Chapter 24
ALIENATION
Lovecraft didn’t like going to Rothwell’s home, largely because it felt like she was leaving Earth to get there. The house was almost stereotypically 1 percenter; a house too big for one man so he filled it with next to nothing at all. The lack of books in the place made her wince inwardly every single time she visited. She had trouble trusting anyone who failed to feed their inner self properly. She’d gently ragged him about it once, and had been wise to do so gently, for he became very defensive on the subject, did the “dead trees” speech, and said he kept his library on his iPad. She later had an opportunity to check out this voluminous virtual library and discovered it consisted of several financial journal subscriptions and an unread Fifty Shades of Grey. She was sure she was glad he hadn’t read it, though, and surreptitiously deleted it from the device so he didn’t get any ideas about using it as a manual for how rich, handsome guys should act.
After their last meeting, she’d momentarily harbored suspicions he might have gotten himself a new copy after all. There’d been silence between them and it seemed likely that their relationship had hit the buffers and that was that. A little earlier than Lovecraft had been anticipating, but not something that surprised her unduly. The call had been a small surprise. That it had come from Rothwell’s mother was a much larger one.
Elise Rothwell was not of the usual Steel Magnolias school of matriarchy. She was a small, quiet woman, but she knew her mind and she was smart. It had been her suggestion that had put the idea of the Senate into her son’s mind in the first place, not because she had any great interest in politics herself but simply because she saw it as an obvious career for a good-looking man with charisma, money, and connections. Besides, politics was the family business. It simply wasn’t normal to go into politics because one held strong political views, in Elise’s opinion. That would be setting a dangerous precedent.
Elise had never warmed to Lovecraft, and the feeling was mutual. Lovecraft wondered if race played into the mild animosity she felt from Rothwell’s mother, but finally decided no, it was because she was politically wrong for Elise’s only child. Lovecraft had watched with a strange mix of amusement and dismay as Elise had fought to stop her eyes from rolling when she heard Lovecraft ran a bookstore. That mild animosity made Elise reaching out to her all the more surprising, and distinctly worrying.
There wasn’t much foreplay after Lovecraft got to the house. Elise met her, greeted her stiffly, took her to the kitchen, made her a coffee herself (Lovecraft noted the housekeeper was missing, and the sense of disturbance in the working of the household deepened), and then said, “Kenneth isn’t well.”
Lovecraft remained silent.
“Have you noticed anything out of the normal recently, dear? You see him quite frequently. Anything out of the normal?” She said it with a sudden false smile and a spastic gesture to flick away a wisp of hair at her temple.
Lovecraft realized with a small shock and a tiny, unbidden thrill of schadenfreude that Elise, glacial Elise whose every sentence to Lovecraft had always carried the subtext “You are not good enough for my son, and I live for the day he throws you aside,” was frightened. Honestly, soul-deep frightened. Then Lovecraft thought what it would take to provoke that, and her pleasure in Elise’s fear faded away.
“What’s happened to Ken, Mrs. Rothwell?” Sometimes she liked to provoke la grande femme de la société by calling her “Elise,” enjoying the flicker of that false smile raised to hide irritation. Now instead that smile was deployed to conceal panic, and it was doing a poor job of it.
“He isn’t well,” Elise repeated. Her tone was pettish—Didn’t you hear me the first time? “I think it may be overwork. He’s been spending so much time working on his campaign.”
Lovecraft had been kept assiduously away from the campaign; she didn’t have much sense that he’d been slaving over it, though. This was just supposed to be a trial run, after all.
At least, it was as far as Elise knew. She didn’t know about Colt. She didn’t know that unless Carter’s plan worked, her little boy was on a jet-propelled toboggan all the way to the White House, and wouldn’t that be nice? No, Elise did not have the first idea how much and what sort of stress her son was under.
Or perhaps she did. She turned her face toward Lovecraft, that fake smile writhing like a snake on a griddle, and Lovecraft saw the torment lying beneath it. “The thing is, dear,” said Elise, the forced lightness in her voice killing both herself and Lovecraft, “I think Kenneth has had a breakdown.” She angled her head to the other side. It was so mannered, she looked like an automaton. “A mental breakdown.”
