Cate Campbell (25 page)

Dickson leaned back in his heavy wooden chair. It had armrests six inches wide, and he propped his elbows on these, steepling his fingers before him. “You sound very Southern today, Blake. What’s happened?”

“It’s the hospital, Mr. Dickson.”

There was no mistaking the look of sorrow that pulled at Dickson Benedict’s features. He gave a slight groan. “They didn’t,” he said, half under his breath.

“Yes, sir. They revoked Dr. Margot’s privileges.”

“Goddamn it. Those chickenhearted bastards.” Dickson made a fist of one hand, and punched it into his other palm. “I wish Margot had let me—”

“Mr. Preston was there this morning, Mr. Dickson. At the hospital.”

Dickson’s brows rose again. “Preston? Why on earth? Was he visiting Loena?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“What was he doing there, then?”

Blake drew a deep breath. “I have something to say, Mr. Dickson. It’s not easy. I would appreciate it if you would hear me out.”

“Of course, Blake. You’ve earned the right to tell me whatever you think I should hear.”

Blake nodded. It was the best thing Dickson could have said, and it was no surprise. He had always been fair. Hard sometimes, but fair. As he thought for a moment how best to begin, his employer waited, watching his face.

Blake let his gaze rise to the wide window. Beyond the glass, the clouds had dropped to hide the Olympics from view. A freighter chugged across the bay, its gray hull nearly the same color as the water. He said, “I blame myself for not trying harder to make you understand, years ago.” Dickson shifted in his chair, but he didn’t speak. “It’s not seemly, a full-grown man complaining about a little boy. Especially a Negro telling tales about a white child.”

Blake heard the short, small hiss of Dickson’s breath. He kept his eyes on the somber view, watching the plume of smoke from the freighter’s chimneys rise to blend with the rain-laden clouds. He began a slow nod, a rhythmic, repetitive movement to accompany the painful words he spoke. “It started when he was very young, no more than four. He bit Miss Margot, and he hit Mr. Dick with his toys. They complained, but everyone put it down to childish fights. As Mr. Dick got bigger, Preston left him alone. But Miss Margot—”

Blake dragged his gaze back to Dickson. Dickson was watching him from beneath his brows, his lips pulled into a hard line. He didn’t speak.

Blake said, “He burned her, and got scolded for playing with matches. He drowned a kitten she was fond of, but no one believed he did it. I hoped he would grow out of it. I tried to believe it was just sibling jealousy, as you and Mrs. Edith did. Until the day he pushed Miss Margot down the stairs. She could have been terribly injured then, even killed.” He hesitated. “I started watching, trying to be there as much as I could. He wouldn’t hurt her if Mrs. Edith was around, or Mr. Dick. You may remember, sir, I spoke to you about it once.”

Dickson nodded, gazing at Blake through heavy-lidded eyes.

One way or the other, Blake thought, this was the end of his position at Benedict Hall. He had understood that the moment he heard the news. It made him immensely sad, but he saw no other choice. He said, “We thought it might be better after he came back from the war.”

Dickson growled, “Who thought?”

“Dr. Margot and I, sir.” He hesitated. “It’s worse, though. Worse than ever.”
Evuh
.

“How?”

Blake explained the night visit of the man Carter. “I gave him what money I had, Mr. Benedict, and he confessed to me that Mr. Preston had paid him to spread rumors. And then today—sir, Mr. Preston went to the board and told them Dr. Margot performed Loena’s abortion.”

Dickson closed his eyes, and pressed his forefingers against the lids. He said in a voice like gravel, “Blake. Are you sure she didn’t?”

Blake stared at Dickson in disbelief. “I am,” he finally said.
Ah am.
“Aren’t you?”

Dickson opened his eyes, dropping his hands to the arms of his chair. “I can’t see why Preston would lie.”

Blake paused as he searched for the words he needed. He decided, in the end, there were none good enough, none that could explain. He could only be blunt. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Dickson.” He spoke ponderously, painfully. “There’s something wrong with Mr. Preston. There’s something wrong in his soul.”

Dickson gripped the armrests of his chair as he spoke. “Blake. I don’t know the man you’re describing. That’s not my son. It couldn’t be.” He didn’t sound angry, which was odd, Blake thought. He sounded sad.

“No one wants to hear such things, Mr. Dickson. I understand that.”

“He can be foolish. He’s a bit frivolous—young men are.”

