by Joan Dempsey
Ludka sat back and dropped her hands in her lap. What kind of man spent $345 on sunglasses?
“Weasel,” she muttered.
She couldn’t find anything at all about Pawel Brozek. Last week she had spent some time searching and found nothing. Now she discovered a few things about Oskar’s son—Stanley’s father—who had made his name on Wall Street and didn’t resemble Oskar in the least. He had died just last year, shortly after being indicted for fraud by the Securities and Exchange Commission. Members of his team had been found guilty. Surely if Oskar had been alive, he would have attended his son’s funeral?
She was suddenly exhausted. She turned off the monitor and the desk lamp, and followed the light coming through the door from the living room. She parted the drapes over the French door to the screen porch, wondering if the deer were at the salt lick. The moon was high and bright, the yard bathed in snow-reflected light, and the deer were there, just as they’d been nearly every day at one point or another over the past week. One of them stood taller, having maybe sensed the movement of the curtain, but soon enough she relaxed her guard and pawed and nosed at the snow. Ludka thought about throwing on the floodlight, but just then the same deer faltered and pitched slowly forward onto her knees. Ludka threw a hand over her mouth, but then the deer lowered her back end and arranged herself for sleeping. The other two joined her in the same ungainly manner, settling close together to battle the cold. Ludka’s face softened and she released a small sigh.
Just as she was about to turn away, she noticed that the door to the screen porch was ajar and one of the four chairs had been shoved back from the table. And on the table, dead center, was a fist-sized stone, anchoring what appeared to be an envelope. Ludka inhaled sharply and dropped the curtain. The refrigerator whined into life, and something wooden in the frame of the old house gave a sharp pop and groan. The deer wouldn’t be there had someone been skulking outside, but Ludka still walked through the house and turned on the floodlights over the driveway. She spent a few tense minutes scanning the lighted areas and straining to hear any foreign sound. She double-checked the locks on all the doors, then fetched the cotton gloves from the dining room. She opened the door to the screen porch as quietly as she could, and was sorry that as soon as she stepped outside the deer snorted, scrambled to their feet, and bolted, white tails flung up as if in surrender. The porch was frigid. Ludka took the stone and envelope back into the dining room. She was aware of feeling some small, giddy pride that she had thought of the gloves; she wouldn’t be responsible for disturbing what would shortly become evidence. The envelope hadn’t been sealed. Inside, neatly inked in thick black marker on a piece of folded copy paper, was a vulgar warning about Tommy.
14
Night Visitor
What Meck first became aware of before he was fully awake, before he felt Jill shaking him or heard the steady knocking on his front door, was a high and persistent whining from Gracie, their typically silent greyhound. Meck flung himself to a sitting position, startling Jill, who apologized for scaring him.
“Someone’s at the door,” she said.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly ten-thirty.”
Meck had been asleep less than half an hour. Across the brightly moonlit room, the dog was stretching cautiously forward through the doorway, long neck arched around the edge of the doorframe, peering down the stairs. The knocking was insistent, yet not terribly loud.
“Who’s there, Gracie? Who is it, girl?”
Gracie scrabbled into the hallway and pelted down the stairs.
Meck got up. An accident? Gloria from next door? The knocking was odd: light, as if the person didn’t want to alert the neighbors, as rapid as the drill of a small woodpecker. Then it stopped. A man’s muffled voice seemed to be talking to the dog. Whit, maybe? The sudden rush of adrenaline and chill of the room turned to tension in his back and shoulders, and he shuddered involuntarily. He pulled a pair of jeans over his briefs, and a sea-blue Irish sweater over his T-shirt. Gracie had stopped whining, and he could hear her tail whacking the foot of the banister. Jill got up, but Meck told her to stay in bed, he’d take care of it. He shoved his feet into his leather slippers and headed downstairs. Gracie pressed her nose against the long oval window in the old oak door opposite the foot of the stairs. Eric Barton stood outside, blowing into his gloveless hands.
“Eric?”
Meck drew off the chain, threw open the deadbolt, and opened the door. Eric stamped his feet a few times and stepped inside, bringing in a rush of cold. Meck relocked the front door.
