Elisha’s Bones (4 page)
I take the five weathered stone steps to the heavy oak door at the top and tug at one of the brass handles. I pass through, stopping at the mail station and retrieving three items from the small box: the water bill, a piece of junk mail advertising satellite television, and—my smile grows a bit wider—my
National
Geographic
. I don’t care how many serious texts I read, how deep erudition burrows into my skull, this magazine will always mean something special to me, even in an era when the glut of nature and science and history channels makes it anachronistic. In my opinion, no amount of video footage can provoke the imagination like a single brilliantly colored photo from this periodical. And there’s always the sentimental element.
I will that thought away and, as I turn from my mailbox, Angie exits the stairwell, the door giving a loud creak.
“You’re early,” she says as she checks her mail.
“It’s one of the benefits of not taking an interest in my students; I can get a grad student to teach a class and not feel guilty.”
“Funny,” she says, sliding her hand into the crook of my arm as she passes. “Come and have a cup of coffee with me.”
I hesitate for only a moment. I always have time for a cup of coffee with a lovely woman.
Her apartment, although identical in layout, bears no resemblance to my own. My furnishings illustrate the interior design limitations of a single, broke college professor. Angie, on the other hand, has impeccable taste. Everything in her seven-hundred-square-foot abode is chic and complementary, and it has nothing to do with money. We bring home the same amount, give or take a few hundred dollars, and I know that a good portion of that has to go toward that new Mustang she washes and polishes every sunny Saturday morning.
I settle onto one of the two high-back stools at the breakfast nook, setting my mail and the cigars aside as Angie pours two cups of coffee from one of those faux-industrial coffee–makers.
“New shoes?” I ask.
“I bought them last month. You’re just not very observant.”
“I am about some things. Like your hair. You got it cut.” She places a cup in front of me and I taste it, finding it strong. “And a few highlights?”
“Not bad, Professor.”
Angie takes a seat on a stool across the island from me. She’s wearing a white tank top that shows off her toned arms.
Angie’s a runner, and a serious one. She wakes up at six every morning and does a circuit that takes her out of Ellen down Highway 31 and then back into town on State Road 77. It must be five miles and she hardly breaks a sweat. I know she hits some running paths on the other side of Baker Hill—my knowledge hard-earned after once making the mistake of agreeing to go with her one cold fall morning. I was new in the building, and she must have liked what she saw; and I certainly noticed her easy smile and long runner’s legs. I figured I could work through the pain for a few mornings and see what kind of interest there was on both sides. She almost lost me a quarter mile into a tree-lined dirt trail that cut at some insane angle across the south side of Baker Hill. If she hadn’t taken pity on me and cut her run short, I probably would have died. My body would have stayed on the path until some university student found me and poked me with a stick to make sure I was dead.
“I guess I just don’t look at your feet. I’ve never been much of a foot guy.”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a hair guy, either.”
She’s right about that. I’m not a hair guy. I am, however, a detail guy—something of which Angie is quite aware. And my old profession was all about looking for clues; it’s a required skill.
“Are you still staying here over the holidays?” Angie asks.
“When you’ve got a good thing going . . .”
Last year Angie asked me to go to Switzerland with her over Christmas. I think she felt sorry for me. The invitation was genuine, if a bit reluctant. I admit it would have been fun tooling around Europe with someone who could find a good time if it was hiding at a funeral, but I declined. A spur-of-the-moment trip to the Alps is not cheap. And seeing the relieved look on her face, even if she had tried her best to conceal it, told me I’d done the right thing.
“Are you going to invite me skiing again?” I ask.
“Not this year.”
I’m almost pleased to hear her say that. Probably because the ski trip, the Mustang, the countless pairs of new shoes, and the fact that every piece of clothing she wears has been designed by someone famous for outfitting runway models, has begun to make me think that perhaps I’m not very good with money. If she can afford to do and to purchase all of these things, then she is either much better at handling money or she has a cash cow in her closet.
