Perish the Day

by John Farrow

  The four men remain seated in a circle, and for a full two minutes, no one utters a word. The silence seems to fill the space with a sense of grief mixed with jubilation, by some, and by a joy that now bleeds into an agony for one among them.

  “And the second guy? You’d already shot him. He was lying in plastic in the trunk of your rental,” Cinq-Mars says.

  He rises. He leans over Havilland-Clegg, placing his hands on the armrests on both sides of him. He has not commonly given suspects a verbal comeuppance. This time is different, a privilege of his retirement, perhaps. He’s no longer governed by any professional code of conduct, or by a superior’s guiding hand. He’s wanted to give many criminals a talking-to in his day. Now’s his chance.

  “What was the problem with you, Benji?” he taunts him, his voice a notch above a whisper.

  They’re nose to nose.

  “Tired of blow-up dolls?”

  “You turd,” the killer talks back.

  “Move too much, did they? Squiggled around? Bounced?”

  “Get away from me.”

  “Was it like they were breathing? The way they moved? Was that getting to be too much for you? Too much like the real thing?”

  “Get off me. You’re an imbecile. You’ll never know what we— What we had.”

  “What were you going to say? What you what?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What you what? Say it!”

  Havilland-Clegg thinks it over, then speaks calmly, even thoughtfully. “What we shared. All right? What do you know?”

  “Oh, I’m missing out, am I? Go ahead. Tell me what you shared with a dead girl.”

  Havilland-Clegg looks away, agitated again, set to strike.

  “She was dead, Benji. Don’t you get that yet? Your great passion was for death. You were mated with death. A real woman? Life? For you? Impossible. What was it, an effect of the cancer, couldn’t make it anymore with a blow-up doll? They weren’t perfect enough for you anymore? I’m curious. Do you own a blow-up harem? Keep them in a closet? Or under your bed? Is that it? Did you pay girls to do it with you without moving? They’d always make a sound? Or breathe? You got greedier, wanted the more perfect doll.”

  “Shut up with that.”

  “Why?”

  “Shut up with that!”

  “Tell me what it was. What did you share?”

  “You’ll never know. You’re not the least bit worthy to know like that. You’ll be ignorant forever, like the rest of the world.”

  “Too much bounce in your blow-up dolls? For that, a girl had to die.”

  “Up yours. Or is that too parochial a phrase for you?”

  “Go ahead. Tell us what you shared raping a dead girl.”

  “SHUT UP!” Havilland-Clegg is on his feet, knocking the taller man back a step.

  “What’s the matter, Ben? Put off by the word? Rape? You rape the dead. That’s your thing. Do you honestly think it was something else?”

  “You don’t know fuck-all! I saved that girl!”

  “Oh! You saved her?”

  “I rescued her! I saved her from this fucking world! You’ll never know what ecstasy is! You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re not capable. You’ll never know what we shared!”

  “Tell me. I’m all ears.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Tell me!” he yells. “Now! What was great? What did you share?”

  “I said fuck you!”

  “TELL ME!”

  “Rapture!” He holds his gaze and his smirk returns. “Go ahead. Laugh. Imbecile. You’ll never know the meaning of the word. Few ever will. We shared rapture. What do you know anyway? About anything real.”

  Cinq-Mars shakes his head slightly. “No, Benji. She was dead. She never knew you were there. She shared nothing, absolutely nothing with you. Not even a word. You had more communication with your blow-up dolls. Though I’m glad to hear—rapture, huh?—that you’re religious, too.” Cinq-Mars lowers his voice. “Did you get that?” he asks, but he’s no longer talking to Havilland-Clegg, and the man looks around, confused.

  Coming to his feet, Chief Till shows off his mobile device. “Thanks for sharing,” he says.

  “Abuse of a corpse, Benji,” Cinq-Mars tells him. “That was your escape hatch. Problem is, that hatch won’t stay open. We have video of you showing up to kill that man in the woods and now we have your recorded confession on the other charges. To top it off, we’re just beginning to collect evidence. Yet, you still don’t believe in God? You must. Rapture? Seriously? Come on.”

