Small Blessings (44 page)

“Could you explain it to me, do you think?” Rose asked from her window.

Russell stared at her. “Surely you must know. I mean, you are the one who
started
it.”

“Started what, Russell?” Rose began moving slowly toward him. If she could get close enough she could kick the gun out of his hand. “I promise you I don't have a clue what you're talking about. Please tell me what's going on.”

Russell tossed his head. His hair flew about. “This,” he said, “is about destiny!”

Abruptly, Rose lost patience. Gun or no gun, this had gone on long enough. “Russell Jacobs, you let me out of here!” she said, making a rush at him. “You have no right to keep me locked up like this.”

Now Russell pointed the gun at her as though he meant it, stopping Rose a good ten feet from freedom. “I have
every
right! It turned out I did
not
have the right to keep Henry, and so, as you saw, I let him go. But I
do
have the right to keep you!” He loosed a stentorian belch. “Oops. Can't have that. Must go now. Have one more tiny drink, while you stay put!” He waved the gun purposely at her again. “Read my letter again. Think about things. Have some more Oreos.”

And he was gone, closing and locking the floor behind him.

*   *   *

Tom kept his arms around Henry and his eyes fastened on Rose standing in the window of the Dome Room. As long as he could see her, he knew she was all right. Tom thought the chances that Russell would hurt Rose were slim, but still, it was obvious that Russell had temporarily lost any connection to reality, and so who knew what he might do? There was that gun to consider.

Henry had said it was an old gun, and Tom suspected it was one of the pair of matched black-powder Mortimer dueling pistols that Russell was so proud of. He liked to give the impression they'd been in his family for the better part of two centuries, but Tom had been with him when he'd spotted them in a Christie's catalog. Had he been wrong not to call Russ on his guff? Isn't that what real friends did, call each other on their guff?

Rose moved in the window, lifting a hand, pushing back her hair, a gesture that went straight to Tom's heart. “Can you see me?” he whispered. “Do you know I'm here?”

Henry pulled at the sleeve of his sport coat. Tom bent down and put his arms around the little boy. Henry's face was scrunched with worry; no one could tell him this situation was not his fault. “Can't you
make
him let her out?” he asked yet again. “Can't we just go in and get her?”

Tom answered just as he had the other times Henry had asked these questions. “I think it would be better if we give it a little more time.”

“That's what you said before.”

“I know.” Tom stroked the boy's hair.

“But he's got that gun.”

“It's an old gun. I don't think Professor Jacobs has any bullets for it.”

“But you don't know for
certain.
” Henry spoke in an almost-whisper.

“No, you're right. I don't know for certain. But if he did have bullets, don't you think it would be better not to make him feel attacked?”

Tears glittered in Henry's eyes. “But Rose must be scared up there by herself. I should have stayed with her, even though she told me to go.”

Tom brushed a tear off Henry's cheek. “No, no, you did the right thing. You let us know where Rose is so we can figure out the best thing to do. If you hadn't done that, we'd still be looking for her.”

Henry, who had yet to crumple, crumpled now. “I'm sorry,” he wailed.

Tom picked the boy up and held him close. “Everything will be all right,” he said, over and over. But he stopped short of promising this. Everything being all right was hope, not certitude. Tom wasn't going to pretend to Henry he had powers he didn't.

He caught Mr. Brownlow's eye over the top of Henry's head. Agnes had, indeed, phoned the little banker. He'd come over immediately and, much to Tom's relief, had flung no blame at anyone for Henry's disappearance. Instead, Mr. Brownlow had searched like everybody else. Then when Henry had turned up, he'd beetled over to Russell's house with Tom and Agnes like the adjunct family member he appeared to have become. Temporarily, at least. Until he blew the family apart. How could he leave Henry in the care of someone whose friends kidnapped him?

Russell usually pulled his Mercedes into the Dean Dome's double garage, but today he'd conveniently left it in the drive. Clarence Mayhew had set up an impromptu command post on the car's wide trunk. Tom, Henry, Agnes, Mr. Brownlow, and Iris Benson (who also seemed to have joined the family) were all clustered around it, along with the president and Clarence Mayhew. As chief of the college police, Clarence was titularly in charge, but it was obvious he deferred to the president.

