“She offered no details, but wrote that you had done things which would forever condemn you to Hell.” Robert walked toward Richard. “She thought, perhaps, she could buy your soul with her life.” Now only inches separated them.
Richard stared up into his father’s face, suffused with blood. Robert’s eyes were rimmed with red, and his expression as he looked down at his son carried anger and accusation as well as profound grief.
Not sleeplessness, tears. He’s wept for her! The fact that Robert blamed him didn’t matter. Richard knew he deserved it. What mattered was the realization—he had loved her.
Which gave him a perverse hope. Maybe someday he’ll …
The slamming of the front door reverberated dully down the hall. A deep baritone and a child’s piping voice wove through Amelia and Pamela’s sopranos. He never finished the thought.
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
The viewing was held at the Hollyburn funeral home. Robert drove Richard and Pamela over in the Land Rover while Amelia, Brent and Paul followed in the Mercedes. Inside the Land Rover it was a silent journey.
Paul clung to Amelia’s hand as they walked up to the white clapboard building. His voice tight with tension, he said, “Mama.” From Amelia the little boy had learned the Oort practice (or affectation, Richard thought) of pronouncing the word with the French stress on the final syllable. “I’m scared.” He was a sturdy youngster with chestnut brown hair and blue eyes. His features were his father’s, square rather than the aquiline angles of the Oorts.
Amelia put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Don’t be. It’s natural. Just a part of life. Grandmama won’t be scary. She’s just sleeping until the resurrection.”
Brent leaned down from his six feet and muttered into Richard’s ear, “I don’t know why we have to put a kid through this. Christ, he’s just eight.”
“Because we’re Oorts. Neither age nor infirmity are excuses for not doing our duty,” Richard muttered back, and ahead of him he watched his father’s back stiffen as he overheard them.
“Yeah, well I’m a van Gelder and Paul’s my son.”
“So take him home,” Richard shot back, suddenly irritated by Brent’s carping when he wasn’t willing to act.
“Yeah, right,” said Brent, gazing at the judge as the older man held open the front door.
The lobby swirled with color and sound. The women wore saris, the men suits, and a few of them sported turbans. The liquid sounds of some Indian language wove through the occasional sob. On the other side of the long, narrow rectangular room were five doorways. Three stood open, yawning emptily and showing only floral wallpaper and paint in soothing green and rose colors. Outside the two closed doors were discrete placards. A steady stream of mourners moved through the right-hand door. Richard walked to the left-hand door.
Amelia laid a hand on Pamela’s and Robert’s arms, and held them back. They got it, and froze. Brent took Paul over to a bench against the far wall and they sat down together.
The floral edging around the card framed her name—ALANNIS OORT. Richard drew in a long breath, laid his hand on the door handle. With an effort he pressed it down. The door opened with a soft click and he entered, closing the door behind him.
Competing scents struck his nostrils. The sweetness of roses, the heavy sex scent of gardenias, the spicy tang of Easter lilies, and the delicate whisper of lily of the valley. It was either a testament to his mother’s popularity or his father’s clout; the room had become a garden. Wreaths curved around the coffin and there were more between the armchairs and sofa on the side wall.
The coffin rested on trestles draped with white satin. It was a heavy mahogany and brass affair. Richard walked to it and looked down on the face of his mother. She seemed very tiny within the coffin’s bulk.
White gold hair flowed over her shoulders. Robert had selected a smoke gray dress that would have matched her eyes. A delicate silver cross lay on her breast just above her folded hands. The gold wedding band glinted on her hand. The tiniest of smiles curved her lipsticked mouth. For an instant Richard remembered the back room of the funeral home in Denver and those rows of brilliant fluorescent colors. A shivering began deep in his belly. She would have been fifty-three in May.
