Rumer, aping his master, slams his fist down onto the table “Why won’t they listen?” he asks.
“They are listening,” Father answers. “They’re just not believing. They don’t know me. All they know is this disembodied voice they speak with on the telephone. We have to meet face to face.”
Aunt Katie reacts first. “Absolutely not!”
She has been with him longer than any of them, and although she’s older and less attractive than the other women, she is one of his favorites. He still takes her to his room sometimes, and often they can be heard laughing behind the closed door. She’s the only person in the house who dares to contradict him so bluntly, and unlike Aunt Yvonne, she can generally get away with it.
Father lays his hand on her arm and smiles. “1 can’t put it off any longer,” he says. “It’s obvious this isn’t working. As long as we keep talking by telephone, they are free to invent whatever version of me fits their preconceptions. And what they have made me into is the charismatic lunatic, the megalomaniac whose every word is suspect, someone not to be believed.”
“But that’s not who you are!” Aunt Katie admonishes.
“Exactly,” Father says. “But they don’t know that. I’m the enemy, remember? To them, I’m a monster, and all of you are my victims. And until they see a real person, see that we’re just like them, normal, human, that’s what they’re going to go on thinking. One of us has to go out there, that’s all there is to it.”
Someone starts to cry and Natalie realizes it’s her mother. “Please, Father,” she whispers, “Don’t. They’ll kill you.”
This is something they all know by now, a basic fact of the situation: the men want Father dead—that’s why they came here in the first place. Ever since the siege began, they have been pressing him to negotiate with them directly, in person, and it’s obvious if he ever agrees—it doesn’t matter on their turf or his—they will take that opportunity to assassinate him.
Aunt Yvonne somehow finds the courage to speak again. “Please, Father,” she sobs. “What would we do without you?”
Father rubs his hand across her cheek—a quick forgiveness, this time. She’s lucky. “One of us has to do this,” he insists.
Aunt Katie abruptly stands. “Then I’ll do it,” she says bravely. Which surprises no one, least of all Father. “Katie, what are you saying?”
Natalie can’t see her face, but there’s a fierce intensity to her voice. “They need to see one of us in person, I’ll be it. You’re too important. If anything happens to me, no big deal. But you, you’re everything.”
It’s a noble offer. Since the siege began, everything outside the house—the men, their weapons—it all represents death.
“I can’t ask you to do that,” Father says, but he makes no move to stop her.
She leans across the table and kisses him lightly on the cheek. It’s like a scene from one of those old movies, from before they had color, a moment of real affection in shades of dark and light. “You don’t have to. You know I’m right.”
She steps over Natalie as she moves quickly across the room to the kitchen door, where she turns and faces Father again. “I’d do anything for you,” she says. “Anything.”
And this is the ultimate proof. Even as Father’s ambassador, there’s no reason to believe the men will let her live, no reason to believe they won’t punish her for the crime of being his follower; at a minimum, they will keep her locked up, away from him, which amounts to the same thing. She’s sacrificing her life for the man she reveres.
That’s what they believe, as they watch her go, and undoubtedly what she believes as she strides out into the glare of the men’s lights. None of them has any way of knowing that the night is suffused with irony, luring her away into unexpected life and leaving the rest of them to what awaits.
They expect this to be her moment of greatest sacrifice, because that’s how it appears and because that’s who Katie is. Hasn’t she always been the one who gave everything to Father? Didn’t she leave her whole family behind, five girls even, to be with him?
And didn’t she become Katie just to please him, because he liked that name so much?
Better than her given name. Better than Anne Coyne.
* * *
“She hated it that she didn’t die with the others,” Natalie remembers, staring out the window into the back yard. Lightning rends the night sky, and in the cold burst she sees the weedy remains of what many years ago was her aunt’s garden. She didn’t abandon it all at once; the decline came slowly, one forgotten variety at a time. Finally one summer, Emily just stopped going out back, and the weeds rolled in, taking over what little was left. A hollow victory.
The roar of thunder, heavy and deep, rattles the window. “That was supposed to be her gesture, not theirs,” Natalie continues. “Probably made her feel unworthy, like maybe she wasn’t good enough to die for him. And jealous, too, I think.”
“Jealous?” Scopes, who has taken a seat at the table, seems surprised.
Natalie sighs. How do you explain this to someone who hasn’t been through it, the envy of the living for the dead? “She tried contacting Ralston,” she says. “But then you must know all of this, right?”
Scopes motions to her to continue. “It helps to hear it from you. Please, go on.”
“OK,” Natalie says. “At the time, his lawyers wouldn’t let him talk to anyone, least of all her. All those years having him around to tell her what to do, what to think, she didn’t know how to handle it, tried to commit suicide. Didn’t succeed, of course.”
“More’s the pity,” Ballard offers.
“That’s what I remember thinking when I heard. It was like they couldn’t die, her and Father. Anyway, eventually she got around to deciding there was a reason she was being kept alive, a higher purpose.”
She stops and watches the lightning flicker on Ballard’s face. “Ralston,” Scopes prompts.
