The Art of the Devil Page 15

  Brennan drank in Elisabeth appreciatively. ‘Hubba, hubba. Are your legs tired, honey?’

  She blinked. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Because they will be. You’re going to be running through my dreams tonight.’

  Josette rolled her eyes. ‘Bill’s a charmer – in his own mind.’

  ‘I have my days,’ he admitted.

  As Josette chatted with the man about Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob, Elisabeth felt a knot of tension loosen in her gut. If this buffoon was their head of security, she thought, she had given them altogether too much credit.

  THE TREASURY BUILDING

  Dry-swallowing a pill, Isherwood spent a pensive moment examining the vial in his hand.

  The doctors had prescribed codeine – so why couldn’t he take a drink instead? As soon as the idea occurred, it began to seem terribly reasonable. He’d already proved he could function without booze. The whiskey would be purely medicinal. One good slug would clear his head; he pictured clouds parting, clean sunlight shining through. Even the accouterments of the act – the burst of cork leaving bottle, the woody smoky flavor hitting his nose before his tongue – would do him a world of good.

  Something inside him gave an ugly clench. It is the greatest art of the devil, Baudelaire had said, to convince us that he does not exist.

  Slipping the vial back into his pocket, he looked up and saw that from behind the desk the Chief was watching him intently. When the phone rang, Spooner reached for it without taking his gaze from Isherwood’s face.

  ‘When?’ asked the Chief. ‘And,’ he prodded. ‘And.’ He took out his pack of Winstons, shot one onto the floor, crooked the phone between chin and shoulder to retrieve it. ‘How many? … Right. You know where to find me.’

  He hung up, tightly smiled. ‘Hart,’ he said, and crossed his fingers.

  GETTYSBURG

  Philip Zane listened to a series of clicks as the operator patched through the call, a weird underwater peeping, and then the ringing of a faraway telephone. Three rings, four – a woman answered sleepily. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Person-to-person from Mister Zane,’ interrupted the operator, ‘for Missus Zane.’

  A microscopic pause. ‘This is she.’

  ‘Your party, sir,’ said the operator, and rang off.

  ‘Honey,’ said Zane eagerly.

  As his wife catalogued her latest complaints – aching back, bloating and blotching, torrential sweating, inadequate bladder – he made sympathetic noises, keeping one eye on the Eisenhower house through the window of the Secret Service office. Upon finishing, she segued without missing a beat into a touchy subject: ‘I had lunch with my father yesterday. He says Melvin’s on his way back to California come the new year; his mother’s ailing.’

  Zane felt his stomach bottom out, as it did every time this subject came up. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said carefully.

  ‘About his mother, or about the spot opening up?’

  Both. ‘What do you think? The mother.’

  ‘I think you meant both.’

  No fooling Trudy, of course. But it didn’t take Einstein to figure out that Zane, having achieved the pinnacle of the American Dream, would not eagerly abandon the position to work as a manager in his father-in-law’s hardware store.

  ‘We talked about this,’ Trudy was saying.

  ‘We did,’ he conceded.

  ‘You said you’d think about it.’

  That was before he had gotten out from behind the desk. ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Honey, we can’t bring a baby into this world without a father. At least in the store nobody’s asking you to step in front of a—’

  ‘Zeeskyte, I’ve got to run. Sorry. Love you.’

  He hustled back toward Farm Two beneath the light snowfall, dodging baleful looks sent his way by the skeleton crew on duty watching the President – anyone who could slip away to join the party had done so.

  Entering the herdsman’s home through the kitchen door, he avoided the thick of the festivities – men and women swaying in clinches as Nat King Cole murmured ‘A Blossom Fell’ – and reached the staircase. Settling back down in his chair by the bedroom window, he risked lighting a cigarette: against the rules, but the house matron would have her hands full downstairs.

  He should have known that Trudy would press the issue. But he had hoped for a few more pleasant moments of conversation before they got there.

  His wife had grown up in Westchester, he reminded himself, playing tennis and croquet, attending cotillions and mixers, serving Martinis to her father each night when he came home from work. Her parents had no memories of the old country, no pogroms, rapes, or murders in their past, no recollections of hiding in cellars to express political or religious opinions. America would never mean to Trudy – or to their unborn child – what it meant to Philip Zane. And that was good, of course. He would not take away her sense of security for anything. Still, he sometimes wished that she understood more what America, and so this job, meant to him.

