Riptide (22 page)

“Richard, you’re smarter than this. You know you’re not thinking clearly.”

“All I know is what I saw tonight. You and Sandy, best pals. It explains a lot. You helped her put up those pictures of me. I’ll bet it was your idea. But I’m on to you now.”

Hearing him talk like this—it broke her heart. Once again she tried to get an answer to her question. “What do you do at night?”

“I walk. I ride the bus.”

That was responsive, at least. “Where do you go?”

“I get around.”

“Where?”

“Around and around and around...”

“Have you been to mom and dad’s graves?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Did you see me there this morning? Did you leave something on my car?”

“Like bird shit?”

“Did you leave a note?”

“Yes, it was C minor.”

“Richard, I want to know if you left a note on my windshield.”

“You ask stupid questions. You’ve always been stupid and useless. I was the smart one. I’m the
real
doctor. I’m an M.D.”

“Just tell me if you were at the graveyard today.”

“So you can track my movements? Put a homing beacon on me?”

“How about my house? Have you been here? Have you been inside the house?”

“It’s not your house. It’s mine. It should have been mine.”

“Did you break in? Did you come here after the rally—”

“Serves you right if I did. You shouldn’t be mixed up with her. She’s against me. If she’s your friend, it means you’re against me too.”

“Richard, I want you to listen to me. The posters don’t have your picture on them. Nobody is looking for you because of any crimes. I’m not working with Sandra Price.”

“I saw you with her. Who am I supposed to believe, you or my own eyes? You want me put away, and you want my money. You want the money I inherited from Mom.”

“There’s hardly any money left.”

“And the family papers too. The family papers you care about so much.”

“Have you looked through those papers? Have you read them?”

“I can read. I’m an M.D.”

“How much do you know about our family? Our father?”

“He’s the father of lies.”

“What does that mean?”

“The devil is the father of lies.”

“Was our father the devil?”

“He killed himself. And not just himself.”

“Who else did he kill?”

“You and me. And Mom. He killed us all.”

“Anyone else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Richard, please trust me. I’m on your side.”

“Lying
bitch
.”

“You saved me in San Francisco.” She gripped her left arm, feeling the scar. “Remember that? Now I’m trying to save you.”

“Save yourself.”

“I’m not the one in trouble.”

“Yes, you are, big sister. Yes, you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re part of this family. You can’t escape.” He sucked in a breath. “I’ll be going now. Got places to be.”

“Richard!” Her voice broke. “Don’t hang up, please don’t—”

Click, and he was gone.

twenty-two

In a corner of the darkness he lay curled in a fetal ball, rocking slowly back and forth, hugging his knees.

Like a fetus in the womb, awaiting birth.

Or rebirth, possibly.

At times he thought—was almost sure—that he had been born once before, as old Jack. And now, though he was a new man, he was still the old one.

At other times he thought this was a snare and a delusion, that old Jack was dead and he was only who and what he was.

But what he was—that was the true miracle. His calling, his destiny was unique in the world.

For years he’d fought against it, waging a lonely, secret battle.

At last he had yielded, and by yielding, he had won.

Now he was free. He contended against himself no longer.

It was illness that liberated him. His weakness was his strength.

People looked at him as a sad freak, a ruined shell. They pointed and mocked. But he was stronger than they knew.

Take what he had done tonight, for instance. Following little Jennifer to the gymnasium, watching her from the bleachers, in plain view of everyone, but unseen, because he
wanted
to be unseen.

And afterward, while she lingered over supper with that whore Sandra Price, he had returned to the house, slipping in so easily through the window.

He’d thought for sure he could find the diary. Take it from her, away from her unworthy eyes.

But it was nowhere.
Nowhere
.

She was a clever bitch. She’d hidden the treasure. Hidden it so craftily he could not find it.

He could have waited for her to return. Could have made her show it to him. But then he would have had to kill her. And he wasn't sure he was prepared to do that.

Not quite yet.

Soon, perhaps. His patience was great, but not inexhaustible. And he would weary of their telephone games eventually.

When he was ready, he would do it.

1902

It was springtime in Denver, and Edward Hare was getting married.

He stood before the dark and wavy mirror over his dresser, adjusting the knot of his tie. He had been barbered and bathed and beautified, and he was pleased with the reflection in the glass.

Though he was in middle age now, forty-two years old, he had the bearing of a younger man. Hard living had kept him fit, and the mountain air had cleaned the soot from his lungs. He had even forsaken smoking, convinced that cigarettes left him winded.

Nothing must abbreviate his life. There was yet much work to do.

Satisfied with his necktie, he checked his pocket watch and found himself with an hour to spare before he was needed at the chapel. He poured a whiskey and reclined in his favorite armchair with yesterday’s
Post
, which he had not had time to read. The usual controversies over pastureland and water rights took up the headlines. But on an inside page he discovered an item of greater interest.

A wire-service story datelined Albany, New York, reported that Governor Benjamin B. Odell had commuted the sentence of Ameer Ben Ali, now believed to have been wrongly convicted in the murder of Carrie Brown.

