Heathern (17 page)

"Remember, Mister Dryden," said Otsuka, smiling,
showing no teeth. "What you don't see is Japanese."

"We have to move," Thatcher said, standing, walking
over to where I already stood. "You'll forgive us?"

"Of course," said Otsuka. Thatcher nodded.

"Go!"

Thatcher took me down with him as he threw himself to
the floor. He lay on top of me; the rug's pile scoured my face
as he shielded my head with his hands. Along with a
cacophonous uproar I heard what sounded like the thunk of
darts striking wood. Thatcher entered a state beyond consciousness, I sensed; as he heard each dart take its mark he
thrust himself against me. Flattening my hands against the
carpet I was able to lift myself up, rolling him off me before
he could attain his ultimate joy. Standing, I saw that it was
done. Jake squatted atop Otsuka's desk, between the bonsai
and the amber, and Avi stood where he'd been all along.

"To the elevator," Thatcher whispered, wrapping his arm
around me in pretense of concern as he got up, taking firm
grips with his hand. Even his voice trembled. "Nice and
calm."

All should have been confusion and blur, but each
moment seared itself into my mind, so that even now I can
call up each image of the afternoon as easily as I might find
a photo in an album. Otsuka's associates bore the look of
dolls tossed haphazardly against the spattered window,
their arms thrown back, their heads dangling. Otsuka
himself appeared to have fallen asleep while in prayer,
having had no more time to wait for an answer. Gus had
found his own rest upon the darkened carpet. From his
angel's perch Jake stared down at his mentor, his face as
livid as that of his friend's. Taking up Otsuka's sword from
the desk, where the associate had dropped it unsheathed,
he tied its strap around his waist; then he glared at Avi,
appearing no less surprised than Ito see him holding a gun.

"Nice and calm," Thatcher repeated. We drifted away
then, floating across the office, into the reception area and
past the ever-smiling receptionist into the elevator. I'd had
dreams that seemed more real. My stomach burned as if I'd
swallowed boiling water; I couldn't stop my hands from
shaking, and pressed them between my arms so that the
others wouldn't see. Feeling wetness on my face as if I'd run
for hours through the rain, I watched seventy stories vanish
beneath my feet as we plunged to earth. As we emerged at
the bottom I recall wondering what else Thatcher had in
mind; if another sudden episode was planned, simply to
add a fillip to the fun he'd already had.

"Thanks a lot," Thatcher said to the guards gathered
round the information desk. "Nice place."

None of the guards stopped us as we walked out the
doors; no one stopped us when we walked on, to the car.
No one would stop us once we drove away. A haze began to
cloud over my mind, making each moment darker and
ever-colder, but rather than being swallowed within white
it was black that overtook me, black deep and limitless; as
if, having been pitched from heaven into space's floorless pit, I realized too late that not even stars would keep me
company. Awakening once more I found myself in bed, at
home, later that night. My head reeled in unending implosions as I allowed my feelings to detonate. The last thing I
remembered from that afternoon was Thatcher's voice,
breaking as if with puberty, saying only yeah.

661 hate to be in the same world with him," I said. Lester
and I gazed out the living room window, through a lacing of
dead branches toward the far-off river and the Palisades
farther still. I'd never made money enough in my life to
have paid for the drapes in Thatcher's house. "Not long
after we started working for him I asked Bernard if he
thought Thatcher was evil," I said. "He said it was like
asking what jazz is."

"The mysteries come soon enough, Joanna," said Lester,
an unexplainable cheerfulness hanging over him. Thatcher's own holiday glee so infused his spirit that the day
before he'd unexpectedly invited us to this year's Thanksgiving celebration. We were driven up; in those days the
Dryden estate consisted of a couple of hundred acres
running east from the Hudson River. A high granite wall
girdled every inch. The main house dated from the turn of the last century, and had twenty rooms; for so long as I'd
known him he'd planned to raze it and replace it with
something cozier. While spying Thatcher's bounty I eavesdropped on the comments of others who believed themselves to be speaking freely, as I knew few better paths to
enlightenment in this world.

"Bernard told me not to worry about Tokyo," a man
whispered. "Everything's under control."

"You see the face on that new bodyguard?" a woman
asked. "The little faggot?"

"Psycho," said her companion. "Best kind to have, he
tells me."

A waiter glided past us, proffering a salver heavy with
stunted olives and Velveeta-filled chicken livers; we declined. "You heard the official explanation yet?" Lester
asked.

"It's still in the oven, I suspect," I said. "Bernard must
have taken the news better than I thought he would. I don't
know what happened after they took me home Tuesday.
Yesterday they were shut up in their offices all day. What
tests were the doctors giving you?"

"I don't know if I passed," he said. "They gave me a Bible
to read. Maybe to get the story straight."

"Probably want you to see what to avoid," I said.

"Why'd Bernard look so gloomy?"

"He and Martha usually spend Thanksgiving at home,
watching the parade and having dinner afterward." Macy's
-not part of Dryco-had announced that morning that
they would no longer sponsor the parade, after that day's
events; too many victims intended to sue. "Bernard once
told me he'd come up here on Thanksgiving only if they
served up Thatcher with an apple in his mouth."

"Thatcher needed him up here?"

"For punishment, perhaps. Doubtless we'll find out soon
enough what's going on. He has something he wants us to
do, I can tell-"

"Wants me to do," said Lester. "Why didn't Bernard's
wife come along?"

"Martha refuses to have anything to do with Thatcher
anymore."

"What'd he do to her?"

I shook my head. "Some people reach their limit sooner
than others."

"Then these must know no boundaries," he said, regarding the crowd engulfing us. The house's rooms were not
large enough to dwarf multitudes; the twenty-five present
made the space feel as cramped as a subway car. They
laughed and joked among themselves as if they were
having a good time. "Who are they?"

