The Heir (35 page)
It was no better. Instead, it was much worse.
The store was cavernous. I spent five hundred dollars on camping equipment—a tent, a stove and pots, sleeping bag, food, more clothes, a map of state parks. I called most of them from a pay phone before I found an empty campsite. I didn’t want to use my cell phone or credit cards, so I couldn’t reserve it; I just had to get there first.
It was two hours away, south of Charleston, but they still had openings when I got there. I paid for three nights. They wanted a name and address, and I gave them one of each, not mine. The tent was up in five minutes and then I was horizontal on the sleeping bag.
I slept through the afternoon without dreams, my first sleep in a couple weeks that was worth the effort.
That evening, Wednesday, I was hungry enough to eat the food I’d bought. I was finally still. Katie was dead, I knew it now, even if I kept thinking she’d climb out of the tent, blinking in the sunlight and running her hand through her hair, smiling, wrinkling her nose at the stew.
“Let’s get something else to eat,”
she’d say.
“Do they have Italian
here?”
She’d look at the tent.
“And let’s find a bed-and-breakfast. I can’t
sleep in that thing again.”
“Sorry, dear,”
I’d say.
“We’re stuck here. We have to hide.”
“You have to, Jason, not me. I’ll go into town and find someplace
more comfortable. I’ll be back in the morning.”
And she was gone.
I got up with the sun, as much as there was in the clouded sky, and my mind was clouded more. I showered and put on clean clothes and ate a decent breakfast.
I was restless—sitting was no good. I got into the car and drove to Charleston.
There was a big library downtown. There was still no other news in the world, only mine. Harry Bright had finally left his office and was now under medical supervision.
But the news pigs had found two new troughs. The first was the manhunt. They’d found the boat and identified the rented car. The timing showed that it had all happened before the murder. Boyer had driven from Cape Cod to his house in the rental. Obviously part of his plan.
A neighbor of the Boyer townhouse in Washington DC had seen Jason Boyer on the street there yesterday. She’d recognized the picture from the television, but police had found no traces in the house itself. There had been many sightings, in fact—even overseas.
The second trough was going to keep many investigative reporters employed. What would happen to the money? A trustee would be named. Petitions were already filed. The first named Eric, the younger brother and only other member of the family. I could smell Fred a thousand miles away.
And another petition requested that the Boyer Foundation be given the responsibility. I hoped Jacob Rosenberg kept his doors locked at night.
I was back at the campsite before supper. There was really nothing to do now but sit. I had escaped and I was safe enough. What was next? I walked a few miles on a trail, just in case an answer was leaning against a tree close by.
I came to a fork in the trail.
What could I do? I had to prove that Fred was the murderer. The police would not. I’d have to go back.
I didn’t know what to look for. If the police caught me, it would all be over. Every power I knew was against me.
Why should I even try? I was sitting on a fallen tree beside the path. There was a mountain view—vast waves of stone and earth, thousands of feet high and unmoving, foaming not white but crimson and umber and gold, and the salt in the breeze was burning wood. It was all just a sea to be lost in.
Why not give in? “Miguel, buddy, here I am! Slam that prison door!” What was the point of fighting? No need for money in prison. Three meals a day, no expenses. Whatever I did, that’s how it would end. Or else it would end worse.
At that moment, looking out on the wilderness, I had no fight left. All I’d wanted was to be rid of all the money and politics, and I was.
What was left to fight for? I had to give up. I was too tired, and the fight was too hard.
As I didn’t sleep that night, I fought to give up the fight. But there were faces in the dark. Katie first, and Angela, and Harry Bright. Clinton Grainger. Bob Forrester. They were all victims of Melvin’s empire, snared by their lust for power or money and then destroyed; or destroyed by someone else’s corruption, if theirs hadn’t been enough. Fred driven mad and murderous by power had killed four times, and even he was a victim.
The faces cried out for vengeance, and justice, and no one else could hear them.
