Elisha’s Bones (31 page)
Behind the steering wheel of the van, Espy shifts gears as we turn onto the road that leads to the estate’s entrance. It’s almost anticlimactic when, less than three minutes later, we pull into the long and stately driveway. I barely have time to get my hat on before we’re climbing a gentle slope of stone pavers, approaching the security gate. I glance at the shrubbery on both sides of the concourse—beautifully shaped, and the spacing is spot-on. I agree with Napalm: no one would know that the third bush on the left is new, a replacement for one that succumbed to a fungus. It matches the others in every way.
“Those guys do great work,” I say.
I slouch down in my seat as Espy slows the van and stops next to the security station. She leans out the window and presses a button, and I hear a faint buzzing sound coming from the call mechanism. I keep my head low, the hat all but covering my eyes, while trying to make it appear as if I’m not hiding. A moment later the gate swings open, and Espy drives through without any change in her expression. As we watched the crew do earlier, we park in the front roundabout, near the cherub fountain on the east side.
We exit the van and go straight for the back of the vehicle, where I open the door and pull out a gas-powered edger. Espy reaches for a wheelbarrow. It’s upside down, resting on a cushion of pine mulch ten bags strong. She gives it a yank and then guides it into a twist while in the air so that it comes down on its wheel. It bounces once and she steadies it at an angle so she can reach the bags of mulch and pull them across and into the wheelbarrow.
“Nice,” I say.
“I grew up on a farm, remember?”
“Just don’t wear yourself out. We’re not here to plant daisies.”
“Daisies would never survive in this climate. The soil is mostly clay and there’s too much sun.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks.”
I start the edger and work my way toward the front door, keeping my eyes to the ground. I pass three of the security cameras that I noticed during our reconnaissance, and two that are hidden in trees along the walkway. Whoever owns this place—be it Victor or his father or some other relative who exists solely for cooking the books—they exhibit an elevated class of paranoia.
While I’ve been edging, Esperanza has brought the wheelbarrow to the bed of perennials nearest the front door. She sits a mulch bag on its end and slits it across the top with a pocketknife, then puts an arm along the side and hoist-dumps it along the curved line of the bed. I’m aware that she’s faking it, yet she almost convinces me that this is her day job, so I imagine it’s good enough to fool anyone zooming in with a camera.
I reach the break in the roundabout’s curve and ease up on the gas, letting the edger idle. Espy turns in my direction and starts working her way toward the flower bed closest to the front door. She uses a hoe to push the new mulch between the flowers.
I cut the power to the edger, set it down, and walk up the front steps—immaculate white stone set in graceful curves that lead to a large open area of smaller blocks and hanging plants. It looks like the kind of setting in which a president or a captain of industry would stage a photo op with dignitaries. My work boots clump along the stones as I aim for the double oak doors, my head tilted down, hat pulled low. I’m a man asking to use the restroom.
An ornate brass knocker sticks out from each of the doors, and it strikes me as curious that the houses where one often finds a knocker are also those large enough for the sound to go unheard. I opt for the doorbell.
In less than twenty seconds one of the doors swings open and an austere gentlemen of perhaps seventy gazes at me with imperious subservience. It’s a look signifying that while he may serve the people within these walls, most others who arrive on the doorstep are beneath him.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to use your bathroom, if I may.” I don’t bother trying to fake an Australian accent. The country harbors its fair share of American expatriates, so it wouldn’t be unusual to find one engaged in gainful employment.
The man looks at my uniform, the Green Gardens logo on the shirt pocket.
“As I am sure you are aware, there are facilities available in the garden house.”
I can hear Esperanza coming up behind me, and I make an attempt to fill the doorway. “I know. But I imagine the ones in here are a lot nicer.”
That takes the man by surprise and he arches an eyebrow. Esperanza is close enough now for me to make my move. I take a step that puts me over the threshold, forcing the man to back away. Espy follows me with a quick step, and then we’re inside and she’s closing the door.
