“Sure,” said Jack.
Gloria walked next to Patrick while he was wheeled from the hospital. He seemed to be half-asleep. Sean walked silently behind. They left the waiting room while Phil headed for the admitting desk. Outside in the parking lot, water reflected back a low-hanging moon that peeked through the clouds. Softly, almost to himself, Sean said, “It wasn’t branches. It was the Bad Thing.”
No one seemed to hear, though Gabbie tightened her grip on his hand. Patrick was held on his mother’s lap and he didn’t protest being treated like a baby, as he usually would have. Sean retreated inside himself, sure he should not repeat what he’d said about the Bad Thing. There were some things destined to be kept to oneself, and he suspected that the final confrontation with the Bad Thing was allotted to him and Patrick alone, and no grown-up could help them. As the little boy climbed into the backseat of his mother’s station wagon, he considered this. Despite the terror he felt in contemplating the Bad Thing under the bridge, he felt a strange sense of fate. Patrick had survived. Somehow he had won past the first test. Sean felt what could only be called cold comfort at that fact. And while resting against his sister’s side, he drifted off to sleep, a strangely disquieting doze where the dreams were of slipping down muddy banks and of yellow eyes in black faces.
11
Patrick shouted, “Dad! It’s doing it again!”
Phil came in from his study and regarded the large television screen. The picture was breaking up, and both boys sat with disappointment on their faces. The Phillies were playing the Mets in a crucial series, while the Cubs were due to start a game with the Pirates in another hour. The boys were looking forward to the doubleheader. But for a week the television had been acting up. Twice Mr. Mullins had been out to check it out and both times had found nothing wrong. He had expressed sympathy to Phil, saying nothing was as irritating as an intermittent failure. Phil picked up the phone and called and after exchanging greeting said, “Look, I know you haven’t found anything, but isn’t there something you can do?”
Patrick shouted, “Tell him to put in a Low-Noise Downblock.”
Phil blinked, then said, “Young Tom Edison said we need a Low-Noise Downblock.” He listened and laughed. “Yes, they do know everything.” After a little more conversation, Phil hung up. “Mr. Mullins is going to come out with a new amplifier and simply swap it. He’ll send ours back to the manufacturer and have them test it. In the meantime he’ll check the lines and make sure everything else is okay. And you should be able to watch the games. And it’s a Low-Noise Block Down Converter, smarty.”
Sean smiled, while Patrick only nodded. Patrick had been more subdued of late than was normal, and refused to talk about his experience with anyone. Phil had begun to think the child was more deeply disturbed by the accident than he had first shown. The bandages had come off a week ago, and the scars were beginning to disappear under summer tan. But where a usually loud and playful boy had been, now a thoughtful, introspective child resided. Sean had also become more subdued, but as he usually took his lead from Patrick, Phil thought nothing of it. Slowly the boys stood and Sean flipped off the television set.
“You going to the park?” asked their father. Patrick shrugged. “Maybe,” answered Sean. “Well then, you’ll need these.” He pulled open the closet door in the hall, took out a brand-new bat, and handed it to Patrick. Patrick had lost his bat and glove in the accident under the bridge. Both boys said thanks.
Then Phil gave Patrick a new catcher’s mitt, saying, “You’ll have to break that in.”
Patrick looked appreciative; Sean tried not to look envious and failed. Phil paused a moment, then produced a brand-new fielder’s glove for Sean. “I figure you both needed new ones, anyway. Why don’t you donate your old one to the boys’ club, Sean?”
Sean grinned and pounded his fist into the stiff new leather. “Sure.”
Phil said, “Let this be a lesson to you. You can mess up and still come out ahead, sometimes. Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?” Both boys agreed.
Phil thought about his sons as they left. The thing that caused him the greatest concern was that the boys hadn’t played at the park since the accident, two weeks before. School was due to start up soon, and Phil had hoped the boys would have some vestige of a normal summer before having to adapt to a new school environment. He watched as they walked out the front door, none of the usual scampering in evidence. Even the new equipment didn’t seem to get them back to their old selves. Just as he wondered if he should consider having them talk to a psychologist, Patrick’s voice cut through the still air. “Mail’s here!”
