“Can you believe it?” he says, more to himself than to Roxanne. “Neil has been here only once, and he knew I was at a loss for ideas for the place. Just look at this!”
The empty, boxy loft space has been transformed into a sculptural network of platforms and balconies, creating a complex interplay of masses and voids. While the overall composition of the room is boldly artful, this has not been achieved at the expense of function, for the distinct areas of the space are thoughtfully suited to their various purposes—conversation, reading and writing, sleeping and bathing, cooking and eating, storage. Though the aesthetic is decidedly modern, the effect is neither stark nor sterile. On the contrary, rich detailing and knowledgeable, playful allusions to styles of the past lend an inviting, livable atmosphere to the design. Even the Clarence Bird painting is sketched on a prominent expanse of wall, where it appears comfortably at home.
Roxanne says, “God, Mark, it’s fabulous.”
“Maybe a little too fabulous. How could I possibly build this?” He flips through the final sheets of the plan, where there are detail drawings of cabinetry, trim, and light fixtures—all custom—followed by a materials list that includes granite and beveled glass. “Reporters aren’t that well paid.”
Then, at the bottom of the last page, he spots a yellow Post-it note. In Neil’s forceful hand, it says, “Together, I’ll bet we could swing it.”
Manning freezes, stares at the note, reads it several times, catches his breath. Then he realizes that Roxanne has also seen it, and he turns to face her, braced for the worst.
“Congratulations,” she says quietly, without inflection. “Or should I say, ‘Much happiness’? One tries to be politically correct, but the protocol of these modern relationships isn’t quite hammered out yet.”
Manning can’t read her tone. The words are genial enough, but their sarcastic edge is ominous. He suspects she’s ready to blow. “Roxanne, I …”
“Mark”—she stops him—“I’m over it.”
A pause of relief. He takes her fingers into his hand. “I’m sorry you were hurt. I never meant to lead you on.”
“You didn’t. I was playing with fire, and I knew it. My passions were real enough—you’re a hot man, Mark—but the booze had me out of control.”
“I was tempted to say something,” Manning tells her.
“I wish you had. But it was ultimately something I had to deal with myself. I binged on Thanksgiving and screwed up royally with a client after the long weekend. That’s when I knew I had to stop. I’m doing much better now, but withdrawal was a bitch.”
“Tell me about it. I haven’t had a cigarette in five … no, six days. Neil never said anything about my smoking, but I was sure he didn’t like it. So I decided to quit because of him—then I realized I was doing it for myself.”
“Good boy,” she tells him. “Hang in there. That’s next on my list—but one vice at a time!” They share a laugh of understanding.
Roxanne’s tone turns lawyerly. “Now that we’ve cleared the air, let me make my stand on one particular matter perfectly clear.” She can’t suppress a smile. “If you ever decide you’re tired of guys, Mark, do let me know.”
“You’ll be first on my list.” He kisses her. It’s not passionate, but sufficiently physical to rekindle in her a momentary pang.
Fanning her lips with her hands, she says, “We’d better get back to business,” and returns to the table.
He follows, saying coyly, “As long as we’re baring souls, can I trust you with some highly relevant—but confidential—information?”
She eyes him askance, intrigued. Her look tells him, Well, let’s have it.
He sits. Facing her directly, he says, “My speech in court yesterday about Helena Carter—the ‘elusive testimony’ that has you so worried—is all true. I had a long talk with her last week, just outside of Phoenix.”
Roxanne says nothing. Her unwavering stare suggests that she can’t decide whether to believe him. He pulls a business card from his wallet and shows it to her, saying, “She signed this for me. That’s her phone number. Want to call her and say hello?”
Roxanne studies the card, suspicious. “I don’t get it. If you’ve actually found her, why don’t you just… turn her in and be done with it?”
“Let me start at the beginning.” Manning pauses, takes a deep breath, then carefully recounts the whole story, from the point when he arrives in Phoenix for Christmas, sees Brother Burt on TV, then Miss Viola’s Abyssinian kitten, which leads him to Assumption, Father McMullen, and ultimately the missing heiress. He concludes by explaining his pact with Mrs. Carter—her full cooperation on an exclusive story in exchange for his temporary silence.