“What are you doing here, Eric?
What’s going on?”
Eric angrily shook his head.
“You tell me, Mr. Meck.”
“Tell you what? Listen, come in. Don’t worry about your boots.”
Gracie trotted ahead of them into the kitchen. Eric unbuttoned his overcoat and stood somewhat awkwardly in front of the sink, looking as if he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten there. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. He blew again into his hands. Meck gestured to a chair at the kitchen table, but Eric continued to stand. Gracie nosed Eric’s hip and then leaned against him. He absentmindedly stroked her head.
“Did you do it yourself or farm it out?”
“What are you talking about, Eric?”
“They said there were two of them. Clean-cut. Who’d you get to go with you? I mean, I agreed to help, but I didn’t sign up for this. A little information now and again is one thing, but this—”
“Eric!”
The effect of Meck’s shout was as instantaneous as a slap—Eric shut up.
“Here, sit down, let me make us some coffee.”
“Wait. You really don’t know?”
Meck shook his head. He pulled out a chair and Eric sat. His overcoat bunched up around his neck and shoulders. He fussed with it and then stood up, took it off, and searched around for a place to put it. Meck took it from him and went back out into the hall and hung it in the closet tucked under the stairs. Jill came down the stairs, her blonde hair freshly brushed.
“You promised if I helped you I wouldn’t be exposed,” Eric called. “Who knew about tonight’s review at the high school?”
Meck told Jill to head back up to bed. “It’s just work,” he whispered. “Nothing to concern you.”
“Who’s exposed?” she whispered back.
“No one. Go check on the kids.”
“Shouldn’t I at least make you some coffee?”
She leaned to peer past him into the kitchen, and Meck sternly held her shoulders.
“The kids. What did I just say?”
“You’re right, Warren, I’m sorry.”
He touched her cheek and she briefly closed her eyes. She tightened the belt on her robe and headed back up the stairs.
Meck sighed, regretting his unnecessarily stern tone; Eric’s presence was unnerving. He smoothed his hair in the back, then in the front, and went into the kitchen, where Eric was pacing. Gracie was standing out of Eric’s way, ears cocked, watching him carefully.
“Only a handful of us knew about the review,” said Meck. “But what did you mean about helping me? Who promised you what?”
Eric opened his mouth to say something, frowned, and closed it. Despite the late hour and the drive he’d made from Boston, his suit was impeccable, his tie neatly knotted, but thick and random strands of his black hair had cracked free from the gel he’d used to slick it into place.
“Okay,” he said, “now I’m confused. But that would explain why you were so overt when I saw you this morning—I figured you wouldn’t admit you recognized me. Here’s the thing—I’ve been helping your campaign with a little information now and then, that’s all. Nothing major. But I didn’t pass on information about the review. That seemed like too private a matter.”
Meck’s eyes widened. He turned away from Eric, put a hand over his mouth, and slowly walked over to the door.
“I’m sor
ry,” said Eric. “I assumed you knew.”
“No. No, I didn’t know. When you say you’ve been helping my campaign, who exactly are you talking about? How long has this been going on?”
“About a month? Is there a problem?”
Meck crossed the floor and sank into a chair. Gracie followed and nosed up under his arm, which he pulled away, annoyed.
“But here’s the thing,” said Eric. “Somebody beat up the senator’s son. Two ‘clean-cut young men’ they said. Put him in the hospital! It was all over the news.”
Meck froze, then rested his hand on Gracie’s neck. “Beat him up? Is he …?”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Thank God. It happened at the school? After the review?”
“In his driveway. He suspected he’d been followed. Did Whit Hammond know about the review?”
“Of course. Wait, Whit doesn’t know about you, does he?”
“I thought so, but then again I thought you did, too.”
Meck grew very still, then rubbed a sudden chill from the back of his neck.
“You can’t be worried about Whit, Eric. Someone must have staked out Tommy’s house. It could have been anyone. He’s been all over the news. Listen, I want you to stop whatever it is you were doing. Immediately.”
