The Matlock Paper (16 page)

“Wouldn’t they have had to pass you on the way out? Wouldn’t you have seen her?”

“Not necessarily. We were in the back. There are two or three doors which lead to a terrace. In summer, especially when it’s crowded, they put tables on the terrace.”

“You drove out in your car?”

“Naturally.”

“And you didn’t see her outside, walking on the road, on the grounds?”

“No.”

“Did you recognize any of the other people there?”

“I didn’t really look. I was … preoccupied.” Matlock lit a cigarette. His hand shook as he held the match.

“If you want my opinion, I think she spotted someone she knew and asked for a lift home. A girl like that doesn’t go anywhere she doesn’t want to go without a fight.”

“I know. That’s occurred to me.”

“Have a fight?”

“You might say it was diminishing but not over. The phone call probably set her off again. Old English teachers rarely get calls while out at restaurants.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I told you, she’s uptight. She keeps thinking about her father. I’ll try her apartment when Sam gets off the phone.”

“
He’s
a funny man. I tell him about Herron naturally he goes off the deep end. He says he’s got to talk privately with Sealfont so he goes into the bedroom and shouts so loud they can hear him in Poughkeepsie.”

Matlock’s thoughts shifted quickly to Herron. “His death—his
suicide
—is going to be the biggest shock this campus has had in twenty years. Men like Lucas simply don’t die. They certainly don’t die like
this
.… Does Sam know I saw him?”

“He does. I couldn’t withhold that. I told him pretty much what you told me-shorter version, of course. He refuses to believe it. The implications, I mean.”

“I don’t blame him. They’re not easy to believe. What do we do now?”

“We wait. I’ve made a report. Two lab men from
the Hartford Bureau are out there now. The local police have been called in.”

At the mention of the police, Matlock suddenly remembered the patrolman out of uniform in the squash court corridor, who had walked rapidly away at the moment of recognition. He’d told Greenberg and Greenberg had never given him an explanation—if there was one. He asked again.

“What about the cop in the gym?”

“The story’s reasonable. At least so far. The Carlyle police are assigned three mornings a week for limited use of the facilities. Town-gown relations. Coincidence.”

“You’re settling for that?”

“I said, ‘so far.’ We’re running a check on the man. Nothing’s turned up but an excellent record.”

“He’s a bigot, a nasty bastard.”

“This may surprise you, but that’s no crime. It’s guaranteed in the Bill of Rights.”

Sam Kressel walked through the bedroom door quickly, emphatically. Matlock saw that he was as close to pure fear as he’d ever seen a man. There was an uncomfortable similarity between Sam’s face and the bloodless expression of Lucas Herron before the old man had raced into the woods.

“I heard you come in,” Kressel said. “What are we going to
do?
What in hell are we
going to do?
… Adrian doesn’t believe that absurd story any more than
I do! Lucas Herron! It’s insane!
”

“Maybe. But it’s true.”

“Because
you
say so? How can you be sure? You’re no professional in these matters. As I understand it, Lucas admitted he was helping a student through a drug problem.”

“He … they aren’t students.”

“I see.” Kressel stopped briefly and looked back and forth between Matlock and Greenberg. “Under the circumstances, I demand to know the identities.”

“You’ll get them,” said Greenberg quietly. “Go on. I want to hear why Matlock’s so wrong, the story so absurd.”

“Because Lucas Herron isn’t … wasn’t the only member of the faculty concerned with these problems. There are dozens of us giving aid, helping wherever we can!”

“I don’t follow you.” Greenberg stared at Kressel. “So you help. You don’t go and kill yourself when a fellow member of the faculty finds out about it.”

Sam Kressel removed his glasses and looked momentarily reflective, sad. “There’s something else neither of you know about. I’ve been aware of it for some time but not so knowledgeably as Sealfont … Lucas Herron was a very sick man. One kidney was removed last summer. The other was also cancerous and he knew it. The pain must have been unbearable for him. He hadn’t long.”

Greenberg watched closely as Kressel returned his glasses to his face. Matlock bent down and crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table. Finally, Greenberg spoke.

“Are you suggesting that there’s no relationship between Herron’s suicide and Matlock’s seeing him this afternoon?”

