Powder Burn Page 12

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe that. I don’t know what happened, Lacklan, but you have to believe me, we would never have hurt them—or Zack or Bran. It is impossible.”

  “And yet…”

  She sighed and was quiet for a while. Finally, she said, “Let me talk to Francoise in the morning. Maybe he’ll be willing to meet with you. Would you be willing to do that?”

  Outside, the sky was tinged with a pale blue-gray. After a moment, I nodded. “Yeah, I’d be willing to do that.”

  FOURTEEN

  The next morning I drove her to the Columbia campus, and after I’d watched her cross the crowded sidewalk at a run and enter the pedestrian passage on Amsterdam Avenue, I borrowed her car to drive over to the Bronx and pay a visit to the Peabodys.

  I arrived at twenty after ten, parked on the corner and stood for a while, looking out at the dark water. The small boat was still there, but the wood pile had been largely dismantled. I made my way to the door and rang on the bell. When Pip opened the door, she stood a while, staring at me uncertainly.

  “Mr. Walker… I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Peabody. I wouldn’t bother you if it were not for something very important. Is your husband at home?”

  She hesitated. “Yes… Come in. We were just having coffee. Will you join us?”

  They weren’t on the veranda. The veranda door was closed and the drapes were drawn, despite the heat, blocking out the view of the wood pile and the forensic team’s tent, where they had been examining the site where the bodies had lain. Paul was sitting on the sofa. On the coffee table in front of him, there was a rich fruit cake and a plate of brownies. There was also a pot of coffee and two cups.

  He stood as I came in, and looked worried. “Mr. Walker…”

  “I am sorry to trouble you again…”

  “It’s not your fault. In fact, we were only just saying, you were heaven sent, the truth be told. God alone knows how long they would have lain there… The thought is too awful to contemplate. We’ll sell. We’ll almost certainly sell and move…”

  Pip came in from the kitchen, carrying a cup and a saucer. She placed it in front of the far armchair and gestured for me to sit. I did and she sat opposite me, with Paul on the sofa between us. While she cut into the cake, he poured me coffee.

  “I assume,” he said, “that you have more questions for us.”

  He set the cup in front of me and passed me the slice of cake his wife was holding out. I took it and set it down, then nodded once. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t think you were one hundred percent up front with me the last time we spoke. Am I right?”

  He wouldn’t meet my eye. He started to say, “I don’t know why you would say that…”

  But Pip reached out and took hold of his hand. “Mr. Walker is a friend, Paul. We can tell him. We should tell him.”

  She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then seemed to sag as she let it out. “When Hans and Hattie first came to us, it was through our church and…” She smiled a little sadly. “It was truly like an answer to our prayers. We had decided some time ago that we could not foster anymore, we’re both getting on a bit, but we missed…” She gave a small shrug to indicate the simplicity of what they missed. “We missed caring for somebody. Then Hans and Hattie showed up. They said they’d had had a kind of epiphany. Their lives had changed. They had been lost, drifting, living in squats, but now they wanted to start to put their lives in order, and do something useful.”

  Paul smiled at his wife and gave a small laugh. “Well, when we got talking to them, we realized pretty quick that these were not just ordinary folk. They were smart and then some. They would devour books on everything from Christian theology to Freud, Jung, cutting edge neurology…” He shook his head. “You name it, they would absorb it, digest it and understand, in one week, what most people would need a decade.” He stopped. “But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  Pip went on. “Naturally, we took them in. It was like an answer to our prayers, but also, it was like a gift from God to be able to help these remarkable, gifted people. And we grew to truly love them as our own family. Didn’t we, Paul?”

  She looked to him for confirmation and he nodded. “But every light casts a shadow, as the saying goes, and they had their dark side. And that is what we didn’t tell you about when you were here last. It just didn’t seem relevant, and it was a private, personal thing between them.”

  I frowned. “What was the nature of this shadow, Mr. Peabody?”