The specificity of the description was the most polite scream of grief Lovecraft had ever heard.
“Mrs. Rothwell,” she said, “Ken has been acting a little … unlike himself recently.” She didn’t think it was necessary to mention “a little unlike himself” meant attempted anal rape. “I think you’re right. The campaign has been more stressful for him than I think either of us realized. I hate to be the one to suggest…”
Elise wasn’t listening. “He attacked Amara.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Amara. The housekeeper. So much trouble. Apparently we’re going to have to ship her whole wretched clan over because of this.”
Lovecraft spoke slowly. “When you say ‘attacked’…”
“Sexually. He…” Elise looked at Lovecraft, utterly bewildered. “She’s so homely. Why would he do that? I imagine his love life is quite busy”—which Lovecraft parsed as You black people do sex a lot, don’t you? but let it go—“so why does he take it into his head to lay hands on Amara?” She touched her own top lip. “She’s quite hairy,” she whispered.
Lovecraft could see that Elise wasn’t going to provide any indications of her son’s state of mind, only her own. “May I see him?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It’s why I called you, after all. He’s in his study. You know where that is, don’t you? Perhaps you can find out what’s wrong with him.”
Lovecraft got up and went to the door. “The election…?”
“I don’t see how he can go ahead. I’ve already told Marcus to wiggle him out of it. It means giving the Democrats a clear run, but Kenneth was never going to win this time. We’ll put around something about illness or an emotional upset.” She looked appraisingly at Lovecraft, seeing two birds that single stone could deal with. She shook herself out of the momentary reverie. “In any case, it’s important we clear this mess up and make sure Kenneth is fit and ready next time.”
“Yes,” said Lovecraft. “That’s the important thing.”
Elise nodded and smiled, impervious to the ironic sentiment.
* * *
Lovecraft found Rothwell in his study, just as his mother had said. He was not, however, at his desk. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his legs splayed. He wasn’t looking unkempt, as she had been expecting. He was washed and shaved, and his clothes were fresh.
In his hand, he held a revolver that he played with lazily. Lovecraft’s heart started at the sight of it, but she breathed again when she saw the cylinder was out, and—even from where she was standing at the entrance—she could see the chambers were all empty. Between his legs she could make out what looked like thick crayons on the carpet.
“Hi, Ken,” she said quietly.
He looked up at her and smiled. He seemed sad, philosophically so. It was not a mien she was used to seeing from him. “Hello, Emily. I suppose Mother called you?”
She nodded and walked closer. As she did, she saw the crayons were not crayons at all, but cartridges. “She’s concerned about you.”
“Hmmm…” He put down the gun and picked up one of the cartridges. “Yes. I’d be concerned about me, too. Look at this.” He waved her closer. “Here’s a funny thing.” When she kneeled down beside him, he showed her the rear of what she could now see was an empty .410 cartridge. “See that?” He held the
brass closer so she could inspect it.
There was little to see, but for two small dimples in the metal of the center fire cap. “Hammer’s fallen on that one twice,” she said, unsure what he wanted from her.
“Beautiful. Observant. Clever. I really like you, Emily. It’s a shame you’re going to leave me. Mind you, I was going to leave you, so that’s fair. Nothing personal. You’re just too left-wing. Sorry.” He looked her in the eye. She’d never seen him so guileless, so open and undefended. “You were going to leave me, weren’t you?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, absolving her. “No, that’s good. That’s the right thing to do. I tried to fuck you in the ass when you didn’t want to. Hard to get by a thing like that. I’m sorry about that, by the way. Did I say that at the time? I’m sorry. I keep having moments. Had one last night.”
“I heard. The housekeeper?”
