The Bastard Hand (21 page)

“I’m sure I don’t know. Bishop never discusses his business with me, I’m afraid. But I do know that he’s been dying to talk to you.”

“That’s the God’s honest truth,” Oldfield said. “He’s been after us all morning to bring you on by here, Charlie.”

It occurred to me then—the reason I was there, the reason Mayor Ishy wanted to see me. It was perfectly obvious. My loyalty was about to be tested.

Mrs. Ishy disappeared right after letting us out the back. The veranda was really more of a deck than anything else, looking out over a patch of lawn mostly taken up by a huge swimming pool. Just beyond the pool, the lawn dead-ended into the thick canopy of trees.

Bishop Ishy sat in a deck chair, pulled up to a decorative wrought-iron table at the edge of the deck. When we came out, he looked up from some paperwork spread before him, stood up with a big smile on his face. His right hand, as usual, jammed firmly into his pocket. “Well, hey there, boys. Good to see ya.”

He wore tan pants, loafers, and a white, short-sleeve button-down—every inch the casual man-of-action. “Charlie,” he said, “I sure do appreciate you coming by on such short notice. Good to see ya.”

“And you,” I said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well, damn!” he said. “You sure are all business, ain’t ya?”

Forrey laughed. “It’s that Yankee mentality, Bishop. Folks from up north don’t know how to relax.”

They all had a chuckle. I grinned stiffly.

Ishy said, “How ’bout a tall glass of iced tea?” then, without waiting for a response, he picked up a cell phone, dropped it right side up on the table, punched a number, and picked it back up in time to bark, “Douglas? Be a good man and bring out a pitcher of tea and four glasses.” All with his left hand. He tossed the phone back on the table, turned back to me. “Have a seat, Charlie! Make yourself comfortable.”

There were only two chairs, not including his. I took one, Forrey took the other. Oldfield hesitantly perched his thin frame on the deck’s wood railing. Ishy slumped back into his position in front of the paperwork, then hurriedly shoved it all to one side.

One sheet of paper slipped away from the pile, came to rest right in front of me. Ishy grabbed it up with his always active left hand, slapped it back in it’s place—but not before I saw the heading on top of it.

Suddenly, my head spun and Ishy’s face shot away from me like a grinning rocket. A feeling like vertigo swept over me, turned me upside down. I felt a scream of panic welling, twisting my gut out of shape and bringing a layer of cold sweat over my forehead.

It’s over, I thought. It’s all over.

The heading on the paper read: Washington State Mental Institute.

Ishy talked, but to my ears his words sounded like vague grunts and exclamations, not a real language. Forrey responded occasionally to Ishy’s sounds, making a noise like a muted horn, sort of like the nonsense noise the adults made in the Peanuts cartoons. Oldfield laughed at one of Forrey’s sounds, responded in a language that sounded like a tape run backwards. I sat there, with their weird noises surrounding me, knowing my life was over, this life I’d made for myself here in Cuba Landing. Somehow, Ishy had dug it all up, dug up all the information about me. All those papers on his desk were about me.

For a moment, there was another person with us, but by the time this simple fact dawned on me, the other person was gone and there was a pitcher of tea on the table and Oldfield was pouring glasses for all of us. Oldfield set a glass in front of me, rattled off another string of odd sounds. I recognized my name at the end of the string.

I said, “What?”

Oldfield looked at me. “I just asked you if you’re feeling all right. You sorta zoned out there for a minute.”

I glanced up at Ishy. He stared at me frankly, a vague smile on his lips. His eyes were blood-shot, the pupils dilated. He sipped at his tea.

I said, “I’m fine. What is this all about?”

My hand involuntarily motioned at the stack of papers in front of Ishy. He patted the paperwork with the thick fingers of his active hand, nodded. “Have I told you about how low the crime rate is in Cuba Landing, Charlie? Why—”

Forrey interrupted him. “The papers, Mr. Mayor.”

Ishy looked at him, nodded vigorously. “Right,” he said. “Well, I’d hoped that we could ease into this. But my clumsiness has done got in the way. I reckon you know what all these papers are.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say.

Ishy straightened in his chair and picked up the top sheet of paper, the one that had fallen in front of me. He seemed to be trying very hard to stay focused on the task at hand, not ramble on about vague political concepts and rhubarb pie—this was serious work, this nasty business of dangling a life by a fishhook.

