Ashes (17 page)

Then Blaine clapped MacReady on the shoulder. They parted, and Sean kept his face carefully still and his expression slightly bored, trying to watch the two men out of his peripheral vision. Blaine was heading to the edge of the small lecture platform; as he neared it a red-haired woman approached him, spoke, and pointed toward the back of the hall, to the refreshment table. Blaine nodded, smiled, said something and then leaned toward the woman, perhaps for a kiss. Sean did not see this, for MacReady was approaching, easing his way down the aisle.

“Doug,” Sean said, “How are you doing?”

“Very good, very good,” MacReady replied. He looked as if he’d spent much of the holidays outdoors. There was a stripe of sunburn across his nose. “How was your New Year’s?”

It seemed something ran an icy hand down his spine. Nothing showed in his face or voice. “Uneventful,” he replied. “Yours?”

“Interesting. I’m sorry you missed out.”

“I am too.” Meant it more than he would have imagined.

“Well, I’ve got good news. One of the people I really wanted you to meet is here tonight. He’ll be the speaker. Maybe you could come up and introduce yourself, afterwards,” MacReady said with the shrug that was his trademark.

“I’ll do that.”

“Great. I have to go, see you later, Sam.”

“Later.”

A few minutes later the minister of Grace Methodist, a thin, reedy little man named Svenson, went to the podium, tapped the microphone, blew into it once or twice. “Ah, hello, ladies and gentlemen.” He waited for them to quiet, then said, “Our speaker tonight is, I believe, well-known to many of you. He and his lovely wife have done a great deal for our community here in Du Lac, and I’m very pleased to have him here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, Richard Blaine.”

Sean applauded along with the rest of them, wondering what Blaine would say. Certainly not a call to arms or a recruiting speech. That would arouse too much suspicion. Blaine was adept at deflecting attention away from himself. A Web search of antigovernment group monitors found no mention of his name. Sean had scoured the local papers and found no mention of Blaine beyond the annual human interest fluff piece about Blaine’s Christmas tree farm, some charity event news, and, from nine years ago, an announcement of his marriage to Anna Cleary of Fairview, Minnesota. There was nothing to indicate that Richard Blaine was anything other than an upright, honest citizen who was active in his community.

Had Henry Connolly lied? Sean didn’t think so. He hoped not, for then he’d be sorely tempted to dredge Connolly up from the bottom of the quarry where he was currently moldering and spit in the little rat bastard’s face. No, Sean felt certain that he had the right man.

* * *

B
laine took the stage, stood at the podium. He did not bother tapping the microphone or asking
Is this thing on?
He did not fumble for notes or give those half-defiant, half-apologetic looks that mark someone with no skill for public speaking. Watching as Blaine looked out over the audience, Sean had the feeling that if he asked every member of the audience, no matter where they sat, they would say that Blaine was looking directly at them.

“Hello, my friends and neighbors,” Blaine said. His voice was deep and rich; he could have had a broadcasting career with no trouble at all. “It’s a new year for all of us. And I also find myself looking back on last year. Looking back on the last few years, in fact. And as I do this, I want to be happy. But I find, often, that I cannot.

“I look back and I see many things that trouble me. I see families lose their farms because of the economy, and stand by watching their property, even their dishes and their children’s toys, be sold at auction to the highest bidder. I see people surrender land that has been in their families for generations, to the environmental agencies. To people who care more for owls and squirrels than for their own countrymen. Understand me,” Blaine said with a slight smile. “I like animals. Ask my wife, she’ll tell you. But I know the pride that comes with owning land. It is not merely a possession, it is part of you. And to be asked — no, forced to give that up. To give up your inheritance, your birthright. And for what?” Blaine spread his hands wide in a gesture of emptiness.

“I see parents taking their children out of the public schools, not wanting to subject their children to a place where profanity is smiled upon but please, don’t mention the name of Jesus Christ. Where atheists and homosexuals are free to recruit, but our children are not allowed to hold Bible study after school.

“And most of all, I see fear. I see good Americans afraid of what their country has become. It is not bad enough that even last year, in Los Angeles, foreign militants have attacked our way of life. But in our own country, we feel afraid. Threatened. At times, under attack. Our birthright to this country, our rights as citizens, our ability to live our lives in the way we know is right — all these things are under threat. And not from the Islamic jihad or any other foreign power. But from within our own country.