“What I don’t understand,” says Roxanne, trying to sort through the details, “is the motive of the priest, her brother. Why would he get messed up with all this? The contents of Carter’s will are widely known—there’s nothing in it for him or his band of reactionaries.”
“That’s exactly what threw me off course, at first. But when I finally talked to Helen, I learned that she has signed a new will, drawn up with Father McMullen, leaving nearly everything to The Society and zilch to the Chicago Archdiocese. When Helen is declared dead tomorrow, McMullen plans to present the second will and collect the loot, allowing Helen to live out her remaining years in blissful anonymity.”
With instant comprehension of the legal thicket described by Manning, Roxanne blurts, “But that’s absurd. Both wills would be moot, since the second one was written after she disappeared. It would prove that she had not died—unless, of course, they produced a body with the document and …” Roxanne stops short. She and Manning stare at each other, realizing that Helen is in danger.
Manning grabs the business card, rushes to the phone, and dials Helen’s number. There is no answer.
He tries calling Neil. The phone rings and rings. Manning glances at his watch; it’s barely eight o’clock in Phoenix, and Neil doesn’t go to the office till nine. Where is he? What’s he doing?
After a dozen rings, Manning replaces the receiver, feeling the unmistakable welling-up of an emotion that has played, till now, no role in his life. What else—he asks himself, guessing a likely answer—what else would Neil be doing away from the house so early in the morning?
Neil is in fact settling into his seat near the front of the coach section of a CarterAir jet. Because of the mechanics’ strike, this is the only flight from Phoenix to Chicago this morning, so it’s packed. For Neil to get booked on such short notice, his travel agent must have owed him a whopper of a favor. Neil grins as he buckles the seat belt.
A few rows in front of him, a bunch of businessmen in dark suits are making a fuss. Flight attendants and official-looking airline factotums attempt to mollify the surly executives. As a stewardess hustles down the aisle with an armload of pillows for them, Neil nabs her and asks, “What’s going on?”
“It’s the craziest thing, but really sort of funny,” she confides in a whisper. “The gentlemen in front of you are—or I should say, were—our first-class passengers. Not long before we started boarding, the head office informed us that some lady—some eccentric, I guess—had booked the entire first-class cabin. I don’t know who she is, or what she paid, but they actually gave it to her and bumped these guys back into coach.”
“Why would anyone need the entire cabin?” Neil asks with a laugh.
“That’s the screwiest part. She’s traveling with fifteen or twenty cats. Some rare breed. They’re loading them now.” She points beyond the closed curtain. “You should see it—they’re all in their little travel cages, each strapped into a seat. It looks like a pet shop in there.”
Neil blinks. Is it possible? He asks, “Does the woman by any chance have red hair?”
“Matter of fact, she does. Don’t tell me you know her.”
“Sort of. I wonder—if I wrote a note—could you take it to her?”
The stewardess bites her lip, checks her watch
. They will take off soon. “Certainly, sir,” she says to Neil, “but I should warn you that she left instructions not to be disturbed by anyone.”
Neil quickly writes out his message: “Mrs. Carter? I, too, am a friend of Mark Manning’s, flying to Chicago to see him. I feel that I already know you. I met your sister last fall at a cat show, and I’ve seen some of your wonderful Abyssinians. I would very much like to talk to you.” He signs the note, folds it, and hands it to the stewardess.
She takes it, drops off her pillows with the bickering businessmen, and disappears through the curtain that hides the first-class cabin.
Shortly after the plane is in the air, she peeps through the curtain, looking surprised. Catching Neil’s eye, she smiles, then motions with her finger that he should come forward.
“I see,” Helen tells Neil, offering another glass of champagne. “Then Mark should have gotten your drawings by now—I’ll bet he’s delighted.”
“I hope so,” says Neil, sipping his drink, petting the kitten that has slept in his lap for the last hour. “But Mark has plenty else on his mind right now—I guess we all do.”
“Don’t we?” says Helen with a pensive sigh. “You’ve been sweet, Neil, to listen to all my rambling. May I bore you with the rest of the story?”
