The Edge of Reason

by Melinda Snodgrass

  … Use this to hurt me?

  Only if you let him.

  Richard slowly raised his head and studied his features in the mirror. What looked back out of his pale blue eyes was no longer fear. It was anger.

  When he reentered the office the men had fallen back on the usual shield for grief, emotion and discomfort. They were talking business. Money was a good insulator.

  Richard paused and forced himself to take a long, long look at Sandringham. Four years had wrought few changes. The sleek brown hair held a few more streaks of silver but the narrow face remained smooth, with only crow’s feet radiating out from the tawny gold brown eyes. Sandringham had grown an Elizabethan-style beard and mustache and it suited him. He was still a very handsome man and he knew it. He sensed the close observation and looked over at Richard. He strolled slowly over.

  He gazed down. “You look well.” A hand started to raise.

  “Touch me and I will kill you,” Richard said in a low, conversational tone.

  Sandringham blinked, startled, and for an instant the hand hung in the air as if the older man hated to back down. But back down he did. The hand slowly lowered and brushed across the immaculately knotted Italian silk tie as if that had been his intention all along.

  “So, a policeman. Quite an eccentric choice. Not what your family had hoped for you.”

  “Yes, I no longer have any shame,” said Richard and he laid a slight emphasis on the final word.

  For an instant Richard thought that the evening had not made the indelible impression on Drew that it had upon him, and that Sandringham wouldn’t remember what he had said. Then the dark straight brows drew together and the tawny eyes narrowed. His expression hardened.

  “I’m very … concerned to hear that.”

  “You should be. I do hope you’ve mended your ways.”

  Sandringham stepped in even closer, crowding him, and said softly, “Don’t be fooled by the power of your little gun and shiny badge. You’ve got potent enemies, Richard. You want to keep me neutral.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” Richard said.

  “Just so we understand each other. I’d hate to see you hurt.”

  “Really? Forgive me if I find that laughable … .”

  Robert’s voice interrupted them. “It’s time,” the judge said curtly.

  They all filed into the church.

  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  The handful of half-frozen mud struck the lid of the coffin. Robert stood staring down into the grave while Richard bent and gathered up his handful. He allowed it to roll off his fingers, hating the hollow, rattling sound as it struck. Amelia and Pamela added their small offerings. David struggled to lean down out of his wheelchair. Richard gathered up a handful and gave it to his uncle. David threw it in and his lips moved. Richard couldn’t tell what he’d said.

  Their numbers were greatly reduced from the church. Brent and Mary had taken the children back to the house, and the cold and the morbidity of the cemetery had daunted most of the mourners. Only some thirty people sat on folding chairs at graveside. Hoffsteader, Bible in hand and looking like a large black buffalo in his curly wool overcoat, stood solemnly at one end of the grave. He offered the final benediction. It was finished.

  Richard turned away. David caught him by his sleeve. “You should sing. She loved your voice.”

  Richard had considered it during the long hours when he’d tried and failed to sleep. He wasn’t certain his father would approve, or if grief could be controlled enough to make a sound. Finally, what the hell would he sing? The religious repertory was closed to him now. Perhaps Kenntnis was right when he said that all music was born out of human genius, and therefore good no matter what the inspiration, but he couldn’t say those words of false hope over his mother’s grave. Richard was also afraid what it might summon. He would never forget that figure coming down off the cross. He looked over to Robert.

  The judge didn’t look at his brother-in-law or son. He continued to contemplate the grave, then suddenly he gave a sharp nod. This sign of encouragement surprised Richard. A Schubert song came to mind. Focusing, he found the opening note, drew in a long steady breath, and sang.

  I think of you when the sun’s shimmer

  gleams from the sea;

  I think of you when the moon’s glimmer

  is mirrored in the streams.

  I see you when dust rises

  on the distant road;

  at dead of night, when the traveller

  trembles on the narrow footbridge.

