Requiem for Ashes

by David Crossman

  "A rifle rack. Strickland hunts sometimes."

  Tewksbury led the way to the front hall and into the study. "Here it is. 12-gauge, 24-gauge, couple've .22's. Look at this flintlock!

  "Is that a .410?"

  "No," said Tewksbury. "He told me about it once. He keeps it loaded, for self-defense. Makes his own bullets. It would give him some kind of perverse satisfaction to shoot a burglar with a two-hundred-year-old weapon. Poetic justice, I suppose. All the slots in the rack are filled. Nothing seems to be missing. No .410."

  "Michael?"

  The woman's voice came from the top of the stairs. The tenured intruders raced down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door like freshmen caught in the girls' dorm. Both had the presence of mind to pull their coats over their heads as they dashed for the car.

  "Our Miss Glenly," said Tewksbury as the car bottomed out at the foot of the driveway, the muffler striking a brief trail of sparks as they squealed from the concrete onto the pavement. "I forgot about her. What if she sees the license plate?"

  What if she did? thought Albert, to whom license plates were just something that came with the car, like the trunk or the ashtray. What if she saw those?

  Tewksbury dropped Albert at his apartment and, with thanks, drove off in Miss Bjork’s car to begin constructing something habitable from the ruins of his life.

  Albert opened the door and stood there. A small mound of junk mail had sprouted from the floor. Spring had a powerful effect.

  The room seemed smaller than before. Dirtier. Messier. Not big enough to contain the emptiness he felt. He closed the door and walked the serpentine pathways through the clutter. The air was draped with shades of stale blues and grays that smelled of old cigarettes, congealed coffee, and spilled beer. Homey.

  The piano slouched in the corner; the discarded lover no longer caring for her appearance, hoping in her pathos to rekindle his affection.

  He touched a high D#. It flew across the room on crystal wings and died against the wall. The quiet that followed was more profound than any Albert had known and gave birth to the sick-making loneliness he’d been trying to keep at bay, that chewed slowly through his soul in small bites with now and then a brutal kick to the heart to assure breathing. Beyond this, sorrow, like love, deserves privacy.

  When the sun retrieved its last thin veil from the corners of the room, Albert was still alive. Surprising. The sadness hadn't killed him, after all. He hadn't fallen into the hollow of his heart. He still clung to its edge by his fingernails. The effort was halfhearted, though. If he fell, he fell.

  The tears collected around his eyes and made his cheek sticky. He couldn't help feeling it would all make perfect sense to someone more familiar with the world; someone who shaved without thinking. Someone with a selection of suits and a driver's license.

  Where was the .410?

  Chapter Twenty

  A sharp rap at the door resounded in synch with a gunshot in Albert's dream. He awoke with a start, springing from the couch involuntarily. It was morning. Fairly late by the look of it. He'd needed the sleep.

  "Who is it?"

  "Sergeant Lucci, Professor," said Sergeant Lucci. "I spoke to you before, remember?"

  Albert remembered. "Yes."

  There was a pause during which nothing happened.

  "May I come in?"

  Albert went to the door and opened it.

  "So, you're finally home."

  Albert didn't answer.

  The sergeant started to cross the threshold then stopped and took a step backward. Dogs do the same thing at a drunkard's grave. There must be some anti-policeman agent in the air.

  "Detective Naples would like to see you."

  "Inspector Naples?" said Albert. He'd almost forgotten. "Is he still in the hospital?"

  "Yes, sir. He is. But he's much better," said the sergeant. "He's been in and out. But he's almost himself again. He wants to see you."

  Albert went quietly along with the young sergeant who smelled of Aqua Velva. Albert had always liked that smell. He wondered why some people had it and others didn't.

  "Inspector," Lucci said as he opened the door. "I have the Professor here."

  "The Professor! Send him in!"

  Albert seemed to recall a fairy tale that began the same way. The notion made him hesitate on the threshold before entering.

  The room was dark except for an anemic halo of light cast by the headboard lamp. The inspector could have been Tewksbury. Except he didn't look pathetic and scared, and he wasn't tied to the bed, and his wrists weren't bandaged. The more Albert's eyes became accustomed to the dark, the less like Tewksbury the inspector seemed; they’d both been more or less horizontal, that was the only similarity.

