“We all thought Lars was in New York,” Lennie repeated.
“And when was the last time you saw Mr. Thornburg?”
“The last time?”
I could see him clearly in the flashing lights. Lennie didn’t like policemen, and this third degree was happening only a day after Ray’s killing of Raider. Sweat covered Lennie’s brow despite the coolness of the evening.
“Yes,” said Ritter. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“And what was he doing?”
“He was visiting my wife and me, at our house. It was late, we’d had a party . . .”
Lennie’s voice trailed off.
“And?”
“He’d been drinking.”
I vividly recalled the shrill argument at the Quaker Cottage, when Lars had found Mario drinking wine with Ray. During our ride to Harkaway the next day, Nora had told me that Lars and Mario also had fought at the Big House later that night.
“Anything unusual happen?” Ritter asked. “Was he intoxicated or belligerent?”
“Yes, both. He was quarreling with his . . . companion.”
“And where is this companion?”
“Well, when Lars was gone the next morning, we assumed he’d gone off to New York in a snit. He’s done it before. When he didn’t come back in a few days, Mario—that’s the man’s name, Mario Rocca—went to stay with friends and look for him.”
“Was Mr. Thornburg ever reported missing?”
“Not that I know of . . . But I do know that all his friends have been looking for him.”
“How do you know that?”
“My wife talks to Mario on the phone all the time. She’s been worried too.”
“And where is she?” Ritter asked.
“Over there,” Lennie said, pointing in the direction of the woodpile. “She’s with Claude Rhodes and Will Fox—he’s another man who works on the place—and with Lars’s body.”
Ritter said, “Let’s take a look.”
With our path lit by flashlights, the eight of us walked behind the South Stable, following Lennie across the back lawn to a huge woodpile left by Claude Rhodes’s cleanup work.
Nora, Claude, and Will were huddled together nearby, staring at us as we approached. Flashing lights from the vehicles on the other side of the Cockpit cut the sky above, and a deputy’s walkie-talkie squawked loudly.
“Turn that damn thing down,” Ritter said.
We all approached the woodpile, and I tried to catch Nora’s eyes in the dimness, but she wouldn’t look at me. She’d moved a few steps away from the others and was staring into the darkness of the woods beyond.
Flashlight beams were directed into the stack of firewood, and what remained of Lars’s face could be seen in the space left vacant by half a dozen pieces of wood that now lay scattered on the ground at our feet. His head had been smashed above the right temple. The wound was blackish and ragged, as if chewed by something. I looked my fill, maybe ten long seconds, then turned away as Claude Rhodes spoke, and, despite his many years in the United States, his accent identified him as English.
“When I found his car shut up like that in the stable, I knew something wasn’t right, so I went looking. I saw the woodpile was disturbed and caught the smell . . .”
His voice trailed off. The police and the med techs took over. Callan made photographs, the flash lighting the scene like some black and white movie from the fifties. The deputies removed the remaining firewood covering Lars. The killer had partially wrapped the body in a blue plastic tarpaulin before hiding it under a stack of wood. Callan took more pictures as the tarpaulin was removed.
The med techs fit Lars into a zippered plastic bag with the help of Deputy Bunch, while the rest of us moved away. Detective Ritter asked Nora about Mario, and her already stricken face turned more tragic as she described the last time she’d seen Lars and Mario together, and the distraught phone calls with Mario in New York, describing his fruitless search for Lars.
Deputy Bunch came over to Detective Ritter, holding an oddly shaped hammer between his thumb and forefinger.
“This was under the body,” the deputy said. “Callan got the shots.”
Ritter gingerly took the hammer from the deputy. “That’s one of Mario’s ball-peen hammers,” said Claude. Ritter shone his flashlight on it, and everyone could see the dried blood and flesh crusted on the bevel.
Mario was a talented cabinetmaker and wood sculptor and had sometimes advised Claude on carpentry technique. The taller deputy, Bond, brought a large plastic zip-lock bag to Ritter, who put the hammer in while Bunch wrote with marker on a tag.
My mind raced. Lars also had quarreled with Ray that night. Was it possible Ray had done this? My train of thought entered a dead-end and stopped abruptly.
The med techs had brought a collapsible wheeled stretcher from the ambulance along with the body bag, and now they loaded it with Lars’s body. Ritter finished writing some notes. Finally we all headed off as if in a funeral procession, flashlights showing the way back around the Cockpit and the South Stable to the cars and the ambulance in the turnaround.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hirsh and Mr. Rhodes, I’d like to take statements from you tonight,” said Ritter.
“Of course. You’ll have our complete cooperation. Can we talk up at the house?” said Lennie.
Ritter agreed, and Lennie, Nora, and Claude got into the Wagoneer. The med techs loaded Lars’s body into the ambulance and secured the stretcher and doors. Ritter, Callan, and the deputies got into their cars and followed Lennie. The ambulance, too, moved slowly up the road, its red lights still flashing. Will and I were left standing alone next to his truck.
The police had left without speaking to me.
“Hop in, Bradley,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride to your house.”
I’d been hoping to talk to Ritter. The events of the last twenty-four hours were too big a burden to carry alone.