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the coffin. “Mama, I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Her skin was unexpectedly pliant, but so terribly cold beneath his fingers as he touched her cheek. Richard bent and softly kissed her brow. Eyes burning, he spun away and paced the room. No tears. No tears. Pulling out his handkerchief, he blew his nose. He returned to the coffin.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should have come. But why didn’t you call me on my cell? Why didn’t you come to me with your fears? Asked me if whatever it was they told you was true?” Richard realized his love for his mother was twined with a raging anger at her. The legacy of suicide.
Shocked by his anger, he turned it against another target. The cross. Reaching out, Richard scooped it up into his palm. The points bit into his skin as he closed his hand around it.
He spun the chain until the clasp showed and went to unfasten it. Then he thought of his family’s reaction and hesitated. He must either confess his action, which would require impossible explanations, or see Pamela and Robert accuse the staff of theft.
And Kenntnis had created a loving, merciful god. That was certainly the god his mother had revered and served with countless acts of kindness and generosity. She was one of the millions who gave strength and physical form to Cross. Richard laid the cross back on her bosom.
And found that his anger at the beautiful, selfish, delicate, hysterical, charming, heedless, loving person had vanished. Richard no longer prayed, but he pulled a chair over to the coffin, sat down and talked to her. About how much he loved being a policeman. How good he was at it.
“And I learned something during the past few years. I’m not weak, and you weren’t weak either. It might not have been rational, or make any logical sense, but you died trying to protect me. How many people actually have the guts to do that?”
He stood, leaned down and kissed her one last time.
Then it was time for the public face of mourning. He opened the door and the family took their positions. The afternoon wore on in a blur of faces, murmurs of condolence, firm handshakes, reminiscences and a few, very few, tasteful, quiet tears. In his work Richard saw a lot of grief. Among the Hispanic families there were loud and passionate lamentations. He frankly preferred that to his own WASP culture. Violent or sudden death deserved to be railed against.
He was trapped in an exchange of platitudes with Mrs. Vanowen. Hearing about Cindy’s (they had dated his senior year) new venture in New York.
“She’s not married yet, either,” Mrs. Vanowen said with a suggestive little smile. “Maybe she can get up for a visit while you’re still home.”
A sharp and constant vibration in his inner breast pocket distracted him. Richard held up a finger to stem the flow of hopeful innuendo and hurried out into the lobby. He answered the phone.
“Okay, this is too weird,” came Jennifer Salisbury’s voice. “And I knew you’d want to know.”
“This isn’t a great time,” Richard said in a low voice and looked anxiously over his shoulder toward the viewing room.
“It’s about Andresson,” Salisbury said.
“Okay, go ahead, but make it fast.”
“I contacted the authorities in Amarillo to tell them our felony murder and assault on a police officer trumped their burglary, and found out he had been released to some faith-based initiative that rehabs newly released cons and places them back in society. I pointed out that Andresson hadn’t even been tried for the crimes in New Mexico yet.”
“But they are going to pick him up, right?” Richard asked and heard his voice rising.
“No, because he’s not in Texas anymore.”
“He was on parole in Texas. That’s a violation,” Richard said.
“Yeah, and so was coming to New Mexico. The difference is he’s in a church program now, and nobody wants to expend money and resources for a parole violation when the guy is, in essence, under supervision.”
“What churches are associated with this initiative?” Richard asked, knowing the answer but needing the proof.
“It’s funded by the World Wide Christian Alliance, and the Amarillo authorities thought he’d gone to their compound in Virginia.
Blind rage can narrow your sight. Richard jumped when a hand fell onto his shoulder. He had neither seen nor heard Robert approaching.
“What the devil are you doing?” the judge hissed in his ear.
“Hold on,” Richard said into the phone, and faced his father. “It’s work. A case. I won’t be long.”
“No, you won’t because you are done! This is both rude and disrespectful.”
“Thank you, sir, your objection is noted. Now let me do my job,” Richard said quietly and inwardly he was amazed at how firm and level his voice remained. Robert stared down at him, his expression both frustrated and quizzical. Then he spun on his heel and reentered the viewing room.
