“Hello,” said Sadie.
“Aunt Sadie, it’s me.”
“Harry! Where are you, my darling? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Aunt Sadie. Really, I am. I wanted you to know everything’s going to be all right. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Worry? Me? Oh, Harry, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“I would have called sooner, but things have been kind of hectic. I’ve been traveling.”
“I know, dear,” said Sadie, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her kitchen apron. “I spoke with Chita. She told me. And I met Mr. Sherman. He found you? And you’re safe now?”
Harry assured his aunt of his safety. He told her about his trip to Holland, to Bergen op Zoom, Roswell’s sister city. He mentioned that Walter had located him and how he and Walter went through Belgium and Spain on their way to Mexico and finally to the cabin in the mountains of New Mexico. No one would ever find him there. “Walter said this was a safe place. It certainly is in the middle of nowhere. It’s really amazingly beautiful here.”
“How long will you be there?” she asked. “What’s going to happen with all this?”
“I can’t say, Aunt Sadie. I don’t know. Chita said to trust Walter Sherman, and I do. I am.”
“I love you, Harry.”
“I love you too. I really shouldn’t talk too long.” Walter had warned him not to use the phone at all. “Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me again for a while.”
“Have you spoken with your Aunt Chita?”
“No, not since we got here. I’ll try her, but you know she’s tough to get a hold of. If you talk to her first, tell her I’m all right and tell her I love her. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Sadie hung the phone up thinking about her brother David. Missing, what a terrible word. It had no ending. David would always be missing. It broke Sadie’s heart, all these years later. He had never seen his son. Never held him as a baby. Never rocked him to sleep when his belly hurt. Never… She started crying all over her vegetables.
Earlier in the day, a few minutes after nine that morning, a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man walked into the lobby of building number two at Atlanta’s Colony Square complex on Peachtree at 14th Street. He rode an elevator to the seventh floor, where he made his way to the reception area at the Center for Consumer Concerns. He smiled at the receptionist and said, “Isobel Gitlin, please. Christopher Hopman to see her.” A moment later the girl at the front desk looked up, with concern written all over her face, and asked, “Mr. Hopman? Mr. Christopher Hopman, is that right?”
“Yes, it is,” the man answered, still smiling and keeping a respectful distance from the reception desk, allowing the girl to talk into her phone with some assurance of privacy. She did just that, then took the phone, and pressing her other hand over the mouthpiece, said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Gitlin has no Christopher Hopman on her schedule.”
“Please tell Ms. Gitlin I’m here because of Walter Sherman.” The smile was still there, warm, friendly, engaging. He was a handsome man, the receptionist thought. Finally, after one last whispered phone conversation, she said, “Someone will be right out to show you in.”
Isobel had no idea what this could be about. In her years as a reporter with The New York Times, she had fine-tuned an attention to words, a deep respect for language. “Words have meaning, don’t they?” a Times editor once said to her. “There’s no need for you to answer that, is there?” he immediately added. “Or, for that matter, that question either. Why? Because my words meant something and you understood their meaning as soon as I said them. That should be your goal for everything you write. Your reader should never wonder ‘what did she mean.’” The man calling himself Christopher Hopman-that absolutely could not be his name-said he was here because of Walter Sherman. He did not say Walter had sent him. For just a second she wondered if she should have alerted Security.
“Ms. Gitlin, pleased to meet you,” the man said. Apparently the smile had been pasted on with epoxy. He extended his hand. Isobel stood; they shook hands. It started like any normal business meeting.
“What’s your name?” Isobel asked. The man’s smile opened to a polite chuckle. “You can’t be Christopher Hopman because he was killed, shot down on a golf course outside Boston, by…?”
“I’ll take your word for that,” he said.
“By…?” Isobel repeated.
“I believe a man named Leonard Martin confessed to that murder, among others.”
“So, what is your name and why are you here? What does this have to do with Walter Sherman? He didn’t send you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t send me. He is, however, responsible for my visit. As for my name, that’s not important.”