Certain industrious journalists had pursued the matter for years, insisting that the telltale trail of blood to Ali’s hotel room had not been present when they first visited the scene. One of them had sworn out an affidavit to this effect.

And then there was the farmer’s tale. A Mr. George Damon of Cranford, New Jersey, had come forward to claim that a Danish immigrant in his employ was out of the house on the night of the whore’s murder. A few days later the Dane vanished for good, allegedly leaving behind a bloody shirt and a key from the East River Hotel, its label reading
31
, the murdered woman’s room number.

“Danish,” Hare muttered. “I
knew
it was some continental jabber.”

He had no doubt that this Cranford hireling was the blond foreigner who should have been framed for the crime. It was sheer bad luck the man had gotten away, though this misfortune had been offset by the apprehension and speedy conviction of the Algerian, Ali.

Now Ali was in the clear—en route back to Algeria, the story said. The case was once again officially unsolved, but the authorities would never concern themselves with it. They had more pressing business. Besides, he could not be tracked down here, or tied to an event of eleven years ago. He had a new name, a new life. He was a prosperous and respected businessman, a pillar of the community.

He checked his watch again. It was nearly time to go. He decided to leave early, if only to escape the sudden closeness of his room.

At the doorway he paused, key in hand. When next he saw these quarters, he would be a married man, the last brick in the edifice of his respectability set firmly in place.

And he would have a woman—the thought prickled him with disquiet and strange anticipation—a woman all his own.

*** 

The ceremony was brief and solemn, the minister first asking Hare if he would love, cherish, and protect his wife, then asking her if she would love, honor, and obey her husband. Each affirmed, “I will.”

Smiling fiercely, Hare kissed the bride.

He did love her, which was to say, he loved possessing her. He enjoyed dangling her before other men like an expensive bauble on a chain. He relished their envy, thrived on their salacious jokes. With the approach of his wedding day—and more particularly his wedding night—such jests had been increasingly frequent. What the jesters did not know was that the prospect of conjugal relations repulsed him. Though he had known women with his knife, he had never explored their questionable charms with a lover’s hand. He supposed he must simply shut his eyes and do his duty. The bedroom would be dark, and he could make it quick.

Maddie was good breeding stock, at least—long-boned, wide-hipped, healthy, strong, and twenty years his junior. His years among ranchers had not been wasted. He was a fair judge of cattle.

She would bear him sons—the prospect of daughters never entered his mind—and in his sons, his blood would live on. His blood and, he believed, his mission.

The wedding feast followed the ceremony. In a sunlit hall, the long tables were decked with flowers and starched napkins, platters of flesh and fowl, bowls of cabbage, piles of bread. Whiskey was poured. Cigars were lit. Speeches were made. In a corner of the room, a trio of musicians played fife and fiddle and dulcimer.

Over and over he was informed of his great good fortune in choosing such a splendid wife. He accepted the compliments, the hard claps on the back, the manly winks and nods.

“How’d you ever charm her papa? You must be the very devil himself.”

“You’re a regular lady-killer, old man.”

“Got to hand it to you, chum. You do know the way to a woman’s heart.”

Indeed he did. His knife had mapped that territory many times.

He traded quips and pledges, relaxing in the warmth of conviviality. He had never been a social man, but today he saw why people took pleasure in one another’s company.

Madeleine’s father approached him. The man was only a year or two older than Hare, but luxury and self-indulgence had taken their toll. With his white beard and flushed cheeks and his stomach overspilling his belt, he might have been old Saint Nick. And he was sotted.

“Congratulations, my boy, congratulations. It’s a great day, a great day.” He had the habit of repeating his words. “You’ll make my daughter very happy, very happy.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hare promised.

“Know you will, know you will. I must say”—he leaned closer, speaking confidentially—“I never doubted you a bit. Always saw you as a man of affairs, a man to reckon with.” His shaggy head nodded. “To reckon with. Yes. And I’m proud—proud to call you my son.”

Hare pumped the man’s hand, which was greasy and hot. He thought Maddie’s father was an imbecile.

Her mother, however, was a different story. A sharp one, she was. From the start she had looked askance at the man courting her only child. Her clear, cool gaze had studied him in a manner that was distinctly unsettling.

When Hare glanced down the length of the table, he saw that she was studying him now.

He felt he ought to say something. Mend fences, as the saying went. He walked over to her and lightly took her hand. She was younger than himself by several years, and it seemed odd to think of her as his mother-in-law.

“Evelyn,” he said courteously, “believe me when I tell you that your daughter is all the world to me.”

“Is she?” Those watchful eyes would not look away. “I had not imagined there was room in your world for anyone besides yourself.”

He bristled. Here he was assaying diplomacy, and she would have none of it. Well, he knew a way to wound her.

“You wrong me,” he said with fawning sincerity. “For me, the world is only Madeleine. She is my sunrise and my sunset, and will ever be, no matter how far we travel.”

She picked up on the last word. “Travel...down the road of life, you mean?”

“We have in mind more definite travel plans than that.”

She stiffened in her chair. For the first time he saw anxiety in her face. “What are you saying? You’re not taking her away?”

“Sadly, I must pursue my business opportunities wherever they lead. They are taking me to California, and your daughter with me.”