
C. J. W e s t
Sin
AND
Vengeance
22 West Books, Sheldonville, MA
www.22wb.com
© Copyright 2005, C.J. West
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, ortransmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions, 22 West Books, P.O. Box 155, Sheldonville, MA 02070-0155
The following is a work of fiction. Although it is based on a real location in Westport, Massachusetts, the characters and events are of the author's creation and used fictitiously. This book in no way represents real people, living or dead, at the winery or anywhere else.
Cover design by Sarah M. Carroll
ISBN 0-9767788-0-7
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Rob Russell from Westport Rivers for his teachings in viticulture, winemaking, and life at a family winery. Westport, Massachusetts, was chosen as the setting for much of this book based on our conversations and the excellent reputation of the winery. Alas, their wines are far superior to those produced by the Marstons in this book. My personal favorite is the 1991 Cuvée Maximilian.
None of the characters in this book are based on real people at the winery or elsewhere. Any similarity is purely coincidental.
I also referenced Winery Technology & Operations: A Handbook for Small Wineries, by Dr. Yair Margalit for an additional primer into winery operations, especially his work on sterilization and spoilage.
Thanks to Kevin Godsey for his assistance on all matters scientific as well as his input to the novel as a whole.
Thanks also to my prerelease readers: Jim Angelo, Jay Brooks, Kevin Godsey, Laura Sanita, Jady Sarno, and my wife, Gloria. Their hard work and insight helped me greatly improve this book before it went to press.
To my parents:
Thank you for grounding me with a sense that I will always be loved.
Psalms 58:10 The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance: he shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.
Chapter One
Charlie Marston's hand wavered as he poured the last of the third bottle of Merlot. He ignored the red droplets on the battered table and turned toward a breeze that blew in through the unscreened window. Outside, the scraggly grass waved in the moonlight and the weathered barn stood silently in shadow. Charlie watched and listened for Randy's return, half expecting the owner of the old house to arrive first and run him off. Charlie had met the owner only once. He knew Perry didn't live in France and he seldom visited, but the farmhouse was his and trespassing put Charlie on edge. Randy had stated his philosophy on the matter before he left, "Apologize if you must, but never waste time waiting for permission."
Charlie watched the field nervously, but nothing stirred. His problem wasn't out there in the dark. It was nine kilometers away at the winery his father had just acquired. His damaged knee condemned him to season after season of growing grapes and formulating new wines instead of doing what he loved. He had been just six months short of the draft and all but promised a starting position with Pittsburgh, when a two-hundred-eighty-five-pound defensive lineman crashed down and shattered his kneecap. The scouts saw the injury from the stands and watched him carried away on the stretcher. Even if they hadn't, it didn't matter. After months of therapy and two years of recuperation, Charlie could barely trot.
Two years at U.C. Davis had stalled the inevitable, but now that his coursework was complete, there was nothing to stop his induction into the family winemaking business. Charlie often imagined traveling here to the south of France as a football hero and how the money and celebrity status would draw a flock of women; being here as a grape farmer was infinitely less exciting.
Wine was his father's passion, his life, and Charlie joined the business with trepidation. One hope had pulled him through U.C. Davis: getting to know the man who'd been little more than a ghost during his childhood. Charlie's graduation thrust them together and for the first time he saw his father with an adult's vision. Charles berated employees for minor misjudgments and he never once consoled his son for his plunge from professional athlete to professional winemaker. The longer they worked together, the lower Charles Marston sank in his son's esteem.
The idea that he'd sprung from such a man and that he might grow to resemble him, soured Charlie's interest in winemaking. Whenever possible, he ventured away from the twenty thousand square foot stone castle his father called "the chateau." On one such trip, he met an American businessman named Brad Perry who told him about an old farm he had bought as a site for his new vacation home. Charlie deduced the farm's location and decided it was a safe place to hide away. In just a few days, Charlie had cleaned away years of neglect from the interior four rooms and made himself a comfortable place to escape his father's constant admonitions.
Charlie stood in the house now, studying the murky space around the barn. The hum of a car's engine drew nearer and idled in front of the garage. Charlie's heart quickened as he imagined what Randy was doing with her down in the car. Afraid to move and drown out the sounds below, Charlie stood frozen at the window. The engine ceased. He held his breath as one door opened and then the other. His immediate thought was to hide, yet he waited. Listening. Footsteps crunched in the gravel, heels clicked on the steps, and then a flirtatious, inebriated giggle.
She was here! Randy had found her.
Randy's power over people was confounding. From a distance, he looked like a guy you'd cross the street to avoid. Tall and thin, he always dressed in black and wore iridescent, reflective sunglasses tucked into unkempt hair that waved well below his shoulders. On the rare occasions he shaved, he left behind enough stubble to cover his features. When Randy had first approached him, Charlie couldn't imagine what kind of character lurked beneath the hair and glasses. But despite the bedraggled appearance, Randy had drawn him in with a zany philosophy and a life that was all about fun. Like his hair that fanned out in every conceivable direction, Randy would say or do anything at any time. He knew no boundaries and that freedom attracted a crowd of fun-seekers when he went out. As Charlie listened at the window, he realized that Randy was exactly what this woman sought.
Even after a hundred readings, just thinking about her Internet ad made his heart stutter. He couldn't believe she was about to strut into the room. It could be another woman coming inside with Randy, but Charlie wondered what "LustyFarmWife" would really be like. Her ad said she was forty-one, five-four and her picture showed a slim, curvaceous figure with the face blurred over. The first line of the ad played over and over in Charlie's mind. "Lonely wife seeks young studs for sex, no strings, no inhibitions, willing to try anything once... twice if it's fun." The last part is what attracted Randy. After two months cavorting together, Charlie was sure the "anything" Randy had in mind was something he had never dreamed of.
Charlie heard the front door open and Randy's voice in the hall. Two sets of footsteps creaked their way up the narrow stairway, multiplying Charlie's excitement with every sound. A head of long, fine hair led the way. The woman's face was older than Charlie expected, different from the college girls he'd known. She was attractive, but her eyes were lined with wrinkles, her skin smoothed with makeup. She cautiously wobbled into the small bedroom unaware of Charlie at the window. Randy came in after her, placed two fresh bottles of wine on the nightstand, and firmly grabbed a handful of her behind. He reached his free hand around to her chin and angled her face toward Charlie.
"Eve, Charlie. Charlie, Eve."
Randy nibbled at her earlobe and made his way down along her neck as if the trip up the stairs had interrupted his work in the car.
Eve tipped her head to one side to accommodate him, smiled, and surveyed Charlie, who was feeling more than a little confused. Randy hadn't said what they'd do or how. Charlie couldn't imagine how to get started. He couldn't join in with Randy blanketing her the way he was. Eve, as if that were her real name, seemed to sense Charlie's uncertainty and waved him over.
"Don't be shy. I don't like the dark and I don't like snakes, but anything else you've got in mind is probably ok."
When Charlie failed to move in, Eve turned and kissed Randy, grinding her body against his. Slowly, she released him with a deep sigh, savoring his taste. She turned away from Randy, who was still wrapped around her, and licked her lips with her eyes focused at Charlie, licking then sucking her finger before motioning him to join them.
"I'm sure you can go all night, but there's no need to wait that long."
Randy didn't seem to care if Charlie joined them or not.
Charlie's feet refused to move. He'd been with several women, but never like this. Randy was rubbing his hands all over her. While Charlie hesitated, Eve licked her lips once more then abruptly turned away, lifting her dress to reveal lacy black lingerie stretched tight over her rear end. She gyrated beneath the fringes of her silky red dress, enticing him. Randy slipped his hands under her dress, lifted it off, and tossed it toward the bed.
Charlie crossed the room, but stopped a foot away. The wine had gotten him this far, but the gap between watching and touching seemed immense. Finally, he couldn't resist and hesitantly placed his hands above her hips and began feeling his way around her smooth skin. Eve, still facing Randy, grabbed his wrists and pulled him to her. Charlie's doubts vanished when their bodies touched front-to-back. He eagerly helped Randy strip off her lingerie as she wiggled between them.
Eve was overjoyed to feel herself pinned between the two men. She turned back and forth, grinding her backside against one while kissing and rubbing the other. Every few moments she switched to face the other partner. At the third such turn, Randy pulled off his belt and led Eve toward the bed, instructing Charlie to follow. Charlie's mouth was agape when Randy wrapped the belt around and around her wrist then secured her to the bedpost. Amazingly, she didn't protest; she seemed to enjoy it. With a little urging from Randy, Charlie fastened her other hand, but his side was far too loose. Randy walked over and cinched it tight, leaving Eve standing naked in the middle of the small room leaning forward toward the bed. Randy, still standing behind her, quickly pulled of his boots and stripped off his pants. Charlie backed to the edge of the bed and sat in awe as they began to move in unison without a word between them. Eve saw Charlie sitting there and flicked her tongue seductively, eyeing the bulge in his jeans. She reached for him, but couldn't move her bound hands. It was too much for Charlie. He ripped off his pants, scooted himself onto the bed and knelt in front of Eve, his hands firmly planted in her hair.
Just as her lips parted and her head began to lower toward Charlie, there was a crash at the front door. Wood crackled. The door scraped and dragged partway open. Charlie's attention snapped to the heavy thudding footsteps on the stairs and the hissing of a light jacket that rubbed along the wall as the intruder climbed toward them. Randy was still fully engaged with Eve as the man crested the stairs and stopped inside the room to survey the scene. He was a hulk of a man, not unusually tall, but solidly built, poised to spring, and fueled by the horrifying scene before him. His muscles tensed, his face swelled evermore furious with rage. His eyes darted around the room finding new details to deepen his horror with each passing second.
Charlie looked over at the fingers gripping the bedpost and noticed a worn diamond ring. He hadn't seen it earlier and even if he had, it wouldn't have stopped him. He looked back to the man at the door. For an instant the man held fast, his anger building as he saw the two naked men, the bound hands, and the apparent drunkenness of his wife. His overwrought mind searched for a target to lash out upon. He found it when Randy eased out of the woman and backed up half a step.
"God damn you, Deirdre!" he screamed, the sheer volume of air rushing from his lungs testified to the power of this man. In two thunderous bounds, he buried his shoulder into Randy, knocked him backward against the dresser, rolled over him, and slammed him to the floor beneath the open window. Randy, still considerably drunk and clothed only in his sunglasses, was more confused by his abrupt change of position than injured by the rolling tackle.
Deirdre yanked at her bindings, struggling to get free. Charlie couldn't be sure if she intended to help her husband or run from him, so he left her there and hopped off the bed. Randy was now pinned to the floor by the hulking man kneeling on his chest. He pounded repeatedly with his right fist, smearing blood across Randy's face. Charlie wheeled around looking for a weapon. He found only shoes and clothes strewn about before turning back to see Randy's head lolling with the blows. He wouldn't last much longer. Charlie stepped up and hit the man between the shoulders with all his strength, jolting him forward, but having little effect. The man ignored Charlie and continued punching wildly.
Charlie remembered a lesson Randy had given him one day by the punching bag. He grabbed a handful of hair just above the man's forehead, pulled upward, and landed a second punch to the base of his neck. He wobbled and dropped forward just like Randy had said he would.
Randy, stunned and bleeding, sluggishly threw the man off and pulled himself up. He leaned against the dresser, breathing heavily and glaring down at the assailant at his feet. Three fingers reflexively brushed across his cheek, smearing half his face crimson and making his cheek look as if it had been torn open. His face turned angry when he saw his own thick blood on his fingers. He reached down and put on his sunglasses, which now had a large crack across the left lens.
The dazed man struggled to push himself up from the floor. When he reached his knees, Randy summoned all his might and slammed his foot into the man's ribs, dropping him back down. A whoosh of air escaped his lungs as he landed. Randy grabbed him by the shirt and the belt and hoisted him to his feet. He signaled Charlie to grab onto the other side, likewise. Together they turned him toward the far side of the room, dragged his stumbling body four steps forward, and then heaved him headlong into the wall. His face crashed through two narrow wallboards. His jaw lodged half-in and half-out of the wall, suspending his torso three feet off the floor. Randy rushed to the nightstand, picked up a full bottle of wine and rushed back toward the trapped man.
Charlie stood motionless and watched Randy rush by Deirdre, watched her foot jut out behind her and tangle with Randy's ankles, watched Randy fall forward and skip off the floorboards, lucky not to catch any tender flesh in one of the crevices.
The intruder moaned at the clatter and struggled to work his head free.
Deirdre yanked at the bedposts.
Charlie stood empty-handed, naked, and confused.
When Randy scrambled back to his feet, the stubble and glasses couldn't hide the intensity of his rage. He looked as if he'd dismember both of them barehanded. He slapped Deirdre with an open hand, instantly leaving a red welt on her behind. The stinging clap on soft bare flesh renewed the fight in her husband, but Randy reached him before he could free himself from the wall.
Charlie watched as Randy rushed past with the bottle. Randy took a stutter step, planted his feet and swung the bottle with incredible force, pounding the man's head further into the wall. Charlie stepped away, horrified. The man neither moved nor breathed and neither did Deirdre.
Randy grabbed the back of the man's collar and yanked him free from the wall. Jagged splinters scraped long white lines across his face, but the man didn't flinch. When Randy let go, he crumpled to the floor in an unnatural heap.
The room shook and a small package dropped to the floor. In the stillness and intense awareness of the moment, the sound was clear. Another package fell. This time, each of them saw the green and white packet slip from the wall and land on the man's head. Randy leaned closer and ripped off the cracked section of board. An avalanche of the little packets followed. They were hundred dollar bills, the wall was full of them and now there was a pile of them on the floor, lumped on the man who lay facedown and motionless.
Chapter Two
The scene plunged from kneeling on the bed pulsing with the most exhilarating anticipation Charlie had ever felt, to utter madness and confusion when Henri Deudon, a dairy farmer from Piolenc, hit the floor. The air was filled with Deirdre's screams for her limp husband, "Henri!...Henri!...Henri!"
Panic-stricken, Charlie watched Deirdre rail against her bindings like a pit bull struggling against its chain. He had no idea what he'd do if she broke free.
In contrast, Randy was no more upset by her naked screams and the dead man at his feet, than if they were a TV movie with the sound turned off. He balanced several stacks of bills in each hand. "Charlie, you met this guy, right? ... Did he look rich to you? You think this money's his or did he steal it?"
Charlie didn't respond.
"Help him you bastards, help him!" Deirdre yelled.
The sexiness was gone from the naked woman bound in the middle of the room. She yanked desperately on the bedposts, moving the bed a few feet toward her husband, but something on the floor stopped it there.
Randy shook his head and muttered, "Fuckin' pathetic."
Hearing this, Deirdre erupted in a constant high-pitched scream.
Charlie ignored his own nudity and moved closer to the man on the floor. His head lay twisted with his face tucked under his arm in a way no breathing person would endure long. Guilt hollowed Charlie's chest and visions of a filthy French prison bombarded him as Deirdre continued her high-pitched assault on his eardrums. His instinct told him to get in the car and go, to leave Deirdre and Randy to sort out their problems, but his eyes were locked on the twisted figure at his feet.
"God damn it! Help him!" she screamed again.
Charlie looked at her dumbfounded. Henri was obviously dead, but Deirdre wouldn't stop screaming until she had proof. She might not stop even then. Reluctantly, he kicked aside dozens of the green packets to make an even cushion over the wooden floor. Still unsure what he could accomplish, he kneeled down and felt Henri's neck for a pulse. His skin felt damp and rubbery and he didn't respond to the pressure on his neck. No pulse. No movement of any kind.
Charlie lifted the muscled shoulder and rolled Henri onto his back. His hand flopped down and his knuckles smacked the wooden floor. The pain would have been intense for a conscious man, but Henri didn't react. His neck lifted easily, head back, airway open. When Charlie lowered his cheek to feel for escaping air, he was eyeball to eyeball with Henri's last gruesome expression. His eyes bulged as if the wine bottle had thrust them forward in their sockets.
Charlie turned his head and watched the man's chest lay placid. Seconds passed. No breath, no pulse. Charlie pinched his nose and delivered two forceful breaths. The chest rose.
Deirdre finally quieted and Charlie could hear Randy tearing at the wall.
The irony of the situation struck Charlie queerly as he delivered two more breaths. He wondered what someone coming in would think. Here were two naked men in a room with an attractive woman strapped to the bed. One is working on a construction project and the other is kissing a man on the floor.
"Shit!" Randy pulled a long splinter from his finger. He shook his hand violently then inspected it for blood.
Charlie located the xiphoid process and placed his palm two inches above for a chest compression.
"What are you doing? You bring him back and he'll be so pissed we'll have to kill him again."
Charlie grunted between compressions. "You, going, to, help?"
"Bury him, yeah. Revive him, no."
Randy wasn't certifiably insane, but he managed a convincing appearance. He was wildly unpredictable; intense fun wrapped around big trouble. Charlie watched him work at the wall as he alternated delivering compressions and breaths. The side of Randy's face was caked with dried blood and he was completely naked except for his sunglasses. He bent a wallboard with all his strength until it finally snapped. He jumped back in pain as new splinters sliced into his hands, but promptly forgot them when the rush of green packages tumbled from the wall. Randy soothed his fingers in his mouth then hopped over to assail the next section of the board like a junkie in search of his next fix.
Charlie eyed Deirdre when he could. She was quiet while he delivered CPR, but after ten minutes, Henri wasn't responding and Charlie couldn't kneel any longer. Charlie sat and checked for a pulse one last time. Nothing. He held his fingers there awkwardly, his head too heavy to lift and face Deirdre. He'd known his effort had been more about appeasing her than saving Henri, but his failure to revive him compounded his guilt for the tragic mistake they'd made.
Charlie stood up, walked to the bed, and wrapped a blanket around her. "I'm sorry. He's gone," he said and squeezed her shoulders.
She cried quietly, still bound and unable to dab her own tears.
Charlie considered loosening the belts, but he'd only known this woman thirty minutes. She might run home for a gun or the police.
Charlie left her there, dressed, and joined Randy at the wall. He needed to keep himself together and demolition work was the ideal release for his confusion. His sneaker smashed through a board on the first strike. One more kick broke open a wide hole. He continued shattering boards one after another, ignoring the money behind them and the throbbing in his knee.
"Finally came to your senses, I see."
"Don't be such a heartless bastard."
Charlie ripped away a series of broken boards and the little avalanches tumbled down. "Holy crap. How much did this guy have in here?" Charlie wondered aloud.
"Hey, nice work with the sneakers." Randy paused to pull on his black jeans and boots.
Charlie had kicked his way to the opposite corner when Randy arrived back at the wall with a crash of his heel. Soon they had stripped two boards from the length of the twelve-foot wall. Charlie ventured into the closet and discovered a trim board, gouged with hammer marks. He pried it off and found a narrow hole that had been sawed across the length of the wall. Someone had been dropping money in through the hole and using the trim board to cover it afterward. Charlie made a quick tour of the house. This was the only board that had been disturbed. He broke open a few other walls to be sure, but found nothing and gave up.
Back in the bedroom, Charlie thumbed through one of the little packets. The bills were all hundreds, fifty, sixty, maybe eighty. No, there were a hundred hundreds in each. Ten thousand dollars to a packet and they were piled almost knee-high. Thousands of them! Millions of dollars lay heaped on the floor. This was the kind of money he would have made playing pro ball.
"Let's get out of here," Charlie said.
"Not yet, we've still got a lot of work to do."
"What are you talking about? Let's take the money and go."
Randy motioned Charlie back to the wall. The two boards they had ripped off opened a six-inch strip from the corner to the trim around the closet door. Charlie reached in and pulled out packets one after another until he couldn't reach any lower. They had torn open the wall at waist height where Henri's head cracked the boards. The lower portion was still full of money! The mound that covered Henri and spread over the floor was only half of the fortune they'd stumbled across.
They decided tearing the boards loose by hand would take too long. They split up: Randy headed to the barn to look for boxes, Charlie to the cellar to find a sledge hammer. On his way out of the room, Charlie stopped beside Deirdre. She stared into the bedspread oblivious to his attempt to comfort her. He patted her through the blanket and reassured her that she'd be safe. He hoped they all would be.
As Charlie lowered himself down the stairs, his mind whirled with thoughts about the money. He figured the final pile would be two feet high in the middle, five feet across and ten feet long. He flicked on the light and started down the cellar stairs. When his feet touched the dirt floor, his best guess was two thousand packets.
Twenty million dollars!
He found a sledge in a jumble of tools, turned, and lugged it up the stairs. Deirdre was where he left her, wrapped in the blanket, quivering like a snared rabbit that sees the hunter coming. Charlie reassured her again as he carried the sledge to the wall and set to work. The bottom two wallboards splintered easily under the sledge and soon all the money was heaped next to Henri. Still no sign of Randy.
"Hey, I need to use the bathroom," Deirdre called from the bed.
Charlie realized she probably couldn't remember his name and he preferred it that way. She looked calm, but he worried about what she'd say tomorrow. Letting her go was risky, the alternative unconscionable. "You promise to behave?"
"Come on. I have to go."
She avoided Charlie's eyes and shied away as he approached.
Charlie paused with his fingers on the first buckle. "I'm trusting you. We're going to figure this out together. We'll get one story and we'll all stick to it. Ok?"
She nodded. Tear tracks stretched down her cheeks, well beyond the reach of her bound hands. Charlie unraveled the belt from her right wrist. It was red and swollen from a half hour of struggling. She freed the left one herself and rubbed the irritated skin. She didn't slap him and she didn't try to run. He was relieved, but kept himself between her and the door knowing if she got a twenty-foot head start, he'd never catch her.
He helped with her dress and led the way downstairs to the bathroom.
Charlie sat heavily next to the sink.
Deirdre looked up indignantly. "What? You're staying?"
"What's the difference? You've been naked the last hour."
"I'm not going anywhere," she protested.
"Definitely not." He stayed firmly rooted, facing her from the vanity.
Deirdre finished quickly in spite of her audience and went back upstairs without a struggle. She sat vacantly on the bed while Charlie loaded stacks of money into a bed sheet.
Randy finally walked in with two large cardboard boxes in one hand and a bright red can in the other. "Someone's feeling mighty gracious today."
Charlie ignored the jab. "What's with the gas?"
"I figured we take the money and torch the place. We all get a share and we all keep our mouths shut."
The thought to destroy the evidence hadn't occurred to Charlie, but he was relieved Randy hadn't suggested burning Deirdre along with her husband. She looked terrified. She might keep quiet for a while, but whatever happened, Charlie was going back to Massachusetts fast.
He turned to Randy. "The gas won't do. Any decent fire inspector will spot it."
"Like they could find one out here in nowheresville."
"Why risk it?"
"You have a better idea, Mr. Chemistry Expert?"
"Put the gas back where you found it and get your car loaded. I'll be back."
"Quick trip to the winery?"
Charlie glared at Randy. Deirdre had known nothing about him, but in ten seconds, Randy told her Charlie was a chemist from a local winery. When he returned in just fifteen minutes, she'd know the winery was close. This was careless even for Randy, especially after smacking Henri with that bottle. If he planned to let Deirdre go, he wasn't being smart about it. Tomorrow, she'd be meeting with the police and Randy was all but telling her how to find them. Charlie vowed to get himself back to the States immediately. He wondered how he'd explain his quick departure to his father and what Randy could possibly be thinking.
"Get the money packed while I'm gone." Charlie turned for the door without waiting for a response. Randy rarely answered a direct question, no less an order, even when he intended to comply.
Charlie rushed down to his car and backed down the driveway with the lights and the radio off. The branches overhead blocked the moonlight. The only guide to the road was the gap in the dark silhouettes of the trees. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. If he looked up, he could follow the trail of the road against the sky, but when he tried it, he drifted onto the shoulder a few times. He slowed down and went back to peering straight ahead at the trees. When he emerged into the fields around the winery, the moonlight lit the road and he sped up to forty. He drove by one dark house and then another. The quiet passing of the car drew no attention in the middle of the night, but the lights may have.
The winery was quiet. Still, Charlie parked a hundred yards from the house and walked over the grass to the cooper's woodshop. He slipped inside, hoisted three large plastic bags, and slipped out again. He drove back quickly and parked between a rickety old sedan and the farmhouse steps. He checked his watch: two o'clock. He'd have to make his next trip even faster if he wanted to get safely home before the commotion began.
When Charlie got out of his car, he noticed two overfilled boxes resting against Randy's rental. He assumed the trunk was full, so he toted them over, cursing Randy for parking so far from the house. He slid the boxes deep into his trunk and left it open for whatever money remained upstairs. Hoisting the plastic bags, he stepped inside to the quiet kitchen and dropped the bags in a corner.
He took a fat red candle down into the cellar and placed it on the third step from the bottom. Before he lit it, he eyed the old fuse box nervously. He wished he could shut the power off. One spark in the old wiring and the whole place would go with him inside, but he needed electricity to run the vacuum, so he'd have to take the risk. He left the candle burning, walked upstairs, and checked the seal of the cellar door carefully. Satisfied, he grabbed a plastic bag and headed upstairs.
When Charlie walked into the bedroom, he sensed trouble. Deirdre was bound to the bedposts again and there was a hint of red across her face in the shape of two fingers. She wasn't struggling, but her posture was taught and angry. She glared accusingly at Charlie when he entered and he wondered if setting her free was the right thing to do. Randy was on one knee, tossing bills into the bed sheet.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing. This is the last load," Randy said casually.
Deirdre twisted herself toward Charlie. "Bullshit nothing! Why'd you leave me here with this psycho bastard?"
"Come on Randy, what did you do?"
"Me? What did I do? Look over there. This is her fault. She led that whacko here. I'm lucky he didn't rip my head off."
"You didn't have to..." Deirdre stammered.
Randy exploded. "Listen, you got what you came here for. Now you can stay here and burn or you can take the money and keep your damn mouth shut."
Charlie doubted he'd ever know for sure what had happened while he was gone, but his suspicion turned his stomach sour. Whatever Randy had done, Deirdre was terrified. She wouldn't tell, but her eyes pleaded for help. She believed Randy would let her burn and Charlie did, too.
"Where's her share?" Charlie asked.
"The suitcase." Randy pointed to an old leather case by the door. "There's a mil and a half, it's all she can carry."
Randy fished the keys out of Henri's pocket and tossed them across the room to Charlie. "It's hers now anyway."
Charlie immediately tossed them back. "Put 'em back where you found 'em. No one will believe he walked here and died in a fire. We don't want the police looking for a killer. Do we?"
"We leave the car, they'll ID him in twenty minutes."
"They'll ID him no matter what. Deirdre's going to help us. She's going to say the right thing." Charlie turned to her. "You were out for a few drinks, came home, and Henri was gone. You never saw any of this, did you Deirdre?"
Deirdre, unable to speak, shook her head weakly.
"I'm going to bring you and your share of the money back to your car. I need you to wait outside until we're ready. We're all leaving together. Ok?"
Deirdre was shocked pale. He wondered again what she'd say tomorrow.
"If we wanted to hurt you we wouldn't be sending you outside. Understand?"
Charlie hadn't entirely thought this through. When he agreed to help Randy take care of the house, he hadn't realized he'd be driving around the outskirts of Piolenc and back in the middle of the night with the fire raging. In such a small town, just being seen out tonight would be suspicious. For an instant, Charlie considered letting Randy handle this on his own, but when he saw Deirdre glaring across the room, he knew everyone would be better served if he drove her himself.
"Just wait outside two minutes and don't do anything silly. Ok?"
Charlie understood that if Deirdre had spoken she would have burst into tears. He unbound her hands a second time and carried her share of the money to the car. Randy slung the sheet over his shoulder and lugged the bulging sack outside. He dumped the disheveled heap into Charlie's trunk and carried the sheet back inside.
Back in the kitchen, Randy reached into one of the bags and felt the fine particles. "What's with the sawdust? We going to pile it up and burn it?"
"No. Just help me out. Close all the windows and whatever you do, don't open the cellar door."
"Cool." Randy rushed away.
Charlie grabbed him by the shoulder, slowly and deliberately enunciating every word, "If you open that door too soon, we're both going to die."
"I got it. The door stays closed." Randy scurried about closing the windows on the first floor while Charlie went upstairs.
With his single window closed, Charlie plugged in the vacuum and reversed the hoses so the air blew out through the metal section that normally attached to the vacuum head. He pushed this into the plastic bag and started the motor. When the airflow hit the tiny particles, they leaped toward the ceiling and billowed along on currents of air. They drifted everywhere, filling the air with a thick tan fog. When the bag was nearly empty and he couldn't see across the room, Charlie worked his way downstairs coughing and blowing the tiny particles as he went.
Randy was waiting with a fresh bag of sawdust when Charlie reached the bottom. They fogged the first floor with the final two bags then Charlie reassembled the vacuum correctly, stuck it in a corner, and eyed the door.
"Ready?"
"Yeah, for what?"
"Get the Hell out of here and get Deirdre in my car."
Charlie gave Randy a twenty-second head start then opened the cellar door. Immediately the cloud of sawdust began drifting down the stairs toward the candle. It settled on succeeding steps like lightly falling snow.
Charlie ran out the door brushing off the sawdust as he jumped in his car.
Randy already had his car running and raced ahead of Charlie's BMW down the long driveway. They stopped at the street and got outside their cars to watch.
"Not too exciting there, smart guy," Randy mocked.
"Just relax. It'll take a minute."
"The gasoline would've worked better."
"Too easy to trace. The sawdust will ignite all at once and it'll be gone."
Charlie realized he'd left the plastic bags inside. He hoped they'd melt away to nothing. He was definitely not going back in to get them. Nearly a minute passed and everything was quiet and dark.
"Hey, I'm going to get the gas. We can't wait around all night hoping this thing will catch fire. He's got to burn up good. There's no telling what that chick's going to say tomorrow."
Charlie wondered if she could hear them from the passenger's seat. "Maybe you shouldn't have slapped her around," he whispered.
"Well it's a good thing we didn't leave her tied up in there. She'd rat us out for sure. Unless of course, she starved to death before she got free."
"I'm telling you --" Charlie didn't have a chance to finish.
The particles of sawdust reached the candle. The first few heated and they all seemed to catch fire at once. The flames ripped through the house, filling it, heating the air and in an instant the windows exploded outward, sending glass fifty feet in every direction. The entire house was engulfed in wild orange and red streaks that reached out the windows and wrapped up and around the roof. The trees that had grown alongside the house burst into flame from the intense heat.
"No, I don't think she would've starved to death. But I could be wrong." Charlie grinned and opened his door.
Randy couldn't contain himself. He jumped up and hollered as he watched the flames shoot skyward. He practically dove into his car. It lurched into the street and stopped for a second before the rear tire began to screech. Blue smoke clouded around the back end as it shimmied around in a circle. Randy had one foot on the brake and one on the gas, both to the floor. When he completed the circle, he released the brake and the car swerved off into the darkness leaving the blazing building behind. Charlie and Deirdre pulled away in the opposite direction.
Chapter Three
Charlie coasted the first two miles from the inferno in complete darkness before he flipped on the BMW's lights. Heavy cracks appeared in the graying pavement and bright-green branches sprang up beside a section of road Charlie didn't recognize. He'd been to most of the area bars with Randy, including the one Deirdre was directing him to now, but Randy had always driven. Charlie's cautious driving irritated Randy. And since he was dangerously unpredictable even when he was happy, Charlie yielded to his superior skill behind the wheel. Letting Randy drive had never bothered him until now.
As he pushed the car down dark deserted roads, he wished he'd paid closer attention on their previous trips. He needed to find a way back to the vineyard without passing the fire again; a way to get home without being seen. The first person who passed the twenty-foot flames would call it in. The orangy red fire and billowing smoke flashed to mind; he recalled the pine tree beside the house flaring like a giant matchstick.
He wished he hadn't set the fire. Randy had killed the guy. It was his problem. Charlie couldn't turn his new friend in, but why had he sacrificed his own innocence? He was clean until he lit that candle. Clean. Trespassing was nothing, and Perry practically invited him. Charlie could have walked away and let Randy soak the house with gasoline. Just looking at the two men, the police would focus on Randy if it came to that. Deirdre might help. She saw Randy whack her husband with the bottle and she saw Charlie try to resuscitate him.
What a fool he'd been to fetch the sawdust. Soon police and fire vehicles would be all over the roads. They'd notice any car out this late and then there'd be questions; questions Charlie couldn't answer. He pushed the accelerator. He'd square an alibi with Randy back at the guesthouse.
A sniffling sound from the passenger's seat interrupted his thoughts. The car had been nearly silent for five minutes, but now he could feel her seat shake with quiet sobs. He couldn't see the tears running down her cheeks, but he knew they were there. Her head bobbed slightly as she wept. He grasped for something to say, but nothing seemed repentant enough.
After another half mile, he reached over and placed his hand on hers. "I'm sorry," he said simply.
She yanked her hand away and sputtered through her tears. "I shouldn't have been there. Why did he have to follow me tonight? Why? Such a good man. I didn't deserve him." Her voice trailed off.
"It was an accident. It's not your fault," Charlie reassured.
Randy's wine-bottle attack was anything but an accident.
Charlie stole a glance at his passenger, his eyes drawn to her neckline as she bowed forward. For a moment, he let himself imagine the scene playing out uninterrupted by Henri. Horrible luck, Charlie thought. How close he'd come to a night of intense pleasure with this woman. A flood of guilt washed away his regret and he shifted his eyes back to the road.
"Such a good man..." Deirdre muttered again.
Charlie recalled the man's stupefied expression as he walked in the door and saw his wife entertaining two strange men. Rage pulsed through him so furiously he was unstoppable, unthinking, as he pummeled Randy bloody. Charlie remembered watching his elbow rise and slam down on Randy, blood splattering under his knuckles, Randy's head lolling lifelessly. Charlie had to help or he would have met a similar fate when Henri was finished with Randy. Charlie's first punch had had the effect of a pebble bouncing off a boulder. The next punch knocked Henri down, but it took both of them to stop him. They stood him up, half dazed then rammed his head into the wall.
If they'd stopped there, Henri would be alive. But when he regained his senses, he would have resumed his savagery. Charlie knew he'd tried his best to save him, yet the bulging eyes haunted him. Randy smacked him with the bottle. Randy killed him, but somehow Charlie couldn't help feeling responsible. Randy's words came to mind: "You bring him back and he'll be so pissed we'll have to kill him again." Henri might have waited months or years to seek his revenge, but Randy was right, Henri would have come for them. The flames were devouring his body now. Charlie should have been glad to be safe, but the thought provided no comfort.
They approached a fork in the road. "Which way?"
Deirdre barely lifted her head to point left. She dropped it again and stifled more tears. "He didn't deserve this," she sniffed.
Charlie could still see the man lying on his back, eyes bulging. The image made him shudder and he shook it away. He needed to get control, more importantly he needed Deirdre to get control. The police would visit her soon. If she gave them a reason to hunt a killer, Charlie wouldn't be far from the fray. His future depended upon her portrayal of the innocent, mournful widow. If the cops didn't believe her, Charlie was just half a step from prison.
He wished again he hadn't torched the damned building. He'd be clear if he hadn't. He reassured himself that the body would cook; the old house would burn to the ground, no evidence would survive. Still there would be clues. The most obvious one sobbed in the seat next to him. He peeked at the silky dress and wondered what kind of wife gets drunk and strips off her clothes for two strange men. Judging by her Internet ad, she'd done it before. Deceit was nothing new to Deirdre. Her grief was genuine, but when she collected herself she'd play her part well.
Charlie decided the best way to calm her down was to get her talking. A conversation would clear her thoughts and prep her for the morning.
"What was he like?"
Deirdre ignored him as if he didn't have the right to intrude on her grief.
The question lingered as he drove. After a minute, she softened, considered, and said, "He was the most gentle man in the world, a farmer, a simple, kind farmer." Her head hung heavily. The car drove another hundred yards before she continued. "He lived on the spot where his family has lived for generations: three stone houses at the edge of the farm. They're born there, tend the animals there, grow old there."
"What kind of farm is it?"
"Dairy. They raise cows. Everyone else around here seems to grow grapes, but they've been tending cows for generations."
Someone's got to make all that cheese, Charlie thought.
Deirdre looked out the window at the darkness. Her tears stopped and her voice grew stronger. "He barely left that farm. I doubt he's even been to Paris."
"How'd you meet? You aren't French."
"Definitely not. I'm from New York, upstate. I was vacationing here. A girlfriend and I saw Henri working on a fence by the roadside and we asked for directions. He gave us lunch and a tour of the farm instead. I was overcome by the scenery that day and I guess I just fell for him." She smiled at her memory.
"What about Henri?"
"I think I was the first American woman Henri ever met."
"And he married you?"
"Six months later." Deirdre was sounding stronger with every word she spoke.
"Sounds romantic."
"At first I was captivated by the views around the farm. The hills would burst with color. I remember when we were first married. I used to watch Henri tend the cows. I would sit outside and soak in the sun for hours."
"You know, that reminds me of home. I grew up on a farm and just being out there with the fields stretching out all around you is really something."
"It's beautiful."
Charlie sensed she was holding back. Something in the scene had troubled her, something had driven her to seek what she was missing, but he wasn't about to pry. He drove on content to listen, but comfortable with the silence. He'd done well to help her compose herself before sending her back to that farm alone.
After another mile she went on. "I really missed home after a while. Henri worked incredibly hard and it drove me crazy being stuck in that house every day."
"And that's how you ended up with us?"
"Yeah."
They both quieted as the car passed darkened fields. Neither of them wanted to relive the events of that night. Charlie felt the stiffness in his knee as he held steady on the gas. He switched to cruise control even though he was traveling barely fast enough.
Deirdre broke the silence. "So how'd you get mixed up with Randy? He's such an animal."
Of all people he thought she'd understand.
"He keeps things interesting," he said.
Deirdre turned to face him. "You don't seem the wild type."
At twenty-four, Charlie had a face that made him look nineteen. He'd tried a beard, but the sparse growth made him look even younger, like a teenager trying to look mature. The rented BMW completed the image of a rich kid with daddy's money; an image that hit painfully close to home.
Deirdre's question pricked something within Charlie he didn't quite understand. Randy was obnoxious and dangerous. He constantly needled Charlie, challenged him, annoyed him, and yet Charlie never considered cutting him loose. He explained that Randy helped him break away from his father and the monotony of the winery. She offered to trade his father for her inlaws sight-unseen.
Charlie bet she'd give anything to avoid breaking the news to them.
The car approached a darkened building with three cars scattered around the parking lot. Their owners were too drunk to drive, had made an unexpected liaison, or both. Deirdre pointed to a gray Volkswagen and Charlie pulled up next to it. She looked composed, but ten minutes earlier she had been a blubbering, jumble of emotions. Who knew what she would say when the police arrived later that morning. He thought he heard her mutter something as she got out.
"Are you going to be ok?"
She shrugged, her features scrunched together, her eyes red and swollen.
"You need to report him missing."
"Why?" Deirdre seemed surprised.
"Does he ever stay out all night?"
"Never."
"Then you better call the police before they call you."
Deirdre didn't respond.
"They're going to ask lots of questions. When did you see him last? Where was he going? Did you have a fight? Get yourself together and rehearse your answers." Charlie looked her over. "Can you handle this?"
"I don't want this public any more than you do."
Charlie prayed that could be true.
Deirdre walked to her car, got in, and just sat there. After nearly a minute, the car came to life and she drove away. He watched her taillights disappear. He was glad to be rid of her, but somehow he felt they'd be forever linked after this night.
Deirdre was going to be a problem. The police would have her talking soon. Randy had said too much, and if there was ever a night she'd remember details, it was this one. If trouble came, it would come soon, and it would come to his doorstep in uniform. He figured he had three days to leave the country.
Charlie pulled the map out of the glove box and studied a route around the fire that would only cost him a few kilometers. He raced the BMW out of the parking lot and down the center of the road. With luck no one would report the fire before he reached the chateau.
Charlie Marston pressed the accelerator. He was an easy man to find.
Chapter Four
The lights at the chateau burned bright as Charlie approached and he considered driving on and finding a motel down the road. The police might know about the fire by now, but they couldn't have found the winery already. He wondered if Deirdre had called them as he hesitantly rolled along the drive. A tall man with a flashlight stood in front of the guesthouse. Charles Senior, dressed in his robe, inspected the trim around Randy's garage door. The damage was evident as Charlie drove past his father and into the garage. He braced himself as he got out of the car and stepped outside under the lights.
"Look what that hippie freak did to my garage!"
Randy, unfazed by the insult, continued assessing his damaged front bumper. He'd heard worse from Charles Marston. Charlie looked beyond his father up to the main house where two faces were pressed to lighted windows. It was three am and tonight of all nights he hadn't wanted to advertise his late arrival.
When he looked back, his father was staring at him, fuming.
"He's more of an anarchist than a hippie."
Charles recoiled. "I never heard crap like this from you before you started hanging around with that loser." He pointed in Randy's direction without looking.
Charlie shrugged. There was no defending Randy. He didn't try.
"What's wrong with you? Have you been drinking?" Charles barked.
Charlie hadn't had a drink in two hours. Any buzz he felt had been wiped away by the fight and the discovery of the money. He could pass for sober, but even at twenty-four years old his father's piercing eyes still had a power he couldn't deny. Charlie hated that, but accepted it as one of those things wired-in at birth. Someday he'd get those wires unhooked, but not today. "We had some wine earlier, but that was a long time ago," he admitted.
"It's three o'clock in the morning. Do you expect me to believe you stopped drinking at midnight and waited until three to come home? More likely you were thrown out of wherever you were and dragged yourselves home, stumbling drunk." Charles peered into his son's eyes for signs of inebriation. "You're lucky I don't call the gendarmes to take away your wine-soaked friend."
Charlie's heart thumped, his breath caught in his throat at the mention of the gendarmes. He turned to hide his expression, bent down, and picked at the splintered trim board with his fingers. There was no damage to the stonework.
"It's just cosmetic. A few hours and some paint. It'll be fine," he said without lifting his eyes from the wood.
"Fine, sure. Nothing fazes you, does it?"
Charlie didn't answer.
"It's time you got off your butt and started pulling your own weight. That one batch of wine's not going to pay off six years of tuition."
Charlie imagined pulling ten or twelve packets out of the trunk and slapping them in his father's hand, ending this dialogue forever. Of course he couldn't do it. He stood up and faced his father again. "Give me a break. I've only been out of school three months. I've got plenty of time to make wine."
"And I suppose I should keep handing you money in the meantime?"
Charlie gestured to the trim. "I'll get on this first thing."
"First thing my ass. First thing is in three hours. If you made half as much wine as you drank, you'd know that."
So far that was only true because the six thousand gallons of sparkling he'd just finished fermenting wouldn't be ready until it aged for ten years. He doubted he could drink that much wine in a lifetime, but there was no use arguing the point.
"You're right. My sparkling is ready to take back to Westport. After that--"
"You'll do no such thing!"
"It needs to be bottled and aged. You can't expect me to stay here and watch it for the next ten years. You never stay anywhere that long."
Randy shifted to the rear of his rental. He gave Charlie a thumbs-up behind Charles' back and patted the trunk. With luck, they could get out of France and away from Deirdre, her dead husband, and the gendarmes. They'd smuggle the money out with the wine. Randy smiled at his quick-thinking protégé.
"Do you have any idea how much it'll cost to ship that wine to Westport?"
"All I need is two containers."
"We harvested those grapes here. We'll age them here."
"I can't work with the equipment you've got here. It's ancient. Ever wonder why the Poriers were going broke?"
Charles almost broke a smile. "Three months out of college, one batch of wine under your belt, and you're an expert?" This same self-righteous tone had regularly taunted Charlie since childhood.
"These guys never went to college. They're just technicians, only as good as the guy who taught them. And that guy never went to college either."
"That's why I have you, smart guy. You're going to help me upgrade this place to U.C. Davis standards."
"Why bother?"
"I didn't buy this place to lose money."
"No. But if you're going to invest, then invest in the right place. Build a processing house in Westport, import the juice from all the vineyards and centralize the winemaking talent in one place. That's how you make money. Not with a bunch of rinky-dink operations that still make their own barrels." Charlie half-convinced himself the scheme would get him and his newfound wealth home.
"I suppose you're the winemaking talent."
"Someday."
"Did you stop to consider that wine made in the Rhone Valley is more valuable than wine made in Westport, Massachusetts, for God's sake? Good thing you're not running this business yet. If I died tomorrow, you'd wind up like the Poriers, fast."
Charlie didn't answer.
"I need you here."
Charlie stepped closer and put a hand on his father's shoulder. "If I go, the anarchist freak goes too."
"If your mother wasn't so gracious, he'd have been gone a week ago." Charles stepped back and eyed Randy. "Get some sleep. There's work to do in a few hours."
Charlie watched his father walk halfway to the house then stepped inside the garage and lowered the door.
Randy was back on the hood of his car just behind the scratches from the white trim. He grinned as Charlie came in. "Smooth. We get out of here, away from the chick and the dead guy. We hide the money in with the grapes and we're home."
"It's wine, not grapes, and I've got it figured."
"Impressive. You learn fast, Young Marston."
"Yeah. More than I can say for you. Since when do you crash into garages? I've seen you get through tighter spaces at a buck ten."
"Shit happens."
"At twenty miles an hour?"
Randy shrugged impishly.
"You're just trying to piss off my father and your timing sucks."
"Hey now!"
"Did you somehow forget about the dead guy and the roaring fire we just left? What about the fifteen million dollars in your trunk? What, your suicidal tendencies acting up again?"
"Speaking of ungodly sums of money, what are we going to do with all those Franklins? Shame for someone to find them and start asking questions."
"We're going to hide it, but I have to make a call first."
Charlie felt his pockets for his phone. It wasn't there or on the seat of his car. He panicked for a second thinking he'd dropped it in the farmhouse during the scuffle, but he wasn't wearing clothes then. He imagined the black plastic puckering and shriveling as it burned. He ducked out of the car toward Randy. "You seen my cell?"
Randy pulled the phone from his pocket and tossed it over.
Thank God!
Charlie effortlessly caught the phone and flipped it open with his thumb. Two years earlier, he had planned to make his living catching balls for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Years of practice honed his coordination to the point he needed only a glimpse of an object to snare it from the air. Unfortunately, without healthy legs, his skills were worthless. He dialed Westport and a young-sounding man answered.
"Sebastian, hey. I hope it's not too late back there."
"No, just chillin'. How's France?"
"Good. Listen, I'm bringing home six thousand gallons of sparkling. I need three bays to age it. Do we have space in the cellar?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Good. Keep it that way. I'm coming back."
"You bringing fancy French grapes?"
"Nothing too fancy. I'll be there in a week. If my father gives you any trouble, tell him you're holding it for me."
"Will do, Chief. No worries... Hey, how are the chicks over there?"
"You don't want to know. I'll see you next week."
Charlie hung up the phone and looked to the far end of the garage toward the twin black Mercedes his mother and father had leased. He walked past Randy, who was now reclining on the hood of his car pretending to be asleep, but he'd certainly listened to every word Charlie said. He walked across two open bays between Randy's car and his father's. In light of the accident, father's allocation of garage bays seemed insightful. Charlie retrieved an eight-foot ladder from the back wall, turned, and carried it upstairs to the living quarters.
He and Randy had been sharing the four rooms over the garage for the last three weeks. They could make all the noise they wanted out here. They came and went as they wished and no one from the house had ever heard them until tonight. The living area had been cleaned while they were out for the day, the trash emptied. The furniture was arranged at right angles again, the stray clothes returned to the bedrooms. Charlie carried the ladder into his room and opened it into a sturdy A. It shifted a little as he climbed until Randy arrived and half-heartedly leaned on the second step.
The trap door popped up into the attic and Charlie found what he needed: plenty of space that no one had disturbed for years. The floor wasn't finished, so they'd need something to form a platform on top of the joists, but this space was an ideal spot for the money until they could move it back home.
Charlie put Randy to work hauling the money upstairs and disappeared toward the cooper's shed. In a few minutes, he returned with an armload of oak staves.
By four thirty, the money was stashed in the attic and the ladder was back in its place in the garage. Randy reclined on the couch, looking at Charlie through his iridescent shades. He wore them day and night, always hiding his mood and his thoughts. Charlie couldn't remember ever getting a good look at his eyes, or his face for that matter. In the few places his skin showed beneath his glasses and above the stubble, he looked young.
"Well, that was an exciting night," Randy said.
"It's not what I had in mind when you said a wild night with a hot chick."
"It was wild and it was definitely hot, thanks to you."
"Only you could enjoy a night like this."
"How could you not? She was hot and she was down with it."
Charlie couldn't argue. As always, Randy had delivered an exciting time. They'd had a few mishaps, mostly scuffles and car wrecks, never anything like this.
"If freakin' Henri would have stayed home and whacked off like he should have, we would've had us a good time."
Charlie wished he had. "Henri would've been better off too."
"Did you see his face?" Randy grabbed his neck with both hands and choked himself. "Man, I thought he was going to rip my head off."
"He was. What happened to five years of karate?"
"Dude, I was drunk, naked, and the guy slammed me. After that, I was meat. Good thing you whacked him."
"That knock-out punch dropped him like a rock," Charlie said, a little too proudly.
"Yeah, for five seconds. It still took both of us to ram him into the wall. All that fertilizer he's been sniffing turned him into some kind of mutant. Good thing we cooked him or we'd be watching out our windows for the next twenty years."
The fertilizer comment reminded Charlie that he and Henri were both farmers.
"Where'd you learn that sawdust trick?" Randy asked.
"I had to learn something useful in four years of chemistry."
"That was awesome. I've never seen anything torch like that. One second nothing, the next, the whole place is raging twenty feet high."
"Don't try it at home, especially not my home."
"We've got to do that again. Damn that was sweet."
"Go to bed, man. We've got to figure a way out of here tomorrow. Deirdre's going to crack."
"Sounds like you've got it figured. Tell the old man you want to make wine. That's all he wants from you. Be a good lad. Carry on the family tradition and all. You're totally caving, but if it gets us out of here, it's cool."
Randy closed his eyes and lay back.
Charlie wished he could be so free. With no job, no family, and no worries, Randy raced through life with a fistful of cash, tearing up everything around him. His lifestyle had seemed unsustainable to Charlie from that first night they met over drinks in New Bedford. Even then, Charlie sensed Randy was dangerous. Perhaps he was exactly what Charlie needed: a freewheeling escape.
More and more, Charlie wondered why they'd spent so much time together. They had little in common except the pursuit of a good time. Charlie was growing tired of the sophomoric stunts, but it was clear that Randy never would. He wished there was a simple way for them to part company, but after tonight, he couldn't risk telling him to shove off. He'd have to be more subtle.
He watched Randy lay back, obviously proud of the adventure that made them both ooze adrenalin and sprout a few premature gray hairs. Randy reveled in the sheer terror of a night that could have been their undoing.
Charlie wished he'd never invited him to France.
Chapter Five
Deirdre's car eased into its usual space at three am without the benefit of headlights. She slipped inside, up the stairs, and traded her red dress for a Syracuse sweat suit and thick wool socks. Her house remained dark and fortunately her inlaws next door did, too. Back downstairs, she settled into Henri's favorite chair with a fresh box of tissues at her side. She began the long wait for sunrise with a homemade quilt over her lap. Each time her thoughts quieted to the edge of sleep, the consequences of her late night romp flicked on like a bright light in her mind, jolting her awake. She sat transfixed by a murky blackness that hung throughout Henri's childhood home.
Henri was in a different house now, engulfed by a ravenous fire Deirdre could only equate to the fury of Hell itself. The hungry flames that had burst from the windows and stretched to the sky had taken root somewhere in the wooden house where her husband lay. She imagined his clothes flaring up; his flesh being scorched, incinerated, and falling away to ash.
She wondered if the gendarmes would ask her to identify his remains and if she could handle seeing him in that condition knowing what she'd done.
How absurd for Henri to be taken from his family this way. He'd scarcely had a harsh word with anyone in the seven years she'd known him. He'd lived a peaceful existence dominated by obligation to his animals and his family. If she hadn't led him there, he'd never have gotten himself into such a situation. She couldn't imagine how he'd found her or why he'd been suspicious, but there was nothing she could do now. The flames were lapping at his sides, consuming him. If not for her, he'd be rising to tend the herd. But Henri wasn't there and he wasn't coming back. All her tears and the ache in her chest felt inadequate to the grief that would come. She huddled in the chair waiting for the pain. Like a skier innately sensing the severity of a broken leg, she felt eerily well, but she was scared to move. The pain was coming. Deirdre had killed a young man and devastated a family. The consequences rushed toward her with the sunrise.
Such a good man.
A reverent man, Henri attended church on Sunday whether Deirdre accompanied him or not, but far beyond that, Henri believed. Faith permeated his life. She couldn't count the number of times she'd interrupted his prayers while they were in bed together. And when he had a big decision to make, he prayed for guidance and he listened. If anyone deserved to dwell in Heaven, it was Henri. Deirdre imagined his spirit rising skyward, untouched by the flames, his soul rising to meet the Lord.
Strangely, something about his ascension troubled her. She sat horrified with guilt at her own self-centeredness, but she couldn't escape the fear that was building inside her as she pictured Henri rising toward Heaven.
Her heart rate increased as the idea took shape, slowly at first, then quickening, pounding until she could hear the pulse in her ears. Every muscle tensed with surging adrenalin, every nerve was shocked to full alert. Her eyes beamed wide open as if to slice through the darkness and see his spirit before her. The thought in its fullness was terrifying. There was nowhere to hide from Henri now.
What could he see? How much did he know?
Even earthbound, Henri understood the farmhouse scene. He screamed when he saw her. Not the cry of a husband rescuing his wife. Betrayed, he condemned her and asked God to do the same.
What would he do now?
The air in the room thickened in spite of the sunlight brightening the fringes of the curtains. The watchful furniture surrounded her, any chair ready to welcome the apparition of its former master. Deirdre could feel him there with her. She expected him to materialize and judge her for what she'd done; to return and punish her for her inexplicable sin.
Silent minutes passed.
He did not.
She imagined a heavenly perspective where past, present, and future blended together in an otherworldly video of sorts. Motives, thoughts, and dreams were now tangible, unveiled at his convenience. Her entire life lay open like a home movie that caught every instant both public and private, every deed, every thought. Her most tender and treacherous moments revealed. All forty-one years of her life were at his disposal. How differently she might have lived had she considered.
Who among us could stand such scrutiny?
Henri could.
A handsome young man came to mind and Deirdre wondered if Henri was seeing him too. The man-sized frame was lean, soon to be covered with the bulk of manhood. The memory of his bushy hair brought back the waning days of high school and his shocked expression when he learned of their mistake. The image of the doctor's sour face came next. She could feel the pain in her abdomen; hear her mother's voice. She heard her mother's sobbing for her child, now barren. But mother was gone, the tears were her own. The pregnancy and the abortion had taken three loving souls from her. News of the pregnancy sent Michael scampering away. The botched abortion stole her one chance at bearing a child. The resulting infertility doomed her marriage and set Henri on a path that ended his life.
Would Henri understand what she'd done?
Would he haunt her forever or reach down to comfort her?
Would he have married her if he'd known?
No. Henri wanted children from the very beginning. When they were first married, he rarely missed an opportunity to try and produce an heir. The tenderness and attention day after day were magical. Time slipped by until it was too late to share her secret. Some part of her had been glad when he finally gave up. They never discussed it, but she wondered now if he'd blamed himself for their infertility.
She wondered if he would have divorced her if she'd told him the truth. She couldn't be sure. The decision would have torn him apart. He knew the truth now. He knew she'd lied, but he also knew she loved him.
Such a good man.
She'd prove her devotion in time.
Henri's contorted face appeared in that doorway again with a rage she'd never seen before that night. The peaceful giant had exploded in anger at the two men. Surely he would have pummeled them both to death had he not been blinded by hatred. A brutal pummeling is what the three of them deserved.
She opened her eyes and glared through the window to escape her memories of the farmhouse scene. The outbuildings were slowly taking shape. The blue sky seeped through the blackness, steadily revealing the simple world of the Deudons. Henri had been the linchpin that held together the work of generations and preserved the livelihood for those to come. His disappearance was about to plunge the Deudon family into chaos.
She looked around the house that Henri's father and grandfather built fifty years earlier. It was hers now, filled with Deudon heirlooms like the quilt across her lap. Her only connection to these people had burned to ash. She wondered if she could stay here and who would help her if she did. There was only one reasonable answer: Henri's brother Philippe. He had two young sons and he yearned to leave his factory job and return to the farm.
If Philippe returned with his family, there would be no place for Deirdre. She'd never discussed anything like this with Henri, but she knew he'd want the farm to live on. She wondered what else he'd ask if he could speak now.
He'd want to know why she had betrayed him.
She dabbed her eyes and forced them out the window again, picturing Henri walking among the cows as he was the day they met. She could hear the birds stirring and the cows mooing in the barn. Normally, Henri was tending to them by now. She would have given anything to hear him calling to the cows outside. If she had borne him a son, he would be. She could feel him prodding her now, pushing her to go outside and feed the herd. They needed hay or grain or whatever he fed them. She wondered if it was cruel to let them go hungry, but doing his work this early would look suspicious. Better to stay inside and let the cows wait. She needed help, but she couldn't ask for it so soon.
"Sorry Henri, I can't do it yet," she said, her words barely a breath.
Deirdre got up from her chair, her hands a jumble of nervous energy as she moved to the window. She couldn't sleep and she couldn't do Henri's chores. She noticed the phone on the side table mocking her. She needed to report Henri missing before they found him, but just looking at the phone made her heart flutter.
She'd have to tell the gendarmes he'd gone out, but she didn't know when. The inlaws watched everything from next door. They'd know when Henri left and they'd know Deirdre wasn't home then. Worse, if the gendarmes asked, they'd be glad to tell. She'd have to admit she was out. She wondered if anyone saw her leave the bar. This wasn't a Syracuse nightspot filled with a hundred drunken college kids. These farmers and mechanics were her neighbors. They'd know her and they'd know when she left. But would they remember the long-haired guy with the sunglasses? Probably they would. Damn! She wished she'd met him somewhere farther from home. How could she explain him? An old friend? She barely knew him. Did the gendarmes care if she was fooling around? Probably not, this was France after all. It was different now that Henri was dead. She guessed these things had a way of being linked. This could be the first murder they worked in ten years, maybe twenty. They were bound to be excited by the case.
The Internet ad!
Her breath caught in her throat as she imagined the gendarmes reading it. The New York police would find it, but were the gendarmes that sophisticated?
So I wanted a fling. That doesn't mean I killed him.
The red marks on her wrists were still there, proving she'd been tied up. She could tell the gendarmes everything and they'd believe she was a victim. They'd search every winery within fifty kilometers and put Randy and his friend in jail. At least then, Henri could look down and see them punished, but his wife's reputation and that of his family would be ruined.
Deirdre's reputation in Piolenc wouldn't matter much longer. Her only choice was to step aside and let Philippe take over the farm. If there was a scandal, it would envelop the Deudon family and the two men. Deirdre would be forever scorned, but the money would help her start over in New York where she'd be protected by a great ocean and a language barrier she'd never torn down.
She wondered if Randy would follow through on his threat. She decided he would. If it was up to him, she'd be in the ashes next to Henri. Randy was a madman and she wondered how she'd ever been attracted to him.
The telephone number for the gendarmes was sitting next the phone. She picked it up for the ninth time. She'd tell them as much of the truth as she could. She'd leave out the younger guy, the sex, and Henri. Other than that, the truth. The paper was damp and wrinkled, but the number was clear. She dialed and a young woman answered on the third ring.
"Bonjour la Gendarmerie Departmentale. Ligne enregistrée."
"English please." It was embarrassing that she hadn't learned more French in seven years. Henri had learned English for her, and the language barrier made ignoring Henri's parents easier when he wasn't around to translate.
"Certainly madam. Do you have an emergency?"
"No. Well, I'm not sure."
"How can I help you?"
"My husband is missing."
"When did you see him last?"
"Last night around supper."
"Ma'am, it's seven o'clock. I'm sure he's fine. Why don't you---"
"You don't understand. We have a farm, animals to feed. We've been married six years and he's never been out all night."
"Maybe he had too much wine. Phone us later if he doesn't arrive."
"Have you had any car wrecks overnight? Maybe he's in a hospital."
"No, nothing like that."
The woman didn't mention the fire. Better that she didn't.
"His name is Henri Deudon. Isn't there something you can do?"
"I speak to other officers, but I am sure he is fine. Relax for now. He will be home soon. Do not worry."
"You will call if you learn anything?"
"Oui. Right away. You relax. Call tonight if he is not home."
The phone settled on the cradle capping a solid performance. She hadn't blundered yet. They had his name, so when they found him, they'd know she'd already called. She was surprised by her quick thinking. More questions would come and when they did, she'd be face to face with the officers. She'd have to convince them and the inlaws she was innocent and that would be difficult. She reminded herself that she was the victim. It was going to be ok. She'd leave the farm soon.
Henri's killer was going to walk away, but she wouldn't risk changing her story now. Lying to the dispatcher was like branding the words in her memory.
She wondered if the gendarmes would catch them on their own. If this was Paris, the Judicial Police might, but the gendarmes didn't have a chance.
The inlaws would call in an hour or two when Henri didn't stop by. "He's missing," she rehearsed. "He didn't come home last night."
They were going to be shocked.
Chapter Six
The volunteers were a rowdy bunch who enjoyed zooming around town, sirens blazing, whenever they were on official business. Knowing this, Lieutenant Laroche parked twenty meters beyond their vehicles at the end of the drive. He didn't want any more crime-scene dents. Laroche left his car, clipboard in hand, and walked quickly for a man of fifty-two, a hat covering his bald crown. With his long strides and trim figure, he could easily be mistaken for a man in his forties.