  I hear you when the waves

  surge with a dull roar;

  often I go and listen in the quiet wood

  when all is still.

  I am with you; however far away you are,

  you are near me!

  The sun sets, soon the stars will shine on me.

  O that you were here!

  As the final notes echoed into silence Richard found his father watching him. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Robert said ever so softly, “Thank you.”

  It seemed like all the people who had shunned the cemetery and even the funeral service came by the house that afternoon. The women carried covered dishes with some variety of casserole or platters of cookies, and even whole cakes. There was so much food that they’d added two extra leaves to the dining room table to accommodate it all. Brent had made a run to the store for more paper plates and hot beverage cups.

  Every room buzzed and rumbled with conversation. Overhead came the faint thunder of running feet as the seven kids romped up and down the length of the attic room. The hours passed. Richard assigned himself garbage detail. He kept making sweeps through the first floor of the house gathering up dirty plates, plastic utensils, crumpled napkins, cups filled with the dregs of coffee, tea or lemonade.

  It was a slow process because he kept being drawn into conversations, sometimes about his mother but more often about New Mexico and his career choice. His first voice teacher and her partner were especially distressed that he’d abandoned music.

  “Your voice just keeps getting better. What I heard today was lovely,” Jeanne said as she towered over him. At five feet ten inches, a hundred and eighty pounds, and equipped with a Wagnerian soprano’s bosom, she was an imposing figure.

  “I wasn’t going to be good enough,” Richard said.

  “Nonsense,” said Sandra. She was an older woman, Jeanne’s coach and accompanist and partner. “Tenors, like sopranos and fine wine, mature late.”

  “I’m really very happy with my choice,” he said, sliding past them and escaping into the kitchen. His cheeks hurt from the effort of smiling and talking. Dumping the trash, he pulled out a fresh sack. Amelia turned from the stove and pushed back her hair with a forearm.

  “I’ve boiled enough water to deliver several hundred babies,” she announced.

  Pamela looked up from the sink where she was washing dishes. “If I’d known this would happen, I would have hired a maid service.”

  “Can’t we just tell them all to leave?” Richard asked plaintively.

  “I thought we’d sit in the living room and receive,” Pamela said grumpily.

  The chimes from the doorbell came echoing down the hall. The siblings exchanged rueful looks. “I’ll get it,” Richard said.

  The woman on the front step was plump and smiling. Her belly and breast strained against a fox-trimmed tweed coat. It had obviously been bought a lot of poundage ago. Gray curls sprang out beneath her fur hat. She held a covered Pyrex casserole pan in her gloved hands.

  “You must be Richard. Your mother spoke about you so often and described you to a tee. I would know you anywhere.” She shoved the pan into his hands. “Alannis and I spent such a lot of time together after I moved here. I was afraid I couldn’t make friends with her so quickly, but she made it so easy.”

  She drew out the so, giving it a contemptuous twist, and that’s when Richard noticed that despite the pink cheeks and broad smile the woman�
��s eyes were cold blue and flint hard. She pushed past Richard and entered the house.

  “Poor Alannis, I think she probably loved you too much,” she said as she pulled off her coat and handed it to him. He juggled the pan from which rose the nauseating smell of tuna, cream of mushroom soup and potato chips. “It wasn’t hard for me to plant a few doubts, and then we’d discuss your actions over the years. Your behavior takes on a whole new light when viewed through the prism of new facts. She might have been neurotic, but she wasn’t stupid.”

  It wasn’t a call. Grenier had sent an emissary.

  “Get out,” Richard said through lips gone stiff with anger.

  “Wouldn’t dream of leaving yet. I want to offer my condolences to your sisters and I understand you have a darling little nephew.” Now an edge of fear gnawed, weakening Richard’s anger. “I won’t bother mentioning Robert. Alannis made it pretty clear the two of you didn’t get along.” She glanced back at Richard and gave him a coquettish smile, grotesque on that aging face. “And the way he controlled her life! Keeping the liquor cabinet locked, doling out a glass of wine a few times a week and refusing to allow her any sleep aids when the poor thing was so clearly suffering. I’m just glad I was able to help her find relief.”