  Captain Hammond is the last to rise. He’ll be professional now, and resorts to being polite. “Mr. Bennington Havilland-Clegg, turn around, please, sir. You will cross your hands behind your back.”

  The man looks at him, glares at Cinq-Mars, then numbly complies.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Fair-weather clouds sail effortlessly across a bright azure sky, intermittently casting a welcomed shade upon the cemetery. This is a day for funerals. Sandra Cinq-Mars has buried her mother, and later a memorial service will be held on campus for Addie Langford, although her body is to be returned to Michigan. Malory Earle will be eulogized and buried across the river in White River Junction. Rumor has it that a jazz band will perform. Partly for that reason, a diverse group of people are planning to attend. She had many friends. Professor Toomey’s body has been claimed, although no one can say by whom. Neither a service nor a burial has been arranged for him in New Hampshire. His nearest relative, who did not claim the body, is a distant cousin who suggested to one of Special Agent Hartopp’s agents that perhaps he should be buried with his lover in Vermont. That hasn’t been worked out with Malory Earle’s family as yet. The bodies of the two dead thugs have undergone autopsies and, unlike the others, await the claim of a relative, a friend, or an associate. If none comes forward, they will be interred without ceremony at the state’s expense.

  Sandra and Émile catch a moment alone. Upon departing the house in the morning they’ve stuck close to each other, yet private moments are rare. He stretches an arm over her shoulder to give her a hug, for about the twentieth time.

  “You okay?”

  She seems distant. “Sure. Not having Mom at the other end of a phone line seems strange. Still unreal, I guess. Too real. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Takes time.”

  “I was thinking … in an odd way, I finally feel like an adult, and also like a kid again. You know? Like a little girl who’s missing her mom. This is hard, Émile. It’s not sad, it’s time. Still, I’m sad anyway. This is hard. I suppose it helps to know that my grief is nothing compared to what Addie’s poor parents are going through.”

  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars says.

  “You don’t agree?”

  He has to work through what he’s feeling himself. “I do agree. Of course. But … this isn’t about them, is it? It’s about you. Your grief is perfectly natural, understandable, also it’s yours. You have to go through it. I don’t want you to slough it off now because someone is suffering more, only to find it working through you in a different way later on. That won’t be good. Someone is always suffering more. You’re hurting. I know it sounds like a trite thing to say: You have a right to grieve. Along with death, that’s natural, too.”

  She nods. She understands.

  He shakes his head again.

  “What now?” Sandra asks.

  He stops shaking his head to emphasize his words with hand gestures. “Part of it is, you’re being stoic. While you are strong, you’re not naturally stoic. I’m worried about you, San. The other thing, a chunk of this falls on me. I don’t have the right to pontificate here. I haven’t given you the attention you’ve needed over the last few days. Truth be told, I’m feeling guilty about that.”

  “Émile, please.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’ve missed you, too. Look, we have our troubles. I’m not holding recent days against you. Okay? You were justified. I always knew you w
ere with me. Never doubted that. Besides, I had good sister-time. Niece-time, too. What I need you to understand is, under the circumstances, this will also sound trite, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  This time, their hug is mutual. He draws her shoulders toward him, she pulls his waist in close to her side.

  “What’ll we do?” she whispers, still holding him.

  “Stay together,” he suggests. His breath on her ear.

  “Okay,” she whispers, as simply as that, and it feels like a resolution, a new start. “Where?”

  “I like it here,” he admits. “The mountains. The rivers. The fishing. The hiking. The fields. I enjoy the towns. Some of the people.”

  “Only some?”

  “Oh, sweetie, with me, that’s the way it is. Staying here doesn’t have to mean your mom’s house. A farm is a lot to take on, as we know. There are other properties. We can look around. Take our time with that.”

  “Or go home?” she suggests.

  He’s a bit startled, and pulls back to look more closely at her. “To Quebec?”