Richard returned to the call. “Sorry. Could you please contact Virginia and see if they can do anything?”
“Yeah, okay, this sort of gets my goat too,” said the lawyer. “Should I not call back?”
“No, call. I’ll have my phone off tomorrow morning. The service …” He coughed. “The service is in the morning.”
“Service?” Salisbury asked, and he realized that like all people in a tragedy he’d assumed that the entire world knew of his particular and personal pain.
“Just avoid the morning,” Richard said quickly.
“I’ll try to get back to you this evening,” she promised.
He returned to the chapel to glares from his father and siblings and another reminiscence about his mother.
“Can he die?” Rhiana asked as Kenntnis held the back door of the building open. She carried a tray stacked high with dirty dishes.
Kenntnis glanced back at the packing crate. “Yes, but not from this. This just weakens him and renders him useless to us. Fortunately humans occasionally disgust even themselves and ratchet down the level of violence. He’ll have a chance to recover then.”
He took the tray from her and they rode up in the elevator to the penthouse. “I admit it makes me feel more than a little vulnerable,” Kenntnis said, and some of that supreme certainty that defined his personality was missing. He seemed depressed and even worried.
Rhiana followed him into the kitchen, perched on a stool at the center island, and watched as he loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. He looked up and gave her a smile. “I’m very glad you’re back.”
He moved to the enormous sub-zero refrigerator and pulled out the leftover tiramisu from last night’s dinner. He indicated the dessert, then Rhiana, and lifted his brows in inquiry. She shook her head. He cut off a slab for himself.
“So did you enjoy Venice and your young man?” he asked.
Rhiana flushed, angry to discover that what Madoc had told her was true. But she suppressed it, saying, “You’re not mad that I lied to you?”
“You’re eighteen and shacking up, and whether I like it or not I probably give off that ‘daddy’ vibe so of course you lied to me even though I really don’t care.” He walked over to the breakfast nook in its glass bay and sat down.
She stared a him while he ate. Cross hated her. Richard rejected her. Kenntnis used her, dared to equate himself with her father with one breath, and tell her he didn’t give a damn about her with another. She owed them nothing.
She considered Madoc’s last words to her. “Take a hard look at Kenntnis. Beyond the physical.” But what did that mean? Rhiana remembered another bit of advice from Madoc. “Think of what you know of physics and combine it with your magic.”
Rhiana looked up at the lighting on its glass track curving across the ceiling. She watched the waves undulate. She blinked and the kitchen became a place of stark angled shapes in black while the light became flashing particles that caused the room to strobe. She held out her hand palm up and felt the prickle of the light. There was an explosion of light to her left. The edges of her vision went red. Rhiana narrowed her eyes and looked to where Kenntnis sat.
Nothing human sat at the table. It wasn’t like the writhing and coiling forms from the other universes. This was a whirling dervish of diamond-bright particles. They danced, while around them tendrils of light coiled up like a golden mist. It was breathtaking. Unfathomable. Beautiful. Alien.
The snow blew out overnight, leaving a cold, white day. Richard had been relieved that Reverend Hoffsteader had agreed to a church service. Richard’s memories of Hoffsteader’s sermons were that they tended toward fire and brimstone. That he would consent to bury a suicide seemed out of character, but apparently he bowed to the modern church’s creative dodges around the suicide problem; arguing that people weren’t in their right minds, or the suicide was an act in defense of another. In this case it had actually been true, though the reverend didn’t know that.
Milling about on the sidewalk in front of the plain white clapboard church with its clear glass windows and single high steeple, Paul and his eldest Claasen cousin, Steve, kept punching each other. They looked absurd and adorable in their grown-up suits and little boy faces, even as their antics irritated the hell out of the adults. Mary, her unruly red curls inexpertly confined by a barrette, wrestled with the four younger children while the limo driver pulled David’s wheelchair out of the trunk.