“Charles Edward Wesley,” he read. “Born January 21, 1977, in Modesto, California. Moved to Seattle, Washington, with parents, at age six. Educated at the University of Seattle. Dropped out after two years, after half-heartedly studying Literature and Ancient History.” He put the paper down and looked out at his backyard. “Look,” he said. “Ya’ll see that duck over there?”

Forrey said, “Mr. Mayor.”

Ishy looked at him blankly for a moment, then nodded sharply and grabbed up the paper again. He cleared his throat and resumed reading aloud. “Arrested for aggravated assault in 1999. Served two months. Arrested for unarmed robbery, 2000, served six months. In 2002, subject became engaged to a certain Patricia Winter, but engagement was called off when subject was arrested that same year for . . .” He glanced up at me, mock surprise on his face. “Arrested that same year for the murder of a Seattle Metropolitan police officer.”

I gripped the arms of my deck chair.

Forrey shook his head sadly. “You shot down a police officer, Charlie? That’s bad, son. Real bad.”

I stared at him, my teeth gritted.

Ishy read, “Subject determined to be suffering from the early stages of a bi-polar mental illness—”

A pulse started pounding in my head.

“—Symptoms include hallucinatory fugues, severe depression broken up by bouts of mania—”

Panic threatened to overtake me. I gripped the arms of my chair even tighter.

“—advanced paranoia, feelings of persecution—”

Gunpowder and fear and desperation. It felt just like it did the first time I heard it, like a horrible gaping hole in the earth opening beneath my feet, like the Devil’s own judgment.

“—subject committed to Washington State Psychiatric Hospital for observation and treatment for a period not exceeding ten years.”

He stopped reading then, looked up at me. “That’s all really interesting, Charlie. Wouldn’t you say? You killed a cop, and they committed you to a nuthouse. What did they do? Give you medication? Talked things out in group therapy? Maybe a little shock treatment?”

I still smelled gunpowder, and while Ishy read I could hear the dying prayer of a young man, a young policeman, who didn’t want to die but was dying anyway, because I’d shot him. And I could still taste my own judgment, my own condemnation to Hell.

I didn’t answer Ishy’s question. The truth was, they’d done all the above, plus some. I remembered the orderlies in particular, the ones with hoses. I thought about mentioning them to Ishy, but decided not to, knowing that the conditions I lived under wouldn’t interest him, and knowing that it wouldn’t help my situation.

“So,” Ishy said, “Early in ‘02, you were committed, and you spent the next seven years of your life there. Then what, Charlie?”

I said, “What?”

“I say, then what? What happened then? Did they release you? One year ago, did they say, okay, Mr. Wesley, you’re a free man, you can go on and have a normal life? Is that what happened?”

I shook my head.

“No? They didn’t let you go? Well, let’s see what the paperwork has to say about that.” He shuffled through the papers with his one hand, the other still—maddeningly, crazily—in his pocket, until he came to the one he wanted. Looking it over, he said, “Says here that in April of ‘00, you . . . well, let’s just say you released yourself on your own recognizance. You decided to check yourself out of the nuthouse.” He looked at Forrey. “Say, is he allowed to do that?”

Forrey said, “No, sir, Mr. Mayor.”

From behind me, Oldfield said, “Is that true, Charlie?”

Ishy said, “How ’bout that?”

I finally pulled it together enough to say, “How? How did you dig all this up?”

Forrey answered for him. “It wasn’t hard. You started a bank account—under your real name, no less. Easy as pie to check into your background. All this stuff popped right up.”

Of course. Idiot. Maybe I was like one of those crazed serial killers, the ones that want desperately to get caught.

I looked at my hands. “So,” I said. “What now? Do you call the state authorities? Send me packing back to Washington?”

Forrey and Ishy exchanged glances, and Forrey said, “No, Charlie. All this came at just the right time for you. It’s an election year. That’s why Mr. Ishy wanted to see you.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I want everything to be perfectly clear,” Ishy said. “I have no intention of sending you back to the horrible place you came from.”

Oldfield said, “But, Mr. Mayor, he killed a police officer.”