  "Well, Professor. This is a pleasure." Albert didn't think so.

  "Come, sit." Naples cleared some newspapers off his bedside. chair. "I was just thinking about you."

  Albert didn't like being thought about. The room was littered with flowers and boxes of candy.

  "I didn't bring anything," Albert apologized.

  "Sure you did," said Naples. My, what big eyes he had. "How are you feeling these days, Professor? You look better."

  Then why did he feel so much worse? He could feel the inspector inspecting him.

  "I see the burn on your cheek is almost gone."

  Albert's hand started toward his cheek, but stopped midway and fell back into his lap.

  "Another day or two and you'd never know it was there."

  They were in the room where it happened. Albert felt his face flush. He was seized with an almost uncontrollable urge to look up at the ceiling. He had the feeling the tile had been taken out, exposing his hiding place. He was glad the room was dark. "Tewksbury didn't kill Glenly," he said.

  "That's what I hear. Some crazy broad did it."

  "Daphne Knowlton did it," Albert corrected.

  "You know her, too?"

  Albert didn't really know anyone, but that's not what the inspector meant. He nodded.

  "They're keeping her here for observation. Downstairs, somewhere. I understand Tewksbury's back in town." Was he looking past Albert . . . at the ceiling? "He was out of town for a while, wasn't he, Professor?"

  "Was he?" Albert knew he was saying just what the inspector wanted him to say. The conversation was being orchestrated, but he could only play his part.

  "Under the name of Henry Rawlinson."

  Rawlinson? The Inspector's Prodigious Detecting Brain wasn't infallible, but it was inescapable, at least. Frightening to think what he'd know if he hadn't been semi-conscious all that time.

  "I'm sorry about the girl. Bjork."

  Albert jerked his eyes toward the inspector.

  "She was a bright kid. Had a future."

  Did she? What if she’d been meant to die all along? Albert searched Naples's face for meaning.

  The inspector was uncomfortable beneath his unabashed gaze. "Hunters," he said, effectively breaking the spell.

  It wasn't hunters. Albert wanted to say so. He wanted to pour the puzzle out on the sheets and ask the inspector to help him put it together. But too many pieces were missing.

  "How's your head?" said Albert after a silence.

  "Better." said the inspector. "Probably the best thing that could've happened, in the long run. I needed the rest, you know?" He paused a moment. "Not often I get the chance to laze in bed . . . and stare at the ceiling."

  Albert's eyes closed slowly in supplication. Not this ceiling. Not this room. Not now.

  "It’s a drop ceiling, Professor. Did you know that?” Pause. “I’m sure you do. Must have had the same thing in your room down the hall. Wonderful innovation, drop ceilings, don’t you think? They make these big, drafty old rooms cozy, easier to heat; don't you think? They're much lower than the original ceiling, you know. Probably a good three feet or so.”

  Naples tried to guide Albert's eyes to the ceiling, but they were fixed firmly on the floor.

 
"It's made of tiles, see? You can pop 'em in and out. It'd be a good storage space, except the panels are too weak to hold anything." Albert wanted to evaporate, simply cease to exist. "Unless you strapped it to the plumbing. You can see the water pipes over in the corner how they disappear up there. Now they'd hold something, all right. They'd be awfully hot, though. You wouldn't want to put anything up there that might burn."

  The strain of tension produced wells of tears in Albert's eyes. He looked away and wiped them with trembling hands.

  "People underestimate you, don't they, Professor?"

  Albert doubted that was possible.

  "If I didn't know better," the inspector continued, his hands going to his head, ". . . but it wasn't you behind me on the stairs, was it?"

  Albert cast a startled glance at the inspector. "You saw who it was?"

  "Not really. No. But I saw who itwasn't. And it wasn’t you.”

  "No. It wasn't."

  "And it wasn't Tewksbury."

  Albert must have looked surprised. "Why do you look surprised, Professor? He was inside your apartment, wasn't he?”