“I’m not suggesting any such thing. I’m sure there’s a relationship … But you didn’t know Lucas. His whole life for nearly half a century, except for the war years, was Carlyle University. It’s been his total, complete existence. He loved this place more than any
man could love a woman, more than any parent a child. I’m sure Jim’s told you. If he thought for a moment that his world here was going to be defaced, torn apart—that would be a greater pain than the physical torture his body gave him. What better time to take his own life?”

“
Goddamn you!
” roared Matlock. “You’re saying
I killed him!
”

“Perhaps I am,” Kressel said quietly. “I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. I’m sure Adrian didn’t either.”

“But that’s what you’re
saying!
You’re saying I went off half-cocked and killed him as much as if I’d slashed his wrists!… Well, you weren’t there.
I was!
”

Kressel spoke gently. “I didn’t say you went off half-cocked. I said you were an amateur. A very well-intentioned amateur. I think Greenberg knows what I mean.”

Jason Greenberg looked at Matlock. “There’s an old Slovak proverb: ‘When the old men kill themselves, the cities are dying.’ ”

The telephone bell suddenly pierced the air; its sound acted as a jolt to the three men. Matlock answered it, then turned to Greenberg. “It’s for you.”

“Thanks.” The federal agent took the phone from Matlock. “Greenberg.… O.K. I understand. When will you know?… I’ll probably be on the road by then. I’ll call you back. Talk later.” He replaced the telephone and stood by the desk, his back to Matlock and Kressel. The dean of colleges couldn’t contain himself.

“What was it? What happened?”

Greenberg turned and faced them. Matlock thought his eyes seemed sadder than usual, which Matlock
had learned was a sign of trouble in Greenberg.

“We’re making a request of the police—the courts—for an autopsy.”

“
Why?
!” Kressel shouted as he approached the agent. “For God’s sake,
why?!
The man killed himself! He was in
pain!
… Jesus Christ, you can’t
do
this! If news of it gets out …”

“We’ll handle it quietly.”

“That can’t be done and you
know
it! It’ll leak out and all hell’ll break loose around here! I won’t
permit
it!”

“You can’t stop it. Even I couldn’t stop it. There’s sufficient evidence to indicate that Herron didn’t take his own life. That he was killed.” Greenberg smiled wryly at Matlock. “And not by words.”

Kressel argued, threatened, made another call to Sealfont, and finally, when it was obvious that all were to no avail, he left Matlock’s apartment in fury.

No sooner had Kressel slammed the door than the telephone rang again. Greenberg saw that the sound disturbed Matlock—not merely annoyed him, but disturbed him; perhaps frightened him.

“I’m sorry.… I’m afraid this place has to be a kind of patrol base for a while. Not long … Maybe it’s the girl.”

Matlock picked up the phone, listened, but did not say anything into it. Instead, he turned to Greenberg. He said only one word.

“You.”

Greenberg took the telephone, uttered his name softly, and then spent the next minute staring straight ahead. Matlock watched Greenberg for half the time and then wandered into his kitchen. He didn’t wish to
stand awkwardly to one side while the agent listened to a superior’s instructions.

The voice at the other end of the line had initially identified itself by saying, “Washington calling.”

On the counter lay the empty envelope in which the brutally hypocritical statement had come from the Department of Justice. It had been one more sign that his worst fantasies were gradually becoming real. From that infinitesimal portion of the mind which concerns itself with the unthinkable, Matlock had begun to perceive that the land he had grown up in was changing into something ugly and destructive. It was far more than a political manifestation, it was a slow, all-embracing sense of morality by strategy. A corruption of intentions. Strong feelings were being replaced with surface anger, convictions and compromise. The land was becoming something other than its promise, its commitment. The grails were empty vessels of flat wine, impressive solely because they were possessed.

“I’m off the phone now. Would you like to try reaching Miss Ballantyne?”

Matlock looked up at Greenberg, standing in the frame of the kitchen door. Greenberg, the walking contradiction, the proverb-quoting agent deeply suspicious of the system for which he worked.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to.” He started into the living room as Greenberg stepped aside to let him pass. Matlock reached the center of the room and stopped. “That’s one hell of a quotation. What was it? ‘When the old men kill themselves, the cities are dying.’ ” He turned and looked at the agent. “I think that’s the saddest proverb I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re not Hassidic. Of course, neither am I, but the Hassidim wouldn’t think it sad.… Come to think
of it, no true philosopher would.”