He stopped where the driveway met the road and squatted over a set of tire tracks burned onto the pavement. A wide circle of melted rubber surrounded one squiggly track that headed west. The tire marks seemed fresh, but Laroche couldn't believe an arsonist would be so crass. He told himself the tracks had been there for days, but he'd have Rowley test their composition nonetheless.
He walked up the long gravel drive, past overgrown clumps of shrubs fighting each other for sunlight. The few original plantings that remained had spread far beyond their plots. Some were fifteen feet tall and nearly as wide; none had been pruned in years. In contrast to their vigor, the shrubs around the foundation were charred and leafless. The wide, straight trunk of a lone pine tree stood five meters high beside the house. The upper half of the tree was gone and Laroche assumed it had fallen onto the roof and been consumed by the fire. A dozen similar-sized trees lay horizontal, in an unruly clump beyond the scorched area. Laroche nodded his approval to himself as he walked. The volunteers had kept the flames from jumping up into the branches and riding the wind across the valley floor.
Laroche could see the men resting now, huddled at the back of an engine having a smoke and undoubtedly sharing stories about the blaze. After being called out of bed in the middle of the night, these same men would be back to work tending shops, fixing cars, and laboring on farms by midday. Their flat, yellow hoses were strewn all around them and Laroche wondered how quickly they had run out of water to fight the flames. There were no hydrants out this far and no lake to draw from. They could have called in more engines and shuttled back and forth to a water source, but that hadn't happened. The fire had won.
Laroche tried to remember what the house had looked like. He'd passed it a thousand times, but the view from the road had been obscured by trees for the last several years. He couldn't remember being called here or who the last occupant was; strange for Laroche, who had a story about nearly every home he visited. Looking at the rubble, he thought this might be the last story for this house.
Plastic water bottles littered the site in surprising numbers. The ground around the house had been turned to mud by spraying water and trampling boots. The walls were just eight feet high at their highest point. The roof and the second floor, if there had been one, were completely gone.
Rowley, in his knee-high, yellow boots, stood precariously balanced in the middle of the building as if walking a high-wire. He tossed a few roof shingles and broke away brittle timbers from a part of the structure that had been somewhere overhead. His balance faltered and he stepped back, his foot plunging through the burned-out floor boards. He teetered there a moment, dropping the timber in his hands and waving his arms to center his weight. With the floor broken away, Laroche could see he was balancing on the last solid part of the floor, the center support beam.
"Prudent. J'ai besoin de votre rapport," Laroche called to him.
"Laroche très Humanitaire."
"Que quoi parti?"
"Tout a fondu. C'était très chaud ici hier soir."
Rowley went back to work tossing debris in either direction and studying something in the rubble. Whatever it was, it was too charred to make out from where Laroche stood. Curiosity wasn't going to draw him into the wreckage. He'd worked twenty-three years with Rowley and trusted him to uncover anything in the rubble worth finding. He'd also learned that fifty-year-old men can easily break a leg in a building like this one.
Laroche made a wide circle around the structure and studied devastation unlike anything he'd seen in thirty years as a gendarme. Most fires burned a side of a building or maybe a floor and left a blackened shell standing. There was almost nothing left of this one. One section of wall had collapsed out on the grass, but most of the building had fallen in on itself and been reduced to ash.
Something clinked under his feet. Looking down, he saw tiny fragments of glass scattered on the ground. Scanning in a wider arc, he saw larger shards shimmering ten and even twenty meters from the remains. The windows had exploded outward. An explosion smacked of arson, as did the scant remains of the building.
He was at once excited and dejected. Laroche yearned to lead an investigation, to outwit criminals in the interrogation room and uncover the motives and evidence that would put them away. He lamented that he'd never been accepted to Special Investigations, but left to rot out here in the countryside. The evidence hinted at arson or murder. If the captain concurred, the Judicial Police would snatch the case away. Laroche would be reduced to running errands for younger officers who hadn't lived long enough to see what he'd seen. Rowley had been more fortunate. His talents centered him in every fire investigation in the district.
Laroche kicked the fragments aside and lowered his head, listening to the men in the driveway. They talked about the flames and the heat. They didn't talk of suspicions and causes, they talked of the struggle. They had battled mightily against a virulent opponent that only abated when it ran out of fuel. All their sweat and water saved the garage and barn, but only because they were sufficiently detached. They had lost the house, but they consoled themselves that the gap they cut in the trees had saved the surrounding forest.
Laroche agreed. He continued to circle the remains, wondering.
As he stepped back on the driveway, a tan sedan caught his attention. It was outside the garage and in front of the fire engines. It had been there overnight, not an official car, but an odd place for an owner to park. It was set back a few meters from the garage and the house, farther than someone would choose to walk, like another car had been parked beside it. So many feet had tramped through the space, it would be impossible to prove there was another car, but it seemed to fit with the tire marks out on the street. Laroche wondered about the driver of the sedan. He scanned the emergency vehicles for a blanket-wrapped victim, but found none.
Rowley pulled himself out of the rubble, took off his long black coat, and hopped up on the trunk. This was the hottest fire Rowley had ever seen, the cause would be nearly impossible to determine. The news buoyed Laroche.
Someone had been on the second floor when the fire started. Sometime later, a mattress had fallen and covered the head and shoulders, which were all that remained of the body. Rowley could only speculate that it had been a man based on the size of the skull. The cause of death would be impossible to determine. The intense heat had melted his belt buckle into a brass blob. The pelvic bones and even the femur were ash. There was a puddle of green glass beside the body, possibly three or four wine bottles melted together. Rowley supposed he could have been drinking, fallen asleep, and gotten overwhelmed by the smoke.
They wondered aloud whether he'd been living here or if he'd used the house for a rendezvous of some sort. Laroche shared his thoughts about the position of the sedan with Rowley. The idea intrigued him and he agreed to test the tire marks. Neither of them had ever known a woman to spin her tires long enough to leave that much rubber. If the tracks were made the night before, the victim's guest was another man, probably young with a flashy car. Laroche imagined himself finding and arresting this man for arson and murder.
First, he'd have to learn what they were doing here and what caused the fire. Rowley joked that the men were gay, hiding away from their wives. They were hiding something. Whatever it was, the house wasn't going to provide many clues.
The house wasn't providing many clues to the cause of the fire either.
Some part of Laroche was glad. The glass on the lawn suggested an explosion, but without evidence of arson, it was a routine fire investigation, clearly Laroche's jurisdiction. He suppressed a smile as he listened to Rowley bemoan his futile search for accelerants. It was as if the whole house caught fire at once, something Rowley had never seen except in a chemical explosion. Since there was no clear starting point, and since so much of the material had burned, Rowley doubted he would ever know what caused the fire.
Laroche finished his notes and walked back to the barn to give himself a private moment to consider what he was about to do. It wasn't exactly suppressing evidence. Rowley had no evidence. It was his insight that led him to suspect arson. The captain had never supported Laroche's hunches before, so he felt himself entitled to keep his thoughts about this case to himself.
Laroche stepped through the barn door, mouth agape. The entire rear wall was gone, replaced by a huge green canvas. The barn had been turned into a private hangar with an odd-looking Cessna facing the canvas exit. The plane was covered with black and green blotches on top and blue and grey underneath, making it virtually invisible when it was airborne. The identification numbers on the tail and wings had been painted over. Laroche looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had followed him in.
The airplane was the evidence of foul-play he knew he'd find if he dug deep enough. Painted the way it was, these men were running drugs or smuggling something. Now the situation demanded a Judicial Police investigation, but Laroche wasn't ready to give this case up yet. Rowley hadn't mentioned the plane and the captain wasn't much for crime scenes anymore. This was the opportunity Laroche had hoped for. Breaking a smuggling ring would make Laroche's career.
He nearly tripped over a full can of gas as he walked around the plane.
Now he was confused.
A moment earlier he had been convinced the fire was set, but the full gas can made no sense. Gasoline was the universal accelerant. From the moment he had stepped on the fragments of glass, he'd expected to discover the house had been splashed with ten or twenty gallons, the explosion caused when the flames reached a puddle. But no arsonist would refill the can before lighting the fire. He'd toss it into the flames and run. Laroche was sure the fire had started some other way, but he couldn't imagine how.
Standing in the doorway he made his decision. Excited at what he would discover over the next few weeks, he wondered if the poor guy inside was handling some sort of volatile chemicals and got careless. Easing outside, he checked the yard to be sure no one saw him leave the barn.
Back at the house, Laroche worried he was risking his reputation on nothing more than a carelessly discarded cigarette. Still, the thought of involving the Judicial Police made him cringe. His report would be bland and routine. He'd raise no suspicion until he knew what the men had been doing. Even then, he might continue on his own if he could keep his work from the captain.
He started with the car.
Its owner had known machines. No one else could afford to maintain such an ancient vehicle. The carpets were grimy and threadbare after almost two decades of use. The vinyl seats were cracked and duct-taped back together in dozens of places. Laroche doubted that any of the gauges in this contraption worked. He opened the glove box and found papers that identified the owner as Henri Deudon, a farmer Laroche had heard of but never met.
He'd make a few calls to find Mr. Deudon's dentist and he'd visit the widow by midday. With the house burned, Deudon's partner might never come back. The widow could be his only hope.
Chapter Seven
Charlie ignored his father's snicker at Randy and took his usual seat halfway between his parents. Charles and Elizabeth always faced each other from opposite ends of the long, mahogany table even though it sat twelve comfortably and the arrangement made passing awkward. The artificial formality grated on Charlie. He remembered meals in Westport at a modest table that barely fit the essentials. Now it seemed his parents couldn't eat without Rosalie as a go-between.
Charlie was embarrassed to watch his father overreach for an image appropriate to his new station in life. He donned thousand-dollar suits and carefully-knotted four-hundred-dollar ties, but at his core, he was a commoner. His blunt retorts sent several tasting patrons steaming for the exits and his heavy handedness with employees alienated Charlie from the rest of the staff because he was a Marston.
Elizabeth, in contrast, adapted to their new circumstances as if she'd been born an aristocrat. She spoke the gentle tones of a kindergarten teacher and chose her words with the finesse of a skilled politician. She exuded elegance from her long thin features and her warm disposition was the perfect balm to soothe the tempers Charles aroused. Her ability to salvage the relationships Charles jeopardized accounted for more of their success than Charles would dare to admit.
Randy bounced around behind her, waving his arms and bobbing his head more than enough to draw everyone's attention. Something about the Marstons' wealth annoyed Randy and he went to great lengths to irritate Charles in return. He referred to the empty chairs around Charles as "ego space." It didn't matter that Charles had started a family winery from nothing and turned it into a multimillion-dollar business. The one time Charlie tried to explain, Randy exploded into a four-minute tirade about thieving capitalists. When he had finished, Charlie was convinced Randy was the antithesis of his father. He'd never sustain the hard work and commitment it took to succeed.
The clomp of Randy's boots echoed on the marble with a defiant rhythm. His black jeans and the green-winged monster on his Metallica T-shirt clashed hideously with a backdrop of original landscapes and two hundred year old furnishings. But his clothes weren't nearly as offensive as the long scraggly hair and thick whiskers that covered him from his cheeks down below his Adam's apple.
Charles stiffened as Randy sat. He had railed against Randy's dress and his conduct several times, but Randy seemed to be the one thing at the chateau Charles couldn't control. He pretended to ignore Randy unless they were trading insults, but the sight of him made his teeth clench and the muscles in his shoulders tighten.
Charlie wondered what Randy would look like with a respectable haircut. A decent young kid maybe. Clean-shaven and shadeless, he might pass for a banker. But he never took off the shades and somehow he always had at least three days of stubble, but never a beard.
Charlie held his breath as his mother zeroed in on the purple bruises peeking out from under Randy's sunglasses. These weren't the cracked glasses from the night before; this was a new pair exactly like the old, with thin black frames and iridescent lenses. For once, Charlie was glad for the glasses and stubble. They hid the bruises well enough so even Charlie couldn't see them from across the table.
Rosalie drifted in from the kitchen and waited between Charlie and his mother to take orders from the two late arrivals. Elizabeth's eyes reluctantly shifted to the middle-aged woman with the plump figure of an excellent cook. Rosalie had naturally curly hair that was thin and unnaturally brown for a woman her age. She'd raised two grown children and now enjoyed traveling with Charles and Elizabeth. The arrangement afforded Rosalie a lifestyle she would never experience otherwise.
"I'll make your coffee extra strong," Rosalie said with a slight Spanish accent.
Charlie wished that last night of all nights, they could have avoided her notice. "Thanks, Rosalie. Sorry if we woke you."
"Never mind that. What can I get you?"
Charles set down his mug without taking a sip. "You're too kind, Rosalie. That sort of ruckus is inexcusable. The boy needs to get his head on straight and stop chasing women half the night."
Randy popped upright in his chair like a rooster preparing to crow. "Give us some credit, Chuck. It was the whole night and half the morning. Any fool can stay out half the night." Randy shot a proud smile at Charlie.
Charles glared at Randy, stifling the language he'd use if Mrs. Marston and Rosalie weren't in the room. "Well, you certainly qualify as any fool. If you had sense enough to take those sunglasses off at night, you might be able to park the car without crashing into my garage."
Charlie flashed a look at Randy, expecting a quick retreat from the nasty tone and the logic of his father's reprimand.
Randy went still. He slowly turned toward Charles as if aligning a massive weapons turret. His eyes bored out from behind the glasses as if his vision penetrated clear to Charles' core. He spoke in a deep, measured voice, "I wear the shades for your protection. My soul sees the evil in all men. My eyes seek it constantly and when they find it, they summon the power of the heavens to make the guilty pay for their sins. In your case, the devastation would be complete. The fury would melt that spoon in your hands and turn your bones to dust. Only the pure can ever see my eyes. I wear the glasses to keep you safe. You should thank me."
Charlie barely kept from bursting into laughter.
Mrs. Marston hid a broad smile behind her coffee mug.
Charles looked awkward, unsure whether to laugh or scream. Finally, he said, "How silly of me. I should have thanked you for crashing into my garage."
Charlie jumped in before Randy could get started on another rant and make things worse. "We'll fix that today---good as new."
Rosalie tapped Charlie on the shoulder. "Having breakfast this morning?"
"Sorry, Rosalie. Yes, two eggs, poached please. Any bacon left?"
"Plenty. I made fresh muffins, too. I'll bring some out."
"I'd love a ham and cheese omelet if it's not too much trouble," Randy said.
"On the scale of the trouble you cause, breakfast doesn't register," Charles said.
"Thank you, Chuck. But you fail to see how much I've helped young Master Charles. Look at the lad. He's a stout young man coming into his own. All the money you gave those fancy schools didn't help him as much as a few weeks with me. All this for a place to stay and an occasional meal! You should be overjoyed, but still you complain. You'll thank me when Young Charles manages your kingdom with the shrewdness of the wisest emperor. He'll be ready soon."
Rosalie disappeared toward the kitchen hiding a grin.
Charlie wasn't amused. Randy and Charles had been twisting him in opposite directions for weeks. When he was alone with either man, they tormented him for choices that defied their leadership. Charlie scolded himself for letting them do it. Loyalty was his burden. He was grateful for the life his father provided regardless of the things he failed to do. And Randy had been exactly what Charlie needed to help him adjust to the workaday world.
No matter how grateful he was, last night had changed everything. Charlie had decisions to make. He didn't need his father's handouts anymore and that meant he didn't need to make wine. Randy was a fun guy, but too dangerous. In another six months, he'd find new interests. When Charlie found his own way, Randy would be forgotten like a child's toy stored in the attic.
Charles and Randy squared off again. "Your talents are so obvious. I should've hired you sooner," Charles said.
Charlie interrupted, "If we're going to talk about my future, I think I should have some say and I think it's time for me to get serious about winemaking."
"It's about goddamned time."
Rosalie brought coffee for Charlie and Randy and refilled Mr. and Mrs. Marston's mugs.
Charlie took a long sip. "I called Sebastian last night. He's holding three bays in the cellar for my sparkling."
"Are you still stuck on that? We're here. The wine's here. Why pay to ship it all the way back to Westport?"
"When's the last time you spent more than six months there?"
"What's your point?"
"You can't control the operation if you're never there."
"That can't be helped. We have seven wineries now."
"Why not have seven vineyards and one winery? You could stay here and focus on fixing this place while I get ready to take over in Westport. That's where our focus should be."
Randy slapped his palms on the table. "Great idea! You tell him Charlie."
Charlie thought he'd won until Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He frowned and said, "You just don't have the experience yet."
"I'll get it, but not here. I've spent two years working with the latest gear in the business. I wouldn't know what to do here. There's still a guy out back whose sole mission in life is to make barrels. That can't be saving us money."
"I admit the equipment is dated, but Andre is the best winemaker we've got. I invested in this place because with a little help, Andre will make great wines."
"Why invest here when you can invest your money so much better?"
"When you have five million dollars, you invest it any way you like. I bought this place and I'm going to see it through."
Charlie couldn't believe they bought Chateau de Piolenc for five million dollars. The four-hundred-acre vineyard, the winemaking facility, the antique furnishings, the artwork, the inventory aging in the cellars, it was all incredibly valuable. There would never be a thirty-room stone castle in Westport, but if there were, the house alone would be worth five million.
"I didn't buy this place, you did. I'll make wine for you, but not here."
"And I'm supposed to pick up the tab to ship your wine wherever the wind takes you? This costs money, Charlie."
"We don't need to ship it in oak. We can use flexitanks or even plastic-lined barrels for the trip. That'll cut a third of the cost."
Rosalie brought in two plates of steaming eggs.
Elizabeth eyed Charles sternly above her reading glasses. Charlie could feel her prodding Charles to support his son.
"The flexitanks are disposable, so we can get the maximum shipping weight out of every container and there's no cost to get the container back."
"I know what a flexitank is. But I'm not rearranging the entire business because you decide to do some work. Who knows what you'll be doing in a month."
"Just get me a hundred barrels and I'll have it stored away before the crush."
"Who's going to pay for the barrels and the shipping costs?"
"The profit from the wine."
"Why don't you understand that shipping's just an added expense?"
"And I'm just an employee. Do you want me to make wine or not?"
"As long as you do it here. Andre has a lot to teach you."
Charlie mopped up the remainder of his eggs with a piece of dry toast. The argument was lost. Charlie didn't really care about making wine and he guessed it was obvious. He'd find another way to get the money home and get himself out of France. He stared down at his plate, thinking about ways he could foil the airport screeners.
Randy stood up with his back to the men, leaned down face to face with Elizabeth and lowered his sunglasses, something he rarely did. "Thank you for another lovely breakfast Mrs. M. As much as I joke with your husband, I really do appreciate the hospitality, especially yours." The suggestion in his voice was unmistakable. He was hitting on a woman twice his age. He put his glasses back on, walked around behind Elizabeth, tracing his fingers across the shoulders of her pale floral dress as he went. He stopped on the opposite side and whispered in her ear.
Charles fumed at her familiarity with the hoodlum.
"Charlie enjoys having you here, Randy. You're welcome."
"Sorry about the garage, Chuck. We'll get it fixed today." Randy took two steps toward the door and paused. "You coming, Carpenter Boy?"
Charlie followed him out.
A few steps down the driveway, Charlie grabbed Randy by the shoulder. "I know you'll take any woman regardless of her age or how nearby her husband might be, but, dude, that was my mother."
"What're you talking about?"
"Don't put moves on my mother. Got it?"
"That wasn't a move. That was just left over glow from last night. I have all this energy and nothing to do with it."
"I'll let you carry the lumber."
"Seriously, man. Why'd that guy have to come in and get hostile?"
"It was his wife, remember?"
"This is France. He could have joined in. You weren't really using your end anyway."
Charlie remembered his excitement the moment they were interrupted.
Randy threw up his hands. "We could have all just taken turns and gotten along, but no, he had to try and bash my head in and make me kill him."
"So inconvenient, Sir Black."
"Quite."
The two men walked past the guesthouse to the cooper's shed, where the barrel-chested man gruffly reminded Charlie that he worked exclusively in oak. If they wanted a pine board to replace the trim, they'd have to visit the mill ten kilometers away. He loaned them his truck and gave them directions in broken English. Randy jumped behind the wheel and they were off.
The directions took them straight back to the scene of the fire.
As they approached the farmhouse, Charlie wondered about driving the money north into Switzerland. He absently noted five cars clustered at the end of the drive, and a Volvo several yards away from the others. Charlie scrunched down in his seat so no one would see his face as they drove by, but to his surprise, Randy slowed down. There was a long fire engine in the driveway and several men working nearby to pick up the hoses. Randy pulled over and parked behind the Volvo.
"Are you insane?"
"I just want a look."
"This is crazy. Do you have a death wish?"
"Some days. Today, I'm just curious."
"How many foreign nationals stop by a fire scene? They're going to think we're terrorists or something. Especially you."
"It'll look suspicious if we don't get out now." Randy was out the door and rounding the back of the truck before Charlie could respond.
Charlie followed him up the drive, but couldn't catch him without breaking into a run. He watched Randy walk past the firemen and onto the lawn a few feet from what was left of the building.
One of the young firemen began shouting. "Part! Le bâtiment n'est pas sûr!"
Randy walked closer and the fireman rushed toward him.
"Part! Part!"
Randy ignored him and turned to Charlie. "Wow, there's nothing left."
An older man appeared from around the corner and angled between Randy and the burned out building. "Are you familiar with this house?" His English was perfect.
"No, sir. Just driving by," Charlie offered.
"My associate there is trying to tell you the building is unsafe."
"Obviously," Randy said, impressed by the damage.
"Why don't you step back and we'll have a chat."
Laroche herded them a dozen feet further from the rubble and introduced himself. Charlie smiled politely, but underneath, a torrent of thoughts stunned him speechless. Randy had all but told Deirdre how to find them and here he was talking to the man investigating Henri's death. If Randy was trying to get himself caught, this was his opportunity to confess. If he went down, Charlie was going, too.
"Where are you from?" Laroche asked.
"The United States."
"I never would've guessed. That's not a rental. Where'd you get it?"
"Rich Boy here," Randy said.
"My father owns the winery up the road," Charlie offered.
"Oh. I heard about that. Shame." Laroche seemed genuinely sad.
Charlie had just learned that his father had gouged the previous owners on the sale. It seemed Laroche and Randy agreed that Charles was a ruthless capitalist, taking advantage of poor grape growers who had gone bust.
"We're hoping to turn it around so the workers can all keep their jobs."
Laroche didn't pretend to appreciate the corporate line and Charlie felt foolish for spewing it.
"Do you boys know who lives here?"
"I've only been here a few weeks, but I've never seen anyone around."
Randy stepped up. "You mean the owner doesn't know about this yet?"
"We haven't notified him."
"Man, he's going to be pissed."
"We're not sure what happened," Laroche said.
"You think he torched it?" Randy asked.
"Anything's possible." Laroche seemed amused by Randy.
"We're just down the road. If you give us a card, we'll call you if we see anyone nosing around after you're gone."
Lieutenant Laroche handed them each a card. "How long are you boys staying?"
"Not sure. If I make my next batch of wine here, it'll be ten weeks or so. Otherwise, we'll be gone in a week."
"Let me know if you boys see anything suspicious."
"We will."
Randy and Charlie walked back to the truck and headed off to fix the garage.
Chapter Eight
Deirdre spent the early morning hours combing her past, scouring for incidents that would displease Henri. She imagined him in human form, ethereal, but not floating in the clouds. Somehow there was solid ground in Heaven; she was sure of it. Henri was sitting up there watching her life stream by. She had raced through her memory to find the most disappointing moments ahead of him, as if he could hear her mental justifications accompanying the footage he was watching. Unfortunately, her panicked efforts failed to bring the feeling of peace she sought.
As the sky brightened and her energy dwindled, her head began to pound and aspirin did little to dull the pain. She conjectured that this was Henri's retaliation for her infidelity. More likely, it was Randy's incessant refilling of her drink that brought it on. Images of them in the bar, then driving, and then in the farmhouse flashed by. She couldn't help feeling exhilarated by the bedroom scene, but then Henri appeared at her mind's door and she gasped with a start.
A wave of embarrassment shuddered through her. She could almost feel Henri pushing her to confess, but the consequences would be devastating. This little village was everything to the Deudons. If the truth were told, Henri and his family would be disgraced on the land they'd tended for six generations.
Nausea roused her from her thoughts. She glanced around at the humble furnishings as she tried to calm her roiling insides. Symbols of the Deudons' struggle were everywhere; from the walls of stone they'd cobbled together, to the orange floral cover on the couch, to the kitchen table Henri and his father had built one winter in the barn. She swore she could smell Henri there in the room with her.
A shameful waste.
Henri had wanted such a simple life with his livestock and a few children to help him when he was old. Instead, he died childless, defending the honor of the woman who had deceived him. She had betrayed him for the touch of a younger man, two in fact. It wasn't the first time she'd considered cheating. Years had passed since Henri had lost interest in sex. There had been several tourists who caught her flirtatious eye as she wandered along the beaches, but this was the first time she had given in to her yearnings. She had planned this, searched for this, and when it finally happened, the shame of being discovered was unbearable. She wondered how she would have felt had Henri not interrupted; whether the guilt would have pushed her to confess. She remembered the horrific pain in Henri's eyes; his figure frozen in the doorway. How horrible it must have been to see her tied to the bed, naked, drunk, and enraptured with her companions.
She hoped he had died thinking she was being raped. At least then his death would have been honorable. But she knew it wasn't so. Henri understood the scene the moment he entered the room and saw her face.
The sounds of the fight came back and she started to weep again. Her own screams echoed in her ears. She saw Randy rushing across the floor with the wine bottle. She pictured the impact and wondered again why the bottle didn't break. She saw Henri's limp body being pulled from the wall and dropped to the floor in a heap.
As Deirdre stretched for yet another tissue, her wrist slipped from the Syracuse sweatshirt, exposing a thick, purple ring of bruises. She pulled back the other sleeve, held her palms together, and compared the marks that had blackened through the morning. Anyone seeing them would know she was a victim and not a murderess. She yearned to show the bruises to the gendarmes and tell them what had happened. Randy deserved to be punished, but incarceration wouldn't protect her from him; only death could do that. She imagined a sudden encounter with the firing squad. Swift. Loud. Fatal. A drawn-out torture session would be more fitting.
A heavy knock sounded at the door. It was time Henri's father hobbled over to see why his son hadn't visited. She was surprised he hadn't called. Now she'd have to tell him face to face that his son was gone. He'd blame her instinctively and he'd be right. The cows mooed irritably in the barn and she realized they hadn't had food or water and it was almost noon. She needed help to care for the animals, but if she asked too soon, it would look suspicious. Hopefully, Henri's father would suggest it himself.
The knock sounded again.
She pulled her sleeves down tight and paused in front of the mirror on her way to the door. Stuffed into her twenty-year-old Orangemen sweat suit, she had the tussled, insomniac look of a woman with a guilty conscience. She might also look like a faithful wife, scared for her missing husband. She hoped for the second impression and swung the door open still pulling at her hair.
The man outside was a blue-uniformed stranger somewhere between the ages of Henri and his father. He wore oval-shaped glasses with thin brown rims, a dark mustache, and a half-bald head. His presence at the door was a complete surprise and this showed clearly on Deirdre.
"Bonjour. Etes-vous Mademoiselle Deudon?"
"Oui. Parlez-vous l'anglais?"
"I do. May I come in?" The man's English was excellent.
"It's not a good time." Deirdre half-closed the door to block his advance.
Lieutenant Laroche extended a hand with a white business card. "I know. I've come to speak with you regarding your husband."
She looked down at the card before letting him in. He hadn't asked if Henri was home, so either he had come to follow up on her call, or he had already found his body in the burned-out rubble. Laroche's efficiency was a little unnerving, but the young guy had said the car would be easy enough to trace back to her.
"Have you found him?" she asked, feigning a balance of hope and skepticism.
Lieutenant Laroche didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to the chair surrounded by crumpled white tissues and the quilt Deirdre had dropped on the floor. He motioned for her to sit. When she did, he offered to retrieve a glass of water. She refused and he sat wordlessly watching her.
Deirdre filled the silence with a nervous banter. "Henri's never been away this long. We never leave the farm overnight because of the animals. I thought he'd found another woman and run away from me." She stared into Laroche's face. His tight lips formed the beginnings of a frown. "That's not why you're here, is it?"
The tears welled up in her eyes and she dabbed them away.
"I'm afraid Henri has had a terrible accident."
The word was a relief. He didn't say Henri was murdered. He said it was an accident. "Where is he? Can you take me to him?" Deirdre tried to look hopeful, as if he might still be alive.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Deudon. Henri died this morning in a fire."
Deirdre clamped her eyes shut. She didn't have to force the tears, they came on their own.
Laroche waited thirty seconds before speaking. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Deudon."
He watched silently as she cried with her face burrowed into her palms, careful not to extend her arms and reveal her wrists. She cried, wondering how a woman would react to the news, remembering how she had screamed the night before. She wanted to wail out loud, but couldn't summon the voice.
"What happened?" she asked after she'd dampened a third tissue.
"There was a fire. It appears he was caught sleeping."
Laroche's mistake caught her off guard. "Sleeping? Where?" she asked. The surprise in her voice was convincing even to her.
"In an old house on Rue de Beauchene. Fifteen kilometers north."
Deirdre offered a puzzled look. "Are you sure it was Henri?"
"Quite sure, I'm afraid. After we received your call, I visited Dr. Harris and retrieved Henri's dental records. Dr. Harris was certain that we found Henri."
Deirdre nodded. She wanted to thank him, but couldn't bring herself to. She thought a moment and asked why he was there.
"I was hoping you could help me with that," Laroche said.
"He doesn't go out often. Almost never."
"Did he have bills he couldn't explain? Was money appearing or disappearing?"
"Henri wouldn't do something illegal, if that's what you're implying."
"I know it's a big shock." Laroche removed a Polariod of the burned building and handed it to Deirdre. She recoiled at the sight of the devastation. The garage and barn were intact, but there was little left of the house. She froze, panicked that Laroche might see her familiarity with the setting.
"Do you recognize this house?"
"No... It looks like a bomb went off. Was he in there?" She pointed to the blackened remains in the picture.
"Unfortunately, he was." Laroche looked suspicious.
"Oh, God!" She covered her mouth and stared at the photo.
Larchoche grimaced politely and waited a respectful period before continuing. "Can you think of anything odd in your husband's behavior lately? Was he drinking, depressed, out late, that sort of thing?"
"No. Nothing. Henri loved this farm. It was everything to him."
"What about you?" Laroche asked.
Deirdre's face reddened, shocked that Laroche could ask such a question. "He loved me, too, if that's what you're asking."
"I'm sure he did. I'm not trying to imply anything, Mrs. Deudon. I'm just trying to understand how things were for him leading up to last night."
"Things were fine. I thought you said the fire was an accident." Deirdre wondered if they'd left something behind.
"We're still investigating the cause, but I must tell you there are signs that something was going on at that farm. I intend to find out what it was and who was involved."
Laroche's insistent questioning so soon after informing her of Henri's death seemed completely ill-mannered. She wondered what he'd found in the rubble; a tube of lipstick, or something with her name on it perhaps. She could feel Henri's outrage from above at the indictments of his character and she vowed not to disappoint him again.
"You mean signs Henri was doing something illegal?" she asked.
"Possibly."
"Nonsense. Henri never broke the law. Besides, he barely left the farm."
"His death was very odd for a man who never left the farm. Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Deudon?"
"That doesn't make him a criminal."
"We haven't ruled anything out, including suicide."
"How dare you?" Deirdre felt the hair on her neck stand up.
Laroche's face reddened, but he wasn't dissuaded. "Was anything troubling him? Was he acting normally this past month?"
Deirdre considered giving him the answer he wanted. She could end the investigation right here, but the murmurs of suicide would linger in these hills for decades. Henri would not approve.
"Mrs. Deudon. Is there something you're not telling me?"
"It was a very private matter."
"Understood. Anything you say will be kept in strictest confidence."
"We couldn't have children---I couldn't have children," she corrected. "We talked about adoption, but Henri wouldn't have it. It's been two years since we stopped trying, so I couldn't imagine it was still bothering him."
Laroche made a note in a small pad he'd been carrying.
"Was your husband a pilot, Mrs. Deudon?"
The surprise on Deirdre's face erased the question from Laroche's mind. He rose quickly without waiting for an answer. "I've taken too much of your time. If you think of anything odd that happened in the last few months, please call me. And please accept my condolences."
Chapter Nine
The setting sun cast long shadows on rows of budding vines that stretched nearly a mile from the chateau. Inside the master sitting room, the laptop fan hummed as if vacuuming the sales reports down the phone line bit by bit. Charles waited with a glass of burgundy swirling in his hand, the freshly opened bottle on the antique table. Beside the bottle lay a stack of bills that far exceeded the winery's pitiful revenue. It wasn't new ground for Charles nor was it unexpected. He'd saved enough on the purchase of the chateau to finance losses for the next four years. By then, the problems that drove the Poriers out of business would be long forgotten.
The sales file finally downloaded. Charles clicked it open and savored a long pull from his glass. His eyes drifted through sales and expense numbers for his six wineries in the United States. Each of them had been like this one once. Over time they'd matured and now the numbers showed enough free cash to carry this operation until it recovered. Encouraged, he pulled the top envelope from the stack and tore it open.
Elizabeth's bare feet pattered across the wooden floor of the sitting room to the work area Charles had arranged in front of the center window. He turned in time to catch her smile at the financial report on the screen.
"The Connecticut numbers look good. How about here?" she asked.
"In a word: atrocious. Sales are a joke since the panel's ruling and costs are way out of line. But we'll turn it around. We always do."
"What about moving Charlie's sparkling to Westport?"
"No chance. Charlie's just itching for a change of scenery, that's all."
"Nice to have him working with us though, isn't it?"
"You've got to stop babying him, Elizabeth. He's a grown man. It's time he stopped playing with that wretched vagabond and got to work."
"Isn't that what he's trying to do?"
"It seems to me he's just running away again."
"Why are you so against this?"
"Haven't you been watching him? Bad enough he stands to inherit a fortune with no inclination how to manage it. I'm not running my company to suit Charlie's whims. If he wants a place here before I'm gone, he's going to earn it. Who knows what he'll do in Westport without me around to keep him in check."
Elizabeth stepped away, disappointed. "He was always responsible until... I think you should give his idea some thought, that's all."
"I have." Charles drafted a check for the most recent load of fertilizer.
Elizabeth disappeared into the master bath.
The next envelope had no corporate logo and the handwritten address suggested it was a personal letter and not a bill. The page inside was mostly blank except for one typewritten paragraph in the middle. Charles read the words three times before he put it down.
What an empire you're building, Charles! Six investments---Six failed wineries---Six cheap acquisitions. A terribly fortunate cycle! Terrible for your partners and fortunate for you.
What's your secret? Fate? Instinct? Luck? You aren't lucky, are you, Charles? I know what you've done. I know how many lives you've destroyed.
What will your family think when they learn the truth?
The note asked for nothing, but the demands would come. Charles turned over the envelope and studied the handwriting. The letters were poorly formed, but the return address was discernible: Hixbridge Road, Westport, MA. The blackmailer had used the address of the first winery Charles had acquired. He was showing off, proving he knew the history. He knew about all six acquisitions and he knew what Charles was doing now. He'd be somewhere nearby keeping watch. The Westport address was the last place he was likely to be.
Charles sat remembering the two seasons he worked with the Joyets.
Robert Joyet was a kind man with a gift for wooing customers. Unfortunately for him, he lacked the survival instincts of a good businessman. Charles joined the Joyets as an advisor to bring financial discipline to their firm, but in the first year of their partnership, several batches of wine oxidized and the finances were thrown into a shambles. If not for Charles' prompt investment, the Joyets would have been bankrupt. The next year, propylene glycol was discovered in the wine. Competitors openly bashed the brand, wine magazines shunned their ads, and distributors refused to carry their wines. The money dried up and when the bank refused to issue another loan, Robert Joyet fell apart.
Work at the winery stopped. After three months of heavy drinking, Robert crashed his car, killing himself and his young wife, orphaning their only son. Soon after, Charles bought the winery from the estate at a deep discount. He remembered the teenage boy defying his lawyer and cursing him at the closing. Charles felt the boy's rage gnawing at him again. He would have attacked Charles that day had the table and the lawyers not been between them. He'd lost everything, his parents, his home, his future, and was uprooted to live with an aunt he'd never met.
The winery was worth far more than Charles paid, but the money would have supported the boy indefinitely if he was careful.
Charles stared blankly at the envelope, reliving the two seasons that had changed his life until Elizabeth called him to bed for the third time. He locked the letter away and rested his head on the pillow, but his eyes followed the swirling little half-circles in the plaster. He repeated each line of the note to himself, wondering about its author. The blackmailer knew about the winery in Westport and that Charles was here in Piolenc. It didn't seem possible he could know everything that happened, but he knew enough. The demands for money would come and Charles would have to pay. He'd been more careful this time than ever. He was sure no one had seen what he'd done. He wondered if one of the panel members had talked.
For the next five hours, Charles turned the note over in his mind, never taking his eyes off the swirls in the plaster.
...
The next morning, Charlie took his regular seat at the breakfast table while Randy walked around the far side. Charles was unshaven for the first time in months, his swollen eyes intent on his reading. He shielded himself from the new arrivals with his paper.
Randy sidled up and peeked over the newsprint. "What the Hell happened to you, Chuck? You look like you went out boozing. You should've called me."
Charles lowered his paper and looked up at Randy. "I can't look any worse than you---you damned loony."
"Chuck, Chuck, please. I have a look." Randy made a grand gesture from his long wavy hair down to his black boots. "What you have is just a pitiful disregard for good grooming. Lose your razor? You hit the vino, didn't you? Come on Chuck, you can tell me."
Stout whiskers bristled behind the newspaper.
Randy settled behind his empty plate like a preacher taking to his pulpit. "Those who sleep, sleep in the night and those who are drunken are drunken in the night. Surely you've heard that, Chuck. What kind of foster patriarch are you?"
Randy had studied every biblical reference to alcohol and enjoyed mangling them to suit his interest. The quote's reasoning was lost on Charles.
Rosalie interrupted the sermon with homemade banana bread followed by a bowl of dry scrambled eggs and a plate piled with toast.
Charlie waited for the sting of Randy's comments to fade, chewing his eggs, watching patiently. "Did you reconsider moving the sparkling to Westport?"
Charles folded his paper so he could see Charlie, but not the vandal. His face was pale and enfeebled. Red blood vessels showed through his reading glasses. Charlie expected a snarl, so the receptive look he got was totally unexpected.
"Your mother doesn't see any reason for you to come back here every time you want to check this one batch."
Charlie saw his mother perk up. She seemed surprised, but did not say anything. He heard Charles Sr.'s words, but couldn't believe them either. "So you're ok with me going back?"
"Well, I'm not excited about it, but Andre has more than enough help here. Sebastian is really short-staffed, so I'm willing to send you, on one condition. I want you to commit, really commit, to helping Sebastian."
"What about the wine?"
"It'll go right away. I'll order the container you need."
Charlie timidly raised two fingers. Six thousand gallons would fill two containers and thirty thousand bottles after landing in Westport.
"Fine. I'll call this morning. Do you want flexitanks?"
"I don't want to risk oxidization. I'll use barrels. We can protect the wine better that way." Charlie remembered well his father's stories about secondary fermentation in years past, but that wasn't why he chose barrels.
"Get your barrels ready. The containers'll be here Monday."
"Right away. You won't regret this."
"Make sure I don't."
Mrs. Marston nodded approvingly at her men.
Charles focused on his newspaper, weary, too tired to do much else. For once, Randy kept quiet and didn't upset the agreement that had won them their release. Charlie ate quietly, burying his exuberance beneath cautious manners.
Randy dabbed his stubble with a napkin, snickered at Charles, and stood up. "Thank you again for your hospitality Mrs. M. Breakfast was delightful and you look ravishing as ever."
"Please," she said, embarrassed, yet glowing, and uncharacteristically at a loss.
Charles waited until he heard the front door close. "Once you land in Providence, nix the bum. Understand? That guy is bad news."
"He just talks crazy. He's harmless."
"Harmless? Every damn second he is looking for trouble. I bet he hasn't worked a day in his life."
"He helped with the trim boards yesterday," Charlie said.
"Impressive. He worked what? An hour? Two? He only did that because he wrecked them. I bet he's never had a real job. That's why he has to bum around."
"I never asked."
"He's a leech, a useless, filthy leech. If you were broke, he would've left weeks ago." Charles flattened his paper for emphasis. "I'm not one to interfere in your life, Charlie. You're a grown man now..."
How could you interfere, you were never around?
Charlie pushed away his plate and stood up.
Charles got up and leaned over the table. "You're headed for trouble. He's reckless and I won't have him staying in Westport. Get rid of him."
"He has his own place." Charlie hadn't ever seen it. "I'm going to start on those barrels." He kissed his mother's cheek and headed for the front door, wondering how his father could order him to exclude Randy from his own house. Charlie had the deed, but that meant nothing to him. This was the price for the house his parents had given him. A winemaking career was suddenly less appealing.
He walked across the parking area glad for his father's sudden change of heart. The flight to Providence couldn't liftoff soon enough. He'd gladly leave Deirdre, the burned-out house, and the police behind. For days now he'd had a sense of something malevolent nearby, waiting for him in ambush. The move to Westport wouldn't erase his guilt, but it would help him sleep.
Randy leaned against the sunny side of the garage and talked to one of the vineyard hands.
"I didn't know you spoke French."
"I don't. He's working on his English."
Charlie walked around back and tapped on an old shabby truck's hood. "Get in ol' man. We're gettin' us some barrels," Charlie said in his best western drawl.
Charlie took the wheel firmly. Randy balked a moment then got into the passenger's seat.
"Isn't the barrel guy going to be pissed about this?" Randy asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Shouldn't you use his barrels?"
"We're using steel lined with plastic. He makes every kind of barrel you could want, as long as it's oak, oak, or oak."
The truck bounced and jostled as Charlie turned out onto the main road.
"Won't your wine taste like plastic?"
"Since when do you care about winemaking? All I care about is leaving since you introduced me to that nice policeman yesterday."
"This is France, he's a gendarme, and he takes ineptitude to a whole new level, don't you think?"
"How can you kill a guy and then barge in on the investigation to shake hands with the gendarme in charge? Are you insane or just stupid?"
"It's very zen. You know, in-touch. You ever meditate? Probably not, but if you did, you'd realize that if I hadn't stopped, we would know nothing."
It seemed Randy and Charlie stood together and had entirely different conversations with Lieutenant Laroche. Charlie wouldn't even pretend to know how the investigation would end, but Randy was positive they were in the clear. Charlie wouldn't feel safe until he arrived in Westport. Even then, the murder would haunt him. Randy seemed entirely unencumbered by his conscience. Charlie drove the truck silently, reflecting on what they did until they approached the driveway of the burned-out building. "You want me to stop so you can leave some fingerprints?"
"They won't be looking for fingerprints."
The corrugated roofed warehouse was ten kilometers beyond the old farm. Charlie backed the truck up to the loading dock and went inside to sign the paperwork. Randy yawned widely when Charlie returned ten minutes later, followed swiftly by the forklift operator speeding back and forth with pallets of shiny black barrels. The unsightly old truck only held a quarter of what they needed, but it was more than enough for Charlie to get started back home. Jaunting to the marine supply store was quicker. Charlie bought a small, metal jar and What looked like two gallons of paint, which he placed on the floor in front of Randy.
Curiosity soon engulfed Randy and he grabbed the jar and twisted the cover.
"Don't open that in here."
"What is it?"
"A solvent, an ugly solvent. It'll take the skin off your fingers and anything else it touches."
"Still worried about fingerprints?"
Charlie pulled away and headed back to the farm. "Why worry about fingerprints when I have you to advertise our guilt. I'm surprised you haven't written a blog yet."
"That would be classic. Your PC have Internet?"
For the rest of the ride home, Charlie ignored Randy and his constant search for danger. His father's words were beginning to make sense. No amount of excitement could make up for the constant anxiety Charlie felt when Randy was around. The day he took his money and went away would be a huge relief.
In the next six hours, they hauled four truckloads of barrels and stacked them in the warehouse. They were light and moved easily, but after one hundred ten of them, both men were exhausted. Each barrel would still need to be sterilized, rinsed, filled and prepared for shipping. By two they sat exhausted behind the guesthouse watching the cooper's shed. An hour later when the cooper quit for the day, they walked down and retrieved three oak bottoms, one for each of the empty barrels hidden in the guesthouse closet.
Inside, Charlie opened the windows, snapped on a pair of thick rubber gloves, and donned a pair of clear safety glasses. He sat by the first barrel with the metal jar. Randy picked up a wooden bottom and lowered it into a barrel. It stopped about a foot down and fit so snugly he had trouble getting it back out.
"Cool. These fit perfectly. But what are you doing to that barrel?"
"The lining is epoxy-phenolic."
"Can't you just say plastic?"
"Fine. Nothing adheres to plastic very well."
"So, that's some special glue?"
"Nope. Solvent. I'm taking the lining off. Then we'll seal the wooden bottom to the steel sides of the barrel. The bond will be rock solid."
Charlie opened the jar and the smell assailed his nose. Randy stepped back as Charlie brushed the gooey grey liquid in a circle around the inside of the barrel. The lining bubbled on contact and in thirty seconds he wiped it away leaving a shiny steel ring around the inside of the barrel.
"What's the other stuff?"
"It's an epoxy for waterproofing boats. Nothing will get through that stuff, not even wine."
Randy nodded, waving the fumes away from his eyes as he watched.
"Why don't you start bringing the money down?"
Randy immediately turned to fetch the ladder, uncharacteristically compliant. Charlie heard the ladder open and footsteps creaking up. By the time he stripped the lining off the third barrel, Randy had the first two packed tightly with bills up to the shiny ring. The bills were much lighter than wine, so Randy buried a heavy rock in the center of the cavity and packed bills tightly around it so it couldn't shift. He added a plastic sheet to keep the money safe from any epoxy that seeped through before it hardened.
Charlie pushed the first wooden bottom down into place.
In another half hour, all three barrels were stuffed with bills, fitted with a false bottom, and coated with a thick goo that would ruin the wine, but keep the money safe. They hid them in the closet and went back to work preparing the legitimate portion of the shipment. When the barrels were finally loaded into the containers on Monday, Charlie would be on the first plane to Providence.
Chapter Ten
Footsteps on the stone floor drowned out the faint sound of crystals bouncing and settling at the bottom of the barrel. Charlie belted the custom-made hood snugly over the barrel's mouth and attached the hose with a snap.
Randy approached down the long row of storage tanks. "What's with the silly-looking gizmo?"
"I'm getting the wine ready to ship."
"And you can't just dump it in?"
"Not unless I want to dump it out when it gets to Westport."
Charlie opened the valve on a tall cylinder and gas hissed through the plastic tube and into the barrel. A few seconds later, a second valve at the apex of the hood began to hiss as it released the pressure building inside.
"That CO2?"
"And nitrogen."
"Why the lid? Won't they just settle?"
"The carbon dioxide will, but nitrogen floats. Gasses don't like to stay still. They keep swirling around and mingling with the air. I could take all the oxygen out of the barn, but you might get a little lightheaded."
"Funny. What is that, winemaker humor?"
When the gauge passed the volume of the barrel, Charlie turned a knob and started the flow of wine through a hose that lay flat at the bottom of the barrel.
Randy startled at the hum of the machine by his feet. "You use a pump? Is that thing clean?" Randy asked.
"It's a wine pump. That's what it's for."
Randy followed the clear hose back to a gleaming stainless steel tank that rose twenty feet off the floor then glanced back toward the warehouse. The wine from this tank had filled over a hundred barrels and when Randy shifted his eyes to the larger tanks standing side by side in a long neat row, they were filled with awe. Sixteen gleaming, twenty-thousand-gallon tanks were a surprising sight hidden away in the tiny farming village like so many missiles buried beneath an Iowa cornfield. Randy didn't comment, but he was definitely impressed.
When the barrel was filled to the absolute top, Charlie removed the hood, sprayed on a layer of argon from a second cylinder and sealed the lid. Together they wheeled the final barrel out of the fermentation room and down the main aisle to the warehouse.
They bypassed the cellar that had nurtured wines for more than a century. This wine belonged there too, but no one was there to protest, just a long empty hallway where every footfall and every whisper echoed forbiddingly off the ancient stone walls. Andre was enjoying his Sunday at home. He would be shocked when he found the shipment on the loading dock; in plastic-lined barrels no less! He had yet to sample the batch and he'd be outraged when he discovered it was destined for the United States; the ultimate insult.
The Rhone Valley yielded some of the world's most prestigious wines and there were strict laws governing how they were produced. Charlie thumbed his nose at centuries of tradition and readied his wine to travel to Westport, Massachusetts. As they tipped the hand-truck and maneuvered the barrel onto a pallet with the others, Charlie wondered why his father had agreed to such an odd idea. He'd never known him to change course lightly.
The two men walked outside for a break beneath the starry spring sky. Charlie caught his breath and listened as Randy cataloged the more exquisite cars parked along the chateau's wide drive. A distant violin played and Charlie imagined Rosalie shooing the caterers around her kitchen as they hustled to serve the Rhone Valley elite.
This dinner and tasting event was the Marstons' "coming out" of sorts. The previous owners had departed in disgrace after three consecutive vintages were failed by the certification panel. The panel was back again and Charles was eager to return Chateau de Piolenc to respectability with the same vines, the same vintner, and a greater emphasis on quality. This was the part of the business Charlie hated: sucking up to influential customers and greedy politicians. In France, it was part of the Appellation Controlee, the law. They couldn't label a wine with the words "Rhone Valley" unless the certification panel approved.
Fortunately for Charlie, his parents excelled at impressing their guests. Elizabeth could entertain anyone with a smile and a charming story or a sympathetic ear. Charles was less sophisticated, but he'd learned to keep his opinions to himself and center his conversations on winemaking. He left the schmoozing to his wife. Charlie assumed the panel would approve the next vintage by morning.
"Looks like you need a drink, Young Marston."
"What's your pleasure, Mr. Black?"
"Let's take a walk and decide."
A few minutes later, they left the cellar with two bottles each, headed across the lawn, and trudged up the stairs into the guesthouse.
Charlie poured two glasses and sat on the couch gazing at hundreds of rows of vines in silhouette along the valley floor. "You've never told me what you do to pay for the trips, the motorcycle, and the boat?"
"This is what I do. I meet people, I travel, drive fast machines."
"And chase women."
"Chasing gets you all sweaty. I gather them, preferably in twos and threes."
"Excellent work if you can get it."
"You don't do so bad. Daddy takes pretty good care of you."
"But alas, I'm joining the working world." Charlie frowned down into his glass as if in mourning.
"You don't really need to after the other night, but winemaking is noble I suppose. Someone's got to make the stuff." Randy swirled the wine in his glass.
"That stuff you've been drinking isn't free."
"But what is money? Paper, numbers in an account? It isn't real." Randy pressed his glass to his face and filled himself with the aroma. "Now this is real."
"That Bordeaux is beyond real... I guess money is the scorecard of real things you've created. The more you accomplish, the more you have."
"You couldn't be more wrong. Everyone earns money, but big money is different. Big money is a sign of greed and malice applied mightily against your fellow man. Man is a treacherous beast, forever thieving and killing his brethren. Those sleazy capitalists you admire so much are the worst. You choose to ignore it, Young Marston, but make no mistake: the wrath of God is coming upon these sons of disobedience. Someday judgment will come for those rich people you think are so virtuous. The Lord will pile them into the great winepress and their red blood will flow over the land to repay their sins against their brothers."
"So all rich people are thieves to be crushed like grapes?"
"Not all. I'm not necessarily impoverished and I expect the Lord will look favorably upon me when my day of judgment comes."
Wine burned its way toward Charlie's lungs and he coughed uncontrollably. He stared through teary eyes, amazed that Randy could maintain such a self-perception. Finally he regained his breath. "Ever hear the phrase 'thou shalt not kill'? It might come up."
"He attacked me."
Charlie scoffed. "How about: Thou shalt not commit adultery?"
"How was I supposed to know she was married?"
"Get real! She called herself LustyFarmWife. That was a clue. The wedding ring might have tipped you off, but you weren't looking at her hands, were you?"
"Oh. Is that what was slowing you down?" Randy snickered.
"I'm not going to be sainted, but-"
"Of course not. You're going to rape and pillage the poor grape farmers just like your father."
"My father turns these farms around and saves jobs. Twenty-eight people work here and if it weren't for my father, they'd be unemployed right now."
"Blah, blah, blah. Does your father print that crap for you? Think a minute and tell me why you're so different from the last owners."
"Their wines sucked. They were flunked by the panel three years in a row."
"Odd. They make wine here for what, two hundred years, and then they suddenly forget how. Don't you find that a little bit strange?"
"I heard he turned to drinking."
"Before or after the panel put him out of business?"
Charlie took a long drink and considered. "What are you saying?"
"Open your eyes, Charlie. Life isn't as neat as those textbooks you've been reading. Making wine is art. The rest is dirty and nasty and violent. You're going to learn a lot in your first year. I guarantee it."
"And what about you? I suppose your immaculate wealth came directly from God on a ray of sunshine."
"My family earned big money in business, too."
Charlie gasped dramatically. "And they were saintly capitalists, I suppose?"
"Ever wonder where all that money came from? Before your father had two or three wineries, I mean?"
"He's owned them since I was a kid," Charlie said.
"I started to wonder where it all came from when I was about sixteen."
"I bet your parents hated that."
"They were gone then."
Gone had to mean dead, but Randy showed no emotion whatsoever.
"Sorry," Charlie said.
Randy ignored the subject. "I had some serious questions about where all that money came from. I did some research. I watched the money flow. After a while, things started to connect. I asked a few questions, handed out a few bucks."
"So are you an investor or a con man?"
Charlie pulled the cork from the second bottle and refilled the glasses.
"I made my money ethically, which is more than most people I deal with. I pay a little for information here and a little for help there. It's amazing what you can learn if you know how to ask."
"So you're a hotshot investor?"
"I'm no hotshot. I choose my investments very carefully. I don't want to have to get a job or, God forbid, make wine for a living."
"I don't mind making wine. I'd rather play football, but winemaking is ok."
"You keep telling yourself that."
Charlie smiled thinly.
"If you ever build your own winery, maybe I'll invest."
"Maybe I'll let you."
"That would be your first mistake," Randy snickered.
Charlie shook his head at the constantly shifting puzzle that was Randy Black and turned toward the window. The line of cars was gone and the main house was dark except for a single light in the master suite; the perfect time for what they needed to do.
"Let's get to work."
They wrestled a barrel out of the closet and rolled it on edge through the bedroom and toward the back stairs. It left a wavy trail on the carpet as if an iron snake had slithered through the living room. They clumsily lifted the barrel through the door and started down the long flight of stairs. Charlie held steady on the lower end, backing down the stairs, but Randy alternately swayed into the wooden railing and then against the stone wall of the guesthouse as they descended.
Randy dropped his end on the third stair and the thud echoed in the stillness.
Luckily the barrel wasn't dented.
"Hang on to that thing."
"Give me a break, I'm shit faced." Randy grinned with the admission.
"On a bottle and a half between us? You turning into a light weight?"
"You think I was tap dancing while you filled all those barrels?"
"Don't drop it again. I can't explain lugging a wine barrel around in the middle of the night."
"If your father sees what's inside, he's going to want a cut."
"Give him a break, will you? It's no wonder you freak him out. You look like a tall, hairy chick and you spout off like a polygamist, anarchist zealot. Maybe he'd like you if you shaved, cut your hair, and kept your mouth shut."
"I don't think so. It's what's underneath that he has a problem with."
They stopped twice to rest between the guesthouse and the barn. Randy begged to get the truck, but Charlie feared the engine noise would attract attention. They forged ahead into the barn, wheeled the barrel down to the pump and topped it off with twenty gallons of wine. There was no pause to evacuate the air with carbon dioxide and nitrogen, no antioxidant crystals, and no argon before they sealed it up. This wine was only camouflage and topping it off took less than two minutes.
They stopped in the guesthouse for a rest and a fresh glass before hoisting the next barrel. By two o'clock, the three money-filled barrels were together on a pallet at the front of the shipment. They would be loaded first in the morning, safely tucked into the very back of the first container.
Randy fell asleep on the couch while explaining how men could stabilize the American family by taking three wives instead of just one. It was one of his favorite topics. He was animated and quite convincing until he sputtered himself to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Charlie woke up somewhere between the squeal of the air brakes and the chatter of the driver with an angry Frenchman. The light stung his eyes and his pulse throbbed in his temples as he threw off the bedclothes.
The barrels!
The money-filled barrels stood on the first pallet. Andre would be compelled to check any shipment before it left the winery, but this one would have his particular attention. Charlie imagined him inspecting the seals and tapping to be sure the barrels were properly filled. Charlie's modifications might fool an untrained customs inspector, but not Andre. He'd been around wine his whole life. A few well-placed taps and he'd uncover the scam. There was no time for aspirin.
Charlie rolled out of bed and rumbled outside. The bounce of every stair intensified the pounding in his head. The trot to the barn brought crushing pain to his knee and an even louder throbbing behind his eyes, but he kept up his pace, closing on the men arguing in the loading area.
A slight man with dark, leathery skin turned toward Charlie as he approached. He'd spent years among the vines and even his bald scalp was tanned. He swung his hands wildly as if throwing his words at Charlie. "What is this, Charles?"
"It's my batch of sparkling. I'm taking it to Westport."
"You cannot move it from the Rhone and sell it! No! No!"
"I can't stay here for ten years."
"It is a disgrace. Shipping wine in metal barrels! It is idiotic!"
"It's decided. I'm moving it to Westport."
Sweat beaded on the surface of Charlie's pounding forehead. Talking was painful; arguing with Andre was agony, but at least Charlie had distracted him from the barrels.
Andre made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "Who are you to plan such a thing? You know nothing. You are a boy. Wine is a hobby to you."
"This is my wine and I'm going to see it through."
"Your father will hear about this."
Charlie waved an inviting arm toward the main house and he was glad the shouting was over when Andre stormed off. The truck driver was relieved when Charlie apologized and headed for the forklift.
A moment later, he swung erratically around the corner and toward the pallets, the left fork crashing into a wooden support. The barrels shook, but didn't fall. Charlie rubbed his eyes and his vision cleared. The lift rolled back for a second try and the forks slid in perfectly. The pallet rose and he spun the lift around and into the container. In a few trips, Charlie regained his touch for spinning the wheel and began scooting around at full speed.
More and more barrels separated Andre and the money. Charlie rushed every maneuver, expecting Andre to storm back in and demand to inspect the load. As time passed and the truck was nearly full, Charlie began wondering what Andre and his father were discussing inside. He worried Andre would convince him to cancel the shipment and age the sparkling in Piolenc.
When the container was full, Charlie rushed from the forklift and helped the driver seal the doors. He finally relaxed when the truck rolled down the long drive, and started his fortune on its long journey home.
Andre stomped down the stairs cursing loudly in French at no one in particular. Charlie would have let him check the barrels then, but apparently father had overruled his argument. Defeated, Andre angled through the processing room rather than confront Charlie in the loading area.
Charlie began loading the second truck at a less frantic pace. Each time he slowed to lift a pallet he could hear Andre rambling on to an audience inside the barn. Charlie recognized a few words from the high-speed banter. Andre thought him a stupid American imbecile and something was finished, Charlie wasn't sure what. It didn't matter. The future was in Westport.
When Charlie finished, the truck driver took the signed paperwork, climbed up in his cab, and chugged away. Charlie managed only a dozen yards across the drive before he had to stop and rest his knee. He proceeded to the house with halting steps. Any weight on the knee sent a shooting pain up his thigh. He labored up the stairs supporting more of his weight on the railings than the treads. Charles was at the table making notes on some reports and his expression suggested they were from back home.
His demeanor changed when he saw his son.
"Good morning," Charles said curtly.
"Morning."
"Well, you've alienated the best winemaker I have and you're looking more and more like that punk Randy. Any other plans I should know about? It's still early."
Charlie looked down at the clothes he'd slept in. His mouth tasted like dirty cotton and he hadn't shaved or touched his hair since waking up. Charles never excused such an appearance. The winery was a public place and in a few hours tourists would trickle in for tastings. Father believed no Marston should ever be seen without a clean shave and proper clothes. He even wore a button-down shirt during the crush, when everyone was pitching in.
Charlie sat.
"You need to project a better image when you get to Westport. You'll be running that winery soon and a good impression is critical. You'll have much older people working for you and you'll have to earn their respect."
"I know."
"I'm not so sure. You need to let that derelict find another playmate. People around here already associate you with him."
"He's not a bad guy."
"He'll ruin you or get you killed. I'm not sure which."
Charlie lifted a glass of juice rather than argue Randy's good points.
Charles collected his reading and stood up. "When are you going back?"
"Today."
"Good. Dump him at the airport. I'll have you running things this fall."
"I'll be on top of it in a few weeks." As soon as Charles left the room, Charlie downed a tall glass of water, one gulp after another.
Elizabeth walked in and kissed him on the cheek despite his bedraggled appearance. "Morning, sweetheart. I saw the trucks leave with your wine."
"I'll be glad to get back home."
"Did your father talk to you about the Westport operation?"
"He did."
"And?"
"I'm ready, Mom. I've been around this my whole life."
"I know you're ready, but you're going to have to show everyone back there that you're not the same kid who was sneaking bottles from the warehouse and giving private tours at night."