“Well, you can get the hell out of here!”
“I represent some people who need to know where Mr. Sherman took Harry Levine. They believe you know where that is.”
“What are you talking about? Who the hell is Harry Levine? Get the fuck out of here!”
“Calm down, Ms. Gitlin. This is a very serious matter. You need to hear what I have to say. You also need to provide me with whatever information you have that might be helpful. This is, I assure you, not a matter to be taken lightly.” He paused, removed his coat, which he carefully laid down on the chair next to him and then pulled his seat forward, directly across from her. She said nothing more, which he took to be agreement on her part, at least to pay attention. He looked her in the eye and spoke with an ease of manner that, considering what he said, was more than a little frightening.
“Harry Levine-you don’t know Mr. Levine, or so it would appear-is in the company of Mr. Sherman. To be frank, Mr. Sherman is hiding him. The people I work for desire to talk to Mr. Levine. I have no idea why-they didn’t feel a need to tell me, and that’s fine with me. I am little more than a facilitator in this matter. As you have already guessed, Leonard Martin fits in here too. My employers believe that Mr. Sherman has taken Mr. Levine to whatever location Leonard Martin used during that period of time when he was avoiding the rest of the world, including the authorities. If that’s so, if that is where he is, everyone agrees Harry Levine can’t and won’t be found. Not without help, anyway. Your help, Ms. Gitlin.”
“I have no…”
“Please stop,” the man said, sounding less like an unnamed menace and more like an Assistant Principal who knows he’s about to be regaled with a tale something akin to, “an elephant ate my homework.” “We do not want to begin this way,” he said. “I certainly don’t want to, and I don’t believe you really want to either. Lies are uncalled for. They’re counterproductive. Of course you know where this location is. That is not in question. Actually, there is no question here. I am merely trying to be polite by asking you. You have to tell me. You are the only one. We-and now I include you too-we are aware that Walter Sherman is a man, a very capable man, a man with numerous resources. He will tell us nothing and there’s an element of risk even approaching him. That leaves only you, Ms. Gitlin.”
“They can’t pay you enough to go after Walter, can they?” Isobel angrily interrupted.
“So,” he continued, “we’re asking you. My employer will not stop at asking.”
“You can’t hurt me!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. Please. I never meant to say you would be hurt in any way.” For some reason Isobel breathed easier. Why, she asked herself, do I think I’ve won something? “Is that a picture of you and your husband?” he asked, pointing to a cube-framed photo on her desk. “Your husband, Otto Heinrich, plays with the Atlanta Symphony, doesn’t he?” Isobel’s sense of satisfaction left her as quickly and completely as her last breath. “A violinist, right? I’m told he plays beautifully. A man like that must have exceptional fingers, especially on his left hand. Isn’t that right? How does he manage to care for his hands, his fingers? Exercise? Warm water and soap? Custom-made gloves? Some sort of special lotion, probably. I could never know. You do, of course. Tell
me about his hands.”
“No,” said Isobel in a voice no louder than a whimper.
“A man like your husband has to make sure nothing happens to his hands. I guess they’re as much a part of his instrument as… as the bow.”
“Y-y-you can’t…”
She had never been there, but she knew where it was. Long ago, Walter told her. He told her about his drive from Santa Fe, up into the mountains near Albert, New Mexico, near the Indian forest. She remembered his description of the cabin, even the road leading to it. He met Michael DelGrazo there-Leonard Martin, the Cowboy with the floppy hat. She had never been there, but she knew exactly where it was. She paid the taxes on the property. Each year since Leonard Martin walked off into the void. She paid the electricity. The water bill. The Center cut the checks. She never questioned the expense. It was, after all, Leonard Martin who founded the institution she headed. She was following his instructions. Would Leonard ever return? Is he even alive? She didn’t know. Who did? Walter? The genial, well-groomed imitation of a businessman, sitting in front of her, was totally correct. She knew where it was, yet her natural inclination was to tell this thug to go fuck himself. My God! she thought, Otto!
