According to Their Deeds
Page 25
“If you ever get any, I might, except you’d be old as I am.”
“And you’ll be wiser by decades then, so I’ll never catch up. I won’t even try.”
“You’re thirty years behind, Charles.”
“Thirty years doesn’t seem that long any more. So what can I do for you, Jacob?”
“I want to know if you found out anything about your Homer.”
“I did. Good, and bad, and then strange.”
“Strange? Tell me, Charles.”
“I had Morgan track Victoria’s schoolbooks through to possibly a 1925 Sotheby’s auction.”
“That’s the good.”
“Yes. Then Sotheby’s was a brick wall. They wouldn’t say a thing?”
“Not anything?”
“Nothing. No confirmation, no information, nothing.”
“They should at least have told you something,” Jacob said. “Is that the strange part?”
“No, that’s the bad, because the strange is much stranger. This morning I had a call from a Mr. Smith. He was English.”
“English?” There was an odd cackling sound. “English? Smith? Sounds like you might have caught a big fish there, Charles.”
“Well, I wonder. What do you think? It must have been Sotheby’s that alerted him. No one else would know I had it, besides the seller in Denver.”
“But somebody’s big enough to hush Sotheby’s, and we both know who that would be.”
“Yes, someone who’d be very interested in a book of Queen Victoria’s,” Charles said.
“Then I think what you think. What did this Mr. Smith say, then?”
“He will meet me in New York on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday? When will you leave?”
“That afternoon. The appointment is for nine in the evening.”
“Then I’ll come in the morning.”
“You’ll come, Jacob?! Here?”
“How else am I going to see it before it’s gone?”
“But you were just here two weeks ago.”
“Then I’ll come again. I want to see a book that Victoria studied Homer from.”
“You are always welcome. Will you need a place to stay? Do you know when you’d arrive?”
“I’ll have my girl here do all that. Maybe I’ll take that overnight airplane.”
“The red-eye? It’ll kill you, Jacob.”
“Something has to. I’ll be there Wednesday morning.”
“Then I’ll be here. I have a meeting early Wednesday, but after that I’ll be very glad to see you. Have a good flight, Jacob.”
“No such thing.”
AFTERNOON
“Jacob Leatherman wants to see the Odyssey. He’s flying out.”
“Just to see the book?”
“Just to see it. He’ll be here Wednesday morning. I suppose Angelo’s hearing won’t take long.”
“Did you have any peace in the basement?”
“A little. I’m still not sure what to write for the judge.”
“Hey, boss.”
Charles and Dorothy turned in unison toward the door.
“You’re back,” Charles said. “How did it go?”
“Do you still want that lady?”
“From the auction? Yes, of course.”
“She is at that place I went.”
“You mean, you saw her? Today?”
“She is at that place.”
“What place?”
“It is this one.” He handed the list to Charles, and pointed.
“Tyson Estate Agents. Tell me about it.”
“I went to that place and I went into it and I said I was there to pick up their package and I said a lady called. And that lady comes out and says she never called for a package, and so I left.”
Angelo finished and waited.
“What is this place like? Is it in an office building?”
“No, it is just a building and it has the office rooms in front and a warehouse building.”
“I see. That would be for storage?”
“That building is to store things in.”
“Well. Good for you, Angelo. That’s very good.”
“Do you want me to go to any more places?”
“No. That’s enough. Tell me, Angelo, did you understand everything at the meeting this morning?”
“That lady, she’s a boss over everybody?”
“She is an important person, but Judge Woody is the most important person for you. We’ll go see him Wednesday morning.” Charles glanced at Dorothy. “Sit down, Angelo.”
He sat, as wary and taut as he always stood.
“At this meeting on Wednesday, the judge will decide whether to keep you on probation or not.”
“I will go to jail?”
“No,” Dorothy said, quickly. “No. Nothing will make you go to jail.
The judge will be deciding if he will end the probation completely.”
“You would be free,” Charles said. “No probation, no jail. It would all be over.”
“The probation is three years,” Angelo said. He was paying very close attention, his face suspicious but still impassive.
“Congresswoman Liu thinks it has been long enough. She has asked the judge to cancel the rest of it.”
“Why does she do that?”
“I don’t exactly know,” Charles said.
“But Angelo,” Dorothy said, “what do you think of being off probation?”
“There is no jail?”
“There is no jail,” she said. “Either nothing will change or the judge will just end the probation.”
“Will the judge do this?”
“We don’t know,” Charles said. “He’ll decide Wednesday morning. We’re asking what you think about it.”
Angelo didn’t think. “That judge, he will think and he will decide.” He stood. “Do you want anything else?”
“No. That’s all.”
