by Guy Bolton
“Patrick O’Neill,” he mumbled.
“Patrick?”
A female voice. And not his mother’s.
“Yes . . .?”
“Patrick, it’s Gracie.”
“Gracie, hi.” O’Neill was so taken aback he spun around, his cup catching the doorframe and spilling scalding hot coffee all over himself. Dammit. Shit.
“You okay?”
“I’m swell,” he winced, trying not to yell from the coffee all over his arm. “I’m . . . great.”
He wiped himself down with a dishcloth and ran his arm under the cold tap.
“I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to call back. I went to visit my aunt in San Francisco for July Fourth weekend. She wasn’t feeling so well so I took a few days off work. My office said you left messages.”
“No, that’s fine. I called a couple times.” Seven, if he was being precise. “Is your aunt okay?”
“She’s fine. She acted like she was dying but it was only a bad cold. How are you?”
“I’m great, yeah. Busy, working a lot but otherwise great.”
“Great, that’s . . . great.” They were both saying “great” a lot and worse than that, they were both aware that they were saying “great” a lot.
“Listen,” O’Neill began a little more seriously, “I had a really nice time the other week.”
“Me too.”
“So,” said O’Neill, without his usual crippling self-consciousness, “I’d really like to see you again. Would you like to see a picture sometime?”
“I’d like that. Maybe that Wizard of Oz picture that’s coming out. I loved those books when I was a kid.”
“How about sometime in the week?”
“Um . . . I could do Wednesday. Are you free then?”
“Give me one second . . .” Patrick counted to five, searching through his imaginary diary. “Yup. Yeah. Wednesday, I’m free.”
“Good, well, do you want to meet somewhere first?”
O’Neill stretched the cord so he could sit down at the table. He slid the photographs away so he could put the telephone down. “How about I pick you up from your office and we go grab something to eat?”
“Okay. You sure you don’t mind?”
“No, really I’d like—” But O’Neill never finished his sentence. His fingers were resting on the edge of one of the photographs. With an electrifying realization he saw something in the pictures that he hadn’t noticed before. His heart skipped a beat. He stared again at the mysterious face. An idea wormed itself to the front of his mind. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and he shivered with the flicker of promise. They’d made an assumption about the anonymous figure that had led them astray. They hadn’t considered all the possibilities. They’d made one simple, unforgivable mistake.
Quite suddenly, like the unravelling of a movie plot, O’Neill knew everything. He knew who was behind all this.
Craine’s return to the school with Michael in tow was met with palpable relief from the staff. Father Calloway insisted such an event would never be repeated but Craine didn’t want to take any chances. He told Calloway he would take Michael home for the weekend and bring him back first thing on Monday morning.
Driving home, he contemplated the panic he’d felt this evening. He’d allowed his imagination to overindulge itself. He needed to calm down. But there was something else he needed to consider: why Michael had wanted to run away in the first place. Was it simply that he missed his mother and wanted to see her again in some way?
As soon as the front door was open, Michael disappeared down the long corridor toward his bedroom. Still a little uneasy, Craine decided to go round the house, checking the rooms, half-convincing himself he was being ridiculous.
He found Michael sitting on the floor of his bedroom cross-legged with a Bible in his lap. The room was dim, the curtains drawn.
“You can sleep here tonight. I’ll take you back tomorrow morning.”
The bed was made but otherwise the room was bare. Drawings and pictures had been pulled down from the wall.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” Craine said, to no response.
Michael’s bedroom was a large square with a single bed, a wardrobe and a large clothes chest against one wall. He used to hide in that chest when he and his mother played hide and seek. Celia found him in there once, fast asleep.
“Are you hungry? Do you want to eat something?”
Michael didn’t look up. He was pretending to ignore him.
Craine repeated himself and Michael drew his mouth shut, pulling his nose in tightly before giving the slightest shake of his head.
“Listen, I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn’t have shouted. I’m not angry with you. I was scared something bad had happened.”
Michael faced him and stared at him with glassy, expressionless eyes. They were his mother’s eyes and he felt her judging him.
“Brush your teeth before you go to bed. Your old toothbrush and pajamas should be in one of these boxes.”
Michael was still staring at him and Craine felt uncomfortable. He knew he was being made to feel guilty. It wasn’t necessary. He felt guilty already. I have become my own father, and I hate myself for it.
Craine went back through the hallway and into the pantry looking for something to eat. He wasn’t hungry, not really, but he knew the food would allow him to concentrate on the task ahead. Exhaustion always came in ebbs and flows: a light meal would keep him stable for the next few hours.
With great effort he made himself dinner from the bare cupboards he had in the kitchen. A can of soup, a half-loaf of bread with bully beef that the maid must have left. Afterward, Craine put on a pot of coffee and reflected on his meeting with Simms.
It was frustrating, yet not at all surprising, that Simms had refused to request a warrant for the Lilac Club. There was no denying that his rationale was sound. Too many pieces of this puzzle were missing, and questions regarding these mysterious killings would need to be answered before any arrests could be made. If the Lilac Club was indeed behind the murders, what was their motivation for the killings? And Stanley, what role did he play in this?
