by John Hart
“Is your friend really that good with a rifle?”
“He is.”
“He could have been charged with attempted murder. You know that, right?”
Jack clenched his jaw, downshifted through a curve and accelerated onto an open stretch of blacktop.
Leslie smiled at his discomfiture. “When I asked him about the misdemeanor plea, he refused to speculate on the reasons it was offered. I should think that with Boyd’s wealth and influence, he could have your friend buried under the jail. Any idea why that didn’t happen?”
Jack shrugged. “It would have meant a trial. No way a man like William Boyd would let Johnny take the stand.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wet his pants when Johnny opened fire, and because he had a sack full of bloody hides, killed out of season. He’s a public figure. The media would have crucified him.”
Leslie tried to imagine being shot at in the woods. “Do you think your friend got off too easily?”
“Not at all.”
“You sound like a defense lawyer.”
“They were five weeks old,” Jack said.
“What?”
“The cubs left to starve. They were only five weeks old.”
* * *
Once they turned onto the property, the drive to the lodge was two miles long. It followed a stream before twisting to the top of a flattop hill that offered views the length of the valley. Everything around them was manicured: the grass, the hedgerows, the climbing ivy. The lodge itself was built of oak and stone and cedar. It rambled beneath ancient trees, commanded the hilltop. Beside it was a ten-car garage, and on the tarmac, a Range Rover and a silver Audi. As impressive as it all was, Leslie ignored it when she stepped from the car. “This is unbelievable.”
She meant the long valley and the plunging views. The stream glinted silver on the valley floor. Distant hills rose on the horizon, the trees like shadow, the granite hard and yellow in the afternoon light. “That’s Hush Arbor,” Jack said. “The first rows of hills and three thousand acres beneath them. The river spills from the highlands, then feeds the swamp before running another hundred miles to the Atlantic.”
“What about this property?”
“From the road, it stretches north another mile or two. The lodge is about dead center.”
Leslie glanced at the house with its slate roof and stone columns and covered porch. “I see why he sighted the lodge here. This hilltop is spectacular.” Jack looked away, and she sensed something unspoken. “What?”
“This is where the original mansion stood. Johnny’s ancestors are buried just there, through the trees.”
“You’re kidding me.” Jack gestured with his chin, and Leslie saw hints of granite and marble and twisted vine. “I’m starting to understand why Johnny took those shots.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Yeah, right. Come on.”
On the porch, double doors rose ten feet from bluestone floors. Leslie reached for an iron knocker, but the right-side door swung open before she could touch it, and a woman appeared. She was in her midforties, with a pleasant face and a soft figure squeezed into denim jeans and a flannel shirt. “May I help you?”
Leslie took the lead, stepping closer. “Hi. I’m Leslie Green. This is my associate Jack Cross. It’s an unscheduled visit, I know, but we were hoping for a moment of Mr. Boyd’s time. We’re not selling anything and we don’t bite.”
She put on a smile to seal the deal, but the woman inside needed no enticement. “Absolutely,” she said. “I’m Martha Goodman. Cook. Housekeeper. I do pretty much everything.” She held out a hand, and Leslie and Jack shook it. “We don’t get a lot of visitors out here, and frankly, I’m happy for the distraction. Come in, please. Mr. Boyd is here somewhere.”
Inside, the ceiling rose to an immense vault. The central support was a tree trunk covered with hand-carved hunting scenes.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” The housekeeper touched it gently. “The woodcarvers came from Poland. It took three of them nine weeks just to carve this one post.” She gestured at the ceiling. “The rafters took another year.”
Almost as thick as the post, the rafters stretched thirty feet from the central peak to each side of the room. The walls beneath them were hung with trophies from around the world. Leslie recognized antelope and kudu and water buffalo. A stuffed grizzly rose from a mount beside the fireplace. Elephant tusks framed a door that led deeper into the house.
“Give me a minute to find him,” Martha said. “I believe he’s in the gun room. In the meantime, make yourselves at home.”
She left, and Jack ran a hand along one of the tusks by the door. The ivory was yellowed and smooth, the tusk eight feet long. Leslie asked, “What do you think about all this?”