Mr. Brownlow, however, deferred to no one. Just as the college bells began to strike eight, the little banker ducked under the museum ropes, marched up to the Dean Dome's front door, and pressed the doorbell.

The crowd hushed and held their collective breath.

Nothing happened.

Mr. Brownlow rang the bell again. “Professor Jacobs,” he called out, “I'm Mason Brownlow of Picayune, Mississippi. Might we speak for a moment?”

“Go away!” Russell shouted from behind the closed front door.

His voice sounded amplified to Tom. Could Russell still have that megaphone left over from his long-ago days at the University of Virginia?

Tom had a sudden vision of Russ, sitting in the student section of Scott Stadium, correctly dressed in Cavalier colors, yelling his head off in support of a bunch of football players who wouldn't care if he lived or died.

Why hadn't he seen it before? Russell was the way he was simply because he wanted to
belong.
He wanted someone, anyone, to put his arms around him and say:
Russell Jacobs, I know you're full of it most of the time, but I still like you a
lot.

Was this why Russell had locked Rose up in the Dean Dome? Could it possibly be as simple as that she'd made him feel she
liked
him?

This morning, had Russell been on his way to explain this to her, talk to her about it, when he'd barged into her bedroom and found the two of them together? Had Russell looked at Rose in bed with him and seen his own rare real connection with another person slipping away? Was that why Russell had flipped out and kidnapped her?

Of course, Russell had kidnapped Henry as well. But then he'd let the boy go again, telling him it was because he wasn't his real son. Which meant that, for a time, Russell had thought Henry was his real son.

This would, of course, have to be sorted out later.

Later. That was the operative word for the Henry part of this mess. For right now, Tom was dimly certain the most helpful thing he could do was face his
own
part. The truth was that he, Tom Putnam, had been an iffy friend to Russell Jacobs. He'd spent the first twenty years of their relationship immersed in his own troubles, the last two weeks immersed in Henry and Rose. The bottom line was he'd been completely wrapped up in his own doings while Russell had floundered along beside him, a runaway train heading for tonight's crash.

Of course, Russell's breakdown was not
all
Tom's fault; Russell had deliberately made himself difficult to know. But wasn't that the point? Wasn't Russell's stagy behavior how his corrosive loneliness had manifested itself?

And wasn't Tom's chief transgression that he'd never thought to question it?

Surely, Tom thought, if he'd been paying even a modicum of attention sometime over the last twenty years, he would have seen Russell's behavior for what it was—a plea for acceptance. Aren't the messed-up ways people behave always cries for help?

Oh, whatever. Right here, right now, it was time for him to acknowledge that Russell Jacobs had been
bellowing
for help for years, and that he, Tom Putnam, had essentially stuck his fingers in his ears and ignored him.

Mr. Brownlow was leaning on the doorbell again. “Professor Jacobs, we cannot let this continue. Please, won't you talk to us and tell us what's going on? Tell us why you're holding Rose Callahan captive? If you don't, we'll really have no choice but to call the state police.”

“Rose Callahan is not my captive, she's my guest,” Russell boomed. “My
acolyte,
as it were, in the church of the human heart. She is here to learn.”

“But what if she wants to leave?” Mr. Brownlow shouted.

“Too bad.”

The whole assemblage loosed a sigh. Mr. Brownlow shrugged, turned around, walked back to the museum ropes, ducked under them, and rejoined the group around Russell's Mercedes. “He's really
out
there, isn't he?” he said to Agnes.

“Yes, he is,” she said. “Poor, poor Rose. I just hope Russell doesn't do anything stupid.”

“He's
already
done something stupid,” the president pointed out to no one in particular.