My gun is out as he’s opening his mouth in shock. His eyes widen at the sight of the gun and his words go unspoken. I do a quick check for interior cameras, but my gut tells me I won’t find any. People like Manheim love cameras—as long as they’re pointed elsewhere.
“How many people are in here?” I ask the man.
My captive studies me for a while and then crosses his arms.
“If you are intent on robbing the house, you will have to do so without my cooperation.”
“Robbing?” I look at Esperanza. “Did either of us mention anything about a robbing?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?” When he doesn’t answer, I add, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to call you Geeves, and that will be demeaning for both of us.”
I can see that Espy is growing anxious. The longer we stay in one place, the greater the chances that someone will stumble on this little one-act play unwinding in a setting suitable for an Ibsen performance. I take Geeves by the arm, placing the gun just above his right kidney. Even as I do so, I find it difficult to remain in my own skin. Less than a month ago, no one could have convinced me that I would soon force my way into someone’s home and threaten an innocent person with a gun. It flies in the face of everything I thought I knew about myself.
I propel Geeves through a doorway to the left, then through a small greeting room and out an exit along the right wall. Now we’re in a narrow, dimly lit hallway, lined with three doors, all on the left side. If I were able to see through the wall on the right, I would be looking back into the foyer we just vacated.
I reach for the knob of the nearest door. It’s a coat closet, empty save for a pair of black shoes on the floor. Not only is it inadequately supplied, it’s too shallow for what I have in mind. I close it and try the next door, which turns out to be a much better choice. It’s a utility closet, and about eight feet deep. An assortment of brooms and mops, a shop vac, various cleaning solutions, and two rolled carpets fill the space, and there’s a large sink mounted on the back wall. Looking over the room’s contents, I notice there’s a thin layer of dust covering everything. It suggests that this is a secondary storage area, one not often used by the staff. It’s perfect.
I guide Geeves into the room, forcing him far enough in so that both Espy and I can join. I find the light switch and then close the door. I hand my partner the gun and, though we haven’t rehearsed this part, she takes it with only a minimum of fumbling. Once she has it pointed in the right direction, I push Geeves face-first against the wall, slip my hand behind his coat, and search his back pockets. I’m rewarded with a rectangular wallet-sized bulge. Flipping through the wallet’s contents, I find the man’s license, pull it out and then hand the wallet back to him. I check the name.
“I really am sorry about all this, Mr. Stemple,” I say. “I usually don’t do this sort of thing.”
He is unmoved.
I step past him and unroll one of the carpets, pleased with our good fortune. It’s heavy and thick, and I’m confident the aged man will find it an unbeatable foe.
I gesture at the rug. “If you’d be so kind.”
He responds with a snort and focuses his eyes on some point on the ceiling.
“We don’t have time for this,” Esperanza says. “If you don’t move now, I’m going to put a bullet in that geriatric kneecap of yours.”
There’s no way of knowing if it’s the tone of Espy’s voice that does the trick, or the look of surprise on my face, which forces Stemple into motion. I don’t blame him for the crack in his resolve. Espy even has me believing that she will indeed shoot this man.
I direct Stemple to lie down at one end of the unfurled rug. When he’s in position I take the edge and fold it over him, then gently roll him along the floor, wrapping him in the thick material. There’s enough length to get three complete revolutions. I take a roll of duct tape from one of the pockets of my work pants and proceed to seal him in. Stemple is now cocooned. A last length of tape serves to mute him.
I stand back and review my handiwork. I’d bet a year’s salary that he couldn’t budge more than an inch. Espy hands me back the gun—perhaps a bit reluctantly—and after I lock the door from the inside, we slip out into the hallway.
Juggling competing urgencies can lead to an ulcer, if the rumbling in my midsection is any indication. Espy and I are balancing two nearly incompatible realities as we navigate our way through the mansion: the necessity of conducting a search, and a keen understanding that time is not our ally. It takes us fifteen minutes to go through the first floor and I can hear the clock ticking in my head. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds the old man in the closet, or wonders why there’s a landscaping van parked outside but no workers in sight. The professional part of me—the one that can spend hours studying a single room in minute detail—thinks we’re moving too quickly, perhaps missing something important. I have to force myself to remember that we’re not searching for the bones; rather, we’re hunting a person, and so a quick check of each room is all that’s needed.