Something sharp and hurtful twisted in Blake’s chest. He said, “Yes, sir,” very quietly.

Dickson said, a little defensively, “I offered to help Margot with the board.”

“Yes, sir. She wanted to handle it on her own. Perhaps now—”

“I don’t see why Preston would speak against her. But I’ll ask him.”

It was the same old argument. Justification. Rationalization. Blake turned his cap in his lap, one revolution, then lifted his hands from it. He had no further argument to make.

Dickson said, with some gentleness, “What is it you would have me do, Blake?”

Blake could only shake his head. He had run out of words. There was nothing left for him to do but take action. He would have to confront Preston himself.

He wished he had done it when he was a younger man.

The rain cleared away in the middle of the afternoon, and the roads and lawns and sidewalks dried quickly in the mild sunshine. The populace adopted a sort of giddy mood, celebrating the fragile summer weather. They walked the streets in shirtsleeves, hatless, tipping up their faces to feel the sun on their cheeks. It still felt cool to Blake, despite thirty years in this northern city. He should have gotten used to the pallid Seattle summers by now, but somehow, when August came, he yearned for the melting heat of the Carolinas. Old bones, he thought now. Old bones are always cold.

He drove home from the Smith Tower to Benedict Hall, and left the Essex in the drive. He saw no point in going into the house. There was no one he could confide in.

He felt every one of his years as he climbed the stairs to his apartment over the carriage house. How had it come to be that he was so lonely? He was hardly ever alone, yet there was no one to share this burden with him. The only person who would understand would also adamantly try to dissuade him, and he couldn’t allow that. He would do this for her sake.

He spent the afternoon alone, gathering his few defenses. He wished he had said just one more word to Dr. Margot, something she would understand later, but it was too late for that now. He took comfort in knowing she would understand. Someone had to protect her, or one of these days Preston would do more than just ruin her reputation and destroy everything she had worked so hard to achieve. One of these days, Preston Benedict would succeed in killing his sister.

Blake carried his teacup to the sink, rinsed it, and set it in the strainer. He stared through his window at the elegant house on the other side of the lawn. It looked peaceful and well organized. The lawn was clipped and green. The walls glowed clean and white in the sunshine. The camellia stood proud and tall, its glossy leaves shading the north-facing windows. It was the most beautiful place Blake had ever lived, and it was hard to leave it.

But it was time. He took off his driving coat and hung it over the back of a chair. He took his old canvas jacket from its peg and put it on. He left his cap on the table. On his way out, he picked up his marble-topped cane. He opened the front passenger door of the Essex and laid the cane on the seat, where he could quickly put his hand on it. He saw Hattie looking at him from the kitchen window, where she had begun dinner preparations. He nodded to her as if there was nothing unusual about the afternoon. He got into the driver’s seat, pressed the ignition, and rolled the big car out of the drive, turning left on Fourteenth Avenue, then right down Aloha.

Preston was just emerging from the
Times
building, chatting with an older man, when Blake pulled up to the curb. Blake didn’t get out of the car, but waited while Preston, looking pleased to have the car come for him, said good-bye to his companion and opened the door to let himself into the backseat.

As he settled himself, he said, “Blake? Where’s your cap?”

“I left it home.” Blake heard the soft slur of his Carolina accent, but Preston didn’t seem to notice. He pulled the car out into the road, and drove south on Fifth, then east on Madison.

“So, what’s the occasion? You made me look important to my editor, back there.” Preston leaned back in the seat, and chuckled. “Thanks for that, Blake.”

Blake said nothing.

A moment later, Preston said, “Blake—you missed the turn.”

“Yes, sir.”
Suh
.

Preston leaned forward to peer out through the windscreen. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

For answer, Blake depressed the accelerator, and shifted into a higher gear. Preston fell back against the seat with a little intake of breath. A moment later he laughed. “A surprise, eh? You must have something up your sleeve!”

Blake still didn’t speak, but he glanced into the rearview mirror. He saw Preston smooth his tie, then slip his hand beneath it and hold it there. He didn’t notice Blake watching him. He had turned his head to gaze out the window in an unconcerned fashion.