I pushed them away. Wasn’t it just human nature to be captivated by wealth? It wasn’t my fault they’d made their decisions. Another face pushed itself back into my mind.
Melvin, looking at me as he never had in life. What was in his eyes? Entreaty? It was only my imagination—it wasn’t really him.
He conjured up another face—Eric. The next sacrifice on the insatiable golden altar.
There was nothing I could do! What could I do?
And beneath all the turmoil around me was the havoc within me. If it was all hopeless, if I couldn’t stop Fred or save Eric, could I just find out why?
On Friday I went back to Charleston, to the library. With Harry Bright “convalescing in a medical institution,” his storyline might have faded; but he kept it alive. He was consumed with revenge against both me and his turncoat police commissioner, and from his supposedly secluded location, he managed to keep firing white hot incitement against the inept investigators.
DeAngelo was having second thoughts about being personally in charge of the chase. Besides the humiliation of not being able to find me, a new blister on the scandal had popped. There had never been any brake fluid on Fred Spellman’s driveway.
The revelation might have been leaked on Harry Bright’s orders. It apparently came from the state crime lab. DeAngelo’s retort had been immediate. He had full confidence in the current director of his crime lab and there was absolutely no doubt that the original report had been true. And if it wasn’t true, then it had been faked on the former governor’s orders.
So much for ever knowing whether there had been brake fluid.
There was also the first word from Eric, just a short statement. “I am still shocked and overwhelmed by the events of last week. The management of the family holdings is a heavy responsibility, which I hope to stabilize after the confusion of recent events.” Was that released in written form or was Fred also a ventriloquist? Eric could sit on Fred’s knee and just move his mouth.
But he was not yet being given the chance to stabilize. A judge had ruled that guardianship of the Boyer assets was an urgent concern, but he would not rule anything else until he’d heard arguments from all parties. I wondered whose uncle that judge was.
There wouldn’t be enough room on the front page of the newspaper for all the headlines being generated.
And meanwhile, the manhunt continued. I leaned back in the wooden desk chair. The library was an old, ornate building. The computer tables were positioned end-to-end, long rows crowded between metal bookshelves. Half of the computers were in use. I’d picked the emptiest part of the table, at the far side of the room from the checkout desk. One woman was two chairs away and no one else was close.
I read the article about the search, which seemed to still be concentrated back home. Hundreds of calls to the hotline were arriving from all over the country.
The woman had left and I was alone at my end of the row. I glanced up at the librarian stationed at the checkout desk.
Her eyes were fixed on me, and she had a phone in her hand. The woman who had been near me was next to her, talking. I looked away. What were the chances that it was nothing to do with me? It didn’t matter.
I couldn’t run. I had to leave, just like any customer might, and lose anyone watching me. How much time did I have?
I erased the Internet browser history and quickly paged through Web sites on cholesterol and herbal remedies to fill it with something else. I stood up.
The two ladies about went into hysterics.
I sauntered around the first bookshelf, out of their sight. Evasive maneuvers. Around a corner, through more shelves, up some stairs. Was there any other way out besides the front door?
I followed exit signs down another stairwell. It came out almost where I’d started but closer to the desk.
The ladies were not in their watchtower. They were farther back, walking slowly past the ends of the shelves, stopping at each and nervously peeking around. I walked out the front door.
From my parking spot on the street a block from the library, I did see a police car roll up to the curb and a policeman in no hurry stroll up the steps to the doors. I slipped down the street and away from that library forever.
I hadn’t shaved in four days, but it would be weeks before my beard would be any disguise. I couldn’t wear the stupid hat and sunglasses everywhere. Far from the library, I found a drugstore and searched the hair colorings. I had no choice and I hated it.
I took the box back to the camp and read the instructions and managed the whole messy, foul-smelling process in the bathhouse. It was the only place. People came in and out but no one stayed long enough to see the before and after and know what I’d done.
It was a poor, ugly job of bleaching, and it was not me in the mirror. I felt violated. When I was caught, this was the picture that would be in all the papers and news shows.