“You would think that as I thought about all this, I was not happy.” A faint ripple of laughter in the audience. Blaine gave them a quick smile. “I was. But not downhearted. There is a difference. Unhappiness is temporary. To be downhearted is to let a poison into your soul. And I am not downhearted. Because I see past these things I’ve mentioned. I see the people of Du Lac and other towns joining together to help their friends and neighbors who are in need. I see parents who have taken their children out of our so-called public schools, who have sacrificed their time and money in order to teach their children not just reading and math, but the values that they cherish. I see people who are willing to take action—”

Sean felt a jolt all through his nerve endings.
Knew
Blaine was his man.

“—to defend their way of life. And when I see all these things, how can I possibly be downhearted?” Blaine smiled.

Sean could have sworn that Blaine’s eyes were misty. Never mind a career in broadcasting, this guy could have an Academy Award handed to him.

“I am here tonight to ask for your help. As you know, late last year there was a fire at the textile mill over in Green Falls, and many people here in Du Lac have lost work. The mill owners had hoped to have things up and running by Christmas, but unfortunately, they are having some disputes with the state government.

“There are many men and women who are struggling to provide for their families until the mill is reopened. And I know that things are tight, and that money is always hard to come by after the holidays. But I am asking you to give what you can to help. And we need more than money. Donations of clothing, canned goods, anything that will help. These families will appreciate it. And so do I, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you.”

The room broke out into thunderous applause as Blaine left the stage. Sean joined in, sincerely enough, for he knew the value of a good performance, and was able to appreciate one that was not simply good, but remarkable. Even if the performer was the enemy.

After the meeting Sean began to make his way through the crowd toward Blaine, to introduce himself and to congratulate Blaine on his speech. It was only as he drew near, waiting his turn while Blaine spoke with others, that Sean began to wonder just how much of it was a performance. He wondered how much of it was real.

If it was a performance, it was a hell of a good one, and it hadn’t stopped when Blaine left the stage. Sean noticed that when Blaine spoke to someone, he never took his eyes away from that person. It was as if, when talking to Blaine, you were the only person in the room. Sean watched the expression in peoples’ eyes when they talked to Blaine, saw that they were surprised to find that he was listening to them, instead of merely waiting for his turn to speak, as most people did. It was a rare skill, to make people feel that way. Robert had that talent. So had Edwards, Sean’s first boss, the one who had recruited him.

Then he was standing in front of Blaine.
Play it right.
“Mr. Blaine, I’m Sam Lewis. I have to tell you, I very much liked what you had to say tonight.”

Blaine’s eyes seemed to light up when he saw Sean. “I’m glad we could finally meet. Doug MacReady told me about you. And please, call me Richard.”

They shook hands. Blaine’s grip was firm and confident; his own grip matched Blaine’s. The time for shirking the spotlight was over, he needed to get into Blaine’s confidence. Needed Blaine to see him as someone useful. Someone necessary.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it at New Year’s, Sam. From what Doug’s told me, I think you’d have found things interesting.”

“I know, I wish I could have been there. Maybe next time? Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

Blaine’s eyes were gray, not a pale, washed-out gray, but closer to the color of steel. “Yes, very soon. You like venison?” Blaine asked.

“Haven’t had it in years and miss it more than I ever thought I would.”

Blaine chuckled. “There’s going to be a little excursion next Saturday. Six in the morning, at the Deer’s Head Lodge. Know where that is?”

“No, but I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s easy to get to. Doug can give you directions. Make sure your license is up-to-date. We play by the rules.” For the first time there was a flicker of something else behind Blaine’s steel-colored eyes. “When it suits our needs, that is.”

“I’ll be there,” Sean said. They shook hands again, their eyes met. Sean knew what he’d met tonight, and the realization both shook and fascinated him.

In his own way, Blaine was an equal.

* * *

M
idnight at the Lakeview Terrace. Darkness in apartment 233. Silence in 233 as well, though the room was occupied. Sean was a silent sleeper, a listener would have been hard-pressed to hear the sound of his breathing. This had always annoyed Monique. “You’re so quiet,” she'd said once. “You don’t snore or mumble anything. Half the time I can’t hear you
breathe.
It’s like sleeping with a dead person sometimes.”