He nodded. “There’s something not quite right with me, isn’t there?” He held up the spent cartridge. “Hammer fell on it twice. The first time was a misfire, but it fired perfectly the second time. I fired all four in the cellar.” Lovecraft knew the house had a single-lane firing range in the cellar; they’d had impromptu shooting matches down there when they’d first started going out together. She’d caught on quickly that he could just about stand losing as long as it was only by a small margin. It had still been fun, though. With a pang, she realized those matches had stopped at about the time she’d come to understand the true dimensions of their relationship. “Bang. Bang. Bang.” He looked at the cartridge, ran his thumb across the dimpled metal. “Bang. Why didn’t it fire the first time, Emily? If I could understand that, maybe I could understand what’s wrong with me. There’s something not quite right with me.”
“Kenneth.” She said his name gently, as if to a child. “Does this have to do with William Colt?”
He smiled at her. A big, open smile. “Beautiful. Observant. Clever. I’m not as clever as I thought I was. I don’t think I’m clever at all. Yes.” He toyed with the cartridge. “It’s everything to do with William Colt. He’s very clever.” He looked at Lovecraft again and the smile faltered. “I’m sorry, Emily. There’s something not quite right with me.”
She held him as he wept.
* * *
Elise Rothwell looked up from her third untouched coffee of the morning to see Lovecraft enter the kitchen. She saw the young woman’s eyes were red, but said nothing. She shied away a little when Lovecraft placed a revolver—silver and black, its cylinder out and empty—on the counter.
“I don’t think he’s suicidal,” she said, “but I’d keep that away from him, all the same.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. I think he’s had a small breakdown. He’s not lost to us, Mrs. Rothwell, or at least, that’s the impression I get. He’s had some sort of shock.”
Elise looked at her uncomprehendingly. “A shock? What kind of shock? When could that have happened?”
“I don’t know. It could have been as simple as him thinking something he didn’t want to think, and it shook him. Only he knows what did it. But I think with help, kindness, and a little time, he’ll be okay. He’ll be better. I’m no psychiatrist, though. I think he’s going to need one. And, please, don’t put him somewhere. It might be better if he stays in familiar surroundings.”
“He can stay with me for a while,” said Elise Rothwell. “He grew up in that house. It might make him feel safer.”
“That sounds good.”
“Somebody discreet to help him. I think I know who to ask.” Elise shook herself as if awakening from a dream and arose, all bustle and intent. She picked up the cooling coffee cup and tossed its contents into the sink, placing the cup and saucer in the dishwasher. “I shall get that organized at once.” She looked at Lovecraft as if she were the help, the vulnerability gone, her briefly annealed armor hardening once more. “Thank you for coming, dear. I’m sure you have things to be getting on with.”
* * *
Carter and Harrelson were waiting for her in the apartment above the bookstore when she got back. It was quickly obvious to them that she did not especially want to talk about where she’d been. Harrelson passed her a plastic shopping bag. “We got you a holster for the Beretta,” he said. “Hip holster. Figured being able to draw fast would be more use to you than concealment. And I brought along my old Blackhawk ankle rig if you want to try that instead.” He shook his head. “This had better be all we think it is. I’m pissing away my career here if we’re caught, and there’s probably jail time coming, too.”
“If we’re wrong, then it’s a hell of a shared delusion,” said Carter. “We deserve to be in an institution. Not a penal one, either.”
Lovecraft looped the hip holster on and tried the Beretta in it. Under her jacket, it was all but invisible. “Looks like I get a fast draw and concealment,” she said. She hoisted the Mossberg with its strap, extended magazine, and extra cartridges stored on the folding butt. “This thing weighs a damn ton with all the extra shit on it.” She shrugged. “Rather have it than not, though.” She put it in the duffel bag, now emptied but for the gear they were taking, and dropped in Harrelson’s ankle holster next to it.
“Okay.” Harrelson sat on the sofa, rubbing a smear of gun oil from the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. “What’s the plan?”
Carter looked at Lovecraft, who shrugged.
“Yeah,” said Harrelson, “that’s what I figured. We just swoop in and…?”
“Mess things up,” said Lovecraft. “We don’t know what’s so important about Waite Road, but something is. We find out what it is, and break it.”