  He sighed. The sound of tipsy merrymaking drifted up from downstairs. Companionship, a drink, a festive atmosphere to balance out the solitude … the party was what had made him sneak away to call Trudy in the first place. But, of course, this was the job for which he’d signed up. This was the job he wouldn’t trade for the world.

  Angling his chair slightly in the direction of Farm One, he cracked open the window, exhaled smoke into a cold swirl of snow flurries, and settled in. Watch and wait.

  CENTREVILLE

  Hurrying away from the motor court, leaning against the one crutch he’d had time to grab – the only thing, except for coat and wallet, he’d saved from the room – Richard Hart felt a sweet, sugary fear coursing through his body, a fear glutinous in its purity.

  Neon signs lining the highway tinted the falling snow aquamarine, coral pink, emerald, and tangerine. Despite the proximity of a major thoroughfare, the night possessed the preternatural stillness of the moment before an automobile accident. Reaching the edge of the road, Hart paused to look back behind himself. Two more patrol cars had pulled into the parking lot. Beneath fat, tumbling flakes of snow, four officers were massing outside the room he had just clumsily vacated via the bathroom window. Two others approached the parked Buick, guns drawn. The desk clerk stood outside the motor court’s office, beetling his brow and wringing his hands.

  A car came whizzing down the highway. Licking bloody lips, Hart propped himself against the single crutch and stuck out a thumb.

  The car whickered past.

  He set the crutch and moved off, humping down the road’s gravel shoulder. His pulse beat in the hollow of his throat. Cold wind sliced surgically through his coat, clothes, and skin. Despite the chill, clammy sweat-spiders crawled over his chest and back. The crutch slipped against ice, and he nearly fell. Cursing, he regained his balance. His broken leg beneath the cast sent a pulse of distress. A sense of unreality descended. These were the ingredients, he thought, of a particularly lurid nightmare.

  A distant thud as the cops put shoulders against door in the motor court behind him.

  Another pair of headlights was coming down the highway. He turned again, stuck out his thumb. Please, God—

  Spraying up a curtain of cold slush, the car – a peach-over-white Nash Metropolitan – pulled over onto the gravel shoulder.

  GETTYSBURG

  ‘Don’t look now; it’s him.’

  Elisabeth looked. A new group of men had appeared, wearing blue jeans and chambray work shirts. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The tall one. Is he coming over here?’

  He was – a curly-haired, cherubic man of about thirty, sporting a handlebar mustache in an effort to make himself look older. ‘Brace yourself,’ Elisabeth warned.

  Josette forced an enthusiastic grin onto her face. ‘Probably, it’s for the best,’ she said merrily. ‘Because when I get on my way, I wouldn’t want to be held back by – why, speak of the devil! James, please meet my friend Elisabeth; Libb
y, James.’

  ‘Libby.’ He took her hand and gave it a lingering kiss, making Josette squirm. ‘My, my. Libby.’

  One of his friends pressed rudely through the crowd. ‘Jimmy, whatcha drinking?’

  ‘What aren’t I drinking?’ James laughed roughly. ‘The price is right, ain’t it? I’ll take one of everything.’

  As the friend shouldered off toward the bar, another farmhand promptly materialized to take his place. ‘Like rats on a hunk a cheese, over there. Nothing like free booze to bring out the best in people, huh?’ His eyes were glued to Elisabeth’s décolletage. ‘Say, honey, you ready for a dance?’

  ‘Sorry. I got a bum ankle.’

  James threw an elbow into the man’s ribs. ‘Sal, I told you. You gotta work up to it. A little class works wonders.’

  ‘I just asked for a dance.’

  ‘Yeah, but look at what you’re dealing with here. This here’s the epitome of feminine pulchritude.’

  Elisabeth turned, seeking escape, but found herself hemmed in on every side.

  Soon the friend returned from the bar, bearing drinks and a joke he’d heard in line: where was Solomon’s temple? On the side of his head. Josette managed a fake, tinkling little laugh. The best Elisabeth could summon was a dimple. The crowd pressed close around them, warm and smothering. On her right, a frizzy-haired scullery maid named Caroline Dreyfus fell into heated discussion with Sal about the merits of venison. (Too tough, she declared, and Sal informed her that she’d never had it cooked correctly.) On her left, Josette tried to involve James in a conversation about scotch and soda versus gin and tonic.