Washington, that was where Walter was headed. Headed to Devereaux. To Devereaux, whose arrogance had so unhinged him in Atlanta. And now-the sonofabitch sent someone into his home! There was a late flight out of St. Thomas he could still catch. It would take him to Miami. He’d stay over there and fly to Washington in the morning. He knew he would be calm by then, calmer anyway. Passing the cruise ships, on the long cab ride from the St. Thomas ferry dock to the airport, the sight of those massive floating resort hotels, all done up in pastels, blue and sea green, yellows and light shades of red, towering like buildings many stories above the water, he realized his blood pressure had gone from a boil to a simmer sooner than he expected. A few minutes later his cell phone rang as he waited in the airport.
“Yes,” he said.
“Walter, Walter,” came a familiar voice, with an unfamiliar tone. It jolted his awareness to a sharp point. The frustration and anger he felt about Devereaux and his hired girl was counterproductive. He knew that and was grateful for the intrusion. It was Isobel Gitlin’s voice he heard.
“Yes,” he said, hoping his hurt pride was not showing too much.
“I had no choice,” she said. Was she crying or coughing? Did he hear the sound of a stuffy nose, a simple cold or something else? “It was Otto. Otto.” Definitely crying, thought Walter. He decided to let her cry it out. He waited.
“Walter, I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. They took Otto and threatened to c-c-cut off the fingers! B-b-break his hands. His arms. His elbows. Oh, my god! I’m sorry, Walter. I’m sorry. Otto, he could never play again. They came to our house, into our house. Walter. I had to.”
“Had to what, Isobel?”
“Had to tell them. Tell them where. Where it is. They knew it was somewhere. They just didn’t know where.”
“Where what?”
“Where Leonard was, before. In New Mexico.” Walter closed his eyes. He was getting lightheaded. He felt cold sweat across the back of his neck. His arms and legs tingled. His stomach growled in disgust, tightening with newfound fear. He was a deer, alone on a dark lonely road near Rhinebeck, in upstate New York. He saw the truck come barreling around the turn. The headlights blinded him. He was unable to move, every inch of his body paralyzed. He shuddered as the truck ran over him, bone and blood and soft tissue pushed together like a pasty soup. He saw his brain shut down.
“Who?” he said, breathing deeply, slowly. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The one who came to see me was in his forties, tall, lean, light complexion, light brown hair, well dressed, well spoken. I thought I detected an accent, but I’m not sure. Very confident. He was very confident.”
“Name?”
“He said his name was Christopher Hopman.”
“Oh shit!” said Walter.
“He knew you. He knew who you were. I think he’s afraid of you. I think so. He said he wanted something somebody named Harry Levine had. You too. He knew you were involved.”
“He thought Harry Levine was in New Mexico?”
“Yes. He didn’t know it was New Mexico. He said they thought you had taken him to wherever Leonard had been.”
“They? Who’s they?”
“He just referred to them as ‘his employers.’ I remembered what you said, where you said it was.”
“I know,” Walter said. “You’ve been paying the bills there since Leonard Martin disappeared.”
“How did you know? Oh, my God!”
“Yes, that’s right, Isobel. That’s where I took him. And that’s where I left him.”
“Oh, m-m-my God!” she mumbled again. “I’m so sorry. Otto…”
“Goodbye,” said Walter.
Today’s call from Harry wasn’t due for another ninety minutes. He knew there would be no call. It would never come. Never. He went to the ticket counter and changed his flight plans. No matter where he was going, he had to fly to Miami first. He dropped his Washington flight and found a late-night opening, Miami to Houston. It was an awful flight, turbulent over the Gulf, and local thunderstorms in the Houston area. He felt like crap and took two antacid tablets as soon as he landed. A six-hour layover in Houston and then on to Albuquerque. Four more hours after that to Albert. Twenty minutes to the cabin.