  He quickly shook his head. “Oh, it was nothing sinister, nothing evil. It was just that, I suppose because of their brilliance and their sheer, darned goodness, sometimes, occasionally, but very rarely, one or other of them would suddenly plunge into this deep depression, this state of black despair. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Walker, it could be frightening.”

  Pip was nodding at his words, staring at her cup and her slice of cake.

  I said, “In what way frightening?”

  She looked up. “You didn’t know what they were capable of in that state. You felt they were totally out of control. I made a point—we both did—of making sure that there were no razors around, or anything that might prove a risk to them. Because I could not be sure they would not hurt themselves.”

  I thought for a moment, then asked, “But not anybody else?”

  They both looked startled and spoke in unison, “Oh, Lord, no!”

  Pip went on, “They would never hurt anybody. They were almost… Well, they were almost saintly! They would never hurt anybody at all, but sometimes it was like they just absorbed all the pain and suffering and unhappiness of the whole world, and they couldn’t take it. They couldn’t cope.”

  I knew what the answer was going to be, but I asked it anyway. “You said these attacks were rare, but the fact is, they were becoming more frequent, weren’t they?”

  They both nodded, and Pip asked, “How did you know?”

  “It’s best I don’t tell you, Mrs. Peabody. And I doubt it will happen, but if anybody should ask about me, just tell them I wanted to ask you some questions, but you sent me away.”

  I made to stand. Paul was biting his lip, watching me with wet eyes. “They were not…” He couldn’t say it. He looked away. “They were not just good, gifted people, were they?”

  I stood. “Would it make any difference? Something happened to them. It could have been a car accident, a mugging, a near death experience—it doesn’t matter what. And they responded to that experience by becoming what they became, because that was what was latent inside them. That was what they had the potential to become.”

  Pip was staring at my untouched coffee and my cake, like she resented the waste. She said, “Who killed them, Mr. Walker?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Humanity. Humanity is ungrateful, Mrs. Peabody. Ungrateful and jealous. It despises the people it cannot control.” I hesitated. “Remember them as what they were. I am sorry I can’t tell you anymore.”

  I left them sitting around their Dundee cake and their coffee, mourning the goodness, the compassion and the empathy that their God had given them, and then stolen away. What was it Kingsley Amis had said? The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Indian Giver be the name of the Lord.

  I climbed into Lucia’s car and my cell started to ring. It was her. I answered. “Yeah?”

  “Francoise wants to meet you.”

  “Good. When?”

  “This evening, seven thirty, for drinks, then dinner. Pick me up at seven, where you dropped me this morning. We’ll go to his house.”

  “How civilized.”

  “Please, don’t be like that. I think you are going to change your mind when you meet them.”

  “They’ll both be there?”

  “Yes, and the Secretary of State for Defense…”

  “What?”

  “This is a lot more important than you think it is…”

  A wave of hot ang
er washed over me. “No,” I said, failing to control the suppressed rage in my voice. “It’s not, Lucia. Destroying innocent people’s lives and murdering them does not become more important because the Secretary of State for Defense is involved. It just means there’s another asshole to add into the equation!”

  “Lacklan, that is not what I meant…”

  “I know what you meant, Lucia! If a drifter dies, that’s a shame. If the Secretary of State killed him, that’s important!”

  “Lacklan! Stop it! You know how I felt about Charlie!”

  “No, Lucia, I don’t know how you felt about Charlie. All I know is that five innocent lives were destroyed on the altar of a deal between the Ceres Corporation, your department and the Secretary of State for Defense. And I am sitting here getting mad. You better pray, Lucia, that when this is over, I find you were only a pawn. You’d better pray.”

  “Lacklan, what do you mean? What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll see you at seven.”