Ishy shushed him. “Yes, I know, Ernie. And I understand how you must feel about that. The ‘fraternity of police officers’ and whatnot. But you have to realize, this man has paid his debt to society. He spent seven years of his life locked away, no doubt in shithole conditions. Hell, the boy probably didn’t even mean to kill the police officer! Did ya, Charlie?”

I said, “So what is this all about? If you aren’t going to return me to Washington, what are you going to do?”

Ishy shrugged and looked at Forrey, apparently forgetting what his plan was. Forrey grimaced and said, “You’ve proven yourself a valuable citizen here. What’s past is past.”

Ishy smiled at me, placed his elbow on the stack of papers. Beside me, Forrey leaned back in his chair and said nothing. Sitting on the rail, Oldfield gazed distractedly down at the swimming pool. Of the three of them, Oldfield was the only one who seemed ill at ease.

I said, “Okay. Then why am I here?”

“Fair question, Charlie,” Ishy said. “Why are you here. I suppose you deserve an explanation, don’t you?”

“If it’s no trouble.”

He laughed. “If it’s no trouble! I swear, Charlie, you kill me. If it’s no trouble. No, of course it’s no trouble. I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you.”

“I’m waiting.”

Again, Ishy looked at Forrey. Sighing, Forrey said, “Mr. Mayor wanted to see you because he believes you two have a lot to offer each other.”

I found myself searching my pockets for a cigarette. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ishy said. “Give the man a cigarette, willya, Lionel?”

Forrey handed me his pack. I took one, and leaned over to meet his light. When I had the cigarette going, Forrey said, “Charlie, what would you say if I told you that Mr. Mayor has a check for fifty thousand dollars? And it’s got your name on the ‘pay to the order of’ line?”

The cigarette had calmed my nerves, and I answered him coolly, “I imagine I’d probably say thanks.”

Ishy laughed, said, “I bet you would! But the check would be for services rendered. I don’t usually just give money away, you know. It would require some small effort on your part.”

“In that case, I would ask you just what sort of services you had in mind.”

“Well,” Forrey answered, not waiting this time for a cue from the mayor. “As you may have already guessed, the mayor leads a very busy and stressful life. Like many men in his position, he’s—”

Ishy said, “I’ve found it beneficial to keep more than one hen in my roost.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking, Mr. Wesley, about the fact that the lovely Mrs. Ishy is, on occasion, not enough to satisfy my needs.”

“Ishy, I’d appreciate it if you just got to the point. I’m really not interested in the details of your sex life.”

He grinned. “All right, then. My point is this—my loyal and efficient secretary, Miss Jeannie Angel, does, on occasion, offer me more intimate services than mere dictation. Am I clear?”

“Yes, for God’s sake. Now can you tell me why I should care?”

The grin grew tighter, until it wasn’t a grin anymore, but a grimace. “You should care, Mr. Wesley, because your employer, the Reverend Phinneas Childe, has managed to seduce her and take her into his bed.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, then. Imagine my displeasure. And to make matters worse, he has managed to reveal to everyone in town something about my personal life that I would just as soon have kept private.”

“Oh. The draft-dodging thing.”

And the grimace became gritted teeth. “I was not a draft dodger. I suffered from a medical condition, and was unable to serve.”

“What sort of medical condition?”

“My . . . my hand. My right hand.”

“What about it?”

“That is neither here nor there! I am trying to make a point here, Mr. Wesley, if you would kindly shut your hole for a few precious moments!”

I took a last pull on my smoke, tossed the butt into the yard beyond the deck.

If that bothered Ishy, he gave no sign. Getting himself back under control, he said, “So, as you can see, your employer has now visited two ignominies upon me. I have concerns about what may follow. Also, it’s come to my attention that the Reverend is becoming the town’s golden boy. Folks just love him to death.”

I grinned tightly. “That’s true, Mr. Mayor.”

“Yes. I don’t like it, but it’s true. And that’s why you’re here.”

For the first time, I picked up my glass of tea and took a long sip. It tasted of oranges and cinnamon. I said, “What do you want from me, Ishy?”

He dropped his feet off the rail, pushed the stack of papers out of the way, and leaned toward me. His eyes were on me, but he spoke to Forrey. “What do I want, Lionel?”

Forrey said, “You want Charlie to deal with his boss.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Ishy said, “You’re gonna have to put a fine point on it for him, Lionel. He’s been to college, and can’t follow a conversation like normal folk.”