Charlie reached over, picked up the water glass from Randy's vacant seat, and took a large swallow.
"Getting some distance from Randy will be for the best."
"What do you two have against him? Other than the way he looks?"
"We see him for what he is."
"What's that?"
"An opportunist. When he sees something he wants, he'll take it."
Charlie finished the water.
"I know you have fun together, dear, but this is an important time in your career. You're just getting started in the business."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll take care of it." He kissed her and left.
Charlie felt lucky.
Three days had passed since the fire and no French officials had visited. He imagined gendarmes peppering Deirdre with an endless stream of questions. She must have kept her promise. If she hadn't, the gendarmes would have swarmed the chateau in minutes.
All Charlie needed was a few more hours. The jet would arch up into the sky and carry him home. He prayed she'd hold out as he hobbled across the drive.
Chapter Twelve
Even with his eyes closed, Charlie could feel the white-haired lady across the aisle staring past him. She was intrigued by the clash of Randy's black leather and haphazard grooming against the cadre of neatly dressed, well-mannered couples that filled the remainder of the first class cabin. Her eyes had settled on him even before takeoff and, except for a few long naps, she spent most of the flight gawking sideways. To her, the scraggly appearance combined with the money to travel first class was proof that Randy was a rock star. He reinforced the stereotype by talking three times as loudly as he should, overtly flirting with the flight attendant, and causing all sorts of commotion when he wanted something. The woman took no notice of Charlie, assuming he was an agent or some other businesslike associate.
Randy was ranting about something and Charlie tuned in. "...sawdust. I can't believe I almost went back in there. Boom! The whole place just exploded on fire! Flames twenty feet high! That was sick. You've got to teach me to do that."
Charlie elbowed Randy as he finished.
Nothing could distract the lady across the aisle now. She leaned over her armrest, breathless for him to continue.
The man seated ahead of them folded his book and listened.
"We're not supposed to talk about the stunts until the movie's released."
Charlie's cover story only fueled the interest of the eavesdroppers. It had no effect on Randy's animated joviality.
"Dude, it was so cool."
"I just hope the film crew does it justice," Charlie said, glaring at him with a look that screamed "Shut the Hell up!"
Randy ignored it. "I hope not. I'd love to see you do that again."
The lady reached across the aisle and tapped Charlie on the forearm. "Excuse me, young man. Are you boys movie stars?"
"No, Ma'am. Wish we were. I'm in special effects. Randy here is a stuntman." It was fitting even if it wasn't true.
The woman stared for a moment. Not knowing what to say, she turned and whispered to her husband, who had been looking out the window. The man ahead of them turned all the way around and peeked over the seat, but didn't introduce himself. Charlie felt a half dozen other curious stares, but their interest faded since Randy had finally gotten the hint and stopped blabbering on about the fire. He fiddled with something in his jacket and after a few minutes, the eyes around the cabin returned to amusements in their own seats.
The flight attendant circulated to collect glasses and ask the passengers to mind their seatbelts and tray-tables for landing. The older woman checked her buckle and returned to gazing across the aisle. The landing was smooth and the trip to the gate was quick since there was only one terminal at TF Green.
"What's the name of your film? I want to look for you boys," the woman asked, intent even as everyone around her hunted for bags and belongings.
Charlie smiled at her. "Neither of our faces is on camera. You might see my friend's dark figure running away from an explosion, but that's all."
"You can tell me. I promise I won't tell a soul." She leaned forward and aimed a pleading smile at Randy.
Randy didn't hesitate. "It's Angel Avenger. It'll be released in May."
The old woman lit up. "Sounds exciting."
"It's one hundred percent action," Randy said.
The plane jerked to a stop at the gate and the first class passengers gathered their bags and slipped into the jetway ahead of the crowd assembled behind them. The old woman stopped Randy just inside the terminal and asked for his autograph. He signed her ticket clearly "Randy Black."
Charlie started away through the busy terminal, wondering if Randy considered himself invincible or if it was just plain arrogance that made him so bold. They passed two bars. It annoyed Randy to walk by without stopping for a drink, but Charlie was eager to get home. Randy complained until they reached the bottom of the escalator to baggage claim.
Bags in hand, they stepped out into a chilly New England drizzle.
Randy hesitated in the doorway. "Hey, Marston."
When Charlie looked back, he saw a small package spinning sideways through the air. When it was halfway to him, Charlie recognized the green and white pattern. He snagged it with his free hand and stuffed it in an inside pocket. "What's wrong with you?"
Randy stood in the doorway, a camera directly over his head. He was out of the picture, but Charlie was center-frame. Charlie froze, eyes focused on the lens recording his image somewhere inside the terminal.
"I wanted to say thanks for putting me up. It was a great trip. If that's not enough, I've got another fifty-K." Randy reached inside his jacket again.
Charlie raised his hand dismissively and turned to escape the camera's view. His parents were right. Randy was going to self-destruct and suddenly Charlie wanted to get as far away from him as possible. Randy had carried sixty thousand dollars through customs for a thrill. The man he'd killed and the building they'd burned would have most people laying low, terrified of the law, but the experience only compounded Randy's excitement as he defied its authority over him. Charlie wondered what he would do when that excitement wore off. He might get drunk and spout off about the fire or tell someone what was hidden in the barrels. He'd talked about the explosion and the fire loud enough for everyone in first class to hear. "Drop the bum at the airport," his father had said. Charlie wished he'd heeded his father's warnings before he lit that candle and mingled his sin with Randy's.
Randy caught up and walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Charlie to the parking garage. Not a word passed between them. Randy never offered an apology yet the lack of jokes and insults was acknowledgement that he'd crossed the line. Charlie wasn't angry, but focused on brushing Randy off without angering a man who could send him to prison with a few phone calls. Somewhere between the elevator ride and spotting their cars a few spaces apart, Charlie decided he'd slowly fade from Randy's life, like a cowardly boyfriend afraid to initiate a breakup. Charlie would get busy making wine and let Randy corrupt someone else.
Charlie clicked open the trunk of the Volvo and stuffed in his suitcase. The S80 was an understated car, but with two turbochargers, it was plenty fast. Its quiet, elegant look was a fitting extension of Charlie's personality. In contrast, Randy swung the door to his Mercedes SLR McLaren upright and threw his bag over to the passenger seat. Even at a standstill in a packed garage, the uniqueness of the SLR with its door six feet in the air stood out for all to see. It was as refined as a cigarette boat and twice as fast. Most importantly, it attracted attention from the right sort of women. If he revealed its cost, it would attract dozens more.
Charlie stood behind the Volvo and watched Randy back out.
"What are we doing tonight?" Randy asked through his open window.
"Nothing. I've got to settle in."
"Come on. You're not mad at me are you, sweetie?"
"Someone's got to make the wine. Remember?"
"You do that. I'll call you tomorrow." Randy eased the Mercedes ahead, stopping his rear tire even with Charlie's knee.
As Charlie slammed the trunk shut, he heard the soft thump of the pedal hitting the floor. The engine gave a menacing roar and the tire churned in place, billowing foul, blue smoke. Charlie turned to find himself pinned against the Volvo as the SLR's engine whined higher and higher. The wheel spun faster, inching toward him. Randy looked power-drunk behind the wheel, relishing Charlie's terror.
"Cut the shit!"
Randy jerked the wheel and the tire hopped six inches closer.
Charlie's reaction was automatic and quite painful. He leaped backward and landed on top of the Volvo's high trunk, with his good leg wedged against the Mercedes to keep himself from getting trapped between the cars. His right knee throbbed from the exertion.
"Hey, watch the paint job," Randy yelled.
Just two inches separated the cars when the spinning finally stopped. The Mercedes eased ahead until it was clear, and then thrust forward, accelerating to a speed Charlie thought impossible to control between the concrete pillars and the sharply curved ramps. Tires squealed and the car dipped down and disappeared. The sounds of the revving engine and the squealing tires alternated until Randy broke free of the garage and whipped around toward the highway. Charlie massaged his knee, glad to watch him go.
The S80 was much more comfortable than the BMW he'd been driving in France. He sunk deep into the familiar seat and wove his way out of the garage behind a steering system that didn't feel like it was lifted from an Indy racer. Out on the access road, he clicked on the cruise control and relieved his leg from the steady pressure on the accelerator that caused him so much pain. As he stretched in his seat, his bicep brushed the stack of bills in his pocket. He took it out and tapped it against the steering wheel, wondering what motivated Randy's antics.
It wasn't money. Back at the farmhouse, he could have taken all the money and left Deirdre and her husband behind for Charlie to deal with. By the time Charlie returned with the sawdust, Randy could have been miles away, but to him, a sidekick was more valuable than money. He smuggled sixty thousand dollars into the country for fun. He threw ten thousand to Charlie because the stunt alone wasn't enough. Randy reveled in other people's terror. That's what he needed: the warnings, the horrified, knowing looks. He wanted people to think he was insane and that he'd kill himself. He needed them to keep watching.
Charlie remembered a dark night in the park. The Mercedes was cruising down the walkways at eighty miles per hour with the headlights off. The narrow strip of concrete barely fit the SLR and the only light came from an occasional post lantern that lit a bench or a fork in the path. Randy was driving more light-to-light than down-the-path and several times the car skidded and slid out onto the grass, but every time the back end wandered, Randy brought it under control without incident. He liked driving fast at night because oncoming headlights helped him avoid his greatest fear: unsure nervous drivers, who'd be better off in a taxi. Someday one of them would flinch, lose control, and hit him head-on. He often said, "When you're going a hundred, there's no defense against incompetence."
There wasn't much chance of hitting another car in the park and pedestrians weren't nearly the problem they were during the day. Sweat broke Charlie's skin as he remembered gripping the dashboard as Randy veered into the grass and narrowly missed a tree. He jerked the wheel back on the path and then swerved again to miss a bench. The wheels on Charlie's side were a foot off the ground and he thought surely the car would roll over and kill them both. Randy kept the car up on two wheels for the next sixty feet, howling out his window the whole time. He executed his antics with the precision of a stuntman on a well-scripted bit, not a madman on an ad hoc rave. Maybe Hollywood was his calling.
Not everything with Randy was life or death as long as there was some risk. He loved jet skis and was particularly fond of lowering the nose and drenching Charlie with the high-powered exhaust. Paintball was the safest thing to do with Randy. At least you couldn't get killed. As long as you checked his paint to make sure it wasn't frozen and you kept your goggles on, you'd be ok. Charlie was patient and an excellent shot. He hid himself well and waited for Randy to wander into view, usually allowing him to get dangerously close before he opened fire. The knee made Charlie an easy target once Randy found him, so he avoided open terrain and hunkered down in the thickest part of the field every time. After a few punishing losses, Randy insisted on teaming up when they played.
Charlie turned the Volvo down Route 88 and admired the thick stands of trees on either side. This was the Westport he'd known since he was ten. He cruised past long stretches of forest occasionally interrupted by a farm or a modest home. In two months, this road would be clogged with beachgoers inching their way to Horseneck, but for now, the road belonged to the locals. Charlie turned down Hixbridge Road, past the farms on each side, over the river where he had fished on a hundred long summer afternoons, and past the long stretch of vines on the south side of the road. As he approached the winery, the vineyard spread north and south, interrupted only by a few houses the Marstons rented to vineyard workers.
Finally, he was home. Clamshells crackled under the tires as he rode along the white driveway and over the same potholes that had been there when he left for college six years earlier. A narrow strip of grass framed the left side of the drive and a tangle of bushes rose abruptly where the blades of the mower didn't reach. On the opposite side, an expansive, if not manicured, lawn sloped down through a few scattered trees and beyond a mossy stone wall. There it met forty acres of grapevines that stretched off toward the horizon. Further down the drive, he reached the four buildings he'd spent most of his childhood in and around. Two houses, the long red barn, and the tasting room lined the hillside between the vineyard below and the crest of the hill in the forest above.
The first house he passed, a traditional New England cape decked out in weathered shingles, had housed nearly a dozen people when the Marstons rented rooms to vineyard hands. It was Charlie's now, situated only a hundred yards from the barn, and in desperate need of renovation. His parents' home next door had been in similar condition when the Marstons moved in, but now it had more than doubled with the expansion of the second floor, a garage at one end, and a greenhouse attached at the other. Neither home was as large as the guesthouse in Piolenc and Charlie was startled by the contrast.
As wonderful as Chateau de Piolenc was, he was glad to see the tiny cape whether his parents returned home or not. He'd been back here a few times over the last six years, but coming home to stay was an entirely different feeling. He drove alongside the red barn with its familiar roofline, still amazed at how big the building was. Every tree welcomed him. He pictured himself among the machines he knew so well. This would all be his when he proved himself equal to the responsibility.
Charlie parked close to the fence opposite the parking area to shorten the walk to the gift shop. He stretched and admired the faded shingles and bright, white trim of the tasting room. An older woman with short, dark hair peeked out the entrance and walked toward him.
"Excuse me, sir, would you mind parking over there?" She pointed behind him.
Charlie shut the door and walked toward her, minimizing his limp as best he could. "I'm sorry, we haven't met."
"I'm Lillian, the gift shop manager. Your car is blocking the walkway. Would you mind moving it?"
"Hi, Lillian. I'm Charlie. I have a really bad knee, so I always park there. I hope you don't mind."
Before Lillian could protest again, a young man ran over from the barn, his footsteps crunching over the shells. His forehead and chin were quite pronounced, making his head look several sizes too big for his five-foot-ten frame. Sebastian thrust out a hand to Charlie and shook his vigorously.
"Hey, Charlie. I see you've met Lily. How was France?"
"Good. How are things?"
"Not bad. Come on in. I'll get you up to speed. You need a drink?"
Lillian looked at the car and then raised her eyebrows at Sebastian.
Charlie tried not to smile.
"Lily, this is Charlie Marston. He's been with his father in France for about a month and, from what I hear, he's back to stay."
Lily realized her mistake and stepped back sheepishly.
"Nice to meet you, Lily." Charlie waved and followed Sebastian to the barn.
Inside, the fermenters looked as shiny and neat as the day they were installed. The oak barrels on the opposite wall were stacked nearly to the ceiling. Sebastian had been working here for eight years and for the last few months, he'd been managing the vineyard and overseeing the winemaking while the Marstons were in France. The fermentation room at least appeared to be in good order.
They moved into the small office where Charles had experimented unsuccessfully with new wines in the early years. After five seasons, he discovered a knack for acquiring and turning around winery operations and decided to leave winemaking to the professionals.
Charlie dropped into his father's chair and looked around the tiny, cluttered room. This was the life ahead of him. He'd work in this chair day after day and live in the house one hundred yards up the drive. This was the work he'd trained for and, without football, this was his future. Charlie half listened to Sebastian while he explained that the economy was picking up and they were losing vineyard hands faster than ever. The pruning was done, but most of the vines still needed to be secured and none of the catch wires had been lowered. With just four hands for over eighty acres of grapes, it was going to be a long, hard spring. Charlie wasn't looking forward to working on his feet all day. The winery he could handle, but the vineyard would be torture. Part of him longed for the wild and free nights with Randy as he listened to Sebastian drone on about the work that lay ahead.
Chapter Thirteen
The postman in Piolenc was an unreliable sort of fellow whose arrival was less predictable than New England weather. Charles longed for the Westport carrier, who arrived promptly between twelve-thirty and quarter-to-one every day. Back in the early years, after the Marstons left their first winery in Southbridge and moved to Westport, times were harsh. Many months the bills were long overdue. Charles often sat transfixed by the silver box at the end of the drive, anxiously waiting for a payment that would appease the suppliers for another few months. Some days he walked the thousand feet to the mailbox two or three times before the mail finally arrived, usually to disappoint him with a handful of bills and solicitations. Eventually he learned to time his walk moments before Rick arrived with the mail.
The business was in a different sort of peril now and once again Charles eagerly watched the road over a field of brown vines. He sat alone on the porch occasionally nibbling his sandwich as if enjoying a leisurely lunch, but he was poised to make a dignified rush to the mailbox the second he caught sight of the postman. He'd worked too hard to let Elizabeth stumble across his secret now.
When Rosalie stepped out on the porch and inquired about his meal for the third time, he relinquished his tray and shifted his attention to a handful of reports he'd brought from his office. He passed another hour pretending to read; still no mail. The idling couldn't continue another day. He decided to visit the postman in the morning, slip him a few euros, and end this infernal waiting.
In the distance, Elizabeth was halfway through her daily walk around the fields. The vines weren't much to look at this time of year. The buds had just begun to swell, but the grass was deep green and there were hints of color in the hills all around. In three weeks, the views would be spectacular. Until then, the regimen would keep her fit and the time alone in the serene landscape would replenish her deep well of patience.
Finally, the red sedan approached. Charles hopped from his seat, but froze on the second step as the mail-carrier recognized Elizabeth at the roadside and slowed to a stop five hundred yards short of the mailbox.
"No! No! No!" Charles blurted. Realizing his mistake, he snapped his head around. Thankfully, no one was within earshot, but Elizabeth and the mail carrier were a half mile away and there was nothing he could do to intervene. He sat back down to watch, hoping there wasn't another threatening letter in the mail.
Elizabeth hiked up the slope toward the car and leaned down to face the driver. Something white passed between them and they lingered for about two minutes. Charles imagined her sputtering on in near-perfect French, much faster than he could comprehend. She was captivating when she spoke. She radiated an innocence that you could almost touch and a feeling of warm interest when she focused her attention on you. Her elegant looks didn't hurt either. Charles imagined the man in the car was as entranced by her as he was when they had first met.
Elizabeth carried herself with the pride and confidence of those who've personally erected the pedestal they stand upon. She had poured herself into her husband's struggle to turn around a string of failed wineries and she had far surpassed even his expectations. Each turn-around progressed smoother than the last. Sales gushed to new highs and the Marston brand shined like a privately-held gem. Her pride was only natural, but her achievements hadn't sprung entirely from hard work. Evidence of the scam surfaced around her, but Elizabeth couldn't ponder such things even in her darkest moments. She pressed on, finding success at every turn. She was too smart to be blinded to the truth forever, but that didn't matter anymore. The truth had just been delivered into her hands.
Charles watched across the field as the car drove past the mailbox without stopping and disappeared down the road. Elizabeth drifted down the bank, and followed the vines along the roadside, shuffling envelopes as she went. Charles prayed there would be no note today, but he was about to discover how grossly he'd underestimated his adversary. He told himself the blackmailer would let him suffer before writing again. And even if there was a note, Elizabeth wouldn't open a letter addressed to him. She seemed to confirm this as she walked steadily along toward the drive with a handful of envelopes hanging down at her side. Charles thought about rushing to meet her, but if there was something in the mail, he couldn't prevent her from seeing it. He feigned tranquility and watched as she began shuffling again and then slowed to read something. She stopped and stared at the house, directly at him, if it were possible from four hundred yards. Somehow he could see the anger in her posture. She walked slowly now, in turn looking at the paper in her hands, the ground, and staring at the house.
Charles was filled with anguish thinking she'd opened a letter addressed to him, but then his guilt reminded him that his transgressions were far more obscene.
As Elizabeth neared the porch, her back stiffened. She glared intently at the front entrance and away from Charles. Her steps were quick, her footfalls heavy as if getting inside was her sole mission. Her sneakers pounded their way up the eight granite steps to the porch.
"How was your walk?"
The door slammed closed and Elizabeth scampered up the marble staircase.
She'd been fine until she met the postman. Charles knew it had something to do with Friday's letter. He'd seen families fall apart when their businesses collapsed. He'd caused it to happen. He was going to fight this, but win or lose, he wasn't letting go of Elizabeth.
Charles gathered his courage and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Elizabeth lay facedown on the bed with a letter in her outstretched hand. A single envelope lay unopened beside her. The rest of the mail had spilled onto the wooden floor.
Charles sat gingerly, his back against the footboard.
"Let's talk about this, Elizabeth, whatever it is."
She rolled over. Her cheeks were wet with tears as she waved the rumpled letter at him. "You bastard! How could you?"
"What is it? What are you upset about?"
"Don't play innocent. How could you hide this from me for fifteen years?"
Charles hung his head. It was hard to imagine this had been going on for so long and harder still to imagine how bitter it must be for her to learn the truth. She'd never understand the pressure that drove him to it. She'd see only the thirst for money, for the thrill, a hunger to feed greed beyond control. He had blindly taken so much. Now his own family was threatening to unravel and he felt the seeds of desperate sadness taking root within him. He'd sewn these same seeds within other father's hearts and nurtured them as they blossomed into panic, exasperation, and loss. In a flash of self-pity and doubt, his own destruction seemed a fitting punishment.
"Who is she?"
Charles shook his head. "There is no she. What are you talking about?"
"There's no hiding it anymore." She waved the note again. "The address, it's from Westport. You got some girl from the winery pregnant, didn't you?"
"No. I swear it. There's no girl. Never!" Charles snatched the note.
Poor Elizabeth,
Your husband is a very bad man. He's been lying about me for 15 years. Take Charlie and get away before it's too late. Charles is going to have an accident, but Charlie is a fine man. He'll take care of you.
Fifteen years earlier was 1990. The Marstons bought the Westport winery that August, a few months after the propylene glycol was discovered. But who was he lying about? Roger Joyet and his wife died in July of that year, and Charles forced most of the eight-person staff to move on after the sale.
So, who wrote the note? he wondered.
Elizabeth was staring at him as he read the note for the third time. She picked up a second letter and slapped him with it. "What's this about?"
The sight of the unopened note gave Charles pause. The blackmailer had already plunged Elizabeth into a tailspin. If his goal was to drive them apart, giving her this note might be catastrophic. Charles walked over to the dresser, retrieved the original note, and handed it to her. At least he knew what that one said. As he sat down on the bed, she stepped away and paced as she read.
She looked confused when she finished. "Six failed wineries. What does that mean? All the wineries we buy are distressed."
She paced angrily mulling the note. The truth still eluded her.
Charles said nothing.
Elizabeth tore open the third letter and read.
"Oh my God," she said, repulsed.
Her eyes moved frantically down the page, her breath tighter and tighter in her throat. When she finished, the hand holding the note dropped to her side. The blood drained from her face and her arms hung limp as if all her energy were channeled into a wide-eyed glare at the thief she'd married. She looked through him, searching their history for clues that her life was not a lie. Her eyes flicked back and forth, assembling the pieces.
Charles knew the veil was lifted. He took the letter and read.
Dearest Charles,
What do these people have in common? Mr. & Mrs. Robert Joyet, Mr. Joshua Roundtree, Mr. Blake Wendell, Mr. Steven Bartlett, Mrs. Elizabeth Hall, Mr. William Neddles, and your latest victims, Mr. & Mrs. Claude Porier.
Oh Charles, how clever you were. Propylene glycol in the dosage was good, but I'm sure you never expected to attract so much attention. How difficult it was to repair the damage to Westport's reputation. You even had to rename it Marston Vineyards, or was that just pride?
Then you found Saccharomyces bailii, the yeast that can survive almost any concentration of SO2 and sugar. How many times could such rare yeast find its way through the filtration system? Did you sprinkle it on the backside of the filter, or did you put it directly in the bottles? I could never tell.
A little oxygen in the bottle and violá, a yeast colony. The film forms on the surface of the wine while it ages, the stench follows and soon the whole batch is ruined. The problems must have driven your partners mad. I never would have discovered it myself if I hadn't caught you fiddling with the bottling equipment. Good thing your former partners never got together. But they never discuss such things, do they? I bet I could arrange it. I have a collection, you know. Four bottles from four different wineries---all contaminated by Saccharomyces bailii. Quite a coincidence, that you own these four wineries now. Oh, the possibilities, Charles!
Bribing the panel in Piolenc, now that was good. I wonder if you knew your special yeast would die in the red wine or if you tried it first. I guess I'll never know. $75,000 a year is expensive, but this time you didn't have to venture into the processing room. And think of the money you saved when you bought the whole operation for a quarter of its value! Smart business Charles, very smart.
You're an evil man, an opportunistic swine to put it nicely. You steal and pillage for sport, but that's over. It's time to pay. I wish I could be there to see Charlie's face when he learns what a scum you truly are. In fact, I might just go to Westport.
I know you can't afford to contact the police. Just make sure Liz doesn't get any ideas. It would be a shame to have to kill such a lovely lady before I get to know her better.
Gather 50,000 in US dollars. I'll tell you how to deliver it. This is just the beginning. My four bottles will be the most expensive wine you ever purchased.
Elizabeth wouldn't look into his eyes. She held the first note again, crumpled in her angry grip. "How much of this is true?"
Silence. His face reddened, his head bowed, and his eyes and lips shut tight against the world.
Elizabeth barely hesitated. "How on earth could you do something like this? Who are you, Charles? What have you become?"
"I was desperate. We needed the money."
"When? Fifteen years ago maybe. Not now! We didn't need this silly castle. You stole this vineyard and evicted these people for what? Money? We could have bought this place if you really wanted it. What's wrong with you, Charles?"
Silence.
"Who are you? I thought I married a decent man. I'm so embarrassed... I'm such a fool, practically killing myself, helping you fix perfectly good wineries. I was so proud... of what? Damn you! Damn you for pulling me into this."
"Please forgive me, Liz."
"What about your son? What are you going to tell him? Have you thought about that? We don't know who this maniac is or what he wants."
Charles grabbed the envelope from the floor and studied it. The address was the same. The American flag on the stamp was unmistakable. The postmark read New Bedford. "This was mailed from somewhere around Westport, but not necessarily the winery."
"What if it's someone at the winery? One of the vineyard hands or the warehouse workers? What if we sent our son home to work alongside a lunatic?"
"He's not after Charlie."
"How do you know? You've screwed over so many people. You have no idea who this is. Do you?" Elizabeth shook with anger as she spoke, her arms lashing, her body overflowing with energy it couldn't diffuse.
Charles looked toward the door, imagining that Rosalie could hear every word. He didn't bother trying to quiet Elizabeth. He looked over the note again instead.
"We need to know who this is," she said loud enough to be heard throughout.
"What about Sebastian?" He offered, primarily as a distraction so he could have a second to think.
Charles purchased six wineries in just over fifteen years and he'd made lifelong enemies at every one. After each of the first three acquisitions, he'd fired the winemaking staff and replaced them under the guise of quality improvement. In the Connecticut winery, the resulting turmoil was so disruptive, it forced him to replace the entire vineyard crew as well. A half-dozen disgruntled faces flashed to mind, fired before they could become saboteurs. Most would be nearing retirement by now and not a significant threat anymore. A few of the younger ones, fired from their first wine production jobs, might still be in their thirties. Any one of them could have seen enough to know what Charles had done. Once they knew the scheme, following the trail from there would have been easy.
Charles strained to recall a handful of young faces. Their personnel files were in storage in Westport. Charles wished he were there with his son now. He needed to explain the past and shield him from the repercussions that were about to strike.
Chapter Fourteen
Deirdre coasted down Rue de Beauchene and gazed at rows of rigid wooden posts strung together with taut, shiny wires. To her, the layout resembled a maze of overgrown electric fencing. She imagined a confused cow, searching for the path to the barn with scarcely enough room to change direction without being zapped. She chuckled unconsciously until she pictured Henri scolding her for mocking his beloved animals. She stifled a guilty smile as the chateau came into view in the midst of a great field of vines. Set regally on a hill, the chateau was different from the other wineries she'd visited in the last two days. The fields lined with faded brown posts all looked similar, but none boasted a more surreal landscape or a structure as impressive as the forty-foot-high, stone walls of the chateau.
No one at the other wineries admitted knowing the young men she sought despite their conspicuousness; the shy one with his handsome features and limp at such a young age, and Randy with his outrageous persona and hair-band style. Chateau de Piolenc was her last chance, saved for last because it was an embarrassment to its neighbors after being failed by the panel three years in a row. One vintner told her an ignorant American family had bought the chateau and that they wouldn't last two seasons. The jealousy toward the invading Americans echoed every time the chateau was mentioned.
She'd plodded from winery to winery, asking the same questions, getting the same answers, and all the while ignoring her chattering subconscious. It was buzzing now, telling her that the reunion was near. The chateau was just ten minutes down Rue de Beauchene from the old farmhouse. If she'd started at the farmhouse and searched outward, she'd have been here two days ago, but she wouldn't have been ready then. She wasn't sure she was ready now. She wondered how he'd react when he saw her and what Henri would think as he looked on. Certainly Henri could sense her ambivalence. She couldn't understand herself what brought her here or what he could say to change things, but she had to see him. The wait was over.
Somewhere Henri scowled.
She turned down a long drive that split a vast field of vines. The enormous walls of the chateau loomed higher and higher as she approached. As the drive dipped lower, the fields seemed to stretch for the horizon in every direction. Climbing steadily upward again, the chateau sat prominently on a gentle hill. She stopped in the empty guest parking area, caught her breath, and slipped her heels on. The only people in sight were a couple on the terrace, poised to pounce on any customer that happened by. As she got out of the car, Deirdre assumed she was the first one they'd seen in months. The woman seemed to confirm this by descending the granite stairs even before Deirdre crossed the parking area.
Deirdre stopped with several feet still between them and said, "Hello."
The woman on the stairs smiled at her fluid English, a sign that this was the mother of the American family. "Hello. Welcome to Chateau de Piolenc." The woman's crisp English made Deirdre yearn for home.
"I wonder if you might help me find a friend. I think he works here."
"Glad to. What's your friend's name?"
"I don't remember."
The woman was too kind to comment about the oddity, but her lips turned upward with a suggestion of late-night impropriety. Her stately posture and her daintily clasped hands seemed too elegant to be involved in something so seedy, but her imagination was busily creating a sordid love scene. How that mischievous expression would change with a glimpse into Deirdre's bizarre reality. For days she'd been bursting to share her secret, but the story was too fantastic to believe. The steamy liaison with two sexy young men, being discovered by her husband, the murder, and then millions of dollars falling from the wall; it was too much to contain and she wished she had a way to unburden her conscience.
She imagined whispering her secret in this woman's ear. Her face would whiten with shock, her tightly compacted hairdo would unfurl; her eyes would blaze with scandal.
Deirdre said nothing.
The woman stifled a smile and asked Deirdre to describe her friend.
"You'd know him if you saw him. He's handsome, about six feet tall, late twenties or early thirties, really short hair and he limps, on his right leg, I think."
The limp registered immediately, but the woman suppressed her reaction. This was his mother for sure.
"Why are you looking for this friend?" The woman was intent on Deirdre's features now, as if counting the lines around her eyes like rings on a tree.
"I want to tell him I'm moving to New York. I don't want to just disappear."
The woman hesitated looking at Deirdre's face. Her thoughts were as plain as if she'd just said Deirdre was too old for her son. The woman's eyes dipped toward her wedding ring and then her demeanor relaxed from cold and protective to mildly standoffish.
"Why don't you come in? You can sample some wine while we chat."
Deirdre accepted, encouraged by the invitation, until she realized that anyone was welcome to come inside and sample their wines. It was their business.
She followed the woman inside and down a stone corridor to the wood-paneled tasting room. It was empty as Deirdre suspected. There was a long counter with enough tasting stations to serve two dozen patrons, but there wasn't a single employee in the room.
The far wall was a magnificent glass archway that looked out over the vineyard. The massive window allowed so much light and such a wide perspective that Deirdre felt as if she was standing in the vineyard even though the window was over forty feet away. Looking up, she realized her entire home could fit neatly beneath the wooden timbers of the cathedral ceiling. The stone and glass looked as if they'd been placed a century ago. She marveled at the breathtaking view, momentarily distracted from her purpose.
"Incredible, isn't it?" the woman asked.
"Quite."
"I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners. I'm Elizabeth Marston. My husband and I bought the chateau several months back."
"So you're the crazy Americans?"
"Seems so."
"I'm Deirdre. Deirdre Deudon."
Elizabeth cocked her head. "No relation to Henri Deudon, I hope."
"He was my husband."
"I'm so sorry. It must be horrible what you're going through."
Deirdre still hadn't settled on the right way to respond to condolences. And now her interest in this woman's son was completely inappropriate, although the discovery seemed to lower Elizabeth's guard. She doubted any mother would connect her son to a murder and a relationship with the widow.
"Thank you. It's been very difficult," Deirdre said.
There was a long silence as neither knew quite what to say. Elizabeth walked around behind the bar and set two glasses on the counter. "What kind of wine would you care to try?"
Deirdre was no wine connoisseur and didn't attempt to hide the fact. She preferred something sweet and light as most occasional wine drinkers do. Elizabeth selected a fruity Chardonnay and poured.
"I don't know what I'd do if I lost my Charles."
Deirdre sipped and nodded her approval of the light, crisp Chardonnay. "My world turned on its ear overnight. My husband's brother is taking over the farm... I never would have pictured myself there, but I've gotten used to it. The cows, the open fields everywhere you look. I'm really going to miss it."
"I couldn't imagine," Elizabeth said softly. She looked around the room as if inventorying the things she'd miss if she lost the chateau.
"A fresh start will do me good. I miss home. New York, I mean."
"What will you do?"
In the last few days, Deirdre's thoughts had been crowded with sorrow for her lost husband and haunted by images from the farmhouse. She hadn't considered the form her future life might take. "I'm not sure," she said, wondering to herself what she might do to earn a living. She hadn't held a regular job in seven years.
"Sounds scary," Elizabeth soothed.
Deirdre realized she'd been led way off course. Her eyes skimmed over a family photo hanging on the wall. She recognized the woman, the man from the porch, and the young man she was looking for. "What about your son? Is he here?"
"My son?"
Deirdre pointed to the photo and Elizabeth reddened.
"I'd like to see him. Where is he?"
"Tell me you're not a friend of that Randy creature."
Creature was a good word for him. He was an animal in every sense of the word. Deirdre wasn't quite sure what she'd do when she saw him again. The meeting was as much her fault as anyone's, but the disaster was Randy's doing. "The crazy-looking guy with long hair and sunglasses?"
"That's Randy."
"I only met him because he was with your son."
"Charlie, his name is Charlie."
"Is he here?"
"Sorry, dear. He's gone back home to Massachusetts."
"Why Massachusetts?"
"He was visiting. We have a vineyard in Westport and Charlie is going to run it someday soon."
Deirdre had never heard of Westport, Massachusetts, and after the overwhelming scale of the chateau, she couldn't imagine they owned more than one winery. "You have two wineries?"
Elizabeth re-corked the bottle and returned it to the shelf under the bar. "Seven actually, but the rest are nothing like this. They're farms, probably similar to the farm you live on."
Deirdre couldn't imagine that was true. She studied the timbers behind the bar as Mrs. Marston continued.
"Charlie just graduated with a master's degree in viticulture and enology." Elizabeth recognized that the terms were meaningless to Deirdre as to most people. "That's grape-growing and winemaking for the rest of us. He's going to be our master vintner someday."
"You must be very proud."
"When he hands me my first grandchild, then I'll be proud."
Deirdre could see her tenuous relationship with Henri's parents beginning all over again with Mrs. Marston. She wondered why Mrs. Marston and the Deudons had this powerful yearning for children. For Henri it had been about continuing the cycle of generations, a desire he repeated often in the early years. Deirdre had given up long before the Deudons. Their pressure and her shame made motherhood a bitter topic and she hurried to change the subject.
"Where is Westport?" Deirdre asked.
"It's about halfway between Providence and Cape Cod."
"Is it near the ocean?"
"Oh, yes. The ocean makes the vineyard a success. The warm water makes the growing season longer and cooler there than anywhere around. Twenty miles further inland the climate is much different."
Deirdre couldn't hold back her smile.
"Like the ocean, do you?"
"Love it. Henri preferred the farm to the beach. But I guess he preferred the farm over just about everything. Now that it's just me, I want to settle someplace right on the ocean so I can walk the beach everyday."
"Westport's the place. It's peaceful in the winter. In the summer, the ocean's right there, but then everyone wants to be right on top of you."
"Sounds great."
"You know, if you're looking for something to do until you get settled, we're desperately short-staffed there right now. It's a chance for you to keep busy, spend some time on the beach and figure out what's next."
The idea was enticing
"It's hard work. Ever worked in a vineyard?" Elizabeth asked.
"No. I grew flowers on our farm, though."
"Well, if you get to Westport, go to the gift shop and ask for Sebastian. I'll bet he'll hire you on the spot. If he doesn't, tell him I sent you."
"Charlie will be surprised to see me."
"I'm guessing he'll be glad." Elizabeth smiled over her glass.
Deirdre took a long drink and studied the hillside, surprised by Elizabeth's invitation. Her mind was spinning with questions she couldn't ask. Did Elizabeth expect her son to be interested in an older widow? And what did Charlie think of her after what she'd done in that cramped little bedroom? How would he react when he saw her again?
She still wasn't sure what she wanted from Charlie, but she was going to find out when she got to Westport.
Chapter Fifteen
Stacked like shiny black cordwood, twenty rows deep and over head high, a hundred thousand bottles rested in the cool cellar. Each unique capsule protected its contents ten long years, gently allowing the wine to age and collect character from the yeast. Round bottoms faced the aisle in a crisscross pattern between the solid wooden posts, a mere glimmer of the stacks within.
Charlie walked past three empty bays that he would soon fill with his first batch of sparkling. Right now, the wine was being jostled about on the ocean, heated by intense sunlight during the day, and cooled rapidly by ocean breezes at night. The temperature fluctuations would do irreparable damage. He feared customers would taste the flaws and his first commercial wine would be a blight on his reputation. He couldn't drink thirty thousand bottles himself and destroying them meant admitting failure to his father. He consoled himself that he'd have nine million dollars tucked away when the wine arrived. He'd also produce several table wines before that sparkling was ever served. With luck, the sparkling would be soon forgotten. In the meantime, he'd consider ways to surreptitiously discard the entire batch.
He walked past several hundred bottles stacked upside-down in the final stages of riddling, ready to be chilled and disgorged any day now. He closed the heavy cellar door and turned for his office. From nowhere, a sharp pain flared in his ribs. A pink stain appeared on his tan shirt and he wheeled around, searching among the machinery for his assailant. Seeing no one, he clutched his side and felt for the door handle behind him. A burst of rapid-fire spitting noises came from the direction of the stainless-steel tanks. Two more painful spots appeared on his shirt and several paint splotches whacked the door behind him. Charlie covered his eyes with his forearm knowing the latex bullets were notorious for curving mid-air. A direct hit in the eye would be devastating. "Cut the shit," he yelled toward the fermenters.
Randy emerged from the shadows with a neon-blue paintball gun. "Man, you'd be easy to kill." His jovial voice and sarcastic smile belied the warning in his eyes that he was not only capable, but he would savor the final gruesome moments.
"I didn't know we were at war."
"The world is a dangerous place. Caution is your friend."
"Unlike you."
Charlie motioned toward the office, but Randy didn't follow.
"I need your help."
Charlie tugged at his shirt-tail to display the pink stains. "Nice way to ask."
"Don't be a wuss. I have a project to do. It's a two-man job."
Randy wasn't one to give up when he wanted something.
"How long?" Charlie asked.
"An hour. Two tops."
Charlie wasn't eager to spend the day poring over old reports. He reasoned that Sebastian had run the winery for months and another day wouldn't matter. Besides, he'd never seen Randy's house. Curiosity overcame Charlie's sense of duty and washed away his father's words of warning. "Why not?" he said.
Charlie followed Randy out to the parking area looking for the Mercedes.
"I scared the shit out of you, didn't I?"
"I'll do the same for you someday so you can see how it feels."
"Doubt it." Randy opened the door to a beige box van, an odd vehicle for him. The inside smelled like a big rat cage that hadn't been cleaned in months. There was scurrying in the back as the engine started and they pulled away.
"What have you got back there?"
"You don't want me to spoil the surprise. Trust me."
Randy drove the next twelve miles without mentioning their task or their destination. Charlie absently wiped the pink stains and wondered about Randy's mysterious project. The tools in back hinted they'd be doing light construction. The smell gave the impression Randy had been working down by the docks. Charlie pictured him struggling with a hand saw in the slimy gravel beneath a fish house; rats scuttling around, gnawing at fish heads, and laboriously dragging long bony skeletons over slippery rocks.
Charlie grinned out his window. Outside he saw massive brick homes with one perfect yard after another. The lots were small enough to be considered a neighborhood, but large enough so you didn't have to see your neighbors if you chose not to. It was the kind of place where doing anything yourself beyond planting a flower or two was frowned upon.
Randy pulled up a long paved driveway surrounded by manicured gardens and a row of twenty-foot pear trees on either side. The trees were covered with pink-tinged buds poised to burst into bloom. The house was a massive brick-front colonial with white pillars fronting a wide, slate porch. Behind the house, an expansive lawn gave way to scraggly dunes that sloped down to Buzzard's Bay.
The van made a wide turn and forced Charlie's view toward three similar-looking houses across the street. The occupants seemed to be hiding themselves from each other with strategically-placed landscaping. Charlie was curious to see what kind of people afforded themselves such luxury, but no one was in sight; not a gardener or pool man, not even a neighbor out walking the dog.
The clock on the dash showed precisely noon as the van backed up to the nearest of six garage doors. Randy pulled on a pair of supple black gloves and handed a pair to Charlie. When Charlie put them down, Randy picked them up again and thrust them forward with determination that was not to be denied. Charlie put them on knowing they were not to protect his hands, but his identity. This wasn't Randy's house after all. Father's warning echoed again in his ears, "He'll get you thrown in jail or killed, one or the other." Charlie wished he'd listened now. He scanned the neighborhood again, this time checking the street-side windows for prying eyes.
Randy tapped a few numbers on a grey box hidden in the door frame and the garage door lifted open. Charlie hoped this wasn't breaking and entering since Randy knew the combination. Somehow he knew better when he saw the SLR wasn't inside. The three cars parked there were antiques, much too slow for Randy. The rest of the garage was pristine. There were no tools on the shelves and no speakers mounted anywhere. Definitely not Randy's garage.
Charlie took the box of tools Randy passed him and headed inside. The garage led directly into a marble-tiled kitchen with four ovens and enough refrigeration for a busy restaurant. Charlie set down the toolbox and wandered further into the house. To the right was a pantry bigger than Charlie's own kitchen. It was stocked floor to ceiling with neatly arranged packages.
Beyond was a separate room with a glass door. Charlie slipped inside and browsed through an impressive selection of wines. There was a wall of twenty to thirty-year-old ports, a smaller section of recent whites, and some impressive labels from France and Napa on the near wall. The atmosphere was ideal. Sixty-eight and a half, maybe sixty-nine degrees, not a breath of air and the humidity felt just right. The wine room and its contents were more valuable than Charlie's house.
Several familiar foils caught his attention on the way out. He pulled one of them and saw the Marston Vineyards label. A 1996 Cuvee Charles Sebastian, named for Sebastian's leadership in Westport. Surprisingly, Charlie found two cases by the entry. He closed the door wondering why someone with a cellar like that would drink an immature sparkling like Cuvee Charles Sebastian. Granted the winery was less than twenty minutes away, but this man had a massive wine budget. Unfortunately, he seemed to have more money than taste.
Through the kitchen and down a short hall, Charlie crossed a grand foyer and turned his back to the wide double-doors. A staircase curved upward to landings on the second and third floors. The tile was darker here to accentuate two ten-foot-tall sculptures, one against either wall, both in white marble. On the right, three attractive women embraced. They wore nary a strip of cloth among them, but somehow the group emanated a warm sisterly bond and wholesomeness, despite their alluring features and scanty attire. On the left, a lean older gentleman wore a light toga, clasped at the breast in his left hand. In his right, he clutched a rolled document. His wide scholarly forehead wrinkled as if he knew what Randy had planned and he didn't approve. Charlie nodded respectfully as he left.
Off the foyer was a great hall. Charlie imagined scores of black-tie guests clustered around the artwork while a flawless classical piece played on the ebony grand piano. Charlie wound his way through the library and the dining room back to the kitchen. Randy had amassed several boxes on the floor and was ready for work.
"What are we doing here?"
"This guy's an old friend. The project's a gag."
Charlie waggled his black-gloved hands. "What kind of gag?"
"Listen, help me out and we'll be done in thirty minutes." Randy hoisted a fifty-pound bag of cracked corn. "Here."
"What am I supposed to do with this? Eat it?"
Randy pointed to a wooden door that led to the basement. "Spread it around down there. Keep it out of sight."
"What?" Randy wanted him to scatter chicken feed inside this house.
"Just go with it. Have fun. I'll be down in a few."
Charlie didn't move.
"Dude, trust me. We've got a lot to do."
Randy opened the door and gave Charlie a shove. The weight of the bag forced him down the stairs. He promptly dropped it when he reached the concrete floor. The string pulled away like a zipper and he stopped to listen as Randy's footsteps trailed off toward the garage. Charlie guessed he was being abandoned here as some sort of practical joke. He scooped up a handful of dusty corn, watching the stairs, wondering what Randy had in mind, and listening for his return.
The cavernous basement was outfitted with shelves that broke the huge space into smaller areas, like rooms with translucent walls. It was entirely dedicated to storage, much of it empty. Charlie left the bag and browsed a section devoted to sporting equipment, golf clubs, fishing gear, even surf boards and scuba tanks. Charlie faced a dusty pair of swim fins with a handful of corn, unsure whether to go along and spread it around or head out before someone saw him.
Hurried footsteps raced down the stairs. Randy carried a blue torch and a pair of red-handled pliers in a green milk crate. He walked underneath a copper pipe until he found a coupling and then climbed on the milk crate, tools in hand. He lit the torch, heated the coupling, and then twisted it with the pliers. When he finished, he walked over, grabbed Charlie's wrist, and dumped the corn on the floor.
"Stop standing around. We've got serious work to do."
Randy kicked the milk crate over to another coupling.
Odd as it seemed, throwing corn in the basement was easier than confronting Randy and it seemed harmless enough. Charlie dropped one handful and then another. Mostly, he wandered and browsed the shelves, impressed at how new everything looked. Randy seemed satisfied that he was moving. He wandered into an entire roomful of patio furniture near a bulkhead that led to the backyard. There were fifty lounge chairs, a dozen tables, and as many umbrellas.
"You can leave big piles; just don't leave them in plain sight. Put them in stuff." The voice came from somewhere nearby, punctuated with muscled grunts.
"What's this about?"
"I'm returning a favor. A big favor that's long overdue."
Randy shuttled from place to place with his milk crate loosening every copper coupling in the cellar then he hurried back upstairs. Charlie was only half finished with the corn when Randy returned with a drill and a case of Sprite. He chose to watch as he worked rather than ask what the drill and soda were for. After a while, hiding the corn was amusing and didn't seem the least bit harmful. Charlie filled the swim-fins, several boots and old shoes, stuffed it in a dozen storage boxes filled with clothes. He was particularly pleased with the picnic basket, the old board games and the sleeping bags. When he ran out of corn, he walked over to get a closer view as Randy drilled half-inch holes just above the sill. As the drill made it through to the outside, Charlie realized only on the street-facing side of the house was brick. Randy was making his way around the other three sides drilling a hole every five feet or so.
Randy handed him a Sprite.
"Thanks, I'm all set."
"It's not for you, Moron. Shake it up and spray it in the hole."
Baffled, Charlie held the can and stared at him.
"What's in that, Charlie? Come on, think?" Randy glared defiantly.
His audacity was stunning. "It's sugar and water, so what?"
Randy shook his head and went back to drilling.
Charlie turned toward the places he'd hidden the corn. The sugar would attract bugs, thousands of bugs, but they wouldn't eat corn. He noticed a dark spot from one of the joints Randy had loosened. A drip had started on one side of the coupling. He wondered when the water would begin gushing out and turned back to watch Randy. The odd picture forming in his mind was going to get much stranger.
After the last hole was drilled, Randy shook up the soda himself and sprayed it through the holes. He emptied every can, coating the cement and the joists with clear, sticky foam. He carefully arranged the empty cans in the box, making sure he had them all, and headed for the stairs.
Charlie carried his empty bag and followed, shaking his head in disbelief.
Before he climbed halfway up, Randy returned with some wire and headed toward the furnace. Charlie turned and followed.
Randy mounted something against the wall with a single screw and pulled a thin blue wire and taped it to a small window. Then he went to work stripping some wires around the furnace.
"What's with the wires?"
"We're upgrading the heating system."
Randy attached a wire to each zone valve and connected them all to the tiny device he installed on the wall. The solid wire against the window was an antenna. The other wires would bypass the thermostats in the house. Randy was installing a remote control capable of turning on the heat just as if the thermostats upstairs had signaled it was too cold inside. The hot water would flow through the valves and deliver heat to different areas of the house. From the way he was wiring it, Randy was going to turn them all on at once.
"You going to smoke them out?"
"It's going to get hot. They're going to sweat. Then they'll turn down the thermostats and open the windows. When they do, I'll freeze them in the middle of the night. It'll drive 'em nuts."
Charlie limped away toward the stairs.
Randy ran past him, up to the kitchen and returned with two large boxes. The faint scratching inside made it clear what the corn was for. It was food for the creatures inside the boxes. When Randy tipped them over, a mass of brown fur spilled forth and filtered throughout the basement. Charlie wondered where Randy had gotten so many mice. The pet store must have considered the purchase odd.
Randy ran past him again, up the stairs, empty boxes in hand.
"I'm going to the attic. Meet me up there, Hop Along."
Charlie wondered what these poor people would notice first. Would the pipes burst? Would the mice scurry into a roomful of guests? Would they find the remote on the furnace after a hot, sleepless night?
He labored up four flights of stairs and found Randy nearly done in the attic.
Randy was cutting away the screen from the gable-end vent to let in any pest that could fit between the two-inch gaps in the slats. Charlie imagined a horde of insects followed by bats and a few small birds. Randy would have broken away the slats to let in a raccoon and a few squirrels, but that would have been too obvious. The way he was packing up everything and taking it out, he was hoping this would go unnoticed for a while. Randy's gag was looking evermore sinister.
Charlie noticed little piles of sawdust here and there on the floor and when he saw the cause, he couldn't believe it. There were holes drilled into the roof far enough to crack the asphalt shingles, but not far enough to make the holes obvious from the outside. Water would leak in, but no daylight showed through. The cause wouldn't be apparent until they went looking for the source of the water.
"Randy! You ruined their roof. We can't leave it like this."
"The bugs need water or they won't stay inside."
"This is a three million dollar house and you're trashing it."
"That's about what he owes me. With interest, probably more, but I'm factoring in stress." Randy paused and nodded when he was done calculating. "Yeah, it's about right."
Randy handed Charlie the drill and asked him to carry it downstairs.
"I can't believe you."
"Fun, isn't it?" Randy stepped back, gave Charlie an odd look then rushed away with a wide grin.
When Charlie made it back to the kitchen, the other tools were gone. He walked around the corner toward the sound of running water. Randy was urinating into one of the air ducts in the floor. Charlie couldn't help but laugh when Randy gripped himself and ambled across the floor to another vent and started spraying it.
"You have to go?" Randy asked straight-faced.
"No thanks. I'll wait."
"Suit yourself."
Charlie couldn't help but watch as Randy ambled to a third vent by the piano.
"God, that's going to smell."
"Nothing like the fish I jammed into his mattress," he said over his shoulder.
"Did I miss anything else?"
"Not much. I loosened the shower pipes so they'll leak inside the walls. And I installed a remote on the doorbell."
"Nice." Charlie noticed a piece of paper on the counter with the name and address of an insurance company. Randy snatched it from his hands and led the way out through the garage.
"Thanks for helping out."
"Man, I hope I never piss you off like this guy did."
"Not possible. What he did can only be done once."
They drove away, leaving the house looking as neat as it did when they arrived.
Chapter Sixteen
Jo Caulfield stood at the foot of the stairs wrapped in the aroma of freshly cooked bacon. In a smaller home, the scent would have permeated the entire house and drawn Bill down to eat. In these lavish quarters, Jo needed to call upstairs and alert him that breakfast was ready.
"Almost there, Jo," came a hollered reply from Bill's bedroom.
Jo wandered into the great room and slid behind the piano to pass the time while Bill dressed. Her hands flicked over the keys, tinkling out the beginning of "Fur Elise" with unusual precision, stumbling only when the tempo rose and the finger combinations became difficult. She finished with a flourish and let her fingers hover over the keys, pleased with her performance.
The last four years with Bill had been like a second trip through college. She lived in a resort-like home with plenty of time to study piano, cooking, tennis and anything else that caught her fancy. The luxurious lifestyle was financed by a legal marriage, an eight-year string of public appearances at Bill's side, and continuous cohabitation. Bill's only private demand was her celibacy during their eight-year union. In the end she'd be thirty, not necessarily wealthy, but comfortable.
Jo shined at social events, making Bill the envy of neighbors and business associates alike. She wore the revealing clothes he chose, flirted with him incessantly, and supported his professional and social agendas. Playing the devoted wife came easily without the emotional confusion that surrounds traditional relationships. Both were satisfied with the arrangement, although she knew Bill longed for more intimacy than the agreement required her to provide.
In the blurry periphery of her vision, she spied something black creeping across the wooden floor. She snatched a tissue from the side table and followed the carpenter ant as it marched onto the beige-and-maroon Oriental rug. She lost track of it among the darker patches, but captured it when it ventured onto a lighter part of the design. She pinched the black skeleton until it crackled and committed it along with the tissue to a small basket by the window.
Standing there, she smelled something foul. She sniffed the air and examined the job the housekeeper had done. The fireplace had been prepared for summer. The smell was more chemical than ash as if from a powerful cleanser. The wooden floor shined; no sign of a spill anywhere. The trim around the arching plate glass window shined glossy white, without a speck of dust even in the corners. The thick pane of glass was completely smudge-free, yet the ammonia smell was stronger in front of the window. The walls were clean all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Jo turned in place, puzzled by the horrid odor.
The doorbell rang and she took a step away from the window, still scanning the floor and walls. The bell rang two more times. It seemed the early-morning visitor couldn't wait for her to finish investigating.
Jo swung the door open and found the porch empty. The driveway was empty as well. She stepped down onto the walk and looked toward the second front entrance, which also had a bell. She couldn't imagine a delivery person had walked up the drive, but she called out anyway.
"Hello," she sang. "Over here."
No one answered. She guessed it might be a prank, though she heard no running feet and no rustling in the bushes. The street was quiet; the neighbors inside their houses. Jo climbed the stairs with an odd feeling to start her day.
Inside, Bill trotted his way down the stairs.
"Morning, Jo. Who was that?"
"No one. Kids joking around, I think."
"Kind of early for that."
"You'd think they'd do that sort of thing at night. What kind of kid wakes up and runs around ringing doorbells before school?"
"I thought we'd be immune from that here," Bill said and walked to his breakfast.
...
Two days later, Charlie meandered the Volvo through sprawling developments filled with cookie-cutter McMansions. His conscience hadn't stopped nagging him since he saw the holes Randy had drilled in the roof. Since then, he kept imagining a middle-aged woman shrieking in panic, pursued by red-eyed, sadistic mice. At night, he dreamt he was submerged in his bedroom; his possessions floating away as he lay trapped several feet below the water line.
His self image was in turmoil after the fire in Piolenc. His conscience cursed him vehemently for destroying the farmhouse and concealing the murder. Charlie reasoned that the building was uninhabitable and he'd done what he could to save Henri, but he'd never feel the same about himself. Randy's moral burden seemed much lighter. He enjoyed talking about how cool the fire was and he dragged Charlie right into another prank that threw his conscience into a state of high-alert. Charlie had known the stunt was wrong from the moment he pulled on the gloves. His participation wasn't eager, but he'd done nothing to stop it. If he didn't do something soon, he'd be a party to the destruction of a multi-million dollar home. The gnawing guilt was driving him to make amends. He remembered his father's warning that Randy's pranks would get him locked up. His bid to help Randy's victims might bring that prophecy to fruition.
After thirty minutes, he found the street dominated by massive brick homes that he and Randy had visited. It was a bright, sunny afternoon when he eased to a stop in front of the brick home with pear trees and a wide slate porch. Things looked peaceful from the outside, not at all the chaotic scene he expected.
Charlie looked at the number on the mailbox and scribbled down "70" on the paper by his side. He'd get the street name from the corner then look up the people's names online. His plan was to type a warning letter and mail it anonymously. But he had sheets of paper on the passenger's seat and the mailbox was only ten feet away. Hand-delivering the note would save these people two days. If they covered the roof now, they might save tens of thousands in water damage. Two days' delay for postal delivery might be a luxury they couldn't afford. Charlie scanned the house and grounds for movement. It looked like no one was home. If nothing had gone wrong yet, they wouldn't be suspicious of his quick trip to their mailbox.
Charlie grabbed a pen and wrote as neatly as he could in large block letters.
SOMEONE IS PLAYING A JOKE ON YOU.
CHECK EVERYTHING -- ROOF, CELLAR, FURNACE, DOORBELL
SORRY I COULDN'T STOP HIM.
Charlie folded the note and swung his legs out onto the pavement. As he took his first step to round the hood, the front door of the house swung open. He froze. Even from two hundred feet away, she was stunning. Her long lean figure and short blonde hair demanded closer inspection. Charlie waved unconvincingly and looked around the neighborhood as if he were lost. When his back was to her, he slipped the note deep into his front pocket.
When he turned back toward the house, his jaw dropped. She strode right out into the middle of the lawn. She looked agitated and Charlie could only imagine what was going on inside. He wondered how long she'd been watching him from the window. He wondered if Randy was somewhere nearby toying with her. If he was, he'd seen Charlie and he knew he was trying to spoil his fun.
She kept coming, only a hundred feet away now, a trophy wife if Charlie had ever seen one. She couldn't be more than twenty-seven. Charlie couldn't imagine how a man her age could afford to live here. She could be an actress or a model.
Hopefully a single one, he mused.
"Can I help you?" She asked in an irritable tone that didn't suit her.
The ocean gleamed a few hundred yards behind her.
"Is there a public beach nearby?" Charlie indicated the direction of the water as if she might not know the ocean was directly behind her home.
The woman stopped and gave an annoyed look as if she'd answered this question a thousand times. She pointed Charlie back the way he had come.
"Go to the main road and turn left. You can't miss it."
"Thanks." Charlie waved and climbed back in, minimizing his limp. He turned around in the driveway and headed off toward the beach.
She walked back inside, uninterested in his departure.
He took the note from his pocket, wondering if he could mail it now.
Chapter Seventeen
Randy passed nearly two weeks alone in his house, watching and waiting for the climax of his three-year surveillance. Nothing was happening next door, so he turned his attention to the photo tacked up in front of him.
Thick blonde hair waved at just the right length to accent her high smooth cheeks and wide smile. Jo Caulfield stood facing him in a red mesh top that revealed the white skin of her arms all the way up to her bare shoulders. A band of crocheted flowers draped across the front, covering her exquisite figure. Tight spaghetti straps held a matching red tank underneath that kept the appropriate degree of mystery between neighbors. This photo, from a spring cocktail party, was Randy's favorite. He remembered the other men hovering nearby, neglecting their wives and abandoning their friends for a chance to see something special through the mesh. This was Bill's finest hour. She'd sachet over to him for a kiss, fill his drink and wander off to wait for the crowd to form around her in a new location.
In the course of the evening, she'd flashed that devilishly sultry smile at every man in the room except Randy and the waitstaff. Bill loved to watch them melt when she teased them. It wasn't merely long lean legs and a gorgeous face that attracted them. She created the illusion of interest and attainability, just like she created the illusion of a loving relationship with her husband. She played the sexy young wife to perfection and the other men convinced themselves that someday Jo could be theirs. When the Caulfields threw a cocktail party, schedules were cleared.
To the left of the red-mesh photo was another favorite. Jo stood at the back of the tennis court in a short white skirt and matching top talking to Rick, her tennis instructor. There wasn't any flirting going on with Rick or anyone else at the club. Same for the pool man, the landscapers, and the other workmen who came to the house. No man ever stayed inside for more than ten minutes unless he was fixing something. When that happened, Jo made herself visible at the piano or by excusing herself to the beach or the pool. For anyone paying as much attention as Randy was, it was clear that Jo was playing by the rules. That didn't stanch the flood of gossip in the neighborhood, but Randy needed more than gossip. He had dozens of photos of Jo with various people at the gym, at the pool, and in a few choice restaurants. But he never found anything he could use, not in three years of living across the street with his surveillance cameras pointed at their house.
Jo was a rock.
She expected to be watched because the marriage was legit even if their relationship wasn't. Jo had to be promised a fortune to live with a short, flabby, bald guy more than twice her age. For this much money, the pre-nup had to be solid and specific. She wouldn't risk violating the terms and missing her payoff.
Randy had found the safe in the bedroom, but the hardware was too good and he couldn't guess the combination. None of the usual numbers worked. He had tried birthdays, anniversaries, the address, the phone number, everything. He scrambled them up, mixed them up, nothing. He'd spent over ten hours working the dial and the damn thing never clicked, never rattled, never opened. But the pre-nup was there, he was sure of it. He'd guessed two of the major stipulations: she had to stay in the house, and she wasn't allowed to fool around.
Randy was desperate to understand the separation provisions. He'd hinted and joked far beyond the bounds of decorum, but Jo never uttered a syllable to help him. Discussing the pre-nup might have invalidated her claim. He wondered what she would have shared if he told her his story and how he planned to get even. It wasn't love holding her back, but if she had some overactive sense of morality, she might turn him in. He couldn't be sure how she'd react, so he hadn't betrayed his motive.
He took a quick scan of the monitors at each end of his desk. The view on the left showed six closed garage doors and an empty driveway. The monitor on the right showed a tight zoom of the now-repaired gable vent. A few days earlier, a cloud of bugs had swarmed around it, packing themselves in the attic tighter than the crowds at Mardi Gras. The center screen showed the Caulfields' front door. Randy instinctively moved for the remote, but he'd already called her to the door four times today. She'd smacked and pounded the little button so many times that Randy was sure he had the only working control for their doorbell. He hoped they wouldn't repair it and spoil his fun.
