He had the use of his office for several more weeks. And the stock options and severance pay were generous. And Valerie wouldn’t need to know exactly what had happened, possibly ever.
“. . . seem distracted lately, Leonard. I hope it isn’t . . .”
They were undressing for bed. That night in their large, beautifully furnished bedroom. Gusts of wind rattled the windows, which were leaded windows, inset with wavy glass in mimicry of the old glass that had once been, when the original house had been built in 1791.
“. . . anything serious? Your health . . .”
From his corner of the room Leonard called over, in a voice meant to comfort, that of course he was fine, his health was fine. Of course.
“Damned wind! It’s been like this all day.”
Valerie spoke fretfully, as if someone were to blame.
Neither had brought up the subject of the trip to Italy in some time. Postponed to March, but no specific plans had been made. The tenth anniversary had come and gone.
In her corner of their bedroom, an alcove with a built-in dresser and closets with mirrors affixed to their doors, Valerie was undressing as, in his corner of the bedroom, a smaller alcove with but a single mirrored door, Leonard was undressing. As if casually, Leonard called over to her, “Did you ever love me, Valerie? When you first married me, I mean.” In his mirror Leonard could see just a blurred glimmer of one of Valerie’s mirrors. She seemed not to have heard his question. The wind buffeting the house was so very loud. “For a while? In the beginning? Was there a time?” Not knowing if his voice was pleading or threatening. If, if this woman heard, like the frightened woman on the train she would laugh nervously and wish to escape him.
“Maybe I should murder us both, Valerie. ‘Downsize.’ It could end very quickly.”
He didn’t own a gun. Had no access to a gun. Rifle? Could you go into a sporting goods store and buy a rifle? A shotgun? Not a handgun; he knew that was more difficult in New York State. You had to apply for a license, there was a background check, paperwork. The thought made his head ache.
“. . . that sound, what is it? I’m frightened.”
In her corner of the room Valerie stood very still. How like an avalanche the wind was sounding! There had been warnings over the years that the hundred-foot cliff above Salthill Landing might one day collapse after a heavy rainstorm, and there had been small landslides from time to time, and now it began to sound as if the cliff might be disintegrating, a slide of rock, rubble, uprooted trees rushing toward the house, about to collapse the roof . . . In his corner of the room Leonard stood as if transfixed, his shirt partly unbuttoned, in his stocking feet, waiting.
They would die together, in the debris. How quickly, then, the end would come!
No avalanche, only the wind. Valerie shut the door of her bathroom firmly behind her; Leonard continued undressing and climbed into bed. It was a vast tundra of a bed, with a hard mattress. By morning the terrible wind would subside. Another dawn! Mists on the river, a white wintry sun behind layers of cloud. Another day Leonard Chase would enter with dignity, he was certain.
2.
“Dwayne Ducharme, eh? Welcome to Denver.”
There came Mitchell Oliver Yardman to shake Leonard’s hand in a crushing grip. He was “Mitch” Yardman, realtor and insurance agent, and he appeared to be the only person on duty at Yardman Realty & Insurance this afternoon.
“Not that this is Denver, eh? Makeville is what this is here—you wouldn’t call it a suburb of anyplace. Used to be a mining town, see. Probably you never heard of Makeville back east, and this kind of scenery, prob’ly you’re thinking ain’t what you’d expect of the West, eh? Well, see, Dwayne Ducharme, like I warned you on the phone: this is east Colorado. High desert plain. The Rockies is in the other direction.”
Yardman’s smile was wide and toothy yet somehow grudging, as if he resented the effort such a smile required. Here was a man who’d been selling real estate for a long time, you could see. Even as he spoke in his grating mock-western drawl, Yardman’s shrewd eyes were rapidly appraising his prospective client Dwayne Ducharme, who’d made an appointment to see small ranch properties within commuting distance of Denver.
So this was Oliver Yardman! Twenty-one years after the Key West idyll, the man had thickened, grown coarser, yet there was the unmistakable sexual swagger, the sulky spoiled-boy mouth.