  Rage exploded along every nerve ending yanking his muscles into a clench that set his bones to aching. Red narrowed Richard’s sight, cutting off all peripheral vision, leaving only her malicious, taunting face. The coat slid out of his hand onto the marble floor. Richard spun and launched the casserole. It smashed against the paneled wall, sending gobbits of tuna and limp potato chips sliding down the wood.

  “Whoops,” the woman said.

  Amelia and Pamela came hurrying down the hall, drawn by the explosion of breaking glass. Robert appeared in the living room archway.

  The woman stepped in close and whispered in Richard’s ear. “Mr. Grenier wanted me to offer you his personal condolences and remind you that you still have so much you could lose. He hopes that you’ll reconsider your position, and give him the item.”

  His family reached them. “What the devil?” Robert asked.

  “It must have slipped,” Richard said, in a flat, emotionless voice.

  His sisters and father looked from the wall to Richard and the four feet that separated them.

  “Mrs. Negary,” said Robert, “I want to offer my apologies. It’s been a long couple of days, and Richard has been under a great deal of … stress.”

  Negary patted the judge on the forearm. He moved out of touching range. “I completely understand,” she said. “Alannis told me a bit about the boy. How sensitive he is,” and her tone and the mobile quirk of her eyebrows conveyed her total sympathy and complete understanding of Robert’s burden.

  Robert indicated the door to the living room. “Please, let me get you something to drink.”

  Negary tucked her arm through his. “Tea would be lovely.”

  Pamela set her fists on her hips and glared at Richard. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I guess the thought of another tuna casserole just pushed me right over the edge,” Richard said.

  And Amelia giggled. Pamela glared at her, but couldn’t hold it. She began snorting with suppressed laughter. Richard forced a laugh, to share at least briefly in this moment of family solidarity, but the only emotion he truly felt was rage. It burned through him, but his mind was clear, diamond sharp and focused. A plan of action began falling into place like tumblers in a lock.

  Winter lay lightly on the Virginia countryside. Richard, driving a rented Impala, wound his way along the curves and over the hills, following the narrow blacktop road. This was the heart of hunt country and purebred horses with high dollar prices cropped at the still green grass. Behind white fences, brick mansions, set well back from the road, loomed.

  He had spent four days in Newport helping pack up his mother’s personal effects and laying the groundwork for what he had to do. When Richard had gone to the airport that morning his father thought he was returning to New Mexico. Robert had probably learned the truth by now.

  As the sun began to set, Christmas lights glowed in the trees surrounding many of the homes. No gauche Santas mounted on rooftops or wire and light deer raising and lowering their heads in robotic imitation of the grazing horses were to be seen. Money lived here, old money, and it had taste.

  Seven days until Christmas and Richard’s twenty-eighth birthday.

  The houses became fewer as he moved farther south and west. The sun was completely gone by the time he pulled up in front of the gates. They swooped and arched before him. Pinpoint spotlights on the gatehouse gave everything a dazzling glow. Golden plaques set in the stone supports to either side read World Wide Christian Alliance. The metal of the gates had been gilded with some material that made each alternating strut appear to be either gold or pearl.

  “Just in case anyone misses the symbolism,” Richard murmured aloud.

  No, he ordered himself. Don’t be flippant. You’ll blow it!

  A man dressed in a conservative suit emerged from the gatehouse. It might be civilian dress but his function was clear—guard.

  Richard rolled down the window. The man leaned in. He was young, midtwenties with a neck as wide as his head and burly shoulders bunching beneath the dark suit coat. Richard amended “guard” to “thug.”

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Detective Richard Oort, here to see Reverend Grenier.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Just one moment.”