“Why not? It
is
sad.”

“It’s truth. Truth is neither joyful nor sad, neither good nor bad. It is simply truth.”

“Someday let’s debate that, Jason.” Matlock picked up the telephone, dialed Pat’s number, and let it ring a dozen times. There was no answer. Matlock thought of several of Pat’s friends and wondered whether to call them or not. When angry or upset, Pat usually did one of two things. She either went off by herself for an hour or so, or, conversely, sought out one or two friends and drove off to a film in Hartford or an out-of-the-way bar. It was just over an hour. He’d give her another fifteen minutes before phoning around. It had, of course, occurred to him that she might have been taken involuntarily—that had been his first thought. But it wasn’t logical. The Cheshire Cat had been filled with people, the tables close together. Greenberg was right. Wherever she went, she went because she wanted to go.

Greenberg stood by the kitchen door. He hadn’t moved. He’d been watching Matlock.

“I’ll try in a quarter of an hour. Then, if there’s no answer, I’ll call some friends of hers. As you said, she’s one strong-willed young lady.”

“I hope you’re not from the same cloth.”

“What does that mean?”

Greenberg took several steps into the living room. When he spoke, he looked directly into Matlock’s eyes.

“You’re out. Finished. Forget the letter, forget Loring, forget me.… That’s the way it’s got to be. We understand you have reservations for St. Thomas on Pan Am for Saturday. Enjoy it, because that’s where you’re going. Much better this way.”

Matlock returned the government man’s look. “Any decision like that will be made by me. I’ve got a gentle old man on my conscience; and you’ve got that stinkpot in your pocket. I signed it, remember?”

“The stinkpot doesn’t count anymore. D.C. wants you out. You go.”

“Why?”

“Because of the gentle old man. If he
was
killed, you could be, too. If that happened, certain records might be subpoenaed, certain men who had reservations about recruiting you might voice those reservations to the press. You were maneuvered. I don’t have to tell you that.”

“So?”

“The directors at Justice have no wish to be called executioners.”

“I see.” Matlock took his eyes off Greenberg and wandered toward the coffee table. “Suppose I refuse?”

“Then I remove you from the scene.”

“How?”

“I have you arrested on suspicion of murder one.”

“
What?
”

“You were the last person of record to see Lucas Herron alive. By your own admission, you went out to his house to threaten him.”

“To
warn
him!”

“That’s subject to interpretation, isn’t it?”

When the thunderous crash came, it was so ear-shattering both men threw themselves to the floor. It was as if the whole side of the building had collapsed in rubble. Dust was everywhere, furniture toppled, glass shattered, splinters of wood and plaster flew through the air, and the terrible stench of burning sulfur settled over the room. Matlock knew the smell of that
kind of bomb, and his reflexes knew how to operate. He clung to the base of his couch waiting, waiting for a second explosion—a delayed detonator which would kill any who rose in panic. Through the mist, he saw Greenberg start to get up, and he leaped forward, tackling the agent at his knees.

“Get down! Stay.…”

The second explosion came. Parts of the ceiling blackened. But Matlock knew it was not a killer explosive. It was something else, and he could not figure it out at the moment. It was an eyegrabber, a camouflage—not meant to kill, but to deflect all concentration. A huge firecracker.

Screams of panic could now be heard mounting from all parts of the building. The sounds of rushing feet pounded on the floor above his apartment.

And then a single screech of terror from outside Matlock’s front door. It would not stop. The horror of it caused Matlock and Greenberg to struggle to their feet and race to the source. Matlock pulled the door open and looked down upon a sight no human being should ever see more than once in a lifetime, if his life must continue beyond that instant.

On his front step was Patricia Ballantyne wrapped in a bloodsoaked sheet. Holes were cut in the areas of her naked breasts, blood flowing from gashes beneath the nipples. The front of her head was shaved; blood poured out of lacerations where once had been the soft brown hair. Blood, too, came from the half-open mouth, her lips bruised and split. The eyes were blackened into deep crevasses of sore flesh—but they moved! The eyes moved!