  I drove away, not sure where I was going or what I intended to do, but hearing Lucia’s voice in my head, repeating, “…what do you mean? What are you going to do?” For some reason it reminded me of Charlie the night before. And then I knew why. He had said to Lucia, “I came here tonight to kill you.” And then, as he had left, he had turned to me and said, “…Go back to Boston. Stay out of my way.”

  Intent. He had intent. But intent to do what? Initially to kill Lucia, vengeance for what he perceived, rightly or wrongly, as her betrayal. But there was more than that. Stay out of my way, that implied a lot more than a simple murder out of a sense of betrayal or jealousy. It suggested he was going to get busy. But busy doing what? You didn’t need a Ceres Corporation intervention to work out that he planned to get busy damaging that corporation; but how, exactly?

  On a random impulse, I turned down Lacombe Avenue and followed it to the end, to Soundview Park. I left the car there and crossed the road, among the trees and the half-wild lawns and gardens. I strolled slowly along random paths, turning it over in my head, until after ten or fifteen minutes, I came down by the riverbank, where the Westchester Creek meets the East River. A cool breeze was coming in off the deep, black water and I stopped to breathe and organize my thoughts.

  Finally, I sat on the grass and called Marni, in Oxford. She answered after the second ring.

  “Hey, Mr. Happy. Keep this up and I’m going to start thinking we’re friends.”

  I was caught off guard and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. She waited a moment and, as I drew breath, said, “It’s OK, I was about to call you anyway.”

  “You were?”

  “You asked about Troyes and Fokker, the Ceres Corporation. If they were Omega.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you involved in?”

  I squinted out at the silver-white glare of the sun on the small, inky waves. After a moment, I said, “I don’t know, hence my question. But it feels a hell of a lot like…”

  She interrupted me. “I don’t see how, Skywalker. You beheaded the beast. Omega are as good as dead. Even in Europe, we are seeing signs everywhere of their collapse. And in the States, well, you’ve seen how Senator McFarlane is prospering. She’s going to be the first woman President of the United States…”

  “What did you just call me?”

  “Skywalker.”

  “You haven’t called me that since we were kids.”

  She gave a small laugh. “Well, it feels kind of like that. We used to go on adventures, up in Turret, remember? You used to call me Princess.”

  I smiled. “That was before we knew they were brother and sister.”

  She laughed. “Right.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence. I said, “Listen, what about the Secretary of Defense? O’Brien?”

  “Paul O’Brien? He’s on board, why?”

  “With McFarlane?”

  “Yup, we’ve been in talks. We’ve been keeping a close eye on him and so far, he’s so clean he squeaks.”

  Overhead, a seagull burst out laughing, like she’d heard a dirty joke and thought it was hilarious. I watched her circle for a moment, then said, “He’s in bed with Troyes and Fokker.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I gave her a thumbnail sketch of what I had found so far. She was quiet for a while. I said, “It reeks of Omega. If I hadn’t killed them myself, I’d swear it was them.”

  “You know O’Brien campaigned against the SERESS Bill, right, and derailed it?”

  “The what bill?”

  “It was kept quiet because it was very controversial. The Selective Evolution through Regulator Eradication, Suppression or Stimulation Bill. It’s quite a mouthful, and a very complex, boring document. It was proposed by a number of congressmen on behalf of the Ceres Corporation, seeking to change legislation to allow them, amongst other things, to experiment on volunteers in either eradicating, suppressing or stimulating the regulators that naturally dictate which genes we switch on and which we switch off. It is a heavily controlled area of science and industry. Research and development in those areas is a minefield in the West, and basically Troyes and Fokker are seeking to have it totally deregulated within the U.S.A. There are factions in Congress who are in favor, because they see it as having vast potential. They are not wrong, but the bill failed because O’Brien campaigned actively against it, and he pulls a lot of weight on the Hill. Now they are trying to revamp it and find support to present it again in a different guise, but with the same ultimate effect.”

  “So they are trying to buy O’Brien and get him on side?”

  “Maybe, but honestly, I don’t think he’s for sale.”