“In the end house,” added Carter, “the one like a meeting house. That’s where Colt went.”
Harrelson smiled, albeit ruefully. “It’ll do. It’s not even the weakest due cause I’ve ever seen a warrant issued for. So when are we doing this?”
“Now?” said Carter. “Good a time as any.”
“No,” said Lovecraft.
“No?”
“Lunch,” said Lovecraft.
Chapter 25
THE THING AND THE DOORSTEP
They took Lovecraft’s car, an aging Ford station wagon that would not have looked badly out of place in an episode of The Rockford Files.
“This is … characterful,” said Harrelson. “Metallic brown. Nice.”
“Get in and shut up,” said Lovecraft. “No. Better. Shut up and get in.”
“Don’t argue with an armed librarian, Detective. Oh, and I call shotgun.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Harrelson muttered, “like a picnic.”
Lovecraft’s admonition to Harrelson to be quiet proved unnecessary. As they drove, the gravity of what they were about to do grew on them oppressively, and conversation did not come easily, nor did the prospect of imminent action improve the atmosphere as they approached the landward end of the isthmus leading onto Waite’s Bill.
Lovecraft slowed the car, coming to a halt some twenty yards from the entry road. “Okay. Anyone wants to back out, here’s your last chance. I won’t hold it against you if either or both of you want out.”
Carter was looking at the house overlooking the entrance. It was looking just on the edge of being unkempt. The grass was untended, and the car sat in the drive with mud over its rims like it had been driving in a field. It seemed at odds with the character of the man he’d spoken to there not so very long before.
“What about you?” said Harrelson. “None of us have to do this. That includes you.”
Lovecraft shook her head. “They hurt a friend of mine. If they can hurt him, they can hurt anyone. I can’t let that go.”
“Colt tried to kill me,” said Carter. “He’ll try again. Big picture aside, it’s self-preservation.” He looked at Harrelson. “You’re the only one without a dog in this. If we fuck up, this could go very badly for you.”
“I’m not letting you down.”
&nbs
p; “We could do with a reserve,” said Lovecraft suddenly. “You know? Like in battles? You could be our reserve, Detective. Hang back here, and we’ll call you if we need you. Then you’d be responding to a call for help.”
“Plausible deniability,” added Carter. “Stand you in good stead if IAB get involved.”
Harrelson considered it. “I’d need my own car.”
“Walk up to the main street and hail a taxi. You could be back here in half an hour.”
“Yeah.” He wavered, a man in dilemma. “Yeah, you’re right.” He got out of the car, leaned by Lovecraft’s window, and said, “Thanks. Don’t get killed while I’m gone.”
They watched Harrelson climb the incline toward the main street in the mirror.
“That was good of you,” said Lovecraft.
Carter didn’t argue the point. “It’s not his war. And he’s right—we don’t have a plan. All we have is a shitload of weapons and some personal animosity. What are we supposed to do? Kick down the door and shoot everyone?”
“I thought that was SOP for cops? Sure I read that somewhere.”
“Heh. Okay, how about this? There’s a stand of trees along the riverward side of the street. You take station there with the shotgun. I’ll go to the house, knock, introduce myself, go in, and…” He slowed to a halt.
“Why do you go to the door?”
“Because you’re the one with the shotgun, and it’s not concealable. Also, I’ve had combat training.”
“Cool. Have the woman without the combat training cover your back. What could go wrong? Okay … hypothetical: you go in. I wait, and I wait, and I wait, and meanwhile they’re cutting you to pieces inside in sacrifice to their dark god, and I’m outside. Waiting. I don’t see how that’s a win for us.”
“I’ll be on my guard. Push comes to shove, I’ll fire a shot as a signal. Then you can come in. No, better yet, call Harrelson to tell him you’re going in. If he’s only a minute or two away, wait for him.”
“This sucks. This is the worst plan ever. Kicking down the door and shooting everyone is beginning to look pretty sophisticated in comparison to that.” She sighed. “Unless we can talk the FBI into believing what’s been happening, it’ll have to do. Okay. Let’s … just get it over with.”
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