Phil smiled. Some things hadn’t changed. Patrick would never walk back to the door and tell his father something when he could yell it across the yard.
Phil hurried out the door and met his wife coming around from the back, where she and Gabbie had been overseeing the installation of new fencing by the barn. Gloria smiled at him. “I almost got run over.”
“The boys?”
“Yes. They’re off to somewhere in a hurry.”
Phil felt relief, without knowing why. Just the fact they were back to moving from place to place at full speed seemed to him a reassuring sign. He and his wife reached the mailbox and laughed when their hands brushed together reaching to open the box. “After you, my dear Alphonse,” said Gloria.
“Thanks, Gaston.” Phil opened the box and took out the mail. He quickly sorted through it and handed several envelopes—mostly advertising and give-aways—to his wife. He opened one and read while she opened another.
“Listen,” she said, “Tommy will be passing this way next week and is going to drop in.”
Phil said, “That’s nice. How’s Superagent doing?”
“He doesn’t say. And what brings him out this way, I wonder?”
“Well, knowing Tommy, it’s not just social. He didn’t drop by once that time he was just over the hill at the Beverly Hills Hotel for two weeks. We had to go there. Maybe he has a job offer for you.”
Gloria snorted derisively. “That’ll be the day.” They began walking back toward the house. “I haven’t worked in New York in almost ten years. The attention span of the average producer on Broadway regarding young actresses is about ten minutes—unless you’ve won a Tony—and then only if you’re sleeping with him or owe him money. And as you may have noticed, I didn’t exactly stand the town on its ear.”
“Stranger things have been known to happen. Here.” He handed her the letter he had opened.
She quickly read it, then hit him in the arm, hard. “You shit. You let me prattle on and didn’t say a word.” She grabbed him and hugged him hard. “Congratulations.”
“Well, I haven’t agreed. They want some things—” She silenced him with a kiss. “Oh, shut up. That’s what agents are for. You’ll work out the details. I’m so proud of you, darling. The first publisher out of the bag and you get an offer.” She stepped away and said, “The money’s not great, but it’s not chump change either.”
“Well, you’ve got to remember, I didn’t exactly tear up the New York Times bestseller list with my books. My credits in film count spit in publishing.”
“Look, it’s a deal, as my father always says. Get the deal, then worry about the details.”
“Come on. We’re going out for dinner tonight.”
“Good idea.” She smiled and walked with her arm around his waist. Since the night of Gabbie’s assault, this was the first time Gloria felt relaxed.
12
“Help!”
Gabbie turned from hammering at the plank Jack held in place and they exchanged startled glances. Then Jack dropped the plank and they ran toward the front of the house.
They rounded the corner and discovered one of the workmen hanging from the lintel under the corner of the roof, while Phil frantically tried to right a stepladder the struggling man had kicked over. Ted Mullins was hurrying toward the accident. Phil held the ladder while Jack scrambled up and grabbed
the man. Through gritted teeth the workman said, “My hand’s caught.” He managed to get his feet back on the ladder, but he was unable to free his hand.
Jack looked up and saw that one of the strange gargoyle-like carvings had twisted, capturing the workman’s hand like a vise. Jack said, “Give me a pry bar or a big screwdriver.”
Ted removed a very large screwdriver from the toolbox and handed it up. “Get ready to catch him,” said Jack as he levered the screwdriver between the carving and the next one. Then, with all his strength, Jack lifted up, using the large screwdriver as a lever, pushing the carving upward so the man could slip his hand out from between the clamping jaws.
The man fell away, caught by Phil and Ted. Jack inspected the carving. “It broke loose,” he observed. The carving had pulled away at the top, causing it to tilt for ward. The lower part of the carving had struck a support beam under the lintel and the ugly head had cracked behind the alligatorlike jaw, but not broken free. If it had broken, the man would have simply fallen. As it was, the carving had caught the man’s hand, his own weight acting as the force to keep the hand pinned between the jaws.