“I’m going to Australia,” she says. “I got to thinking, what’s the point of taking a winter break if you’re going to spend it somewhere cold?”
My response is to raise my coffee cup and take a long drink, swallowing measured sips until the liquid begins to burn my throat. I wonder if she can see the irritation in my eyes. But then, knowing Angie, it would only make her enjoy her trip more. I’d love to go back to Australia. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but, regardless of the fact that I’m a professional with a string of enviable academic and career achievements to my credit, I’ve always wanted to pet a kangaroo.
“You do know that most shark attacks worldwide occur in the waters off of Australia, right?”
She sticks her tongue out at me and rises from the stool.
“What? Get eaten by a shark and miss out on more of these delightful chats? Besides,” she adds with a conspiratorial wink, “if I don’t come back, maybe they’ll rent the apartment to a pretty co-ed.”
I consider that for a moment, a manufactured smile on my face to let her know I might be enjoying the idea. But when I too stand, I return her wink. “You’re all the woman I need, Angie.”
I reach for the candy dish on the counter and pilfer a pair of bite-sized chocolate bars. I slip them into my pants pocket and start for the door.
“If you really think that, then you’ve got to get out more,” she calls after me.
And she’s probably right.
As I climb the steps I hear the hum of the elevator motor through the cinder-block wall. I know that elevator inspectors come out to certify the thing’s safety but I have yet to chance it. I’ve just never had a good feeling about it, and I need the exercise anyway.
By the time I reach the third-floor landing, I’m breathing heavy and my left knee reminds me that I may need to look for an apartment closer to the ground. I’m sweating as I approach the fourth floor—not much, just a thin sheen on my forehead and an uncomfortable warmth beneath my heavy coat. It’s almost anticlimactic when I reach my floor and push through the metal door, some vague sense of accomplishment on my person.
I am halfway down the hall, my feet silent on the dirty carpet, before I notice the man standing near my door. He wears a dark suit that is nicer than anything I own, and his hands are in his pockets. I get the feeling that he’s been waiting for some time.
My feet slow and then stop, and I am standing in the middle of the hallway with a heavy briefcase in one hand, a box of expensive cigars and my mail in the other, and a curious feeling.
“Hello,” I say.
The man rocks on his heels and smiles, although it’s a strange expression, as if he is not used to it. It’s enough to send a shiver up my back; déjà vu with substance. I can almost feel the sand under my shoes. Except that I know I’ve never seen him before.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says with the hint of an accent that suggests his roots are in northern dairy country.
I doubt it is a good thing that he knows my name. I’m not a paranoid person, but when someone in a dark suit is waiting for me outside of my apartment, and when that person also knows my name, and I see no balloons or television cameras signaling I’ve won a lottery, I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I conduct a mental inventory, searching for something I’ve done that could engender a visit from a law-enforcement official, because this guy is giving off a professional vibe, like Duckey might have before giving up government service for higher education. As far as I can tell, I’m clean. Except for . . .
“They’re not directly from Cuba, if that makes any difference,” I say, raising the cigar box for his inspection.
I see puzzlement flash across my visitor’s face as he looks at the package, still half wrapped in red foil.
“Relax, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says once he realizes what I’m proffering. “I’m not here about cigars.”
I’m feeling a bit like a player in an odd film noir—the part in every such movie where two people meet in a place where shadows cover all but the parts of their faces below the nose, where a single bead of sweat runs down an actor’s cheek, and where someone, invariably, pulls a gun. The only things missing in real life are concealing shadows—the hallway is actually quite bright—and the requisite sense of danger. And I’m reasonably confident no gun will come into play.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who are you, and why are you standing in front of my door?”
He chuckles at my directness and steps aside, allowing me access to my apartment.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Hawthorne. I know it’s a bit unnerving to have someone waiting for you when you arrive home, but I missed you at your office earlier today.”
I close the distance to the door and, after setting down my briefcase, retrieve my key from my pants pocket.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say as I push the door open and stoop for my briefcase.