  Albert cleared his throat. "He knows where the key is."

  "He knows who his friends are," said the inspector. "One of your neighbors saw him leave your apartment, and I know whoever hit me bolted down the back stairs. That much I saw before I blacked out."

  "So, you don't know who it was?"

  "Do you?"

  Albert almost said, ‘I asked you first.’ "Is that why you wanted me here?"

  "No, no." Naples straightened out the sheets and brushed some crumbs onto the floor. Albert wondered whathis apartment looked like. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. A lot's happened in your life while I've been . . . away . . . I thought, you know, we could talk. There's plenty to talk about; architecture, for instance. Ceilings and stairways and houses in Maine. Just catch up, really. Tying up loose ends." Long uncomfortable pause. "Do you know who hit me, Professor?"

  Albert thought of Lane sitting on his doorstep, clutching his groceries and crying. He fixed his eyes on the Inspector's. "I won't tell you, Inspector. You can put me in prison or whatever you do . . . but I won't tell you. He didn't mean to hit you. He was trying to protect someone. It won't happen again. He's not the kind of person who would . . . do that again."

  The inspector was quiet for a minute. "He almost killed me, Professor."

  "Someone almost killed me, too."

  "Mm."

  Albert folded his hands. "You're all right. You’ll be okay."

  Albert was dying for a cigarette. He fidgeted while the inspector studied him. "So, Daphne Knowlton killed Glenly because of what he did to her that night at the school?"

  Albert shrugged.

  "And Tewksbury's free."

  "And Miss Bjork is dead," said Albert. And Lane, and Glenly, and Daphne Knowlton and music. They were all dead in varying degrees. Who could say how many of the walking were mortally wounded?

  "What now? Will you arrest me?"

  "You?" said the inspector with a snort of irony. "Hardly." He deliberated. "You're not just another Tewksbury, Professor. I don't need an international incident on my hands. No . . . it wouldn't be worth it."

  Albert didn't know what he was talking about.

  "Not that I don't think you deserve it," Naples added.

  There was another prolonged silence that crept to the corners of the room and settled down like hand-knit draft dogs.

  "Lane hit me," said the inspector softly.

  How did he know? Albert had heard of mind readers. He'd probably been thinking too loud. "How do you know?"

  It had been a desperate attempt on the inspector's part. A last cast with a baitless line. He never expected a bite.

  "I didn't." He watched as the weight of his words seeped slowly into Albert's consciousness. He wasn't satisfied. A minor riddle had been solved, but the enigma was complete. No one as clever and calculating as he supposed Albert to be would have . . . still. There he sat, stupefied in the darkness. For the first time, Naples caught a glimpse of Albert as he really was. But it was a glimpse clouded by skepticism. Experience had hardened him to the possibility of innocence.

  "That's another reason I knew it wasn't you or Tewksbury that hit me. It was a black man. Daphne Knowlton had been staying with Professor Lane who's black. Simple enough. Still, it was just a guess. One thing leads to another."

  "One thing leads to another." Albert was amazed how people dispensed these nuggets of wisdom like multi-colored spheres from broken gumball machines. "One thing leads to another."

  That's how they did it.

  "But there wasn't any motive that I could see. No proof . . . until now," said the inspector. "I could subpoena you to appear in court."

  "One thing leads to another!" thought Albert. It's what Holmes and the Hardy Boys were all about. Albert had been looking for one thing that explained it all. He ran from the room.

  The inspector let him go without comment.

  Of course, Albert had been following a trail of sorts, but he'd always been expecting to find the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, around every corner. He'd expected the whole puzzle to fall suddenly into place. But . . . one piece at a time. One thing leading to another.

  Every question answered was another piece in place.

  If he only someone would tell him the questions.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jeremy Ash and Mrs. Gibson were watching cartoons. They shut the TV off when Albert came in – a high compliment.

  "Professor!" said Mrs. Gibson. "You should be in this bed. I've seen leftovers looked healthier. Come sit here. When was the last time you ate?"

  "We read about that lady . . . the lawyer," said Jeremy Ash soberly. "She was nice." He looked at Mrs. Gibson. "He liked her."