“It hasn’t been boring at all,” he assures her.
“Yesterday I got a message from my brother Jamie, asking me to meet him in church early this morning.” She tells Neil about the Mass of thanksgiving, the difficult thoughts she was thinking during the service, the confrontation over the communion rail, and finally, the priest’s heart attack.
“How terrible,” says Neil. “I’m so sorry.”
“But the worst was still to come,” she says. “After Jamie fell, he waved me to his side. I thought that at last he would speak to me honestly, without the hidden motives that had come between us. I expected something of a deathbed confession, but instead, he whispered words of spite: ‘Our brother Bertrand is still alive, Helen. He’s become that TV heretic, Brother Burt. He killed a boy in school, and now he’ll kill Manning. Manning deserves it—he’s destroyed all our dreams.’”
Neil swallows hard. “Was your brother clear-witted? Or delirious?”
“I don’t know,” Helen tells him. “I’d already lost faith in anything Jamie told me, and I’ve never even met this ‘Brother Burt’ character—unless, of course, he is my brother Bertrand.”
“I’m worried,” says Neil. “I have met Brother Burt, and I wouldn’t put anything past him. I wanted my trip to be a surprise, but I’d better call Mark—he needs to know what’s happened.” He sets down his glass, hands the kitten back to Helen, swipes his credit card through the phone at his seat, and dials, guessing he can reach Manning at home today.
Within moments, Manning answers, “Hello?”
“Mark!” says Neil, relieved to hear his voice. “I know you must be half nuts getting ready for court, but there’s something you should know.”
“Neil? Is that you? I got the floor plans—they’re wonderful. Hey, we’ve got a fuzzy connection.”
“I’m on a plane,” he speaks up. “On my way to Chicago.”
Neil hears Manning laughing through the static on the phone. “I wondered where you were. So you took off early for a long weekend, eh?”
“Not exactly. I’ve made an appointment with our Chicago office for first thing next week—to talk about transferring—if you think that’s a good idea.”
There’s a long pause. Neil holds his breath, unsure of Manning’s reaction. Then a quiet, deliberate answer comes over the phone: “That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“Mark …” says Neil, “there’s so much for us to talk about, about ‘us,’ but that’s not why I’m calling. You see, I’m sitting here with Mrs. Carter. She’s on the plane too …”
Helen warbles in the background, “Hello, Mark,” while pouring herself a fresh glass of champagne.
Manning asks, “Is she okay? Roxanne just figured out that she’s in danger from her own brother.”
Neil says, “She’s had something of a rough morning already, but she’s fine. My point, Mark, is that you may be in danger.” Neil tells him about Father McMullen’s heart attack—and his dying revelation of Brother Burt’s true identity, murderous past, and threats against Manning.
“Thanks for the warning,” says Manning, “but I’m not too concerned. Lots of things get said in the heat of passion. Besides, I’m here and Brother Burt’s out there—how could he hurt me?”
Helen taps Neil’s arm. “Tell Mark that he’s earned his story. I’m all his.” She stifles a petite champagne belch. “I’ll be at his disposal as soon as we land—he’ll probably want me to go to court with him.”
Manning’s voice sounds over the phone, “I heard every word, Neil. When do you arrive?”
“A few minutes after noon.”
“Terrific. That’ll give us just long enough to get downtown in time for the hearing. I’ve got to call my editor and ask him to hold page one. And I’ll need a photographer at the airport.” Containing his excitement, Manning pauses. “Neil,” he says, refocusing his thoughts, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Mark. I want to build a future with you. So please be careful.”
“Don’t worry,” Manning tells him. “I can take care of myself. I’ll meet you at O’Hare, kiddo. We’re home free now.”
But in the back of the plane—the only plane from Phoenix to Chicago this morning, wedged into a middle seat between two other passengers—Brother Burt dozes. Troubled dreams play through his mind like a cinematic pastiche of the lifelong events that have nudged him toward this moment. Through the copious folds of his jacket, his hand reflexively gropes the blade of a sacrificial Indian hatchet.