  “I’m going to meet him tonight.”

  “How come?”

  “Troyes has asked me to go and have drinks, then dinner at Chez Francoise. O’Brien will be there.”

  She was quiet for a bit. “That’s interesting. Report back, will you? If he’s jumping ship, we need to know.”

  “I will. Thanks for filling me in.”

  There was a smile in her voice. “Should have been like this all along, right?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You were right. I got it wrong. I panicked.”

  I shrugged, reluctant to hang up. “It’s a scary world. I panic sometimes.”

  “No, you don’t.” She laughed. “You just go out and kick ass.”

  “Well, stick to what you’re good at, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  The gull had gone farther down the creek to laugh. The black water was flashing small, liquid mirrors at me, and somewhere a foghorn was booming, even though it was broad daylight. I said, “I’d better go. How’s Gibbons? You keeping an eye on him?”

  “He’s behaving. Badly, but he’s behaving. How about you? How’s your life?”

  I nodded, stared out the East River, realized I didn’t know the answer to her question.

  “Good, it’s good.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “OK, I’d better go,” I said again. “I’ll catch you later, Princess.”

  “Yeah, walk tall, Skywalker.”

  I hung up and felt something I had not felt for years. Something I could not actually remember ever having felt before. I felt guilt.

  FIFTEEN

  At seven o’clock that evening, I pulled in to the side of the road on Amsterdam Avenue outside the Fairchild Center and watched Lucia run around and climb in the passenger seat. She didn’t look happy. She looked mad.

  “I think you owe me an apology.”

  She wrenched her seatbelt around and struggled to lock it in place. When she was done, I said, “Let’s suppose for a minute that I did apologize to you. Who, then, is going to apologize to Zack, and Bran, and Hattie and Hans?”

  Her face flushed. “How many times, Lacklan? I already told you I don’t believe for one second that Francoise and Wolfgang did that! It is a crazy idea!”

  “You believe that Charlie did it
during a psychotic break…”

  “It seems to me the most logical and the least crazy possibility!”

  I nodded a while, watching her beautiful, angry face. “Hold that thought, Lucia, because we’ll be coming back to it later this evening.”

  I pulled away and we headed toward the George Washington Bridge. We drove in silence, but I could tell from her face, when I glanced at her a couple of times, that she was turning over in her mind what I had said. Finally, about half an hour later, we turned off Booth Road onto Lincoln Avenue and in the gates of the Troyes Mansion. As they slid open to admit us, I noticed a brass plaque on the gate post that read, Et in Arcadia Ego.

  The house was a mock Georgian monstrosity in pale cream and gray. It had a door that was too grand for the style of architecture, stuck between too many Greco-roman columns supporting a gabled portico that was too small and looked absurd, balanced on top of six vast pillars. Looking as absurd as his gabled portico, in a double-breasted Italian suit which probably cost as much as the house, and was just as vulgar, was Francoise Michel Troyes, standing on his marble doorstep with his arms spread wide to welcome us into Arcadia.

  I parked beside a large Cadillac, killed the engine and we climbed out of the car. He embraced her and kissed her three times, the way the French do, and repeated her name with each kiss, “Aaah, Lucia! muah, Lucia, muah! Lucia, muah! I am so ’appy you could make it! So long we ’ave known each other, and never we ’ave dined together! Why? Why?”

  He looked away from her before she could answer and spread his arms to me. I told him with my face that I didn’t kiss guys, even if they were French. He read me correctly and held out his hand to me.

  “Mister Walker, may I call you Lacklan?” He put the accent on the second ‘a’, so I was going to tell him he couldn’t, but he kept talking. “I insist you call me Francoise! We are all friends ’ere.” We shook.

  I said, “We’re in Arcadia, huh? And there I was, thinking we were in New Jersey.”

  “Ah! But I think Arcadia is not a physical location in the time-space continuum, but more a state of mind! A state of the soul!”