“Shouldn’t they take statements from us too?” I asked Will.
“We didn’t find the body or see Mario and Lars fighting that night at Lennie’s,” he replied. “What could we add?” He seemed surprised at the idea.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess you’re right.”
Ray was waiting in the kitchen reading a book when I got back.
“What happened?” he asked.
He was outwardly calm, but I knew him better now and could tell he was nervous.
“Everybody thinks Mario smashed Lars’s head in with a ball-peen hammer.”
“He probably did, the little shit. Did anything come up about me? Anything about Raider?”
“Not a thing.”
He relaxed but then noticed me staring at him.
“Let me guess. You wonder if I had anything to do with it.”
“I wasn’t going to mention it, Ray, but the thought did cross my mind,” I admitted.
“I’m used to it, Bradley. It still pisses me off, but I’m used to people assuming that when anything goes wrong it’s my fault.”
He changed the subject.
“Anyhow, are you hungry?” he asked. “Because I’m starving.”
A kettle was warming, but he hadn’t started cooking. I usually made dinner. I washed my face and hands at the kitchen tap then dried off with a paper towel.
Something else troublesome was nagging at me. Not only had I seen a killing and two dead bodies in the last twenty-four hours, I’d also found my housemate asleep with the wife of my friend and benefactor. To keep busy, I put a cast iron skillet onto the gas flame of the stove and took bacon and eggs from the refrigerator.
“Bradley, do me a favor. Don’t talk to me about Raider, okay? What’s done is done.”
He didn’t say anything about Lars or the police. I peeled off six strips of bacon and put them in the pan.
“We don’t need to talk about Raider, or Lars either, but we need to talk,” I answered.
“About what?”
; “About you and Nora.”
He looked up from his book.
“Nothing’s going on between us, Bradley, except that we’ve become friends.”
The bacon was sizzling, and the kettle whistled.
“Do you want coffee or tea, Ray?” I asked.
“Coffee, black, no sugar,” he said.
He returned to his book while I made a cup of coffee for him and decaffeinated tea for myself, but I waited before I put bread in the toaster and cracked the eggs into the pan. Timing is everything with bacon and eggs.
“She loaned me this,” he said, putting the book down and pushing it across the table. He paused expectantly, waiting. I didn’t want to get distracted and burn the supper, but I picked up the book and scanned the page that had him so transfixed. It was Donne’s, “The Good-Morrow.”
I wonder by my troth, what thou and I Did,
till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we i’ the seven sleepers’ den?
“Jeez, Ray. It’s so . . . sentimental.”
“Keep going. It gets better.”
I continued reading to myself.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got,
‘twas but a dream of thee.
The bacon was almost ready, so I skipped to the end of the poem.
If our two loves be one,
or, thou and I Love so alike
that none do slacken,
none can die.
“I had no idea you were such a romantic,” I said, before adding casually, “Aren’t you the one whom people call ‘dangerous’?”
“Hell, Bradley, you put any man in the wrong situation and he’s dangerous. People have been forcing me into wrong situations all my life, but I’m okay now, here at Schoolcross.”
He took a sip of his coffee.
“What about Raider?”
His voice was weary as he answered.
“That wasn’t Schoolcross. Anyway, I said I’d talk about anything but that. Nora and I have worked that one to death.”
“You want your eggs over easy?” I asked.
“Runny, and on the toast,” he said. Then, finally acknowledging my real concern, he said, “I know she’s Lennie’s wife. I’m not an idiot. Give me a little credit.”
I continued to work on the dinner. My timing was superb and the bacon, eggs, and toast were all ready at the same moment.
“Nice job,” Ray said, as I set the plates on the table.
“Thanks.”
We ate in silence until Ray stood up, got orange juice from the refrigerator, and poured two glasses.
“Thanks,” I said again, as he put one in front of me.
We both drained our glasses.
“Can I have some more coffee?” Ray asked.
“What if I told you I was tempted today to call this Dr. Freeman at Lorton to find out more about you?”
I waited for his reaction, but he only leaned forward slightly.
“You don’t need to talk to anybody else, Bradley. Freeman is so full of shit. Ask me anything you want.”
Then he said, “You wouldn’t really call Freeman, would you? After last night, that’s a bad idea.”
“No, of course not . . .”
Ray sank back into his chair.
“. . . though I am shook up about what happened with Raider.”
“I know,” said Ray, with a wave of his hand. “I’m a dangerous man, right?”
“Is that what Freeman would say?”
“Well, it’s easy for him to sit in his office and make judgments, and easy for you to judge me too.”
I didn’t want him to put me on the defensive, and I tried to stay calm.
“Look at my point of view, Ray. We share a house. I’m your agent. Maybe we’ve become friends. Last night I watched you kill a man. This evening I found you asleep on the sofa with Lennie’s wife. What do I do? I fix you dinner, politely ask what the fuck is going on, and you accuse me of being judgmental!”
Against all good sense, I was working myself into an agreeable state of indignation, but it evaporated when Ray chuckled.
“I’m sorry, Bradley. You’re right.”