  “Don’t sound surprised. It’s been my home for a while, too. We don’t have to stay on the farm. We can look around there. Like you said. We can take our time.”

  He touches her neck right below her left ear as he gazes at her. “But stay together?” He wants to hear her confirmation repeated.

  She knows he’s asking for what is large, definitive, and uncompromising. She can see in his gaze that he, too, has had enough of their troubles. “It’s true, Émile. I’m tired of working it through. Worrying about it. Fretting. I’m sick of the spat. Tripping over ourselves at home. I’m exhausted. These last few days, on my own, with everything, Mom dying, my emotions have been right on the surface. I’m not used to that. In a way, I needed this.” She brushes his cheek with a kiss. “I’ve been thinking about things and talking to my sister—getting drunk with her, which probably didn’t hurt.” She smiles. “It’s not only that I’m tired of our difficulties, Émile. That’s not the only thing. I feel I’ve come out the other side. Maybe it’s the age difference that hit me unexpectedly. I needed to get through a few things. Especially now that you’re supposed to be retired. What a lie that’s turned out to be! Brother! Still, I’ve come through stuff on my own without you and the odd thing is, more than ever I want us to be together. Even if it means you’re off chasing killers—don’t give me that look. Come on. Face it. It’s inevitable. Murder traipses along beside you like a plague. Fine. That’s how we’ll live.”

  She’s half serious and half teasing him. The part that counts most—wanting to remain with him—prompts them to kiss.

  People are moving toward the couple on the curving, rising path through the cemetery, and while the kiss pleases the onlookers, they have no concept of its singular importance in the life of this pair. They cheerfully interrupt. Sandra is gently drawn away to other discussions and reminiscences. Many folks will be coming back to the house, the young graduates are soon to prepare for Addie Langford’s memorial. Having had his wife taken from his arms at a decisive moment, Émile sees that others are now set to overtake him, beginning with Special Agent Michael Hartopp.

  “Bone to pick with you,” he says. A smile may not be on his lips but Émile can see it in his eyes.

  “What else is new?”

  “The grapevine tells me that the FBI authorized a scrutiny of school records. That you had students foraging through Bennington Havilland-Clegg’s history at Dowbiggin on our say-so. That’s a crock, Émile. Once again my name was taken in vain by you. I don’t hire amateurs. I authorized no such forensic study.”

  “Michael, consider, the girls wouldn’t be permitted to look through the files without your official request, I merely authorized it on your behalf, knowing that deep in your heart you’d agree.”

  “Émile, seriously, you never asked. And you didn’t ask because I would probably have said no, notwithstanding whatever the hell goes on in the depths of my heart.”

  “Didn’t want you to feel conflicted, Special Agent. I know what it’s like to breathe bureaucratic air. A man can gag on the lack of pure oxygen. Time was of the essence.”

  Hartopp extends his hand. “Speaking of time, I’m off. A plane’s waiting. It’s been a slice, Émile. One day we should do this without dead bodies lying around.”

  “We must. I appreciate your help when they’re close by, though.”

  Émile feels a pang, a sadness to see him go. The man’s headed back to work, and he wishes he could do that, too. Hop on a plane and be back on a case.

  In his wake, Captain Hammond ambles over. He seems a bit shy to speak what’s on his mind and nudges a stone on the ground between them. Cinq-Mars assumes that he has a bone to pick, and is surprised when it’s the contrary.

  “What you said once, that we might be neighbors one day.” He reaches down and picks up the stone, examines it in his fingers. “Just wanted to say, I hope that comes to pass. You should move here, Cinq-Mars.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Hammond? You want to keep an eye on me? See me get my just deserts?”

  “Sure thing. Why not?” The stone holds no meaning for him. He flips it a short distance down the path. “In the meantime, if some weird case comes up, we can have a beer and talk it over. I’m looking good on this case. Not saying I’m not giving you all the credit, maybe I’m taking a few brownie points for myself. Anyway, you know what it’s like being a cop.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s not easy.”