Craine thought of the Loew House shootings, remembering how Rochelle had asked to speak to him. It was urgent, he’d said. It was important. Craine had been too preoccupied to take his request for help seriously. What was it that he was trying to tell him?
The phone rang, disturbing his thoughts, and Craine answered it on the second ring. It was Gale.
“How are you? I’ve been calling for hours.”
Craine looked over his shoulder to check Michael wasn’t in earshot before saying quietly, “I was out. I brought Michael home.”
“Is everything okay?”
He decided not to tell her about what had happened. Not now anyway. “Yeah. He’s okay. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. I was only worried about you.”
“Are you going to the premiere?”
“I’m only going later. I told Louis and Margaret I’d go to the after-party and I’m starting to regret it. But perhaps I could see you tomorrow? You could come over for an early dinner.”
“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
“I’d like that. Maybe tomorrow you could bring Michael round.”
“Yes,” he said a little hesitantly.
“Well, think about it, there’s no rush. Good night, then, Jonathan. I wish I was there with you.”
“So do I,” he said with genuine sincerity. “Good night, Gale.”
When he put the receiver down, Craine sat back in silence staring at the garden beyond the French doors. He looked at himself in the reflection of the glass and smiled. He was so grateful to have Gale in his life. He should have told her about what they’d discovered but nothing they’d found so far had any tangible connection to Herbert and besides, he didn’t want to upset her.
There was the sound of small feet tiptoeing across the floorboards and Michael appeared in the doo
rway.
“What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”
Michael shook his head, stepping further into the living room.
“Take a seat. I’ll make you something.”
Michael took a seat on the divan and a few minutes later Craine laid out a glass of milk and a bully beef sandwich on the coffee table in front of him.
Michael stared at the sandwich but didn’t touch it.
“Will you eat something? Please, I made it for you. You can’t starve yourself.”
When Michael continued to stare at the plate Craine began to lose his temper. “Is this about the house? Or the summer? Because if it is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether to stay and I don’t know where you should live.”
Craine was standing above Michael, his back to the garden. He felt his anger rise then fall in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice starting to tremble. “Your mother was always better at this stuff than I am. I just want a sign that you’re okay.”
The two of them remained motionless for what felt like a long time but then Michael leaned forward and picked up the sandwich. He brought it to his mouth and took a small bite followed by a sip of milk.
“Thank you.” Craine almost laughed with relief. “I’m a horrible cook. I should bring the maid back but it doesn’t seem worth it.”
Michael must have been hungry because he ate the sandwich in next to no time, draining the milk afterward like he hadn’t been fed properly in weeks. When he was finished, Craine picked up the plate. He was about to go back into the kitchen when he stopped. “It’s not the same without her, is it? I miss her. I bet you do too.”
Michael looked up and nodded. Craine took a seat opposite him. “I know we’ve not spoken about it. That’s my fault. There are things I should have said. I suppose I’ve been struggling to . . .” He tried to find the words. “I’ve found it difficult to talk to you about what happened.”
As Craine reached out to touch Michael’s shoulder he thought he heard something and stopped perfectly still. From somewhere came the sound of metal scraping. He looked around. No, he was hearing things. Paranoia again.
“I’ll get you another glass of milk,” he said, turning toward the hallway.
This time Craine saw something in the glass. Movement from outside. There was no doubt about it.
His stomach dropped. Craine grabbed Michael and threw them both to the floor, his chest thudding against the floorboards and the breath knocked out of him.
There was a flash of light from the garden then a thundering as a salvo of machine gun spray took the glass out of the windows and raked the room. For a second there was nothing else but the sheet lightning from outside and the blizzard of noise inside. Craine used his hands to cover Michael’s ears. His face was turned away from him but he could feel his frail body shaking as what sounded like a thousand bullets scoured the walls and furniture, the windows and wall lights exploding, glass and metal landing all around them. He felt a sudden warmness and realized Michael had wet himself.
He reached instinctively for his pistol but it wasn’t there. Where was it? He tried to be calm and think rationally. The Browning was under the seat in the car. He couldn’t defend himself. He had to find somewhere for Michael to hide.
“Stay close to me,” he said, lifting his hands ever so slightly and whispering into Michael’s ear. “Do exactly what I say.”
He waited for the firing to stop then pushed them both to their feet. “Let’s go. Quickly, Michael, quickly.”
Picking Michael up and carrying him in his arms, Craine scrambled toward the door to the hallway leading to Michael’s bedroom. As if responding to his movement, there came the brief chatter of machine gun fire then the sound of someone yelling. “Stop,” it said. “Stop firing.”
Craine reached the hallway and gathered his breath. Michael’s eyes were wide open but he was crying now, snot and tears shiny on his cheeks. Craine pressed his back against the wall, his shoulder beside the doorjamb, the living room now behind him. Pieces of broken mirror against the baseboard gave a partial reflection of the garden outside. Pale smoke like morning fog drifted over the lawn. Then four tall shadows came forward, faces gray and indistinct under low hats and collared coats. They were coming inside. They were coming for them.