“It’s like the damn thing bit me,” exclaimed the workman, wrapping his hand in a handkerchief. The skin had broken and the white handkerchief was stained red.
“You’d better have that looked at,” said Phil.
“I’ll take him to the hospital,” said Ted.
He took the man in tow and Phil looked at Jack and Gabbie. “That’s pretty odd.”
“It’s freaky, all right,” agreed Gabbie. “What was he doing there anyway?”
“The cables from the dish run into the house there.”
Jack looked. “I don’t see them.”
Phil showed him where the coaxial cable and the control lines ran up the support closest to the dish and disappeared into a hole at the base of the lintel. “They must run inside.”
Jack climbed back up the ladder. “These carvings are all set into a big piece of wood. There’s some new screws here.” He looked down. “See that pile of them down there.” Phil saw the dozen or so screws near the base of the ladder. “He was taking the last one out when the board shifted—strange, it looks like it’s been pushed from inside.” Jack unscrewed the last fastener and put it in his pocket. He grabbed the line of gargoyles.
“Careful,” admonished Gabbie as Jack moved the cumbersome piece of wood outward.
After several inches, Jack could see the cable. “They move along here,” he said, sighting along the board, “and run toward the parlor.”
“They come out there. Mullin’s put them back there for appearance,” said Phil.
“Tidy. But it does make checking for damage a pain in the ass.” Jack looked down the board; something caught his eye back under the roof. “Thought I saw something moving. Ernie? You crawling around in there?” He squinted, as if trying to pierce the gloom by force of will. He looked down at Phil. “Got a flashlight?”
“Yes, I’ll get it,” said Gabbie.
Jack was left holding the long wooden facing with the odd carvings while she hurried inside. She returned and handed the light up to Jack. Jack shined it into the darkness. “Hello, what have we here? There’s something back in there.”
“What?” asked Phil.
“I can’t tell. Even with the flashlight it’s awful dark. And it’s a fair ways back.”
“How did you See it?” asked Gabbie.
Jack tossed back the flashlight. “I thought I saw something move for an instant. A trick of my eyes, I guess.”
He put the board back in place and quickly returned the one screw holding it up. Hurrying down the ladder, he said, “Mullins will want to check the cables, so I’ll leave it like I found it.”
“What about that thing you saw? Can you fish it out?” asked Gabbie.
“It’s pretty well back. Even with a broom handle I couldn’t reach it.”
“Well, how did it get there?” wondered Phil.
Jack regarded the roof line. “That’s the boys’ room up there?”
“Right.”
“Can we take a look around there?”
“Sure.” They hurried inside and up the stairs. In the boys’ room Jack went to the window and looked out to judge his location relative to the porch roof. “I think about here,” he said, pointing at where the wall met the floor.
He moved a toy chest and inspected the wall below the window. After a few minutes, Phil and Gabbie joined him. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, until Phil noticed an odd depression near the base of the wall. “Give me that screwdriver,” he said.
Jack and Gabbie watched as Phil put the screwdriver in the indentation and pried upward. A section of the floor moved just enough to slip his fingers under the side, three boards cut to fit so closely they looked one with the rest of the floorboards. The lid was an odd one, for the boards were of unequal length, the trap lid cut along the natural lines of the boards so no unusual seams could be seen. “Well, I’ll be go to hell,” said Phil.
Jack grinned. “There’s a lot of this in these old houses. They were built before the government insured banks. Most folks down home can show you where great-grandfather hid what little they had from the Yankees. You wax them a few times to fill the cracks and you can run your hand over them all day and never find them.”
Phil shined the light down and the beam fell upon a pouch or packet of some kind. Jack reached in and gingerly removed what appeared to be a wrapped bundle of papers. “Treasure maps, do you suppose?” said Phil.