His eyes shifted up to the corkboard and the ranks of photos from his surveillance. Jo appeared four times in early-morning attire, opening the front door in response to Randy's incessant ringing. He never got her to come straight from the shower to the door, but he had fun trying. The best he did was tussled hair and a plush, white robe---that one took thirty-four rings. He felt for her frustration. The worst was on its way, but Jo would be well compensated for her trouble.
Another group of photos displayed an array of vans and workmen between rows of blooming pear trees, which proved they were all taken within a week or so if anyone was smart enough to notice. The first photo showed a blue van with "Riley Plumbing" stenciled above a large red pipe wrench. The next showed an identical van behind the first and four men in blue coveralls talking. In another photo, the same men carried armloads of copper pipe across the lawn; that was the first one he'd send. They were lugging enough copper to replace every water pipe in the basement, which is exactly what they did for the next four days. The disturbance must have uncovered some of the mice or sent some scurrying upstairs because the next photo was a white van from "Barry's Pest Removal," another keeper. They toted in all sorts of traps for the mice, but somehow overlooked the bugs, because they didn't bring in any sprayers. Two days later, the Barry's van was back and two burly men spent six hours spraying the house from top to bottom. Jo slept in her room that night in spite of all the chemicals.
Randy let them sleep until about eleven-thirty then he turned the heat on and left it on. At two, lights blinked on all around the house. It had to be ninety in there. Randy stayed awake to get a picture of the heating van, but they never showed. When Jo left for tennis at ten, Randy snuck inside and found the emergency switch for the furnace turned off. They must have taken cold showers or none at all.
He worried they were catching on. One of the workmen might have pointed out that some of their misfortune wasn't accidental. Maybe they found one of the fish! Whether they suspected sabotage or not, the furnace technician would find the remote in about two minutes. Randy wished he'd been more subtle; toying with the heat could have been even more fun that the doorbell. Disappointed, he removed the wires from the furnace and took them home.
He was watching when Jo returned from tennis. Soon after, the furnace technician arrived and Randy got his photo of the heating van. Apparently, the technician didn't find the problem with the furnace. He only stayed seven minutes.
Randy looked back at the red-mesh photo and wondered how much she could take. He wasn't surprised that the million-dollar promises in the pre-nup were keeping her there, but the doorbell, the pests and the plumbing were minor inconveniences compared to what would happen when the rain fell. She was primed for the rain to push her out. He hoped the courts would award her enough money to leave Bill penniless when everything was settled.
Randy collected his work and stuffed it in the envelope. The timing of the package would be the most damning evidence of all. The agent would be skeptical when he read about the repairs that were troubling Bill. He would disregard a random accusation against such a fine citizen, but when the house caught fire, it would be an insurance man's dream come true.
Randy sat back and looked squarely at a close-up of Bill with two tufts of hair framing his shiny head. He admired Bill's cunning to arrange a marriage to a glorious woman like Jo. Like most men who knew them, Randy fantasized about having her for himself, but Randy would have her on his terms. Caulfield screwed it up by allowing their marriage to be platonic. Randy would never have stood for that, but then he would never live like Caulfield. Appearances were everything to Bill. Jo was the ultimate trophy wife. To her, Bill added an impressive title at the bank, a fancy home, membership in an exclusive country club, and a long list of fine things Bill would never quite know how to enjoy. He was a sleazy cretin dressed in silk and his day of atonement was fast approaching.
Randy had enjoyed watching Bill's aggravation build from across the street. He slammed doors and yelled loud enough for anyone in the neighborhood to hear. The action was reaching a fever pitch. It was time for the finale; time for the clouds to rain down the next level of suffering. If the weather forecast was right, it wouldn't be long.
Chapter Eighteen
A dense tangle of shrink-wrapped pallets packed every square foot of the warehouse, making the forklift nearly useless. There were batches of sparkling to disgorge and new wines to bottle, but nowhere to store them for shipment. Charlie extricated himself from the warehouse and stepped into the processing room determined to sell some wine, make some space, and prove he could handle this operation. Standing there, he felt a change within himself. Charlie had just completed the transition from tight-end to winemaker and suddenly he was a businessman.
Charlie's nerves bristled and he stopped in the center of the processing room to survey the machinery. The bottling line that filled, labeled, and corked the white wines hadn't been used since his return from France. The disgorger sat silent and idle too, but there was a mechanical hum somewhere in the room. Charlie pivoted until his eyes settled on the glowing power indicator for the chiller. He walked over and pulled back the cold metal handles to find four cages of dark bottles lined up, riddled, chilled, and ready for disgorging. Charlie didn't remember them going in and he'd been in the barn every day for a week. "Four days," he said to himself. "It's definitely been more than four days."
He turned and made the long walk past the bays filled head-high with aging bottles of sparkling wine, capped with bottle caps to keep the carbon dioxide in. There was a row of cages in the aisle, filled with upside-down bottles angled at forty-five degrees, the very first stage of riddling. They'd be shifted back and forth, a little more upright each time, allowing gravity to slowly settle the yeast down into the neck. The Marston sparkling wines were aged en tirage (with yeast in the bottle), but no customer wanted yeast in his glass. This batch had been in the aisle for over a week, which meant the batch in the chiller had been there too long.
Through the fermentation room and around the corner, he found the office just as cluttered as he remembered it in his childhood. The production schedule on the clipboard was a month old and most of the computer-generated text was obscured by Sebastian's pencil scratchings. The best Charlie could figure, the batch in the chiller was a nineteen ninety-four and it had been there two weeks, ten days longer than it should have been. Charlie rushed out to find Sebastian and ask him exactly what he was doing to his family's brand.
Only twenty yards separated the barn from the gift shop, but at Charlie's pace, the light mist coated his clothes with tiny droplets before he made his way through the murk and stepped inside. Lily arranged jars of peach preserves on the counter to keep herself busy on this gloomy morning. When he inquired about Sebastian, she turned and pointed through the far window. Charlie saw two tiny yellow blobs on the hillside over four hundred yards away. Apparently, the sparkling in the chiller was going to wait. Charlie shook his head and slogged back out into the drizzle. His father had always had kudos for Sebastian. He raved about Sebastian's winemaking and how he had taken over so seamlessly when Charles moved on to other wineries. After Charlie's first week, he already doubted his father's judgment.
Charlie climbed in the golf cart they used for weekend tours and sat in a sheet of icy rainwater. It thoroughly soaked the seat of his jeans and sent a numbing shiver up his back. He stiffened as the cart puttered down the tractor path and around the fringes of the field. On this dreary day, Sebastian worked with just one other man, four short of the normal vineyard crew. They moved slowly down adjacent rows away from the path.
Charlie abandoned the cart and began the long slow trudge through the wet grass. He was glad to see Sebastian set down his bucket and walk to meet him.
"Nasty day isn't it?" Charlie asked when they reached each other.
"We're too far behind for inside work. Heavier rain's coming tonight."
Charlie watched the other worker fasten a vine to the guide wire. "You guys aren't done tying down the vines?"
"We're about a quarter done."
"It's mid April. The buds are about to break. Where's the rest of your crew?"
Sebastian gestured to the man in the rain. "You're looking at it."
"We have two people for the vineyard?"
"Three, counting you and that includes production, and the warehouse."
"That's ridiculous." It was clear now why the wine spent two weeks in the chiller. It wasn't good for the wine, but the vines needed to be secured and the catchers lowered before the shoots got too high. "What's going on?" Charlie asked.
"Like I told your dad, the guys are finding better jobs. I lost two to Acushnet Company last Friday. They liked it here, but they needed more money to survive."
Charlie couldn't imagine how a staff of ten whittled itself down to four, including Lily in the gift shop. He felt awkward asking about the wine now, but he was standing in cold drizzle a quarter mile from the barn and he hadn't come all this way for nothing.
"I noticed some cages in the chiller."
Sebastian frowned immediately. "My bad. I should've done them over the weekend, but I was wiped out."
Sebastian had eighty acres of vines to tie down. Charlie couldn't help them; his knee would never tolerate the strain. The thought of being stuck in the processing room all day to finish Sebastian's wine was distasteful, but clearly better than standing on water-logged soil and tying down vines. "I'll disgorge it. Try and stay warm."
"You're a good man, Charlie, no matter what your father says about you."
"What about the dosage?"
"I've got some oak-aged Chardonnay in the chiller."
"Does it need sugar or anything?"
A cold wind gusted and Sebastian shielded himself with his hood. "No, it's mixed and ready. Fire away."
"You want to come in and test it?"
"No. Just work it a little, make sure it hasn't stratified."
Charlie walked to the cart reflecting on the family wine business. All his life he'd heard how well they treated their employees. From the time the Marstons moved in until Charlie went away to school, the staff had been almost entirely the same. Sebastian's was the only face he recognized now. Sebastian was in charge, so it only made sense to blame him for the problems. He was far from the stereotypical tyrant boss, but Charlie couldn't help wondering what he was doing wrong. Surely the economy wasn't that good.
Charlie shook off his wet windbreaker and locked onto the first cage of upside-down bottles. They were heavier than he remembered. His arms handled the weight easily, but his knee buckled repeatedly under the strain as he heaved the cage over to the freezer. He propped himself up and rested a minute before setting the bottles into the glycol solution one by one. Soon the very top of each bottle would be frozen solid, trapping the sediment in a plug of ice.
He left them there to freeze.
The Chardonnay mixture for the dosage was just where Sebastian said it would be. It wheeled over to the disgorger much easier than the cage full of bottles did. Charlie pumped it over itself gently, running the pump at a trickle taking fluid from the bottom and releasing it just below the surface. After ten minutes, he hoisted the dosage tank up to its shelf two feet above the work area and checked on his frozen bottles.
When the first bottles were frozen, the assembly line began.
The bottles from the freezing solution came out and were replaced by another group. Charlie fed the frozen bottles right-side-up into the disgorger. It popped off the cap, sending the frozen plug along with the sediment into a can behind the machine. The yeast and sediment were gone, but the expulsion of the ice left the bottle slightly low. As the bottle passed through the next two stations of the disgorger, the dosage was added to refill the bottle to 750 ml. Finally, the machine squeezed in a cork, pressed on a wire hood, and spun it tight. Charlie worked frantically to keep pace, feeding bottles in one end and taking them off the other.
When the first batch was done, he shuttled a cart full of bottles across the room. The next machine cleaned and labeled the bottles and left them finished at the end of the line. This machine took the entire batch at once, so Charlie didn't have to rush back and forth. He found a chair tall enough for him to received the finished bottles and pack them into cases as they came off the line. Soon several cases were done and he was back to the freezing solution to start the cycle all over again.
As he pulled his second batch of bottles from the glycol solution, the wind shifted and the rain steadily pelted the window. It reminded him of the holes Randy had drilled in the attic and the note he should have sent. Soon the water would start leaking into that magnificent house, buckling the flooring, soaking the furnishings, and ruining the artwork. Charlie pictured water dripping through the foyer and running down the faces of the statues, as if the women were crying at the loss. The insurance company stood to lose millions. Randy had slyly taken their address. It seemed Randy intended to blame the owner somehow, but he couldn't imagine anyone believing someone would drill that many holes in his own roof. Randy was crazy enough to hide fish in the mattresses, urinate in the ventilation ducts, and drive them utterly mad, but he wasn't smart enough to frame someone for destroying his own house.
Charlie pictured the beautiful blonde on the lawn. Two weeks had passed since the day he saw her. He could have passed the note and disappeared in ten seconds. She would have been angry, but not nearly as angry as she must be now. The torment of these last two weeks was unimaginable.
Charlie was ashamed of his cowardice. He'd been afraid she'd discover who he was from the moment she'd opened that door. He'd torn up the note and stayed close to home ever since. What they'd done inside that house was foolish, but going back was doubly so; foolish to let her see his face and more foolish to risk Randy's ire by trying to intervene.
He concentrated on bottle-shuffling to try and forget the consequences of his odd friendship with Randy. Arson, vandalism, and grand theft had sent ripples through his life that wouldn't subside for years to come.
Several hours, six ibuprofen, and a dozen rationalizations later, Charlie sat in his chair catching the last bottles as they trailed off the line. He packed them into cases and stacked them in the corner behind the bottling line.
Hours of mindless mechanical operations left him bitterly ruminating about his last three years. The injury had stolen his dream career and limited him forever. He'd worked hard to learn winemaking, to bounce back, and now Randy was threatening to ruin him once again. Charlie was determined not to let that happen. He'd worked hard and his reward was finally in sight.
Chapter Nineteen
Randy's dining room had never held a chair, table, or a single picture. What it did have was an excellent view of the Caulfield home across the street. Randy stood at the window watching through the cascading sheet of rain for signs of mayhem. The day had started with a gentle mist and turned to steadier and heavier rain as the morning progressed. The National Weather Service reported that an inch had fallen by sunset, but the panic hadn't ensued next door. Surely the attic was saturated. Water must be gushing down on every inch of the third floor.
Jo had spent the last hour at the piano in the front room as she often did.
Couldn't she hear the water?
Randy stood in full view of the window. He gripped the sill with both hands, agitated by Jo's tranquility. He couldn't believe her ho-hum reaction. The holes he'd drilled had to be leaking, but where was her panic? Confounded, he considered sneaking next door to find out what went wrong, but as he watched, lights blinked on all around the second floor. The third-floor lights followed. An instant later, the tell-tale beep sounded in Randy's study and he rushed to meet it with boyish glee.
Voices squawked from the speaker as he skidded around the corner.
"Bill, where are you?" Jo blurted.
"I'm in a meeting. What's the matter?"
"I need you home. Now!"
Showtime! Randy could hear the clinking of dishes and the murmur of conversations taking place behind Bill. He'd be at White's or the Pasta House with a client. Either way he was fifteen minutes from home.
"Relax. Tell me what's happening. Just don't tell me it's another disaster. I don't think I can survive another one."
"This one's the worst. The roof's leaking."
"Where?"
"Everywhere. It's raining inside the house. Everything's soaked."
Bill gasped.
Randy wished he was sitting across the table to see Bill's face as he thought about his priceless furnishings getting drenched. Eventually he'd come around and take comfort that he had insurance, but the ropes on that safety net were fraying fast.
"How can this be happening? The house is only four years old and everything's falling apart at once." Bill's voice trailed off as he realized he was shouting in front of his dinner companions.
"This isn't coincidence. Someone is doing this to you. I don't know who, but you better straighten it out. You can't pay me enough to live like this," Jo said.
Those were the words Randy longed for, a crack, a toehold between them. By nightfall he'd split it wide open and turn her against him.
Bill and the conversations around him faded away then instantly returned as he uncovered the microphone. "Don't worry, Jo. I'm coming home right now."
"Where are you?"
"White's. Cover the paintings. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Yes! Thank you, Bill!" Randy screamed.
He took a plastic baggie from his desk and bounded down the cellar stairs even before Bill hung up. He stopped at six red cans he'd filled earlier that afternoon. The eighteen gallons of gasoline would deliver his ultimate revenge. The baggie in his coat pocket held a pristine receipt that would implicate Bill.
He pulled on his gloves, hefted two cans, and slipped out into the darkness skulking along the row of arborvitaes that separated him from his neighbor. Randy had planted them a year earlier to align with the Caulfields' row across the street. Together they gave him a well-hidden trail from his back door to the Caulfield's garage. No one saw him hustle across the street through the driving rain. He eased through the back door he'd left unlocked on an earlier trip.
It was an odd sort of garage. No power tools, no clutter, not even a wrench. Bill paid people to maintain every aspect of the house and this was evidenced by the pristine floor and shelves as tidy as a kitchen pantry. Randy slipped down the wide aisle and hid the first two cans between two antique Fords. As he stood there, he wondered if Bill realized the joy in owning such automobiles was the challenge of restoring them. Not a likely thought for a man with a garage devoid of grease and rags. Across the garage in the bay nearest the stairs sat Jo's BMW. Bill probably saw all four vehicles the same; something else for him to show off. Bill's Mercedes would arrive soon to complete the collection.
Randy slipped out the door more determined than ever.
The quiet street had only six houses between the Caulfield's and the cul de sac. No one was out on this dismal night to see Randy slip across the street with the remaining gas cans.
He settled between the two vehicles farthest from the house. Panting, he sat on the running board with the six cans in a line at his feet. He held his eyes just above window level, riveted on the door. All the while, he prayed Jo wouldn't lose her temper and rush out too soon. For maximum impact, his timing needed to be absolutely perfect. The next five minutes could turn three years of watching into a roaring success or a miserable litigious failure. Jo's reaction was the key.
The garage door opener jolted to life. The light flicked on and suddenly Randy and his eighteen gallons of gasoline were in clear view. Randy lowered his head and confronted the large puddle that had formed between his feet in the darkness. If Bill had taken a few steps toward his beloved antiques, his future would have been drastically different, but Randy's retaliation was wearing on him. He jerked the car to a stop and slammed the door. Randy counted six footsteps and peeked up in time to see him tromp into the house without a glance in his direction.
Randy slithered low around the rear of the cars, cautious that Bill might reappear. When he reached the Mercedes, he eased the door open and pulled the baggie from his shirt. Fumbling with gloved fingers, he dumped the receipt and tucked it in the crease between the top and bottom sections of the driver's seat, as if it had worked its way out of Bill's pocket and been lost there. There wouldn't be much left of the house, so the investigators would focus on his office and the car.
Randy popped the car phone from its holder, stuffed it in his pocket, and eased the door closed. Then he scooted to the passenger's rear tire and loosened the tiny black cap with gloved fingers. When it finally came off, he pressed down on the valve stem, setting off a violent hiss. The bulge at the base of the tire widened. With luck, Bill would be too angry to notice the pull and drive a mile or two before he blew out the tire on a sharp turn. Randy secured the little black cap picturing Bill stranded on a dark, rainy street with no phone to call for help. He'd probably never changed a tire; certainly not in the last fifteen years anyway.
Next Randy raced back and forth with the cans, lining them up at the foot of the stairs. He stood back and admired his work, then adjusted the nearest two further into the path up to the door. Jo would either trip over them or carefully step around them. Either way, she'd remember them being here. The overhead light blinked off and Randy slinked back to his hiding place.
Randy lay on the concrete floor in silent darkness for twenty minutes, second-guessing himself all the while. If they came out together, his plan was ruined. It had to be Jo and Jo alone that saw the cans. Finally, the door swung open and Jo swatted her garage door button. She was alone, lugging two heavy bags down the stairs. Randy lay under one of the Fords, his eyes barely visible beyond the skinny tire. She stopped on the bottom step, looking down at the red cans. She knew they didn't belong, and she knew they'd shown up after Bill came home. She hesitated. Her eyes moved back and forth from the cans to the door several times, deciding what to believe. The next few seconds were everything for Randy, Bill, and Jo.
Would she go in and confront him?
Would she go in and take more of her things?
The wrong decision would be catastrophic.
Randy lay breathless watching, waiting, listening.
The rain blew in through two open garage doors. Jo made her decision. She took a hesitant step around the cans and then hastily made her way to the BMW, hefted her bags in, and drove away.
Perfect!
When her garage door closed behind her, Randy retrieved the cans. Bill would never see them. The cans would be the wedge that cleaved them apart. They'd both remember what they'd seen. In court and in their last few private moments, suspicions would spring to life. Each would blame the other for what happened. Trust would never return. Without love or money, there was nothing to hold them together. Randy slunk back to the running board and waited for Bill to leave.
Soon after Jo's car disappeared into the slick night, Bill let out a scream that rattled the dishes in the kitchen. Doors slammed inside and he cursed his unseen nemesis. He was louder and angrier than Randy thought the little weasel capable of. Bill stomped into the garage muttering curses. He yanked the Mercedes' rear door open and heaved his bag into the back seat as if it had offended him. He tromped back inside seething with a lust for revenge he was too blind to exact. Randy considered moving for a better view, and for an instant, he imagined leaving Bill like he left Henri Deudon. But Randy stuck to his plan. A moment later, Bill walked down the steps with a bottle of Grey Goose in hand. He started the car and zipped out in a huff; his angry driving stressing the deflated tire to its limit.
Two minutes later, Randy tripped the main at the utility panel and removed the listening device he'd wired to the phone line. After that, he removed the remote for the doorbell and hustled into the kitchen where all six gas cans waited in a line. The first two he carried through the foyer and up to the top of the stairs.
There he saw the leaks that had driven them from their house. To Randy, the damage was wholly disappointing. Every few feet, a stream of dripping water fell from the plaster above. There were puddles on the floor and the furniture was getting wet, but this was nothing like the flood he'd envisioned.
He splashed the first two gallons over the wooden floor in Bill's viewing room, backing his way to the third-floor landing and tossing the empty can over the railing. The fumes quickly filled the air, stinging his eyes and lungs. He gagged, as he opened the second can and drizzled gas over the wooden stairs one by one, connecting them together with a trickle of fluid as he descended. All three floors would ignite in a furious blaze. The dripping water would do little to dampen the fire's fury.
Next, he circled the first floor splashing the outside walls and soaking the more expensive furniture and the piano. He hoped the ring of flames would consume the shell until the house fell in on itself. He thought about he holes drilled in the roof and in the sill. The arson investigators might find them. Whatever happened, the house would be a total loss. Next, he dumped half a can down the cellar stairs. He used the rest to connect the puddles of gas together with a long thin fuse that stretched all the way through to the kitchen door, which he thoroughly soaked.
He took a ball of string from the pantry and a candle from the dining room to buy himself some time. The string he soaked in a puddle of gas then tied one end to the kitchen doorknob. He ran the string down under the door and tied it to a shelf in the garage, taut as he could manage without breaking it. He placed the candle against the string, so when it burned down half an inch, the string would work its way into the flame and ignite, rushing the flames to the puddle in the kitchen.
Randy looked at his pocketful of matchbooks and picked the White's book with white and green lettering. He lit the matches all at once and touched them to the candle. He tossed the flaming matchbook on the floor where it could harmlessly burn out. He ran for the back door, locked it and disappeared. He would have enjoyed watching the flames streaking through the house, engulfing the entire structure in a matter of seconds, but he sprinted along the hedge to the street, never looking back. He crossed the street calmly eyeing up and down for anyone out in the gloom. Lights were on down the block, but no one was aware of the comings and goings at the Caulfield house, not yet. Safely across, Randy dashed along his row of arborvitaes and scampered down the bulkhead steps.
Still at a run, he made for the kitchen, tucked the gloves, his clothes, and his shoes into a garbage bag, and hustled upstairs. Freshly dressed he rushed to the garage, started the SLR with the lights off, opened the door, and waited.
The flame met the string and the house exploded with a boom that shook the entire neighborhood. The SLR slipped away with a whisper as red streaks flickered in every window across the street. The foyer was aglow, but the other houses were shielded from the sight by the arborvitaes and the pear trees that ensured the Caulfields' privacy. The sounds of the roaring fire were muffled by the steady rain. Someone would venture outside to investigate the noise, but not before Randy slipped away.
Two miles down the road, Randy hit the brakes and switched off his lights. Bill's Mercedes slumped at the roadside, stranded by the blown tire. He sat with his bottle of Grey Goose with nowhere to go and no way to call for help. Randy donned a glove, picked up Bill's phone and dialed 911.
"Nine-one-one dispatch. What's your emergency?"
Randy let the dispatcher repeat himself two times before he hung up. He flipped the lights back on and crept by the crippled Mercedes, heaving Bill's phone into the bushes as he passed.
"Poor Bill, why'd you do it?" Randy said to himself. "Guilty conscience finally got to you. Too bad. Things were going so well."
Bill thrashed violently in his seat unaware of Randy's car behind him. Randy saw him slam the steering wheel twice before he noticed the lights.
When Bill recognized Randy, he lurched for his door to plead for help.
Randy pretended not to notice and hit the accelerator.
Bill was going to wake up with a nasty hangover and then things were going to get ugly.
Chapter Twenty
The ringing phone jolted Charlie from his trance on the rain-pattered window. He reached over and answered, his attention still on the raindrops.
"You ready?" Randy's voice asked.
"The only thing I'm ready for is a soak. I've been standing on concrete all day. My knee is killing me."
"Did you forget free money night at the Sportsmen's?" Randy loved this monthly tournament because it had so much dead money.
Charlie was ambivalent. "I'm beat. I'll fall asleep at the table."
"You never win anyway. Give yourself a good slap. I'll be there in five." Randy hung up without waiting for an answer.
Charlie's poker skills were one of the few things that transcended his injury. Charles had taught him to play at fifteen years old---his first attempt to turn Charlie into a businessman. "Poker is like business. It's a game of math and people," he had said. "Control your emotions and everything becomes clear in poker and in life." Luck didn't exist for Charles. Only skill mattered.
Charles taught him the basics, but Charlie mastered the game on his own. He read Caro, Brunson, and Sklansky. He learned a hundred signals that could betray a man's hand. When a new player came to the table, Charlie evaluated his clothes, his hair, and his gestures. He knew how a man would play before he ever touched a card because people play cards the way they live life. The meek will fold a good hand because they're scared. If they make a bet, they have a monster. The young and lazy play loose. They pick up any two cards and play because waiting is just too painful. The wild ones are the most dangerous. They play with emotion, betting when the mood strikes, which is often.
Randy's style perplexed Charlie at first. The long hair, the stubbly face, and the leather made him a stereotypical loose-aggressive player, a maniac. Everything he did, he did on the edge. But when Randy played poker, the craziness was a rouse. He talked nonstop, needling anyone he could annoy into poor play. He made huge bets and when he bluffed someone out of a big pot, he showed them his cards and watched them steam. But then he could surprise you and fold twenty hands in a row. Everything about him said he craved instant gratification, but Randy played disciplined poker and he usually walked away a winner.
Charlie's mood improved as the cards flipped in his mind. By the time Randy picked him up and they reached New Bedford, he was focused and ready.
Randy parked the SLR and they walked past a line of cars that Charlie would have scrapped for parts. At the corner, Charlie caught a strong whiff of ammonia and angled farther away from the building. He noticed several fist-sized holes broken through imitation stone façade to reveal cinderblock construction underneath. Two dark windows faced the street with a small neon sign declaring the club "open." Charlie preferred casinos, but Randy loved to feed on the novices in places like this.
Inside the door was a smoky room with a few tables and a bar. Four men argued over the corner table in Portuguese. At the far end of the bar, a man divided his attention between the Red Sox game and the woman standing beside his stool. She wore a florescent-pink skirt too short to allow for dignity if she sat and so bright Charlie's eyes were immediately drawn to its edges. An equally skimpy band of pink fabric clung to her chest with fleshy breasts protruding above and below.
The man behind the bar fixed on Charlie and Randy as if they were intruders in his home. Randy dealt an imaginary deck of cards and the bartender motioned to the double doors beyond the television. Randy turned and whispered as they started back. "For twenty bucks she'll get you loosened up for the tourney."
The position of her hand on the man's thigh suggested she was close to getting a customer. She looked about Charlie's age and watching her, he felt a twinge of guilt for the station he'd been born to.
He averted his eyes as they crossed the room and pushed through the doors into the bustling crowd and the bright lights. The back room was a simple square of windowless cinderblock walls, crammed with green-felted tables and men shoulder to shoulder between them. They fought their way back to the registration table, handed over a hundred dollars apiece, and signed in as players sixty and sixty one, just three ahead of the cut-off. Charlie took a seat at the nearest table and watched Randy work his way through the crowd and return with a draft and a bottled water. Charlie never drank liquor when he played. It softened his edge.
A few minutes later, the tournament was full. Four men in black T-shirts scurried around placing eight equal stacks of chips on each table. The crowd parted for them and hushed when another man stood, announced the game as No Limit Texas Hold 'em, and waved a printed schedule for the blinds.
A voice at the back of the room squawked, "Shit! This isn't bingo?"
The crowd of regulars roared, drowning out the emcee as he went through some basic rules most players had heard a dozen times. He announced that each player would be allowed one re-buy and pointed out the men in black shirts for any questions during the game. When he finished, he began drawing scraps of paper from a glass bowl, announcing the names, and placing them at successive seats. The crowd heckled familiar players as they maneuvered to their chairs. Randy and Charlie drew seats across from each other at the first table, owing most likely to the fact that their names were put in late and still on top.
The players took their seats, counted their chips, and the game began. Charlie folded the first hand and studied the other players. Usually men wearing jewelry played loose. At this table, nearly everyone sported a thick gold necklace or a gaudy ring. Randy sat directly across the table, a neutral place for a solid opponent. There was another man with a thick mustache doing exactly what Charlie was doing; folding and watching. Charlie was glad to have him on his right.
After ten hands the jewelry prediction was holding up. Randy played three, Charlie played one, and the guys with the gold played eight or nine each. There was one huge guy between Charlie and Randy who had played all ten. He'd crippled the player to Charlie's left and more than doubled his stack. But it was just a matter of time before his luck would turn and he'd give back what he'd won. Randy started harping on the big guy to make sure he had his attention. When things started to go bad, Randy wanted his chips.
Everyone played the next hand except Randy, Charlie, and the mustache. Muscle Man bet the flop with TEN, SEVEN, and FOUR showing on the table. The other players called and Randy laughed out loud, "Now you're in trouble. Those tens are going to get you."
The big guy pointed an angry finger at Randy, confirming he couldn't beat tens.
A TWO came next. The big guy bet and most of the competition folded.
Only two players remained for the final card, a KING. The player on Charlie's left was down to a hundred after starting with two thousand. He stared at the board, looked up, and pushed his last four chips into the middle. "All-in."
The big guy had already put six hundred in the middle. He hesitated. Charlie sensed he was beat; Randy knew it, too.
Randy patted the table. "Go ahead, call. We all know you can't help yourself. Just get it over with."
The chair flew out behind him as he leaped up. He had to be six-five and strong as a semi. His voice boomed at Randy, "Shut your smart-ass mouth or you'll be eating through a tube."
Randy never left his seat and fortunately, one of the black-shirts was between them before any punches were thrown. Charlie remembered how fiercely Henri had fought. This guy was Henri to the fourth power.
Muscle Man composed himself and threw in four chips. Randy laughed when he turned over pocket nines. The quiet guy showed kings and tens. Randy's read was right on, and thanks to the earlier bets from the jewelry crew, the quiet guy had more than tripled his stack. Muscle Man still had plenty of chips, but he was too angry to play well, not that he knew how.
In the next hand, Charlie was forced put out two chips for the big blind. He peeked down at the three and four of diamonds, a horrible hand. The usual instant gratification crew called and Charlie tapped the table in turn. No one was alert enough to raise him out, so it was a free ride. Charlie forced himself to look away from the THREE, FOUR, and NINE the dealer flipped up. He considered going all-in, but one of these schmucks might call and get lucky. He checked and the big guy bet a hundred. He was giving away his chips. The next card was another FOUR. Charlie thought he felt a subtle smile at his full-house and quashed it.
Charlie tapped the table as did the two players to his left. Muscle Man threw in two hundred, the top two chips bouncing off and rolling across the table like wagon wheels. His face slackened when Charlie check-raised him for five hundred more. The other three guys got the hint and folded. Muscle Man, proud as ever, threw in five hundred without hesitation. The next card was a QUEEN. Charlie paused, looking at Muscle Man's chips as if he had to think about this bet, then bet seven hundred, exactly what Muscle Man had left. Of course he called and Charlie showed him the full-house. He slammed the table and looked down at the felt as if more chips would magically appear. Failing that, he headed to the registration table with another hundred dollars to get a fresh stack.
When he was out of earshot, Charlie looked up from stacking chips and nodded to Randy. "Let's take it easy on the big guy. I'm in no mood to get pummeled."
Randy recoiled as if he had no idea what Charlie meant.
In the next hour, Randy pointed out every mistake Muscle Man made and coached the others to call or fold against the titan with stunning accuracy. Not only did he know what the big guy had, he usually had a solid read on what everyone else held. In spite of Randy's advice, three players were eliminated from the table and their replacements sympathized with Muscle Man.
Charlie uneasily surveyed the table while Randy took an oddly long time to shuffle. Mustache had ten thousand, Randy had six or eight thousand, Charlie had a little over nine thousand and Muscle Man was down to just five hundred. Randy dramatically stopped shuffling and told him the pain would be over soon. Charlie sensed that if Randy didn't shut up, the pain would be his.
Randy dealt Charlie two black aces, the best possible hand. He raised to two hundred and expected most everyone to fold. Only Muscle Man called and Charlie decided he'd play this one easy. The next three cards were a stunner: ACE, KING, and ACE. Charlie flopped four-of-a-kind, a nearly unbeatable hand, but he didn't dare bet. The big guy bet for him and Charlie almost considered folding; not because he could lose, but because Muscle Man looked so determined to keep his last chip.
When Charlie called, Randy looked at the lonely chip and smirked. "What do you need over there? Really, I can find it for you."
"Shut up and deal."
Randy flipped over a KING and the big guy lit up. He went all-in without allowing Charlie a chance to act. He stared across, daring Charlie to call.
"Come on. It's one lousy chip. You've got a pile of them."
Charlie pitched it in and watched Randy peel off an EIGHT.
Randy leaned across the table. "Well you're all-in. I hope you have a hand. Otherwise it's goodbye time."
The big guy slapped down two kings. He had four-of-a-kind, too. Charlie flashed a look at Randy, but he was already out of his chair and walking over to the big guy. Randy patted him on the back and shook his hand, congratulating him on his win.
Charlie peeked at his cards in disbelief. When the big guy saw them, he'd plunge from ecstatic to eliminated. Randy had stacked four aces against four kings. After two hours of being taunted and steadily losing his chips, Muscle Man couldn't take this. He was going to explode and Charlie was going to get sucked into the aftermath.
Charlie cocked his wrist to fold, but Randy slapped his hand over the muck.
"Don't you want to see what College Boy over there was playing?"
Charlie bowed his head wishing he'd mucked faster.
"The man has a right to see your cards. You called him," Randy said.
The big guy nodded, still grinning ear to ear, unaware of the pending ambush. "Yeah, come on. Let's see what you've got."
Charlie tossed his cards onto the felt facedown.
The big guy threw them over grandly for everyone to see as if he were invincible. Mustache gasped. The others followed. Muscle Man was confused for a second and then the rage hit him like lightning. He screamed something unintelligible at Charlie, spun, and grabbed Randy before he could step back. Randy deflected the first punch away from his neck, but half a second later, the big right hand crashed into the side of his head with an audible crack. Muscle Man let go and stood back expecting Randy to drop, but somehow he kept his feet.
Randy snapped a supple arm upward, loose and flowing like a whip lashing at the big man. His fingers hardened before they struck and the rest of his arm followed, driving rigidly into the big guy's windpipe before he could move. The gorilla was instantly transformed, hunched over, gasping for air, helpless as a child and Randy took full advantage. He grabbed him by the hair and landed two punches to the side of his head. When he cocked his arm back for a third, Charlie jumped up to stop him. The big guy was already struggling to breathe. His face was bloody and he teetered as if he'd fall the instant Randy let go. A third punch to the head might kill him.
Charlie pushed his way around the table. A solid forearm locked around Randy's cocked right arm jerking him backward. Another man stepped up and twisted Randy's left, freeing the big guy, who collapsed to his knees, stunned and wheezing at Charlie's feet.
"Ok guys. That's enough." Charlie pushed his way into the circle forming around Randy.
"Dream on, you fuckin' cheater!" came a scream from his left.
Charlie turned toward the voice and saw knuckles bearing down on him. Instinctively, he swatted them away and landed two solid jabs to the ribs, folding his assailant. A hard right dropped him to the floor. Charlie wheeled to the sound of a deep penetrating blow and a rush of escaping air from Randy. Two guys were in front of him pounding away while another two held him up.
Charlie dropped his shoulder and slammed into the guys in front as if cracking down on a defensive end. They dropped, but it wasn't enough to free Randy. A black-shirt stepped up and took over where his fallen comrades left off. Charlie landed on top of the first guy he toppled and started punching away. He landed two nasty rights before a muscled forearm clenched around his neck and yanked him to his feet. He stood helpless, fighting the pain and clawing for air. The first punch felt as if it crushed his ribs together, squeezing his organs somewhere out of the way. The second punch brought a flash of white and then the hazy black fog of unconsciousness. What happened after that, he would never know.
Chapter Twenty-one
Charlie's shallow breaths left him starved for oxygen, but that was preferable to the pain his expanding lungs caused when he inhaled normally. If he stayed motionless long enough and limited his breathing to tiny puffs of air, the pain subsided. But any movement, even a twitch, sent an electric streak of agony through his torso. The emergency room doctor had counseled him to rest four or five days while his ribcage healed. By that time, the swelling in his face would subside and he would look normal again. The doctor had taken pride in the stitches beneath Charlie's cheek. He said they'd dissolve in two weeks and that the gash was unlikely to scar.
After years of coping with game-day injuries, Charlie had honed a recuperation routine. He'd sit still as much as possible for the next two days then the ribs would be bearable with a healthy dose of ibuprofen. The pain he could handle. The thing that troubled him was that Randy dragged him into a fight they couldn't win.
Charlie watched the silhouettes of the trees blowing in the breeze most of the night. He relived the card game and the first seconds of the fight. The next thing he remembered was Randy standing outside the x-ray room insisting he didn't cheat. Charlie knew better. Randy fiddled with the cards too long and there was no denying he knew about the aces when he slapped his hand over the muck. He set the big guy up for a shock then forced Charlie to deliver it.
The move made no sense. The big guy was out of chips, so there was no reason to taunt him anymore. Randy had no chance of winning that fight; the guy had to weigh in at two seventy-five. Randy wobbled him, but his friends were everywhere. If Charlie hadn't jumped in, they might have killed him.
What a stupid way to blow easy money!
For a moment, Charlie admired Randy's card-stacking prowess. He dealt four kings against four aces so smoothly that no one noticed. If not for his showboating, he would have gotten away with it, but Randy couldn't pull off a stunt like that without an audience. He needed recognition more desperately than money. They were both poised to finish in the money, but after Randy's shenanigans all they collected was an ambulance ride.
Charlie spent a dreadfully long night sitting up and wondering why.
In the morning, he attributed the fight to another instance of reckless self-gratification. Charlie's entire relationship with Randy was one long series of stupid chances and he wondered why it hadn't alarmed him sooner. He remembered trees zipping past his window the night they sped through the park. He remembered the break-in at the huge house in Dartmouth and the crazy things Randy had done there. At least Randy's vandalism was understandable. It was overblown and illegal, not something a sane person would do, but on some level it made sense.
There were times when Randy acted so bizarre as to be certifiable; like the time he stopped to see the farmhouse while it was still smoldering. He had the balls to ignore the firemen and walk right up on the lawn. The night he crashed into the garage in Piolenc was an obvious stunt to get back at Charles; ill-timed considering he had a trunk full of cash. And why on earth had he flirted with Charlie's fifty-year-old mother? There was only one thing that tied his stunts together: Randy craved trouble. Charlie's parents were right: Randy was going to get himself killed. If Charlie wasn't careful, he'd end up in the morgue beside him.
Charlie touched his swollen face. The icepack had thawed hours earlier and the skin was warm again, but not throbbing. The slightest touch still hurt as did moving his jaw. He lifted himself out of the chair and walked stiffly to the kitchen where he passed over a bagel in favor of three ibuprofen and a tall glass of orange juice. He drained it slowly, trying unsuccessfully to swallow without moving his mouth.
A dozen stiff steps took him from the kitchen sink to the bathroom where he teetered between the toilet and sink, trying not to fall into either as he gingerly stripped off his clothes. The shower occupied half the tiny room, leaving no space for anything but the sink and the toilet. Last season, twelve people shared this one small bathroom with no bathtub. Now that the house was his, it was time for major remodeling. He planned to double the first floor living space to make room for a master suite and a garage. He'd add a generous living room off the back and knock down the interior walls upstairs to make two large rooms. Having his parents next door could be a drawback, but they spent most of their time elsewhere.
As he pulled back the dingy shower curtain, he remembered the girl from the bar and what she was doing to survive. The way she dressed was more humiliation than he'd ever be forced to bear. She'd live in this rundown place, make wine, and never complain. Charlie held back a shudder, imagining the things she did for complete strangers. The cramped shower and the twelve-by-twelve bedroom would be a haven in her eyes. Charlie was blessed with two parents who'd built a business that would last for generations. He realized he'd been less than appreciative.
The hot water washed over him, relaxing sore muscles that had held him rigid overnight. If he were still playing ball, he'd feel like this from July to January. Escaping this sort of pain was the one bright spot of leaving football. His future lay in the fields all around. He was a winemaker now and he was determined to show the commitment his parents expected of him. He had some major adjustments to make. The first was getting rid of Randy.
Two hours later, Charlie sat arrow-straight in the small office area that had been added to the barn. Half the space was filled by three fabric cubicles so cluttered with old magazines and obsolete notes, it was apparent that little of the winery's work was accomplished at desks. The other half of the space was ringed by a wide kitchen counter with two sinks. A mini-winery was assembled here with everything necessary to ferment, blend, and age small batches of experimental wines. With his degree in chemistry, Charlie excelled in all aspects of his winemaking coursework and this was the part of the business he yearned for.
Unfortunately, today was not a day for concocting new blends. Today he was reading an article on marketing strategy and preparing to tackle the biggest problem he faced in Westport: unsold wine. The warehouse overflowed with recent vintages. Sebastian was starting to delay disgorging some of the sparkling because there wasn't enough demand. Charlie was determined to get those cases out of the warehouse and into thousands of wine cellars.
Approaching voices drew Charlie's eyes to the fermentation room door. Sebastian came inside and stopped abruptly at the sight of the black stitches and purple bruises on Charlie's face.
"What happened to you?"
"Randy and I had a misunderstanding with several men who fight much better than they play cards."
"More than I can say for you."
Charlie wanted to blame it on the knee, but it was more than that. He wasn't a violent guy. He blew through guys playing ball and he liked it, but that was part of the game. Off the field, Charlie's killer-instinct waned. Poker and hard-drinking with Randy were his only outlets for aggression. He gave a one-shouldered shrug.
Rather than step further into the office, Sebastian turned back toward the door. "I brought an old friend to see you."
Charlie's jaw dropped. The pain in his face was like a spike driven through his upper teeth into his cheekbone. A gasp brought a pang to his side. Unable to move, he felt beaten before she even spoke.
Deirdre walked into the office and stopped halfway to the desk. "You looked much better last time I saw you."
The images of the red dress and her hands belted to the bedposts came to mind. Charlie wasn't sure whether to return her warm smile or get up and run. She looked thinner and harried. "You look, good," he said.
Sebastian stepped up beside her. "She signed on with us this morning. She doesn't have her own place yet, so I suggested she bunk with you."
"I won't give you any trouble. I promise." Her face glowed mischievously.
He couldn't imagine she'd already flown back to the States, gotten a job, and was asking to live in his house. Her husband had only been dead three weeks. He wondered if the murder and the lies were too much for her psyche to handle. Maybe the only way she could deal with her guilt was to punish Henri's killers. Charlie feared that was what she had come to do.
Deirdre stepped closer and angled her face directly in front of Charlie's, forcing him to look up and respond.
"The house is really small." Charlie imagined her shadow standing over him while he slept. She'd approach in a negligee or carrying a hatchet, maybe both.
"I don't mind a bit. And don't worry I'll stay out of your way," she said.
Sebastian somehow misread Charlie's pained expression as consent to the new living arrangements. "Great. I'll see you in the barn tomorrow at seven. You two catch up. I'll bring her bags to the house." Sebastian shot to the door with a sudden rush of energy and he was gone before Charlie could argue.
When the outer door closed, Charlie asked, "You found me. Now what?"
"You're not scared of me are you?"
Charlie didn't buy the innocent tone for a second. "Scared? No. Surprised? Yes. What are you doing here?"
"Putting my life back together."
"You can't be serious. Not here."
"Your mother said you needed workers. I needed a job."
"You talked to my mother?"
"You didn't think I'd find Chateau Piolenc?"
He'd hoped she wouldn't look.
She came closer and put a hand on Charlie's arm. "I appreciate what you tried to do for Henri that night, and for me. The talk in the car helped me pull myself together. My life disappeared that night. I haven't had anyone to talk to since and I guess I really need the company. I hoped you wouldn't mind."
She looked calm, even alluring, but Charlie didn't want any part in her reconstructed life. She smiled down as if she'd lean over and kiss him. He was too stiff to move, so he let her survey him from just inches away. Her face betrayed nothing of her motive or the rage that must have been boiling inside her.
She kept talking. She was either oblivious to his panic or reveling in it.
"The vineyard will be a lovely place to work. It's like the farm, but the ocean is so close. And winemaking is much more romantic than farming. Don't you think?"
"You don't need to work. We gave you over a million in cash."
"I can't just sit home and cry. I need to get back into the world. This is the perfect place. Besides, I like you."
"This is absolutely the wrong place. If Randy finds you here..." Charlie wondered whether Randy would sleep with her before or after he killed her. The twinge of jealousy that flared under his battered ribcage surprised him.
"It's not safe for you here," he finished.
"I'm a big girl, Charlie." It was the first time she'd used his name. Unfamiliar as they were, she used it like an old friend or someone who'd repeated it to herself a hundred times.
"Randy's crazy. There's no telling what he'll do when he sees you."
"He's been with a hundred women. He won't remember me."
Charlie could never forget the images from the farmhouse that night.
"He'll remember," Charlie said.
She gave an enigmatic smile as if she could read his mind.
Chapter Twenty-two
Deidre had a craving for seafood and offered to buy and cook if Charlie loaned her the car for a trip to the market. It was his first new car, the first big thing he'd earned on his own. No one else had ever driven it, especially not a woman he barely knew, but these were delicate circumstances. The curvy, little time bomb could throw his life into turmoil. Maintaining her serene disposition far outweighed the risk to his precious Volvo. He gave her the keys and watched her go, hoping this wouldn't be the first in a string of appeasements for his new house guest.
Less than an hour later, she was back; no dings, no dents, no near-misses. She carried two large bags into the kitchen and set to work as if she were at home with her husband and not one of the men responsible for his death. She set the lobsters free in one side of the sink and began shucking corn over the other. Charlie offered to help, but she refused to let him get out of his chair. She did accept his advice on boiling the lobsters, smiling and humming as she worked, never complaining about the flimsy, dime-store cookware or the lack of sharp cutlery. Charlie apologized for the furnishings and explained the house's history, but if Deidre was inconvenienced, she didn't show it.
Charlie watched closely for signs of violent emotions thrashing about, but she breezed through her preparations even-temperedly. She peeled a handful of carrots and set to chopping with crisp precision that only comes with practice. When the various pots were on the stove boiling, she set the table with supple hands and upturned lips. Twenty minutes later, she returned to the dining room with orangy-red lobsters and steaming ears of corn.
They sat down together and Charlie showed her how to crack into a boiled lobster. She applied just enough pressure to crack the claw, but not enough to send the juices flying.
"Are you going to be ok?" he asked.
"What choice do I have?"
Charlie paused to watch her dunk a pinkish chunk of claw meat in the melted butter then pop it in her mouth.
"None. None at all. But it's ok to be sad."
"I'm not going to mope, so don't expect me to."
"It's a big shock. However you deal with it is up to you."
"But?"
"But nothing. I'd like to help."
"You tried." Her lips tightened and her eyes closed, holding back her memory. Charlie's recollection was as vivid as if Henri were lying on the table.
"I appreciate what you tried to do," she managed.
Her gratitude seemed as genuine as her sadness. She buttered then salted her corn, staring down at her plate without moving to pick it up.
The casual mood was suddenly replaced with the terse formality of a wake. Charlie regretted his lack of finesse as dinner continued in silence. He finished his claws and cracked into the tail. He'd avoided chewing for most of the day and hadn't realized how incredibly hungry he was. The first lobster went down easily and he cracked into another.
The silence was even more awkward when the lobsters were finished.
Deirdre asked about the vineyard and Charlie gladly related the history of Marston Vineyards. As she listened, the mask of happiness she'd worn most of the day slowly reemerged, but he knew the change was only temporary. Being here with him could only intensify her emotions. His gaze drifted outside, wondering what form her anger would take when it surfaced.
Four round lights rushed up the drive at nearly fifty miles per hour.
He flashed to Deirdre. "Get upstairs. Stay out of sight."
"What?"
"Go now! Randy's here." The vibrations made his jaw ache.
She stood up as if to go, then stopped defiantly. "Why should I?"
"Look at me. I can't protect you."
Charlie could barely move.
She considered a moment then broke toward the front door at a dead run, swiveled around the railing, and bolted upstairs.
"Stay quiet up there," he called weakly.
Charlie clicked on the TV and pushed up the volume. He hobbled to the fridge as Randy arrived at the front door and began pounding. Still hearing creaky footsteps upstairs, even over the television, Charlie paused to let Deirdre settle in.
The commotion at the door intensified. It seemed Randy had come through the brawl unscathed. His ramming fist shook the flimsy door so mercilessly Charlie expected the wooden panels to give way. He walked gingerly to the door and inched it open. "It's Raging Randy Black," Charlie announced.
Randy's sunglasses hid the worst of his black eye and his right arm hung motionless at his side. "What, you lock this rat trap?"
"Look at me. I'm in no shape to fight off prowlers."
Randy gestured at the furniture with his left. "Like there's anything worth stealing in here."
"I said prowlers, not thieves."
Randy waved dismissively.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon after your last bout."
Randy ignored Charlie and followed his nose through the kitchen and into the dining area. He browsed the dirty dishes on the table. Charlie stayed in the living room, silently praying Randy wouldn't notice the scraps were still warm. It would be just like Randy to reach down and take a bite off someone else's plate.
Randy was neither surprised by the sight in the dining room nor apologetic for his intrusion. He sniffed the air by the kitchen sink where Deirdre had been working. Charlie could still smell her perfume himself.
"Did I interrupt something? You hiding a hot chick on me?"
"Not that hot. A new employee. She left a while ago." Charlie grabbed the remote and changed the channel to the Red Sox game.
Randy's footsteps stopped at the threshold behind Charlie. "Too bad you didn't invite me. I would've liked to meet her."
"Sure, she's got a pulse," he said without turning around.
"Listen to you, Marston. The Lord alone stands in judgment. All his children deserve pleasure."
"And you personally make sure every woman gets her share."
"I do what I can."
Randy retrieved a beer from the fridge and positioned himself between Charlie's comfortable chair and the television near the door.
"Since when are you a Sox junkie?" Randy had never seen the point in athletic competition. He preferred the kind of speed you could only get with an engine.
"What else am I going to do?"
"Let's blow this place and party."
"Look at me."
"Don't be a wimp. They didn't hit you that hard."
"Not that hard? I can barely move. I've got four bruised ribs, thirteen stitches, and a concussion."
"You can't have fun and not expect to get a bump or two once in a while."
Charlie's jaw ached with every word, but he could barely keep himself from yelling. "What kind of shit was that anyway?"
"What? That asshole's too stupid to realize he's a sucker."
"You stacked him the ultimate bad beat."
"I could have gone for a royal against a queen-high straight flush."
Randy had pulled off an impressive stunt. If he hadn't heckled the guy, he would have gotten away with it. "So you admit it."
"It's no big thing."
"What were you thinking? I was going to place."
"I didn't know he'd hit me."
"Bullshit! What else could he do? He'd never live it down otherwise."
"Get real. You think I wanted to fight that guy?"
"You gave him no choice."
"I was doing ok until his buddies got in."
Charlie was flabbergasted by Randy's proud smile. "I'm done with this shit. Your stunts are going to get someone killed and it's not going to be me."
They already had.
Randy faked a sniffle. "You sound like your father."
"Get yourself a new playmate. I'm done with bar brawls and driving down sidewalks in the dark. Find someone else to try and kill."
"If I were trying, you'd be dead."
"That's real comforting."
"Don't turn into a pussy on me, Marston. I've got a lot of time into you. You've almost learned to drive."
"I'm done. Don't ask me to go piss in some guy's air vent or stuff fish in his couch."
"What about the bugs and the mice? And don't forget the holes in the roof; that was the best part."
"You're twisted. What are you doing, hiding in the bushes and watching them freak out? Or are you videotaping it?"
"Twisted? You think that was twisted? Damn, Marston. You can't fathom how warped I can be. You have no appreciation for the commitment it takes to make someone suffer. Complete devastation takes planning. Truly intense agony is art. I thought I'd taught you better, but someday you'll understand."
"Just keep me out of it. I don't want any part of your juvenile bullshit."
Randy paused, doorknob in hand. "I couldn't do it without you."
"I'm done. Find someone else to terrorize."
"No one could take your place."
Randy disappeared with his beer leaving Charlie feeling odd, as if he hadn't been in a real argument. Randy wasn't angry and he wasn't hurt. He simply came, nosed around, took a beer, and left. He said some things and he'd said them loudly, but this wasn't the reaction Charlie expected. In fact, he hadn't planned the exchange at all. If not for the outcome, he would have felt Randy had pushed him to it. He listened to the car start outside, half-expecting Randy to burst in screaming a string of obscenities, but the ignition started and the car rolled away. Charlie felt strangely out of place alone in his own chair.
...
From the second floor window, Deirdre watched the Mercedes door swing upright. Randy slid inside and pulled it back down, his face in full view as the car backed away. She aimed the camera, but didn't snap the picture. She hadn't thought to disable the flash and she didn't dare expose herself to the lunatic yet. She knew he'd make good on his promise. She'd seen underneath the wild exterior to the evil creature hidden there.
She'd already drawn a Mercedes emblem on her notepad and snapped a picture of the car while Randy was downstairs arguing with Charlie. As the car turned for the road, the license plate came into view for a few seconds. In the darkness it looked like AVVR, which she scrawled on her notepad. The car raced down the driveway into the darkness. She hoped the picture and the scrawled letters would be enough to track him down.
Chapter Twenty-three
Charles stood in front of the post box, key in hand, glancing nervously over his shoulder. For one hundred euros, the mail carrier had agreed to sift through the Marston's daily mail and redirect everything from the United States to this box. Mail delivery at the chateau still made Charles nervous, but nothing had slipped through. Fortunately, Elizabeth hadn't commented on his afternoon trips to town.
He turned the key and slid out an envelope with the familiar Westport return address and fancy cursive font that looked handwritten. He'd been expecting this note for days, wondering how much it would cost him. He stuffed the envelope inside his jacket and hustled toward the car. When he got there, he slouched in his seat, tore open the envelope and read.
Charles,
How does one keep such evil bottled up inside, yet appear so cultured on the surface? Surely that's what Elizabeth thought until she read my note. She did read it, didn't she?
Your trouble with Liz is only the beginning. It is time to repent for your sins.
Deliver $50,000 to the old tractor in Westport. The money appears by Saturday midnight or this photo will be front-page in Paris.
The photo showed Charles passing a briefcase to two members of the wine quality panel. That same panel failed Claude Porier's wines for three consecutive years. With virtually no sales and mounting debt, Claude was forced to sell Chateau de Piolenc for a fraction of its value. The parade scene pictured in the background confirmed the time of the exchange -- six months before Claude's troubles began.
Charles could barely catch his breath. This blackmailer was no angry vineyard hand. He was hauntingly well informed, like a ghost living within his own walls. Even Elizabeth didn't know about this meeting, yet it was captured in full 35mm splendor. Only an expert could wrangle into position for this shot.
There was a handwritten note scribbled on the back of the picture:
Ever wonder where these two do their banking? I know.
Chapter Twenty-four
A shadowy figure billowed down the stairs, faceless, formless in the murky blackness. It hovered several inches above the treads, amorphous, yet Charlie could feel its penetrating concentration on his body in the chair. It silently drifted closer. A fluttering cloak took shape and Charlie could feel the swirling power beneath. The creature floated to within inches of his face. So close he could have felt its breath if it had any, but its only emanation was a soul-consuming guilt.
Charlie was overwhelmed with self-loathing. He watched two powerful hands extend from the cloak and latch onto his chest. He felt relieved that his punishment had come and that he wouldn't have to run any more. The pressure intensified, compressing him until he was sure he wouldn't survive. When he finally felt the pain, he commanded his legs to run, but his numb body lay lifeless in the chair. His arms ignored his desperate pleas and his eyes refused to open. All he could do was feel the shifting mass of energy crushing him as the creature peered down through narrowed eyes.
Something outside startled the creature. It whirled toward the front door then spun back for a brief glance at Charlie. Terrified, it streaked directly through him to escape whatever had frightened it. Formless, it passed through his body, sucking his breath away and replacing it with bottomless sorrow. The creature vanished into the depths of the chair and Charlie's breath returned in a gulp.
Another shadowy figure bled through the locked door. This second creature followed the path of the first with deadly resolve. It radiated an electric mix of anger and hate that Charlie could feel from across the room. This one was stalking, hunting, closing in on Charlie as he lay in his chair. This one would surely kill him.
Charlie woke in a panic, gasping for air with his heart racing and his body slick with sweat. He was alone. The television murmured in the corner. He cut his eyes all around in search of the phantoms until a sharp pain stung his ribs, reminding him to keep still. He clicked off the television and listened. The wind blew through the moonlit trees. All else was still.
His arms draped heavily toward the floor and his eyelids ached for sleep, but his churning mind kept his heartbeat quick and steady. He tried to recall the images of the two demons he'd seen in his sleep. They were featureless blobs, but the feelings were unforgettable. The first phantom brought a wave of intense sorrow that carved a gulley through his chest. The second was so driven by hatred that Charlie was forced to open his eyes trembling in the darkness. For an instant the hatred was his and he felt the joy of blindly releasing his rage. His subconscious was screaming a warning through his dream. He'd heard the same warning from his parents and heeded it. Randy was gone. So why couldn't he sleep?
As the early morning hours passed, Charlie thought about Deirdre, the first, sorrowful phantom. He'd spent most of his day listening to subconscious whispers that she was after something more than a job. Still, her true motivation eluded him. He imagined a bizarre emotional transference that had her fixated on him in place of her dead husband. That scenario had charm, but lacked realism.
In darker moments, he wondered if she had indeed come for revenge. Seeing her husband killed was fuel enough, but Charlie couldn't imagine she was capable of hurting anyone. In his dream, he could feel her sadness and guilt, but he could also feel her punishing him. Charlie counseled himself that Deirdre was no vigilante. The danger was past, but still, his ears pricked up at every creak in the house and every shift in the wind. Whatever her motives, Deirdre never came downstairs during the first night.
The sun inched up through the trees highlighting various tangles of sticks on its climb into the sky. Since he couldn't sleep, Charlie decided to take his doctor's advice and start exercising the knee again. The walk down the thousand-foot drive and back was more than enough. It felt good to move again and Charlie resolved to retrieve his barbells from his parents' house and start lifting as soon as he had healed. He hadn't done arms and shoulders for a month and aside from the rickety, beaten-up feeling in his joints, he felt wobbly and loose. Two more days and I'll start to tighten up, he thought as he reached the paved road.
The paper carrier drove up right on cue and handed Charlie the paper. As he began the trek back, Charlie flipped to a photo of a magnificent home with three fire trucks parked on the lawn. Hoses gushed into a gaping hole in the roof. Charlie recognized the row of garage doors on the left and the ocean peeking over the bluffs. The caption above read "Local Banker Suspected of Arson."
Wow! The anguish Randy visited on this man was horrific. Bill Caulfield was his name and he looked much older than the woman Charlie had seen on the lawn. Fixing the problems in that house had been as futile as holding back the tide. When Caulfield thought his problems couldn't get worse, Randy burned his house down. And for his final insult, Randy framed him for arson.
A wave of guilt smacked Charlie. If he'd mailed the note, the house wouldn't have burned and this man wouldn't be under investigation for arson. Caulfield would still have his house, but it was too late to help him now. The woman on the lawn had seen Charlie clearly. There was no way he could have sent that note.
The entire next page was dedicated to the story. At the top was a photo of Rosemary Barrett, the claims adjuster who had broken the story. The column detailed the anonymous letter she received explaining a series of problems the Caulfields had been having with their house. On the right were a series of photographs of plumbers, pest control contractors, and an oil company van. A dozen different workers entered or exited the house.
Hadn't anyone thought the evidence was too tidy?
Charlie walked inside and crumpled into his chair with the paper.
Deirdre was awake and making coffee. "You sleep ok?"
Charlie ignored her as he breezed through comments from the firemen. Several things made the fire suspicious in addition to the letters and photos that were delivered to Ms. Barrett. All three electrical panels were switched off before the firemen arrived, suggesting that whoever set the fire didn't want it to start too soon. Four melted gas cans were found scattered throughout the house even though there was no equipment on the property that ran on gasoline, except for cars, of course. One new-looking can was found freshly emptied in the garage, without its cap.
The arson lieutenant got three paragraphs. His assessment was that someone turned off the electricity to protect himself from accidental ignition. He then poured gasoline on the walls and floors in the center of the house. The damage seemed to indicate a large volume of accelerant which tied well to the capacity of the empty gas cans. He indicated that they had identified the starting point, but wouldn't divulge details while the investigation was in progress. Mr. Caulfield was in deep.
Deirdre walked in and rubbed her hand on Charlie's shoulder. "What're you reading?"
There was no way to hide the story, nor did she have any way to discover his link to it. Charlie flipped back to the front page. "Look at this."
"Oh, my God."
"Beautiful house, huh?" Charlie asked.
"It's huge. Look how small the fire truck looks in front."
"Can you believe this guy burned it down?"
She didn't appear the least bit suspicious. "Why would he?" she asked.
He flipped to the next page, showed her the photos, and gave her the highlights from the article.