Inside the entryway, the women, with children in tow, headed into the church to make certain the programs were in place and the flowers arranged to their satisfaction. The men went down the hall to Hoffsteader’s office. While David couldn’t assist in carrying the coffin he insisted on accompanying it, in tones that indicated he expected a fight and was disappointed when he didn’t get one.
The study was book-lined and terribly overheated. Hoffsteader, a pink-faced fat man with light brown hair pulled across his bald spot, came bearing down on Richard.
“Richard.” His palm was pillow soft as they shook hands. The minister’s eyes raked up and down the length of Richard’s body. Richard stiffened, wondering at the scrutiny, and suddenly worried that the dark purple shirt he’d selected was too colorful for good old-fashioned Protestant mourning.
“I didn’t remember you were so short.” That certainly seemed in character. Hoffsteader’s lack of tact was well known to his parishioners. “I had thought it might be nice if you all carried the coffin on your shoulders rather than the handles, but that’s not going to work.”
“No,” Richard said shortly.
He had made peace with his lack of inches years ago, but he didn’t particularly like having his nose rubbed in it. Two of the pallbearers, friends of his father’s, were already present. The next few moments were taken up by greetings and questions.
“New Mexico, not much sailing there,” from Berksen.
“How do you find police work?” from Judge Martin.
“I hear they have an opera there. Supposed to be pretty good too,” Berksen added. “Have you been?”
The questions came at Richard from all sides. He tried to answer without sounding idiotic. “No, sir. Yes, I go, and they are very good, sir. I like it very much, sir.” The social platitudes felt surreal when his mother’s body rested only a few hundred feet away.
“Aren’t there going to be seven of you including Alannis’s brother?” Richard heard Hoffsteader asking Robert.
“Oscar called early this morning. He’s quite ill. I have a replacement,” Robert added. “I’m certain he’ll be here shortly.”
The judge walked away and stood gazing out the window at the snow-covered vines snaking across a grape arbor that ran along the side of the building. It looked skeletal, the thick gnarled vines like bony fingers clutching at the rib cage of some dead behemoth.
Hoffstea
der glanced at his watch as if death had a timetable that had to be met, and beckoned them over to him with a gathering gesture of his short arms. “So, we conclude with the Lord’s Prayer. When that’s finished you’ll all come up and take the coffin straight down the aisle and out to the hearse.”
Behind him Richard heard the door to the office open and close. The musky, exotic scent of Kouros hit Richard’s nostrils and his gut clenched in a sudden spasm of nausea even before he heard the drawling, cultured voice.
“Robert, a thousand, thousand apologies. There was an accident on I-95.”
Heat raced through Richard’s body followed by a chill so deep and profound that his teeth began to chatter. His knees trembled and he seemed to have gone empty to his core. Run, run, run! a voice screamed in the recesses of his mind.
“Richard, dear boy.”
Richard turned slowly and prepared to look into the face of his attacker, but Drew Sandringham had moved on, and gathered Robert’s hands in his.
“Robert, I am so very sorry. I was shocked when you called with the news and I’m honored to serve as a pallbearer.”
“Excuse me,” Richard murmured and fled the office.
The bathroom was just down the hall. Richard slipped inside, locked the door and leaned back against it. Breaths hissed between his teeth but he still felt as if he were suffocating. Stupid, he’d been so stupid. Of course Sandringham was going to attend the funeral. Why hadn’t he foreseen that and prepared himself?
Because I didn’t think he’d have the gall.
Moving to the sink, he splashed cold water over his face. It dripped off his hair where his forelock had fallen forward out of its careful part. He watched the silver drops and remembered watching the blood pattering from his badly bitten lip onto the polished inlaid wood floor of the dining room. Competing voices wove through his mind.
Pretty isn’t he?
… Face the monsters.
Evil and untrustworthy hands.
Shame is a powerful silencer.
He betrayed you. … His shame, not yours.
The Edge of Reason Page 29