It is the same tomahawk that he has treasured since he was a little boy, when he terrified his younger sister by using it to decapitate a garden snake. Margaret was always the timid one, easily frightened, and Bertrand wasted no opportunity to prey on her weakness—the silly bitch. Helen was a problem, though. Older, smarter, gutsier than Margaret, she never hesitated to stand up to Bertrand. Snakes didn’t scare her. Blood didn’t scare her. Bertrand didn’t scare her—the contemptible cow, the apple of their daddy’s eye, the rich-ass whore who married for money and lucked out, widowed young. Women are such … serpents. Writhing, lame, deadly. He’s spent his whole life wanting what Helen has, hearing of her fortune from afar, dreaming of the power of her wealth.
Dreaming, Brother Burt strokes the handle of the sacrificial hatchet.
It is the same tomahawk, the same deadly weapon, that he kept at the seminary, where he used it to slaughter a friend who dared to love him. Kyle was an athlete, a year younger than Bertrand, the apple of Monsignor’s eye. Kyle was everyone’s friend, but he had a special affection for the twins—Jamie, with his devout manner and scholarly focus, and Bertrand, quite the opposite with his outgoing personality and adventurous sense of curiosity. That curiosity led him to explore with Kyle a depth of friendship that broke a Commandment or two. For weeks, they had hinted to each other what was on their minds, and late one afternoon, behind the field house, they kissed, then groped. That was all. It was a secret, of course—no one must know. But someone saw, or heard, or told. “Bertrand loves Kyle,” someone wrote somewhere. “It’s a damnable lie!” Bertrand insisted to others, then sneaked Kyle to his bed, fucking the boy’s mouth before cutting his throat, injuring his own foot in the scuffle. Bertrand fled. Both he and the murder weapon disappeared. Many accused him of the crime. Others conjectured that he, too, had been murdered. There was talk of suicide. It was never resolved, and though the police never closed their file, Bertrand, the affable young seminarian, was indeed dead—to the family he disgraced, to the school he terrorized, even to himself. He had to reinvent himself, dreaming up a new past, new future, new mission.
Dreaming, Brother Burt crosses his arms, hugging the sacrificial hatchet closer to hi
s chest.
It is the same tomahawk that came to rest proudly on his desk in the office of the ministry he developed, the Holy Altar of Mystic Faith. Though the ministry has been widely ridiculed as the flagrant scam of a hack preacher, Brother Burt has quietly chuckled at such criticism, for he knows a truth that is shared by only a handful of other men—respectable men, powerful, influential men who speak with drawls and call the shots at the Christian Family Crusade. They know that the Holy Altar was founded as a cash-mill for the CFC, secretly funding the efforts of a far-right anti-gay political agenda. Buoyed by the success of their stealth campaigns at the local and state levels, the CFC has been preparing to flex its muscle in Washington. They’ve got legions of committed followers, they’ve got God on their side, and they’ve got cash. But they need more, lots more, and Brother Burt—their man in Arizona—has promised to deliver. Fifty million dollars. That’s enough to buy him a seat on the CFC national board of commissioners. It’s enough to buy some self-respect. And it’s enough to turn back the clock on gay rights. But now, it’s not going to happen. His sister and his brother have failed him, and a reporter—a filthy fag reporter—is to blame. He dreams of sweet revenge.
Dreaming, Brother Burt snores, lips sputtering, head bobbing. His chin nudges the sacrificial hatchet. Microscopic flecks of blood, hardened and blackened by the years, still cling to the pitted surface of its primitive but well-honed blade—a stone blade of featheredged flint that passed through the airport metal detectors without causing so much as a blip.
Dreaming, Brother Burt hurtles through the sky. Thirty thousand feet below, the plane’s shadow darts eastward across the Mississippi River. Almost imperceptibly, the plane’s nose dips, beginning its long, gradual descent over Illinois.
Gordon Smith, managing editor of the Journal, paces his office. Days like this jibe his easygoing nature. He unbuttons his vest, peers at his watch. Eleven thirteen—no more than a minute has passed since he last checked. He exhales an impatient sigh, stops in front of the window, and gazes vacantly into the white sky.
Flight Dreams Page 24