And I’m beginning to suspect that, besides the unfortunate Mr. Stemple, we might be the only ones here. The mansion’s atmosphere is decidedly creepy. It’s as if this vast estate were really a museum, and Stemple its curator. But, according to what I’ve been able to find out, Victor Manheim’s father, George, is the lord of the estate. His signature is on the work orders received at Green Gardens. Is it possible that the family patriarch is the sole resident of the home?
A darker floor spreads out in front of us as we reach the top of a staircase. The silence here is that of a tomb. We’re at the start of a hallway carpeted in a red so deep that it borders on black. It absorbs the sound of our footfalls. The décor is in the minimalist fashion: three paintings and a Renaissance-style sculpture. I try to stay focused on the six doors that open off this hallway—what turn out to be guest rooms—and yet I’m drawn to the sculpture. On closer study, it appears to be a genuine Raphael. Two men embracing each other as a loving father would hold his son. The primary figure is rendered thick, strong and well-muscled, with a long beard. But it’s the secondary figure that most catches the eye, perhaps because it’s grotesque—with half the body malformed, the other half perfect and beautiful. He is being succored, wept over. I can feel the emotion the artist felt as he coaxed it from the stone. It amazes me an object of such priceless value occupies a precarious position in the hallway. One clumsy move and this masterwork could be severely damaged. I reach out to touch the sculpture and have to force my hand back. I release a sigh and turn away and it’s at that instant when another of the statue’s features comes into view. I lean in closer to examine the cloak of the primary figure. It’s easy to miss—near the cloak’s midsection, near the beltline: the oblong
S
.
Espy doesn’t see it, so I point at the discovery and find that my hand is trembling. We share a look, which is all we can do right now, and then we leave it behind. It’s another piece in a puzzle that’s growing more and more intricate.
We emerge from the hallway onto a balcony overlooking the foyer below. Turning and looking through the windows along the upper wall, I can make out the grounds in the back of the estate. We’re in the narrow portion, where the front and back boundaries are separated by about fifty feet. The bulk of the mansion lies ahead, through a hall identical to the one we have just passed.
We conduct cursory inspections of the guest rooms, then walk through a small antechamber that allows us a choice of continuing through three different archways. I don’t give the matter much consideration before selecting the one on the left. I lose track of time as we search the mansion, and the feeling that we’re alone—that only ghosts occupy the place with us— increases with each passing minute. If Mr. Stemple is the only other living soul here, then everything we’ve done over the last five days has been pointless. Unless we just happen to stumble upon the bones themselves.
Esperanza, who has been walking in silence with me for what has to be forty-five minutes, touches my elbow.
“Jack, there’s no one here.”
I’m inclined to agree when, rounding a corner that I think will take us back to the antechamber, I see a shaft of light coming from a room halfway down the corridor. The door of the room stands partly open. Espy sees the light too and goes silent.
Up to now, I’ve paid little attention to the gun in my hand, mostly pointing it at the floor. Now my hand snaps up and the weapon points straight ahead. Slowly, the two of us close the distance to the light source. Reaching a point where I can risk a peek into the room, I see three upholstered chairs, a fireplace, and the end of a bookcase. Just as I decide to take a step closer to see more, I’m startled by a voice.
“Please come in, Dr. Hawthorne. And bring Ms. Habilla, won’t you?”
T
here’s no point in keeping the man waiting,” I say to Esperanza with a smile that is half genuine. The bad news is that this meeting will not occur on the terms I would have preferred, but it will happen, and that’s something of a victory. With the gun ready, I walk into the room, Esperanza close behind me.
My first impression of George Manheim is that, unlike the pattern in most families, the apple that is Victor fell well away from the tree and then rolled downhill a considerable distance. He’s in a chair, a book in hand. I find I have to remind myself why I’m here—what George Manheim and his agents have done to those close to me.