It was the first time he’d ever apologized to me.
“I haven’t had a whole lot of friends. I can explain what happened. Walking in and finding me and Nora asleep on the couch must look pretty bad to you. Ask me whatever you want.”
“I want to know who you are. I want to know about this foster father who died, and why you ended up in prison so young. And how many people you killed while you were there. And how did you learn to paint? I want to know everything, the whole story.”
“All right, Bradley. Make me another cup of coffee, and I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER XII
◊
Ray was born, he told me, at the Virginia Commonwealth University Medical Center in Richmond, Virginia, on July 8, 1960, the second child of Edith Martin.
“My mother was a transplanted Yankee,” he said, the daughter of an army colonel assigned to the U.S. Army War College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.
In 1956, an unmarried Edith, age twenty-one and already six months pregnant with Ray’s older sister, Polly, had moved from Carlisle to Louisa County, Virginia. She had paid twelve thousand dollars in cash for a white gingerbread Victorian on the edge of a nice neighborhood, gave birth to her daughter, and quietly organized her household.
Edith was a painter, and when she wasn’t attending to the needs of baby Polly or, later, Ray, she worked in the artistic isolation of her upstairs studio. The availability of “colored servants” reduced the demands of domesticity, and she was able to keep her dark beauty and her certain style.
The cash payment for the house had been only the first shock to the local community. Louisians at first drew the conclusion from her isolation and quasi-military background that she was a grieving widow. Soon, however, there were widely repeated rumors of a man, which were confirmed four years later by the birth of Ray. Not that the confirmation had actually been necessary. Everyone knew who the man was as soon as he’d been discharged from military service and returned to Louisa County, several months after Edith’s arrival. A gentleman, he’d met and impregnated Edith while doing his duty for his country, and then arranged for her to move to Virginia, in proximity to his family seat.
To keep a mistress and raise a brood of bastard children were time-honored traditions among the old and glorious lineage of Ray’s father, so the shock waves that rippled through the town eventually died down.
“Polly and I got used to the comings and goings and the noises from Mother’s bedroom,” Ray told me.
Edith and her children were gradually accepted, after a fashion, into a special niche in the hierarchy of the community, especially since Edith, who was a non-believer, showed no desire to invade the parlors of the churchgoing.
Ray and Polly avoided, as if by instinct, prolonged contact with children from the “good” families who lived in the town and on the surrounding farms and estates. What companions they had they drew first from the children of the domestic help and, after adolescence and the all-pervading fears of miscegenation arose, from the few other white Louisan families of shattered or suspect reputation. Drunkenness, bankruptcy, and other scandal were not unknown in the town, and it was acknowledged that all children needed someone with whom to play.
His sister Polly had accepted her position with a certain aplomb. She made the best of it, for it was the only situation she had ever known. In many ways, Ray, too, had a rather ordinary childhood, although he loved to escape into reading.
“We always had a lot of books around,” Ray said. “And I was fascinated by my mother’s painting. I let her teach me. I’d spend hours in her studio among the paints and brushes and stretched canvas, watching her work and looking through her collection of art books.”
Apparently, these books illustrated
every style of art imaginable—and some styles not imaginable in Louisa, Virginia, in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Picasso, of course, and Velasquez. But Ray also had been exposed to, and influenced by, many others, including the Irish-born Francis Bacon and the Colombian artist Botero.
Ray didn’t have problems at home, but he had tremendous difficulty in the outside world. As he grew older, the transgressions grew more serious and he became known to the authorities. His mother met overtures from irate parents or worried teachers with that studied vagueness with which she handled all contacts with the locals. Nothing was done.
For one thing, he was a ferocious fighter. The other boys soon learned to avoid giving him offense after several incidents in which, taunted about his bastardy, he sent bigger boys to the hospital for stitches. There was never any question of fighting fair. He could and would use anything at hand as a weapon—a stick, a rock, an aluminum baseball bat—and strike quickly, without mercy. The sheriff’s deputy did note in Ray’s defense to the complaining parents of a bigger boy that Ray hadn’t “started it.”
Whether Ray’s mysterious father ever intervened with the authorities on his behalf was an open question, and, in any event, the fighting decreased by the time he reached the age of fifteen. In the local parlance, “Nobody dared mess with him.”
A more serious problem, as far as the sheriff was concerned, was Ray’s habit of “borrowing” any automobile that caught his fancy. These transgressions earned him a criminal record, not only with the local authorities but also with the police in Richmond, fifty miles east, which was his usual destination in the borrowed cars.
“In 1976, when I’d turned sixteen, they evaluated me as a ‘habitual delinquent’ for stealing so many cars,” he told me.
He was about to be incarcerated in the Richmond juvenile facility but instead found himself living on the grand estate of his new foster father, Templeton Williams. Several months earlier, Temple’s wife had died in a car accident, along with his ten-year-old son. The official story was that, in a burst of social conscience occasioned by his tragic loss, the gentleman had taken an interest in a troubled young local. The truth was that, with the death of his wife, the way was clear for Williams, who was, of course, Ray’s mysterious but well-known biological father, to take a more active role in the upbringing of his only son.
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