  But he ignored her, staring hungrily at Elisabeth. ‘I could use a smoke,’ he said, as if they were the only two in the room. ‘Let’s sneak outside.’

  He turned, heading for the side door, assuming she would follow. Falling into step behind him, Josette shot Elisabeth a beseeching look. Elisabeth said into her friend’s ear, ‘I’ve got a headache. Think I’m just going to …’

  ‘Oh God, don’t you dare! Don’t you dare leave me alone with him!’

  ‘Josie—’

  ‘I mean it,’ Josette hissed, and grabbed Elisabeth’s hand.

  Seeing their trajectory, others fell into their wake. Now the dance floor was packed; couples held each other close, the music had gotten louder, and a first Christmas ornament had been broken. Dunbarton, who should have served as the voice of reason, was nowhere to be seen. Glancing at a Waterbury clock on the mantle as they passed, Elisabeth was surprised to find it not yet eight p.m.

  In the yard outside, a motley group of six – Josette and Elisabeth and Caroline Dreyfus, and James and two other farmhands whose names Elisabeth hadn’t caught – moved toward the nearby oak. None had stopped for overcoats, and except for Elisabeth all shivered in the snow, for the most part grinning good-naturedly as cigarettes were handed around and then chivalrously lighted. James finished his drink, produced a flask, and swigged. He passed the flask to Josette, who although holding a scotch in her other hand drank and then passed it to Elisabeth, who had lost her Old-Fashioned somewhere. She pretended to drink and then passed the flask to the man standing beside her, a gangly fellow of about forty, drowning in a tweed jacket at least two sizes too large.

  Noticing Elisabeth’s bare arms, the gangly man said, ‘Cold?’ He put an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her close.

  ‘Hey Earl,’ said Josette scornfully, ‘give her your coat, why don’t you, if you want to be a gentleman?’

  ‘Better yet,’ said James, ‘let’s go into the barn. It’s warm, and we can smoke without worrying about Dunbarton.’

  Elisabeth shook her head – but Josette was looking directly at her, significantly.

  The group moved off beneath languid snowflakes, across frozen ruts of earth.

  THE TREASURY BUILDING

  Isherwood could hear the voice on the other end of the connection: pinched, adenoidal, strained.

  Spooner covered his eyes with one hand. ‘Sergeant,’ he said carefully, ‘I don’t see how that’s possible.’

  An insectile reply.

  ‘Well,’ said Spooner, ‘fucking find him,’ and he slammed a fist onto the desk with enough force to make the picture of Joe DiMaggio behind it go crooked.

  ROUTE 650: NORTH OF CENTREVILLE

  ‘Hope you got the license plate,’ said the man behind the wheel, glancing over at Hart in the passenger seat.

  Hart laughed. ‘Boy,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to get me started. You wouldn’t believe the weekend I’ve had.’

  The man driving the Nash Metropolitan was in his late sixties, heavily sideburned, with white tufts of hair sprouting from prominent ears. ‘Do tell,’ he said. ‘I could use a good laugh.’

  An infinitesimal pause. ‘Well,’ said Hart then. ‘I’m heading up north to see my sister, coming up Route Fifteen, and this Mack truck jackknifes in front of me – yesterday morning, this is. So by yesterday afternoon, I’m in the hospital, my car’s on the way to the junkheap, and I’ve got forty bucks in my wallet. Worse, I got this bang on the head. Confuses me. The doctors do a quick patch-up and tell me the worst is past. But I’m looking at a bill that means taking out a second mortgage, so I decide to get on my way, ride my thumb up north.’ He laughed again, shaking his head ruefully. ‘May not have been the best decision,’ he admitted, ‘what with the crutch and the weather. But I’m not thinking too straight. Yesterday morning, my biggest problem was what to eat for breakfast. And now …’ He trailed off.

  ‘Where’s your sister at?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘I can get you as far as Union Station, how’s that sound?’

  ‘Sounds good. I appreciate the lift.’