  They make eye contact, and for the first time a genuine connection passes between them. They will never be more emotional than that with each other, which Cinq-Mars confirms by giving the trooper’s elbow a quick tap. Another reason to stay, he’s thinking.

  Till ambles over to join them. A bit tentative, he’s concerned that he might be interrupting. Both men welcome him, putting him at ease.

  Cinq-Mars asks, “How’ve you guys come along with the other two?”

  “Easy pickings,” Hammond is proud to say. “Hanson Parker is under the impression that his life is in ruins. No remorse. Not a speck. He’s devastated that he got caught. Blames our boy Ben. Can’t stop getting back at him. Can’t figure out why he had to show the necklace off at a cocktail party. He thinks that did them in.”

  “It helped do them in,” Cinq-Mars believes.

  “I ran both your theories by him. That Havilland-Clegg was trying to pin the matter on his goons. He didn’t bite. Then I suggested that he wanted to entice him, to induce him to stay interested, and I detected a change in him. No admission, an awareness. As though it was dawning on him that he might be the author of his own demise.”

  Although he seems to agree, Cinq-Mars is focusing on other things. “Benny boy’s genius seduced his stablemates. Happens all the time. It’s not true genius, in my book. He mistakes complexity for genius. He wanted his life’s work to be a Gordian knot. The more elaborate the crime, the less chance any dumb cop can figure it out. That was the plan. The others bought into it and, of course, Ben knew how to keep them onside.”

  Hammond has been wondering about things. “They didn’t have to kill Malory Earle? That was to be complex?”

  “Hmm,” Cinq-Mars comments. They detect that he disagrees.

  “Yeah, I get that,” Till concurs, as if he has a new thought, and both men look at him to continue. “Captain Hammond interviewed Parker. I took McBride. He wanted to show that he was the tough nut in the clubhouse. That he’d never break. That’s his weak point. His pride.”

  “In what way?” Cinq-Mars asks.

  “Parker and Havilland-Clegg met at a financial services convention, see. They met in a bar when they were already two sheets to the wind. Neither expected to ever see the other again and it came out when they were hammered that Parker fantasized about rape. The idea got him off. He needed his victim tied up and incapacitated first because he can’t handle the rough stuff himself, he’s not strong enough or fit enough to wrest
le with a frightened woman. Benny boy let it slip that he wanted his victim dead first. After that, they let it drop, according to Parker. But as the years went by they circled around each other. I’m getting this from what Parker told Trooper Hammond and what Ben told you. I passed it by McBride. Tough nut had to say it. That he was the linchpin. That they needed him to do their dirty work. They needed him to kill.”

  “What about the abduction?” Cinq-Mars wonders.

  “Addie was given a key,” Hammond explains. “She trusted Benny boy enough to go up the clock tower on her own with him. A secret meeting about a secret career. Instead, McBride was waiting for her.”

  “But he didn’t kill her immediately.”

  “His job: subdue her, incapacitate her, gag her, tie her up. Then take off the necklace she was given, place it in the library in a certain spot for Hanson Parker to know that the coast was clear, that their victim was bound and gagged. They never met during the process. That way they were always in three places at once. Part of the plan to keep themselves neck-deep in alibis. After Parker did his dirty work he planted the necklace again to let McBride know it was time for him to return. He goes back and kills her. The deal is, he has to kill her tidily. No mess, no bother. Then dispose of her old clothes.”

  “Benny could lay claim to a pristine corpse,” Cinq-Mars puts in.

  “Exactly,” Till concurs. “McBride is into slaughter. He does the tidy killing as a favor to the other two, but gets to do his thing with Malory Earle. Like you said, Parker had to shoot Toomey. That was easy. They’d met the previous year. Toomey pretended to befriend him while trying to find out what the three secret pals were up to. He answered his door, Parker shot him, nothing physical required, a bullet to the head that went through the throat. You thought he didn’t shoot him again because he was a pro, Émile! Ah, but the great detective screwed up. What you didn’t know, Parker badly had to piss all of a sudden. His nerves went south. Toomey gurgled and croaked while Parker was in the bathroom.”