“And how would you know, Moni?” he’d replied. “You're a necrophile? I didn’t know you were so kinky.”

She’d hit him with the pillow and laughed. “But it’s creepy!”

He didn’t know what Monique was complaining about. Hell, he’d seen Robert sleep with his eyes open; now
that
was creepy. But for all his silence he was a light sleeper. When the banging on his door started he was awake almost instantly; the gun snatched out from under the pillow next to him. He was braced and ready to shoot in a few seconds.

Who was it? One of Blaine’s friends? An emissary from his old employers, sent to do the job Beatty had failed at?

That icy hand caressed his spine again. Was it Beatty himself?

He tried to dismiss the idea and failed. The hammering on his door was too much like the hammering on the ice. He heard feet shuffle outside the door and it was all too easy to imagine Beatty standing there like some ghoul from the old horror comics. Raising his water-bloated fist to pound on the door.
Can’t you hear me knocking, Irish? Come on, let me in.

Another flurry of pounding on the door. Should he stay silent, pretend not to be here? Or ask
Who goes there?

A slurred voice called out, “Stacy? Yo, Stacy, you there? It’s Jay.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sean muttered, lowering the gun. He called out, “No Stacy here, my friend.”

“What the — ” A pause. The voice became contrite, if no less tipsy. “Oh shit, wrong floor. Sorry, man, my bad.” The sound of footsteps going down the hall, and then silence reigned again.

Sean sighed, put the gun back under the pillow. For some time he lay awake, staring into darkness. His eyes did not want to close; troubled thoughts darted around the edges of his mind. Thoughts of Blaine and his cronies, and what he was up against. Thoughts of Robert, wondering if he was well, wishing he had his counsel. Most unwelcome, thoughts not so much of Beatty himself, but that he had so vividly imagined Beatty on the other side of his door. That sort of thing had never happened before.

Then again, he had never killed a friend before.

With the discipline of years he shoved the thoughts out of his mind. He would attend to the task at hand, get some needed sleep, and as for Beatty, well, Beatty shouldn’t have tried to take him out. That was all.

Still, it was quite some time before he was able to sleep again. That had never happened before either.

“S
orry I’m late,” Jennifer said as she struggled out of her raincoat. “Storm must have done something to the power. My alarm clock went all wacky and didn’t go off this morning.”

“Think nothing of it,” Mr. Bradbury shrugged. His book was in front of him. Today it was a collection of Ernest Hemingway short stories. “Half the winter I’m in late because the buses are running behind. You would think that people would remember how to drive in bad weather, seeing as how it happens every year.”

“I have to say that sometimes I miss a warm, sunny winter,” Jennifer said.

“Care for some tea? The water’s all ready.”

“I think today’s a coffee day. Don’t we have the third-graders coming in this afternoon?”

“Oh dear. Let the wild rumpus start.” Mr. Bradbury closed his eyes and breathed deep the scent of Darjeeling as if it had restorative powers. Maybe it was his version of aromatherapy, Jennifer thought and repressed a smile. “I’d forgotten that. I wish their regular teacher would come back. Mrs. Kemper seems a bit scattered to me.”

“I hear that. Who’s the regular teacher?”

“Ellen Riordan. Lovely woman. She took maternity leave six months ago.”

“She should be back soon, then.”

Mr. Bradbury shook his head. “She and the baby both had a lot of complications. Things are better than they were, but no one’s sure when she’ll be back. Or if she’ll be back.”

“That’s too bad. For her and for the third-graders.” Jennifer went into the back room to make coffee, taking the plate she’d brought in with her. While she waited for the java to brew she took the foil off the plate. The scones, a dozen of them, were on the plate; for a moment she regretted bringing them in. But yesterday had been too rainy to go out, the Delacroixs were out of town, and she was bored. Her predecessors at the house on Douglas had, for reasons unknown, left behind two banker boxes full of cooking magazines. For something to do, she’d been looking at them, and on a whim decided to make lemon-poppyseed scones. Jennifer wasn’t sure what scones were, exactly, but the word conjured up afternoon teas and chamber music, both of which she could easily imagine Mr. Bradbury enjoying. So she’d made them, and though she followed the recipe she wasn’t really sure they were any good. They looked lumpy and rather unappetizing. She considered throwing them out, then decided the worst he could say was that they were bad.