"Did you know this guy Caulfield?"
"Never met him. Why?"
Deirdre smirked. "Don't all you rich guys know each other?"
"No. There's no secret club. If there is, they haven't let me in yet." Charlie reached onto the table behind her for the remote and came face-to-face with the sheer tank top she'd worn to bed. He lazily switched the television to the Channel 4 News and swiveled his head around toward the screen, but his attention refused to move.
Deirdre stepped toward the television, bringing herself back into view. "How are your ribs today?"
Charlie feigned interest in the news. "I'm ok. I'll be good tomorrow."
She leaned over and kissed his closest cheek.
"What's that for?"
"Hiding me from Randy last night." She trailed away toward the kitchen.
"Anytime." Charlie craned his neck after her, following the sway of her light shorts and ignoring the pain in his midsection as she turned and swished around the counter toward the stove.
Chapter Twenty-five
Air brakes blew out a vehement hiss at the loading dock. Somehow Charlie had missed the groaning diesel powering its way down the long drive as he considered the end of his friendship with Randy and the strange situation developing with Deirdre. Outside, the cab door creaked, slammed shut, and a pair of boots dropped onto the gravel. Charlie got up and labored through the cellar to meet the driver, bemoaning Sebastian's carelessness letting the staff get so lean.
When he reached the loading area, he saw warehouse aisles packed so tightly with shrink-wrapped pallets that the forklift could no longer maneuver inside. The machine was parked with its rear end nudging into the bottling room. Charlie needed to focus on driving sales volume, not stacking supplies. He opened the overhead door hoping the delivery was a small one. It wasn't.
The sight of the grey container jogged his memory and spurred his brain to action. Momentarily overwhelmed, Charlie stared blankly ahead as his mind rushed to organize his work. He needed to unload the trucks, find the money-laden barrels, and stash his share without anyone seeing what he was doing. Suddenly Sebastian's bungling with the staff seemed opportune. There were no idle hands volunteering to help, no one in the barn to watch what he was about to do. He only needed to worry about Sebastian and Deirdre and they would be in the vineyard all day. If he was careful, he'd have the money hidden long before they saw the barrels from Piolenc.
The driver cleared his throat and waggled a clipboard in his outstretched arm.
"Sorry." Charlie signed the paperwork and handed the clipboard back.
"It's tight getting in here and I've got another truck five minutes behind."
"No problem." Charlie pointed to the overhead door to the fermentation room, seventy feet away. "Back up over there and I'll get you unloaded."
The driver stood and stared as if Charlie had asked him to carry the barrels on his back. He'd aligned his truck with the warehouse loading platform and wasn't eager to move it. Charlie wheeled around toward the packed warehouse as if to ask, "Where would you like me to put a hundred barrels?"
The driver stomped off to his cab and maneuvered his truck over to the fermentation room. Meanwhile, Charlie backed the forklift out of the cramped warehouse, through the processing room, the cellar, and down between the fermentation tanks. The truck was in place when he arrived.
Charlie shuttled back and forth between the stainless steel tanks, deftly aligning pallet loads of steel barrels in a long row in front of the oak-barrel tower. When only two pallets remained, he paused considering what to do with the final eight barrels. In his loading frenzy back in Piolenc, he neglected to mark the barrels or record the number of the container he'd hidden them in. He regretted his haste now as he climbed down and tapped the bottom half of each barrel. The echoes all sounded the same, so he stacked both pallets safely on top of the others, unsure what he'd find inside.
The second truck arrived early and waited several minutes for Charlie to finish the first load. When the first truck pulled away and the second truck was in position, he repeated the process, filling every available space in the fermentation room with shiny black barrels. When he was done, he parked the forklift in front of a tall stainless steel tank with the last pallet raised. He couldn't resist tapping on the barrels and listening for air pockets before going off to find the truck driver.
The driver was exactly where Charlie expected to find him. He stood at the tasting counter swirling a generous sample of Chardonnay. Lily's eyes were locked with his, her hands on the bottle ready to supply a refill. He sniffed grandly and gulped nearly half a glass without pause to taste what he was swilling. At that pace, he could have swallowed a bottle or more while Charlie unloaded his truck. He hoped she wasn't foolish enough to serve him that much. Seeing her enchanted gaze, Charlie imagined she'd do whatever he asked.
Lily raised the bottle, but Charlie thrust his hand over the driver's glass blocking her motion to refill it. "Truck's ready. Are you?" Charlie stepped up close and looked him over. He was fortyish with overstuffed cheeks and a belly that pushed forward and up from beneath his blue work shirt as if he were six months pregnant on diner food and donuts. At two-fifty, he could handle a few glasses of Chardonnay. His eyes were clear.
"I'm fine." He smiled at Lily and she beamed at him as if he were a Greek God. Her eyes never left him as he turned from the counter, and tromped out across the shells to his truck.
Charlie waited until he couldn't hear the footsteps and then patted the counter to bring Lily back to reality. "Easy on the samples. I don't mind giving away wine, but that guy's driving a huge truck."
"He only had two glasses."
Charlie stared incredulously into her eyes, but her long straight nose and thin lips so resembled a chickadee he couldn't help smiling. "Could you live with yourself if he plowed into a school bus? I know I couldn't."
"I'll be careful," she said remorsefully.
Charlie left her and sealed himself inside the barn. Any thoughts he had about Lily's heavy-handedness causing legal problems were replaced by daydreams as he began ratcheting off the top of the first barrel. Beneath the lid he found fifty-five gallons of wine. Disappointed, he wheeled two heavy cylinders to the stainless steel tank and pumped in a thick buffer of carbon dioxide. As the gas hissed, he extracted a sample, resealed the lid, and walked back to the office to assess the shipping damage.
Separating his sample among the test tubes on the counter top reminded him of his time at U.C. Davis. He diluted two samples and began running his tests. In a few minutes, he was surprised to see the total acidity, total sugar content, and sulfur dioxide precisely where he hoped they'd be. This barrel had come through shipping quite well, although he wondered about the taste. Back at the barrel, Charlie dipped himself a sample. Not bad, he thought as he slipped in the hose and started the flow into the huge holding tank.
As the wine level fell, he sensed that he wasn't alone in the barn. He wondered if the customs inspectors might allow an illicit shipment through then follow it to the perpetrators. He could feel the eyes watching him, waiting for him to take the money and link himself to the killing outside Piolenc.
The pump slurped at the bottom of the barrel. Startled, Charlie switched it off and slipped outside the barn where he stretched casually as if taking a break. His eyes probed the parking area and the tree line beyond. Only Lily's Volkswagen and Sebastian's Buick were in the lot. The buds on the trees were just breaking into little clumps of green and Charlie could see well within the tree line. Nothing looked unusual. On the other side of the barn was a vast expanse of budding vines. No one could hide there this time of year, not in the daytime.
Charlie went back inside and set to work pumping more barrels into the holding tank. He found only wine in the two pallets that had been at the back of the second container, so he knew where the money-filled barrels were: stacked well beyond the forklift's reach at the back of the room. If the containers had arrived in the reverse order, he'd be hiding the money, but instead he found himself rushing through his work, desperate to finish before Sebastian returned. The alcohol content had risen in some barrels, but overall the wine endured shipping better than he had hoped. This did little to relieve the tension of seeing the containers that held his fortune and not being able to reach them.
By late afternoon, there was a haphazard pile of empty barrels outside the loading area ready to be picked up and recycled. Charlie's bruised ribs were aching as was his knee from rushing around from pump to barrel to forklift. He absently slipped the hose into the next barrel. About a foot down it knocked against something solid. Through the shallow layer of wine, the oak slats zigzagged across the barrel, hiding the prize beneath. He quickly retracted the hose to keep it away from the marine sealant and shot looks at each doorway. He'd been alone all day and now that privacy was imperative he hoped Sebastian wouldn't stumble in.
He cut a short section of clear tubing and siphoned the wine into an empty barrel. As his eyes cut back and forth from the barn doors to the painfully slow trickle of wine, he wished he'd found a wider tube. The level dipped slowly to the bottom and he tipped the barrel and let the siphon suck out all the wine it could. Finally, he wiped the insides with a rag and set to work freeing the lid. He scraped at the sealant, removing strips of clear sticky goo, but the residue sealed the lid firmly in place. The fit was too snug to push it deeper into the barrel, which was why he'd chosen this barrel and lid combination. After minutes of prying around the edges with a screwdriver, expecting Sebastian to come in and discover him, Charlie made one last trip to the tool closet and returned with a sledge. Three solid strikes cracked a hole in the lid wide enough to pull out the plastic and get a hand on the money underneath. He brushed away droplets of wine and fanned a thick packet of hundreds. There were over sixty thousand of the bills in the barrel, more than six million dollars crying out for a hiding place.
He took two armloads of wine boxes from the warehouse, assembled them, and packed the bills inside. The next barrel he opened had a familiar oak lid submerged under fifteen gallons of wine. He swiftly siphoned the wine, smashed the lid, and then packed the bills into boxes. The pallet had two remaining barrels. Charlie rapped them with his knuckles, found the money-filled barrel, and drained off the wine. As the sledge crashed down on the oak lid, a voice boomed across the fermentation room with fiery authority, "Move away from that barrel!"
Charlie dropped the sledge, his heart pounding, his face white with panic.
Randy was standing just inside the cellar door.
"You asshole!"
"Did I scare you?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I saw the containers drive up and I thought I'd come in and help."
"That was hours ago."
"I'm a slow walker."
Charlie turned away from Randy and smashed the sledge through the oak lid. "Help me fill up these boxes."
Randy obliged.
When they were done, Randy backed up his van to the barn and they loaded it. Charlie had a strange feeling about the argument they'd had the day before. Randy showed no hint of ill feelings whatsoever, like it never happened. Nine million dollars could improve anyone's mood, but Charlie sensed this was a different man than the one he'd known for the last few months. Charlie watched his every expression as they shuttled the money to Charlie's front door.
"Where do you want these?" Randy asked.
"Just drop them inside. I'll put them somewhere later."
"The attic no doubt." Randy grinned at Charlie's reaction. He set the last box down inside the door, got in the van and drove away without a word. No snappy comment, no insults, no invitations for a drink. Randy slipped away.
Charlie was certain he'd be back.
Charlie sat on the boxes thinking about what Randy had said. The attic was his first choice for a hiding place, but Randy's comment made him leery. Randy talked of morality and righteousness, but that wouldn't stop him from stealing Charlie's half of the money. Charlie considered doing what Brad Perry had done and hiding it in an interior wall, but getting it out was nearly impossible.
Still unsure of himself, but unable to come up with something better, Charlie hefted the first box up the stairs and then up the narrow set of pull-down stairs to the attic. Small gable windows lit several clusters of items stacked on the pine planks as if the previous residents had piled their belongings in assigned storage locations. Charlie could walk erect underneath the peak and he followed it as he hunted for a hiding place. He chose the largest pile of clutter and slid his box in behind it. He browsed the contents of an open box as he left: a broken tennis racket, small pink roller skates, a torn lampshade, and a little leaguer's wooden bat.
Charlie carried the bat down to his room and headed to the hall for another box. With each step, he knew the attic was a mistake, but he kept moving. The stash was too big for a safe deposit box and he couldn't deposit the money in any American bank. Before he could come up with a better hiding place, the boxes were stacked like half a dozen cases of wine from the warehouse. They'd probably go unnoticed among the warehouse inventory for months, but once discovered, they'd disappear. He decided to trust the attic. He climbed down and pushed the stairs back up, haunted by the knowledge that Randy knew just where to look.
Through Deirdre's half-open door, he noticed the leather suitcase from France flat on the floor with another canvas bag on top. He passed the dresser, covered with cosmetics and various primping tools and squatted next to the cases. He opened the bottom case enough to see the green and white stacks flush to the top. She left over a million dollars in plain sight when she could have easily stuffed it in the closet or under the bed. Maybe, the million didn't seem important since she knew how much Charlie and Randy had divided. Whatever her reasons, Deirdre was acting strangely.
Charlie walked back to the barn thinking about Deirdre and Randy, much as he'd started his day. He retrieved the barrel he'd filled with contaminated wine, wrestled it onto a hand-truck, and wheeled it out toward the stone wall. When he got there, he felt like he'd been lined up against a three-hundred pound lineman all day. His ribs ached and his knee was throbbing. He tipped the barrel over and watched the wine carve tiny canyons in the grass as it rushed down toward the stone wall and the vines beyond. Charlie moved a few feet uphill and dropped to the grass.
"What is that sparkling fertilizer?" Sebastian hollered.
Charlie startled. He hadn't noticed Sebastian approaching from a forty acre field. "Just one contaminated barrel," Charlie retorted, wishing he'd chosen another word.
Sebastian poked his foot into a crevice, hopped up on the wall, and jumped down on the near side. He skirted the wine puddle and joined Charlie on the grass. The setting sun painted the sky over the vineyard like a child's orange and pink watercolor. "How'd you ruin the wine there, Rookie?" Sebastian asked.
Sebastian envied Charlie's time at U.C. Davis and this explanation would get several retellings to anyone who'd listen. Charlie wondered what his father would think when he heard Sebastian's version of the story.
"Come on. What happened?" Sebastian prodded.
"I'm not sure. The barrel head must have been loose. Something got inside and fouled it."
"You sure it wasn't the heat?"
"Who knows. It was definitely foul. I couldn't risk the whole batch."
Sebastian looked off into the distance and Charlie waited, hoping he'd accept the explanation and let it go.
"You know the last time we poured out wine around here?"
Charlie pounced, glad to redirect. "No idea."
"Fifteen years ago they poured out a hundred sixty thousand bottles."
Charlie had heard his father's version of the story several times. "Why would anyone put anti-freeze in Chardonnay?"
"Sabotage."
"What?" Charlie asked.
"Don't tell me you believe that BS about Joyet using it as a sweetener?"
"How could you know? You weren't here then and besides, you were just a kid."
"So were you."
Sebastian's point stung. Everything Charlie knew about Marston Vineyards came from his father. "I heard a competitor found the propylene glycol. Joyet used it as a sweetener because it doesn't change the alcohol content." Charlie's words sounded contrived even to him; his father's words, from his mouth.
"Nope. It was sabotage."
"I'd buy industrial espionage if we were talking about a multimillion dollar business, but this was one small winery. How could someone put anti-freeze in the wine without Joyet knowing?"
"It happened."
"You sound pretty sure for someone who wasn't here." Charlie forgot his own subterfuge for the moment.
"I worked a few summers for Joyet. I know he wouldn't do something like that."
"Maybe he was desperate. Maybe no one knew but him."
"Joyet was like your dad. He never touched the wine except to drink it."
"So he killed himself for nothing?"
"The bankers killed him."
"You're not making any sense. He died in a car accident."
"After they called his loans. They forced him into bankruptcy and he drank himself into a stupor. He drove his car into that bridge abutment and killed himself and his wife, but it wasn't his fault."
"So you blame the bankers?"
"For starters."
Chapter Twenty-six
Charlie walked through the front door, numbed by Sebastian's words. He sat on the edge of the leather chair and stared through the window, seeing snippets of childhood memories rather than newly budding leaves. Oliver Joyet would be sitting here if his parents hadn't died and left him a distressed winery he was too young to resurrect. According to Sebastian, Charlie's father paid the loans and bought Oliver's share of the winery for two million dollars. Some children might fantasize about trading their parents for such a great deal of money, but Oliver had been engulfed by the miserable turmoil of a newly orphaned teenager. Without local relatives to care for him, Oliver went to live with a pious aunt somewhere in Illinois. Charlie tried to imagine being uprooted at thirteen, forced to start a new life in a new town, with a stranger as his only family.
The memories of boyhood were everywhere around the winery. Many long spring and summer days were passed pruning, trimming, and later harvesting the fruit from the vines. Both boys learned to drive the same tractor, now retired in the bushes overlooking the vineyard. And both boys developed a taste for Chardonnay hidden among the stacks at the back of the warehouse. Charlie lived in sight of his memories and he wondered where Oliver had ended up.
Sebastian said nothing of Oliver once he moved west, but he eagerly shared the rumors of sabotage that swirled around the winery when the Marstons moved in. Charlie's youth and his lineage had insulated him. Before he was old enough to question his father's version of events, the loose-lipped workers were replaced and the rumors promptly died. Charlie had lived at the winery five years, made friends among the vineyard hands and the winery crew, but he'd never heard a whisper of the rumors or what had become of Oliver Joyet until today.
Sebastian's indictment of Charles was a great risk; a word from Charlie and he'd be unemployed. He said nothing of the new wineries, but the steadiness in his eyes had Charlie questioning his father's rapid rise to wealth. All six wineries Charles bought had been near bankruptcy.
Charlie trembled with a wave of uncertainty about his father's methods.
Charlie had grown up on stories of his father's genius and how his metrics and new processes miraculously turned failing wineries into profitable enterprises. But in light of Sebastian's story, all these paper changes seem tangential to the real work of a winery. Charles managed numbers, while Charlie preferred to work within sight of the fermentation tanks. To him, the business was about quality wine, everything else would follow. Even before his injury, Charlie had chosen to study chemistry. Perhaps he'd known he'd wind up here to balance his father's focus on numbers with a focus on wine.
Charlie buried his head in his hands and for the first time he heard the shower running in the bathroom behind him. Water pelted the shower curtain, quieted, and then hit the floor en masse as if an armload of water had been collected and dropped. Deirdre moved around underneath the spray and squeaked the valve closed stopping the hum of water. A towel ruffled on the other side of the wall, followed by footsteps on dripping wet linoleum.
...
In the bathroom, Deirdre studied her reflection. The lines around her eyes were deepening with each sleepless night. She turned sideways to see her waistline trimmer than it had been in ten years. She lifted her breast accentuating the curve to her flat stomach. Guilt was a weight loss miracle although not a total beauty solution, as her eyes would attest. Working in the fields with Sebastian toned her arms and legs and burned more calories than she could force herself to replenish. There was no scale in the house, but she assumed she was less than one-ten.
Henri had never seen her looking this good. She felt his disappointed stare. If she'd worked this hard on the farm and kept this figure, she might have kept his interest. She looked up toward Henri. He knew his disenchantment left her unfulfilled in the bedroom. By now he understood the rendezvous was born of loneliness. But following Charlie to America was difficult for his ego, if there was such a thing in the afterlife.
Her eyes returned to the mirror then shied from her reflection.
If she'd been honest from the beginning, Henri would still be alive.
Such a good man; he never asked about her past. Instead, he made excited plans for their family, never knowing how slim their chances were. As his spirits sank into a drone-like melancholy, Deirdre's secret became increasingly harder to bear and impossible for her to reveal. Led into a marriage of half truths, pure-hearted Henri followed blindly toward his demise, never questioning his bride.
Deirdre stared into the rusty sink drain. She was doing what she could to honor his memory. When she finished he'd see she truly loved him.
Deirdre dried her hair, wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out of the bathroom with a handful of dirty clothes.
Charlie fixed his gaze on her the moment she stepped through the door. "Any idea what you want for dinner?" he asked.
"Why? Does this outfit make you hungry?"
"I wouldn't call that an outfit, but feel free to wear it anytime."
"Behave and I might." Deirdre swished closer, staying just out of reach.
"You're chipper today. Have a good day with Sebastian?"
She pressed the towel to her stomach and turned sideways. "He's working me like a dog. Look how skinny I'm getting."
Charlie surveyed the margins of the towel. "So this is a diet plan?"
"Call it personal fulfillment." She twirled and sat backwards on the arm of Charlie's chair, teetering as if she could fall into his lap at any moment. Her coy smile had his full attention now that her legs were out of view. His hands lay on his lap ready to catch her and pull her close if she fell.
"That friend of yours isn't going to come barging in again, is he?"
"After last night, I doubt it," Charlie said.
"Does he live near here?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what's his number? Maybe we should call and see if he's home."
Charlie looked confused. "I don't have it. He usually just shows up."
"You're kidding. I thought you were friends." Deirdre got up, walked to the kitchen and returned with the phone book open somewhere in the middle. "Randy right? What's his last name?"
Charlie watched, anxious for her to return to the chair. "It's Black, but I don't think you want to call him. What could you possibly say when he answers?"
Deirdre ran her finger down a long column of Black's in the phone book without answering. She had no plans to call him, but having the number and address would make her task easier. Unfortunately, there was no Randy among the list. She closed the book and returned to the arm of the chair.
Trust me on this, she thought to herself so only Henri could hear, I know what I'm doing.
She loosened the knot holding her towel and slid backward into Charlie's lap. His arms engulfed her as she touched down. His lips met hers hungrily.
...
A blaring sound pierced the darkness.
Charlie groped for the wooden bat leaning against the night stand, raised it in the air, and faced the direction of the door ready to do battle. Wobbling on the cold floor, his room had been swallowed by a palpable pre-dawn murk. Nothing moved in the clutter. A sliver of pale light brightened the crack in the door as his foggy eyes came into focus. A dim glow at the window hinted of an approaching sunrise. Deirdre breathed peacefully on the pillow.
The phone rang again.
He lowered the bat, closed his sore eyes, and picked up. "Hello."
"Good morning, Charlie. Did I wake you?"
He cracked an eye to check the clock. "Mom, it's not even five."
"Sorry dear, this couldn't wait."
"What's wrong?"
"There was a man looking for you here today. He wants to see you right away."
Charlie jolted awake. Had they found the plastic bags or a fracture on Henri's skull? Had they traced the sawdust back to the chateau? Could they have followed Deirdre here to him?
"Who was it, Mom?"
"His name is Lieutenant Laroche."
Charlie slapped the mattress and whispered away from the phone, "Shit!" Deirdre stirred next to him as he cursed Randy and his macho conversation with the lieutenant.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Can I call him?"
"He says you need to come back immediately."
Charlie couldn't tell his mother why, but returning to Piolenc was not in his plans. The request didn't sound official, anyway. He was safe here, the money was hidden, and the French couldn't extradite him without credible evidence of his involvement. Charlie had rehashed the events every day since the fire and he was positive he hadn't left that sort of evidence behind.
"He showed me the picture," Elizabeth said when her son didn't respond.
"What picture?"
"The one of your rental car at that farm that burned down. He says the car next to it belonged to Henri Deudon."
Charlie was stunned.
"Mr. Deudon is dead," his mother said.
The words hung heavy in the receiver. Charlie remembered parking between Henri's car and the farmhouse when he returned with the sawdust. The wave of nausea he felt assured him the picture was authentic, but he couldn't imagine where it had come from.
"What's going on, Charlie?"
"I'm not sure."
"Did you know that man?"
Her tone stung. "No, Mom. I didn't know him." It wasn't a lie; they hadn't been acquainted while he was alive.
"I don't understand..." The faith was fading from Elizabeth's voice. "Randy got you into this, didn't he? How many times did we tell you he was trouble?"
Charlie looked down at Deirdre lying next to him and wondered where the picture had come from. The two cars were only parked together a short time. Randy and Deirdre were both outside while Charlie finished spreading the sawdust. No one else knew they were there, so one of them must have taken it, but why?
The money was good reason, but how would either of them have known to have a camera ready? Not a chance. When Henri fell to the ground, they were all surprised to see the money. Surely neither of them knew the money was in that wall. And neither of them could have known Henri was about to die. For a second, Charlie wondered if someone else had been lurking outside, but if they had been, they would've contacted the police long before now.
The picture and the money were related, but Charlie couldn't understand how.
He looked down again at Deirdre. She'd never been to the house before, so she couldn't have known about the money. She'd never met Charlie, so it wasn't something personal. Randy had chosen her randomly from her ad. What happened afterward was just the intersection of alcohol, adultery, and horrific timing.
Charlie ignored his mother's pleas for information and assured her he'd come. He walked to the shower knowing he'd have to leave the money behind with the two people capable of taking that photo. Either of them could have the money by noon and there was nothing Charlie could do to stop them. He still hadn't thought of a better hiding place and there wasn't time to move it if he had. He dressed and climbed to the attic where he filled his inside pockets with sixty thousand dollars.
He left a note for Deirdre, one for Sebastian, and walked to the door doubting he'd ever see the money again. He held the doorknob for a long moment and then turned back to the bedroom.
Deirdre rolled over sleepily and mumbled. "What're you doing?"
"I need to know something."
Her eyes opened for a second and then closed. She clutched the pillow with one hand and pulled the quilt over her shoulder with the other.
Charlie folded it back down.
The sleeves of his white T-shirt reached her elbows, but the thin material was no substitute for the warm quilt. She pulled it back with a shiver and blinked a few times before she could focus on him.
"Why are you here?"
"You know why."
"Tell me again."
"My inlaws took the farm. I needed a place to go."
"Why me? Why here?"
Deirdre rubbed his thigh. "I like you. I needed a job and this works out nice. Doesn't it?" She flashed a seductive smile. "You weren't complaining last night."
No woman had come on to him this strong, this fast. It was too easy.
"When did you meet Randy?"
"A few hours before I met you."
Charlie remembered her search through the phone book. Her effort seemed genuine, as did her fear when Randy suddenly drove up. Maybe she was just lonely, but he couldn't convince himself that was her only reason for being there.
Charlie sat down on the bed next to her. "I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."
Deirdre leaned over and rested her head on his knee. "What's wrong?"
"I'm going back to Piolenc."
Deirdre pulled back with a start, suddenly alert. "Why?"
Charlie frowned.
"Is this about Henri?"
Charlie gave a grim nod.
Deirdre's eyes widened with fright.
"I'll keep your name out of it. Whatever you do, stay away from Randy. I can't protect you while I'm in France."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Deirdre rolled down Acushnet Avenue checking building numbers for her destination and avoiding eye contact with the greasy-looking men on the sidewalk. Dozens of them leaned against brick storefronts, leering as she passed. The two agencies she visited earlier had refused her assignment, but by the looks of the characters on the street she was in the right place now.
The other investigators warned her that TJ Lynch was a psychopath, quietly thrown out of the Marine Corps for abusing prisoners in Iraq. He wasn't duped by military intelligence into taking embarrassing photos. Lynch walked into detention cells empty-handed and beat prisoners man to man. Unfortunately for Lynch, when the investigations of prisoner abuse commenced, several badly bruised prisoners identified his bald head and scarred face. The other private investigators said Lynch was honorably discharged in spite of his conduct because his superiors were afraid to prosecute. Deirdre couldn't believe the Marines were afraid of any one man, but it was an engaging story.
She pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript brick building with large gold numbers that matched her handwritten directions. A blue sign in a first floor window advertised "Fasio Insurance," but nothing indicated the Lynch Agency was housed inside. Deirdre stepped out of her rented Camry clutching her purse, ready to ignore an onslaught of crude come-ons. But to her delight, the sidewalk was clear for an entire block. It seemed the loiterers were familiar with Lynch's military credentials. She hoped his reputation would keep them away from her rental while she was inside.
On the second floor landing, a brass plate identified the office of TJ Lynch with bold capital letters, but gave no indication of the sort of work Mr. Lynch did behind his wooden door. Her tentative knock was met with a grumbled welcome from the other side. Through the door, his small office was dominated by a scuffed oak desk, the desktop buried beneath a layer of loose papers that looked like a layer of white ash from a client-file eruption. TJ reclined, his toothy black boots facing her from on top of the crinkled papers, his attention focused on a notebook computer balanced on his thighs. His shiny shaved head immediately caught her attention with its abnormally round shape and fleshy pink coloring, except above his ears where hair still grew. He wore a brown mustache, thick and vigorous in contrast to his bald head. His eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, retreating away from the horrific things they'd seen. The left side of his face was covered with small jagged scars like a jar lid after a child finished poking air holes in it. He stopped typing when Deirdre closed the door.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Deudon." TJ looked her over and gestured to a chair before returning to work. "Most women never make it out of the car."
Deirdre sat defiantly, forgetting her fear of the street-side characters.
"I assume your business is urgent," TJ said, typing intermittently as he talked.
"It is."
"How'd you find me?"
"I spoke to Hank Petersen and Guy..." Deirdre blanked on the last name.
"Ferris," TJ finished.
"That's it."
TJ nodded solemnly. "What's wrong with them?"
"They recommended you."
"Turned you down, huh?" TJ dropped his feet to the floor, plunked the laptop on the mass of papers and fixed his eyes so intently on Deirdre, she blinked and looked away. "Does this problem of yours have anything to do with a gang or the mafia?"
"No. I want you to find someone."
"Your husband cheating?"
"My husband's dead."
"And you want me to find his killer." TJ's eyes drifted off to Deirdre's left as if Henri were standing in the corner. "Lady," he said, his eyes snapping back, "solving a murder is messy and expensive. You should leave it to the cops."
"I know who killed him." TJ's doubt registered immediately.
"So, you can't go to the police because you were involved with this guy? Did you pay him to kill your husband or did he get the idea himself?"
Deirdre's soul lay naked to TJ's perception. Her lips quivered under the weight of her unspoken answer.
TJ straightened in his chair and tapped something she hoped was the start of her case file. His computer proficiency was surprising, given his reputation and his paper-strewn desk. "What's this guy's name?" he asked.
"Randy, Randy Black. I couldn't find him in the phone book."
"Do you have a picture?"
"No, but he'll be easy to spot in a crowd."
"How so?" TJ locked on, intent for every nuance of her description.
"He's between six-one and six-four with long scraggly hair." She gestured to her elbow. "He wears reflective sunglasses, even at night. And he had a week's worth of stubble both times I saw him."
TJ returned to clicking and tapping. "A real winner."
Deirdre slid over a photo. "This is his car."
TJ pushed the photo aside, not recognizing the significance of the McLaren.
Deirdre patted the desk in the direction of the picture. "This car's got to be expensive. The doors open like wings. The dealer might remember him."
TJ typed some more notes.
"The plate is something like AVVR."
TJ tapped the letters carefully then stopped to lock eyes with Deirdre. "If you know so much about him, why not find him yourself?"
Deirdre gave him the PG-rated highlights of her strange relationship with Charlie and Randy. He listened intently as she chronicled the murder, her trip to America, and her cohabitation with Charlie. He was intrigued that Randy could be so friendly with Charlie and yet reveal so little about himself.
"So you think he's local?" TJ asked.
"Definitely. I saw him yesterday."
Annoyed, TJ shoved the computer forward. "Why do you need me?"
"I want to know where he lives, where he works."
"And then what?"
Deirdre avoided his gaze and reached into her purse. She removed a stack of bills and set them on the desk next to the computer.
TJ cocked his head sideways assessing the stack without touching it. The other investigators implied TJ would kill Randy for twenty-five or thirty thousand. The ten thousand cash on the desk would cover his services for a month. She guessed he'd find Randy in a week and she hoped he wouldn't drag out the investigation to pump up his fee.
Yes, Henri, I think he can do it. I'm sure they don't approve of this sort of thing where you are, but this is what he deserves.
"So you're serious?" TJ asked.
"Deadly serious."
TJ surveyed her, flashed to his computer screen, the money, and back to her face as he considered what he was about to do. "How can I reach you?" he finally asked.
Deirdre reached inside an artillery shell larger than her fist and retrieved one of TJ's business cards. She wrote Charlie's telephone number on the back and handed it to him. "Here's where I'm staying. How soon should I expect a call?"
"If I get lucky with the DMV or the Mercedes dealerships, it could be a day or two. If he's as clever as your friend says, it could take a few weeks."
"I want to know the minute you locate him. You can keep the ten K."
TJ nodded as if to say "thank you," but his hardened eyes suggested he never intended to return change. "I'll find him."
"I'd be checking bars and hospitals---he'll be in one or the other."
"But you'd prefer the morgue?"
Deirdre didn't answer, but she knew she'd found the right man.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Charlie watched his father's eyes widen as he strode into the hall.
"What happened to your face?" Charles asked.
"Randy started a bar brawl and I took a few shots."
"A few?"
"I'd rather not go there. Randy's history, let's leave it at that."
"Would you rather tell me why a gendarme lieutenant is sitting in my study?" As he said this, Charles locked eyes with his son and moved squarely into his path, blocking his advance down the hall.
Charlie angled around. "It's a mistake, that's all. I didn't do anything."
Charles planted his hand firmly against his son's chest. "This isn't high school. You're not going to waltz in there and talk your way out of it. If you're smart, you won't say anything until we can get Art Roberts here to help."
"I don't need Art. I told you, I haven't done anything wrong."
"Don't give me that. I saw the picture. This is murder, Charlie. This is your life we're talking about here."
The fingers gripping his chest and the cold emotionless stare touched off a fire inside Charlie. The dark eyes behind the glasses were clear. They held neither anger nor compassion for the trouble ahead. Valueless, they sparkled with cunning strategies to outwit the gendarme in the next room. In that instant, Charlie saw his father as a cross between a sleazy defense lawyer and the thieving robber baron Sebastian and Randy made him out to be.
Charlie pushed past him and burst into the study, but once inside, his steps became tentative. The musty air hung heavily with tobacco. Laroche waited at a marble-topped table, leafing through a folder thick with printed forms. He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, turning the pages merely to busy his hands.
Laroche rose.
Charlie shook his hand and sat, emboldened by his father's presence at his side. Every time he looked at him, though, he was reminded of Sebastian's version of Marston family history.
Laroche bathed in the silent terror of the moment, perfectly rigid in his pressed blue uniform. He scowled across the table at Charlie, who swallowed hard to moisten his fear-parched throat. Laroche began with the indignant tone of a man with powerful leverage. "Mr. Marston, it seems you were not forthcoming when we met. Since you've come back, I'm going to give you a chance to tell me what you know about Henri Deudon. Cooperate, and I may let you return home. Deceive me again and you'll rot in prison until trial." His voice was strangely unconvincing, as if he were forcing himself to sound stern.
"I've done nothing wrong," Charlie insisted.
"Mr. Marston, a man is dead. A house burned to the ground in your presence. Do you deny it?"
Charlie's world stopped. He'd imagined this moment a thousand times on the plane and still he couldn't breathe. His arms trembled as he wondered how much Laroche knew. He wished Art Roberts could answer for him.
Laroche pushed an enlarged photo across the table.
The printer had blurred the image, but the outline of the garage was visible in the background. The camera had been focused on the rear ends of the two cars. The number plates were easily legible. The only reason to take a photo like this was to make trouble.
Charlie felt Laroche's eyes locked on him. He'd spent most of the trip replaying the events from that night, but now that he saw the picture he realized how urgently he needed to know who snapped that photograph. Deirdre had been tied up most of the night. Henri was so angry he would have barreled in without thinking, and if he had left something behind, it would have surfaced before now. Charlie gulped. Randy was capable of almost anything.
"How'd you get this?" Charlie asked.
"That's not important. You rented this car, did you not?"
Charlie ignored the question and focused on the picture. The fuzzy edges reminded him of the inkjet he used in college. This wasn't a lab print. It was a printout of a digital photo. Suddenly, Charlie remembered Randy asking Laroche for a business card. The reason was clear now: Randy e-mailed the photo.
Charlie hadn't seen a camera, but he was pretty drunk that night. He worried that Randy might have taken more-incriminating photos. He was alone long enough to capture the gasoline, the sawdust, and the money. He might even have a picture of Charlie doing CPR naked, but he'd keep that one to himself. Whatever photos Randy had taken, Laroche would have them in his file. If Charlie held back, it would look like he killed Henri. If he told too much, he was going to jail for torching the house. He faced the thick file, frozen by uncertainty.
"Mr. Marston, are you with me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you mind telling me how a car you rented came to be parked next to Mr. Deudon's?"
Charlie hesitated a long moment and the safest aspects of his story began to dribble out. He told Laroche about Brad Perry, the man he'd met on a tour to Switzerland, and how he'd found the farmhouse. How he'd cleaned up the ramshackle building and used it to escape the winery.
"So, you were there that night, before the fire."
"Yes, sir."
"What was Henri Deudon doing there?"
"I don't know. I'd never seen him before."
"Do you have a cell phone, Mr. Marston?"
Charlie unclipped the phone from his belt and showed it to Laroche, who gestured for a closer look. Charles, sensing a scene right out of a bad detective movie, reached out and pulled the phone out of Laroche's reach.
Charlie shrugged at his father and pushed the phone forward. "It's ok. I've never met the guy, honest. The phone can only prove that."
Laroche dialed a number and listened.
"Identifier ce nombre s'il vous plait," he asked into the phone. He listened, said, "Merci," and hung up without writing anything on the pad in front of him. He set the phone on his side of the desk and snickered at Charlie. "Mr. Marston, why did you call Henri Deudon the night he was killed?"
The word "killed" echoed in Charlie's ears.
He was standing and shouting before he realized he'd leapt from his chair. "I never called him! Never! I don't know how he found us." Charlie slammed his hand to the table and he felt his father grab his shirt and pull him back to his chair. He was pleading from his chair now, "Why would I know some cow farmer from nowhere?"
"You said us, Mr. Marston. Who was with you?"
"Randy, the man you met after the fire, and Deirdre Deudon."
Laroche perked up in his chair. "Now we're getting somewhere. Did you call Mrs. Deudon that night?"
"No. I never met either of them before..."
"You are trying my patience, Mr. Marston." Laroche clenched his teeth and slid a printed page to Charlie. The writing was French, but he recognized his telephone number circled in red ink. "This is the Deudon's phone record. It shows that you called their house on the night Henri was killed. Explain that to me, Mr. Marston."
The blood drained from Charlie's face as he stared at the numbers. He flashed a look at his father, who sat dumbfounded beside him. No doubt he was annoyed at Charlie for ignoring his advice.
Charlie remembered standing inside the smashed garage looking for his phone to call Sebastian. Randy had it. Randy made the call to the Deudon's house. Charlie checked the time on the phone bill: ten fifty-six. By that time, Randy had picked up Deirdre and was driving her to the farm. He called Henri from the car because he wanted him there at the farmhouse. Randy had planned to kill Henri all along and Charlie helped him cover it up by torching the house.
"I didn't make that call!"
Charlie imagined the Bill Caulfield scenario starting all over again with him. Was this the end, so soon? What else had Randy planted? What other photos would he send?
Laroche stood up. "Mr. Marston, I'm going to arrest you. I suggest you get a very good attorney."
Charles stood up opposite him ready for battle.
Of course, Laroche didn't believe Charlie about the phone call, but Charlie still sensed he was bluffing about the arrest. No matter; he was too scared to hold back. He had to prove his innocence before things got out of hand and Deirdre was the only way.
"Wait, wait."
"The time for cooperation is well past, Mr. Marston."
"I need your help. Someone's in danger."
Laroche impatiently leaned over the table, reluctant to sit. "Who?"
"Deirdre Deudon."
"What about Mrs. Deudon?"
"She knows who killed her husband."
Charles gasped. "Randy! I told you he was nothing but trouble. If..."
Laroche gestured Charles into silence. "Go on, Mr. Marston."
"Deirdre saw everything and so did I."
"Your long-haired friend killed Mr. Deudon?"
"Yes."
"Why should I believe it was him and not you?"
"Deirdre will tell you."
"I've already spoken to Mrs. Deudon. She said Henri was out alone."
"Randy threatened to kill her if she talked. He'll kill her now, before she can tell you the truth."
"I'll make arrangements to visit her."
"She's at my house in Massachusetts."
Charles slapped the table. "The woman who came looking for you?"
"She's in Westport," Charlie mumbled.
Laroche did a double-take and ran his fingers through the strips of hair on each side of his head. He turned away, pacing and spinning, unsure which direction to face. He finally came to rest in the chair across from Charlie.
Charlie raised his hands. "I know it looks bad, but she found me. She was lonely after her husband died. She had nowhere to go. I swear."
"She came here looking for him. My wife gave her directions to the winery and offered her a job," Charles said.
"Please." Laroche waved Charles into silence again. "This doesn't help your case, Mr. Marston. You're living with the man's widow. It couldn't look worse."
"Randy planned Henri's murder. I had nothing to do with it. I never met Deirdre or Henri before that night. I didn't know what he was going to do, I swear. Randy found her ad on the Internet. He met her at a bar and drove her to the farmhouse. I never saw either of them until they came up the stairs." The words tumbled out of Charlie and he wasn't sure how the desperate babbling made him look.
Stone-faced, Laroche gave no indication what he believed. "If Randy was interested in the girl, why'd he bring her to meet you?"
Charlie glanced at his father, wondering if he'd be horrified or proud of what he was about to say.
Laroche waited.
"She wanted both of us."
"At once?" Laroche asked incredulously.
Charles eyed his son with a mixture of pride and confusion.
Charlie nodded.
Laroche stared vacantly as if mentally poking for holes in Charlie's version of events. "So when did Henri walk in?"
"About ten minutes behind Randy and Deirdre."
"And you were..." Laroche suggested.
"Engaged," Charlie finished.
Laroche nodded to himself, probably imagining what was going through Henri's mind when he walked in on his wife and two men. "So, Henri went 'psycho' as you Americans say."
"He tackled Randy. I pulled Henri off or he would have killed him."
"Exactly when did Mr. Deudon stop struggling?"
"Right after Randy smacked him in the head with a wine bottle."
"I assume you're going to tell me Randy burned the house down, too."
"I tried CPR first, but I couldn't resuscitate him. Deirdre watched the whole thing." Charlie's breath caught in his throat. "I need to call her. Randy's there and he knows what's happening. He's going to kill her. It's the only way he could hope to get away with this."
Laroche was too absorbed in his thoughts to object.
Charles retrieved a speaker phone he used for teleconferences and dialed Charlie's house. The three men listened to the phone ring seven times. Deirdre didn't answer.
When the machine picked up Charlie leaned over the microphone. "Get out of there. Randy's looking for you. Get out the second you get this message. Hide until I get back."
Laroche seemed unfazed by Charlie's panic. "Mr. Marston, this is a much different story than the one you told me last time we met." He tapped his fingers on the table while he considered what to do. "I'm going to give you a chance," he said finally. "I'll check out your story about the bar and see if anyone remembers seeing Deirdre Deudon and Randy together. I can't verify which one of you called the Deudons' home, but your story is plausible at least."
Charlie took his first relaxed breath since walking into the room.
Laroche continued. "You will stay here. Do not leave the house. No calls, no e-mail, no contact with anyone unless Deirdre Deudon calls you. If she does, call me immediately. I'll be back tomorrow."
Laroche collected his things and left Charlie to wonder what Randy had in store for him next.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sebastian lowered the clipboard and checked his watch for the third time. Ten-thirty and Deirdre still hadn't shown up. With Charlie in France, and Deirdre who-knows-where, Sebastian was left to cover the vineyard, the warehouse, and the gift shop when Lily took her inevitable forty-five-minute lunch break. Sebastian tossed the clipboard on the desk in disgust and stalked over to the gift shop hoping to find Deirdre chatting with Lily. His anger built as the shells crunched underfoot. It was Saturday and Deirdre was delaying his rendezvous with a cold beer in a crowded bar down by the water.
Lily startled when the door whipped open then huddled behind the cash register looking pale and frightened as if the gift shop were under attack. The tasting area was empty; no sign of Deirdre anywhere.
"Mr. Marston overnighted me a package from France yesterday. Have you seen the FedEx guy yet?" Sebastian asked.
"No," Lily squeaked.
"Did Deirdre call in?"
Lily perked up at the question, visibly shaking now. "No," she stammered.
She looked ashamed as if she were somehow responsible for Deirdre's tardiness. Sebastian blamed Charlie. Sleeping with the boss' son nullified his authority over her and she knew it. She was a diligent worker and she'd never been this late, but this was her first week. He moved around the counter and saw Lily wringing her hands.
"Is something wrong with Deirdre?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Why are you so nervous? What's wrong?"
Lily looked down into her clasped hands.
"It's obvious something's bothering you. What is it?"
"I'm leaving the winery," she said without looking up.
"This is sudden. What happened?"
"Nothing that can be helped. You've all been kind, but I have to leave."
Sebastian sat on a stool behind the counter, lowering himself to Lily's height and imagining what Charlie would say when he heard the news.
"Is there something we can change? Your hours maybe?"
"No. It's personal. Things have changed and I have to leave right away."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope everything is ok," he said, half expecting her to pack her things and leave that instant.
"It will be. I'll finish the day." Her blurted statement hung in the air.
Objecting was pointless. Lily was leaving and Sebastian would be alone on Monday to tend both counters, the vineyard, and the winery. He'd worked eight years to move up to winemaker and now he was being forced back to where he started---gift shop duty. There was a certain amount of freedom being the only person working the winery and Sebastian planned to take full advantage until Charlie returned.
The FedEx van rolled down the driveway and Sebastian ducked outside to meet it. He signed for the large blue and white box and went back to his cubicle to open it privately as Charles had requested. The briefcase inside was wrapped in so much packing tape it would be impossible to open without a knife. Sebastian grinned when he read the first line of the note urging him not to open the case. The note went on to describe the old tractor parked in the bushes at the end of the stone wall. It had been rusting there since before Sebastian started at the winery. He was to leave the briefcase on the seat and then go back to the barn and watch it.
Did Charles seriously believe he'd sit and watch the briefcase all day? Life and death, the note said. What a funny little rich man.
Sebastian took the case and walked across the grass to where the stone wall disappeared into a thicket that sprung up on both sides. He stood a moment, calculating the easiest path through the snarling branches and briars that blocked his path. He took a deep breath and pushed his way in a few yards and up over the mound of rocks that tumbled off the wall from hundreds of animal crossings. The tractor lay several yards ahead with holes rusted through the sheet metal and saplings pushing their way up on all sides.
Sebastian left the case on the seat and trampled down a few bushes to clear a line of sight from the loft window two hundred yards away. He hiked back to the barn and slammed the door loud enough for Lily to hear. After a quick detour for a bottle of sparkling, he hiked to the loft. Nineteen ninety-four, a great year for Marston Vineyards. Sebastian popped the cork and watched the tractor through the grimy glass.
Hours later, just before dark, Sebastian woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing on his belt. The empty bottle lay sideways on the floor between his feet. No work had been accomplished whatsoever. Peering through the window, he could just make out the tractor, but the briefcase was impossible to see.
He cleared his throat and answered, masking his grogginess as best he could.
"Sebastian, what happened?"
"I haven't seen anything."
"No one came for the case?"
"I don't think so."
"What do you mean, you don't think so? Have you been watching or not?"
"I haven't seen anything, but it's getting dark."
"Well, get down there!"
Sebastian couldn't believe his presumptiveness. "What?"
"Go down there and check it out."
"Fine. I'll call you back..."
"No, I'll hang on."
Sebastian climbed down from the loft, holding the phone by his side and muttering as he went. About halfway to the tractor he lifted the phone to his ear again. "Hey, it's still there. What do you want me to do?"
"Find a place to watch from. I want you to see who takes it."
"Are you kidding me? It's going to be pitch black in half an hour."
Sebastian could hear Charles fuming on the other end of the line. But what reasonable explanation could he give for his request?
"Well then, go get it and put it back out in the morning."
Sebastian couldn't believe what he was hearing. Only Charles would deliver blackmail, take it back, and deliver it again to bait his trap. Sebastian didn't bother to argue. He pushed his way back through the brush and picked up the case. It was much lighter than when the FedEx man delivered it. It looked the same, but the packing tape had been sliced.
"Bad news, Charles."
"What?"
Sebastian popped open the empty case. "There's nothing in here."
"Damn it!"
Chapter Thirty
The man clad in black from turtle neck to sneakers stood in the shadows and pocketed his tools in disbelief. He slipped a credit card into the quarter-inch gap between the door and the trim and popped the lock open. No alarm, no deadbolt and his target was a woman. The only risk had been approaching the farm without disturbing the cattle. She didn't even have a dog. Amazed it could be this easy, he stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the murky interior. The sliver of moon couldn't penetrate the heavy drapes covering the small windows, rather, it cast a pale glow at their fringes. Shadowy objects around the room slowly took the shape of boxes, stacks of boxes, cluttering the tiny living space. A sharp snort sounded upstairs. If she'd been planning to move, she'd missed her chance.
The floor planks begrudged every step across the kitchen announcing his approach with a creaking, squeaking cacophony. He stopped at the foot of the ninety-year-old stairs and aimed his 9mm toward the second floor. After all the noise he'd made crossing the kitchen, if anyone in the house was awake, they'd be waiting for him on the landing. He continued haltingly upward, keeping his sneakers pressed at the outer edges of the treads, slowly transferring his weight from foot to foot, but the squeaky stairs mocked his every movement. As he reached the switchback to the upper landing, he braced himself on the railing and aimed the gun upward into the hall. A rhythmic growl sounded somewhere above.
Satisfied she was asleep, he crested the stairs. He swung the gun into the dark corners of the hall, but found only shadows there. She was in the nearest bedroom and she wasn't alone. She worked quickly, this one. Widowed just weeks ago, she'd already found a replacement.
He crept up beside the bed, pressed a pillow to her head to muffle the impact, and fired. The body jolted as the bullet passed through and settled in the mattress. The silenced shot killed with a thump that was quieter than his careful footsteps. He dropped the pillow and aimed for the man's head. He stirred and rolled over, but never opened his eyes.
The killer skirted the bed and backed away toward the stairs with the bead drifting over the man's face like a floating third eye. If he woke, it'd be the last time. Otherwise, the contract was for one and one they'd get.
He whisked downstairs and away from the easiest job he'd ever done.
...
Several miles away, Charlie lay awake in a guest room shaken by a deception so clever that he couldn't quite fit the pieces together even now that the trap was sprung. That night at the farmhouse, Charlie had felt that he was the one maintaining control. Randy was acting crazy as usual and Charlie was supplying the rational thought that kept them out of trouble, or so it had appeared. That one photograph made the wild flurry of events look very different. The picture was malicious intent, premeditation, and supernatural knowledge inked on copy paper.
That night Randy had parked at the extreme right edge of the driveway, leaving a longer walk for himself and Deirdre, but plenty of space for Henri's car beside Charlie's rental. He'd known Henri was coming. In his rush to get inside, Henri had parked exactly where Randy wanted him to.
The revelation stunned Charlie.
Since the day they met, Randy acted so juvenile that Charlie assumed he couldn't plan beyond the next twenty-four hours or his next drinking binge. Before now, Charlie had been captivated by the reckless stunts. The subtle manipulation had been minor in comparison and went entirely unnoticed. Lying on the bed, Charlie saw that Randy's strange actions were driven by something far more sinister than thrill-seeking. He'd been slyly arranging his subjects long before he snapped that photo.
The crash into the guest house garage now had new meaning. Randy was too skillful a driver for such a blunder. Charlie's instinct had told him as much, but he brushed it aside with the other crazy things Randy did. Now it was clear why he'd done it. Randy wanted everyone at the chateau to know they'd been out until three. Charles obliged by complaining about the accident to anyone who would listen. Someone must have noticed that the late-night crash and the fire that killed Henri Deudon were only minutes apart, but amazingly, no one called the gendarmes.
Thinking back to the picture, Charlie realized it was useless for blackmail since Henri had already seen Deirdre with Charlie. Randy orchestrated Henri's timely arrival at the farmhouse and the arrangement of the cars so he could give the photo to the gendarmes. The picture was useless until Henri was murdered.
But what did he stand to gain?
Charlie passed twenty minutes staring at the ceiling wondering exactly that. He kept circling back to the money. Judging by Randy's ability to manipulate circumstances, Charlie assumed this was his goal from the beginning. Once the money was moved, Charlie suddenly found himself in trouble with the gendarmes. Randy had plenty of time to slip into the attic, take Charlie's share, and disappear. Maybe this was how he afforded the expensive cars and the boat. Maybe this was one of his "investments."
A random thought struck Charlie about the poker-night brawl. They'd made miraculous time driving from Westport to New Bedford and arrived to the game at the last minute. The ambulance logs and hospital records would prove that Randy had been in that tournament; a tournament that started only minutes after fire broke out at the Caulfield house. If the fire had gone unreported for fifteen minutes, Randy would have an ironclad alibi.
Charlie flashed back to the time he was cleaning for Deirdre's arrival at the farmhouse. He remembered a jagged crack in the wall about where Henri's head crashed through. It didn't seem out of place in that rundown old house, but Henri's head struck the wall about where the crack had been. If Randy had known what was inside, he might have steered him there.
Charlie wanted to believe Randy knew about the money. His constant antics could easily have caused the crack and Charlie couldn't guess what he'd do if he spied the money when he was alone. Randy seemed incredibly volatile, but Charlie had a feeling now that the random stunts were all linked, like they had been for Caulfield. Every one of them had a purpose. A dreadful warning settled within Charlie: the money, Deirdre, and Henri were peripheral; swept up in something larger than all of them, something Charlie was yet to understand.
Charlie thought back to the day Randy pushed himself up on a barstool beside him. He hadn't stopped pushing since. No matter how dicey things got or how much his parents protested, Charlie hadn't gotten serious about sending him away until he woke up in St. Luke's after the poker game. The benefits of being Randy's sidekick had been too great. When Randy started rambling out his zany philosophy in a bar, an enraptured crowd closed in around them. Women were plentiful and so were fast cars, jet skis, and boats. Randy showed him life on the edge. Now he saw it was all preparation for one fateful night. Randy had conditioned Charlie to follow him and Charlie felt like a fool for obliging.
All the while, drunk or sober, Randy hid every aspect of himself. He'd never shown Charlie his house, his work, or any other part of his life. The long hair, the glasses, and the whiskers hid his features well. Charlie would scarcely recognize him clean-shaven and neatly dressed. The man underneath the bedraggled appearance and the psychotic persona was even more frightening than the creature on the surface. Within minutes of meeting Randy, most people assumed he was a juvenile, thrill-seeking punk. They excused him as an overgrown teenager. No one thought to look deeper, so Randy acted with impunity.
Charlie knew now that the juvenile pranks covered a patient, cunning manipulator who planned his deception in minute detail. Charlie started re-evaluating everything Randy had said and done since they'd met. Attributing malicious intent to Randy's actions brought startling revelations. Charlie lay awake seeing the depths Randy had gone to. How masterfully Randy played the lunatic, all the while giving obvious clues to his intentions.
The realization came too late.
Randy already had the money.
Chapter Thirty-one
At five-thirty, Laroche received a status report from his team watching Chateau de Piolenc. No one left the chateau overnight. Seven phone calls had been made: one to a law office in Boston and six to Charlie Marston's home. A man could be heard pleading for someone to answer the calls to Westport, but no one did. Laroche recalled Charlie's panicked words into the telephone answering machine, as if Deirdre were in mortal danger. He may have been acting then, but surely he didn't expect the phone taps to be in place. Laroche picked up his newspaper and browsed, convinced Charlie Marston behaved like an innocent man.
When the phone rang at six, Laroche pushed his paper aside and listened to a frantic description of the curse that had befallen the Deudon family. Monique Deudon, Henri's sister-in-law, was murdered while she slept, just weeks after Henri died in the fire. She had moved to the family farm with her husband and two children just days earlier. The distraught husband was cooperative, but he saw nothing until he awoke with his arm covered in blood. He found his wife lying dead beside him and he was still too shaken to be helpful.
The scenario suggested a professional hit. The killer left no sign of entry, no footprints inside or out, and he silenced the single shot he fired. The only evidence the officers had found was the dead woman and the bullet that killed her. The young officer on the phone offered little hope of finding more. Apparently, the family had lived in a much larger home and ran out of space to store their belongings in the tiny stone house. He described a flood of possessions stacked throughout. If the killer left any trace, the chances of finding it in all the clutter were nil.
Monique Deudon's death bolstered Marston's claim of innocence. The killer had apparently mistaken Monique for Deirdre and Marston wouldn't make that mistake. Someone ordered the killing; someone far from Piolenc, possibly the same man who sent the picture. By taking that picture, the photographer proved he was at the farmhouse before the fire started. He seemed to know trouble was coming, otherwise the picture was useless. Laroche wished he'd chosen a simpler case to get involved in, but he was feeling more confident the more he reflected. Marston and Randy would blame each other to the end. Mrs. Deudon was the key to the truth.
The young man on the other end of the line was muttering something about the press and Laroche had an inspiration.
"Listen carefully," he said in a voice too loud for the hour.
The younger officer fell silent.
Laroche confirmed that the body was still in place. Only Officer Bigler, the family, and the man on the phone knew what had happened.
"Excellent," Laroche said. "Tell Bigler and the family to inform anyone who asks that the deceased is Deirdre Deudon, Henri's widow. You can tell no one that Monique is dead. Understood?"
"I understand. But why, sir?"
"Last night someone tried to kill Deirdre Deudon. Unfortunately, he found Monique in Deirdre's bedroom and killed her instead. If he learns of his mistake, Mrs. Deudon will be in terrible danger. We can't let that happen."
"What about the press?"
"Tell them what you know, but indicate Deirdre as the victim. Don't hold back. Ask the family to find a good photo and get it in tomorrow's paper and on every television station." Laroche was acting far beyond his responsibilities and he felt a rush of strength.
"What about the Judicial Police?"
"What about them?"
"Sir, she's got a bullet wound in her forehead. They must be contacted. They'll want to know why we're lying to the newsmen."
"Explain to them that I'm working on a tip. The Judicial Police don't want to endanger Mrs. Deudon any more than we do."
The confused young man reluctantly accepted his task and hung up.
Laroche swallowed hard and stared down at the phone wondering if he'd just thrown away a thirty-four-year career. The Judicial Police would be swarming around Monique Deudon's murder and they reviled gendarmes who overstepped their authority. It had been four weeks since he stood outside the burned-out building and decided to take this case for himself. Four weeks of work yielded only two suspects: the same two men who appeared the day after the fire. If the Judicial Police linked the murders and investigated the farmhouse, they'd find the plane and they wouldn't stop investigating until Laroche's career was over. It was too late to admit his mistake. His only hope was to solve the case and hope for leniency.
What he needed was a face-to-face interview with Deirdre Deudon, but that wasn't going to happen. The captain would never pay for a flight to Massachusetts without evidence and all the evidence pointed to Charlie Marston. The captain hated self-indulgent American swine almost as much as the Judicial Police did. He'd gladly lock Marston up and put Laroche in an adjoining cell for helping him.
Panicked, Laroche forgot about verifying the rest of Marston's story. He went straight to his surveillance team, located a kilometer from the chateau. Nothing had transpired since his last update, so Laroche dismissed them. They gladly went home early and Laroche got in his car and motored down the drive to the chateau.
Rosalie ushered him in to join the Marstons in the midst of breakfast. The elder Marstons wore looks of grave concern at his appearance so early in the morning. Young Charlie's eyes looked as if he hadn't slept fifteen minutes.
Laroche accepted their invitation to breakfast, not because he was hungry and not to discuss the case, since Mrs. Marston was present. He was betting his career on Marston's innocence and he embraced the extra time to reassure himself he'd made the right decision.
The elder Mr. Marston excused himself to the hall and picked up the phone. Laroche ignored him and studied the subtle cues between Charlie and his mother. He listened to their nervous chatter until his attention was drawn to movement in the hall. Charles was talking excitedly, but softly, into the receiver and eyeing Laroche reproachfully. Somehow Charles knew his secret.
As Laroche's confidence dwindled, he tried to imagine who Charles could be talking to. No parent would contact the Judicial Police. He doubted Charles would call headquarters unless he knew the captain personally and few Americans did. Across the table, Charlie and his mother were silent. All three of them were eyeing him suspiciously as he sat and waited for the confrontation to come.
When Charles was finished on the phone, he retrieved Laroche and led him into the hall. Charlie abandoned the breakfast he'd been picking at and followed them into the study. Charles solidly closed the door behind them and cornered Laroche in the space between the door and the marble table they'd occupied the night before.
"My lawyer suggests I ask how long you've been attached to Special Investigations," Charles said incredulously.
"I'm not." Laroche felt the quiver in his own voice.
"You're not Judicial Police. You've got the wrong uniform. So why are you harassing us, Lieutenant?"
"A serious crime has been committed."
"A crime you have no power to investigate. Just what are you doing here? Are you after money, Lieutenant?"
"I am investigating a murder. And yes, if you disapprove of my involvement, you could force me to leave. But if I go, the next uniform you see will be of the Judicial Police. They're not known for their sympathy to foreigners."
Father and son silently considered the threat.
"Have either of you seen the news this morning?"
Both men indicated they hadn't, their curiosity aroused.
Laroche studied them carefully as he told them of Monique Deudon's murder. The younger man gasped with wide-eyed intensity that couldn't be faked. The elder Marston watched his son, unsure what to think of the news. Charlie's horrified expression and the seven panicked phone calls told Laroche what he needed to know.
"She moved into the farmhouse?" Charlie asked.
"She did."
Laroche let his news hang in the thick air of the study while the men assessed their position. He knew Charlie couldn't risk Judicial Police scrutiny. Laroche needed his help to catch Randy and he needed both Marstons to keep quiet about his work on this case.
When Laroche offered his terms, Charlie accepted without pausing to consider.
Chapter Thirty-two
Deirdre recoiled from the peephole at the sight of TJ Lynch's bald head magnified to grotesque proportions. She'd been cursing him since he dumped her in this tiny hotel sandwiched between routes 6 and 195. After two dreadfully long days watching old movies and scouring French websites, Deirdre desperately hoped TJ brought good news. She unlatched the door and let him into the room that had afforded her the protection and comfort of a castle tower. The food was lousy, the bed rock-hard, and the isolation unnerving, but as promised, she'd been safe.
TJ trailed through the hallway-like room, past the tussled bed she'd slept in and opted for a seat on the neater bed beside her empty suitcase. Deirdre sat opposite him and for the first time she noticed the large white envelope in his hands.
TJ opened it without speaking and handed her a glossy photograph that captured Randy walking out Charlie's front door. Deirdre imagined TJ aiming a gun rather than a camera when he took this shot. She pictured Randy dropping at the foot of the stairs, tangling in the shrubs, and writhing on the ground. A few minutes of agony and he would be forever still. She was lost in reverie several seconds before realizing TJ was waiting for her to look up.