“What else? I mean, here he was in prison, standing trial, his flock dead, one of his so-called children labeling him a murderer. How needy can you get? She vowed to stand by him, made this big public show of it. Testified at his trial, pretty convincingly, too. She promised to wait for him, tend to his needs when he was acquitted.”
“But then he was convicted.”
“And sentenced to life, no parole,” Natalie says. “Whatever needs he was allowed to have were going to be ministered to in perpetuity by the prison system, or at least that was the idea. Last I heard, must have been nearly eight, nine years ago, she’d floated off into some commune somewhere.”
“She hasn’t tried to contact you since?” Scopes asks.
Natalie drifts back to the table and sits down. Something is bothering her, something she can’t quite figure out. All she knows is she is desperate for Ballard and Scopes to leave, which they show no readiness to do. She drains her vodka and pours herself another, taking some comfort in the fact that at least she’s aware of it this time.
“We weren’t exactly friends,” she says. “She couldn’t have been too happy with me for putting him away.”
Scopes leans across the table and rests what is no doubt meant as a reassuring hand on Natalie’s. “Try and remember. Was anything like this ever discussed back then, when you were all still together?”
“Anything like what?”
“Suicide in a lake, death by drowning, whatever.”
“We were into fire, remember? Water wasn’t exactly our thing.” Irritated, Natalie pulls her hand away. Who the hell are these two to tell her what to remember? “Now how about you let me in on what you know?” she demands.
What they know, or at least what they are willing to tell her, is precious little. When Coyne marched away from Father’s compound that fateful night, she was taken into custody. But her lawyers managed to get her released almost immediately, and she was never formally charged with any crime. Several years later, just as Natalie recalled, Coyne did in fact wander off into a commune, of radical
vegan ultra-marathoners, as it turns out. When diet and exercise turned out not to be the key to her personal salvation, she hit the road again. Sometime later, no one’s quite sure when, she decided to put out her own shingle in the lost souls business and founded the Portal Guardians. A regular entrepreneur of the wayward spirit. And an under-the-radar kind of shepherd, who until yesterday had drawn essentially no attention to herself and her quiet little group.
Until yesterday. Natalie thinks back on everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours. She debates whether to tell them any of it and decides against lt. That’s her business, not theirs.
“It obviously has something to do with Ralston’s new trial,” Ballard says, “Although what, I can’t imagine. Of course, I’m assuming Coyne was thinking rationally, which is probably a mistake, but surely she had to realize her timing on this would just embarrass Ralston. All that work he’s done over the years to distance himself from his past goes right out the window now. It’s going to be pretty hard for people not to connect him with this.”
Natalie can’t help allowing herself a grim smile. Poor Ralston. How deliciously terrible for the sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch, to have his moment of near vindication marred this way, and how apt that the assailant on his carefully crafted new image would be one of the misguided creatures he so assiduously molded in his previous incarnation.
“Why don’t you ask him?” she asks. “He knew her better than anybody.”
“That’s next,” Scopes answers. ‘‘I’m on my way down there now.” She points at Ballard, picking up on what he said. ‘‘I’m wondering if maybe that’s what Coyne wanted to do, though, embarrass Ralston, complicate his life a bit. I could see how she might be pissed at him, the way you would be at a false prophet or a fallen idol or something like that. After all, she followed him all those years, and then after everyone dies he decides it was all a big mistake. Whoops, never mind. That would sure irritate the hell out of me, especially if I was really a dedicated believer like Coyne was. You think that could be it, Natalie, hell hath no fury and all that?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Natalie replies distractedly. A woman scorned.
In an instant she knows what has been bothering her, and the realization sends a swarm of needles buzzing up her spine into her skull. It consumes all her energy not to jump up and start swatting at the barely-formed suspicions swirling around inside her head, like those crazy women you see on street corners batting away invisible pests. She’s tempted just to order her visitors to leave and if they ask her why to scream it’s because she’s so scared she can barely think let alone contend with them.
Fortunately, it’s not long before they run out of questions and tire of pressing her for insights into the character of a woman probably none of them will ever truly understand. After eliciting promises that Natalie will call if she remembers anything useful, they allow themselves to be led past Emily’s recumbent figure and ushered out into the pouring rain.
* * *
It can’t be.
That’s what she keeps telling herself: she must be wrong. It’s what keeps her from falling apart the second she closes the door. There is such a thing as coincidence, there must be, and that’s all this is, wicked happenstance.
Except she knows that’s bullshit, or else she wouldn’t be so terrified.
Wherever you find water . . .
On her way back into the kitchen Natalie grabs Emily’s makeshift ashtray and fingers a cigarette from her pack. The lights flicker, go out and come back on again. As she sets up next to the phone, cigarette lit, drink reloaded for a third go, Natalie wonders whatever became of the flashlight they used to keep in the house. Not that it would matter. The batteries are bulging inside their casings by now, victims of age and neglect.
She dials information and asks for a number for Bret Hartlow, then lets the phone company connect her directly for some absurd fee. On the fourth ring, a woman answers. “Hello?”