“Of course, sure. Am I in trouble?”
“I’d say if you kept doing whatever it is you’ve been doing, you could have derailed any hope of a future in politics, not to mention undermined our entire campaign. Who asked you to do this?”
Eric worked at one of the strands of hair, rubbing out the dried gel. He stared down at the floor.
“I think maybe it would be better if I didn’t say.”
“If I have someone on the campaign who’s undermining our efforts, I’m sure you understand I want to confront them before they go too far. It wasn’t Arnie Dengler, was it? Seems like something he’d blunder into. Or someone on one of our volunteer committees? The legislative team would make sense. What kind of information were you passing on?”
“Just whether the senator was aware of the bills, whether anyone in the office was talking about them, that sort of thing.”
“You need to tell me who it is, Eric.”
“I’ll let them know we talked, I promise.”
“I don’t know what this person told you, Eric, but I’m in charge of this campaign. Nothing underhanded happens on my watch, okay? Tell them I said that.”
“I want you to know, Mr. Meck, that I support your efforts. I’m a believer in the First Amendment and even though I don’t go to your church … if there’s anything else I can do … aboveboard, I mean.”
“Here’s what you can do. Put it behind you. Forget all about it. Work hard for the senator. Don’t tell anyone—and I mean anyone—and don’t ever—ever—do anything like it again, do you understand?”
Eric nodded soberly.
“I need to know I can count on you, Eric.”
“You can, absolutely. And I’m awfully sorry. I’ve botched everything, haven’t I?”
Meck got up and began to pace. He’d have to coordinate with Pastor Royce, come out strong in their condemnation of the assault, make it glaringly clear they would never condone such violence. He’d use Leviticus on tomorrow’s show, try to allay any doubts. And then Pastor Royce could echo that at Wednesday’s seeker service. Better yet, he’d see if the pastor could join him on the show tomorrow. Meck began to feel better, as he always did with a plan that included Pastor Royce. He stopped pacing.
“‘Thou shalt not avenge,’” he said to Eric, “‘nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’ I’ll use that tomorrow, and I’ll call the senator myself and express my condolences and concerns. I think it’s containable.”
“What about the ‘clean-cut young men’?” said Eric. “That part worries me. We’re not talking about some gay-bashing rednecks out for a joyride.”
“That is a concern, I admit. Let me ask around, see what I can find out. We certainly can’t have any freelancers out there. I’ll do what I can to forestall anyone’s ideas about further violence.”
Gracie wagged her tail and gazed at Eric. He ran his hand over her fawn-colored forehead and ears, then scratched her creamy, freckled neck. Eric sighed and looked around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. He smiled.
“What happened to that coffee?”
Meck put a hand to his brow and gave a short laugh.
“Never mind,” said Eric. “Forget about it. I’ll grab some at that all-night Starbucks out on the Pike.”
“You’re driving back? I assumed you’d be here in the district tomorrow.”
“No, the senator’s already here, and Aggie said we’d need more coverage in Boston. She wasn’t sure if he’d be back tomorrow or not. Depends on his son.”
“Why didn’t you just call me? Or whoever you’ve been working with for that matter? Why drive all this way?”
“I was just kind of wondering that myself. I don’t know, I was all wired up. And honestly?”
He drew himself up in his chair.
“I love your show, and I know how influential you are in the Christian community. And if your campaign succeeds, I assume you’re going national. I thought maybe we could get reacquainted. Climbing the ladder, as you said. I guess after seeing you today I wanted to see you in person, make the connection.”
He smiled sheepishly.
“And you thought showing up at my home late at night to accuse me of assault would be a good way to connect? I think what you really wanted was to see whether I would lie when you confronted me. No, I get that; I do. You had your doubts, that’s understandable.”
“The senator is a really good man, you know? We’re doing some important work. Life-changing work. From all accounts his son Tommy is a good guy, too. Even a good teacher. I do wonder if … I don’t know, don’t you ever wonder if you’re doing the right thing?”
Meck nodded slowly. He turned when he heard shuffling behind him.
“Daddy?”
“Hey there, Sport. What are you doing up?”