I went back to my tent, and now the face I’d just seen in the mirror was the one I couldn’t get rid of. Who it was, I didn’t know.
Friday night. I drove six miles to a fast-food place, ate, and drove back. As hard as I tried, it still took less than an hour. At the counter, though, I’d stood face-to-face without hat or glasses, and no one had called the police.
Now I was back at the old homestead. A storm was coming, up in the mountains—I could see it far off, just like at sea. The clouds cheated the day of its last half hour of light. I crawled into the tent as the first rain fell. The car would have been drier, but I had bad memories of that car and rain.
The sound of the rain on the tent was a muffled drum. I could hear the rain on the leaves and ground outside. Flat on my back, I stared at the brown nylon ceiling. One week ago . . . that had been the night of the roast duck and maple pecan pie. It had been our one dinner in the house. If only I’d known—not the future, just if I’d known to enjoy it as much as it deserved. The future we’d still owned that night was so bittersweet. It had been the promise of years of life together in that fairytale castle.
But it had been built on sand. The fall of the magic kingdom had been so fast and so far.
It was all so irretrievably gone.
Why? Why would I never see Katie again? What was the reason for that?
Every time before I’d reached this point of weariness, of wanting to put an end to it, I’d come out of it somehow. This time was the darkest. I needed a reason to keep fighting.
To even keep breathing! Why? Why had this happened? But I didn’t have enough energy to maintain the sudden rage.
“But you need hope. Everyone does.”
The voice spoke out of the darkness. Nathan.
Just that thought was enough to get me through the night.
Saturday morning I began the journey home.
I woke feeling a strange lightness, and then I remembered my last thought before sleep. Nathan.
Of everyone involved in the Boyer morass, he was the only one standing on firm ground. He wasn’t owned by money, he wasn’t dominated by power. I was ready to listen to him. If I had no hope of anything besides capture and all that would come after, I at least had hope that there would be an answer to the questions.
And if there was any way to prove Fred’s guilt, it was not in West Virginia.
I crossed Pennsylvania, passed north of Philadelphia, and by midafternoon I was in New York traffic. I fought through it.
I reached JFK airport before dark and parked in a massive sea of cars. I left a thousand dollars taped under the passenger seat and had a thousand in my wallet.
From the terminal I took the subway downtown to Grand Central Station and bought a ticket for Boston on a train with stops in between. It was late afternoon now, and I had forty minutes to wait.
After the solitude of the campground I was disoriented by the crowding and noise, but it was enlivening. And in New York City no one gave me a second look. I sat, inert—I was used to sitting.
Of course there was a television, and of course it was spewing news, and of course the news was me. It was important to know if anything was happening, so I watched it. But there was nothing new. The only change was in the growing anger of everyone involved and the ferocity of the war over the money.
Suddenly there was a fragment of video, of a stone church I had seen and a few people I knew, walking slowly to a line of cars.
“. . . yesterday afternoon, Katherine Boyer was laid to rest . . .”
I stumbled out of the waiting room desperate to escape that vision.
Then I was on the train. The sun was just setting, and I leaned back in my seat and I tried to sleep. I would have to ask Eric where they buried her.
I woke twenty minutes out from my destination. I was off the platform before the train was on its way to Boston.
It was nine o’clock and dark. I checked the bus schedule. I had an hour to kill before the bus to Nathan’s neighborhood. No, to waste—I didn’t kill. Someone else was the killer.
I would get to Nathan’s house before eleven. I could only hope he was there and not on one of his interminable conferences. I imagined him reading in his study. By candlelight—my imaginings were fanciful. I would sit by him.
“What is the reason, Nathan? What am I doing here?”
“I can tell you that, Jason.”
But I couldn’t imagine what he would say.
The night was cold.
It was an eight-block walk to my downtown office. As I stood at the door of the train station, I thought about taking a risk. I hadn’t yet. It seemed like luck or fate owed me a favor for not tempting either of them for the whole week.