“An eight-foot shaft of ivory? I think he’s compensating.”
Jack stepped between the tusks and moved into a hallway that ran past a broad staircase and other doors. Warm rugs lent color to the wood. Portraits covered the wall, beside muskets and spears and antique crossbows.
Leslie said, “This guy’s not kidding around.”
Jack nudged a partially open door. The room beyond was rich, its leather chairs as soft and brown as poured honey, the desk a monument of wood and tooled leather. A fireplace broke the right-hand wall, its mantel lined with photographs of Boyd with lion and elk and what appeared to be a dead rhino. On the wall above the mantel hung the largest mounted deer’s head Jack had ever seen. It was obviously very old, the glass eyes cloudy, the antlers as thick as Jack’s good arm and six feet wide from tip to tip. Jack counted eighteen points, the symmetry perfect. At the base of its throat was a tarnished plaque. Jack stepped closer and read aloud.
“‘A Lord of the Forest, shot through the heart by Randolph Boyd, age fourteen, in the winter of 1931.’”
“Do you hunt?”
The voice came from the door, and the man was unhappy. Jack recognized Boyd from the photographs, but Leslie spoke first. “I hope you don’t mind. Martha said to make ourselves at home.”
“Martha should know better. This room is off-limits.”
“Mr. Boyd—”
“I asked if you hunt.”
He was looking at Jack, his eyes blue and unforgiving. Jack thought carefully before answering. “No.” He held up his bad arm to support the claim. “I don’t hunt.”
“Do you know what that is you’re looking at?”
“I assume it’s a deer of some sort.”
Boyd studied Jack from top to bottom, returning to the bad arm, and nodding once as the tension broke. “My grandfather killed that deer in 1931. He was a boy in Illinois. They say whitetail grow large in that part of the world, that it’s due to the harshness of the winters or something in the gene pool. Do you know anything about Illinois deer?” Jack shook his head, and Boyd relaxed further. “You’re Johnny Merrimon’s friend.”
“You recognize me?”
“Mr. Merrimon fired eleven shots at my camp and almost killed me. I saw you at the preliminary hearing.”
“That was two years ago.”
“Then I’ll confess to having seen you somewhere else. I’m William Boyd.” They shook hands. “And you are Leslie Green. I’m familiar with your firm.”
“You are?” Leslie shook the same hand, surprised. “May I ask why?”
“Honestly, it’s about him.” He pointed at Jack. “More specifically, it’s about his friend’s land.”
“Why would you care about Hush Arbor?” Jack asked.
Boyd lifted an eyebrow. “Ah,” he said. “Your friend didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Come. Sit.” Boyd indicated the leather chairs. “Would you like anything to drink? Water? Wine? Something stronger?” Both declined. Boyd went to a sideboard and poured liquor from a decanter. “I apologize for my anger a moment ago.” Boyd gestured vaguely at the door, the mounted deer’s head. “This is a private space. I rarely allow visitors.”
/>
Leslie said, “We should have stayed where Martha left us.”
Boyd shrugged as if the topic were already closed. “A question, then, if I may.”
“Of course.”
“Do you represent Johnny Merrimon in some capacity?”
“I’m considering taking his case on appeal.”
“Of course. The trial court’s decision to quiet title in Mr. Merrimon’s favor.”
“You know about that?”
“Yes, of course. Will you help him?”
“I’ve not decided yet.”
Boyd perched on the edge of the desk. “Has he approached you about some other matter? Mentioned my name, perhaps?”
Leslie said, “He has not.”
Jack interrupted. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this discussion. You may not consider Johnny a client, but I do.”
“Has he paid you?” Leslie asked. “Signed anything?”
“Leslie, listen—”
“Patience, please.” Boyd waved Jack down. “You’re protective of your friend. I respect that. Believe it or not, I’m trying to help him. I’d like to help you, too, for that matter.”
“In what capacity?”
“I wish to buy your friend’s land. He refuses to sell. I would compensate anyone able to persuade him. You’re his friend and advisor. Thirty million is a fair price. You should tell him that.”