"How'd you know he'd go back to the winery?" she asked.
"I didn't. I followed him there."
"How'd you find him?"
"You were right about the car. It cost four hundred thousand dollars. The sales manager remembered him as soon as I said 'McLaren.' Not only that, you had the license plate almost right. It's A-V-N-G-R."
Deirdre's spirit brightened. "So you know where he lives?"
"In Dartmouth, across from that banker's house that burned down."
Mention of the fire tickled her memory, but she ignored it. She asked instead what Randy was doing in Charlie's house.
"He spent four hours there on Saturday and went back to the winery again on Sunday, but I couldn't get close enough to see what he was doing."
"You got this picture."
TJ clenched his teeth, frustrated with her lack of appreciation for his work. "I took the photo from the trees across the driveway. If you remember, the rest of the property is wide open. Any closer and he would have seen me. Then he'd be on guard and following him would be next to impossible."
"I didn't mean to criticize. I'm glad you found him so fast. I'd just like to know what he's doing in there when Charlie's not home."
"Hard to say. He brought three large boxes inside," TJ indicated the photo. "He stayed in there for two hours then disappeared into the woods. I went back to my car to wait for him, but he didn't leave the winery for another hour and a half. He could have been in the parents' house or in the barn, I can't be sure."
"Was anyone else there?"
"No. After he left, I walked around and checked in through the windows. Everything looked normal, but it was getting dark and I couldn't see very well."
Deirdre studied the box Randy held in the close-up. It had no markings, but he clutched it to his chest as if it were quite heavy.
She looked back to TJ. "Why would he go into Charlie's house when he's not there? I heard Charlie tell him off the other night and he knows Charlie saw him kill my husband. If Charlie goes to the police, Randy will be locked up for sure."
"I don't know what he's up to, but it's not about money, that's for sure. He's got plenty of his own."
She couldn't imagine he earned it legitimately. The only jobs that suited him were heavy-metal guitarist and nudie-magazine photographer.
TJ seemed to read her thoughts as he handed her the envelope. "I don't know where the money comes from. He didn't leave for work this morning."
She smoothed the bedspread and dumped the contents of the envelope: several typewritten pages and a dozen photographs. The first page detailed Randy's real name, address, and assorted details about his car and his house. A Compass Bank statement showed nearly a million dollars on deposit. She wondered if TJ had stolen it from the mailbox or if he had a contact at the bank. Then she moved on to a photograph showing the car driving into a magnificent white-brick colonial.
"Where's this?"
"That's his house. The banker's house and the ocean are across the street."
Deirdre couldn't imagine someone so vile could afford such luxury. Finally, she moved on to a report of his comings and goings for the last two days.
"How long do you want me to follow him?" TJ asked.
Her breath caught in her throat. He knew she hadn't paid ten thousand dollars for the contents of that envelope, but he showed neither fear nor excitement for the task ahead. She admired his huge hands; hands strong enough to clamp down on Randy's windpipe and slowly strangle the life out of him. His shiny bald head and the rounded muscles under his black shirt gave him a menacing look, but his relaxed demeanor lacked the hatred he'd need for the job. She remembered how Randy strapped her to the bedposts after Charlie had gone. Randy deserved the intense, prolonged suffering that only a committed professional or a deranged psychopath could inflict. She wanted him to shriek like a little boy before he died.
A wave of guilt rolled through her and she flicked her eyes skyward for reassurance. Feeling none, she gingerly walked around the bed, behind TJ to the old leather suitcase lying in the corner. His eyes followed.
"I didn't prepare a bill, but the ten thousand more than covers three days work. I'll bring---" TJ stopped when he saw Deirdre lift two handfuls of cash from the old case. She piled one stack on each thigh, sixty-five thousand dollars in all.
Scooping them up, he looked solemnly at the thickness of the stacks and then back at Deirdre. Sixty-five thousand was six months' salary for TJ, not counting the ten she'd already paid. His expression slowly hardened. His muscles stiffened and his gaze intensified. The relaxed delivery boy became the high-powered entrepreneur. She hoped the money would buy unspeakable cruelty.
"Remind me again why you can't go to the police."
"They can't help me. That's why I need you." Deirdre's hands started to shake. She'd thought the sight of the money would snap TJ into compliance, but he already had it and he was still balking.
TJ looked annoyed. "Lady, it's obvious you're not a criminal. If you tell them what happened, they'll pick this guy up and it won't cost you a dime."
"If the money's not enough..."
"The money's not the issue. The issue is whether you can keep this quiet for the rest of your life. If I walk out of here with this money, there's no changing your mind. My work is irreversible."
Deirdre looked him squarely in the eyes. "It's him or me."
"What do you mean?"
Deirdre led TJ over to the computer and showed him an Internet news story. "LOCAL WOMAN KILLED Deirdre Deudon, wife of the late Henri Deudon, was killed Saturday at her home..."
TJ stared back and forth from Deirdre to the dated photo on the screen that showed her and Henri standing by the roadside stand where they sold flowers and vegetables to tourists.
"Randy paid someone to kill me, but they got my sister-in-law instead. If I go to the police and he finds out I'm alive, he'll send someone else."
TJ stared down into the screen. "Someone knows this story is a lie."
"Charlie is there in Piolenc. He knows what happened, but if he told them, they'd have the Westport police swarming around the winery waiting for Randy to come back. That doesn't seem to be happening, does it?"
"No, but whoever lied to the papers knows you're in danger. That's the only explanation for a story like this."
"That's why I need you."
In the long silence between them Deirdre had a horrifying thought that he'd suddenly announce he was a cop and his partners would burst into the room from every conceivable direction. But he didn't say anything, nor did Henri rise up and assail her for the sin she was committing.
TJ measured her with a critical glare that said he didn't take these assignments lightly. He wasn't deciding to help a woman in need. He was deciding if he could place his freedom in her hands. She needed to keep her composure in spite of the guilt and regret her conscience would certainly conjure up. Otherwise, she'd meet a fate similar to Randy's.
When Deirdre was sure she couldn't face him a second longer, he snatched the envelope and removed every photograph. He ripped off a business card he'd stapled to one of the pages then stuffed the typewritten pages back in the envelope and locked eyes with her as he handed it back. "You didn't get this from me," he said.
She nodded gravely, afraid of TJ for the first time.
"Is there anyone else who knows about your problem with this guy?"
"Just you and Charlie."
"Think!" he snapped.
The forceful voice jolted Deirdre's heart-rate up to a steady drumming. TJ's eyes radiated intensity. These were the eyes of a man who could set you on fire and watch you burn to soak in your agony. He'd punish Randy, but if he felt deceived he'd bury her just as efficiently. She wondered what he'd do if he knew about the money in the leather case. Would he slaughter her and leave her body for the maids? She stared up at him blankly, barely breathing.
"How about the other investigators?" he asked more evenly.
"Two others. Both recommended you," she stammered.
"You told me that. Think about what you said to them. Did you ever mention harming Mr. Black? "
"No, never."
TJ clenched a fist and squeezed it with his free hand as if compressing it into something more lethal. "You're sure," he said almost to himself.
Deirdre knew what he was thinking, but didn't dare interrupt. Somehow both investigators had known what she wanted and sent her away. This didn't trouble TJ. Maybe he trusted his colleagues to keep his secret; maybe he paid them.
He quizzed her about acquaintances she could have discussed her problems with. Then he asked about the phone calls she'd made to his office. He read every movement of her eyes and lips from behind an intense, blank stare. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact as if he were working through his pre-murder checklist. Deirdre held her breath after each answer. The end of her nightmare was near.
Finally, TJ stood up, slipped the packets of bills into his jacket one after the other, and zipped it closed. He sidestepped around to the end of the bed and faced her squarely, hands on hips accentuating the breadth of his shoulders. He lingered, scrutinizing her face. She knew now he was more concerned about her discretion as a client than he was about fulfilling the contract.
"I'll do this on my timetable," he said with a commanding air. "Don't call me and don't come back to my office. If things go bad, I handle my problems, you handle yours. Understood?"
"How long will it take?"
"Impossible to say. It depends on your friend. Watch the news. Eventually you'll see him in a body bag. I suggest you stay here until then."
Before she could respond, TJ left without looking back.
Giving him the money all at once was a mistake. She wondered if he'd actually do it, or if he'd just take the money and melt away. She could only wait and hope that TJ was a man who honored his commitments.
Chapter Thirty-three
The whirlwind trip to Piolenc and the encounter with Laroche left Charlie groggy-headed even after four hours of sleep on the plane. Already weary, he arrived home to find the parking lot devoid of customer vehicles, reminding him he needed to do something about sales before production filled the entire barn. The sight of Sebastian's tired Buick---the only car in the lot---reminded him he needed to get closer to Sebastian to understand the staffing problem. He wondered if his father envisioned problems everywhere he looked: if this was what had blinded him to Charlie's accomplishments. First he'd sleep then he'd take on the sales problem.
Charlie parked and began lugging his suitcase inside. An image of Randy breaking through his front door rushed to mind. He'd been haunted by similar images ever since his calls to Deirdre went unanswered. Most times he imagined Randy bursting in while she was watching television. He saw him spin into a rampage, alternately pummeling her and tearing at her clothes. He reminded himself that Randy's hired thug had mistakenly killed Monique in Deirdre's place. Randy hadn't known where Deirdre was then. If she'd heeded his warning, she'd be safe until Randy was caught.
Charlie's heart beat with resolve to overcome whatever Randy had done while he was away. He'd go to the attic expecting to find the money gone. If it was, so be it. He reached the top step, but before he could open the door, clamshells crunched behind him. Charlie turned and watched Sebastian slow to a jog and pull up panting on the grass ten feet away.
"Glad to see me?" Charlie asked.
"More than you know," Sebastian gasped between words, "Lily quit."
"What are you doing to these people?" Oops. Charlie immediately regretted his phrasing.
Sebastian's face hardened with indignation.
"Me?" Sebastian poked his own chest with an audible thump. "We never had these problems until you joined the business."
The statement rang oddly true, but Charlie had nothing to do with employees leaving the operation en masse. This was Sebastian's mess and Charlie felt no need to argue the point. "How can I help?" he asked.
"You can babysit the gift shop so I can get some work done."
"What about Deirdre?"
"Haven't seen her since Friday. I thought you'd know where she was."
"Nope." Charlie felt the knots in his abdomen loosen. Deirdre was safe.
Sebastian threw his hands up. "What the Hell's going on here? Three vineyard hands quit in a week, then Lily, and now Deirdre's gone? I can't run this place myself." He scowled as if he'd stomp off in disgust and leave Charlie to run the winery alone.
"Relax. Let me get showered. I'll cover the shop and I'll make some calls. We'll have some help next week. Don't worry."
Sebastian shook his head and muttered at the ground as he walked away.
Charlie plodded back up the stairs wondering if losing Sebastian might not be fortunate. In another month he might welcome Sebastian's resignation.
The doorknob turned without the key. He pushed the door open and his thoughts immediately returned to Deirdre. The living room was the way he left it three days ago: no sign of trouble. His eyes panned to the dining room as he crossed the threshold. When his shoe touched down, he heard a spitting sound in the kitchen followed instantly by a stinging sensation in his chest. The spitting continued in a prolonged rapid-fire burst and before he could see where the noise was coming from, something whacked the door casing inches from his shoulder. Another splat hit the glass door and then another sharp pain stabbed his abdomen. Charlie dropped his bag and clutched his stomach. Before he realized what was happening, three more stinging spots appeared on his shirt, nearly one on top of the other, like a coordinated attack of large mechanical bees. Two more strikes smacked his knuckles where he clutched his chest and his vibrating fingers stung. Instinct sent him diving to his right and he ended up sprawled on the dining room floor.
There before him was a white wire that had been strung from the mat inside the front door toward the kitchen.
The sputtering continued, accompanied by cracking impacts centered on the single pane of glass in the storm door. Paint pellets smacked the door at chest height until the glass finally shattered and the barrage of pellets whizzed through toward the Volvo. Charlie pulled up his shirt and found five well-defined red welts where he'd been hit.
Bastard!
Charlie regained his feet and followed the wire. Before he reached the kitchen, he stopped---aware that he was doing exactly what Randy expected of him. Somehow Randy knew he'd get free of Laroche and come home. Obviously, Randy had sent the photo that forced his trip to France, but then he invested a lot of time setting this little trap. He already had the money. He rigged the paintball gun because he wanted something more.
Charlie remembered the endless pranks that threw the Caulfields' lives into turmoil. What began as a string of inconveniences grew more destructive each day. Overwhelmed, the Caulfields blamed karma, negligent contractors, and neighborhood hoodlums. They never realized that all the little disasters were building to Randy's finale. The same might be true for Charlie. Randy's goal might be just out of sight. Something more sinister could be in the kitchen, in his bedroom, or lurking in the barn tomorrow. Charlie wouldn't repeat the Caulfield's mistake. He'd be ready.
Charlie wondered what he'd have to endure before he discovered Randy's true objective. It wasn't a bomb or a gun he worried about. Randy enjoyed watching people suffer. His ploys would be psychological and he'd be nearby watching.
Charlie's tender cheek began to throb without provocation: a message from his subconscious perhaps. Charlie had gradually entered Randy's cycle of torture and like the boiling frog, he hadn't noticed the slowly increasing heat. The episode with the Caulfields was a message, a slap to attention, a warning that put Randy's game in perspective. Otherwise, Charlie might never have seen the truth behind Randy's antics. Randy wanted him to step trembling into the future, numbed by apprehension.
Charlie did his best to keep his eyes wide and his thoughts quiet.
He checked the doorway to the kitchen and tested the floor just inside. There was no motion detector around the corner and no trapdoor to drop him into the basement. He followed the wire underneath the table where it connected to a robotic contraption mounted behind a paintball gun. A steel rod pulled a cable taught, depressing the trigger indefinitely. The gun continued to fire even though it had exhausted the two-hundred-round paintball hopper. Charlie unscrewed the carbon dioxidecylinder and the spitting noise stopped.
Back on his feet, he noticed several screws that protruded up through the tabletop, cracking the veneer. One held a note.
Charlie,
You're still too easy to kill!
And, c'mon, the attic?
Smarten up. Make this fun.
Victory without competition is hollow indeed.
I know where Sweetie is, do you?
Again Randy had him doing exactly what he wanted. Charlie was standing behind the gun with his back to the sliding glass door. Randy could be anywhere out there. Charlie spun to find nothing but the grassy slope, the stone wall, and the vineyard beyond. He sidestepped away from the glass to think.
The stinging splotches on his chest made the first line of Randy's note prophetic. He was lucky not to be flat on the floor oozing blood. The following lines assured him Randy had taken the money from the attic, but the last line was the one that haunted him. He wanted to believe Randy was taunting him to search for Deirdre back in Piolenc and learn of her death. But the name Sweetie didn't fit, not unless he knew Charlie and Deirdre had met again. Randy might have listened to the phone message. He might be bluffing, knowing they had lost touch, but Charlie feared the worst.
Until now, most of Charlie's fears were shadows and ghosts that evaporated when he stopped thinking about them. But this one stabbed him in his mind's eye. Randy was real, incredibly dangerous, and intently focused on him. All of a sudden Charlie realized how grossly he'd underestimated him. Monique's murder was no accident. Randy had known Deirdre was in Westport the night he stalked around the dining room. Charlie couldn't imagine how, but he knew. He had been sniffing around the dining room and the kitchen to make Charlie nervous, but there had been nothing to discover. Randy already knew.
He murdered Monique to convince Laroche of Charlie's innocence. It was ruthlessly brilliant and classic Randy. He scared Charlie blind with the threat of prison then snubbed his nose at Laroche, daring him to catch him. Randy wanted Charlie here to toy with him. He killed Monique in Piolenc when he knew Deirdre was somewhere in Massachusetts, and now he was about to turn up the pressure.
Randy was no fool. He was a genius, a warped, sadistic genius.
Charlie slinked back to the front entry and spent three full minutes climbing the stairs, checking every inch of the hand rail and the carpeting for some sort of trap. There was nothing unusual on the stairs or the landing, but Charlie knew Randy was expecting him to come this way. Nine million dollars was powerful motivation and this was an opportunity he wouldn't pass up.
At the edge of the pull-down stairs, Charlie found two brown wires, nearly invisible against the dark trim. They protruded from above, the shiny ends barely touching. One came down half an inch from a tiny hole in the recessed stairs, the other from the molding. If Charlie had pulled down on the rope, the circuit would have been broken, another trap sprung.
Charlie trudged to the basement, found a fine length of wire, and delicately attached one end to each wire that came down from the ceiling, thereby maintaining the circuit when he opened the stairs. He pulled the stairs down inch by inch, mindful of the wires until he saw where they led. The wire on the backside of the stairs was only four inches long. It ended in a knot, connected to nothing. Charlie could almost hear the echo of Randy's laughter when he'd connected this. It was another demonstration that he could have taken him if he wanted to. Charlie was doing exactly what Randy wanted and the real trap was coming.
The leftovers in the attic were precisely where they were when Charlie was here last. The only difference was behind the sporting goods. The wine cases had been replaced by one large box with a picture of a Sony television on the front. There were shuffling, scratching noises coming from inside that reminded him of Randy's work at the Caulfields'. There was a note taped to the top of the box.
Sloppy! Very sloppy!
Inside the box was a squirming, twisting jumble of fur. Tiny mice jumped over each other, vying for breathing space. By the smell, the box had been there two days at least. The gable window was too small to push the box through, so he'd have to walk it all the way through the house. He decided to take it far into the woods to keep the mice from working their way back inside the old house.
Reaching around the box to get hold, Charlie felt a fine line extending around the box, just above floor level. Randy had sliced it with a box cutter. If he'd hefted the box by the handles, the bottom would have fallen out before he reached the front door. Charlie eased his fingers underneath the very bottom, grinning over his small victory, as he hoisted the box for his excursion. It was heavier than he expected, resisting his effort for an instant then suddenly it popped upward in his hands, much lighter than it should have been. The bottom held fast to the floor. Randy had sliced the very bottom, too. He fastened it to the floor and concealed his trap under the scurrying mice.
The mice relished their newfound freedom. A bubbling brown flood scattered over the floor for five feet in every direction. Several ran over Charlie's feet, two clawed their way up his jeans until he shook them off. There were a hundred at least, including a few dead ones, trampled by their brethren while they were still confined.
Randy had out-maneuvered Charlie again and with flair.
Charlie threw the box aside, grabbed a tennis racket, and started swatting the scuttling vermin. Any sort of contact crippled the little creatures and Charlie furiously jabbed at the floor until most of them had disappeared into storage containers or tiny spaces in the floor. For all his swinging, he stopped less than a dozen.
As he cleaned up, Charlie considered why Randy had planned such an elaborate sting. Charlie was positive they'd never met before the day Randy approached him in the bar, but who could tell what was under the scraggly exterior. Randy could have been getting even for a broken arm or rib suffered on the football field, but his payback seemed more than a bit extreme.
He remembered what Randy said about Caulfield. What he did could only be done once. Was it murder? Did Randy somehow think Charlie was involved? Whatever his reasons, Randy was bent on retribution.
Chapter Thirty-four
Charles pushed aside his e-ticket receipt and stared down at the sacrificial circle on his investment portfolio. As the phone rang, he drifted back to a time when he owned a single struggling winery. There was no need for estate plans, investment portfolios, and tax strategies in those days. Back then, everything the family owned was mortgaged to keep the winery afloat. They teetered on the brink of financial ruin year after year. One more mistake in production or one less big sale and the business would have gone bankrupt.
Their fortunes changed when Charles bought Westport Wineries for a fraction of its value, an amount his friend at the bank gladly loaned him. Charlie was in junior high then and getting serious about football. Charles was totally absorbed in the business, beginning to fret about retirement, and trying to scrape together some money to help Charlie with college expenses.
By the time Charlie enrolled at Ohio State five years later, the Marstons owned four wineries that produced a steady stream of profits. Charles not only paid for tuition, board, and books, but he also sent enough money so Charlie could split his time between football and his studies without having to take some menial job for spending money. Not many fathers could have done that.
The phone continued to ring.
Charles idly flipped through the twelve-page statement from his broker thinking how far he had come. Investing had scared him at first. He'd only started acquiring blue chip stocks when his accountant had said the company's cash reserves were an obscene waste of resources. Those companies had grown steadily over the years and the dividends alone were enough for the family to live on. He flipped through half a dozen pages detailing positions as small as five hundred shares that Charles dabbled in. Some were holdovers from initial public offerings he'd made millions on. Others were tech stocks he'd fallen in love with during the Internet boom and couldn't bring himself to dump. Life was certainly different now.
The line connected.
"Dan Milesko."
"Dan, Charles Marston. I need to make a trade."
"What are we buying?"
"We're selling. Thirty thousand shares of Microsoft."
"You can't do that. Not today. The market's way down." There was clicking as Dan checked the current price. "It's ten percent across the board. Microsoft is at twenty-four. If you wait a few days, it'll be back to twenty-six and a half or twenty-seven."
"I appreciate the advice, but this can't wait."
"You're wasting sixty-K. We've been in this for seven years. What's a few more days?"
"I don't have a few days, Dan. Make the trade and get the cash into my B.O.A. account. I need it right away."
"This is going to cost you a bundle."
"More than you know," Charles sighed.
"Surely you can give me---"
"Make the trade, Dan. Thanks."
Before Dan could protest, Charles replaced the phone and shifted his eyes to the note. Elizabeth had never seen this one, thanks to his arrangement with the postman, but keeping it from her would be nearly impossible. The note demanded he go to Westport, but no excuse would justify leaving now, not even for a week. The panel had approved the Marston's first French vintage and the chateau was showing its first signs of economic life. If he left now, she'd be more than suspicious. He told himself she'd be safer here in Piolenc, but he couldn't be sure.
He was beginning to think the blackmailer was someone he'd fired from Westport Wineries. If he was, his hate had been festering since the takeover fifteen years ago. Money wouldn't quell that sort of rage. His first demand had been a pittance and this one, ten times the first, was insignificant compared to Charles' profit from the Joyets' misfortune. No amount of money could repay that debt. The blackmailer could be desperate for cash, he could be testing to see what his information was worth, or maybe this was a ploy to separate him from Elizabeth.
Charles couldn't be sure.
He looked down and read the note again.
Charles,
I have given a chance for the wrath of God. For it has been written, "Vengeance belongs to me. I will repay, saith the Lord." I waited a long time, but the Lord apparently needs my assistance.
I have decided to give you a final chance to repent. Bring $500,000 to Westport in a large briefcase. Don't send your errand boy this time, do it personally. I will give you the evidence I collected and bid you adieu.
A word of caution Mr. Marston: The Lord and I will be watching you forevermore. If you stray off the path of righteousness again, I will fertilize the pilfered vines with your body parts.
The demand troubled Charles. The blackmailer had plenty of time to think it through, yet the amount was too small and he hadn't specified denominations or a delivery location. He indicated the Westport winery, but no meeting place or date as if he'd be there waiting when Charles arrived. Charles had a nagging feeling that money wasn't the primary reason for the note.
The biblical references reminded him that young Oliver Joyet was sent to live with a pious aunt in rural Illinois when his parents died. He'd spent his teenage years separated from his friends, studying the Bible in the middle of nowhere. It would have been a difficult adjustment for any teen, but Oliver carried a painful secret. How wrenching it must have been to have seen the crime, but not be able to convince anyone of the truth. How horrifying it must have been when his parents died. He knew they died needlessly and he lived the last fifteen years, doubting he did enough to save them. His anger screamed out in the last line of the note.
When Elizabeth walked in, Charles made no attempt to hide the stock portfolio or the note. She rested her hands soothingly on his shoulders until her eyes recognized the curly script.
She stopped massaging and leaned toward the desk. "What's this?"
"The final note from Westport, I suspect."
Elizabeth read the first few lines.
"Ridiculous! Five hundred thousand dollars! Not a chance. I'm calling the police."
"They can't help us, Elizabeth. No matter what happens, no police. We can't let them talk to this man."
"What? If you pay him, he'll never leave us alone."
"I don't think it's money he's after."
Flabbergasted by what Charles insinuated, Elizabeth wrenched his head toward her and studied his eyes. Her fingertips pinched his cheeks painfully against his teeth. "What have you done?" she asked.
He tried to turn away, but she held firm. He cast his eyes downward and thought about the confrontation to come. He wasn't athletic like his son and he'd never fought anyone as a man. At his age, a twenty-eight-year-old would have a sizeable advantage. If Oliver was built like his father, Charles didn't have a chance.
He wondered how he could find the sort of man who could help him with this.
Elizabeth grew impatient with his silence. "Tell me what's happening! Why can't we call the police?"
Her voice carried well down the hall.
Charles didn't dare provoke her by asking her to lower it. He responded softly instead. "It's done. It happened a long time ago."
"So you're going to pay five hundred thousand dollars? What will that solve?"
Five hundred thousand was a bargain, if Oliver would take the money and go, but this wasn't about money. Suddenly, leaving Elizabeth in Piolenc didn't seem like a good idea.
He closed his eyes rather than face her.
Elizabeth shook him by the shoulders until he opened them. "Tell me, damn you. Tell me what's going on."
"For starters," he mumbled. "We're going to Westport."
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why this is happening."
Chapter Thirty-five
Deirdre sat mesmerized as the screen-saver flashed from place to place on the darkened monitor. Her Internet search uncovered nothing new about the killing in Piolenc and she wondered if the authorities had really mistaken Monique for her. Of course it wasn't true. The Deudons wouldn't soon forget the woman, who produced two heirs for their family, yet they were impossibly silent. Strange too, that Charlie hadn't returned home. The papers hadn't reported his arrest and she knew he wouldn't stay longer than he had to. And the lack of follow-up stories on the fire puzzled her. Any decent reporter would have connected the two deaths. It was eerie being closer to the news than the press, knowing the truth wasn't being told, and feeling as if they had somehow failed to protect her. If the Marstons were more powerful she would have guessed they were suppressing the story.
Deirdre had picked up the receiver to call the gendarmes several times, but anything she said to help Charlie would incriminate her, so she never finished dialing. She repeatedly called Charlie's house instead, but he had yet to answer. She glanced toward the phone, her eyes stopping on the remains of runny eggs and burned bacon on the nightstand. Her tight stomach grumbled, but even so, she couldn't bring herself to touch another meal from the hotel kitchen.
She moved to the bed and dialed the phone again. The familiar ring sounded three times and surprisingly Charlie picked up and greeted her breathlessly.
"Thank God you're back," she said. "What happened?"
"I have bad news for you."
"I know about Monique."
Charlie hesitated. "I'm sorry for what this has done to your family."
"You don't need to apologize. It's not your fault."
The line went quiet.
"At least Randy doesn't know I'm here," Deirdre said.
"Don't get comfortable. I think he knows exactly where you are."
"What? How?" Her eyes darted to the window locks then to the chain on the door, all securely in place. Surely he couldn't know where she was. TJ had circled several blocks to make sure no one had followed them here and she hadn't left the property since registering under a phony name two days ago. Two simple words from Charlie, "he knows" cast a horrid light on her hiding place. She could feel Randy watching her now. Her hands trembled as if he could appear from the bathroom any second.
"He wouldn't kill Monique if he knew I was here," she said.
"Trust me, he knows."
"Did you talk to him?"
"No. He left me some surprises and a note."
Deirdre ducked down between the beds and huddled with the phone, praying she hadn't given herself away. If Randy had checked the caller-id box while he was inside Charlie's house, he would have found a long list of desperate, unanswered calls placed from this hotel.
"Just relax, Deirdre. Tell me where you are and I'll come get you."
Deirdre imagined Randy listening on the line as she gave Charlie the name of her hotel. When they hung up, she turned off the computer and stuffed it in her overnight bag with the rest of her things. Then she shifted to the window and pulled back the curtain to watch for the Mercedes or a grey van.
She felt Henri drift into her thoughts from above, his billowy figure rigid with spite at her excitement for Charlie's arrival. He sent a chill rippling through her.
It's not about him, Henri, you have to know that. I need him now. He's the only one who can protect me from that monster. If I run, he'll find me. I don't know how, but he'll find me. You know I loved you. I always loved you. It's my fault this happened. I should have told you, but I was too scared of losing you.
Please forgive me, Henri. Please.
The tension hovering around Deirdre didn't ease with the peace of forgiveness. The chilly air was electric with anger instead.
It'll be over soon. TJ will fix it for us.
Deirdre fixed her eyes on the pavement and held them there.
After an interminable wait, a blue sedan pulled in and parked in front of the main entrance. The man who got out was too rotund to be Charlie or Randy.
A few minutes later, a black Volvo pulled in and drove the length of the parking lot, disappearing around back. Deirdre checked her watch and waited three full minutes. When no cars turned in behind him, she grabbed her bags, poked her head out into the hall, and slipped past the maid. The lobby was arranged in a cross, with the registration desk a bit off-center. On either side, doors led to the parking areas front and back. The hallway behind her led to the guest rooms and continued through the lobby to the restaurant and bar. Randy could be anywhere and after what Charlie had said she expected to find him waiting to ambush her as she left.
The fleshy man from the blue sedan stood and argued with the young woman behind the desk. He gestured excitedly, while the woman calmly shook her head from side to side. He wasn't giving up, but the woman smiled past him and greeted Deirdre, ending their conversation. The man snatched his plastic key off the counter and trudged out to his car, obviously frustrated with her answer.
"Checking out?"
Deirdre nodded and handed the woman her room key.
The woman slid the key into the reader, and typed a few keystrokes.
"Was everything ok, Ms. Evans?"
"Fine."
She pressed a few more buttons and stepped to the printer, which seemed to have a malfunction of some sort. Deirdre's heart pulsed steadily faster as she watched the woman look helplessly at the machine as if it might heal itself. After days hiding in the tiny room, she felt exposed in the open lobby. She cut her eyes from entrance to entrance then hastily back to the woman, who was now frowning and punching buttons on the control panel.
Acutely aware of each passing second, Deirdre turned her back to the desk and surveyed the lobby. The faux-marble floor tiles were arranged in an X that marked Deirdre's location. Beyond them, the carpeted sitting area was vacant. A movement in the opposite corner drew her eyes to the plastic branches of a faux hibiscus. A cluster of leaves danced to the currents of an overhead fan. To her right, the maid wheeled her cart down to another guestroom door. Nothing else moved until finally the inkjet sputtered to life.
Deirdre retrieved six hundreds and placed them on the counter before the clerk let go of the statement. She signed a hurried scribble and left eighty two dollars and fifty one cents for a tip.
The heavyset man returned, clumsily tugging a large wheeled suitcase through the doors. Too uncouth for a hired killer, she decided. She continued the length of the hall, seeing no one but the maid delivering toiletries and towels.
The chrome grill of the Volvo faced her from the parking lot. Charlie flicked the lights and she rushed out to join him. She heaved her bags onto the leather back seat, slammed the door tight as a vault, and hopped up front. She nearly threw herself over the console to wrap her arms around him. No matter what had happened between them or what Henri thought, she'd never been happier to see a man in her life.
Charlie kissed her and slipped a hand free to shift into drive. Deirdre took her cue and eased back enough so he could maneuver.
"Ok?"
Deirdre could only imagine how frightened she looked. "Better now."
The car turned toward the highway. Charlie got on heading west.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
"You're kidding!"
"I've got to take care of the winery."
"Are you nuts? He's already killed Henri and Monique. Screw the winery, let's drive West! Drive until you make the border. Further is better."
"Dee, stop. It's me he wants. I can't leave. Who knows what he'll do to my parents' winery?"
"And what good is the silly winery after you're underground?"
"Listen. My parents will help. Certainly we're safer as a team."
She wished she could whisper to him about TJ. He would change direction, turn away from his home, while the marine lay awaiting Randy.
"No worries. It's ok."
Deirdre shut tight her eyes then palmed a short prayer for TJ.
Chapter Thirty-six
Video cameras were aimed toward the scorched-to-ruin house across E. Agawam Street. Expensive, TJ imagined, a home system of appreciable value. He crept, circling low to the arborvitaes. Avoiding notice, he stood facing the rear bulkhead. Alone still, he worked his finger nervously inside, underneath, searching, probing the rim for a way to jam his lever in. At once it opened, unlocked, yawning wide. Measuredly easing along on the stairway, his .45 drawn, he came down to the gray masonite door. Easily it opened. Idling along a rock hard cement wall, he wanted to burst in, but stood in total silence for the wail of the alarm. Utter quiet.
Adjusting to little light inside, he saw a glaring uncomfortable void. A shiny furnace, sprinkler controls, a heavy gray electrical box retreated awkwardly away. In the vast dank room, he needed a home gym, nuclear target range, any use to fill the storage area. In three days since he started watching, he saw Randy leave daily. He knew the house might be a sty upstairs, and it might be empty, but it wasn't vacant. The emptiness did explain why Randy left his doors unlocked. There was nothing to steal.
TJ stalked underneath the wooden stairs and examined the crisscrossing wires stapled to the floor joists overhead. Two thin wires disappeared into the ceiling on either side of the door at the top of the stairs. The door was alarmed and there was probably a control panel on the opposite side. He considered staying in the cellar until Randy came home and turned the alarm off, but there was no place to hide and the house was so big, he might not hear Randy come in. He chose to climb the stairs and rush to the panel, hoping to guess the code. If he couldn't shut it off, he'd run out the way he came and try again tomorrow. He'd be gone before anyone saw him.
He hesitated a few seconds at the top of the stairs, listening through the door then he burst through and stood in a wide hall that split the house. No sirens wailed, not even a beep indicated he'd entered. The panel was just inside the door where he expected it. The display indicated "Ready."
How odd to have such an expensive alarm system and leave it turned off and the house unlocked. TJ flashed looks all around thinking he'd walked in on Randy while he was home. He'd seen him drive off an hour ago and it was unlikely he'd be back soon, but still he was unsteady.
TJ skulked around each corner expecting to find Randy waiting for him. It would have been easy for Randy to sneak back in, but he couldn't know TJ was stalking him. The house was silent and everywhere TJ looked, he found it empty. The McLaren was in the garage, but the grey box van was gone. TJ assured himself he was alone. Randy was out.
He relaxed, studying the house now, calculating the best ambush point. With so many entrances and so many rooms, any ambush was a gamble. He found himself in the widest part of the kitchen facing the garage door, three steps from cover. Randy would park and walk through that door on his way in. He did it every day and this was the ideal spot to take him.
If TJ sprung at the right time, he'd catch Randy in the middle of the floor. He could get off two or three shots before Randy could duck for cover, but if TJ popped up late and missed his chance, he'd be trapped behind the island. Randy could counter from the dining room, the foyer, or the hall. TJ couldn't know for sure if he'd be armed. He could fight it out from behind the island or run for the garage.
After studying the angle of the island to each of the three openings, he realized a good combat shooter could move to the foyer and keep him pinned until the police arrived. He moved on down the hall looking for other options. Nothing seemed promising until he turned a knob and found the door locked. It wasn't one of those cheap push-button locks any six-year-old can pop open and walk in on his parents in the bathroom. TJ had to use his picks and it took him a few seconds to get it unlocked. Inside was a study lined with empty bookshelves. A desk on the near wall supported three television monitors cycling through a series of views around the house. The house across the street appeared from three different angles and then the kitchen, the cellar and the hall. TJ had passed those cameras without seeing them. He realized with a start that the expensive cameras outside were just for show. The real security was inside.
This system could have already notified the police. He'd been in the house five maybe six minutes. The police would take ten, fifteen at the most. He eyed the door, but didn't bolt. If those cameras took his picture, he couldn't risk finishing this job. He couldn't even contract it out. The police would be all over him.
He began searching for a recorder. He yanked open a set of false drawer-fronts and found a computer with green lights flickering. The wireless keyboard was in the top drawer and a tap brought a password prompt up on one of the monitors. TJ guessed---Randy, Black, Marston, Charlie, winery---and then stared at the screen. He was no computer expert and seeing how far Randy had gone to secure his home, guessing the password was going to be impossible.
He turned his attention to the monitors, following their cables into the desk. Down on his knees, he stuck his head in alongside the computer and felt around in the darkness to where the cables came down from above. They attached into the computer along with dozens of the thin wires he'd seen in the basement.
The images were somewhere on the computer and the best way to keep them from the police was to smash it and throw it in a landfill. He yanked out the wires one-by-one, rendering the motion sensors, door and window alarms, and the cameras useless. He pulled the remaining cables and hefted the machine onto his shoulder.
...
A pumpkin beetle somehow made its way through the camouflage netting into one of Randy's childhood haunts, now rebuilt as a low-slung observation post. The insect buzzed in Randy's ear, touched down on his neck, and folded its wings. Randy plucked it and let it scuttle around his palm for a few seconds. He placed it on a slender stick and watched the bug tote its orange shell away.
Randy re-focused his attention outside.
The foliage was bursting so thickly that Randy had had to trim several branches to maintain a clear line of site to the three buildings he watched from this spot. Even so, his hideout was invisible from the winery. Everyone who came here was drawn to the expanse of vines on the lower side of the road. Few bothered to gaze up the slope into the trees and to those who did, Randy's hideout appeared to be a decaying brush pile.
When the S80 pulled up the drive, Charlie and Deirdre barely glanced in his direction. He watched the car turn away and park in front of Charlie's house less than a hundred yards away. He smiled as Charlie held open the damaged storm door for Deirdre and followed her inside. With any luck Charles and Elizabeth would arrive before nightfall.
Randy's pager buzzed for the fifth time in as many minutes. He unclipped it from his belt and scrolled through the messages.
Bulkhead access
Cellar door
Inside garage door
Kitchen motion sensor
Study
Invalid console password
Invalid console password
Invalid console password
Invalid console password
Invalid console password
The bald man who'd been poking around the house for the last few days had finally gotten up the nerve to go inside. He'd found the security system and no doubt he'd realized his picture had been taken a dozen times.
Thunderheads were blowing in from the west. The one thing he couldn't control was about to fall into place.
The game was on.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Charles sat with his back to the window watching his wife of twenty-four years hold herself turned away from him in such an unnatural position she'd be sore in the morning. Her half of the eight-passenger limousine was crowded with hostility, bitterness, and betrayal seated all around her. She scowled hotly at the passing scenery, fuming with disdain. She hadn't uttered a word in four hours and he wondered how she would react if she ever learned about all his dealings.
To keep her safe, he'd endure her venomous looks. They were nothing compared to the hatred that seethed from Oliver Joyet when Charles last faced the boy years ago. Infuriated by the injustice he'd witnessed, Oliver glared with vengefulness at the unpunished criminal before him. That vengefulness had driven him to collect contaminated bottles and take a picture that could bring Charles to his knees. The boy should have used the money to find peace rather than revenge. Charles hoped his hatred would be his undoing.
The limo turned off the highway and sped south down route 88, a corridor cut straight through a vast expanse of forest from route 195 to the ocean. Charles relived the despair he felt on his first trip down this road. Laid-off from a management job years earlier, Charles had plunged into winemaking. He'd enthusiastically cleared twenty acres and planted fifty, but the grapes he chose failed to sufficiently ripen two out of three years. The family's resources had dwindled almost to nothing and he compounded his problems with mistakes in the winery that made his scarce grapes into undrinkable wines.
It was then that Charles started looking for help. He learned of the Joyets' winery just twenty miles away and that they'd successfully harvested the same grapes that had failed him year after year. He offered a partnership; a sharing of vineyard and winery expertise in exchange for his management help. The Joyets agreed and Charles rushed to learn how to save his struggling business. Unfortunately, the Joyets' secret proved to be something Charles couldn't duplicate---the Atlantic Ocean. The Joyets planted their vines within three miles of Buzzard's Bay. The cool ocean water meant spring temperatures came later. Their buds broke at a time when the new leaves were safe from late frosts. The summer and fall were breezy and mild and the grapes steadily ripened on into November. In winter, the ocean water, now warm, protected the vines from the harsh temperatures and deep snows that blanketed Charles' crops further inland. Charles became desperate.
The car turned off route 88 and acre after acre of vines came into view. These vines had tempted him to take what he could not build. The choice had brought prosperity for fifteen years, but now it threatened to tear his family apart.
Charles shuddered and checked his watch. Two o'clock.
When the limo turned past the Marston Vineyards sign, Charles was disappointed to find the "Open" flag missing. He wondered how many sales had been lost due to Charlie's carelessness. He considered stopping to put out the flag himself, but decided to let Charlie do his own work.
Nine hundred feet down the drive, the shattered glass in the storm door told of the shenanigans that went on when Charles was away. Charlie was still treating the business like some government entitlement that would be there whether he tended to it or not. Randy's car was nowhere in sight, but the slovenly mongrel couldn't be far away. Hadn't the encounter with Lieutenant Laroche taught Charlie anything? Charles had given everything to build a legacy for his family and his only son treated it with such indifference. If he only understood the sacrifices he'd made.
The limo drove another hundred feet and parked at the main house. Charlie appeared in his doorway and crossed the lawn with Deirdre following close behind. Elizabeth donned a smile, eager to leave the car and meet her son. Charles waited for the driver to hoist the bags from the trunk, paid him, and joined Elizabeth, Charlie, and Deirdre on the lawn between the two houses.
"Forget something today?" Charles asked.
Charlie stared back like a fourth-grader who'd mislaid his homework.
"The flag... out front. It's Tuesday afternoon, aren't we open?"
"Sorry."
The apology lacked the remorse Charles expected.
"Who's in the gift shop?"
Charlie's head wobbled noncommittally.
"What's going on with you, Charlie? Didn't your meeting with that gendarme teach you anything? Look at you. It's two o'clock. We've probably missed two dozen sales today and you're in the house doing God knows what, with a woman you barely know. There's plenty of time for that after dark. Sebastian's been whining about the workload for a month. If you want to work here so bad, I suggest you grow up and shoulder some responsibility."
Deirdre stepped back looking for a place to disappear.
"It's not what you think," Charlie said.
The broken glass caught his attention again. "What about your storm door? I suppose that had nothing to do with that scum I told you to get rid of."
Charles didn't wait for a response. He honed in on Deirdre instead. "What about you? Aren't we paying you to work in the vineyard?"
Deirdre blushed. "I took the day off, sir."
"Seems there's a lot of that going around," he fumed.
Deirdre's expression hinted at a larger story, but Charles wasn't interested in explanations. He pointed toward the bags at the edge of the lawn. "Do something useful, Charlie. Bring your mother's bags in." He turned and stormed off, collecting his own bags before lumbering toward the house.
Charlie stepped up, hugged his mother, and did what his father asked. As he lifted two heavy bags, he turned to Deirdre, who showed no signs of following him inside. "I'll be right back."
Moments later, Charles opened the garage door and sped away in his BMW 760i, headed for the bank.
...
Elizabeth watched the BMW turn onto the main road with a faint chirp as the rear tires reached the pavement. She reached out a hand to corral Deirdre toward the house. "Sorry, dear. He's had a very long trip."
Deirdre fell into step. "No offense taken, Mrs. Marston."
"Call me Elizabeth, or Liz if you like."
Deirdre was the first woman Charlie had spent time with since Julie left him. She wasn't sure which hurt her son worse, knowing he'd limp forever, being left out of the NFL draft, or losing Julie. It was a lot for a young man to take at once. Now that she saw him happy, Elizabeth wasn't going to let her husband interfere. Let them have their fling. The age gap would push them apart soon enough.
Charlie met them on the front steps.
"Thanks for bringing my things in."
"Sure, Mom."
"Are you all right? You look a bit pale." Charlie usually handled his father's outbursts well, but he seemed off. "Your father didn't mean anything. He's had---"
"I'm used to it Mom, really."
"Staying out late with Randy doesn't seem to be agreeing with you."
"I haven't been."
"Good." Elizabeth saw the tension in Deirdre, too. She wondered if something had already happened between them.
"I opened some windows. You might want to let the fresh air circulate before you stay in there too long." Charlie took a few steps onto the lawn, strange that he was headed home rather than to work at this hour.
"What about the gift shop?"
Charlie shrugged.
"Where's Sebastian?"
"He was here earlier, but his car's been gone a few hours."
"Why don't you call and make sure he's all right."
"He's a big boy. He doesn't need me checking up on him."
Elizabeth prodded with her eyes and Charlie succumbed.
"Ok. I'll give him a call."
"And join us for dinner, won't you?"
Charlie turned his eyes to Deirdre, giving her a one-second chance to create an excuse. She smiled neutrally as any prospective daughter-in-law would.
Elizabeth confirmed dinner for seven o'clock and walked in among the cream bed sheets draped over the furniture. She set to work lifting them off and carrying them to the deck where she snapped the dust free onto the breeze. The house wouldn't be clean by seven. Dinner would be outside tonight.
She opened the refrigerator to begin a list for dinner. She stopped, startled by the empty space that faced her. There wasn't a single item on the cold shelves. The freezer was empty, too. They had been gone several months, but Elizabeth was sure she hadn't emptied the freezer. She opened the cabinets one after another to find them completely empty. No cereal, no peanut butter, not even a can of mushroom soup. Even her spices were gone.
Stealing their food seemed an odd prank.
The final cabinet she opened held dinner plates, coffee cups, and a stack of soup bowls. There was a note taped to the middle shelf addressed simply: Elizabeth.
The blackmail notes had been addressed from Westport, but she never believed the blackmailer had been there. Knowing he'd stood in the very spot she occupied now had her feeling unnerved and vulnerable. She slinked away to the back porch where Charlie could hear her if she called for help. She sat on the picnic bench, unfolded the note, and read.
Dearest Elizabeth,
So nice to have you in Westport again, but I fear you would have been safer in Piolenc. You're such an elegant lady. It's unfortunate you got wrapped up in all this, but your husband's actions are unforgivable and I shall not be deterred. He will pay dearly for what he has done.
I don't understand how you made such a poor choice, but you will soon be free from your matrimonial bonds.
Stay safe.
Your friend,
O.
The writer was friendly, businesslike, apologetic almost. His words left her with a dreadful gloom. Her heart knew the outcome as certainly as if he was already dead. Every movement felt heavy and forced as she descended to the lawn. She numbly circled the house, afraid to confront the note's author inside. The windows and doors all appeared to be intact. She wondered how he'd gotten in; how he'd emptied the kitchen and left the note without being seen.
He'd known she was coming; known she'd be first to the dishes. He could have guessed. He could have left the note yesterday or last week, but she'd been closer to him than that. He wasn't guessing. He was watching. He could come and go without a trace and she couldn't help thinking he was still lurking somewhere nearby waiting for her to come back inside.
Elizabeth found herself facing the closed garage doors from the driveway. She wished she could get in her car and drive away. The front door was open and it was just a short walk down the hall to the garage, but she couldn't bring herself to go back inside.
Trembling, she folded the note and went to find Charlie and ask for a ride to the market.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The discarded security computer lay buried under a pile of rubble at the scrap yard waiting to be melted down and recycled into a stove or a dishwasher. TJ had removed the disk and tossed it under the electromagnet that hoisted cars fifteen feet in the air. When the disk hopped up to meet the powerful magnet, all the data was garbled, but just in case, TJ had them drop it in the crusher and press it deep inside a rectangle of scrap. The mangled disk would be nearly impossible to find, the data unrecoverable. No one was downloading those pictures.
Free of any link to Randy Black, TJ walked up through the dunes and skirted the backyard of the burned-out house. The cameras across the street were clearly visible on that cloudy afternoon, as he would be when he crossed the expansive lawn and the wide subdivision street. He adopted a casual stroll alongside the row of arborvitaes, ready to explain himself as a lost beachgoer in search of a telephone.
He slipped into Randy's yard unnoticed and descended the bulkhead steps more cautiously this time. The miniature camera mounted on the fourth floor joist looked like the head of a sixteen-penny nail. He stopped to admire it, knowing he'd have missed it again if he hadn't known just where to look. Beyond the camera, an odd slope in the ceiling caught his attention, something hidden perhaps.
With plenty of time to spare before Randy returned, he detoured to the far end of the house and walked into a tiny cement-walled room that jutted off the back corner of the house. The narrow dimensions and the blank walls concealed the room so well that TJ hadn't noticed it on his first visit. Stepping inside, he was stunned by what he found there. A thick steel plate angled down from the ceiling and disappeared into coarse dry sand. It was a backstop for an indoor shooting range. Thousands of shots had been fired here and judging by the tight patterns marred into the steel, Randy was an excellent shot. TJ picked up a deformed slug from the sand and put it in his pocket for luck.
Turning his back to the target range, he crossed the empty basement, screwing the silencer to the muzzle of his .45 as he went. The stairs creaked as he rose, but TJ wasn't concerned. Randy was never home during the daytime. After a week watching the house, TJ knew the routine. Randy whipped through the tight turns of the subdivision some time between eleven and two with music blaring from the windows of his Mercedes. He'd be half deaf when he walked into the house and more than a little drunk, a tall wobbling target too dazed to defend himself. This was the easiest seventy-five thousand dollars TJ would ever earn. He'd get to his ambush point in the kitchen and wait, until eleven at least. The hardest part would be staying alert until he heard the garage door. After seeing the practice area in the basement, TJ wanted to take him before he had a chance to arm himself.
He told himself again it was a simple job; two quick shots and it would be over. TJ would leave him slumped on the floor and hustle back to the beach. He'd blend in with the lovers walking along the beach and the kids drinking beer around a fire. He'd transform himself into a forlorn, love-lost man, walking the beach to ease his heartbreak. He'd chosen the shorts and windbreaker to portray exactly that image. He'd checked the sandy parking lot three times in the last week and each time there were cars parked there long after midnight. Everything was set.
A deep breath pushed the tension lower into his gut and brought his eyes into keen focus, ready to acquire their target. The .45 instinctively rose to the crack in the door as he eased it open, the muzzle leading the way into the hall toward the kitchen. Music vibrated somewhere upstairs. TJ's feet stopped, his eyes darting everywhere. A glass with one inch of milk stood on the island. Next to it lay a scattering of crumbs. Randy was home! The island was a death trap.
TJ considered turning around, but the hard part was over. The alarm was dismantled and he was inside undetected. He eased down the hall and slipped through the open door into the study. The music was louder here, coming from one of the rooms directly above. Wheeling around for a hiding place, he noticed the computer storage cabinet was open. Randy had come home and discovered his computer missing. He'd know someone had broken in yesterday. When TJ found him, he'd be armed and alert.
Something else in the room was different, but it took TJ a moment to realize what it was. Two new corkboards were added on the wall behind the monitors. The three of them together covered most of the study wall. Each had two columns of glossy photographs with scattered documents taking up the space in between.
TJ looked back and forth from the photos to the door, careful not to get too engrossed and be taken by surprise. He was drawn to a photo in the center. A naked woman hunched forward, her arms fastened to a low bedpost. She was turned slightly from the camera, but the haircut and the hint of her profile was enough for him to recognize his client.
The justification for the job was muddier now, but that wasn't TJ's concern. Planning was over. It was time to execute. He unpinned the photo and backed himself into the corner behind the desk. He'd wait for dark when Randy was asleep, unless of course, he visited the study before then.
Chapter Thirty-nine
On his first trip to the United States, Laroche felt like a naked fool as he walked down the jetway with no gun and no support from his captain, which meant zero cooperation from the American police. He was glad to escape the swarm of Judicial Police drawn in by Monique Deudon's murder. He'd held them off so far by clinging to his story of an anonymous tip, but they instantly linked Monique's killing to Henri's death in the fire and began to investigate. Soon they'd discover the plane and the surveillance team Laroche quietly assembled. It would add up to a murder investigation Laroche had no authority to run. Botching it assured his demise.
Laroche's hope for redemption lay in the case folder tucked in his carry-on. His superiors still hadn't seen it, so they were unaware of his blunder, but, like the Judicial Police, they'd know the truth soon enough.
He wondered how the local authorities would react to the pictures. They might hold Marston and help Laroche lay the groundwork for extradition, but he wasn't optimistic. He was completely at their mercy and if he failed to bring Marston back, his mistake would be inexcusable. The lapse in judgment would cost him his job. He'd be lucky to stay out of prison.
Laroche considered the long-haired man with Marston the morning after the fire. Marston admitted they were both at the farmhouse that night and it was clear now that Randy was the photographer. He'd stopped and taken a business card knowing he'd send the pictures later. Laroche cursed himself for not seeing the division between them when they were standing before him. If he'd gotten the pictures while they were both in France, the case would have been solved.
How nervous Marston was, how odd for him to stop, and yet he let him go.
If only he'd brought them in to headquarters and interrogated them with prison bars looming down the corridor. The captain would have taken over. He'd have made a few angry threats and sly fabrications that would have driven the men apart. Laroche had seen the Judicial Police do it a dozen times. The captain would have gotten the truth in an hour. Laroche reddened as he recalled his meeting at the chateau, executed with the congeniality of high tea.
What he needed now was twenty minutes alone with Randy to redeem himself, but he doubted he'd get the chance. The only address he had was Charlie's. If Randy was e-mailing incriminating pictures, Charlie's house was the last place he'd be. Laroche would have to make his decision based on the photos and whatever Marston said in his own defense.
An image of Deirdre Deudon flashed to mind as he tucked his bag under the seat. He guessed he'd find her with Marston, but he couldn't imagine changing his mind based on anything she said. She'd lied to him already and she was probably sleeping with the Marston boy after all. Maybe she'd paid him to do it. Maybe escaping the mundane life on the farm was motivation enough to have her husband killed. Laroche hadn't searched for a will. Questioning her about her inheritance seemed indelicate at the time, but if this case belonged to the Judicial Police, they'd have read the will and evaluated her as a suspect. Laroche had done neither.
He resigned himself to take the pictures to the locals and pray for luck.
He took his seat and slipped out the folder with two photos clipped inside the cover. He'd studied every detail for hours, but they still beckoned him. The first showed Henri Deudon lying in a pile of American dollars, looking quite dead, his eyes bulging toward the ceiling. Laroche was sure the money had something to do with the airplane, running drugs perhaps.
The money argued strongly against Marston's illicit-sex-gone-awry story. That much money didn't just appear. And surely they didn't burn it. A seizure that big would be the highlight of his career, but Laroche had no clue where it had come from or where it had gone. The money was his first question for Marston. Was it the motive to kill Henri Deudon? Or was this just a Marston Vineyards sideline uncovered in the scuffle?
The more evidence he considered, the more tangled the events became. Marston had proclaimed his innocence convincingly and he sounded genuine on the surveillance tapes as he phoned to warn Deirdre. Laroche didn't believe Charlie could have known about the wire-tap and even if he did, he couldn't act so thoroughly terrified. This was the most bizarre case Laroche had worked. Each man convinced him that the other was guilty. Laroche's opinion swayed each time he talked to Charlie or received a picture from Randy.
Befuddled, he moved on to the second picture.
If money was the most common motive to kill, this photo showed the runner-up. Deirdre Deudon was strapped naked to the bed with the money and her dead husband in the background. The scene agreed somewhat with Marston's story. Henri found his wife with two men, went crazy, and died at the hands of the adulterers. Young Charles Marston had motive and opportunity, that made him the likely killer, but Laroche's instinct whispered that it was untrue.
Was it sex or smuggling that drove them to murder?
Laroche closed his eyes and wondered why the two men had turned against each other. It wasn't pressure from his office. The investigation had been stalled until he received the first picture. They could be fighting over the girl or the money. Or maybe their guilt had gotten the best of them.
Chapter Forty
Deirdre collapsed into the recliner glad to be done with the two-hour ordeal that was an Elizabeth Marston grocery shopping trip. For seven years she'd made the twenty-minute trek from the farm to the market in Piolenc, but that hadn't prepared her for the excursion with Elizabeth to the bakery for fresh bread, then the butcher across town, and finally the supermarket for essentials. Charlie explained that she'd grown accustomed to Rosalie's extravagant meals. He never once complained about chauffeuring her around town or enduring her ten-minute chats with old friends. She enjoyed showing off her son so much Deirdre worried she wouldn't leave until the stores closed. Charlie had known what to expect, though he hadn't warned Deirdre.
When they finally arrived home at five, Elizabeth announced she'd start cooking as soon as the beef was properly marinated. Deirdre's empty stomach threatened to cave in when she heard dinner wouldn't be ready until seven. Deirdre scarcely spent twenty minutes preparing a meal and to her the whole routine seemed overblown. She helped stock the groceries without complaint even when Elizabeth reorganized the items she'd placed in the cabinets. When they finished, Deirdre wandered to the living room where Charles stared into oblivion. Rather than face his sarcasm again, Deirdre excused herself and retreated to Charlie's house for a snack to fill the void left by skipping lunch.
Deirdre sprawled back in Charlie's recliner and clicked on the news. She devoured a piece of peanut butter toast from the side table and followed it with one of Charlie's favorites, coffee milk, something she'd never had in Syracuse or Piolenc. The meteorologist warned that a warm air mass over New England was set to collide with cooler air from Canada triggering heavy rains and severe thunder storms throughout the area. Next, the anchorwoman suggested unique gifts for Mother's Day, a story that pricked a bit of sadness since Deirdre would never earn that title. She continued to watch, hoping the next image would be Randy's twisted remains being pulled from a car wreck or a seedy apartment building. There were car crashes, but no fatalities; there was a quick shot of an assault victim being loaded into an ambulance, but he was blond and much too short.
Deirdre cursed as the news clip ended. Her heart had been racing at word of the shooting in New Bedford. She would have been overjoyed to witness the result of TJ's work and the letdown was palpable. A fleeting twinge of embarrassment reared as her heartbeat slowed. How morbid of her to want to see; not just to know he was dead, but to pull back the sheet and see the gruesome disfigurement of Randy's bloody flesh. She imagined Henri was appalled. Her morbid excitement even sent her own conscience fleeing. No one was going to stop this now, not her conscience, Henri, or anyone else. Randy deserved what he was going to get.
As she sat barraged by thirty-second commercials, something in the room around her began to stir. Little bursts of activity sounded beneath the couch, under the television, and she even thought she heard something behind her on the kitchen floor. The noises were too faint for footsteps. Randy wouldn't dare come here with Charlie next door and TJ hunting him. By now he was probably running scared. Soon he'd meet a man who enjoyed inflicting pain as much as he did. She forced her attention back to the television, hoping the next story would prove TJ had earned his money. When it was done, the story would be hard to miss.
...
In the house next door, Charlie collected plastic shopping bags and stuffed them in the recycling bin. As he stood in the hall, he saw his father staring out the front window with a pale, defeated look he didn't recognize. Charles looked afraid of something out there. Charlie stepped in, but his father didn't react to his presence in the doorway. He just sat hypnotically focused on the lawn and the trees.
The leather briefcase at his feet was larger than the one Charlie had given him for his fiftieth birthday and the shine suggested it was brand new. He had it pinned to the chair with his heels as if he were a traveler in the wrong part of town and he expected someone to try and wrestle it away. There was a single sheet of paper similarly pinned between his hip and the arm of the chair. He had been reading it when Charlie and the women returned from shopping, but quickly shifted it to his side when he saw them carrying the groceries inside.
His gaze never faltered from the window.
Charlie swallowed hard as he considered why his father was scared nearly comatose. Ever since the fire he'd been plagued by guilt for what he'd done to the Deudon family. Now his stomach turned sour as he realized the letter could be from Randy; the case at his father's feet a payoff for Randy to forget what he'd seen in that farmhouse. Charlie's weakness brought tremendous trouble for everyone around him and now it seemed his father was here to bail him out. He couldn't think of another reason that could bring his parents home so suddenly.
Charlie turned back into the kitchen and watched his mother flick carrot peels into the sink. "How long are you staying?" he asked.
"Not sure, dear."
"Why'd you come back?"
"Your father has some business." Her matter-or-fact tone trivialized their three-thousand-mile trip, but Charlie suspected their return had something to do with him.
"Business" to Charles could mean about anything, but before Charlie could put together a more specific question, a horrid shriek pierced the quiet vineyard. Deirdre paused just long enough to refill her lungs between blasts that needed no words to describe the depths of her terror.
Charlie wheeled around the kitchen, grabbed the cleaver from the counter, and awkwardly loped for the door. Charles seemed hesitant to leave his case for whatever reason, but an instant later, the door slammed shut and Charlie heard his footsteps catching him from behind.
The two men burst into Charlie's house together to find Deirdre standing at the very back edge of the recliner, tipping the seat back, with her hands against the wall for balance. She screamed down at three long black snakes who were taking turns striking up at the chair and falling back to the carpet. Deirdre's cries agitated the four-foot reptiles and perpetuated their assault. Under the television, another snake writhed with two tiny feet and a thin brown tail protruding from its mouth as it forced a mouse down. Charlie whiffed peanut butter and noticed Deirdre's dishes on the side table. The unlucky mouse had been drawn out by the scent. The snake had struck and caught it, starting the siren-like cries that had yet to cease.
Charlie felt a warped admiration for Randy's work. The black racers weren't poisonous and now the purpose of the mice was clear. The mice were food for the snakes just like the corn was food for the mice at the Caulfield's. Randy had to feed them to keep them inside and how artfully he had given Charlie the dishonor of distributing their meals! Charlie could have prevented this, but he let the mice go free and now there were dozens of snakes slithering around his house after them. Deirdre was terrified, but there was more to this prank than that. The snakes were nastier than the infestation of mice at the Caulfield's. Randy was signaling that his revenge for the Marstons would be entirely more severe and Charlie was beginning to doubt that Randy planned to stop until he was dead, too.
Charlie pulled back from the chaos of the moment and froze, anticipating what Randy had planned for them next. The snakes would scare Deirdre out of the house. She'd beg to sleep next door and Charlie guessed that was exactly what Randy wanted. A thorough check of his parents' house was in order after dinner. The next series of surprises would occur there.