  The man returned to the guard house. Through the window Richard could see him on the phone. He nodded and reached out to a control panel. The gates swung slowly open.

  Don’t let down your guard. There will be cameras. This is just the first hurdle.

  The guard was back. “Follow this road to the fork. Go left. The house is a couple of miles farther on.”

  “Thank you,” Richard said.

  There were a number of buildings dotted along the road. Some looked like offices, others like dormitories. Judging from the enormous satellite dishes, one was a broadcasting studio. Richard reached the fork. To the right the road ran straight up the hill and ended at an enormous white stone church. In front of it stood an even taller white stone cross.

  Richard spun the wheel, and sent the car up the left fork. He was driving through a mixed forest—evergreens and deciduous trees, denuded now for winter.

  It seemed like a long time before Richard saw the house. It was a rustic timbered building, but huge, two stories tall with long wings running back toward a granite cliff. Most of the windows were illuminated.

  A wide circular driveway brought him to the front doors. Richard parked. As he locked the door, shielded from the house by the bulk of the car, he gave himself the final instructions.

  Be angry, but a tentative anger. Unsure of what they might do next. Be afraid.

  As he climbed the stone steps he realized the last instruction no longer required acting. He was afraid. Deathly afraid.

  The doorbell played the opening chords of a hymn, so corny and so at odds with the elegant Grenier. Perhaps playing for the believing sheep? The heavy carved wood doors, inset with stained glass, opened slowly. A pretty young woman in a plaid skirt and black turtleneck sweater smiled in welcome. Soft brown hair swung in a page boy that just brushed her shoulders. She had an English complexion of cream and roses.

  “May I take your coat?” she asked. Richard handed over his overcoat. Shrugged to straighten the shoulders of his suit coat and shot his cuffs. “This way.” She indicated the direction with a sweep of her hand.

  The public rooms contained thick white carpet, blue velvet furniture and crystal chandeliers. The art was overly lush, overly large landscapes or religious pictures. Everything was very expensive, and tacky in the extreme.

  They left the main body of the house through a short hallway that ended at an ebony door. “Reverend Grenier sa
id to send you to his private quarters. Just go through there.” She indicated the door and gave him another smile. She turned and walked away.

  Richard stared at the polished black wood. Give me the strength. Once that would have been asked of God. Now it rested only on him, his strength, his spirit, his will.

  He opened the door and stepped through. Ahead, light spilled from an open doorway. A long runner, a carved Chinese rug, spread out before him. The art on the walls wasn’t to Kenntnis’s standards, but it was damn fine, tending toward American modern.

  The open door brought him into a living room. The furniture was eighteenth century or very fine reproductions. An enormous oriental rug in golds, blues and creams lay on a polished slate floor. There were mirrors, but all were opaque gray like the mirrors in the South Valley trailer.

  A fireplace dominated one wall. Built of river rocks with a granite mantelpiece, it looked large enough to roast an ox. Flames danced in the grate.

  Richard heard the door close behind him and whirled. Mark Grenier stood, his hand on the doorknob, watching Richard. The minister’s head was cocked to the side, a quizzical gesture. Grenier was dressed in a soft gray cardigan sweater over a striped dress shirt in shades of green, pink, blue, purple and yellow. Richard had a moment of both connection and dislocation. He was wearing the same shirt. Etro Milano, 360 dollars at Robert R. Bailey.

  “You are the most unexpected young man,” Grenier said. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Or have you reconsidered accepting my offer? Mrs. Negary didn’t seem hopeful after your meeting.”

  “How could you possibly think I would work for you after what you did?” Outrage shook in his voice. Richard paused for breath and dialed it down.

  “To avoid my doing it again,” Grenier said with soft menace. “You’ve just had a taste of what my power can accomplish.”

  “Yes, well, you’re not going to be able to do anything again because you’re going to be in jail!” His voice sounded absurdly young.