Chapter 38
Vincent Kinney and three of his men came through the garden and up the terrace toward the French doors, glass blown clear and open to the night.
The living room was empty; they could see it from the lawn but they kept up against the brick wall anyway rather than risk standing out in the open.
Kinney was on edge. The other house hadn’t taken long, in and out in a few minutes. His ears were ringing and he was annoyed with himself for missing Craine with a clear line of sight and four of them firing from less than a hundred feet away. He checked his watch: half past eight. On a clear night like this, there’s no way the neighbors wouldn’t have heard the gunfire. If they’d called the police, they might only have another ten or fifteen minutes. Maybe less; maybe five minutes if a squad car was in the area.
Kinney filled his lungs and turned to Nelson and the two brothers—Anthony and Joseph Gibson. Nelson was the eldest, Anthony and Joseph both younger. They were keen but a little reckless.
“He’s gone further inside,” Kinney whispered. “We’re going in after him. You understand?”
All three nodded.
“Go through the house, check every room you can. Everybody wearing gloves?”
Low grunts. “Yeah,” Joseph mumbled.
“Let’s go then.”
* * *
Craine tore down the long corridor leading to the family bedrooms. Michael’s bedroom door was open, the lights off. Craine bent down to drop Michael to the floor but he couldn’t pry his arms from around his neck. He felt Michael’s wet cheeks against his own.
“Let go,” he pleaded. “Please, let go.”
Michael’s feet touched the ground and slowly his arms loosened. Craine pushed the toy boxes aside and slid Michael under the bed.
“Stay under the bed. Stay here and don’t make a sound.”
Michael shook his head. He was crying. He tried to grab hold of his father’s wrists.
“You’ll be safe here. Stay under the bed.”
Michael shook his head, whining silently.
“Look at me. Look at me. There are men in the house and they’re trying to kill us. Do you understand?”
Michael screwed his eyes shut. His body was shaking uncontrollably, his pajamas soaked through with urine.
“Stay here. I’ll come back for you. I have to get a gun if I’m going to help us but I need you to stay under the bed and not move a muscle. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?”
Michael nodded but didn’t open his eyes. He squeezed his hands over his ears.
Craine checked the hallway was clear before he clambered through the corridors toward the garages, glancing over his shoulder, waiting for the stinging pain in his back, the red mist in front of him that he’d heard about so many times.
He had to get that gun.
Kinney’s Thompson carbine, loaded and cocked, led them through the house. He’d seen this gun tear someone almost in half once. Nelson had a trench shotgun, the others Thompson Overstamps with drum magazines. Careful, thought Kinney when they stepped through the living room, broken glass crunching underfoot. Be careful here.
They passed through the living room toward the hallway beyond. Kinney went first, more cautious than the youngsters. It was easy to be fast and careless the first few times. After that you start to figure the situation you’re in for what it really is.
They covered each other like he’d taught them, down the dim hallway, each with his own arc. The house was large, with rooms leading onto other rooms and long dark corridors probing out in all directions. There must be two dozen rooms, Kinney estimated, too many for the four of them to cover. Jonathan Craine could be anywhere inside by now.
; They reached a broad foyer floored with marble tiles, where the house opened up to three separate corridors. He checked his watch again. They had maybe three more minutes before they needed to get out. He looked at the brothers and pointed his muzzle toward the two corridors leading to the western end of the building. “Split up, one apiece.”
He nodded at Nelson to stay with him and the two separated from the others, moving down the wall toward the far end of the house.
Craine’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the garage. After a few moments he could make out the black sedan, the window open just enough that he could reach inside and unlock the driver’s door.
He could hear them going through the house, doors opening, kicked off their hinges. There were noises in several rooms at the same time, gunshots rattling from further down the hallway. He prayed they hadn’t reached Michael’s room.
Guided by the cracks of light spilling from the under the doorway, Craine took the Browning out from under the car seat and held it tight to his chest. He checked for the magazine clip. Gone. He scrambled around in the dark for the clip, his fingers searching around under the driver’s seat.
The sounds were getting louder. He could hear the footsteps approaching down the corridor. Whoever it was couldn’t have been any more than twenty or so feet away. He reached further into the darkness of the car, his shirt fluttering at his chest. He wondered if he’d even feel it if he got shot; would it be the muzzle flash, then blackness? Whiteness, maybe; gates and angels he’d never really thought of or believed in.
Two dark shadows under the doorframe. They were at the door now, probably listening like he was. Where was that goddamn clip?
At last Craine felt metal under the car seat. He pulled the magazine out and pushed his index finger against the top to check the rounds were front-facing. Satisfied, he thrust the clip into the butt and racked back the slide. Then, in the same movement, Craine threw himself onto his stomach, pressed his thumb on the hammer and pulled it back until he heard it click twice.