"Charlie! What are you doing? Don't just stand there, help me!" Deirdre shrieked.
Charlie angled into the living room behind the snakes, weighing the cleaver in his hands. He froze again, startled by the realization that they'd left his mother alone. Randy was coming and going at will, and the snakes would be the perfect distraction for him to slip into his parents' house. After weeks of little innuendos, Randy knew the one thing that scared Charlie as much as snakes scared Deirdre was the image of Randy molesting his mother.
Charlie pointed to his father. "Get home. I'll take care of the snakes."
Deirdre was incredulous. "What?"
Charlie pointed furiously toward the door. "Go! Go now!"
Charles looked confused. He hesitated then rushed back home.
Deirdre wailed as Charles left.
One of the snakes struck upward and came to rest teetering on the edge of the recliner before excitedly spiraling toward Deirdre's feet. Charlie snatched the tail and yanked the serpent back to the floor. It struck in mid-air, catching Charlie in the hip of his jeans. Charlie lashed instinctively with the cleaver, chopping through the snake and into the carpet. The shortened head section, now just several inches, writhed erratically at his feet.
Deirdre seemed only slightly relieved, but calmed as Charlie hacked away at another snake. When she finally stopped yelling, the remaining snakes turned their attention to Charlie, unfazed by his proficiency with the meat cleaver. Their strikes were longer and quicker than his hacks and he soon retreated to his bedroom for the bat. Deirdre flashed him a look of absolute panic as he abandoned her with three bloody carcasses and four live snakes at her feet. He motioned for her to keep quiet as he left. There were two more in the middle of the kitchen floor, forcing Charlie to hug the wall as he made his way to his room.
Newly armed, Charlie met the snakes that trailed him to the bedroom door with successive cracks that left them writhing. The bat crushed bowl-shaped dents in the linoleum where their flattened heads had been. He returned to the living room and attacked the four he found there with equal vigor. The first three perished with four or five whacks each. The last escaped under the couch.
He stood triumphantly in the center of the room and raised an arm to Deirdre. "Do you want to go next door for dinner, or stay here and watch TV?" he asked.
Deirdre didn't appreciate his humor.
"I'm not moving until those things are gone," she said, pointing a shaky finger at the twitching, mutilated carcasses on the floor.
Charlie dutifully picked up two mangled snakes and carried them to the front door without relinquishing the bat. He stopped on the top step and flung them as far onto the lawn as he could. After two more such trips, the carcasses were gone from the living room. Deirdre, still shaken, reluctantly climbed down from the recliner with an unsteady hand on the armrest. She tiptoed in long careful strides across the floor as if afraid to touch the carpet where the snakes had been.
Charlie escorted her outside to the grass. "You need anything upstairs?"
"Not now. Maybe you can get my bag after dinner."
Charlie turned to go up, but Deirdre wouldn't let go of his arm. Sensing she was too frightened to be alone, he wrapped his arm around her and walked her across the lawn to dinner.
Chapter Forty-one
Charlie marveled that his mother had continued her dinner preparations undisturbed by the chaos next door. The intimate dining table, less than a third of the table in Piolenc, was set with china, silver, and crystal all meticulously aligned. In the center lay generous trays of stuffed mushrooms and jumbo shrimp on a garnished bed of ice. Beside the platters were two open bottles of a fruity 1992 sparkling, a wine Sebastian had nurtured for most of its life.
Across the table, Deirdre absently nibbled a mushroom, engrossed in her view of the linen-white wall behind Charlie. Somewhere beneath the eggshell finish, the snakes were still slithering toward her. Mother, to Charlie's left, was typically silent, but uncharacteristically fidgety. Her eyes cut from window to doorway and back as she alternately picked at her hors d'oeuvres then aligned and re-aligned her silver. Her chair was askew, angled to allow a clearer view through the window behind Deirdre. It was as if the dinner she labored over was secondary to the events about to unfold on the lawn. Charles also had an eye on the window from his seat at the opposite end of the table. The vacant, timid expression he'd worn earlier had turned angry and aggressive with three glasses of wine and the discovery of the snakes. Charlie expected to hear his wrath during dinner, but he'd been unusually subdued. It was as if Charles and Elizabeth were plagued by a ghost outside the window that only they could see.
Dinner proceeded as quietly as the hors d'oeuvres, with each of them absorbed in their own affairs. When Charles finished, he pushed his plate forward and leaned in toward Charlie.
"How did so many snakes get in your house?"
"Randy put them there," Charlie said, bracing for his father's reprimand.
Charles paused, nodding, as he suppressed some version of, "I told you to get rid of that despicable bum." He continued in a measured, respectful tone that caught Charlie off guard. "Are you sure it was Randy?"
The polite exchange was a complete surprise, but that didn't change what was happening or who was to blame. "I'm positive. They go with the mice."
Charles puzzled over the cryptic reply. "What mice?"
Deirdre gasped from her stupor. "You knew there were mice in the house and you didn't tell me?"
"I thought you'd freak," Charlie explained.
"As opposed to what happened before dinner? How could you let me go back there alone?"
"Believe me, I didn't know about the snakes."
Charles looked unsure whether to laugh or scream. "Are you sure it was Randy?" he asked again.
"I'm positive. When I got back from France, the house was booby trapped."
Charlie went on to tell them about the sensor under the mat that triggered the paint ball gun and the mice he found in the attic. When he mentioned the curly scripted notes, his parents both went pale. Charlie knew then that they had come back to Westport to pay Randy off.
Elizabeth spoke first. "Was he trying to hurt you?"
"No, I think he was going for a combination of scared and humiliated."
"Aren't you two friends?"
"Not exactly. At first I thought he wanted me to be his sidekick, but I'm beginning to doubt that. He's got something against me, but I can't figure out what it is. He framed me for the murder in Piolenc, and then," Charlie hesitated to flash a look at Deirdre, "he had Monique Deudon killed so I'd get off." As he spoke the words for the first time, he knew they were true.
The idea hit Deirdre hard and the implications rippled through her like shock waves.
Charles and Elizabeth brushed it off as absurd.
Elizabeth reacted first. "You're not making sense."
"Follow me a second. I spent the afternoon being grilled by Laroche. I told him Deirdre was in Westport. Right? So, then Randy sends someone to kill Monique. No way I could make that mistake, because I know where Deirdre is. Laroche figures that out, asks a few more questions, and bang, I'm free to go."
Charles patted the table to draw Charlie's attention. "You're still not making sense. Why would he help you?"
"He's not helping me. He wants me here. I think he wants all of us here."
"This is Randy we're talking about. He's not some deep-thinking intellectual. No way he's smart enough to get us all here together."
"We're here, aren't we? Look, there's no doubt he framed me. No one else could have taken those pictures." He paused. "And there's no doubt he rigged the paintball gun. Get it? He sent me to Piolenc by giving the pictures to the gendarmes. He called me back by killing Monique so I'd look innocent. When I got here, I walked right into whizzing paint pellets. Don't you get it? He knew I was coming back. It's a game to him and he's warning me to start paying attention."
"Whoa. He's not that smart."
"Exactly what he wants you to think."
"Be realistic, Charlie. He's a reckless, sophomoric punk, nothing more."
"I've seen what he's capable of. He acts outrageous, he looks outrageous, but it's a scam. Everything he does, he does for a reason. He's manipulating Deirdre and me, I just don't know why."
"Don't give him too much credit. He's a loser that's all."
"Don't underestimate him. I watched him ruin this guy's life to get even for something he did years ago. It was brilliant. He ruined the guy's marriage, destroyed his house, got him fired. You should have seen him doing it. It was evil."
"I don't understand why you're so impressed by this mongrel."
Charlie told them about the mice, the holes in the roof, the leaky water pipes, the fish in the couch, the remote doorbell, the remote control of their heater, the holes that let the insects in and even the urine in the heating ducts. Elizabeth was stunned. Charles shook his head at each new prank, thinking it must be the last.
"That just proves he belongs in an asylum," Charles said.
"Not at all. He let them suffer for two weeks. They were the ones going insane. They lost control. He pushed and pushed and then, he hit them hard. He sent a letter to their insurance agent predicting a fire. He burned the house down and framed the guy for arson and now he's going to jail."
Charles finally grasped that this was more than a string of practical jokes. "So the police didn't catch him?"
"Randy, no. They have no idea Randy was involved. This guy Caulfield on the other hand, he's---" Charlie froze at his father's expression of horror.
"Bill Caulfield?"
"And his wife, Jo. You know them?"
Charlie's parents stared down the table at each other in a long pregnant silence.
"What happened to Bill?" Charles asked when he regained his voice.
"He's been indicted. According to the papers, his wife is leaving him and he doesn't have a snowball's chance in court. He'll be in prison a very long time."
"Holy shit!" Charles breathed. He stood and paced toward the hall.
Charlie had never seen his father so nervous. "Do you know this guy?"
"Know him? We've worked together for twenty years. He was my loan officer at the credit union. I followed him to Fleet and now Bank of America."
"So why would Randy have something against me and Bill Caulfield?"
"I don't know about Randy, but I know someone who has it in for me and Bill Caulfield. Maybe Randy's working for him." Charles stopped in the doorway, staring back at his family.
Charlie motioned for the name with both hands.
Charles slowly returned to his chair, faced his son and began in a low confessional tone, "I think it's Oliver Joyet. He might---"
Deirdre, who'd held a trancelike focus on the wall throughout dinner, gasped loud enough to stop Charles mid-sentence.
"What? Don't tell me you know Oliver too?" Charles asked.
"We all do," she stammered. "Randy's real name is Oliver Joyet."
Charles jumped up, spun around behind his chair, and started pacing more quickly than before, his hands in his hair.
Charlie watched his father struggling to make sense of Randy's actions as he scurried back and forth. Randy hadn't been here to befriend Charlie at all; Oliver posed as Randy to get even with Charles. From the first day Charlie had met him, Randy was the initiator of everything they did. He'd always hated Charles, calling him the evil entrepreneur. He predicted that Charlie would learn about the evils of the family business and how the Lord would repay thieving capitalists like his father. How many times had Randy said, Charlie was too easy to kill.
Was he debating with himself?
Charlie remembered the briefcase he'd seen earlier and the note. Money was the obvious answer, but it was much more than that with Bill Caulfield. Randy destroyed him. He took away a life Caulfield didn't deserve. Charlie feared they were headed for the same sort of fate. It took him a minute to ask, "What does Randy have against you? What does he want?"
Charles spoke very slowly, eyeing Deirdre as if she were about to become privy to a family secret. "A long time ago we bought this winery from the Joyets."
"Right. After the propylene glycol was found in the wine." Charlie began to nod as he listened to his own words. Oliver's parents had been killed in a car crash during the scandal. Oliver lost the winery, his parents, and his home. Charlie remembered what Sebastian had said about Roger Joyet never touching the wine and his theory that it was doctored by someone else.
Charlie locked eyes with his father. "You added the anti-freeze."
Charles was frozen like a trapped animal under his son's glare.
He nodded. "Oliver saw me do it."
The evil was finally revealed and Charlie dropped his eyes to the floor. The man who had spurred him to work so hard was a fraud. Charles didn't build the business; he stole it. Charlie imagined how far the deception went. Had mother known all these years?
The hurt in her eyes said she was as disappointed as her son.
Charles stepped back from the table, in silent penance.
"What about Bill Caulfield? What does Randy---or Oliver---have against him?" Charlie asked.
"Bill loaned me the money to buy the vineyard from the estate."
"So?"
"He refused to make the same loan to Roger Joyet. I'm not sure how Oliver found out, but I'm sure that was the reason."
"So you and Bill put them out of business."
Charles' nod was barely discernible.
Oliver had gone to great lengths to punish Bill Caulfield, a man who could have saved his parents, but chose not to. He planned fifteen years for his revenge, waiting for just the right time. He controlled them with his pranks as if he knew them intimately. That one idea put Charlie's relationship with Oliver in perspective. Oliver spent two months testing Charlie, lurking about, learning everything he could about the Marstons. Charlie welcomed him in and let him walk among them day and night for weeks. He knew their fears and weaknesses and he used his knowledge terrifyingly well.
If Oliver destroyed Bill's life for denying his parents a loan, there might be no limit to what he'd do to repay the man who sabotaged his family's business and drove his parents to suicide.
Oliver had killed two people already. Charlie feared his father was next.
Chapter Forty-two
Charles took a nearly full bottle of sparkling from the dining table and returned a few minutes later with a steaming pot of coffee. "We're going to have to keep our wits about us if we're going to come through this better than Bill did."
Charlie felt no ill effects from his single glass of wine, but he poured himself a cup and lifted it eagerly, welcoming the caffeine to clear his head and keep him alert. He knew the group arrayed around the table would mount a pitiful defense without him. Deirdre had been shocked nearly helpless by the snakes. Elizabeth, though tall and fit for a woman of fifty-two, was no match for Oliver's strength. Charles had never spent time in a gym and his flabby, fifty-four-year-old body was in no shape for combat. It was Charlie's fault Oliver wandered in their midst for weeks; defending them would fall to him and he owed them his best.
Outside, thunderheads blotted out the setting sun, leaving the yard in an eerie premature darkness. A cool wind whipped in through the window, fluttered the drapes, and flapped up napkins around the table. The swirling gusts brought a few fat raindrops, tiny heralds of a violent storm to come.
Deirdre finally noticed the wary eyes on the single pane of glass behind her. She'd sat with her back to the window throughout dinner and the newfound vulnerability sent a shudder through her.
Charles closed the window, locked it then turned to face the group. "Any idea how he's getting in?"
Deirdre scooted her chair toward Elizabeth. "How could he get in?"
Elizabeth placed a hand over Deirdre's. "He's been inside, Dear. He took every scrap of food from the kitchen and he left me a note. He knew I was coming."
Charles approached the table. "I found a note on the coffee table when I got back. I'm sure it wasn't there when we arrived. He's out there watching and he's coming in and out as he pleases."
The news set Deirdre squirming in her seat. She flashed a look at each door and window and then the floor, as if he might burrow up from underneath. "What if he's still inside?" she asked.
Hiding within earshot of his terrorized victims would make Oliver tingle with adventure. Hearing their footsteps and panicked voices would be a thrill he'd pay for. He could be in a closet or a bedroom upstairs. But he was plotting more than snakes and threatening letters. He'd be close by. He probably heard every word they said, but he wouldn't risk getting caught. This was a game Oliver had to win.
Charlie peered out into the gloomy shadows and listened as his father closed and locked the windows they had opened earlier.
Unsatisfied with the alarm panel's assurance that the house was secure, they set the alarm to "chime" and went around the house to be sure Oliver hadn't bypassed the wiring and created a safe entrance for himself. They opened every door and window and each time they did, the alarm sounded three high pitched beeps.
When they were done, they began searching for the chance, however slim, that Oliver was hiding inside. Charlie led the way with the bat that had served him so well against the snakes. Charles stayed close by his side and the women followed a bit further behind, lingering at the entrance to each room, afraid to follow them in and afraid to let them drift too far away. Their vigilance in the doorways, their eyes constantly shifting ahead and behind, would spot Oliver if he moved anywhere in the small house. The group covered every square foot of living space, opening closets, poking behind doors, checking every place a man could hide.
They found no sign of Oliver or how he might be getting in. He'd known the alarm code at the Caulfield's and that was enough to get him in through the garage. There was no such entry here, but Oliver had lived in this house. Charlie faced the basement door, sure the alarm would keep them safe, but safety was a dangerous illusion. Oliver knew this house as well as they did. He might still have a key.
How else might he get in? The basement, the attic, the garage.
Charlie opened the basement door and the alarm was silent. His pulse quickened as he descended with his father five steps behind. The women kept to the bright light from the hall. They crouched low on the third step and watched the men ease through aisles of old clothes and neglected amusements. There Charlie found what he was looking for.
He waded over to the concrete wall and took hold of one of the small windows that peeked up just above ground level. Metal grated metal as the window slid open. Silence. No alarm wires were ever connected down here. Worse, the windows didn't lock. They opened from inside or outside leaving room for someone as thin as Oliver to slither through. The men didn't bother checking the rest of the basement. If Oliver wasn't inside already, he could be within seconds.
They returned to the foot of the stairs and looked up at the wooden door with no alarm, no lock, nothing to keep Oliver out. The house next door was built the same way. Oliver could enter either house at will, but Charlie doubted he'd hide next door with the snakes and the mice. Oliver wanted them here, in this house. He'd be lurking in the shadows ready to strike.
The women read their panicked faces and backed nervously up the stairs.
Charles yanked and twisted the two-by-four legs off his homemade workbench and barked at Charlie to grab a hammer and a handful of sixteen-penny nails. Charlie followed him up the basement steps and positioned the first two-by-four horizontally across the door casing. Charles drove the first nail home. Two more nails followed before Elizabeth protested.
"What are you doing?" she asked, as the nails bored into the trim.
"Keeping unwanted guests out."
"If he's that dangerous, why stay?" Elizabeth asked.
The simplicity of the solution struck Junior and Senior dumb. Neither wanted to involve the police, but why hadn't they thought to just leave and come back in daylight? They finished attaching the second two-by-four and abandoned the hammer and nails at the threshold.
Charles retrieved his new briefcase and the little group made their way to the garage without packing anything else. The light glared off the clean concrete and the white-plastered walls. Charles went to the BMW, checked the backseat and signaled it was safe for everyone to get in. As Charles inserted the key, Charlie panicked. He clutched his head and ducked, remembering Oliver's game with the motion sensors and the wires to the attic. Charles had quite predictably gotten everyone into his own car. Oliver was a whiz with electronics, capable of modifying the car's ignition. Charlie imagined the car exploding when Charles turned the key. It seemed a fitting end to Oliver's game: Charles, his money, and his family incinerated.
The key turned. Something clicked and Charles lifted his hands from the steering column as if it were electrified. "What?" he asked.
"Mom, Deirdre, get away from the car. Dad, pop the hood."
Charles looked incredulously at his son as he tugged on the hood release.
Charlie lifted the hood to hunt for wires that didn't belong, but his search was brief. The oil cap lay upside-down atop the engine and the crankcase overflowed with sand. A single sheet of paper rested on top of the ruined motor, held there by a small green circuit board that had been snapped in two.
Don't bother trying to flush it.
It'll never run again.
Mrs. Marston's Mercedes received the same treatment, although Oliver left no note as if to send the subtle message that he knew Charles would go to his own car first even though the Mercedes was larger and closer to the door. Charlie had the same puppet-like feeling he'd had just before he discovered the mice in his attic and stupidly set them free. Oliver was controlling their every move. The escape attempt was over and they had no choice but to go back inside.
Thunder cracked in the distance, wind rattled the flimsy garage doors, and a hard rain pelted the shingles.
Charlie hurried past the women, down the hall and started up the stairs.
Deirdre rushed after him. "Where are you going?"
The house went dark before he could reply, leaving the family strung out from the garage to the stairway. Charlie couldn't see anything. Footsteps shuffled in the kitchen and something soft hit the floor. The rain and wind grew even louder.
Deirdre shrieked from the bottom of the stairs with all the force her lungs could manage, "Oh my God, he's going to kill us!"
Charlie groped his way down and found her clinging to the railing at the third step. He held her until she quieted. "It's ok. He's just scaring us, that's all." He rocked her against his shoulder as he soothed, "He doesn't want to hurt you. It's me and my father he's after."
"That's not what he said at the farm. He said if he ever saw me again, he'd grind me up and feed me to the coyotes."
Charlie could almost feel Oliver laughing at him.
The hallway lit up, then the light swiveled around the corner and came to rest at Charlie's feet on the carpeted stairs. He felt Deirdre's shoulders relax as Charles and Elizabeth appeared in the circle of light.
"Think he's down by the panel?" Charles asked.
Charlie gestured with one empty hand. "That or outside along the line somewhere. Wherever he is, he's ready for us to come looking."
Both men sensed a trap and Charlie realized he'd left his bat next to the basement window.
Elizabeth waved a cordless phone in the light. "The phones are dead."
Charles ignored her. "Why were you going upstairs, Charlie?"
"The rain. Oliver drilled holes in the Caulfields' roof. That's what drove them out so he could burn it down."
Deirdre clung to Charlie as if she might drown without him to support her.
"Let me get another light," Charles said. He handed his light to Charlie and disappeared toward the kitchen.
"He's going to kill us," Deirdre whispered.
Charlie rubbed his fingertips back and forth across her back like windshield wipers soothing her nervousness away. "Remember, there are four of us. We'll get through this if we stay together."
Deirdre squeezed Charlie's sore ribs and he stood it without complaint, shining the light against the wall and gently kissing the top of her head.
Charles returned with a brighter light, which he handed to Elizabeth. Charlie pried himself from Deirdre's grip, left her with his mother and headed to the attic.
Unlike the attic in Charlie's house, this room was crammed. Boxes were stacked head high with only a four-foot walkway down the center. The windows on each end were intact and there was no sign of sawdust either on the floor or on top of the rafter-high piles of clutter. Charlie took the light and climbed up on an old end table to inspect the peak. There were no holes in the exposed plywood and the ridge vent was secure. The rain was pouring down now and what they could see of the storage area was dry. They could hear a steady flow of water rolling off the roof and into the gutters with a tinny drumming. It wasn't coming in the attic.
As the men came downstairs, Charlie took a detour into the dining room. He slipped open a window, but the alarm didn't sound. The system was supposed to run on batteries for twenty-four hours, but the batteries and most of the system circuitry were locked in the cellar with the man they needed protection from. No phone, no power, no alarm, no way out. They were on their own until morning.
Chapter Forty-three
Charlie hunkered down in front of the stove on the dark kitchen floor. The women pressed their backs to the cabinets taking comfort in the extra two feet of cushion between them and the outside wall, even if the cleaning supplies within offered little real protection. Charles wedged himself in the space between the far wall and the island. With a turn of his head, he could see across the house into the living room. Every ten minutes or so, he rose to his feet and checked the window above the kitchen sink. A Belgian Browning with its distinctive hump lay across his lap. The only shells in the house were seven-and-a-halves he'd used for pheasant hunting. The load would be devastating if Oliver came indoors, but useless if he kept sixty yards away. Charlie had never seen his father shoot anything other than clay pigeons and he wondered how effectively he'd wield the gun in combat.
The constantly drumming rain droned over the whispers between the women, but Charlie heard enough to understand their plan. Neither believed Oliver would wait outside in the drenching rain. They wanted to slip outside under cover of rain and darkness and follow the stone wall to the road. Charles was warming to their idea, too. The nearest house was a little over a half mile away, but the stone wall would provide cover until they were safe. In the dark, Oliver could do little to stop them without coming in range of the shotgun.
As Charlie shifted closer, his cell phone poked him just above the belt. Holding back a surge of hope, he wordlessly stepped over the women's legs and scooted to the end of the island to give it a try. He dialed 911 by the blue glow of the message pad and pressed Send. Two tones oscillated back at him and the phone displayed Call Failed. Odd. The phone had always worked here before. The raging storm could shorten his cell range, but more likely Oliver had planned for this. If it was possible to jam the signal, Oliver had the time and money to do it. Charlie tried 911 two more times with the same result before slinking back next to Deirdre.
Charles tapped the money-filled case with his fingertips. He lowered his head and gazed at his knees as if he struggled to capture an idea that was dancing at the fringes of his consciousness. His head popped upright when he finally grasped it.
"Deirdre." He paused for her to look up. "How did you know Randy was really Oliver Joyet?"
"What?"
"At dinner you said Randy's real name was Oliver Joyet. How'd you know?"
"I hired an investigator. He knew in two days."
Charles leaned around the corner for a clearer view of Deirdre's face.
Charlie didn't hear his father ask what the investigator had told her. Astonished, he stared at Deirdre. How wrong he'd been. She hadn't come unhinged when Henri died. She hadn't been enraptured by him these last weeks. It was Oliver she was after! The horrors next door and two hours sitting on the cold tiles had wiped away her seductiveness. The alluring smile had been replaced by a fearful blankness as she cowered on the floor. Looking at her now, Charlie realized he'd been the fool. He was the one enraptured. Not only had he been a conduit for Oliver's revenge, he'd been a conduit for her retaliation as well.
Charlie half-heard Deirdre rambling on to his father.
"He gave me his name, address, and a page or two of background, finances, stuff like that. He also said Oliver spent three or four hours here while Charlie was in Piolenc."
"We know what he was doing, don't we?" Elizabeth said.
A silence fell on the group as they collectively pondered this new information.
Elizabeth leaned into the center and whispered. "Where's your investigator now? Can he help us?"
"I don't know where he is." Deirdre hesitated then relaxed and fell silent.
Charles reached over and tapped her shoe to get her attention. "Can you remember where he lives?"
Deirdre could only offer that the house was a large white-brick colonial.
"Think, think. You saw the address. Try to remember."
Deirdre couldn't recall, but told him the answer was in TJ's file, tucked in the case by her bedside. Even in the dark, Charlie could see that her eyes were filled with horror at the prospect of going back there.
Charles patted her shoe in thanks, raised himself to a crouch, and wobbled across the room toting the shotgun a foot above the floor. The outline of his head popped up in the window. He peered into the darkness between the houses then crawled into the dining room. A moment later, he waddled down the hall in a low crouch and sat back, panting, in his original position beside the island.
"It's absolutely pouring out there. We'll get drenched, but he'll never see us sneak over and back."
Elizabeth grabbed her husband's arm. "You're not going out there!"
"We have to. He's hunting us for Christ's sake. Look what he did to Bill and Deirdre's husband. If we don't stop him, we're next. We're getting out of here, but we need those papers first. The money in this case will buy plenty of help."
"You know he's out there somewhere."
"He's waiting for the rain to stop just like we are. He knows we're scared. He won't expect us to go outside."
"I'll go," Charlie said.
"Good." Charles handed the shotgun to Elizabeth. "Shoot anything that comes inside unless it's me or Charlie."
He pointed to the safety, but before he could speak, Deirdre latched on to Charlie's arm in a panic. "You can't both go!"
"She's right," Charlie said, "If Oliver catches them alone it won't be pretty. I know the house best. I'll be over and back in five minutes."
Deirdre stood up. "If you go, I'm going with you."
Charlie couldn't believe her. He wondered if she might be hoping to see Charlie and Oliver square off. "I'll go alone. One scream and we're sunk."
"I know where the folder is and you need someone to hold the light. And what if you run into him?"
Having Deirdre along was riskier than going alone, but her grip on his bicep told him she wouldn't feel safe unless he was in sight. He agreed to let her come and began groping around the first floor for a weapon. The flashlights would have made the job much easier, but Oliver would have known they were up to something. Eventually, he bumped into his father's golf bag by the garage door. He passed over woods and graphite-shafted irons and settled on a steel-shafted sand wedge. The loft was perfect for scooping up snakes and the steel shaft would stand severe punishment without breaking.
Club in hand, Charlie slipped outside with Deirdre close behind. Rain pelted their every halting step across the slick deck and down to the grass. Cold rainwater streamed down their faces blurring everything beyond ten feet as they hunched among the shrubs searching for movement in the storm. Soaked by wind-driven rain and blind to what lay ahead, they scampered into the darkness and took shelter against the shingled wall of Charlie's house. The corner blocked the wind. They stood listening for movement inside. The power was out here, too. Every window was dark. Oliver could be waiting inside, but they rushed in anyway.
Deirdre shined the light around the living room at head-height. Charlie quickly cupped the bulb and fumbled until he switched it off. They stood against the wall at the foot of the stairs. Hiding. Listening. Charlie cursed himself for allowing her along as the wind buffeted the rear of the house. Between gusts, tiny claws scampered across the linoleum. Deirdre trembled when she heard them. Charlie pressed a finger to her lips, urging her to keep quiet.
They climbed the stairs. Charlie led by two steps to give himself room to swing the club if Oliver appeared. Halfway up, something round and firm rolled under his feet, stealing his balance until he kicked it aside.
He whispered back for Deirdre to watch her step.
When Deirdre reached the same point, she froze, shaking. Charlie turned back, grabbed a handful of her soaked windbreaker and pulled her up the next few steps. Somehow she kept her promise not to scream.
The upper landing was clear, still no sounds of human occupancy. Charlie led the way into Deirdre's room and signaled for light. She switched it on with alacrity and panned around the small dresser and the floor. The room was a shambles. The drawers had been overturned, what remained of her belongings piled on the floor.
"Where's the folder?" Charlie asked.
Deirdre shined the light on an empty suitcase.
"How about your share of the money?" he whispered.
Deirdre shrugged. The beat-up suitcase from Piolenc was gone.
Charlie noticed a bulge in the bed and motioned Deirdre to stand back. She trained the beam on the figure and waited. He couldn't believe Oliver was sleeping there in her room with all the noise they'd made, but he raised the club, ready to strike. He nodded for her to pull back the sheet. Deirdre didn't move.
"Grab it quick and get out of the way," Charlie whispered.
Deirdre crept closer with the light focused at pillow height. Twice her fingers failed to grasp the sheet. On the third try, she pinched it and yanked it back.
A bald head appeared above an agonized, lopsided face. A single bullet hole in the man's forehead was filled with red jelly-like fluid.
Charlie wretched.
Deirdre dropped the light and broke her promise.
She screamed in one long high-pitched note and disappeared into the dark.
Shadows sprung up as the light settled on the floor. Charlie scrambled for the light, the agonized face burned into his memory. The stranger could only have been the detective Deirdre hired. Charlie had secretly hoped he was lurking nearby ever since Deirdre mentioned him, but he never imagined he'd end up like this.
Charlie rushed toward the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs. The light found Deirdre just as her feet flew off the treads. She crashed down on her back then banged and tumbled her way to the first floor. She came to rest contorted in the corner, shrieking in agony. "Henri! Help me, Henri!" She wailed his name over and over, begging him to materialize and save her.
Charlie rushed down the stairs with the light focused on the treads to avoid the snake they'd stumbled on earlier, the one that had sent her falling. He found the culprit about eight stairs from the bottom and quickly doused the light. The round, firm tube was no snake, but several bloody fingers. If Deirdre had seen them, they would have haunted her forever.
Charlie considered going back up to check the bald man's hands. He'd been so shocked by the bullet hole in his forehead that he hadn't noticed anything else. The man had to be Deirdre's detective and the fingers had to be his. Oliver knew who had hired him and for what purpose. Oliver had chopped off his fingers one at a time to show precisely what resistance would get them. His ghastly visual crushed Deirdre's nervous psyche and sapped her will to do anything but flee.
Deirdre flopped on the floor, frantically struggling to get up. Her right leg wouldn't hold her weight and twice she fell, triggering a new round of screaming for Henri. She clawed her way to the door, desperate as a wounded animal with a predator closing in. Charlie abandoned the idea of returning upstairs. He leaned the club against the wall, picked her up, and carried her back out into the rain.
The flashlight beam zigzagged wildly as he trudged down the steps. She lay limp in his arms, doing nothing to support her own weight. Charlie sagged as he reached the grass. The cold rain needled him and he hooded himself over her, sheltering her face against his neck. The heavy drops soaked his clothes until they clung to him. Water streamed through his short hair and down his face. They were both drenched when they reached the deck. Charles opened the sliding door and welcomed them inside.
Chapter Forty-four
Lightning illuminated the farm and thunder reverberated through the rafters so strongly Charlie thought the nails would shake loose. The storm had battered the house for hours and showed no signs of relenting. Charlie propped Deirdre up on the couch and fell to his good knee, panting, as he checked her unfocused eyes for signs of recognition. The cold hit him when their bodies parted and he could see her lips quiver and her slight arms begin to tremble. Charlie could feel his father standing behind him with a dozen questions about what had happened, but Deirdre was in shock. Elizabeth appeared from the hall with several large towels. Charlie took them and rubbed vigorously through her clothes.
She murmured Henri's name from behind vacant eyes.
"Mom, she needs a blanket and something warm to put on. Do you have some sweats that might fit?"
"She's tiny, but I'll find something." Elizabeth rushed off into the dark.
Charlie toweled her hair as best he could and began undressing her. She neither moved to help, nor protested, as he peeled off her wet clothes. Pink gooseflesh dotted her clammy skin. Charlie toweled briskly, whisking away the moisture, but the gooseflesh remained. She gazed somewhere past him, unfazed by his efforts. Her hope to break free from this nightmare was lying dead next door. When she saw the dead man in her bed, her senses retreated inward to wait for the inevitable.
Elizabeth returned with an elbow for Charles.
He nonchalantly browsed toward the dining room as if he hadn't realized it was inappropriate to gawk. Charlie and Elizabeth dressed Deirdre in a pair of sweatpants, rolled up four inches at the ankle, and a shirt and sweater combination that draped to miniskirt length. As if that weren't warm enough, Charlie doubled a wool blanket and wrapped her snugly, tucking it under her legs and pinning her arms to her chest. Deirdre's body stopped shaking, but apparently her senses had deserted her. She sat oblivious to the group intent on her condition.
Still dripping wet, Charlie left Deirdre in his mother's care and followed his father across the house to the master bedroom with the light off to conserve batteries. Each time lightning struck, they snapped a look to the nearest window expecting to see Oliver peering in. They saw only wind-whipped rain.
Charles switched on the flashlight long enough to find an old pair of jeans and a belt. He tossed them to Charlie and rummaged for more clothes.
The jeans were four sizes too large, and the belt lacked holes where Charlie needed them to secure the baggy pants, but they were dry and Charlie started feeling warmer as soon as he got out of his soaked briefs and pulled them on.
"What happened over there? She see another snake?"
"Nn-nn," Charlie grunted, straining unsuccessfully to work a key through the belt to create another hole.
"Charlie. What happened? Where's the file?"
"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure we found the detective."
Charles grimly handed him a turtleneck and a sweatshirt. The turtleneck had been stretched doubly wide around the middle, but the extra-large Marston Vineyards sweatshirt was new and it fit.
"Is he dead?"
"Beyond dead. Randy cut off his fingers and left them for us to trip over."
"Is that what sent her over the edge?"
"No, she didn't see them, thank God. The bullet hole in his forehead got her."
Charlie pulled on a pair of stiff, new work boots that fit well with two pairs of socks. His father stood motionless by the bed.
"My God. What's wrong with this guy?" Charles muttered.
"What's wrong with Randy? Are you kidding? He's whacked. He'd turn us all into quivering vegetables like Deirdre if he could."
"Call him Oliver. His name is Oliver."
"Is that all you can say? You're responsible for this. You screwed him up. You killed his family and set him ticking."
"I couldn't have known this would happen."
"Listen to you. Five people are dead because of what you did. You killed them and you just go on like nothing happened. Doesn't it bother you? Don't you feel even a little guilty?"
Charlie hotly laced his boot, stood up, and faced his father in the darkness. The man he'd idolized as a child and worked so hard to impress as a young man was a fraud; all his preaching about persistence, baseless. Charles was nothing but a thief in an eight-hundred-dollar suit.
Charles hung his head in the gloom.
"No wonder Oliver wants you dead. You stole his life for God's sake and even after all this time you did nothing to help him."
"We gave him two million dollars," Charles muttered. "That's something."
"Mom says you were broke, so where'd you get two million?" Bill Caulfield's role suddenly became clear and Charlie answered his own question. "Caulfield loaned you the money. He was in on this from the beginning...You stole the wineries together, didn't you?"
"I couldn't..." Charles' voice trailed off.
Charlie didn't need to hear the words. He knew it was true. "You and mom have been trying to drag me into this business for the last ten years. Did you expect me to steal for you, too?"
Charlie couldn't imagine his mother had gone along with the scheme. He remembered her shameful expression at dinner when he'd learned the truth about the propylene glycol. She had seemed as disillusioned as he was.
"You don't understand, Charlie. We were on the verge of bankruptcy. I had to do something or we were going to lose the winery. We had nothing else."
Charlie stepped back toward the hall. "My high school coach once told me, acting with honor is easy when you're on top. True character emerges when you're falling to the bottom."
"Don't lecture me, Charlie. We've got bigger problems."
Charlie listened to the rain and wind as he considered his own history. "So what now? Do we rush him with one gun between us?" he asked.
Both men looked at the shotgun lying on the bed. Charlie imagined standing face to face with Oliver. He wondered if he could pull the trigger and kill the man who'd pretended to be his friend. He couldn't be sure. And he couldn't be sure what his father was capable of.
"We're getting the Hell out of here," Charles said.
"The stone wall?" Charlie grimaced, picturing an excruciating crawl to safety.
"Do you think Deirdre can make it?"
"If not, I'll carry her."
A high-pitched squeak sounded upstairs, like the sound of a screw being torqued too far into a board. Charles grabbed the shotgun and raced into the hall and up the stairs. As they reached the top, two bulging sheets of drywall broke away from the ceiling with a crack, unleashing a torrent that crashed down from overhead. The light shone on a sheet of water that drenched the carpet, pooling everywhere.
"What the Hell?" Charles backed away.
Charlie paused a moment, then rushed toward the sound of running water in another bedroom. To his horror, the entire ceiling bulged under a huge weight. Water steadily rained down through cracks in the buckling drywall. Slowly, the cracks widened and then the drywall tore away from the rafters, releasing a waterfall that flooded the room to his ankles. Charlie climbed on the bed and followed a steady stream of water to its source. He tore off head-sized pieces, as he moved from bed, to chair, to bureau and ended up in the corner of the room. There, between the joists, a five inch hole had been cut through the wall. A section of downspout angled in, releasing all the rainwater from the roof into the ceiling. As if that weren't enough, a green garden hose had been threaded through the downspout, adding to the flow. Masterful! Oliver had shown him what he intended to do and again Charlie failed to stop him.
Charlie knocked the downspout out of the hole and heard it drop to the grass. He passed his father in the hall where the water streamed over the threshold and flowed down the stairs like a fish ladder. He climbed up on his old bed, tore at the ceiling, located another downspout, and pushed it out.
They hurried downstairs to find the women before the water started dripping through the floor. Charles suggested moving them to the garage, but they decided the concrete floor would be too cold and they'd be blind to anything outside.
"How about the green house?" Charles offered.
"Good idea. Get some dry blankets. I'll get the girls."
Deirdre recognized his touch as he slid an arm underneath her knees. She absently clasped her hands around his neck, casually touching him, but supporting none of her own weight as he carried her over the two-inch pool in the hall. Elizabeth held the greenhouse door and a rush of warm, dry air met them. Charlie stepped in and settled Deirdre on the tiles. He went to work moving pots and overturning benches to create a short wall against the glass and an open space for them to gather in the center.
Charles brought three armloads of blankets and pillows, which Elizabeth arranged in the middle of the floor. The women lay on the blankets while the men leaned back against the solid wall and scanned what they could see through the rain-slicked glass. The rain continued to pound the house with a fury that would have caused grave concern for the vines in other years. Tonight they'd be grateful to survive.
Charles whispered to his son. "Deirdre looks better."
"She does. Sleep will help."
"We need to move at first light."
Charlie imagined crawling a thousand feet with her on his back.
"We'll follow the stone wall to the street. He can't cover us from both sides and he can't rush us and risk getting shot," Charles said.
Charlie thought a moment and nodded his agreement.
The men passed the next hour watching the rain slide down the glass panels, listening to the wind buffeting the walls, and wondering if Oliver had slipped into the house. He could be waiting on the other side of the door, listening for them to fall asleep before he sprung.
Charlie suggested they sleep in shifts, but he couldn't close his eyes with Oliver so close. They needed to be up and gone with the sunrise and the only way was for someone to stay awake.
Hours passed. The rain played maddeningly on the glass roof like a never-ending stream of curious children tapping the sides of an aquarium. The water-slicked glass blinded them to anything outside their concrete and glass prison.
Somewhere nearby a chainsaw sprang to life. The whine was close enough for Oliver to be cutting his way in through the front door and Charlie imagined that was exactly what he was doing. Charles shifted across the room and put his back to the glass to cover the single entrance to the house. Charlie relocated beside his father to get himself out of the line of fire.
Deirdre lay at their feet, pleasantly warm, asleep, and unaware of the threat.
The chainsaw roared off and on throughout the night, snapping the men to alert with its hungry mechanical moan.
Chapter Forty-five
Father and son spent the night on alert, riveted by the sound of the chainsaw when it growled. They peered into the darkness when it was silent. The storm slackened in the early morning hours and in the wake of the chainsaw, the pattering rain soothed both men to sleep. They continued their slumber well beyond first light when they had planned to spirit away. When Charlie finally opened his eyes, the sky had cleared and the sun was coming through the huge oak in the front yard. Deirdre muttered something unintelligible and Elizabeth lay still in the blankets next to her. Charles was propped up in the corner with his eyes closed, the shotgun across his lap pointing toward the wall of glass.
The peal of metal on metal rang out again and Charlie recognized the sound that had disturbed his sleep. It sounded as if a giant was hammering a massive spike somewhere nearby. An intense crack followed. A heavy piece of timber gave way to some tremendous stress that Charlie had yet to understand. Shadows jiggled on Charlie's lap and he looked up directly into the sun. As he fought the glare to look up at the oak, the new leaves jittered although there wasn't a breath of breeze outside.
The peal sounded again, followed instantly by a heavier crack and more shaking in the high branches of the tree. Charlie immediately understood what was happening. The sawing wasn't in the house at all.
"Everybody out, quick!"
The women stirred only slightly. Charles didn't move.
Propelled to his feet, Charlie kicked open the door unafraid to find Randy in the house. He knew exactly where he was.
The peal sounded again and four loud cracks followed.
"Let's go! Let's go!" Charlie yelled.
Everyone awoke agitated.
Charlie grabbed Deirdre around the waist, picked her up, blankets and all, and carried her to the end of the short hall, the center of the house, and left her there mummified against the wall. When he returned for his mother, she was already moving toward him. He shooed her past and stepped down into the greenhouse for his father.
For the first time, he saw Oliver at the base of the tree. The head of the sledge hammer teetered over his shoulder and started down mightily in a wide, powerful arc. Charles was on his knees as the hammer slammed into the wedge. The gun fumbled to the floor, bounced, and fell flat with the barrel pointing at Charlie's feet. Charlie hesitated, breathless, fortunate to still have both his ankles. Charles finally seemed to grasp the urgency of the moment. He picked up the gun and took two awkward strides. His feet tangled clumsily in the blankets and he stumbled off-kilter to the center of the greenhouse.
The tree leaned slowly forward, cracking, gathering momentum as it fell. The trunk gave way with a thunderous snap and the branches rustled and hissed; smaller cracks came faster, now with machine-gun steadiness as the tree hurtled down upon the room of glass. Charlie grabbed his father's wrist, backed through the door, lost his footing on the slick tiles and tripped backward into the hall, pulling his father by the arm as the tree crashed into the glass roof. The ceiling exploded when the branches hit, erupting in a shower of glass and deformed metal. The branches sliced through the aluminum frame, ripping it from the house and compacting it to the foundation like a soda can. The doorway around Charlie was suddenly green with new oak leaves. Wiry brown branches poked everywhere. Charles lay pinned underneath the rubble, face down on the floor, but thankfully he was moving.
Charlie's first instinct was to find the gun and keep Oliver from moving in and finishing them, but the branches blinded him from anything back toward the stump.
Oliver could be anywhere.
An instant of panic hit as Charlie imagined Oliver rushing in after Deirdre. He shook the thought away.
Charles groaned in agony.
Elizabeth came tentatively down the hall with a frightened ambivalence for her husband's condition. Charlie saw her worry, but could offer no comfort yet.
He turned away and worked himself through the branches to the source of his father's injuries. Young whippy branches swiped at his face, hampering him every inch of the six-foot push. He crouched beside his father on broken glass in the leaf-stuffed area that had been a greenhouse moments before. There he found the problem. A thick branch pressed down tight like a spring across his father's back, pinning him to the floor. The weight of the other treetop limbs crushed down and Charlie doubted he could lift it.
He checked lower to his father's legs to see if he could help push. Immediately he knew he couldn't. Blood soaked through the thigh of his jeans and there was another, heavier cut on his calf where a long jagged piece of glass protruded four inches.
"Mom, he's got a gash in his leg. I need a T-shirt or something to tie it up until we get him free."
Charlie heard footsteps scurry around the corner and return, but he couldn't see anything until she thrust the white shirt in among the branches.
"This is going to hurt like Hell. Keep as still as you can. Ok?"
Charles groaned at the first touch. "Not much else I can do."
Charlie pressed his fingers against the slippery glass until he worried the sliver would fracture in his grip. With one hand on the calf for leverage, he pulled, steadily increasing the pressure in his fingers until he felt the shard rise, slicing its way back out of the leg. The blood welled up quickly inside the pink muscle, hiding any remaining glass that might be inside. For an instant, he squeezed the calf to look inside, but closer inspection of the pink, bloody flesh caused his stomach to heave. He quickly covered the wound with the T-shirt then wrapped it around and tied a tight knot in the sleeves to hold it in place.
The branches rustled a few feet away and Charlie thought of Oliver and the gun lying somewhere in the doorway. His mind flashed to a day of trap shooting with his parents and he wondered if his mother still remembered how to use the gun. He doubted she'd broken a single clay pigeon that day, but they moved quickly and they were tiny compared to the target a man presented for a shotgun at close range. The rustling stopped. Charlie held his breath and stayed motionless among the branches. Nothing happened. Finally he breathed, looking toward his mother. He surveyed the branch again, thinking himself safer to get out of the leaves before asking anyone to handle the gun.
"Ok. I'm going to lift up this branch. You need to help me, but I think together we can get you out. You ready?"
"Yeah. Go."
Charlie strained against the branch, but the weight was too much for him alone. Charles didn't budge.
"Hang on. Hang on. It's too heavy."
Charles blew out a breath, sounding exhausted though he hadn't moved at all.
Looking around the twisted mess for help, Charlie noticed a heavy branch snapped in the fall that was straight enough and thick enough for a lever. He wrestled, twisted, and kicked at the stringy fibers that clung to the tree, finally breaking it away.
As he slipped the lever under the branch, he could hear his parents whispering.
"Mom, I need your help."
"Just tell me what to do, hon."
"Grab him by the armpits and pull when I tell you to."
"Ok."
Leaves rustled as she worked herself into position.
"Ready?"
"Tell me when."
Charlie braced his shoulder under the lever and heaved upward. "Go!"
The branches rose only an inch, but the pressure eased enough for Charles to inch forward with Elizabeth's help. When his good leg was free, Charles kicked himself forward until he disappeared out of the tangle of branches.
"I'm out."
Charlie eased the lever down and pushed through the branches for the gun. He found it pinned to the floor, wrestled it free, and made his way back into the house. Charles was bleeding heavily from two places on his leg and the front of his clothes were soaking wet from lying face down in a puddle. Elizabeth was at work cutting away his pant leg and bandaging the gashes.
Charlie considered how to get his father and Deirdre to safety. He couldn't carry them both, but he couldn't think of a better option than the stone wall.
Charles had no doubt. "Get Deirdre ready to go."
Charlie looked at Deirdre, cowering low against the wall, and then back to his father. "You're in no shape to go now, either of you."
"I'm not going to sit here bleeding and wait for him to finish me off. We've got to get out of here. We'll be safer by the wall where we can see him coming."
"It's daylight now." Charlie waved the gun. "We can defend ourselves here. We're defenseless outside. He could be anywhere."
"He can't be on both sides of that wall at once, can he?"
Elizabeth pulled off Charles' shirt. "Can you walk that far? It can't be good for your leg," she said.
"I'll take my chances outside."
"Someone's bound to come to the winery eventually," she said.
"Who knows what he's done up at the road? He could have blocked the drive for all we know. He's going to come crashing in here and I don't want to be here when he does. Get ready. We're leaving."
Charles turned away and buttoned the fresh green shirt Elizabeth handed him. Then he hobbled off toward the back door testing his leg.
Charlie checked the safety and trailed through the house, checking the lawn for signs of Oliver. During the night, he had imagined the chainsaw ripping a wide entryway through the siding, but there was no damage on the first floor. Apparently, Oliver had only used it on the single oak and possibly to keep them awake during the night. The living room and dining room were in tact. The yard looked like it did on any spring morning.
Charlie realized that both houses had looked perfectly normal from the outside, despite what Oliver had done to terrorize them. He could have held them inside and tormented them for days, but the fallen tree changed everything. The first visitor to the winery would know something was wrong and they might call the police. Oliver didn't do things by chance. The tree was a sign. His plan was building to its climax. The Marstons were weary, hurting, and scared.
Whatever Oliver was planning, it would happen soon.
Charles was right, it was time to go.
Chapter Forty-six
A gentle spring breeze drifted into the forest, breathing life into new dangling leaves and bending up braches at the forest's edge. Charlie's eyes darted after each new movement, hoping to catch a glimpse of Oliver and prove his suspicion true. Five minutes passed and Oliver didn't show himself, but Charlie knew he was there. He knew this man that tormented them. The others saw only the anger, a hunger for revenge, but Charlie knew the anger lay dormant, concealed while the strategist terrorized them into submission. He would wait until they were trapped and helpless then he'd release his anger in brutal fashion.
Oliver was waiting for them to step outside. It was the next logical step in his plan. The snakes herded them into one house. The rainwater pushed them to the greenhouse and the tree destroyed their last indoor refuge. Oliver was driving them like a wolf trailing four wayward sheep. Whichever way they turned, there was a trap ahead and only Oliver knew where it would end. He knew they were coming out. He wouldn't be hiding in the cellar with all the dripping water or in among the snakes and mice at Charlie's house. He'd be somewhere with a good vantage point, ready to turn them back or herd them into another disaster, but Charles wouldn't be dissuaded.
The logic of his plan made arguing difficult. Retreating to the wall was tactically sound whether Oliver was hiding in the barn or the tree line. Either way, the wall was excellent cover and the shotgun would stop him from rushing them. The only position of advantage for Oliver would be behind the wall itself. Still, Charlie knew Oliver wouldn't let them walk away. He expected them to leave and the wall was the obvious choice. Oliver would be waiting, but Charlie couldn't convince his father that Oliver was anything but an unhinged lunatic. Charlie knew better. Oliver had studied this scenario a thousand times. He'd played out every conceivable response and he was ready.
Charlie returned to the group at the back door. They were huddled low behind the table, keeping out of sight as long as possible before streaking out into the open. Charlie eyed the lawn with trepidation and reported what he'd seen out front.
"This doesn't feel right. He's expecting us to make a run. I know he is."
Charles was indignant at the challenge. "He's one man, nothing more."
"He's no fool. He knows it's wet in here. He wants us to leave."
"We're going. If you want to stay behind, we'll send help for you." Charles gestured for the shotgun.
The women looked more unsteady than ever.
Charlie checked the safety for the fourth time, turned his back to his father and slipped through the door, plunging deeper into the morass his father created. He hesitantly stalked off the deck rather than run, cutting his eyes all around, paying close attention to the corners of the house behind him. Oliver was uphill in the trees beyond the houses and the parking lot. Charlie could feel him there, but quashed his hope. If he was there, the wall would protect them all the way to the road. If they crawled low enough, he might not even realize they'd escaped until they were gone.
Charlie stopped halfway down the slope by a tall maple with a trunk just wider than his torso. Any further and the house would be out of the shotgun's range. He hunched down at the base of the tree, waved to the deck, and eyed the corners of the house and the upper windows. Deirdre ran off the deck and down the slope. When she passed the tree, Elizabeth followed at more of a hurried trot than a run. The two women crouched against the stone wall and began inching their way to the street. Without instructions to the contrary, they might have scooted through the wet grass all the way to the road. Oliver might have let them go. It was Charles he really wanted, but Charlie didn't want to take that risk. He motioned them to stay still before they moved ten yards.
Charles still hadn't stepped down onto the grass. He was limping badly and his pace would force them to defend themselves wherever Oliver found them. The women could sneak ahead. They might even outrun Oliver if he was busy with the men, but for now Charlie wanted them close until he knew they'd be safe.
After three arcing hand signals, Deirdre mounted the wall, sending two heavy rocks tumbling over. Elizabeth followed, her head bobbing out of sight as Charles hobbled to the tree. There was no sign of movement up the hill. They had slipped out quietly and it was possible the house blocked Oliver's view of their escape. If he was across the drive and hadn't seen them yet, they might remain hidden for the entire journey. Charlie imagined police cars skidding to a stop all around Oliver, cuffing him, and taking him away. But first, he had to get his lame father over the wall then help him crawl more than three hundred yards without being seen.
Charles descended at a tedious pace. Charlie backed down behind him, aiming the gun toward the house even though the pellets wouldn't have much sting by the time they reached it. He comforted himself that the sight of the gun should keep Oliver at a distance. Just closing the gun's action was enough to frighten most people. The boom would put Oliver on his heels. He had to know that deer slugs would reach right up into the woods. Charlie crouched against the wall, trying to convince himself Oliver had overlooked the gun cabinet, but something told him Oliver wouldn't be so careless.
The rocks Deirdre knocked off the wall created the ideal spot for Charles to sit back and lift his legs over. Elizabeth helped bring him down on the other side. Charlie handed her the gun and vaulted over with one hand on a massive stone.
The hundred-year-old wall stretched arrow-straight three hundred yards to Hixbridge Road and another three hundred yards behind them along the vineyard and into the woods. Many stones along the base approached three hundred pounds and they were taken from the fields well before tractors replaced muscle power with financial power.
Crouched on the soggy ground, the wide green leaves on one side and the wall on the other limited their view to the narrow tractor path. They could see the road clearly in that window and all the way to the woods in the other direction, but they were blind to anything on either side.
Oliver isn't behind the wall, so where's the trap?
Charlie let out an intense whisper. "Deirdre, you lead. Keep low."
When Deirdre had crawled five yards on her hands and knees, Elizabeth followed. Charles took up a position behind his wife, but quickly fell behind. The deep cuts on his leg prevented him from bending it, so he crawled on one knee, pulling himself with his hands and dragging his right leg out straight behind him. The toe of his shoe dug a shallow trail in the mud as he went. Soon the women were twenty yards ahead. With no sign of trouble, Charlie let them go while he stayed back with his father. With luck, a motorist would see them before Oliver did.
They reached Charlie's house, though they couldn't see it. Charles' arms were shaky with exhaustion with at least another two hundred yards to go. Deirdre looked back from forty yards ahead, looking wary about the growing gap between them. Charlie nodded ahead and pointed her toward the road. Deirdre hesitated, but she seemed to understand what Charlie had in mind. She turned away and crawled forward even faster. Elizabeth kept pace a yard behind.
Charles collapsed on his stomach to rest. Charlie sat beside him, watching the women go and hoping they'd make it without being seen.
Just as the gap between them outstretched the shotgun's range, Charlie heard a squeal up ahead. Deirdre and Elizabeth lay flat on the muddy road a few feet from the wall. Nothing else seemed unusual. He couldn't imagine what had frightened them unless they heard Oliver moving on the other side of the wall. He thought for a second about rushing ahead and jumping over the wall for a look. He pushed himself up into a crouch, ready to move, and watched.
A handful of dirt and pebbles kicked up two feet in front of Deirdre. Something smacked into the stone wall so hard and fast it could only be a bullet, but there was no report.
Charlie prodded his father.
Another handful of dirt kicked up in about the same place and Deirdre instinctively backed away.
"A silencer?" Charlie asked his father in a whisper.
"Must be. He's out in the vines."
Charlie looked overhead. "How about the trees or the roof?"
The next bullet struck the base of the wall and ricocheted skyward.
"That didn't come from the trees. He's in the vines."
How could he have been so wrong? He knew Oliver was on the uphill side. He felt it so strongly he'd never doubted it, but bullets didn't lie.
Charlie whistled. "Get over the wall." He motioned to the other side and watched the women climb over before helping his father do the same. Safely on the lawn, Charlie gestured rapidly ahead and Deirdre hurried away faster than before.
Charlie raised the gun over the wall. Thousands of new leaves fluttered in the gentle breeze screening any view of the killer in the field. He eyed the road and the vines, straining to see feet rushing ahead of them. Charlie clicked off the safety and blasted two shots where he guessed the bullets had come from. The reports boomed over the vineyard as he slid two fresh shells into the magazine to keep it full. Oliver wouldn't rush them now.
He hunched behind the wall and clicked on the safety with the gun pointed skyward. Deirdre was frozen up ahead, watching him. He urged her ahead with a frantic motion that suggested she could outrun Oliver.
Deirdre hadn't moved five feet when they all heard the collision of bullet and stone, but this time, Deirdre couldn't contain her terror. She let out a high-pitched shriek, holding the note long after she hit the ground and lay flat with her hands on her head. Charlie raced past his father, hunched over in an awkward run, his head presenting a bobbing target to the man among the vines. He dropped beside Deirdre and rolled her over. She wasn't bleeding anywhere, just terrified.
Charlie wondered how the bullet got through the wall until the next one whizzed past his head and struck a rock behind him. The hair on his neck and arms stood on end, electrified by the awesome power that had passed so close. The bullet ricocheted up through the trees zipping through leaves and branches as it went. Charlie dropped prone aiming the gun up the hill. He could see nothing but leaves and trees up there. He fired twice hoping to startle Oliver into moving.
Deirdre screamed again masking any sound Oliver might have made.
The women had just passed Charlie's house and probably just came into Oliver's view. But he couldn't be shooting from the vines and the woods.
He had a partner!
That was the trap. They were covering the houses from both sides.
Another shot struck the ground several feet away. It was a warning, an order to move back.
Charles whistled from behind. He'd closed some of the gap between them and was pointing at the house and motioning for them to retreat to him. The house was protecting him from Oliver at the moment and the stone wall was protecting him from whoever was out in the vines.
They converged in a line, backs against the wall, feet extended.
"Charlie, can you run to the road for help?"
Doped up on cortisone and painkillers like the trainers had done for his comeback, he might have run the entire distance, if he lived that long. There was no cover on the slope up to the woods except the house that sheltered them now and an occasional tree. Running, he'd be exposed to shots from both sides. One hit anywhere would leave him lying in the open waiting for his executioner.
"I can't run that far. Even if I could, I wouldn't make it halfway."
"How about the gunshots? Think anyone heard them?" Deirdre asked.
"Gunshots aren't that strange out here. There are plenty of hunters around." Charlie imagined birds of some kind were in season.
Charles nodded toward the house and Charlie saw Deirdre quiver.
Charlie agreed with his father. "I think we rush up behind my house and cut across the lawn. The house will cover us longer that way."
Charles nodded toward the vineyard. Both men knew they'd be exposed to shots from the vines.
"Come on Deirdre, we'll be safer inside," Charlie encouraged.
Charlie rushed up to the house with Elizabeth and Deirdre close behind. When they were in position, he stuck his head and shoulders out past the line of shrubs hoping to attract Oliver's attention. A bullet shaved the evergreen branches. As it whizzed by, Charlie dodged back behind the house. At the same time, Deirdre and Elizabeth ran across the lawn and up onto the deck. Charlie prayed Oliver had a scope zoomed in on him and hadn't seen them sneak back.
As Charles started across, Charlie hopped clear of the structure, fired three times from the hip, dropped, and rolled back to cover. No bullet greeted him this time and as he looked back, his father reached the deck unmolested. Not one shot had been fired from the vines since they left the wall and no shots had been fired at Deirdre, Elizabeth, and Charles as they went back into the house.
Charlie walked the length of his house wondering where Oliver's game was leading. If he had a gun and a silencer all this time, why wait for them to escape and chase them back inside. Why not shoot them from outside the greenhouse? He could have killed them all while they slept. Why work so hard to drop a tree when four bullets would have finished them?
Oliver had a plan. He didn't want to kill them until he ran out of ways to make them suffer. Charlie prayed he might turn Oliver's patience against him.
He reloaded the shotgun and hobbled across the lawn listening for the whiz of a bullet he knew wouldn't come.
Chapter Forty-seven
Water dripped from random spots in the ceiling and puddles splashed underfoot as Charlie walked into the kitchen. Deirdre leaned over the island scribbling on a notepad with Charles and Elizabeth coaching from each elbow.
"What's going on?" Charlie asked.
Deirdre looked up with fiery determination. "We're leaving evidence for whoever finds us."
"What do you mean, finds us?"
"He's going to kill us. He needs to be punished." Deirdre dropped her attention back to her writing. She printed Oliver Joyet as neatly as she could and continued with their names underneath.
Charlie couldn't believe they'd given up. "He's not trying to kill us. He's playing with us like a cat toys with a mouse."
Charles frowned at his son. "The mice die in the end, don't they?"
The metaphor was fitting. Oliver hadn't killed them yet because he enjoyed terrorizing them, but this was not a game. If they got out of reach, if they threatened to escape, the game would abruptly end. Charlie had sensed this when he refused to run along the stone wall for help.
Deirdre ripped her note from the pad and sealed it in a glass jar. What she did next baffled him. She placed the jar in the back of the freezer underneath the frozen vegetables they bought a day earlier.
"What are you doing?"
"He has a history of burning evidence, doesn't he?"
"You don't think he'll search the house first?" Charlie didn't admit that the idea had merit. He hadn't abandoned his hope for survival as they apparently had.
Deirdre went to work on another note. "How long do you think he'll stay after he kills us? Don't you think he'll torch the house and run like before?"
Appalled, Elizabeth locked eyes with her son. "Torch the house and run? What's she talking about?"
"Oliver killed a guy in Piolenc then burned the house down," Charlie said.
"You're talking about Henri Deudon. Her husband..." Elizabeth seemed to struggle against her own thoughts. "Laroche had pictures of your car next to Henri's. You were there. You both were there, weren't you?"
"We saw him kill Henri," Charlie said.
"And you did nothing?" Elizabeth stared back, aghast. "You let him get away with murder! What were you thinking? And what were the four of you doing in that old house?"