  Mrs. Gibson shook her head in sweeping disgust. "Them hunters should be shot," she decreed. "Give the bears guns, and show 'em how to shoot, then there'll be some good sport in the woods."

  The conversation ricocheted from one subject to another for the next half hour, though Albert didn't have much part in it, since Mrs. Gibson made it her job to see that his mouth was full most of the time.

  "The boy says he's coming to live with you when he gets out."

  What had made him say that? Where among the trash would he put Jeremy Ash? Albert smiled with half his mouth. "Mmm."

  "Didn't you say you were going to live with the Professor, Jeremy?" said Mrs. Gibson.

  "He said it," said Jeremy, in whose ears Albert's "mmm" echoed like another betrayal.

  Of course, the mess could be cleaned up. And Albert had another room or two; there were doors he'd never opened. There might be rooms he didn't know about. He'd have to find out.

  "I'm just wondering . . . I have to get everything clean first," said Albert. "There's an awful lot of cleaning to do."

  Jeremy sighed. Mrs. Gibson picked up the hint that wasn't there and spun it into a nice flannel housecoat that fit her perfectly. "They say he can go in the next two or three months, if they can stop the leaks," she said. "Since I get out in three days, that leaves a few months. I could clean up Hiroshima in that time."

  She hadn't seen Albert's rooms.

  Nevertheless, the contract was sealed with nods and winks for which she took Albert's nods and winks to be reciprocal. Albert always nodded and winked when his ears couldn't handle the overflow. It was a natural distilling process.

  Jeremy Ash sensed there was something on Albert's mind. "Professor, take me for a walk, will you?" In an instant there appeared to Albert's overworked brain a series of possibilities as to how this might be accomplished, most of them grotesque, some comical, to someone with a distorted sense of humor. Albert had no sense of humor. He was relieved when Jeremy Ash nodded toward the wheelchair across the room.

  For a long time neither of them spoke. Jeremy stuck the flap of his plastic ID bracelet in the spokes and let it putter rhythmically as they went up and down the hall
s.

  "You don't have to take me to your place."

  "What?"

  "There's this place in Boston. Not a hospital. A kind've home

  . . . for kids like me."

  It hadn't occurred to Albert there might be other children like Jeremy Ash. How many? How many would fit in his apartment? Another thought shelved these speculations for a moment.

  "Why would a man take a camera into a bank?"

  Jeremy absorbed the question as though it followed the flow of conversation perfectly.

  "To take pictures."

  "Of what?"

  "I dunno. Money?"

  Albert didn't think Strickland had been taking pictures of money. "I don't think so."

  "I dunno."

  The walk continued in silence except for the tickety-thick of the ID bracelet. Everyone said hello to Jeremy Ash and smiled at Albert.

  "He'd take it into his safety-posit box."

  "Who would?" Albert didn't answer so, after a moment, Jeremy said the next thing that occurred to him. "He wanted to take pictures of what was in it.”

  One thing was leading to another. "Why?"

  "Cause he wanted to look at it."

  Albert wondered what was the point of anything you just looked at, but he’d come to accept the fact that there was just no accounting for human behavior. "Why wouldn't he just take it home and look at it?"

  " 'Cause . . . it was too valuable." The boy was a possibility machine; endless permutations of logic popped out of him like sheet music sliding off a wooden stool. " . . . . or fragile."

  "Fragile?"

  "Or secret."

  "Secret?" said Albert. His mind was spinning. "Secret?" he repeated.

  "I dunno," Jeremy said and shrugged. "Who are we talking about?"

  "Professor Strickland," Albert replied. The name meant nothing to Jeremy Ash. "Twice."

  "I don't know who that is."

  "He's in archaeology."

  "Bones and stuff?"

  Albert wasn't clear on where anthropology ended and archaeology began. "Minoans, and Etruscans," he said. "Old things. Ruins."

  "He digs 'em up, right?"

  "I guess so. He goes with Tewksbury in the summer. I guess that's what they do. Dig things up." In less complicated times Tewksbury had talked endlessly about archaeology. Albert almost wished he'd listened.