for driving under the influence. A third one would have landed you in jail.”

  “But I was almost killed.”

  “It didn’t matter. You would have lost your trust.”

  “If I was dead, it would be gone anyway.” But not if he was in a coma, Roy suddenly realized. Could he be prosecuted when he was unconscious? She was right, though. He did have two convictions. Another would have sent him to jail.

  “We did everything we could to bring you back, and now here you are!” His wife threw her arms around him.

  And yet, it didn’t feel real.

  “Were you even in the car?” Roy asked.

  “You drove off by yourself. You were drunk and stoned. And in a rage.”

  “About what?” So she wasn’t even in the car.

  The sobbing abated. He lifted her away from him and looked into her green eyes. “About what? What was I mad about?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked away.

  “Where did the scar come from?” The small nick on her forehead.

  “I just … I hit my head. I don’t know.”

  “Did you know about my mother’s lawsuit?”

  “I know she was trying to get at your money when you were in a coma.”

  “Not that. Fifteen years ago. She said I wasn’t her son.”

  Penny’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “And what about Leila? What happened to my dog?”

  At this, Penny pushed away and stood up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “You’re losing your mind, do you know that?” Penny backed away. “Nicky said this would happen, and it’s happening. You need help.”

  * * *

  The drive from his house to his mother’s took fifteen minutes. You were in a rage. That was what Penny said.

  At least that was honest.

  One of the last things he remembered at the Chegwiddens’ party before the accident was screaming. He hadn’t been sure whether someone was screaming at him, or the other way around. But he’d been in a rage about something—what, Penny refused to say. But at least it verified his memory. Finally, a small piece of the puzzle.

  But “Nicky”?

  Nicky had told his wife that he would lose his mind?

  He couldn’t remember any of her friends named Nicky, and she refused to elaborate when he asked. He thought he knew most of her girlfriends. Maybe it was a new one.

  He pulled into his mother’s grand parking lot lined with replica statues from the gardens at Versailles. The sun was edging toward the horizon in the west, pulling behind the wall of storm clouds in the distance. The temperature seemed to drop by several degrees during the short walk from his car to the front door of his mother’s house. He rapped with the large brass knocker.

  “Come in,” his mother said. Her face was pale, her lipstick crimson, her bob-cut hair streaked platinum and gold. She wore an asymmetric form-hugging dress with a strap over one shoulder, the other bare. Her smile showed off her perfect white teeth.

  “We’ve been so worried!” she said. “But I understand you need time to yourself.”

  She already had a cocktail in hand. Soft music in the background, muffled voices downstairs. “I have friends over. Would you like to join us?”

  “I’m only here for a minute. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “We can talk here. Why don’t you come in? Stay for a little while?”

  Roy glanced at the row of pictures on the tables facing the entrance. Her with Diana Ross. With President Bush, the first one. And one of her with her brother. It was from thirty years ago, but it could have been a picture of Roy from yesterday.

  “Why did you always laugh when people said I was the spitting image of your brother?”

  “Because you remind me of him.” Her brother was diagnosed with cancer the same
year Roy’s father died. He died the next year.

  “And why did you file a lawsuit in 2004 to try and take the trust?”

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks, and you come in and start throwing accusations?”

  “Why did you try to prove I wasn’t your son? Not your biological son?”

  She paused a beat. “That was just a mistake.”

  “Penny told me you tried to take the money again, when I was in a coma.”

  Virginia swallowed what remained of her cocktail.

  “Why did you try to do a maternity test?” Roy asked again.

  “Did your wife tell you how she got that scar?” His mother was half-slurring her s’s.

  “I know she wasn’t driving, and I know she wasn’t even in the car.”

  “Trying to protect you—was that what she said?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “You know why you left the party?” Virginia was clearly enjoying whatever she was about to share.

  Roy remained silent. His mother dragged out the seconds.

  “Because she was having an affair. Everyone at the party heard it. You were screaming. Your perfect wife was with some other man. That’s why you drove off that cliff. You’re the one who gave her that scar. You hit her. You think she wanted to save you?”

  “I hit Penny?” A dim memory surfaced. Him screaming at her at the party.

  “If you died, all the money would go to charity. Those are the terms of your asshole father’s trust. Penny wouldn’t get a nickel.” She smiled at her cleverness. “Not unless she divorces you while you’re alive—and have fully inherited all that money. That’s the only reason she’s being nice: to get you across that finish line so she can grab cash.”

  The venom of it was honest. He stared vacantly at the only picture of his father on his mother’s mantel: standing with his arm around Steve Robinson.

  “In a month, this house is mine, you know.” He imagined putting his hands around her neck, squeezing the miserable life out of her. “Tell me the truth. Tell me why you tried to prove I’m not your son.”

  27

  “I got a call today,” Deputy Chief Alonzo said. “From Captain Harris, down at East Hampton.”

  Alonzo half sat on the edge of Del’s desk.

  He hadn’t called her into his office, instead coming down into the pit. It meant that he wanted everyone else to hear what he had to say. “I thought I made it clear that we were cooperating with Harris, to make things smooth.”

  Del replied, “You did say that, Chief.”

  “What were you doing meeting with Royce Lowell-Vandeweghe a week ago?”

  How did they find that out? Did Roy tell them? Did he complain to Captain Harris? That was possible. Whatever the source, there was no use denying it.

  “Having a drink, sir.”

  “You do realize that New York City is not in our jurisdiction?”

  “I was just having a drink. He called me.”

  “And you called the Lowell-Vandeweghe house three times in the past month?”

  “Trying to find out more information on that hiker. The one who was killed.”