I see him nod and he gives another small chuckle.
“I guess I didn’t.” He offers a hand. “My name is Gregory Hardy, Dr. Hawthorne. And I have a business proposition for you.”
T
o the best of my recollection, this is my first time in a drawing room. When the butler—a detached but polite fellow with no discernible accent—brought me here, he said, “If you will wait in the drawing room, sir, Mr. Reese will be with you shortly.” The way he said it, stretching out the words
drawing room
as if they identified a chamber of mystery, suggested what it might be like to gain entry to the Oval Office—a room with hundreds of years’ worth of world-changing moments woven into the walls and carpet.
Mr. Reese’s drawing room looks like nothing more than a small parlor, with expensive items and the signs of a tasteful decorator’s hand, but a parlor nonetheless. It occurs to me that I’ve never known what a drawing room was and I’m a bit disappointed. Opposite the doorway are an active fireplace and a single burgundy chair half facing the hearth. There’s a book on a fluted end table within arm’s reach of anyone occupying the chair. To my right, two couches the same color as the chair fill out the room. They look new, as if they’ve never been sat on. Although there is a spare feel to the furnishings, I like the balance.
On two walls—the one to my left, and the one harboring the fireplace—are three paintings from the Impressionist school. I recognize two of them and I have no doubt that they are the genuine articles. It seems odd that if I were to view these same pieces in a museum, it would be from behind a velvet rope. Just because I can, I step up to the nearest painting and run my finger along its frame. I’m not bold enough to touch the painting itself. The artwork beneath my hand is probably valued close to one hundred thousand dollars, and I feel a reverence for the singular beauty of the piece. If this is any indicator of other treasures on the property, then Mr. Reese must have more money than God.
I turn away from the painting until I am facing the doorway and, once I register what I’m seeing, my breath catches in my throat. Above a high, narrow table that supports a few bottles of expensive brandy, hangs a large brass mirror that I immediately date as ninth century b.c. The light from the fire sends ripples over the polished metal surface and I see few imperfections on its face. The edges are gilded, the work of a master craftsman, with only small scratches and dents to mark its passage through the better part of three millennia. Like a moth to a flame, I cross the soft, dark carpet until I am mere inches from the artifact, until I can see my face looking out at me. I am beyond words; if the paintings evoked appreciation, this ancient mirror wrenches longing from deep within my soul.
“It’s Hebrew.”
“I know. Somewhere between 860 and 885 b.c.” After another look, I turn from the mirror to meet the lord of this manor.
I’ve seen pictures of the man, although these are scarcer than photos of other men of similar means. Most of them have come from charity events; one documented a talk he gave at UNC. What strikes me most is that he looks frailer in the flesh.
“Very good, Dr. Hawthorne. By my guess, there are less than fifty people in the world who could truly appreciate that mirror.”
“And about that many who could afford it.”
He laughs and it’s a good-natured sound, if labored. He crosses the room and extends a hand that, in better light, reveals the accumulation of years in the wrinkles and liver spots. I’m six-one and Mr. Reese matches my height. It’s possible he’s even a little taller. But my guess is that I outweigh him by at least seventy-five pounds. This is a different human being than the one from the few pictures I remember, and I cannot help but believe that he is ill.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says in a voice that’s still strong. There’s a spark in his eyes too, which defies whatever it is that is seeping the strength from him.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese. But please call me Jack.”
“Only if you call me Gordon.”
He releases my hand and gestures to the display of bottles.
“May I offer you a drink?”
I decline and Gordon drops ice into a tumbler and fills it with bourbon.
“I’m not supposed to drink anymore, but I have a great deal of good liquor in my home and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
He gives me a wink and heads for the couch closest to the fireplace. I follow, a slight smile on my lips. This is a man I could like, despite the gaps in our economic and social positions. As he settles into the cushions, I take a seat on the couch opposite him. In the muted light of the room, the flickering flames of the hearth highlight the deep creases in his face.