Harry Levine’s body lay crumpled, face down on the floor near the small refrigerator. A single shot in the heart had killed him. Walter noticed powder burns on Harry’s shirt. The hole was small. Someone must have held Harry very close, perhaps right up against him. Whoever it was had reached in with a small caliber pistol, pushed it hard against Harry’s chest and fired. There was no exit wound. The bullet had not been very powerful, just deadly. It would take a coldhearted bastard to kill this way. The body was otherwise unmarked. Whoever killed him didn’t have to beat him to find the document. Harry wouldn’t have hidden it. After all, Walter told him he would be safe here. “Damnit!” Walter said out loud. On the floor, not far from Harry’s feet, Walter found a cigarette butt. The ash was only halfway down and it had been stepped on, apparently casually ground into the kitchen floor. Something about it looked familiar. When he picked it up he saw it was not a regular cigarette, certainly not an American cigarette. The paper was unusual. He slid it around between his fingers. It felt like rice paper. And the cigarette itself came with its own cardboard holder. The brand name had been smudged. All he could make out were the letters MOPKAHA.
The cabin was freezing. The fire was dead, burned to cold ash. The space heaters were not turned on. The killer was long gone. Walter’s coat was all he had. He could see his own breath, still he felt a sweat come over him. A dull pain grew in his chest, his stomach gone sour again. He sat down at the table, in the same wooden chair he dragged out to the porch when Harry marveled at the stars and the purity of the night sky. The horizon was much closer now. Walter felt suddenly overcome by fatigue. His eyelids closed. They balked at his feeble attempts to raise them open. Sleep. He needed sleep. He couldn’t help himself. He fell asleep right there, in the chair, still in his coat. He awoke about five. It was already dark and colder than before. He thought back to everything he had touched, now and when he had been there earlier and wiped all of it clean until there was no trace he was ever there. This was not the first time Walter had covered his tracks this way. He made no mistakes. He looked for any sign to tell him who did this-who killed Harry Levine. He found nothing. He, who could find anything, found nothing. The anger rose within him. He shivered, the cold radiating into his chin, down his left arm. “Harry,” he said although no one could hear him. Walter wondered, was the Cowboy in him?
It was the beef and the greed that killed Leonard Martin’s family. Walter remembered, better than most. Bad beef, born of corruption and venality, deception and disregard. Hamburgers. And where wa
s Leonard Martin when he was needed? Where was he? Walter remembered that too. While Leonard’s wife, daughter and grandsons were joyfully broiling the poisoned meat, he was with another woman. When his family needed him most, he was absent, cheating, fucking. The only reason Leonard Martin lived was because he skipped that poolside barbeque, skipped it to have sex with a woman who was not his wife, not the mother of his child or grandmother to his grandsons. For Leonard, getting laid that morning gave an evil twist to getting lucky. He always felt his affair was manageable, acceptable so long as Nina didn’t know, so long as no one got hurt. He never thought the hurt would come like this. Afterward, when he held Nina’s lifeless hand, and then tried to comfort his daughter, Ellie, as she died, frantically worrying about her boys, Leonard’s cowardly soul burned in Hell, charred from head to toe with dirty ash, the filthy soot of his guilty fire. His life became an inferno, the flames quenched only with the blood of vengeance. Walter accused Leonard of that, confronted him with the charge that his revenge was not so righteous after all. “Where were you?” Walter shouted at him. And now. “Where were you?” he screamed at himself. “Where were you?” He saw Michael DelGrazo, the Cowboy, Leonard Martin, each pointing an accusing finger. “Where were you?”
He made three phone calls before driving away, this time for good. He would never set foot upon this place again. He swore it. The first call was to Isobel. “It’s Walter Sherman,” he told the receptionist, and when Isobel picked up the phone, before she could speak, he said, “He’s dead.” He shut the cover on his cell phone before Isobel said a word. The second call was to the New Mexico State Police. There was a body, he told them, in a cabin… He told them where, then hung up. His final call was to Billy. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?” he asked the bartender.
“Yeah,” said Billy.
The Lacey confession l-2 Page 28