Blake turned south again, toward the Rainier Valley, where the Italian farmers grew peas and corn and summer squash. He turned into an unpaved road that ran up a gentle hill and wound through groves of pine and fir and cedar. Every detail of the landscape, the blue sky, the scudding clouds, seemed preternaturally sharp. The air through his open window smelled sweeter than he could ever remember. Below the rise stretched the Jefferson Park golf links, green and rolling, with flashes of blue water here and there. The road dwindled to a track, ending in a cleared space, where broken wagons and outdated farm equipment had been abandoned. Blake pulled the car up between a rusted axle and half an iron plough, turned off the motor, and set the brake.

Preston said lightly, “What is it you want, Blake? Why have you brought me here?”

Blake secured the keys in the breast pocket of his jacket before he unlatched his door and climbed out. He reached back inside the front seat for his cane, then opened the passenger door and held it wide. “Get out of the car, Mr. Preston.”

Preston gave his most cherubic smile. “Are we having a picnic?” His eyes flicked over the cane, but he had seen it many times before, propped innocently against the wall of Blake’s apartment. He didn’t move.

“Get out.”

Preston appeared to consider for a moment, then, with a negligent shrug, slid across the seat. He stepped out of the car without glancing again at the cane. He stood for a moment, looking down at the golf links. “Funny,” he said. “The golf course looks different from here.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Blake took a firmer grip on the cane as Preston turned to face him.

“What are you doing with that?” Preston asked. His smile was as cheery and untroubled as a child’s. “You always told us never to touch it.”

Blake turned the cane so he held it in both hands. “I have used this twice as a weapon, Mr. Preston,” he said slowly, pedantically, the way he used to teach the children the alphabet or instruct them in the use of a hammer. “I spent six years of my life in Chatham County Convict Camp for murdering one Mr. Franklin Blake. That murder, as it happens, I didn’t do. I did, however, commit two others. I went into the camp an innocent boy. I was not the same when I came out.” The marble lion’s head glittered in the lowering sun as he reversed the cane to point its rubber tip at Preston.

Preston’s brows lifted, and his mouth quirked in amusement. “And why should you need to worry about that now? Faithful retainer of Benedict Hall, longtime butler of Mr. Dickson—”

His words broke off. He flinched as Blake pressed the tip of the cane against his chest.

Blake said, “When I was a good deal younger than you, I felt the bite of this wood more times than I can count.”

Preston’s smile faded.

Blake’s resolve hardened his mind. It was a tool in itself, like iron molded in the fire, then chilled in a barrel of water. He had reached his destination. There was no going back. “I’m nearly fifty-five years old now, Preston. An old man.”

Preston tilted his head to one side, and regarded him, unsmiling now. “You
are
old, aren’t you, Blake? You probably feel you can waste away an evening, lazing in the sunshine. But I’m a young man, and I have things to do. Could we get on with—whatever this is?”

Blake pressed harder with the cane. Something moved beneath the tip, something hard that rolled beneath Preston’s shirt. “I want you to set things right for Dr. Margot. Tell the hospital board the truth.”

Preston laughed in his face. “
You
want? Who are you to tell me what
you
want, Blake?” He didn’t look at the cane, and he didn’t flinch again.

Blake had not expected anything different. “I’ve served your family well and long, Preston. I cared for you when you were in short pants. I drove you around when you were in school. I’ve picked up after you and fed you and cleaned up your messes.”

“So?” Preston’s eyes narrowed. “Your job, old man. And a damned good one, if I may say so. Especially for an ex-convict.”

“Yes.” Blake pushed a little harder, and Preston was forced to take a step back, trapped between the cane and the rear door of the Essex. “A very good job. I’ve earned the right to have a say in what happens to the Benedict family.”

“That’s debatable. You’re not, after all, a Benedict.”

“And you don’t deserve to be a Benedict.” Blake gave the cane a shove. The object under Preston’s shirt slid aside, and the tip of the cane found skin and bone beneath it. “I’ve had to protect Miss Margot from you since she was a tiny girl.”

“You’d best watch yourself, old man. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“I think I do.” Blake lessened the pressure on the cane, but kept it poised close to Preston’s shirtfront. “There’s something not right about you, Preston. No one else sees it. No one wants to.”

Preston’s lips thinned and pulled back from his teeth. He no longer looked angelic. He looked feral. He hissed, “How dare you? Who do you think—”

“You’ve been trying to destroy your sister for a long time, and this time you’ve nearly done it. I’m not going to let that happen.”