  She cringed, waiting for the other shoe to drop—that she’d been at the Lowell-Vandeweghe art auction, stalking Roy’s family and friends—but it didn’t come.

  Instead, Alonzo said, “For a person who says they can see when someone is lying, you sure don’t do it very well yourself. Explain to me how these are connected.”

  “Mr. Lowell-Vandeweghe was brought out on what he called ‘field trips’ before he was released from Eden. Into Long Island. And his family had a home not far from here—twenty years ago, before they moved into the Hamptons.”

  “You have something concrete on him?”

  “I met him. Spent an hour talking. The guy is unstable.”

  “You know what he just went through, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think you wouldn’t have a few screws knocked loose after something like that? Of course there’s something not right with him—he had his head cut off.”

  “Did you know his mother and wife don’t even know where he is? He’s run away from home.”

  Alonzo’s eyebrows came together. “‘Run away’? You do know he’s a middle-aged man. And did you know there was a fight at the establishment where you had a drink with him, also involving him?”

  That was news to Del. She shook her head.

  “But you just happened to be there.”

  She asked, “What time was this? What happened? Did he get hurt?”

  “I repeat again, Detective Devlin, this has nothing to do with us.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, we need to talk to Dr. Danesti at Eden Corporation. They have devices implanted in their patient that could give us time and location. I don’t think Mr. Lowell-Vandeweghe is in full control of himself. And I’ve been looking into Eden—”

  “Stick to your cases, Detective Devlin. The hiker? They’ve got multiple DNA fragments from the remains they found, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve still got an active killer in our jurisdiction. The feds have taken over the case, but maybe we can help out.”

  “The feds?”

  “They think it’s related to the Fire Island Killer.”

  “But it was only one.”

  Part of the MO matched, but not the pattern. The Fire Island Killer had worked in sprees. Seventeen bodies, cut up in pieces with some bits missing, had ended up in bags on Long Island’s beaches ten years back. The hiker had been found in pieces, as well, but no more bodies turned up in the past two years. The Nissequogue murder was an isolated case.

  Alonzo rubbed his crew cut with one hand. “No more chasing this Lowell-Vandeweghe around. Whatever you’re doing, you’ve riled up some very important people who have suddenly decided to make my life difficult.”

  Del nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Understood? I want to hear you say it. If you have something more to say on this, bring it to my office.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Del, there’s some guy at the ME’s office says he wants the Lowell file.” Officer Coleman held up the black plastic phone receiver, cord dangling, as if the phone might explain the full picture. “You sure you want to do this?”

  She’d kept the file on her desk. After meeting and telling Roy about the file, she assumed that he would come and ask to see it at the medical examiner’s office, at which point she could return it and have a few words with him again.

  She had been warned off contacting him, but she couldn’t help it if they just happened to run into each other, could she? Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

  “Tell him I’ll be five minutes. I’ll go alone.”

  She took the file and wound her way through the cubicles, past the slouched row of handcuffed waiting to be processed. She pushed open the exterior double door and bounded down the stairs into the autumn air. It was a few minutes’ drive down the road to the ME’s office, so she took one of the unmarked cruisers. They’d be pissed, but she could handle a little of that. Minutes later, she pulled up to the uninspired beige brick building with the dark-blue-over-baby-blue logo of Suffolk County and jogged through the double doors, file in hand.

  She scanned the lobby, looking for the bulky figure of Roy, but there was only a compact Latino-looking guy at the counter.

  “Susanne, I have that file,” Del announced.

  The guy turned around. Yes, Latino. Behind the counter, her friend Susanne pointed at him and shrugged. This wasn’t her problem.

  Del started to say, “You’re not—”

  “I’m his lawyer. I’m Mr. Lowell-Vandeweghe’s lawyer.” The guy waved a piece of paper in the air.

  “You’re
Atticus Cargill?”

  Now, that would be two birds with one stone.

  She had tried calling Atticus twice three weeks ago and got no answer, but already she could see it wasn’t her luck today, either. Already the lines of ishma-red streaked down the man’s face in front of her. It wasn’t even close. He was lying.

  The man looked left and right. “Ah, no, another lawyer.”

  Del walked up to him and took the paper. “Roy signed this? He wants the medical report?”

  The ishma-red lines pulsed and faded. “Yeah, right on both counts.”

  “But you’re not a lawyer.”

  His face fell. He was a good-looking man, high and tight crew cut as if he’d just gotten out of the Marines. Straight back. Squared away—trousers pressed, white shirt crisp. Maybe even a little too neat.

  “Roy hired you, is that it?” she whispered. “You’re a private detective?”

  His eyes fell even further. Not used to being found out this easy. The guy looked tough in a military sort of way but wasn’t trained in being purposely deceptive.

  He said, “Unless there is evidence of a crime being committed, or about to be, I can’t divulge any client confidentiality—”

  “We already established you’re not a lawyer. And we’ll have to see about any crimes about to be committed.” Del walked over to the photocopy machine and asked Susanne, “Could you authorize me for a dozen?” The machine’s light turned green, and she began copying the medical report.

  “My name’s Angel,” the man said. “And yeah, I’m helping Roy out. He needs help, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you know where he is? I had a few more questions.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Angel replied. “I have one question myself: The car that was in the accident—it still in custody? I’d like to take a look.”

  “It was never taken into custody.” Del picked up the file and the copied pages.

  “Really? Is that standard operating procedure?”

  “In East Hampton, they do everything differently. The Chegwiddens paid for the car to be removed, and the wife took custody afterward.” Del paused a beat and then said, “So what are the leads you’re following?” She handed over the file. “You got a card?”