The Conspiracy Club

Arthur’s hand reached across the table and took hold of Jeremy’s sleeves. “It felt right. The fact that he’d been taken that way seemed the most fitting thing in the world. It wasn’t until years later, when I met others in my situation, that I realized the grand truth.”

“Expediency trumps virtue,” said Jeremy.

“Virtue is divine, but not limited to God. It’s something He shares with us. Something we need to use judiciously.”

“The sword of war comes to the world for the delay of justice,” said Jeremy. “Disorder.”

Arthur withdrew his hand. His glorious tan had been leached of its glow. He looked old.

“May I get you some tea, Arthur?”

“Please.”

Jeremy brought him a cup, watched him drink. “Do you have energy for more?”

Arthur nodded.

“I want to know about Edgar, I know about Kurau, but not Edgar’s personal involvement. Was it simply a political matter?”

Arthur closed his eyes, opened them. “Edgar’s story is his to tell. What I can tell you is that Edgar invested his personal resources to build a clinic for sick children on the island. Babies and toddlers who might otherwise have perished. Antisepsis and proper medication, well-trained native nurses. Edgar put all that together. The riots destroyed everything.”

He reached down for his briefcase.

Jeremy said, “When we share with God, it sometimes gets messy. Michael Srivac, for example. He was a building contractor in Robert Balleron’s town. Fierce competitor to Balleron. No one was arrested for Balleron’s murder but several months later, Srivac died in a single-car accident. Freakish accident, from what I can gather. The brakes on his car just gave out, and the car had been serviced two days before.”

“That is no surprise,” said Arthur. “During World War II, more military planes crashed shortly after major maintenance checks than at any other time.”

“You’re saying that one God did all by Himself?”

“Tina’s story is-”

“Hers to tell,” said Jeremy. “The same goes for Shadley Renfrew, right? His wife was murdered thirty-two years ago. The evidence pointed to her surprising a burglar. A known criminal was suspected- a cat burglar. But he was never brought to trial due to insufficient evidence. Six months later, his body washed up on the north shore.”

“Shadley was a remarkable man,” said Arthur. “Voluminous memory, fine eye for detail. Wonderful Irish tenor. He raised his daughter-”

“All by himself. She told me. I walked into the shop just as she was closing it down. I assume the books are being well cared for.”

Arthur nodded, reached again for his case, drew out a black velvet box, and placed it in front of Jeremy.

“A gift?”

“A minor token of our appreciation.”

“ ‘Our’ being the City Central Club. Renfrew was a member, wasn’t he? His passing left an empty chair.”

Arthur smiled. Before Jeremy could say more, the old man was up, briefcase in hand, striding away, a bounce in his step.

Jeremy opened the box. The interior was white satin over a compartment formed to cradle its contents.

A repousse silver goblet.

Jeremy removed the cup. Weighty. Inside was a note. Fine blue rag paper, folded once. Familiar writing in black fountain pen ink:

To a young scholar and gentleman,

With gratitude, admiration, and earnest hopes that you’ll consider this humble proposition: One soul passes, another enters. Life is fleeting, brutish, ecstatic, mundane.

Let us punctuate our brief sojourn with fine food, warming libations, and the sparkling camaraderie of souls in synchrony. Fondly,

The Central Conspiracy Club.

Okay, he’d been close.

57

“You’ll like them,” said Angela.

“You’re sure it’s what you want?”

“It’s exactly what I want.”

Sunday, one in the afternoon. Rampaging blizzards were rumored to be racing down from Canada, but the air, ever perverse, had warmed.

They were lunching at a place near the harbor. Fried seafood and coleslaw and beer. Nice view of the lake. Just far enough to obscure the oily film on the water. From their table, the water was God’s own mirror.

The publicity surrounding Augusto Graves’s crimes, his relationship to Central City- and to Ted Dirgrove- had thrown the hospital’s front office into a tailspin. Dirgrove had taken an extended leave of absence. The charming young women at Development sat idly. The inept security guards contended with reporters.

Jeremy exploited the turmoil by demanding and receiving two months’ paid vacation, dates of his choosing. He pla

He’d also insisted on ten paid days off for Angela, with no downside to her residency rating. He would have tried for more, but she said, “I really do need to be here.”

The schedule.

Which was fine. He’d have some time to himself, maybe travel. Learn. The first ten days- the best days- would be spent with Angela, away from emergencies and memories and the pain of others.

In his heart, he felt it would take them to another level.

Angela was thrilled at the prospect. Today, she’d surprised him with a plan: they’d fly out to California, rent a car- a convertible- drive up the coast, just drive. Anywhere the sun was out.

Then the tentative add-on: Maybe we can spend the last couple of days with my family? I want them to meet you.

“They’ll adore you.”

“You’re pretty sure of that.”

“Hundred and fifty percent sure. Because I adore you, and I’m their princess-who-can-do-no-wrong.”

“You have that kind of power.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Scary,” said Jeremy.

“Very.” She smiled. Light bounced off the lake and filtered through the waves of her hair.

Beautiful girl. Here.

“Can you handle all that power, tough guy?”

“Yeah.”

They were sitting across from one another. Too far. Jeremy got up, moved his chair next to hers. She bussed his cheek. He stroked the back of her neck, and she said, “This is so good.”

They sat that way, looking out at the water. Holding hands, thinking separate thoughts.

And some that coincided.

Jonathan Kellerman

Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world's most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a child psychologist to numerous bestselling tales of suspense (which have been translated into two dozen languages), including thirteen previous Alex Delaware novels; The Butcher's Theater, a story of serial killing in Jerusalem; and Billy Straight, featuring Hollywood homicide detective Petra Co