For a moment, Natalie thinks the phone company screwed up, until she remembers the sister coming in from Cleveland. “Is Bret Hartlow there?” she asks.
“Who is this?” the woman demands curtly.
“My name is Natalie Krill. Is this Bret’s sister?”
“Yes,” she says with unmasked hostility. “What do you want with Bret?”
“Just to speak with him.”
“No.”
Okay, Natalie thinks. So Bret Hartlow’s sister, who makes no mention of her own name, is a bitch. Under the circumstances. perfectly understandable. “Please. I was over there with him earlier. There’s something I need to ask him. It’s important.”
The woman laughs derisively. “I have had, I don’t know, must have been two dozen calls on this phone since I got here, and that’s the weakest line I’ve heard yet. ‘Ooo, it’s important.’ Please. Here’s the deal: my brother is in shock. On top of that he’s asleep right now, and I intend to let him stay that way. And when he wakes up, no way is he going to start talking to any more reporters.”
“I’m not a reporter,” Natalie assures her. ‘‘I’m a friend.” Which, in a strange sense, she feels she is.
“Right, and I’m Genghis Khan.”
Sometimes sarcasm has a way of backfiring on its users. This strikes Natalie as one of those times. “Really. Please, listen to me. I think he may know something that could help Selena Latham.”
At least she hopes that’s the case. She doesn’t really know.
“That little girl?” the sister asks. “Then why aren’t the police calling us about it instead of you?”
“They don’t know about this yet.”
Wrong approach. Bret’s sister just laughs again. “Oh. Well. Then don’t you think you should call them first, let them in on your little secret? If it’s anything, I’m sure they’ll contact us.”
“Bret would understand.”
“Bret still thinks his friends are swimming happily to Atlantis.”
Tough point to argue. The woman is the proverbial stone wall, impervious to attack and probably fortified to withstand a long siege. It’s obvious Natalie could spend the rest of the night arguing with her and get precisely nowhere. There must be some way of getting around her but Natalie, exhausted and afraid, can’t think of lt.
“Would you at least give him a message for me?” she pleads.
“Oh, sure, what the hell, that’s what we do here, take messages, little yellow stickies all over the place. So what is it?” The sister’s tone is a perfect blend of sarcasm and impatience. “Come on, I don’t have all night.”
Natalie spells out her name and phone number. “I just need to ask Bret if he ever knew of a member of the Guardians living outside the group,” she explains. “Maybe even someone who left like he did.”
“Oh, Christ, I’m not giving him that message!” the sister exclaims. “It’ll upset him. He’s distraught enough. The last thing he needs right now is to be reminded of all that crap.”
As if he could ever forget it. “Please,” Natalie says urgently. “It could be really important.”
“To you, maybe. I’ll think about lt.” There’s an abrupt click and the line goes dead.
Heavy rain pounds the window. and the lights go out again. For a split second, a bright flicker illuminates the room, like the flash of a powerful camera. In the intense but fleeting light, Natalie imagines she can see a group of adults huddled around the table with her, eyes white with surprise and fear, and then the room plunges back into thundering darkness. As calmly as she can, Natalie draws slowly on her cigarette, wishing away the ghosts with its ember glow. “Shit.” she whispers. and it’s reassuring just to hear a voice, even if it happens to be her own.
Feeling the keypad in the dark, she dials information again and this time asks to be connected with Carter McKewn. He seems delighted to hear from her despite the way she blew him off outside Hartlow’s apartment, and she finds herself wishing she had taken him up on his dinner invitation. It certainly wou
ld beat sitting here in the dark, caught up in the throes of insane speculation.
“Tell me something,” she says.
“Shoot.”
“If I asked you a question, would you write about it—I mean, about the fact that I brought it to your attention?”
He thinks for a second. “I wouldn’t have to, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Why would people even care?”
“Is that your question?”
“No.”
“Because you’re not just anyone, Natalie. You’re someone with a story. Most of us go through life with no story, but you, you’re wall-to-wall story. They’re jealous, and they’re hooked.”
“They’re idiots.”
“Probably,” he laughs. Then, gently, he asks, “So what are we talking about here?”
She stubs out her cigarette as lightning makes the kitchen visible again. Eyes downcast, she tells herself, and just to be sure clamps them shut for a couple of seconds, just in case her uninvited guests are still with her, which she suspects they are.
“Sticky hair.”
“I’m sorry?” Carter asks, taken aback.
“How did Abby Wible die?”
“I told you, suicide.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know, exactly. There were drugs involved, pills, at least I think so. We don’t normally do much with suicides, but someone else from the paper was going to check into it just in case. Why?”
“Can we find out?”
“Sure, hold on a second.” There’s a clicking sound as he puts the call on hold and a few seconds later, he’s back. “Natalie, I’ve got our desk editor on the line with us. Hey, Joe, did we ever get any more on that suicide I phoned in?”
“Like what?”
“How she did it?”
“Yeah.” Joe has a jaunty voice, like he’s one of those people who is always in a good mood, even when discussing death.
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