Yardman was shorter than Leonard had expected, burly and as solid-built as a fire hydrant. He had a rucked forehead and a fleshy nose riddled with small broken veins, and his breath was meaty, sour. He wore a leathery-looking cowboy hat, an expensive-looking rumpled suede jacket, a lime-green shirt with a black string tie looped around his neck, rumpled khakis, badly scuffed leather boots. He seemed impatient, edgy. His hands, which were busily gesticulating in twitchy swoops like the gestures of a deranged magician, were noticeably large, with stubby fingers, and on the smallest finger of his left hand he wore a showy gold signet ring with a heraldic crest.
The first husband. Leonard’s heart kicked in his chest; he was in the presence of his enemy.
In the office, which was hardly more than a storefront and smelled of stale cigarette smoke, Yardman showed Leonard photographs of “ranch-type” properties within “easy commuting distance” of downtown Denver. In his aggressive, mock-friendly yet grudging voice, Yardman kept up a continual banter, peppering Leonard with facts, figures, statistics, punctuating his words with Eh? It was a verbal tic that Yardman seemed unaware of or was helpless to control, and Leonard steeled himself waiting to hear it, dry-mouthed with apprehension that Yardman was suspicious of him, eyeing him so intimately.
“. . . tight schedule, eh? Goin’ back tomorrow, you said? Said your firm’s relocating? Some kinda computer parts, eh? There’s a lot of that in Denver, ‘lectronics, chips, these are boom times for some, eh? Demographics’re movin’west, for sure. Population shift. Back east, billion-dollar companies goin’ down the toilet, you hear.” Yardman laughed heartily, amused by the spectacle of companies going down a toilet.
Leonard said, in Dwayne Ducharme’s earnest voice, “Mr. Yardman, I’ve been very—”
“Mitch. Call me Mitch, eh?”
“Mitch. I’ve been very lucky to be transferred to our Denver branch. My company has been downsized, but—”
“Tell me about it, man! Downsize. Cut back. Ain’t that the story of these United States lately, eh?” Yardman was suddenly vehement, incensed. His pronunciation was savage: Yoo-nited States.
Leonard said, with an air of stubborn naivete, “Mr. Yardman, my wife and I think of this as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To relocate to the West from the crowded East. We’re Methodist Evangelicals, and the church is flourishing in Colorado, and we have a twelve-year-old boy dying to raise horses, and my wife thinks—”
“That is so interesting, Dwayne,” Yardman interrupted, with a rude smirk. “You are one of a new pioneer breed relocating to our wide-open spaces and relaxed way of life and lower taxes. Seems to me I have just the property for you: six-acre ranch, four-bedroom house for the growin’ family, barn in good repair, creek runs through the property, fences, shade trees, aspens, in kinda a valley where there’s deer and antelope to hunt. Just went on the market a few days ago. Dwayne Ducharme, this is serendip’ty, eh?”
Yardman locked up the office. Pulled down a sign on the front door: closed. When he wasn’t facing Leonard, his sulky mouth retained its fixed smile.
Outside, the men had a disagreement: Yardman wanted to drive his prospective client to the ranch, which was approximately sixteen miles away, and Leonard insisted on driving his rental car. Yardman said, “Why’n hell we need two vehicles, eh? Save gas. Keep each other company. It’s the usual procedure, see.” Yardman’s vehicle was a new-model Suburban with smoke-tinted windows, bumper stickers featuring the American flag, and a dented right rear door. It was both gleaming black and splattered with mud like coarse lace. Inside, a dog was barking excitedly, throwing itself aga
inst the window nearest Leonard and slobbering the glass. “That’s Kaspar. Spelled with a K. Bark’s worse ‘n his bite. Kaspar ain’t goin’ to bite you, Dwayne, I guarantee.” Yardman slammed the flat of his hand against the window, commanding the dog to “settle down.” Kaspar was an Airedale, purebred, Yardman said. Damn good breed, but needs discipline. “You buy this pretty li’l property out at Mineral Springs for your family, you’ll want a dog. ‘Man’s best friend’ is no bullshit.”
But Leonard didn’t want to ride with Yardman and Kaspar; Leonard would drive his own car. Yardman stared at him, baffled. Clearly, Yardman was a man not accustomed to being contradicted or thwarted in the smallest matters. He said, barely troubling to disguise his contempt, “Well, Dwayne, you do that. You in your li’l Volva, Volvo, Vulva, you do that. Kaspar and me will drive ahead, see you don’t get lost.”
