For Every Evil (9 page)

Rhea wasn’t so certain.

“This is a pretty great office, huh?” He rose and moved over to examine the stereo system, running a finger over the CD collection. “Typical. No Clint Black. No Jerry Jeff Walker. Micklenberg probably hates country-western music. Not up to his artistic standards.” He turned around, his eyes falling to the computer. “And will you look at that? Top of the line.” He stepped to the desk and settled himself behind it. “This is a honey.”

“I don’t think you should touch that,” said Rhea nervously. “Mr. Squire could be back any minute.”

Ben gave her another smile as he flipped through the disk file. “Chuckie doesn’t scare me. Here we go: taxes for 1994. Should be interesting.”

“Ben!”

“All right! Just calm down.” He put it back. As he rolled the chair to the side, his right foot hit something heavy. “What’s this?” He turned to look. “Rhea, it’s a safe. And it’s open.”

Rhea could feel her body begin to quake. “Ben, I don’t like this. Let’s go.”

He held up another disk. “Why isn’t this in the file with the rest of them?”

“I don’t know. Just put it back.”

He scratched his chin. Checking through the top drawers, he drew out a small package. “These disks are empty. I think I’ll make a copy.”

Rhea could feel her blood pressure rising. “Put it away!”

Ignoring her, Ben slipped the blank disk into one slot, the disk from the safe into a second. He punched a few keys and sat back. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“You know, you’re crazy. You’re going to get us in big trouble!” She moved cautiously to the stairs. “I can hear them talking.”

“Great. Tell me when they stop. Say, while I’m at it, I might just as well make a copy of those 1994 tax returns. You never know when you’re going to be struck by a bout of insomnia and need some late night reading.

“Ben!” She could hear the door downstairs being opened.

He removed the first disk and replaced it with the second.

“Squire is letting them out. He’ll be back up here in less than a minute.”

“Plenty of time.”

She glared at him. “Put it all back the way you found it!”

“I will.”

“Now!”

“My, my. Haven’t we become bossy in our old age.”

Rhea listened at the door. “He’s coming!”

Ben leaned over and put the first disk back in the safe. Then, sitting up straight, his hand poised above the keyboard, he waited.

“Hurry!” Rhea was frantic. What if they were caught? How could they explain what they were doing?

In an instant it was done. Ben dropped the 1994 tax disk back in the file and slipped the copy he’d just made into the pocket of his jacket. As Charles Squire reentered the room, Ben was sitting calmly in his original chair.

Rhea felt like a dishrag. She fell heavily against the doorframe.

Charles gave her a quizzical look.

“Well,” said Ben, standing up, “the contract looks fine. I’ll stop back when Hale is here and we can sign it.”

“All right. I’ll give him the message.” Charles sat down behind the desk, crossing his legs and rearranging the silk handkerchief in his vest pocket.

“Great.” Ben took Rhea by the arm. “See you around.”

“I suppose that is inevitable.” Charles made a bridge of his fingers as he sat back, his eyes rising wearily to the ceiling.

Hale paused in front of the gallery window, taking a look inside. Kate Chappeldine appeared to be nowhere in sight. Instead, that son of Sophie Greenway’s — what was his name? — was sitting behind the reception desk in the back. The kid looked like one of Santa’s elves. Come to think of it, so did Sophie. Well, thought Hale sourly, this might just turn out to be a waste of time.

Entering through the front door, he unwrapped the wool scarf from around his neck and trudged to the rear of the room.

Rudy looked up from his notebook as he approached. “Mr. Micklenberg.”

“Good afternoon. I can’t remember your name.”

“Rudy.”

“Right.” Hale eyed one of the textbooks on the desk next to him. “Freshman composition. I remember that. I’ve always loathed creative writing.”

“But you do it so well.”

“I do?”

“Your column.”

“Oh. Right.” He strolled around behind the desk, fingering a crystal paperweight. “Is Kate here?”

“She’s in the back. If you want, I could go get her for you.”

“Do that.” Hale flipped open a tattered copy of
Under Milk Wood.
“Dylan Thomas, huh?”

“I’m also taking a poetry class.”

“Uhm.”

“I’ll be right back.”

As Rudy scrambled to his feet and dashed into the hallway, Hale made himself comfortable behind the desk. “What’s this?” he said under his breath. He picked up Rudy’s notebook and began reading. It was a poem. The first line was so ridiculous it made him snicker. By the time he was halfway through, he was doubled over with laughter.

“What’s going on in here?” asked Kate as she entered the gallery a few moments later. Rudy was right behind her.

Hale pointed to the notebook and shrieked: “‘… as comfortable as a blueberry muffin in a brown paper bag’!” His face had turned beet red. “And listen to this one.” Again he quoted: “‘… if I could crawl into the bowels of your heart and remain there, a passionate pilgrim’ !” He pounded the desk and roared. “‘The bowels of your heart’! ‘A passionate pilgrim’!”

Kate turned around. Rudy’s face had become almost as white as the gallery walls. The fury in his eyes told her everything. “Rudy … I — I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Without a word, Rudy ripped the notebook out of Hale’s hands, picked up his coat and textbooks, and stomped back into the hall. Kate could hear the rear door slam as he left.

Hale continued to giggle uncontrollably. “That kid is quite the poet.”

“Shut up.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. “What did you say?”