Preston’s hand whipped up to seize the cane. He twisted it, but Blake was ready. He was a big man. His hands and arms were still strong, and he was prepared. He gripped the cane with both hands, bracing his elbows against his belly. Preston snarled, “What do you think you’re going to do, Blake? Thrash me like a wayward boy?”

“Yes, sir.” Blake tore the cane free, lifted it high, and brought it down.

He could see Preston hadn’t thought he would do it, couldn’t believe Blake would strike a Benedict. Only at the last moment did Preston duck, so the cane caught him on the point of his shoulder. He stumbled to one side with a grunt, more of surprise than pain.

Blake had learned in the camp that once you made up your mind to something, hesitation could be fatal. There was no time for compassion, no more room for discussion. He struck again. Preston threw up his arm, and the cane cracked against the hard bone of his forearm. He tried to scramble out of the way, falling to his knees near the front wheel of the car. He was reaching for his shirtfront when Blake lifted the cane again to slash at his back.

He missed. In a flash Preston was on his feet, dancing out of Blake’s reach. His grin returned, but there were white lines around his mouth. “You think I’m going to stand here and let you thwack me with that thing?” He backed away, one hand to his forearm. Blake knew how it must sting. He remembered how that Carolina pine could bite into flesh.

Blake felt a bit out of breath, and he didn’t want to waste it talking. He thought of Margot’s stricken face as she walked out through the hospital doors, and the memory strengthened him. He slammed the rear passenger door of the car with his left hand. Preston said, “You don’t intend to leave me here—” but Blake set his belly muscles and swung the cane again before he could finish the sentence.

The polished wood whistled through the air, a sound that brought back the smell of the indigo vats and hot Carolina nights, the sensation of bare feet on wood chips, and the face of Franklin Blake, contorted with rage. The cane struck the side of Preston’s head. Blood sprang from his scalp to darken his hair and drip down his stiff white collar.

Preston roared something wordless. He staggered, and his fingers scrabbled at his shirtfront. Blake struck again, his blow not so swift this time, but wielded with both hands and all his strength. It caught Preston’s forehead with enough force to break the skin above one eyebrow. Blood poured into his eye, and down his cheek. He reeled, and fell. He lay panting on the ground, peering up at Blake with his one clear eye.

Blake meant to finish it. He had made his decision hours before, on his way home from Dickson’s office. It would be the end of his life at Benedict Hall, but Margot would be safe.

Preston, half blinded by blood, peered up at him. “You wouldn’t kill me,” he rasped. “You haven’t got it in you.”

“You have no idea what I have in me.” Blake’s accent was pure, broad South Carolina.

“Do it, then, old man! What are you waiting for?” Preston’s right hand clung to his chest, and his unbloodied eye glared.

Blake took a deep breath and lifted the cane high over his right shoulder. Preston pulled something from his shirtfront and held it up, something that dangled on a silver chain and flashed blue in the twilight. “Too late, old man,” he panted. “Too slow.”

Blake swung the cane, slashing down and to the left, intending to put an end to the whole ugly business.

The pain that seized his chest, before he could complete the blow, was worse than any he had known, either at Mr. Franklin’s hands or under the overseers’ whips. It was huge, a giant fist seizing his heart, squeezing his lungs, pinching the air from his throat. He groaned, an involuntary sound that rose from his groin and bubbled up from his belly to his throat. The blow he had meant to strike never happened. Instead, the cane slipped from his nerveless fingers to rattle uselessly against the gravel. His knees buckled, and his left arm went numb. The sunny evening turned black around him as he crumpled to the ground.

Preston laughed as he got to his feet. Blake couldn’t see him. He couldn’t see anything. He could only hear that cold laughter, like a rush of icy water. He felt fingers probe his breast pocket for the car keys, then felt hands tugging at him, lifting him, bundling him into the passenger seat of the Essex. It may have been moments, or it may have been an hour, but the motor sputtered to life, and the tires crunched and spun as the car backed and turned. There was nothing Blake could do. The grip of pain was irresistible, and he longed only for it to end.

As the car rolled back down the hill toward the main road, Blake struggled to breathe past the boulder crushing his chest. He felt the upholstery of the seat beneath him, the roughness of the unpaved road beneath the tires. He had just time to wonder why Preston hadn’t left him in the woods when a sudden great jolt threw him to the floor. There was a crash as the bonnet of the car struck something hard. Glass burst, and the horn sounded, over and over. The boulder on Blake’s chest grew heavier, until no air at all could get past it.