Jack almost choked. “Thirty million dollars?”
“My fourth offer in six months. I’ve sent other lawyers, even a few locals. It’s hard to find him, but not impossible. He does leave the swamp from time to time.”
Jack was still struggling. Johnny owned three pairs of pants, a single pair of decent shoes. “Thirty million dollars?”
“The offer is more than fair.”
“It’s ten times what it’s worth.”
“I consider worth subjective, and would pay you well to convince your friend of that.” Boyd smiled behind the glass. “What does a partner make in a year? I’ll double it.” He looked at Leslie. “For both of you.”
Without asking, Jack crossed the room and poured a drink.
Thirty million dollars …
What the hell???
“It’s a good offer,” Boyd said. “Mr. Merrimon could lose the land on appeal. Better he take the money now, and allow me to assume the litigation risk. Ms. Green, I would happily engage your services to manage any appeal. My lawyers in New York bill nine hundred dollars an hour. I can offer you the same.”
“That’s very generous,” Leslie managed.
“Just stop a minute.” Jack’s back was turned, but Boyd was paying close attention. Even Leslie seemed to realize that the moment hinged on Jack. “Johnny took eleven shots at you. He threatened to shoot you in the throat if you ever returned.”
“Sticks and stones, Mr. Cross. Tell me, Ms. Green, what does a partner in your firm make?”
Leslie opened her mouth, but Jack spoke first. “Nobody pays ten times market value.”
“Are you sure of that, Mr. Cross? My net worth is north of a billion. Forgive my bluntness, but there it is. If I want something, I buy it. That includes the willing assistance of qualified people. I’ll pay three years’ salary plus any litigation expenses related to the appeal.”
“Perhaps if I understood why it’s worth so much to you.”
“Ah, I see. You fear that my sole intent is to deprive a man I dislike of the thing he values most dearly. Let me assuage your worry. Come this way. You, too, Ms. Green.”
He led them down the hall to a windowless room full of long guns racked on velvet and stained wood. Jack touched one gun, then another. Purdey. Holland & Holland. Most of them cost more than he’d make in a year.
“Do you know guns?” Boyd asked.
“No,” Jack lied. “Not really.”
“Hunting is my passion. It’s why I bought this place and built the lodge. I entertain clients here from all over the world: real estate developers, Saudi sheikhs, actors, Texas oilmen. I consider it a business expense. Problem is, it’s only nineteen hundred acres. Here.” He indicated a topographical map on the wall. “This is Hush Arbor. See how large it is? Six thousand acres plus access to the state game lands beyond.” He indicated a vast swath of green on the map. “Three farms fill the space between your friend’s land and mine. Two, I’ve already acquired, and the third is under contract. When that sale closes, I’ll own thirty-four hundred acres contiguous to Hush Arbor.”
“And you want to own it all.”
“Nine thousand four hundred acres is big, even by Texas standards. Add the game lands to the north, and we’re talking something close to fifty thousand accessible acres.”
“Forty-nine thousand four hundred and twelve.”
“There you go.” Boyd lifted both arms. “You know the land, you know the numbers.” He tried for a smile, but Jack didn’t buy it. He didn’t buy any of it. “It’s thirty million dollars, son. Do you still think I plan to hurt your friend?”
“What exactly do you want from me?”
“I want you to convince him.”
“He won’t sell.”
“Come, Mr. Cross. Two more years, and he’ll lose it for unpaid taxes. Your friend is broke. His mother has a few dollars, but not enough. His stepfather is a cop with seventy-eight grand in an IRA and twice as much debt on the mortgage. You’re his only friend, and while I’m sure you’re a fine lawyer, you also carry ninety-seven thousand dollars in law school debt.” Jack’s mouth fell open. Boyd was unblinking. “Private investigators,” he said. “Surprisingly inexpensive.”
“That’s it, then?” Jack hid the anger. “I get Johnny to sell and you make me rich?”
“I want the land. Cost is secondary.”
“Why?”
“I’ve already told you why. Bobcat and bear, deer and geese and quail.”