"His closest surviving business associates," I said. "Us,
Avi, Jake-"

"They have to work even though the estate guards are
here?"

"Who else to guard the guards?" I asked. Since Tuesday
Avi had avoided me as studiously as he'd avoided Lester,
seeming fearful and ashamed. A third party negotiated for
the retrieval of Gus's body, and so Jake went to Campbell's
that morning before coming up, bringing along his own jar
in which he could carry off the cremains. There'd been no
autopsy; everyone knew how Gus died.

"Aren't there any family members?"

"Junior," I said. Thatcher Dryden, Jr. sat in a chair in a
corner of the room, and could not have looked less comfortable had he appeared suddenly among a mixed populace in
a strange city, naked and speaking a language no one
understood. "I think he's fifteen."

"Seeing him I'd have thought he was a foster child," said
Lester.

"His mother loves him, poor thing. He's more postliterate
than Jake, I barely understand him when he talks. Susie
insists he run the company eventually. Thatcher doesn't
want him to. That's why he wants that computer in place." "He's the only other family member here?"

"The only one alive," I said. "I don't know what happened to most of them. Bernard told me about Thatcher's
brother once. He was older. He and Thatcher started the
business, and then Susie came in on it. They took over the
running of it after his brother was killed."

"What happened?"

"Medellin was involved, as I heard it. They'd been
dealing with Cali and some argument developed, Bernard
told me Thatcher opened his refrigerator one morning and
his brother fell out. That inspired him to do whatever it was
that he did to gain control of their operation-"

"What about Mrs. Dryden's family?"

"She had a brother. He worked for Medellin. They found
out, after-"

"And Thatcher had him killed?"

"Susie."

A house guard loomed behind me, tapping my shoulder;
I wondered if my fellow guests believed I let slip too many
family anecdotes. "Mister Dryden wants to see you now,"
the lug said, then walked away. Taking Lester's hand in
mine I walked him toward Thatcher's hall.

"They have family skeletons, rather than trees," I remarked. Jake idled in the approach to Thatcher's study,
browsing over Thatcher's coin collection; gold doubloons
and eagles mounted in framed panels hung above the
wainscotting, and the sconces' creamy lemon light made
the coins shine like miniature suns. I noticed the black
mourning band Jake had tied around his sleeve.

"You all right?" I asked, stroking his shoulder; Jake never
felt more than an animate assemblage of lumps. He nodded, blinking black eyes bright with red flecks. "You got
Gus this morning?"

"Solo," he said. "Pickupped. Did the drop bridgeways.
Ashes to ashes to ashes, full fathom five." He jerked his head toward the doorway and quoted from his assignment.
"Shake off slumber, and beware."

Avi allowed us entry, keeping out of our sight as he
opened the door, locking it behind us as we came in.
There'd been six windows in Thatcher's study; he'd bricked
them over and tucked the bricks beneath curtains. Redwood
shelves sagging beneath the weight of thousands of old LPs
lined the curtainless walls. Avi reclined on a black leather
divan and concentrated his stare on a spot on the beamed
ceiling. Bernard paced back and forth before Thatcher's
desk, his movements recalling to my mind those of the
polar bear once imprisoned in the Central Park Zoo,
Thatcher propped his bare feet upon his cleared desk.
Behind him were three filing cabinets kept forever locked,
the ones that he claimed housed his most useful precautions. He spoke to me.

"Hon, you know how I hate to see people get all carried
away by their emotions."

"You've carried me as far as I'm going-" I started to say.

"Have a seat, son." Thatcher tugged at Lester's sleeve,
and pointed to a nearby ottoman. "You too, Joanna."

"Are you going to listen to me? You expect me to verify
your account to Bernard? I'm not backing you up,
Thatcher--

"Bernard, haven't I been straight as a ruler with you?" I
didn't look to see Bernard's reaction. "Moral support's kind
of superfluous at the moment, hon."

"There's no excuse for what you did," I said. "None at
all."

"Tell me, Lester," he said. "Does dining at the table of a
murderer make the guest bad as the host?"

"Sometimes," Lester said. Thatcher shrugged, and held
out his hands as if expecting to have them slapped.

"Smell dinner cooking?" he asked. "Hope you all went
easy on breakfast. Got a treat coming up."

Bernard sighed, sitting down in a wingbacked chair,
giving all signs of having paced himself into a stupor. I
stood before them, anxious to bear witness.

"Even if you're blind to all others, Thatcher," I said,
"don't you think you might watch out for yourself? Don't
you think you could have been killed the other day? You
think of that?"

"My boys don't miss when they aim," Thatcher said. Avi
ignored the compliment offered, and examined his nails as
if searching for lingering stains.

"It's insane, Thatcher. It's immoral. I've had as much of
this as I can take-"

"We were so busy yesterday I never got a chance to
explain," he said. "It'd be a natural feeling, thinking I've
not been on the up-and-up about this-"

"Your explanations never explain," I said. "They rationalize, they make excuses, they lie. They never explain. What
reason could you possibly have for murdering them except
paranoia, Thatcher? You can't answer me, can you-?"

"Where have you been working all this time, sweetness, a
convent?" Bernard said, interrupting. "None of this should
be new to you, it's only your first direct experience. Every
virgin suffers pain when the moment comes."

"It's been explained to your satisfaction?" I asked.

"The agreement is signed, after all. Shouldn't judge a
book by its writer."

"Reality's a tricky business, hon," said Thatcher. "No
sooner you get used to the way you think it's sitting than it
flips right over on you. You have to be ready to jump before
it does. Once we explain, you'll understand why there
couldn't be any other response. You're sensible as Bernard
is when it comes to cold, hard fact-"