*   *   *

Iris Benson was uncomfortable on a lot of levels, but the most pressing was that she alone seemed to know that Russell was an alcoholic off on a toot. The problem was she knew this only because she'd seen him at that AA meeting, and so saying anything about it would be a big AA no-no. On the other hand, saying something might also help Russell in the long run, for surely being a drunk on a toot aroused more compassion in people than being a gun-waving, lunatic kidnapper.

Iris badly wanted to do the right thing. Russell had helped her out big-time during the Book Store debacle. However, whenever she tried to think, all she thought about was vodka.

Indecision hung thick in the air around her.

Oh, what the hell! She meant to help, and that would have to do. “Russell Jacobs is an alcoholic,” she announced in a loud, clear carrying voice, “and he's back on the booze. I think that's probably at least part of what's going on with him.”

All eyes within earshot turned toward her. “How do you know he's an alcoholic?” the president asked.

So here came her own walls a'tumbling down. “I know Russell's a drunk because I'm one,” Iris said.

Tom gasped. “I had no idea. I thought he'd stopped drinking because of the calories or something.”

The president, however, nodded her manicured head decisively. “Well, that's certainly good to know. I understand a lot about alcoholics, as it happens.”

Iris stared at the president. “You do?”

“You bet. Both my father and my uncle died of drink, and I had to learn about the disease in order to come to terms with that. So how long have you been sober, Peony? Not long, if what I hear is right.”

“Iris,” Iris corrected her. “It's Iris. I've been sober four days.”

“Good for you,” the president said. “It explains a lot, doesn't it?”

“About me?” Iris asked.

“Yup. And about Russell Jacobs.” The president turned to the rest of the group. “Well, now that we know a bit more about what we're dealing with, does anyone have any suggestions? It seems to me that if Russell's an alcoholic who just started drinking again, we should call the police in before he gets any drunker. I hate to do it because of what it will mean for the college and for Russell, but that's pretty small potatoes next to Rose Callahan's safety.”

“No,” Tom said.

All eyes turned to him, but it was Agnes who spoke. “Thomas Putnam, have you lost your mind? It's Rose in there. Locked up with a drunk who's got a gun.”

“I know, but I'm pretty sure from what Henry said that it's just an old dueling pistol that isn't loaded. I'd like to try talking to Russell before we call the police.”

“But Mason just did that.” Agnes had unconsciously put herself on a first-name basis with Mr. Brownlow, who noticed and smiled.

“True, but I'm still going to try.” Tom reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a key ring. He and Russell had traded house keys years ago. “Besides, I can get in.”

“Oh, you don't want to do that,” Clarence said quickly.

Tom smiled. “Oh, but I do. Russell's been my friend for twenty years, and I owe him that much at least.”

“Russell Jacobs isn't
anyone's
friend,” Agnes snapped.

Tom lifted the museum rope. “I know. And if that is not my fault, it certainly is my responsibility.”

*   *   *

Tom heard the doorbell shrill inside the house. As had been the case with Mr. Brownlow, however, nothing happened.

Tom rang again.

Nothing.

He fumbled the big, old-fashioned key into the lock, turned it, twisted the door's big, polished knob, and pushed.

The door swung open. Lights blazed around him; the megaphone sat abandoned on the beautiful Turkish carpet. Russell was nowhere to be seen.

“Where are you, Russ?” Tom called.

“Go away,” Russell shouted, evidently sticking to a script. His voice came from above.

“No,” Tom shouted back. “I'm not going away. I'm coming up.”

He climbed the steps two at a time. Once on the second-floor landing, he headed directly through the archway that led to the Dome Room stairs. The stairwell's lights were off, so Tom switched them on.

Russell sat halfway up the Dome Room stairs, a two-thirds empty bottle of whiskey on one side, one of his Mortimers on the other. He had what looked like a wilted paper party hat stuck on one side of his head. Tom could not help but feel pity for his friend. How fast the mightily arrogant had fallen. There he was, just another sad and struggling drunk.

“Hello, Russell,” Tom said.

Russell said nothing. He sat looking down at Tom as though not quite sure who he was.

“It's Tom. Your old friend, Tom Putnam.”