“Why Raven County?” Jack asked. “You live in Connecticut, you work in New York.”
“It’s an easy flight.”
“That’s it?”
“Land in a place like this is cheap, even at five thousand an acre.” There was an edge to him now, something close to an open taunt. “Let’s call it four years’ earnings if you help me.” He looked at Leslie that time. “What does a partner in your firm make?”
* * *
In the car, Jack drove and kept his mouth shut. He worked the car hard, pushing through the gears. “You’re angry,” Leslie said. “I understand.”
Third gear. Fourth. “He’s a liar.”
“Perhaps.”
Jack shook his head. He had no doubt.
“We should talk about his offer.”
“What’s there to talk about? We can’t represent Johnny if the firm represents Boyd. It’s a conflict.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“Actually, it is. Do you think Boyd would hire the firm if I weren’t part of the deal?” Jack was uncompromising, but didn’t care. He felt played. Leslie was part of that. “How did you even know he would be there?”
“I didn’t. It was a gamble.”
“Pretty damn convenient.”
“Come on, Cross. You can’t really be upset about this. Your best friend lives in a swamp. How’s that working out for him?”
Jack chewed on the words, thinking Leslie had somehow sensed his newfound fear of the swamp, this concern he had for Johnny. In the end, only one truth mattered. “Johnny knows his own mind. It’s not my choice.”
“Whether it is or not, you should consider the offer more carefully. Convincing Johnny to sell is the smartest thing you could do for all of us. Thirty million for him. Another two for each of us.”
“Two million dollars?”
“Conservatively.”
The number stunned Jack. His salary was sixty thousand a year, and he’d fought hard to get that much. “Boyd is a liar.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“His grandfather didn’t grow up in Illinois. Randolph Boyd was
born here. He spent his life in Raven County until he died, at twenty-one, in World War Two. The family history is in the file.”
Jack pointed at the rainmaker file, but Leslie didn’t pick it up. “You’re talking about the kid who shot the deer in 1931? Who cares? We all lie. Jesus, Cross.”
She was right. Jack told lies when necessary, but that didn’t change the way he felt. “Boyd said he came here because land is cheap and it’s an easy flight from New York. He never mentioned that his grandfather lived in Raven County or that his father was born here. Why would he leave that out?”
“Maybe it’s unimportant. Maybe he doesn’t care.”
Leslie wanted to believe, and Jack didn’t blame her. It was big money, easy money. Whatever interest she had in Johnny would pale beside that kind of payout. Problem was, she needed Jack to make the payout happen. He thought she’d move gently at first, use soft words and logic, those pretty eyes and a hand on his arm. Eventually, she’d let more of the anger show. When that failed, she’d rally the partners to force his hand. Jack wondered if they’d use the carrot or the stick. All he knew for certain was anger and worry and a creeping sense of the utterly surreal. Because it wasn’t Boyd’s simple lie that twisted knots of disbelief into the walls of Jack’s chest, nor was it the risk of threats or joblessness or the very real possibility of failing his best and only friend. Boyd had told not one lie but two, and the second one was so big, Jack had no idea what to do with it.
“Slow down,” Leslie said.
Jack didn’t.
“Damn it, Cross.”
Jack drove faster. He wanted out of the car—needed to think—and it wasn’t about the job or Johnny or the anger building like a storm in the eyes of the pretty woman beside him. Jack had spread his own lies, too. Bad arm or not, he’d grown up the child of a cop and a son of the South. He’d known guns since he could walk, just as he’d known hunters and hunting and all the creatures of the wild. And that was the biggest problem of all. Because whatever circumstances led to the shooting of a deer in 1931, it didn’t happen the way William Boyd said. A bullet to the heart, yes, that much Jack believed. But nothing else Boyd said could be true. The great head on his wall rode a neck as thick as a grizzly’s and carried antlers so broad and gleaming, they were like nothing Jack had ever seen. And that alone put the lie in Boyd’s story, for nothing so magnificent had ever been shot in Illinois or Wisconsin or in any other place else on God’s earth that Jack could imagine.