Jack observed the package. It was a white-flaked bundle of some sort of cloth. “Let’s get it down to the study.”
They took it downstairs and put it on the desk. Jack regarded the white substance on his hand and said, “I think this is wax.”
Phil was gingerly poking at the cloth. “Feels pretty brittle. Must be old.”
“Maybe not.” Jack rubbed the flakes between his fingers and smelled the residue. “Paraffin,” observed Jack. “It’s used for waterproofing. Only problem is it burns really well. We used to dip matchsticks in it in the Boy Scouts.”
“I didn’t know you were a boy scout,” said Gabbie in a teasing manner.
“Lots of things you don’t know, darlin’,” Jack teased in return.
“Can we open the package?” said Phil.
“I think,” answered Jack. “It’s the wax that’s brittle, not the paper or whatever.” Jack’s guess turned out to be correct, as the wrapping turned out to be light oilcloth. Inside they found several documents.
Jack and Phil scanned them and Gabbie said, “What is it?”
Jack shrugged. “They’re all in German. All I managed was a C minus in high school, and that was a while ago. Can you read kraut?”
“Only Spanish and then pretty badly,” admitted Gabbie.
They could hear the sound of a car in the drive. Gabbie looked out the window and said, “We’re saved. It’s Mark.” She ran from the room.
Phil glanced at his watch. “He’s a little early.”
Jack smiled. “I like a man who knows how to time his entrance.”
Mark and Gary entered the room, Gabbie at Mark’s side. Jack glanced at them, then did a double take, noting with some discomfort the manner in which Gabbie clung to Mark’s arm. Since they had begun regular therapy sessions, Gabbie had started to speak a lot about Mark. Jack struggled to put aside an unreasonable stab of jealousy.
Gary said, “Gabbie says you found something interesting.”
Phil indicated the pile and Mark picked up a paper. He quickly scanned it and handed it to Gary. One after the other, they looked and then laughed aloud. “This is wonderful!”
“What is it?” asked Gabbie, excitedly jumping up and down.
“Fredrick Kessler’s records. The old scoundrel was a con man.”
Gary pointed at a paper. “He was, to put it bluntly, a swindler.”
“What?”
Gary said, “I’ll have to read these carefully, b
ut it seems he had odd transactions going on with several banks at the same time. And if I’m not mistaken … humm …”—he compared three different papers—“… he was using the same collateral for all three loans.” With a toothy grin he said, “And I do believe that sort of thing is frowned upon.”
“At least by the banks,” said Mark. Then his smile vanished. “Look at this.”
Gary did so and whistled. “I’ll be damned. That’s unbelievable.”
“What?” asked Gabbie, delighted with the find.
“It’s a notation from a bank president, ah, a Mr. Schmidt at German Manufacturers Trust of New York, that certifies he’s seen the gold that’s used for collateral.” He quickly searched through the other documents. “See, there are several others. This is from the First German American Bank of Brooklyn.”
Gary said, “All these bankers had German names and all the documents are in German.”
“That was common enough,” said Mark. “Immigrants like to deal with their own people. Bank of America was founded as the Bank of Italy in San Francisco years ago.”
“Could they have had connections back in Germany?” wondered Gary.
“I don’t know, but it’s a possibility. Maybe mutual business acquaintances from the old country. German-American banks with offices in both countries, perhaps. Anyway, one thing is certain: That old swindler used the same gold several times as collateral for loans.”
“How could he do that?” asked Jack. “Didn’t the banks check to see if there were papers out on that gold? Or take possession of the gold?”
“Things were a lot looser before the big bank collapses during the Great Depression,” observed Mark. “Back then they sort of shot from the hip. Without much government control, banks could be anything from stuffy old countinghouses to fast-and-loose investment cartels, playing the stocks or commodity markets with the investors’ savings. There was a lot more potential for abuse. Banks used to go bust regularly.” Mark continued looking through all the documents and at last said, “But there’s still nothing that tells us what he did with the gold.”
Faerie Tale Page 18