“I said shut up!”

His smile evaporated.

“You humiliated him! Why?” She slammed the ruler she was holding down on the desktop, sending the crystal paperweight crashing to the floor.

Hale straightened his bow tie. “Oh, come on. I was just having a little fun. Even you have to admit it was god-awful drivel.”

“It was private.”

“Then why did he leave it out here in plain sight?” He rose, coming eye-to-eye with her. Nobody, especially a woman, was going to make him feel like a criminal for simply having a little fun. He refused to blink.

“Why are you here?” Kate stood her ground.

Very calmly, he replied, “You mentioned you were going to be receiving more works by Ezmer Hawks on Monday. Since today is Monday, I thought I’d stop by to see them. That is,” he added, his voice taking on a calculated sneer, “if that meets with your approval.”

She hesitated. After several seconds, she said, “All right. They’re in the back.” Turning abruptly, she left the room.

“Here’s the first one,” she said, placing it carefully on an easel. It was another pastel. Heavy on the blues and violets.

Hale stood back, an approving smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Good … good. Next?”

Kate placed a larger drawing in front of the first.

He scratched his chin. “These are even more naturalistic than the group you showed me the other day. But I like them. In a strange way they remind me of —” He stopped, a frown forming.

“Of what?” asked Kate.

He gave his head a small shake. “Never mind. Are there more?”

“Two.” She hoisted the next one up.

“Uhm. Do you see — ?” He stepped up to it and took out his reading glasses. “Here.” He pointed. “What does that look like to you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Sure you do!”

She leaned over to examine it more closely. “Well, it looks kind of like a sphinx — with fire between its paws.”

Slowly Hale removed his glasses. “Exactly,” he whispered.

“Does it mean something?”

He didn’t answer. “Show me the last one.”

She placed it on the easel.

Instantly his hand flew to his mouth, muting the sound of a gasp.

“Is something wrong?”

He closed his eyes, feeling as if an ancient videotape was unwinding inside his brain. That horrible camp. That wretched barbecue pit. He could see it all. His heart began to pound. “Look at it! It’s that sphinx again, only larger. And look at the flames. There’s a face in it!”

Kate stood back, shaking her head. “I have to tell you, I don’t see it.”

“You’re a complete idiot! Just use your eyes!”

She moved behind him and took him firmly by the arm. “Look, I think you’ve been under a great deal of stress lately. Someone took a shot at your wife. That’s got to be hard. Why don’t you come over here and sit down.”

“Yes,” he said, running a hand over his eyes. Maybe, for once, Kate was right. He let her lead him to a chair.

“I’ve got a bottle of brandy around here somewhere.” She began to rummage through a box on the floor.

“Yes. Brandy. That’s a good idea.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Here,” she said, finding it under some polishing rags. She moved to the sink and began washing out a coffee mug. “How much would you like?”

“A stiff one.” He sneaked a peek at the last drawing. The image was still there. Damn her! Why couldn’t she see it?

Kate handed him the cup.

Though his hand shook badly, he took it, finishing it in one gulp.

“Feel better?”

“I think so.” He took a deep breath. “Yes. Better.”

“Would you like me to call Ivy? Perhaps she should come get you.”

“No.” Ivy was useless. Besides, she was never home. “She teaches a class on Monday evenings.”

“I could call her office. Or leave a message with Morton information.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He stood, steadying himself on the edge of the framing table. “But I think I should be going.”

“Do you want me to call you when we receive more of Ezmer’s work?”

“Yes. Immediately.” He moved to the door, keeping his eyes away from the easel. “Where did you say Hawks was from?”

“I don’t know exactly. Somewhere up near Soldiers Grove. At least, that’s the post office he uses.”

Hale nodded. He turned to go, then hesitated. “How old is he?”

“To my knowledge, nobody’s ever seen him. He’s kind of a recluse.”

He felt a spasm in his stomach. “You don’t find that odd?”

“I suppose it is.”

“You suppose! That’s all you can say?”

“Lots of talented people have quirks. It goes with the territory.”

He gave her a freezing stare. “When you want to reach him, how do you do it?”

“I send all correspondence to a post office box in Soldiers Grove. He usually writes back within a week.”

“Would you give me that box number if I asked you for it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Good.”

He left without a backward glance.

Late Monday evening, Dr. Max Steinhardt pulled his Lincoln Town Car into the Micklenberg driveway and slipped the engine into neutral. “Well,” he said, reaching over and putting his arm around Ivy, “I guess we better call it a night. Unless you want me to come in.”

Ivy glanced at the gate house. The light was on in Hale’s second-floor office. “No, he’s home. I think we better not chance it.”

“All right. But one of these days, this farce is going to end.”

She smiled at him, touching his cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t even think about it.” He kissed her with a strength she found intoxicating. “Everything’s all set now, right?”

“Don’t worry.”

“We’ll never have what we really want unless we’re strong.”

Ivy knew that if Max admired anything in this life, it was strength. His sixty-year-old physique was living proof. Never, in all her forty-five years, had she been so attracted to a man. The fact that he worked out every day at his club gave his body a tautness men twenty years his junior would envy. At this stage of her life, she never expected that sex would take on such importance. Yet, there wasn’t a thing about Max she didn’t find utterly … delicious.

“Call me if you need me.” He gave her another lingering kiss.