In a procession of two vehicles they drove through the small town of Makeville in the traffic of early Saturday afternoon, in late March. It was a windy day, tasting of snow. Overhead were massive clouds like galleons. What a relief, to be free of Yardman’s overpowering personality! Leonard hadn’t slept well the night before, nor the night before that; his nerves were strung tight. In his compact rental car he followed the military-looking black Suburban through blocks of undistinguished storefronts, stucco apartment buildings, taverns, X-rated video stores, and onto a state highway crowded with the usual fast-food restaurants, discount outlets, gas stations, strip malls. All that seemed to remain of Makeville’s mining-town past were the Gold Strike Go-Go, Strike-It-Rich Lounge, Silver Lining Barbecue. Beyond the highway was a mesa landscape of small stunted trees, rocks. To get to Yardman Really & Insurance at 661 Main Street, Makeville, Leonard had had a forty-minute drive from the Denver airport through a dispiriting clog of traffic and air hazier than the air of Manhattan on most days.
He thought, Can he guess? Any idea who I am?
He was excited, edgy. No one knew where Leonard Chase was.
Outside town, where the speed limit was fifty-five miles an hour, Yardman pushed the Suburban toward seventy leaving Leonard behind. It was to punish him, Leonard knew: Yardman allowed other vehicles to come between him and Leonard, then pulled off onto the shoulder of the road to allow Leonard to catch up. In a gesture of genial contempt, Yardman signaled to him and pulled out onto the highway before him, fast. In the rear window of the Suburban was an American flag. On the rear bumper were stickers: BUSH CHENEY USA; KEEP HONKING, I’M RELOADING.
Yardman’s family must have been rich at one time. Yardman had been sent east to college. Though he played the yokel, it was clear that the man was shrewd, calculating. Something had happened in his personal life and in his professional life, possibly a succession of things. He’d had money, but not now. Valerie would never have married Yardman otherwise. Wouldn’t have kept the lewd Polaroids for more than two decades.
If he guessed. What?
The Suburban was pulling away again, passing an eighteen-wheel rig. Leonard could turn off at any time, drive back to the airport and take a flight back to Chicago. He’d told Valerie that he would be in Chicago for a few days on business, and this was true: Leonard had a job interview with a Chicago firm needing a tax litigator with federal court experience. He hadn’t told Valerie that he’d been severed from the Rector Street firm and was sure that there could be no way she might know. He’d been commuting into the city five days a week, schedule unaltered. His CEO had seen to it. He’d been treated with courtesy: allowed the use of his office for several weeks while he searched for a new job. Except for one or two unfortunate episodes, he got along well with his old colleagues. Once or twice he showed up unshaven, disheveled; most of the time he seemed unchanged. White cotton shirt, striped tie, dark pinstripe suit. He continued to have his shoes shined in Grand Central Station. In his office, door shut, he stared out the window. Or clicked through the Internet. So few law firms were interested in him, at forty-six: “down-sized.” But he’d tracked down Yardman in this way. And the interview in Chicago was genuine. Leonard Chase’s impressive resume, the “strong, supportive” recommendation his CEO had promised, were genuine.
Valerie had ceased touching his arm, his cheek. Valerie had ceased asking in a concerned voice, Is anything wrong, darling?
This faint excitement, edginess. He’d been in high-altitude terrain before. Beautiful Aspen, where they’d gone skiing just once. Also Santa Fe. Denver was a mile above sea level, and Leonard’s breath was coming quickly and shallowly in the wake of Yardman’s vehicle. His pulse was fast; he was elated. He knew that after a day, the sensation of excitement would shift to a dull throbbing pain behind his eyes. But he hoped by then to be gone from Colorado.
Mineral Springs. This part of the area certainly didn’t look prosperous. Obviously there were wealthy Denver suburbs and outlying towns, but this wasn’t one of them. The land continued flat and monotonous, and its predominant hue was the hue of dried manure. Leonard had expected mountains, at least. In the other direction, Yardman had said with a smirk—but where? The jagged skyline of Denver, behind Leonard, to his right, was lost in a soupy brown haze.
The Suburban turned off onto a potholed road. United Church of Christ in a weathered wood-frame building, a mobile home park, small asphalt-sided houses set back in scrubby lots in sudden and unexpected proximity to Quail Ridge Acres, a “custom-built,” “luxury home” housing development sprawling out of sight. There began to be more open land, ranches with grazing cattle, horses close beside the road lifting their long heads as Leonard passed by. The sudden beauty of a horse can take your breath away; Leonard had forgotten. He felt a pang of loss that he had no son. No one to move west with him, raise horses in Colorado.
