Bitter Truth

42

I FOUND MYSELF ALONE in a massive, high-ceilinged room that spa

Two chandeliers of wrought iron, hanging from an ornately patterned ceiling, sprinkled a dim light on the furnishings, complemented by the uneven glow of savage iron fixtures intermittently cleaving to the walls. There were windows on three sides of the room but they were either shuttered or draped with thick maroon velvet so the daylight that did seep through, thick with spi

The woman in the portrait seemed strangely familiar and I stepped toward her, almost against my will. She stood in a black dress, her hands held delicately before her, a bo

I heard a rasp of breath from behind me and turned quickly. In the midst of all that baroque grandeur it took me a moment to spot the source. I had been so overwhelmed by the decor I hadn’t noticed anyone in the room with me but now, focused by the sound, I saw him there in the corner. Hunched, gray, his skin pasty and smoothly pale, seated in a wooden wheelchair, a tartan rug across his legs, he all but disappeared under the power of the interior design. His face was turned away from me.

“Mr. Shaw?” I said, starting to walk toward him.

He cringed, lowering his large chin into his shoulder, preparing himself as if I were wielding a weapon in my advance. I stopped.

“Mr. Shaw?” I repeated, more loudly.

Still cringing, he nodded.

I stepped forward again. “Mr. Shaw.” I raised my voice to near shouting and there was a slight echo in the enormity of the room. “I’m very sorry about your son Edward. I wouldn’t disturb you on a day like this, but I believe it vital that we talk right away. My name is Victor Carl. I’m a friend of Caroline’s. She asked me to look into the death of Jacqueline and now, I believe, somehow, that her death and your son’s death are related. I have just a few questions to ask you. Mr. Shaw?”

He just stared at the floor, his chin remaining in his shoulder.

“Mr. Shaw? Do you understand what I just said, Mr. Shaw?”

Still cringing, he nodded.

“Can we talk?”

He stared at the floor for a moment longer before placing his hands on the wheels of his chair and, his head still tilted, rolling himself slowly across the room until his chair was fronting the fire. He leaned forward, as if to warm his face by it.

One of the leather club chairs was facing the hearth and I sat in it so that I could see his profile. He had been a handsome man once, and large too, I could see, enormous really, with broad shoulders and a huge head, but it was as if he had been crushed into the space he now occupied. There was something weak and slack about his face, a statue weathered to a bland smoothness by time, and his eyes were dull and weary beneath his overgrown eyebrows. I leaned forward and crossed my hands like a schoolmarm and explained to him what I had discovered, how Jacqueline had not killed herself but had been murdered by a professional assassin who had been well paid for his services, how Edward might have been killed by the same man, how it looked as if someone was trying to destroy the heirs to the Reddman fortune toward some, as yet unknown, purpose. As I spoke I noticed that he didn’t seem surprised by what I was saying. It was hard to tell if he was getting it all but I spoke slowly and loudly and he nodded as if in comprehension throughout my little talk.

“I don’t know if whoever is hiring the killers is going for money or just plain blood revenge,” I said, “but I think you might have some of the answers.”

When I was finished I waited for a response. He stared into the fire, remaining silent.

“Mr. Shaw?” I said.

“Sometimes it speaks to me,” he said. His voice was a listless monotone, as gray and pale as his coloring.

“Who?” I asked.

He pointed at the fire. “It speaks single words directly to my thoughts. Sometimes I listen to it for hours.”

All right, I thought, I’ll hitch a ride on his downtown train. “What does it say?”

For the first time he turned his head and looked at me. His eyes were watery and weary. It was tiring just to look at him. “It says ‘cut’ or ‘hammer’ or ‘blood’ or ‘freedom’ or ‘fly’ or ‘escape,’ just single words over and over.”

“What’s it saying now?” I asked, realizing he had been nodding not at my explanation but at the voice of the fire.

“It’s saying, ‘Alive,’ ” he said. “ ‘Alive. Alive. Alive.’ ”

“Who’s alive, Mr. Shaw?”

“She is. Alive. Again.”

“Who, Mr. Shaw?”

“My mother. Alive.”

I suddenly leaned back in my chair. I couldn’t help but look up at the portrait staring down at me. From this angle it almost seemed as if she were smiling.

“I thought she died just over a year ago,” I said.

“No, no, she’s alive,” he said, his voice growing suddenly more agitated. He reached out from his chair and grabbed my sleeve. “She’s alive, I know it. I’ve seen her.”

“You’ve seen her? When?”

He tugged at my sleeve harder. “A week ago. Outside. Come, I’ll show you.”

He let go of me and spun his wheelchair away from the fire, rolling it toward one of the windows with a telescope beside it. I followed behind him. When he reached the curtain he opened it with a strong pull. An invasion of light streamed in, so bright and unhindered I had to turn my face away until my eyes adjusted. When I turned back I could see through the window’s bars to the rear yard of the house, straight down the hill to the pond.