  He glanced in the side-view mirror as he spoke. No sign of sirens yet – but they would find the ruffled bed, still warm. But the snowfall was too new to hold tracks; they would not know which way he had gone. If he could reach the train station, he could give them the slip.

  They passed shadowed factories and body shops and grimy little stores selling propane and auto parts, made almost pretty by a thin blanket of white. ‘Relax,’ said the driver suddenly.

  Hart looked over. The man was smiling at him. ‘Life’s too short, son. Count your blessings. You’re out of the weather, you still got your health for the most part – could’ve been a sight worse, that’s for damned sure – and pretty soon you’ll sit down at your sister’s table and she’ll fill you up with good hot food. Man’s got to look on the bright side.’

  Hart smiled back.

  ‘Me, I learned that the hard way. Lost both my parents to the Spanish flu. One day they’re healthy as horses; next they’re telling me they don’t feel right. Well, I was busy, the way people get in their mid-life. I didn’t have time to worry about some sniffles, a runny nose. So I told my mother to put some extra blankets on the bed and I’d check back again in a few days. But by the time I checked back, they were both gone … What I’m trying to tell you is, stop and smell the roses. It all seems so goddamned important now, whatever it is. But don’t let it get away with you. Just like the song says: it’s later than you think.’

  Hart nodded. A short life, this one; a pity.

  Minutes later, beneath a snowfall already slackening, they passed over the city limits of Washington, DC.

  FOURTEEN

  GETTYSBURG

  The Maternity Barn was the largest and, excepting the tool shed, nearest of the outbuildings to the herdsman’s home.

  Empty at the moment of livestock, the barn’s interior was nevertheless heated, divided into pens – two large and many small – with the floor covered by loose straw and, in some places, soft animal bedding. In the center stood an office with closed doors and windows, surrounded on three sides by stacked bales of hay. The air smelled robustly of chaff, dust, and fragrant manure.

  Stepping through the doors, the group of six seemed by some secret signal to have paired off: James and Elisabeth in the lead, Caroline Dreyfus and th
e tall gangly man called Earl behind them, and Josette, with the third man, bringing up the rear.

  ‘My queen,’ said James cornily, and removed a bale of hay from the stacks, which he offered Elisabeth as a chair. Once she was seated, he heaved off a few more bales. As they all sat, the flask made another circuit; a bottle of rum had appeared from somewhere to join it. Elisabeth felt as if she occupied the small, sober center of an increasingly rowdy hurricane.

  ‘Wish I had my guitar,’ said Josette thickly. She looked flushed, and her chignon was coming loose.

  Disregarding her, James faced Elisabeth squarely. ‘So, bella,’ he said. ‘How is it I never met you before?’

  ‘She’s new,’ Josette said. ‘She replaced Babs.’

  Leaning forward, he brazenly put a hand on Elisabeth’s knee. ‘We’ll have to make up for lost time,’ he said, and squeezed.

  Elisabeth smiled emptily. She covered James’ hand with her own, left it there for a moment, and then gently slipped both hands off her knee.

  Caroline and Earl had fallen into a discussion about Daphne du Maurier, whom both had read and liked. The third man was trying to rope Josette into conversation about the lack of food at the party. ‘I don’t need filet mignon or snails, you know. But a chicken sandwich might have hit the spot …’

  But Josette paid him as little attention as she was receiving from James. Her eyes, wet and wounded, bored into Elisabeth. The farmhand tried a new approach. ‘Say, Josie, you ever look at the newspaper? ’Cause I was just reading about this case outside Cleveland. Real interesting thing. This guy named Sam Sheppard, this surgeon, they think he may have killed his pregnant wife. You read about that?’

  ‘You got classical bone structure,’ James was telling Elisabeth. ‘You look like an old painting. Anybody ever tell you that?’

  She dipped her head modestly.

  ‘You’re not too good at getting compliments, are you?’ Surreptitiously, he placed his hand back on her knee. ‘You oughtta work on that, baby, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘Another thing I read in the newspaper,’ the third man told the back of Josette’s head, ‘about this other doctor, Salk. He came up with this thing to stop polio, you hear about that? But they done a mass, whaddya call it, incalculation of schoolchildren. And I’m thinking, what if this causes an outbreak? Because I’m not sure if you know, but these incalculations, is what they call them, actually these are a sample of the disease.’