Yardman was turning the Suburban onto a long bumpy lane. Here was the Flying S Ranch. A pair of badly worn steer horns hung crooked on the open front gate, in greeting. Leonard pulled up behind Yardman and parked. A sensation of acute loneliness and yearning swept over him. If we could live here! Begin over again! Except he needed to be younger, and Valerie needed to be a different woman.
Yet here was a possible home: a long, flat-roofed wood-and-stucco ranch house with a slapdash charm, needing repair, repainting, new shutters, probably a new roof. You could see a woman’s touches: stone urns in the shape of swans flanking the front door, the remains of a rock garden in the front yard. Beyond the house were several outbuildings, a silo. In a shed, a left-behind tractor. Mounds of rotted hay, dried manure. Fences in varying stages of dereliction. Yet there was a striking view of a sweeping, sloping plain and a hilly terrain—a mesa?—in the distance. Pierced with sunshine, the sky was beautiful, a hard glassy blue behind clouds like gigantic sculpted figures. Leonard saw that from the rear of the ranch house you’d have a view of the hills, marred only by what looked like the start of a housing development far to the right. If you stared straight ahead, you might not notice the intrusion.
As Leonard approached the Suburban, he saw that Yardman was leaning against the side of the vehicle, speaking tersely into a cell phone. His face was a knot of flesh. Kaspar the pure-bred Airedale was loose, trotting excitedly about, sniffing at the rock garden and lifting his leg. When he sighted Leonard, he rushed at him, barking frantically and baring his teeth. Yardman shouted, “Back off, Kaspar! Damn dog, obey!” When Leonard shrank back, shielding himself with his arms, Yardman scolded him too: “Kaspar is all damn bark and no bite, din’t I tell you? Eh? C’mon, boy. Fuckin’ sit. Now.” With a show of reluctance, Kaspar obeyed his red-faced master. Leonard hadn’t known that Airedales were so large. This one had a wiry, coarse tan-and-black coat, a grizzled snout of a muzzle, and moist dark vehement eyes like his master.
Yardman shut up the cell phone and tried to arrange his face into a pleasant smile. As he unlocked the front door and led Leonard into the house, he said, in his salesman’s genial blustery voice, “Churches, eh? You seen em? On the way out here? This is strong Christian soil. Earliest settlers. Prots’ant stock. The
re’s a Mormon population too. Those folks are serious.” Yardman sucked his fleshly lips, considering the Mormons. There was something to be acknowledged about those folks, maybe money.
The ranch house looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in some time. Leonard, glancing about with a vague, polite smile, as a prospective buyer might, halfway wondered if something, a small creature perhaps, had crawled beneath the house and died. Yardman forestalled any question from his client by telling a joke: “. . . punishment for bigamy? Eh? Two wives.” His laughter was loud and meant to be infectious.
Leonard smiled at the thought of Valerie stepping into such a house. Not very likely! The woman’s sensitive soul would be bruised in proximity to what Yardman described as the “remodeled” kitchen with the “fantastic view of the hills” and, in the living room, an unexpected spectacle of left-behind furniture: a long, L-shaped sofa in a nubby butterscotch fabric, a large showy glass-topped coffee table with a spiderweb crack in the glass, deep-piled stained beige wall-to-wall carpeting. Two steps down into a family room with a large fireplace and another “fantastic view of the hills” and stamped-cardboard rock walls. Seeing the startled expression on Leonard’s face, Yardman said with a grim smile, “Hey, sure, a new homeowner might wish to remodel here some. Renovate. They got their taste, you got yours. Like Einstein said, there’s no free lunch in the universe.”
Yardman was standing close to Leonard, as if daring him to object. Leonard said, in a voice meant to be quizzical, “No free lunch in the universe? I don’t understand, Mr. Yardman.”
“Means you get what you pay for, see. What you don’t pay for, you don’t get. Philos’phy of life, eh?” Yardman must have been drinking in the Suburban; his breath smelled of whiskey and his words were slightly slurred.
Give Me Your Heart: Tales of Mystery and Suspense Page 5