Andrew stood in his pale blue footy pajamas, staring wide-eyed at Eric. Gracie trotted over and stood calmly beside him. She came up to his shoulder, and he put an arm around her neck, never taking his eyes off Eric.
“Who’s this little guy?”
“My name is Andrew Meck. I’m pleased to meet you.”
He held out his small hand and frowned at Eric. Eric laughed, and Meck smiled.
“That’s right, Sport. But come on over here, where Eric can shake your hand.”
Andrew buried his face in Gracie’s neck. Gracie took a sideways step and craned her head around toward Andrew, who leaned on her too heavily.
“Come on over here. Join us.”
Andrew shuffled over and leaned against Meck, staring again at Eric. Meck picked him up and then sat down and pulled him onto his lap.
“It’s not that I wonder whether we’re doing the right thing, Eric. We are absolutely doing the right thing. It’s that we need to keep our focus, and that can be tough, especially in the face of someone as honorable as Lolek Zeilonka. You have to remember we’re just trying to protect our kids.”
He hefted Andrew into a more comfortable position.
“I’m sorry about Tommy Zeilonka, really I am. No one deserves that. I’d love to see him get it together and go back into the classroom. But until he does, until they all do, our kids have to come first. Curtailing their speech in the classroom is only the first step down a slippery slope. Almost a dozen countries already classify some religious speech as a hate crime; people can’t even quote the Biblical references about homosexuality. They call this ‘tolerance’ without a hint of irony. If we don’t fight back, freedom of speech will be a thing of the past, and God knows that doesn’t bode well for freedom of religion. I never lose sight of our grand vision, Eric. It’s a vision I’ve kept in focus since I was a kid, lis
tening to Pastor Royce’s sermons in a tiny storefront church in a California strip mall. It’s what keeps me resilient in the face of empathy, which often masquerades rather cleverly as doubt. We’re restoring our Christian nation. Restoring it, step by step. If Lolek Zeilonka were on our side, he would do exactly what we’re doing, make no mistake about that. We are not ‘anti’ either your senator or his son. We’re pro-history. We’re on the side of what’s right and true.”
Meck found he’d been punctuating his words again with a raised forefinger. He lowered his hand to Andrew’s head and smoothed back his white-blond hair.
“What’s right and true,” murmured Eric. He rubbed Gracie’s head with both hands. “You should run for office, Mr. Meck. Say something like that tomorrow on your radio show and that’ll send just the right message to any freelancers. Listen, I’m sorry I barged in on you like this. I’d better hit the road if I’m going to get any sleep at all tonight. And sorry I—”
“Say nothing more, Eric. You’re fine.”
—
When Eric had gone, and Andrew was tucked back into bed, Meck used the kitchen phone to call Whit. It rang seven times before Whit answered.
“Eric Barton was just in my kitchen, Whit. No, sorry, it can’t wait. Please, go downstairs into your office. We need to talk. Now.”
15
In the News
Frank Zeilonka walked into his brother’s kitchen after quietly letting himself in through the back door. Lolek’s car was out front. Frank wasn’t surprised, given the situation with Tommy. He was surprised, though, that no one was up yet. Rough night, he supposed, and it was still early. But Marta was usually up by five, and more mornings than not she had coffee waiting for him. Somewhere along the line, he couldn’t say exactly when, he had taken to stopping in on his way to the station, or sometimes on his way home if he was filling in for one of the guys on a night shift. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Lolek, and just the idea he was upstairs made Frank uneasy. Maybe he should have gone straight to Mercy to check in again on the kid. The coffee canister was cold from the refrigerator. He tucked the paper filter into the basket and scooped out enough coffee for a full pot. While it was brewing, he stepped out the front door and grabbed the newspaper off the stoop. As he pulled it out of its plastic bag, Frank peered out into the dark morning. His breath hung and then rose before him, drifting toward the road. Tommy’s story led the news. The prominent photograph above the fold was Lolek emerging from the ER, a pained expression on his face, one glove on, the other hanging limp. Frank grinned at the second photograph, framed in a sidebar.