When he had silently disappeared, Dorothy said, “You didn’t tell him that we would tell the judge our opinion.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“We shouldn’t write a statement? But we need to.”
“No, we shouldn’t tell our opinion. We should just be objective. That judge, he will think and he will decide.”
“But he might let Angelo go completely.”
“He is a judge. And I am afraid of my own judgment. We’ll work on it tonight at home.”
EVENING
“Have we sold anything this evening?” Charles asked. Alice and Morgan were closing the shop.
“A few things,” she said.
“What was the last one?”
“A Dumas. The Count of Monte Christo.”
“Of course,” Charles said. “The man who finally escapes from prison and revenges himself on the person who put him there.”
“And gets rich, too,” Alice said.
“Very rich, yes. And here is Dorothy. Good night, everyone.”
“What should we say?” Dorothy said. They were sitting at the dining room table, her pen poised above the paper.
“What should we say?” Charles answered. “Dear Judge.”
After a few seconds, “Yes?”
“I started,” Charles said. “You go next.”
“Dear Judge,” she said. “Comma.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“What do we want to say?”
“Let’s look at the options,” Charles said. “Dear Judge, Angelo is a changed man and a model citizen. We feel that society will be completely safe with him at large. There is nothing more that we can do for him.
Please let him go.”
“Next option.”
“Next option . . . Dear Judge, Angelo has been well behaved, but we don’t know what’s going on inside his head, and it’s rather frightening. We think he should remain under probation.”
“That’s too far in the other direction,” she sighed. “What do we think? What would be the best thing for Angelo?”
“We asked for this responsibility.”
“We didn’t ask to judge him, just to supervise him.”
“It all goes together,” Dorothy said. She sighed. “I think everything should just stay the same. He could have been in prison. How much mercy should he receive?”
“There is no end to mercy.”
Above the roofs there was no end to the dark.
“What is the best for Angelo?” Dorothy said again.
“Dorothy,” Charles said, slowly, his eyes still on the dark. “I am not God. I don’t know. How can I know?”
“I didn’t say you were God,” she said. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m sorry. I was talking to myself.” His eyes were on the black night. “Why did Karen Liu intervene? If we hadn’t found Derek’s papers, we would never have met her.”
“It just happened, dear.”
“What would we do if he were our son?”
“Charles?” She watched him closely, as he still watched out the window. “I can take care of this. I’ll just say that everything has been fine so far, we hope it won’t change, but we don’t want to push one way or the other.”
Charles wiped his forehead and his hand was covered with sweat from it. “That’s fine. That’s what’s best.”
“You seem distracted this afternoon, Derek.”
“A situation at the office, Charles. Somewhat out of control.”
“Is it serious?”
“More than it should have been. I might have overplayed my hand.”
“You often use game metaphors when you talk about your work, Derek.”
“Everything is a game. Everyone is an opponent.”
“I hope I’m not.”
“Only in chess, Charles.”
“I wouldn’t want to play against you in anything more important, Derek.”
“You would be a worthy adversary. But I have more than enough to worry about as it is.”
“You have a very different view of life than I do, Derek. I see human interactions as generally cooperative.”
“Then here’s a game, Charles. Your view of life, or mine? Which would win?”
“Mine doesn’t find value in winning. We could say, Which accomplishes the greatest good, yours or mine?”
“Mine doesn’t find value in the greater good. We need an intersection, Charles, where our views cross.”
“Personal contentment?”
“Personal success.”
“Perhaps, Derek, the winner will be whichever of us believes he is winning.”
“And how do we play, Charles?”
“Just living our lives, Derek.”
“More than that. Let me think, Charles. Perhaps I’ll find the proper game board for our game of lives.”
“And if I don’t want to play?”
“That’s part of my side of the game, to set you to.”
TUESDAY
MORNING
Storms rode the fast wind and in the wind rode everything that wasn’t held fast. Loose clothing whipped around solid limbs, including Charles’s jacket and the sleeves and legs of Patrick White’s dark suit, standing on the front steps of the shop.
“Mr. White!” Charles’s voice was whipped by the wind, too. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk,” Mr. White said. He had no smile.
“Just a moment, and I’ll open the door.”
He turned the key and stepped into the abrupt tranquility. He turned the lights on and the alarm off. Mr. White turned the tranquility off.
“I’ve come to warn you,” he said. He was in the center of the room, an emotional whirlwind. Every volume on the shelves was watching him.
“About what?” Charles said, trying to get some of the attention for himself.
“Borchard. He’s getting ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“His next murder.”
The doorknob rattled.
Patrick White spun to face it. His back was now toward the counter, but Charles could still tell what his expression was because it was mirrored in Alice’s face as she opened the door. There was a brief motionless moment, and then the wind hurled Alice over the threshold and almost into Mr. White’s arms.
“Good morning, Alice,” Charles said at his calmest.
Her keel evened, and she managed to get around the visitor and to safety behind the counter. “Good morning, Mr. Beale.”
Charles had stepped forward and faced the bloodshot eyes of the storm.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said at his even calmer calmest.
The books in the basement noticed Patrick White, but they were less impressionable. They knew human nature; they took his measure and then returned to their own business.
“Mr. White. Please, sit down.”
The judge took his seat at the bench, and Charles slid around to his own chair behind the dock.
“Now,” Charles said. “I will be candid. You’ve come four times now to rail against John Borchard. I want you to understand that I don’t know if anything you’ve said is true. These accusations are very serious and you could get in trouble for making them. I also don’t know why you’re making them to me.”
But Mr. White was gone, his jaw slack, and his blank eyes staring far away. Charles turned toward where he was looking, but the view was hidden.
He chose not to wait for the return. “Mr. White?”
“It’s you.”
Charles lost focus himself for a moment. “What?”
“He’s going to kill you.” Then the stare was on him full and ferocious. Charles’s was still foggy.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Believe it or die. You’ll die if you don’t believe it.”
“I still don’t.”
“Then it won’t be my fault.” He shuddered in frustration. “I’ve done everything I can. I’m trying to save your life.”
Charles wavered. “Why would he want to kill anyone?”
“He’s mad.”
Charles tried wavering in a different direction. “What makes you think he would want to do anything to me?”
“He’s building a bomb.”
Even the books were now paying attention again.
“How do you know?” Charles asked.
“I’ve seen him.”
“You’ve seen John Borchard build a bomb?”
“Yes. I’ve been watching him. Look at this.”
He opened his suit jacket and withdrew two folded sheets of paper. All eyes were on them as he flattened them out on the desk.
Each was a photograph of a book, the same book on the same dark, heavily grained wood surface, with the corner of a brass penholder. The book was closed in one picture and open in the other. The closed book was a browned and aged antique, identical to many in the room watching them.
“The Kant,” Charles said.
“He can!” Patrick White said. “He is! See?”
The open book showed the yellowed pages cut, not in a rectangle as the Locke had been, but in a rounded, irregular shape. Exactly fitted inside was a black device, with one red and one gray button. The pictures were enlarged and grainy but still clear enough.
“Where did you get these?”
“I took them,” Mr. White said, smirking. “Now you believe me?”
“I don’t understand what they mean.”
“He’s making a bomb. What else could it be?”
“It can’t be.” Charles was still reacting slowly.
“And who else would it be for? An antique book! It’s for you!”
“Where did he get it?” Charles was speaking to himself. Patrick Henry White answered for him.
“It’s what he’s going to do with it that matters. But we can stop him. I couldn’t
stop him before. This time I will.”
“Wait,” Charles said. “Let me think.”
For once Mr. White was the one left behind. Charles stared at the pictures.
“What are you going to do?” he asked finally.
“I’m going to stop him.”
“How?”
Suddenly, Patrick White stood. He took the papers from the desk and stuffed them away.
“Where are you going?” Charles said.
“I see what you’re doing,” Mr. White said. “He’s got you. Hasn’t he? If I tell you anything, you’ll go to him. He has you in his control.”
“But . . .” Charles shook his head. “If I’m on his side, why would he want to kill me?”
But Mr. White was beyond answering. “It’s all too late, anyway. He has everyone else on his side. Everyone else but one.”
“Who? Karen Liu?”
“Borchard has her, too.” Then he was on the stairs, and Charles hurried after him. He caught up halfway across the showroom. Alice shrank back into a corner behind the counter.
“Wait,” Charles said.
Patrick White stopped. “What?”
“You have no right.”
“No right? For what?”
“To do anything to John Borchard.”
“After what he’s done to me? Who else will?”
“You are destroying yourself, Mr. White.”
“I’m already destroyed.”
Before Charles could answer, he threw the door open and let himself out. But the door didn’t slam shut behind him. A customer was coming in, an older woman, in high heels and cashmere sweater and blue jeans. She shut the door softly and smiled sweetly.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but would you have any Greek tragedies?”
“Alice said you were in the basement with someone,” Dorothy said. She looked at him more closely. “And you look rather white.”
“It’s a Patrick White-white.”
“He was here again?”
“Very much. I’m worried, Dorothy. I think he’s going to do something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it serious, Charles?”
“I hope not.”
“What did he say?”
Charles took a slow and deep breath. For a moment he was seeing something far beyond the room, and then he was seeing only Dorothy.
“Nothing specific. Dear, I’ll be out for the rest of the morning. I’m going to talk to John Borchard.”