"It doesn't matter, Mom," Charlie blushed. "What's important is getting out of here now. The notes are a waste of time. We need to go."
Elizabeth stood back against the fridge, her face contorted by visions of her son's involvement in a murder. They all avoided her disappointed eyes. Deirdre focused on her note, Charles hoisted himself up on the counter and gazed out the kitchen window, and Charlie stood in the middle of the group, unsure where to look as he wondered about an escape through the barn and into the trees.
A telephone rang on the highest possible ringer setting.
The whole group stared at the source of the noise.
Impossible! The phone hadn't been there a moment earlier, but there it was, bright red, in the center of the counter, ringing away.
It was a rotary phone, the boxy kind with the large round dial that AT&T put in millions of homes before the government split the company up. The power was still out, even Charlie's cell phone wasn't working, but Oliver wanted to talk to them and this was the only way. It rang defiantly; a candy-apple red symbol of Oliver's control. Charlie was sure that only Oliver's calls would get through. He picked up and Oliver got his wish.
"You're right, Charlie, the notes are a waste of time. Tell Deirdre the freezer is a great hiding place, though. Very creative. That's why I liked her."
Oliver was listening and probably watching too. Charlie shot looks all around the room for microphones and cameras.
"Don't bother, smart guy. I spend as much time in that house as you do."
He could see them even now!
"If you find my equipment, I'll just replace it."
The phone was clear evidence of that. He'd slipped in overnight and left it on the counter. All four of them had walked within inches of it without noticing.
Charlie turned away from his parents. "What do you want, Oliver?"
"Oh, it's Oliver now? I guess we have the departed Mr. Lynch to thank for that. I'm pleased you're finally catching on. It wouldn't be fun if you weren't giving it your best."
"Let my mother and Deirdre go. They have nothing to do with this."
"Are you kidding? Deirdre, that little slut! I'm going to enjoy slicing her. She paid Old Baldy seventy-five-K to whack me. Imagine, seventy-five-K of our money! Ungrateful bitch! No chance she's getting out alive. And your mother? Never. She's an old bag, but I find those long wrinkly legs quite sexy. She's going to be my reward at the end of this madness. You can watch, if you're still alive."
"You bastard!" Charlie slammed down the receiver.
Terror flooded the faces huddled around him as if the end of the conversation would bring a hail of bullets through every window.
Charlie prayed his mother hadn't heard Oliver's threat.
"What did he say?" Charles asked.
"He's taunting me."
The phone rang again and Charles picked it up angrily. He never uttered a word. His face went numb in response to whatever was said on the other end. He looked around the room dumbfounded and handed the phone to Charlie.
"Hang up on me again and you'll watch me have my way with your mother then kill her slowly, understand?"
"Yeah."
"I'm disappointed with you, Marston. After all I taught you, you let me ruin your parents' house with that waterfall. I expected more from you."
Charlie said nothing.
"Don't you wonder how I did it? Come on, you must be thinking, damn I saw him do it once. I knew he was going to try it and I couldn't stop him. That must be sobering for a college genius like you. How long did you spend in the attic?"
"I found the drain pipes."
"Sure, after I soaked you. That didn't take a Ph.D."
Charlie hissed into the phone, much to Oliver's delight.
"Now, as for your low-life father, it seems he forgot our appointment this morning. Why don't your remind him for me."
"What appointment?"
"Surely you saw the briefcase."
Charlie motioned to his father as if carrying a heavy case. Charles shrugged and began looking around the room. Apparently in all the confusion, he'd misplaced it somewhere in the house.
"Charlie. It's in the dining room by the door."
Charlie pointed toward the dining room and his father retrieved the case and waved it in the doorway.
"Very good, you have it."
"If you knew exactly where it was, why didn't you just take it when you installed the phone?"
"Good question, Young Marston, but you're not allowed to ask questions. You deliver the money. Actually, you're late, so get going."
"Where are we supposed to be going?"
"Don't tell me you lost the note, too. Such incompetence. How can your family build a multi-million-dollar wine business, but yet you can't keep track of a briefcase and a note? If you're going to steal and pillage like your father, you'd better get some practice delivering blackmail."
"What note are you talking about?"
"Don't families talk anymore? Never mind. You and daddy take the case to the fermentation room."
"We're not leaving the women."
"Get this straight, Charlie. You'll do exactly what I say."
The women took a step toward each other and clasped hands.
Charlie didn't answer.
"I was playing with you over at the stone wall. I know you couldn't see it, but that shot was four inches from your ear. I saw you jump. Damn good shooting, huh? I thought about nicking your earlobe. I could have done it, but who knows if you'd have moved and spoiled everything. You'd be no fun with a bullet in the side of your head. Ask TJ.
"Know this: I can take you out anytime. So, you two get over to the barn with that case. If either of the women goes with you, I'll drop them as soon as they clear the hedges. And if you don't get moving, I'll shoot the next thing I see through one of those windows. I'm done firing warning shots."
The line went dead.
Charlie hung up and immediately placed his finger on top of the nine and pulled the heavy dial all the way around; he followed with two short jab-arcs for the ones. Of course rotary dialing didn't work with their touchtone service, but he had to try.
Next, he took a piece of paper from Deirdre's pad and started scribbling out his plan. The others seemed confused at first, but they soon understood that Oliver was watching everything they did. Deirdre and Elizabeth wrote short questions that showed their fear almost as much as their shaky handwriting.
Charles opened the case. The money was all there and it didn't seem that anything was added. Certainly nothing that could harm them.
In a few minutes the plan was set. Charlie and Charles would deliver the money, while Elizabeth and Deirdre took advantage of the fact that Oliver's attention would be focused on the men.
Chapter Forty-eight
Charlie and Charles slipped out the back door and circled behind the wrecked greenhouse and the fallen tree to shield themselves from Oliver's position up in the trees. They stopped against the near corner of the barn and considered which of the entrances would lead safely to their rendezvous in the fermentation room. The most direct route through the office would channel them into a narrow aisle, surrounded by hiding places every six or eight feet. The lower side of the barn featured three more entrances; one each to the warehouse, the processing room, and the fermentation room itself. There was also a lone door on the far end of the barn that the men used when walking back and forth to the gift shop.
Charlie turned his attention away from the barn and peered across the parking lot into the trees. The sun shone brightly on the green leaves spread outward to collect its energy. The forest behind them was dappled with light, highlighting a tree trunk here, a patch of brown leaves there. Everything else was painted in tiny splotches of black. Oliver could be there shrouded in black with his crosshairs hovering on Charlie's chest. If not, he'd be inside the barn preparing an ambush.
Charles seemed to sense their vulnerability, too and limped around the corner toward the loading docks.
At the lower corner, out of sight from above, the men agreed to approach the fermentation room from opposite ends of the barn. Charlie traded the shotgun to his father for the case and watched him limp off toward the far door. While he waited, he looked back toward the house. He couldn't see through the windows, but he knew the women were rushing around, trying to find the cameras while Oliver came to collect his blackmail. He prayed they'd be safe as he scoured the trees one last time, hoping to spot Oliver on his way down.
Charles reached the fermentation room doors and waved for Charlie to slip into the warehouse. At first he felt enveloped in gloom, but shapes slowly emerged. On either side, twenty-foot columns of wine, bottled, boxed, and shrink-wrapped hemmed him in. He groped his way along the double row of pallets that clogged the aisle. The stacks, butted together, forced him straight across the warehouse with a half million dollars at his side. Oliver could be anywhere, above, behind, even straight ahead. Charlie searched the boxes, listening intently for the slightest movement as his sneakers treaded quietly by pallet after pallet.
Safely through, he paused in the entryway to the bottling room. Without power, the everyday hum was replaced by murky silence. Ghostly quiet machines lined the walls with a half dozen ambush points Charlie would have to pass. He hunched low, checking among the stainless steel legs for human ones. Then he stepped to the wall and craned his neck behind the row of machines. Finding nothing, he walked slowly onward, turning every twenty feet or so to be sure no one had followed him in from the warehouse.
The cellar appeared to be a narrow sixty-foot hallway lined with aging bottles of sparkling wine when, in fact, it was almost as wide as it was long. The bottles were double-stacked neck-to-neck. Only the circular bottoms faced the hall, like shiny cordwood. Behind each double-stack, were nine more that filled the bay fifteen feet deep, plenty of room for Oliver to hollow out a hiding place and wait.
Dealing with anyone else, Charlie's imagination would have been a distraction, but Oliver went to incredible lengths to exact his revenge. He'd spent years considering what would happen next. He'd spared no effort; no effect would be too spectacular. He had them headed for the fermentation room, a big lofted room with four entrances, tons of equipment, and forty-foot ceilings. He could have chosen any of the buildings, but what better place for his final show. Here was the symbolic center of the winery he'd lost. This is where Oliver would take his revenge.
Charlie stood outside the solid double doors and listened. He half-heartedly checked the door-casing for wires, realizing he was already beyond any realistic chance of protecting himself. Oliver could take his life anytime he wanted and this filled Charlie with an odd sort of courage. With nothing to lose, he felt free. Dramatic action could only save him. He opened the door and moved boldly inside. Flickering light streamed down from the fans in the huge gable vents. A gentle breeze pushed the blades in lazy circles.
The office door to the left was open, revealing fabric walls, but little else. Beyond, a stack of oak barrels filled with Chardonnay reached toward the roof. On the other side of the room, the stainless steel fermenters glistened in a row like missiles ready for launch.
Feet shifted on concrete. Charlie snapped to his right, caught a glint off the shotgun and saw his father's head, poking around the fermenters as he himself had done in the bottling room. When their eyes met, Charles shook his head to indicate he hadn't seen anyone.
Just then, a figure emerged from the shadows as if he chose his timing to contradict Charles. He materialized several feet inside the door with a shiny handgun hanging down from his right hand. Charlie's mouth was agape when he saw who it was.
Charles continued his search among the fermenters.
"I'm over here, Charles."
Shoes scuffed the concrete as Charles stopped short. The shotgun popped up, aimed in the direction of the voice. He inched to his left then went cold when he saw the close-cropped black hair.
The problems with the workers made sense now. Sebastian had scared them away so no one was here to interfere.
"What are you doing here, Sebastian?" Charles asked.
"Collecting on an old debt." He raised the gun toward Charlie's chest and stepped back half a step to put a huge stainless steel tank between himself and the shotgun. "Now put down the shotgun, or I'll have to shoot little Charlie here."
Charles angled three steps closer to Charlie, bringing Sebastian back into the line of fire.
"No closer, tough guy. Put the shotgun down."
Charles held the gun firmly against his shoulder, the barrel aligned somewhere on Sebastian's torso.
Sebastian clicked the hammer back. "Listen, shit head, I'm done playing. Put down the gun, or I put two in the boy."
Charles didn't move.
Charlie was caught in the center of the floor with no place to take cover. The case in his hands might stop a bullet if he knew where it was aimed. He waited, watching the black hole in the muzzle, defenseless against the semi-automatic at this range. His best hope for protection was waffling a dozen feet to his right.
"You think that bird shot will kill me from this range?" Sebastian took his eyes off Charlie long enough to snicker at Charles. "You might knock me down after I kill the kid, but then, it's me and you."
Charles reluctantly lowered the gun.
"On the floor," Sebastian ordered.
Charles complied slowly, seeming unsure even after the gun settled on the concrete. "Why are you doing this?" he asked as he straightened up.
"You have a lot of balls! But I guess if you knew how much I hated you, you never would have hired me, would you?" Sebastian turned his attention to Charlie. "Walk toward me and set down the case, Junior."
Charlie took four short steps and placed the case in the middle of the floor. Sebastian waved the gun and Charlie moved back to join his father. "Do you remember my father, Charles?"
"Of course. An excellent winemaker as I recall. That's why I hired you."
"That's funny. He never got a decent job after you finished with him."
"What do you mean?"
"You destroyed him, you asshole!" The gun trembled in Sebastian's hand.
Charles quivered as well. "The scandal would never have blown over otherwise. I had to make a change. He knew it was nothing personal."
"It was your scandal, your problem. Ruining my father gave you an easy out and you took it."
"I did nothing of the sort. I gave him plenty of severance to carry him until he got another job."
"How could he after what you did to him?"
"I never said a word..."
"Come on! No one believed Roger Joyet doctored his own wine. Who do you think people blamed? Winemaking is a tight little club. No one would hire my father. We had to move to California and he never did better than assistant out there."
The realization finally hit Charles.
Sebastian picked up the case. "I told your son what you did and he didn't seem all that surprised. Some example of fatherhood you are."
Sebastian turned quickly to locate the door.
Charles inched toward the shotgun when he did. "What are you two going to do with all that money?" he said to cover his footsteps.
"The money's mine. Oliver gets you and your family." Sebastian lowered the gun. "Don't try following me. Open this door and I'll shoot you." Sebastian turned his back and walked away.
On the second step, Charles picked up the shotgun and in one swift motion, shouldered it, located the bead somewhere on Sebastian and fired. The plastic wad flew out of the gun and fluttered past Sebastian's head. No pellets hit him or the door. Charles fired again, unleashing a deafening boom inside the barn.
Sebastian calmly set the case down just inside the threshold and wheeled around toward the tower of oak barrels. He aimed up toward the rafters and snapped off a shot. Wood splintered and a spout of white liquid cascaded down twenty feet and splashed on the concrete floor.
"Now that's what happens when your gun is actually loaded."
Sebastian stepped closer and locked eyes with Charlie.
"See what a piece of shit your father is? So fucking predictable. I turn my back and he shoots me like the coward he is."
Sebastian shifted his ire to Charles and aimed the gun somewhere in the middle of his face. "Do you really think we'd leave you live bullets? We've had three months to comb through that house and I'm going to leave live bullets in the fucking gun cabinet. What kind of fool do you think I am?"
The shotgun clanked to the floor.
Charles stood rigid.
Shocked and utterly defenseless, Charlie faced the muzzle of Sebastian's .45.
Chapter Forty-nine
Sebastian peered down the sights at Charles, aligning certain death somewhere on his chest. Charlie stood beside his father in the center of the fermentation room, too lame to rush him and too far from cover to make a break. Sebastian held the .45 steady until his arm shook. He wanted to shoot, but his finger never entered the trigger guard. Sebastian was waiting for something.
Where's Oliver? Charlie wondered.
Surely he wouldn't leave their execution to his partner. Not unless he was watching or recording it on video tape. Charlie turned away from Sebastian and scanned the room. Everything was in place: the fermenters, the oak barrels, the loft and the dark cellar behind. It was then that Charlie realized exactly where Oliver was: with the women. Oliver's flirting with Elizabeth drove Charlie mad. He called her his prize. Attacking her was the best way to repay father and son at the same time. A morbid satisfaction struck: Sebastian wasn't allowed to shoot them, not yet.
Suddenly impatient in spite of the gun, Charlie wheeled around for an escape.
Sebastian pulled a small black box from his pocket and pushed a button. A hum instantly surrounded them, but there had been no electricity a moment before. Batteries, he was using batteries, but for what?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, sawdust floated down from the loft like a heavy snow. Fine particles billowed in from the office. The cellar was choked with a cloud that seemed to materialize from the stacks of bottles. Now, Charlie wished he'd checked the aging sparkling more carefully before coming in.
Oliver planned to blow the barn and the air was getting thicker by the second.
Charlie spun toward footsteps in time to see Sebastian run out the door.
They needed to get out. The cellar door was a deathtrap. An explosion would catch them long before they reached the warehouse. The office door led directly to Oliver and more likely than not, he'd have a gun trained there.
Charlie took a hurried step toward the door Sebastian used, but stopped when the door swung back open. Sebastian appeared with a red can in one hand, the gun in the other. Without a word, he splashed a gallon of gas on the concrete. Father and son both jumped back from the spreading puddle. Charlie frantically wheeled for another exit. Charles stepped back and watched, confused by the combination of gasoline and sawdust. Sebastian backed out the door pouring a trickle of fluid behind him to form a long liquid fuse.
Charles seemed dazed when Charlie grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked him sideways toward the loading dock.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Charles stumbled backward lamely. "What?"
Charlie was instantly three steps ahead and barely slowed to shout over his shoulder, "It's going to blow."
Charles hobbled to the door severely favoring his leg while his son forgot his injury and sprinted outside, ran forty yards downhill, and dove over the stone wall. Charles stopped on the grass, thirty feet from the barn.
The first wave of the explosion ripped through the fermentation room, blowing out the gable vents and knocking Charles head-first down the slope. The flames ripped through the cellar, building pressure until they burst through the windows of the bottling room and erupted into the warehouse. The two-hundred-foot barn blazed from one end to the other, the explosion-shattered bottles spilled thousands of gallons of wine to cook in pools on the warehouse floor. The boxes and pallets burned until they could no longer support their own weight. Entire stacks crashed to the floor, engulfed in flames.
A river of wine gushed from a cracked stainless steel tank.
Charlie watched the wine flood down from the loading dock, a foaming river making its way across the white shells and down toward the grass. If they had made red wine here, it would have seemed the fulfillment of Oliver's favorite prophecy: the Lord's great winepress squeezing the unworthy, covering the fields with their blood.
Charlie hiked up the slope to his father. As he reached him, tires screeched in the distance. The Buick sped away carrying Sebastian and his money.
Charles tried to stand, but dropped back to the ground. Charlie wasn't sure which pained his father more, his bleeding calf or the millions he lost as the barn was devoured by flames.
Charlie stood over his father. "We've got to go."
Charles lay on his side, clutching his leg. "I can't get up."
"Suck it up. Let's go."
"Didn't you hear me? I can't walk."
"We left mom and Deirdre alone."
Charles surged up on his good leg.
"He has to be in there with them," Charlie said.
Oliver had planned this moment for fifteen years. He knew the explosion would bring help and he wouldn't waste the precious little time he had left.
The two men split up. Charles took the shorter path along the stone wall. Charlie circled around the blazing barn. From there, he'd head up into the trees and approach the front door from above the parking area. With luck, they'd converge on Oliver simultaneously from front and back.
Chapter Fifty
The wind-lapped flames blindly raged for oxygen and fuel, stretching ten feet from the barn in every direction. Blowing waves of heat lashed out further still, forcing Charlie off the crushed shells for the safety of the grass. His knee swelled and stiffened as he hiked upward, his body demanding payment for the ill-advised run to the stone wall. He teetered past the gift shop and angled across the parking lot, using the blazing barn to hide himself from Oliver. The trees would cover him as he looped around toward the house. With any luck, Oliver wouldn't see him until he stepped inside, but he told himself Oliver had planned too thoroughly to be taken unaware.
Charlie plodded ahead. Each halting step took him further from his destination; another painful step he'd have to make up once he reached the trees. Step after detoured step meant he'd be a little later for his rendezvous with his father and a little weaker when he got there.
The pain was excruciating. If there were nerve endings among the damaged bones and menisci, they would have been ground raw long ago. At times, he felt the joint lock, bone on bone and then his knee refused to flex for several steps as if the bones were welded together at some random angle. When the joint started working again, his lower leg felt like a sword, stabbing upward, penetrating deeper every time he loaded his right side.
He'd shunned the knee replacement two years ago, but now the option seemed terribly attractive, no matter how painful the procedure or the recovery. His football career was beyond resurrection and he realized that having the surgery wasn't giving up. Choosing surgery was facing reality, preparing to live the next forty years as a winemaker. He promised himself he'd have the operation if he survived the day.
He slithered in among the bushes and, once hidden, began angling toward the house. Impenetrable underbrush rose up to meet him, repeatedly forcing him to change direction. Wrestling head-high tangles of green briars that snagged him at every step, he battled his way forward, around, and under; the clearest path taking him deeper and deeper into the woods. Blinded by greenery, he might have lost his way had it not been for the sound of roaring flames consuming the barn.
Twenty yards in, he reached a stand of tall pines that blotted out the sunlight and choked out most of the undergrowth. Unencumbered, he moved quickly through immature pines with their soft flexible branches until finally, he pushed aside a small white pine and stepped onto a well-worn path.
This was no game trail, but a walking path that originated somewhere in the forest and paralleled the Marstons' driveway. The trail was deep enough in the woods to conceal him from view, yet shallow enough so he could glimpse his parents' house through gaps in the trees. Charlie steadily limped along until the trail petered out somewhere above the house. Before he started down, he spotted several new-looking beer cans alongside a brush pile. He ventured closer. The mound of brush appeared more and more organized until he stood a few feet behind Oliver's surveillance post, complete with mosquito netting and a stack of electronic gadgets, including a security monitor.
Charlie collapsed to the ground. He could see the angle of the shots Oliver fired at them when they had tried to escape. There were other shots, easier shots, he hadn't taken. Their little group had been in his sights as they descended from the deck to the stone wall and he'd let them go. Charlie's position by the tree was clearly visible. Oliver had also had unobstructed shots at Deirdre and Elizabeth at the base of the wall. Of course, he wasn't trying to kill them, not then. But things were different now. This was the end. The barn was burning and the police would soon be on their way. Oliver might take those same shots now.
The monitor flicked and Elizabeth came into view. Her back was to the camera with one hand duct-taped to each bedpost. She wasn't struggling to free herself. Charlie guessed Oliver was somewhere in the room. Deirdre wasn't visible on the monitor, nor was his father, who should be just below the house by now.
The screen flicked to black, a camera Deirdre and Elizabeth had found. He waited. The screen flicked to the kitchen then the living room and on to the smashed greenhouse. When the original picture returned, Charlie recognized the furniture: the guestroom, just off the second floor landing.
He searched the shelter for a weapon. Finding none, he pulled himself up and hurried off to meet his father.
Chapter Fifty-one
An arcing puzzle of windows dominated the west wall of the Marstons' bedroom and when the curtains were pulled back, they could see the sunset over forty acres of vines without leaving their bed. Oliver remembered walking into this room as a boy. His parents had it arranged the same way, down to the stuffed burgundy chair he sat in now. The chair had been his before he sold it to the Marstons with the rest of the winery. He'd been young, overwhelmed by his change in circumstances and he never realized how much they'd taken from him. The chair was quite comfortable and it reminded him of his parents, but he had no need for it then or now.
He watched Charlie burst out of the barn and teeter down the hill with a loping gait, powering as he pushed off with his good leg and gingerly favoring his bad knee on the alternate step. However awkward he looked, he managed good speed all the way to the stone wall. The blowing sawdust had had just the right effect. Oliver wondered if Charlie sensed the irony as he lay face down behind the wall. He'd shown Oliver such an exquisite way to pump him full of adrenalin and incinerate his father's ill-gotten wealth at the same time. The scare would prime them both for what he planned next.
If Charles were an actor running away from a building about to explode, he would have been wholly unconvincing. He labored off the gravel and a few feet down the grassy slope, more intent on his injuries than the crisis unfurling behind him. His lethargy showed an utter disregard for the force pent up in the barn.
Perfect!
Riveted with anticipation, Oliver leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Charles.
He hoped to score a hit with a few fragments of glass or maybe a loose board. The evil robber baron was about to experience the awesome power those tiny particles released when interspersed with just the right amount of air and a spark. Charles' skepticism wasn't surprising. Oliver himself had to be convinced by the blast in Piolenc. This would be a fitting end! Just like the trace amounts of propylene glycol that destroyed Oliver's family, the tiny particles would decimate the winery and send Charles and Charlie running to meet their fate.
Oliver jumped to his feet as the blast knocked Charles headlong down the slope. He screamed out loud as flames engulfed the barn. The truckload of sawdust set off a blast ten times the size of the explosion in Piolenc. He wished he had his binoculars to see Charles' anguish up close. Everything inside the barn had to be obliterated; several years of production, cooked. Oliver could almost feel the bottles fall to the cement floor and smash; hear the paint sizzle off the equipment; an excellent beginning to the end of Marston Vineyards.
Of all the things the Marstons could have done next, Oliver was thrilled with the scenario they chose. Rather than rush over and burst in together, they split up to approach from opposite sides. The dutiful son took the longer route around the barn and through the woods. Charles headed straight along the wall to the back door. Perfect! Charles would arrive well ahead of Charlie, leaving time to deal with father and son individually.
It took Charles almost five minutes to crawl along behind the stone wall, but Charlie was still nowhere in sight when his father clumsily threw himself over the wall and stumbled feebly up to the house.
Oliver stiffened with anticipation from his fingers to the rigid muscles in his chest. His body yearned to pummel, strangle, and maim him in so many ways. He wished he had more time to linger over his work, but the plan was set.
Oliver got into position in the bedroom doorway and waited.
Charles slinked across the deck with nary a sound, but the sucking of the sliding door pulling away from its frame announced his entrance. Oliver heard two moist steps on tile then the footsteps stopped close enough for Oliver to hear his ragged breathing in the kitchen. He grinned. Charles was confronting the large red arrow he'd painted on the floor to direct him upstairs. Too bad the women had stopped banging on the walls and floor. He'd bound them up a few minutes too early he realized, but they'd be banging again when Charlie arrived.
Charles crossed the kitchen, but rather than follow the arrows down the hall, he slipped to his right toward the dining room just as Oliver hoped he would. Springing from the master bedroom, Oliver was behind him in two quick steps. Before Charles could plant his good leg and turn, Oliver had a hand on his shoulder and drove a fist deep into the opposite kidney. Charles dropped helplessly to his knees. The pain forced his spine ramrod straight long enough for Oliver to grab a handful of hair and slam a fist into his temple. The blow wiped all focus from his eyes. Oliver let him flop down on his back and watched him lie a second before dropping down on his chest, knees first. The air blew out of his lungs, spittle flying. Oliver punched wildly at his face. The impact on his knuckles affirmed his domination, increasing the furious energy behind each blow as Charles' bloody head flopped about.
A glancing shot sent Oliver's knuckles skipping off the floor; two fingers broken. He cradled them to his abdomen, cursing his carelessness as he retrieved the meat tenderizer from the counter. He turned to see Charles, dazed and blinded by the blood smeared in his eyes. Still he struggled to get up. Oliver took a long arcing step and drove the toe of his boot hard into his cheek. Charles flipped over face-down, writhing in pain. Oliver stepped on the nearest wrist, splayed his fingers and snapped down with the meat tenderizer, crushing the fingernail between the jagged teeth and the tile floor. Blood welled, Charles wailed in agony, and the women started kicking again. By the time Oliver finished all ten fingernails and knuckles, Charles was too hoarse to scream. The stomping had died down, too.
Oliver discarded the tenderizer, pinned his head sideways on the floor, and pounded his fist into his temple. Oliver slammed down again and again, compressing his skull between his fist and the floor. The oozing blood sprayed up as he struck. The impact felt like redemption.
Oliver stood up; his arms limp at his sides. He'd lost control. He'd imagined this day for so long, he'd gone wild and battered Charles to a featureless blob. Blood trickled into his eyes and he made no attempt to brush it away. Henri had looked better than this dead on the farmhouse floor. Oliver knelt and watched Charles weakly attempt to draw breath. He was barely alive.
Oliver hoped he was conscious enough to fear what was about to happen to him. If there was time, he would have revived him.
"Get up you piece of shit! We're going upstairs."
Charles muttered as if in a dream.
Oliver grabbed the duct tape from the counter. "Get up!"
Charles titled his head a few inches to the side and it fell back.
Oliver rolled him over and taped his hands behind his back. Charles wasn't going anywhere, but the tape would complete the image for Charlie quite nicely. Hoisted to his feet, Charles wobbled blindly in search of support, his legs too weak to hold his weight. Oliver had gone a bit too far, but it was too late to let him regain his strength. Charlie would be inside in two or three minutes.
Oliver leaned him against the wall, retrieved a knife from the block on the counter and jabbed the point into his ribs. The pain was supposed to bring him back to focus and drive him up the stairs, but all Charles could do was stumble forward half a step and fall face-first onto the floor. His forehead smacked the tile, knocking whatever senses remained into a fog somewhere behind his eyes.
Oliver rolled him over, grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him up the stairs, cursing himself all the way. Breathless at the upper landing, Oliver hoisted him to his feet, his bloody-red eyes swollen shut, his body unresponsive to the yanking and prodding. Oliver finally faced Charles Marston man-to-man, the culmination of years of planning, but the lifeless shell in his hands was a tragic disappointment. Charles was as unworthy an adversary as he was a business partner.
Oliver reached for the neatly coiled noose he'd strung from the rafters. It had taken days to get it right; a work of art that only someone truly dedicated to the task would have taken the time to perfect.
He maneuvered Charles to the gap he'd sawed in the railing. The drop to the foyer was eleven feet. The rope overhead allowed three or four feet of slack, enough for him to get up some speed before it jerked him to a stop.
Charles seemed to feel the rope scratching over his face, but he was too dazed to resist. Oliver stood close and whispered. "You deserve far worse, but I'm running short on time."
Chapter Fifty-two
"Westport Police, recorded line."
"God help me. Hurry! He's going to kill them!"
"Slow down, sir. Where are you?"
"Marston Vineyards---Hixbridge road. The whole place is on fire!"
"What's the address, sir?"
"I don't know the number. It's a huge winery. Just look for the smoke."
"Ok, sir. Hang on." The dispatcher pressed a few buttons, spoke in the background, and came back on the phone. "Ok, relax. Help is on the way. Now tell me what's happening."
"He snapped! He totally snapped! He said he was going to kill him, but I never believed he'd actually do it."
"Who, sir? Who are you talking about?"
"Charlie Marston. His father owns this place."
"Did you see him hurt anyone?"
"No, but he told me... he told me he was going to burn the barn and hang his father. Flames are shooting out of the barn twenty feet high. It's unbelievable. I just hope I'm not too late. I hope he hasn't already found him."
"Is anyone in the barn?"
"I don't know. I'm just driving up." Oliver accelerated to be sure the sounds of his engine would be audible on the recording over the crackling of his cell.
"Just stop where you are, the police are on their way."
"No. I've got to go in there. He'll listen to me."
"What's your name?"
"Oliver, Oliver Joyet."
"Just relax, Oliver. We'll have the police and fire there in three minutes."
"I have to help them."
"Hold on, Oliver. Just stay where you are. The best way to help..."
"You don't understand. I told him."
"Told him what?" The officer asked.
"I told him what his father did."
Oliver left the question half-answered as he skidded to a stop in front of the Marstons' house. He left the car running, the driver's door open as he stomped up the stairs.
"Oh, my God!" Oliver opened the front door, the phone still in his hand and transmitting, but pointed to the ground as if he were in absolute shock at the sight before him. "Charlie, no! Don't do it! Don't push him, Charlie! He's your father for God's sake."
Oliver ran up the stairs as fast as he could.
He stopped short of the landing and threw the phone down as if it had been knocked out in a struggle.
"No!"
He crushed the phone under his heel and stared down at the jumble of useless black-plastic parts.
Chapter Fifty-three
Stunned, Charlie slipped through the trees and watched the bizarre scene unfold. A neatly-dressed young man ran out the front door, dashed across the lawn, and slipped into Oliver's Mercedes. Charlie hadn't noticed the car there next to the Volvo until the man climbed in.
Stranger still, the driver reversed the entire length of the driveway, paused a second at the road then drove back much faster. He parked in front of the house he'd left a minute earlier, left the car running and stormed inside leaving the door open behind him. The running car was an opportunity to escape; an opportunity Charlie didn't consider with his mother held hostage inside that house.
Another game and another partner to deal with, he thought as he crossed the parking area and crouched behind the murmuring SLR.
Charlie spirited around the car and up onto the porch. When he reached the threshold, his eyes locked on the wretched figure dangling between the first and second floors. The bloody, battered face could have been any man, but the red, white, and blue sweater belonged to his father. His subconscious screamed that he was walking into Oliver's trap. He needed to get out and come back with a weapon, but there wasn't time. His feet stood fast in the foyer, his attention fixed upward. The great winepress had visited Charles in the form of a hangman's noose. His limp body hung down straight and still, at rest if not at peace. He was consumed by the chain of events he'd touched off fifteen years earlier. Oliver had visited the ultimate revenge upon him. Standing there, facing his father's body, Charlie wasn't sure who to blame, the killer or the thief.
A few cautious steps toward the kitchen had his subconscious buzzing with warnings and his throbbing knee resisting each step. The legs, hanging at eye level, forced him to squeeze against the stairs to avoid bumping them. The improvised calf bandage had come loose during the struggle and the blood settling into his legs trickled out, soaking his pants and dripping to the floor in a thick, sticky pool beneath his feet.
The sheer size of the puddle smacked with certainty that his father was indeed dead. Tremors of guilt gripped him; for allowing Oliver into their midst; for wasting time in Oliver's observation post while his father was battling for his life; for leaving the women unprotected.
A step further Charlie recognized a long serrated knife on the floor and picked it up. He hoped he'd have more success with it than his father had. Another step and he faced a big red arrow that had led Charles from the back door to the spot where he now hung. A savage beating had occurred somewhere in between, spreading a wide arc of red droplets that speckled the tiles, the wall, and the island.
Charlie spotted a roll of duct tape on the counter and sight of it sparked a vision of his mother bound in the guest room. Charlie picked up the tape and rushed for the stairs, terrified to think of Oliver acting out the script of a porn flick he'd seen with Elizabeth as his co-star. He moved quickly past his father's legs in the hall, a gruesome reminder of the loss Oliver experienced as a child. Oliver blamed Charles for the death of his parents, he had seen what Charles had done, but no one would listen. What more fitting payback than to kill Charlie's parents and let him suffer the same torment.
The house was silent. Charlie paused, expecting to hear violent grunting upstairs. The horrific image flooded him: Oliver brutalizing his mother. He was overcome by a horrid, dirty feeling. He rushed upstairs in a panic, shivering uncontrollably, ready to slice any man he saw.
Curious bits of black plastic debris slowed him just before the landing. A keypad, a smashed phone: not his mother's or his father's. He moved on, slower, calmer, wondering. The struggle was downstairs. Charlie recalled the man talking on the phone as he rushed from the car. Did he drop his phone in the struggle? Had his father been hung after the man ran inside?
Charlie eased onto the landing hoping he'd come in time to save his mother.
Four closed doors confronted him. Oliver lurked somewhere nearby and knowing him, the door Charlie chose would be hiding another surprise. He inched across the landing toward the room he'd recognized on the surveillance screen. He passed an improvised hangman's platform, a wide section of railing Oliver had cut away. The gruesome results were close. The battered head brought a lump to his throat that he couldn't swallow. Up close, the purple gashes and swelling roused a bubbling in his stomach like lava ready to erupt. He focused on the door. Stepping closer, he expected the floor to give way at any second or for Oliver to charge out and knock him plunging to the tiles below. Seconds passed. Silence.
Something thumped behind the door.
A muffled plea followed. His mother was alive!
Charlie dropped the duct tape and jerkily tapped the doorknob, expecting a shock. Nothing. He twisted the knob and burst into the room knife first, cutting his eyes all around. Elizabeth hunched at the foot of the bed, facing the footboard and looking exhausted, but unharmed. Her hands were duct-taped to the posts wide-apart, forcing her to bend down unnaturally close to the mattress. Deirdre was on her back tied spread eagle to the bed, one appendage to each post. Ropes around each ankle and wrist were duct-taped over to keep her from wriggling free. Seeing Charlie, their heads bobbed excitedly toward the door. Both women mumbled through a short strip of grayish-blue tape. Charlie understood nothing, except that Oliver was not in the room.
Charlie spun around and stopped, confused by what he saw. A synthetic-gripped revolver lay on the bureau, the satin-finished stainless steel glinting. Closer, he recognized the Smith and Wesson insignia, but this was no gun his father had owned. It wasn't one of the guns Oliver and Sebastian had used to chase them back to the house, either. The range had been too far for a handgun, and their shots had been silenced. He picked it up, sensing this was what Oliver wanted him to do, but he couldn't resist the power the gun represented. It might be filled with blanks like the shotgun, or worse, it could blow up in his hands if he tried to use it.
Before he could put down the knife and open the cylinder, the man he'd seen outside appeared two steps outside the door. He had Randy's height and build, but a clean shave and a short hair cut. The reflective sunglasses were gone and the black leather had been traded for khaki pants and a freshly pressed golf shirt. The face was one Charlie had never seen. He was passable for an ivy leaguer if not for the blood smeared on the front of his white shirt.
"Chuckie Marston, son of the great deceiver."
The voice! The change was astonishing.
Oliver showed his palms and rested his empty hands at his sides. "Sorry you didn't get to play with daddy and me. We had fun without you, don't you worry."
Charlie adjusted his hand on the grip, found the hammer with his thumb, but didn't pull it back. The women were safe for the moment, but he wished he'd cut their hands loose so they could be freeing themselves while he dealt with Oliver. The gun fit his hand well, a heavier version of the .22 he'd practiced with as a boy, but Oliver's confidence and the idea that he'd left the gun for him to find, stole away the reassurance the awesome power in his hand should provide.
Oliver brazenly crossed the threshold.
Charlie instinctively leveled the gun on his chest.
"You're not going to shoot me, Chuckie." Oliver stood three feet away with an empty hand on each side of the door casing. From this range, Charlie couldn't miss even with the gun in his left hand, but the scenario was troubling. The gun was left for him to find, another step in Oliver's plan, but where was the trap?
He clicked the hammer back.
"After all I've done for you? Shit, your father and I waited as long as we could, but you were too busy yanking it out there in the woods."
His finger found the grooved trigger, touched it ever so gently.
The bright red and white Budweiser cans flashed to mind. Not a mistake. Oliver had wanted him to find the surveillance tent, to see his mother bound to the bed, and then find his father's battered corpse hanging in the foyer. The realization hit with crushing certainty, but it made no sense. Oliver orchestrated every step of this day. He was pushing Charlie to shoot him, but why?
Oliver's left hand disappeared outside the door frame.
Charlie swung the gun toward the window and turned his head as he fired, expecting the gun to explode in his hand or at least to find it loaded with blanks. Either way, he had to know what was going to happen. The blast stunned everyone and drowned out the sound of breaking glass as the slug ripped outside and buried itself somewhere among the vines. Charlie stared at the gun in his hand.
Live ammunition. Not a mistake, but why?
The answer crystallized an instant before Oliver could react.
Charlie turned to see him side-step through the doorway clutching the little leaguer's bat. He cocked his arms for a huge swing and the elongated motion gave Charlie time to drop the gun and let it clunk to the floor between them. Oliver went slack-jawed mid-swing as his carefully engineered train jumped the tracks. He had never intended to finish this swing, but now he had no choice. The bat cleared the bureau and started gathering force.
Charlie hopped closer to take away Oliver's leverage. Now the bat was too long, Charlie too close for a powerful strike, so Oliver snapped his wrists and angled the bat upward for a head shot.
Charlie was quicker. He thrust the knife into Oliver's triceps and the shooting pain crippled his left arm, stealing the momentum of the bat. Off balance, with the bat now extended at arms length and only one arm for power, the mighty swing was reduced to a wave. Charlie dropped the knife, grabbed the bat handle with both hands and drove his shoulder into Oliver, knocking him into the bureau. Charlie ripped the bat away before Oliver could regain his balance and faced him again, bat in hand, standing directly over the handgun and the knife.
Oliver seethed as he eyed the gun between Charlie's feet, a steady trickle of blood flowing through his fingers. His eyes bobbed up to meet Charlie's for an instant then his arm straightened and he lurched for the discarded weapons, but he never reached them. Charlie lashed the bat like a whip and what the quick blow lacked in force it made up in location as the head of the bat struck Oliver's elbow with a crack as if he'd batted a rock. The pain froze Oliver. He stood with two useless limbs hanging down, blind to everything but his own pain. Charlie palmed the end of the bat and rammed it into Oliver's breastbone toppling him backward into the hall. He crashed to the floor on his back.
Charlie closed in with the bat high, ready to strike until his knee jarred with the force of Oliver's heel. As he fell, he witnessed Oliver's gruesome transformation. Moments earlier he'd been eerily jovial, prodding, encouraging Charlie to kill him. Now, he was gripped by a fierce determination. Despite his injured arms, Oliver was ready to fight to the end, stopping at nothing until one of them paid the ultimate price. Death was what he wanted, whose didn't matter anymore.
Death was something Charlie wasn't ready to submit to.
Charlie crashed to the floor, the pain from the bar fight flaring in his ribs. As he rolled onto his back, Oliver was already pushing himself up, intent on the gun. Charlie quickly gripped the bat and whipped it in an awkward one-hand snap that caught Oliver in the forehead with enough force to knock him back to the carpet. Feet flailed everywhere. A heel caught Charlie in the ribs, stunning him long enough for three more solid strikes in the arms and chest before he could escape Oliver's reach by rolling away.
Both men got to their feet; Oliver with his back to the gap in the railing, Charlie in the center of the narrow landing feinting with the bat to cajole Oliver into position. He pushed him back to the brink, wound up, and lashed for his knees. Oliver dodged and the bat missed cleanly, but the maneuver cost his balance. He narrowly missed a plunge past Charles by clinging to the rail with his bleeding left arm. Charlie hacked down for another swing before Oliver could recover. This time, the bat caught his thigh, dropping him to the floor writhing in agony. Immobilized by three damaged limbs, Oliver glared up plotting his reprisal.
Charlie sprung for the tape in the corner, rolled Oliver face down, and dropped on top of him. His weight pinned Oliver to the floor and in seconds he wrapped the bloody wrist with two layers of tape. Catching the stronger wrist was difficult, but once he yanked Oliver's hands together and completed the first loop, Oliver was helpless. Charlie wrapped another dozen loops, tighter and tighter with each pass. He did the same with his ankles, rolled him over, and bound his chest to the corner post with his hands behind his back. He made wide loops around Oliver's neck, securing him to the post in case he should somehow get his hands free.
Back in the bedroom, Charlie cut the women free, but left them to peel the tape from their own lips. He picked up the gun and returned to Oliver wondering what he expected to accomplish by dying. Surely he'd thought this through. Charlie weighed the gun in his hands and realized Oliver's death could have only one goal---to bring on Charlie's penultimate fear: prison. He'd left something behind to speak for him. Death would release Oliver from his guilt and imprison Charlie in his.
Charlie tucked the gun into his belt as Elizabeth emerged from the guest room.
"No!" She screamed. Frantic, she spun left and right, screaming, lingering at the edge of the landing as if jumping to her husband would somehow help.
Charlie pulled her back, shielding Charles from view with his body.
She saw Oliver bound to the post and the bat just a few feet away. She pushed free of Charlie and lurched to the floor, possessed, scrambling for the handle. She came up swinging, missed, and almost caught Charlie with her follow-through. Her next swing splintered two spindles and still managed to thump the side of Oliver's head hard enough to snap it sideways.
Charlie grabbed his mother's arms. "Stop. Stop. You're going to kill him."
She jerked to get free, incensed that her son would interfere.
"You don't understand. That's what he wants."
Immune to his logic, Elizabeth struggled to escape her son's grasp. "Don't be foolish. Let me go."
"Think, Mom. He left me a loaded gun." Charlie wrestled the bat away and tossed it toward the bedroom. "He expected to be dead by now."
"Nonsense."
"Remember when we tried to sneak away along the stone wall?"
She nodded.
"I saw where he was hiding. He could have killed us then or a dozen other times. He's been setting us up for this---for right now. He left me the gun then taunted me to use it. You heard him, didn't you? He wanted me to shoot."
"He attacked you with a bat. He wanted to kill you and then do God-knows-what to Deirdre and me."
"He wasn't trying to hurt me until I dropped the gun. Think, Mom. Flames are shooting out of the barn twenty feet high. The police are coming. If he wanted to torture us, he'd have done it last night."
The authorities would arrive any minute to investigate. If they found him dead, they'd search for evidence here and at his home. The fresh clothes and the clean-cut look were a show for the police. The trail would start in the first place they would look: his ID. Charlie had to beat the cops to whatever he'd left for them.
"So what do we do?" Elizabeth asked.
Charlie squatted behind him and fished out his wallet. He stared at the license in disbelief, while the women looked on. "Nothing," he said from his daze. "Don't do anything. The police will take care of him."
"He'll plague us forever. He'll never leave us alone," Elizabeth said with the bat in her hands again.
"Listen to your mother, Charlie. I'll be back," Oliver said defiantly.
Charlie peeled off another piece of tape and sealed Oliver's lips then slapped his face hard enough to strain the tape at his neck. "Now be a good boy," he said then turned to his mother. "Don't listen to him, Mom. He's going to jail for a long, long time." Charlie hugged her and put a hand on the bat. "If he tries to get away, smash his knees. Beat the Hell out of him if you want, but stay away from his head."
Charlie watched his mother glance back and forth from Oliver to her husband's body behind him. A tear streamed down her cheek as she backed away from Oliver and sat against the wall.
Deirdre came into view. She stood in the doorway, the knife blade resting against her thigh, her attention on Oliver's chest.
Charlie was losing valuable time. The police would arrive any second, but Deirdre looked as if she'd plunge the knife in the second he walked out the door.
"Dee, I know this is what you came here for, but you can't do it. Not now. If you kill him, he wins. Do you hear me?"
Her focus never left Oliver.
"This isn't what Henri would have wanted."
Charlie grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
"Listen to me. We've won. He's going to jail. He's going to be punished."
Deirdre met Charlie's eyes.
"Do you understand? If you kill him now, he wins."
Deirdre inched the knife upward.
Charlie needed to grab it and run, but he waited as she haltingly raised it and spun the handle toward him. When she finally let go, Charlie threw it off the balcony where it bounced off the tiles and came to rest in the corner by the door. He gave her a quick hug and stepped back.
"Just hang on," he said to both of them. "The police will be here any minute. Tell them everything." Charlie moved to the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Elizabeth asked.
"An errand. Listen. Keep the police busy. Tell them exactly what happened for the last two days. Don't leave anything out. And whatever you do, keep that tape over Oliver's mouth as long as possible."
Charlie rushed down the stairs with Oliver's driver's license in hand, the gun snugly in his belt.
Chapter Fifty-four
The McLaren skidded to a stop in front of a huge white-brick colonial that matched the address on Oliver's driver's license. Charlie tossed the license on the seat and stepped out onto the grass, feeling idiotic as he stood between Oliver's house and the Caulfield's fire-ravaged home across the street. He'd stayed up nights for a week wondering how Oliver knew so much. He'd learned their alarm codes, mastered their schedule, and he'd manipulated them with the finesse of a family member. Halfway to the front door, Charlie noticed the security cameras aimed across the street and wondered if Oliver had seen his exchange with Mrs. Caulfield on the lawn. He'd probably rung the bell and prompted it.
Charlie walked through the unlocked front door, unafraid of Oliver's trickery. Whatever was waiting inside wasn't meant for him, it was left behind for the police. He perused three barren rooms at the front of the house, finding only a few scuffs on the floor and a few pieces of furniture to attest that anyone had lived inside. The whole house appeared to be an expensive stake-out to observe the comings and goings next door. The kitchen held little, except a few dishes and an array of beverages in the refrigerator. With a hesitant sniff, Charlie judged the milk to be well over a week old, purchased before the Caulfield's house burned.
Once the house burned and Bill was arrested, Oliver had turned his full attention to the Marstons. He'd moved closer to the winery, somewhere he could watch them as closely as he'd watched the Caulfields. He might have been hiding in the tiny observation post or even the cellar of Charles and Elizabeth's house. When they returned from Piolenc, the snakes and the dead body drove everyone out of Charlie's house and into theirs. The snake stunt might have been less about scaring them than giving Oliver a place to keep dry, a place he felt was rightfully his.
In the back hall, Charlie found the only closed door in the house, the study. A table against the far wall held crisp stacks of papers and envelopes. They were addressed, stamped, and laid out in precise ranks as if for display. Above them was a corkboard with columns of photographs aligned above the paperwork on the table. The pictures seemed to identify the addressees on the envelopes or at least the numbers and genders agreed.
As Charlie scanned the rest of the room, he found a desk to his left arranged similarly with two entire corkboards full of photos.
Charlie sat and scanned ten years of Oliver's camera work.
A column of photographs and news clippings chronicled the demise of Bill Caulfield. Bill, Jo, and their home were photographed in every season and always from the same vantage point in Oliver's house. In the earliest pictures, the pear trees along the drive were five feet shorter than they were now, which meant Oliver had been snapping photos for three or four years.
Charlie recognized the next series as the original color photos from the articles in The Standard Times. Oliver might have sent these to the paper, but more likely it was the insurance agent who forwarded them. Workers of all kinds were pictured coming and going. Plumbers, electricians, pest control technicians, furniture delivery men, and heating contractors all visited the house while the pear trees were in full flower. Charlie marveled at the foresight to start the Caulfield's torment just before the trees came into bloom. Oliver had been working toward these photos from the first time he aimed his camera across the street.
Several neatly clipped articles were tacked beneath the photos. They covered the fire, alleged arson, and recapped Bill Caulfield's indictment. The reporter's characterization of Caulfield as a "wealthy banker using insurance fraud to pay his bills" showed just how convincing Oliver's manufactured evidence was. The gasoline receipt, the flat tire just a mile from the house, the last-minute 911 call, and the discarded phone in the bushes ten feet from the car: brilliant! Unless the defense lawyers found some glaring mistake, the jury would send Bill away. But after years of work, Oliver missed one important fact. He planned with the obsession of a serial killer, maniacally focused on his objective. His obsession, his unquenchable thirst for revenge screamed out from the assembled evidence. His motivation couldn't be overlooked by the police.
Did he think his outrage equated to father's guilt? And Caulfield's?
A photo in the middle of the board caught Charlie's eye. Jo Caulfield stood in a lacy red top, captured in a flattering close-up. In other photos, people moved here and there and Oliver was intent to prove something or other, but he had captured Jo with an admiring lens. Charlie's encounter with her was unforgettable. Naturally, Oliver wanted to take her from Bill and Charlie wondered if he'd done more than take pictures.
Maybe at some level she helped him see the irony of his quest. His hatred made him the third victim of his parents' killer. The orphaned boy grew fifteen years into an emotionless shell. Empty, vengeful, he plotted to sacrifice himself to punish the people who took his parents from him. As difficult as things had been for Oliver, Charlie could never imagine sacrificing himself out of hate. For the first time since leaving the house, Charlie was glad he held his fire.
What an incredible waste of life Charles and Bill had started; Roger Joyet and his wife, Henri, Monique, the detective. Shameful. Bill was repaying his debt and Charles could pay no more, but Charlie couldn't help feeling guilty for what his father had done. He hoped the carnage would end with Oliver in jail.
The photo on top of the next column was so shocking he didn't hear the car door slam outside. There he was in his red and white Ohio State uniform standing with Julie. She wore the bright-yellow fleece pullover he'd bought to keep her warm at the game. This was one of their last weeks together. Seeing her long straight hair and the curves of her face reminded him of the day he remembered too well. He couldn't imagine Oliver here among this crowd. He had no place in this time, the time Charlie yearned for every morning when he touched the floor and felt the stabbing pain.
He caught three touchdowns that day in front of an audience packed with scouts. After the game, the Pittsburgh scout promised he'd be their first pick in the draft. Charlie was on top of the world, all but guaranteed to be a starting NFL tight-end next season. He didn't want to leave that photo. It promised a cozy life with Julie, more money than they'd ever need, a few kids, and a house in a great neighborhood. That photo was the edge of his dream. What happened next brought his whole life crashing to earth. Outside that photo, Charlie was an ordinary man.
The next image was from another game two weeks later. It was an image he'd never seen on film: a tight zoom on his lower body taken from the stands. Charlie was locked up with a linebacker as a two hundred eighty-five pound lineman crashed down, shoulder-first into his kneecap. This instant in time was etched in Charlie's memory. It was the turning point of his life, but he'd never seen it. He remembered the struggle to push the linebacker off the play and then the pain. The camera's view of the scene made no sense. The lineman was unblocked in the hole, yet he dove for Charlie's knee rather than the running back. The man's legs were out of view. He could have tripped, but he landed with his shoulder-pad squarely on Charlie's kneecap with tremendous force that came only from determined effort.
The next image of a player on the stretcher surrounded by teammates didn't completely register. Oliver had a close-up of an injury on an otherwise inconsequential play for Ohio State. In sixty minutes of game time, he'd had the camera zoomed in the very second Charlie was nearly crippled.
Oliver had known it was going to happen!
He'd been following Charlie three years before he pushed himself up on that barstool. Charlie felt like Bill Caulfield even before he heard the footsteps.
Chapter Fifty-five
Oliver seethed. The tape across his throat choked him with the slightest struggle. Angry breaths stung his nostrils and the tape over his mouth threatened to suffocate him should enough mucus gather in his nasal passages. He forced himself to remain calm as the women he'd held captive minutes earlier stood guard over him with the bat Charlie had ripped from his hands and used to incapacitate him.
The Marstons had followed his script precisely until Charlie fired that gun out the window. Now, instead of being mortally wounded on the floor, a glaring incrimination in a blood-soaked, white shirt that would send Charlie Marston to jail for two murders, he was bound to the post, ready to be locked up like some common criminal. His hopes of working himself free before the police arrived were dim. The tape around his wrists was bound so tightly he could barely wiggle his numb fingers. When the police found him, they'd be hard-pressed to believe this was the work of the enraged maniac Oliver described in his emergency call.
Charlie had remained serene and logical in the face of atrocities that would infuriate lesser men into a blood-thirsty rampage. Oliver spent months tormenting him, the depths of which Charlie was only now beginning to understand. He'd destroyed his childhood home, burned a family fortune then savagely beaten and killed his father. Charlie walked past his father's brutalized body moments before the confrontation and still he didn't shoot. Even seeing his mother bound to the bed wasn't enough. Oliver wondered what would have happened if he'd stripped her naked and slapped her around.
He consoled himself that Charles Marston was hanging in the foyer behind him. He and Bill Caulfield paid dearly for what they'd done, but now was not the time for reverie. There was still time to salvage the day. Limited time. Charlie had avoided the trap, but Oliver might be just as convincing alive as he would have been dead. The women would be his undoing. If he'd killed them, the scenario would have been convincing. Charlie killed his family, stabbed Oliver, stole the car, and bolted. Unfortunately, the women were alive, looking frightened and pathetic, and Charlie was speeding toward the one place where he could ruin fifteen years of preparation. Charlie had to be stopped. If only Sebastian had stayed.
The three minutes the emergency operator promised had turned into seven by the time the sirens approached. Several of them must have passed the SLR streaking in the other direction. The screeching cacophony relaxed Elizabeth and Deirdre. Elizabeth lowered the bat, and both women stepped to the head of the stairs expectantly. If he could move at all, this would be the time to make his break, but his upper body was cocooned in tape, his feet lashed together.
Oliver heard tires skid to a stop in the shells. Feet scurried in through the door. He couldn't turn his head far enough to see the officers rush into the foyer and spread out, but he could hear them moving in the living room, the dining room, and the hall. Elizabeth rejoiced at the sight of the police downstairs.
"Thank God! Up here!" she yelled.
Two officers raced upstairs until they saw the women were standing guard. The man down in the foyer radioed for the coroner and a homicide investigator.
Oliver screamed through the tape, "Charlie Marston's insane. He killed his father and stabbed me," but all that escaped was a series of excited humming sounds, unintelligible even to him. He pleaded for help with his eyes, tilting his head back and forth the few inches he could move, but the officers stayed back, unsure about the scene they'd rushed into.
Murders in Westport were rare. Oliver guessed that neither young officer had been to a murder scene before. They'd been trained in crime scene procedures once or twice and they'd probably responded to fatal car wrecks, but they'd never come face to face with a killer. Their inexperience was his only hope.
Outside, the fire engines encircled the barn. The men yelled to each other as they rolled out hoses and prepared to deliver thousands of gallons of water onto the raging fire. It didn't matter what they did now. Thanks to Charlie's sawdust technique the barn was completely destroyed, putting the fire out now only meant more work for the demolition crew.
The nearest officer, a thick man, short by police standards, squatted and looked at Oliver's bound hands. He nodded approvingly and looked Oliver over as if he were a trophy animal bagged on safari. The dark skin and short stature suggested the officer was Portuguese. "Is this Charlie Marston?"
Elizabeth was stunned. "Of course not!"
They still had no idea what he had done. The officer's question was rhetorical, but Elizabeth's response had him stepping back and eyeing Oliver warily. Time was running out.
"Why would you be looking for Charlie?" Deirdre asked, her puzzled look too convincing to be a fraud.
Desperate, Oliver erupted beneath the tape, hoping the timing of his outburst would move the officer to peel back the tape and let him state his case. The officer leaned forward to do just that, but Elizabeth stepped in, waving the blunt end of the bat at her captive. Charlie had prepared her well.
"The man you're looking for is right here," she said.
The officer straightened up. "Who is he?"
"Oliver Joyet."
The officer recognized the name. There was still hope.
Oliver screamed again and stomped his bound feet.
...
Officer Pinto stood between the two frightened women and the man duct-taped to the railing, trying to reconcile the original call with what he'd found at the scene. Dispatch confirmed the mobile caller as Oliver Joyet and the perpetrator as Charlie Marston. Pinto had found a smashed cellular phone near the top step, most likely Oliver's, broken in the struggle. Back at headquarters they replayed the tape and confirmed the sound of a running car and a fire in the background.
Oliver's original story jived with the facts. He saw the fire, called, then rushed inside in time to see Charlie Marston hang his father. So why were the ladies so ferociously defending the man Pinto had come to arrest? And why had Marston disappeared if he was innocent? Harried, unsure what to do next, Pinto wondered if this was typical for a grieving wife and mother. Would she defend the son who killed her husband? Was she afraid of him even though he wasn't here?
Pinto needed to hear both sides of the story. He put a hand on Oliver's forehead, pinning it to the post then yanked the tape from his mouth with a jerk.
"God that hurt," Oliver said, licking a bloody, sticky lip, "but thanks."
"It's the only way."
The mother couldn't tolerate the friendly banter. "Don't listen to him. He tried to kill us. He's had us trapped here for two days."
"Mrs. Marston, would it really take me two days to kill you?"
Both women turned to Pinto and erupted at once.
"He killed my husband! Look what that savage did to him."
"He filled the house with snakes," the second woman said.
The scenario was one of the strangest Pinto had ever heard and he couldn't quite hold back a snicker.
"It's over, Elizabeth. I'm sure your hot-shot lawyer will get Charlie off, but don't involve me in your family dirt." Oliver's voice rang of senatorial distinction.
"Don't listen to him, he's insane!" Elizabeth shouted, poking him with the bat.
In spite of his detractors, Oliver appeared the most rational of the three.
The other woman closed in, forcing Pinto to stand directly over Oliver's legs to keep them separated. He was glad when Frenet joined him and helped usher the women over against the wall. Pinto motioned to his partner. "Why don't you take the ladies into the next room while I get Mr. Joyet's version of events?"
"I'm not going back in there!" the older woman yelled.
Panic whitened their faces. Their fear was real, but was it Marston or Joyet that scared them? They had tape residue on their wrists and faces similar to the tape that held Joyet to the post. Joyet couldn't have set them free in his condition, and the women couldn't have bound him up if he had. Only Marston could have bound Oliver to the post. But why didn't he re-bind the women if he was guilty? And why didn't he stick around if he was innocent?
Frenet spoke for the first time. "Would you ladies feel safer downstairs? Or outside in a cruiser?" The older woman stepped forward, clearly relieved.
Pinto was always amazed at the way women responded to Frenet's six-five frame and deep soothing voice. His easy demeanor emanated protective power. Before the women were halfway down the stairs, Frenet had the bat.
Pinto adopted a stern expression and turned to Joyet. "Ok, you called us here then walked in. What happened?"
"I'm a private investigator."
"And?"
"Charlie Marston was my client."
"And you ratted on him? That can't be good for business."
"I had no choice. I thought he could handle what I needed to tell him, but it set him off." Oliver cast his eyes toward Charles hanging behind him.
"What did you tell him?"
"For starters, his father built a fortune by bankrupting wineries then buying them. That was my first report six weeks ago."
This was no motive. The kid cooled off for six weeks, then offed his father? Pinto shook his head. "Why now? Why'd he wait six weeks?"
"He didn't. He asked me to keep digging. I gave him my last report last night."
Pinto was skeptical. "What did you tell him this time?"
"His father paid to have his knee broken."
"What?"
"Charlie was going to be drafted high by the Steelers three years ago. You can check it with Ohio State and the Steelers' scouting organization. His father was a total prick. He needed him in the family business and the only way to ensure that was to end his football career, so he did."
"No father would do that."
"Imagine how pissed you'd be if you knew yours did?"
Pinto couldn't believe a father could cripple his own son, but he couldn't help glancing in disgust at the man hanging by the rope.
"I have proof."
Pinto's heart pounded with rage just hearing the story. He imagined how Charlie Marston had reacted and thought maybe he deserved to go free.
"Listen, he knows I have the evidence that will put him away. That's why he trussed me up and ran. You've got to help me. The proof is all there in my office, but he's going back to cover himself. I know he is. You've got to stop him. If you let him destroy the pictures, he'll try to hang this on me."
Pinto looked at the dried blood on Oliver's forearm and the rusty-looking smears on his shirt and pants. The old lady didn't slice him. Oliver was stabbed in a struggle with Marston. It certainly looked like Marston bound him up and rushed out to destroy the evidence and Pinto wasn't going to let that happen on his watch.
He radioed a car to the address Oliver gave him.
Chapter Fifty-six
The pictures brought a twinge to Charlie's knee, a feeling he usually ignored, but knowing his injury was intentional multiplied his pain. He spent years pushing himself in the weight room and on the track, years catching passes and taking hits, all to get him to that day standing in the sun with Julie. One moment, an early-round draft selection was within reach and the next, his dream was obliterated, ripped out of place like the tendons and cartilage in his knee. He'd never know if he would have risen to stardom or struggled as a second stringer. A decade-old vendetta had stolen that chance from him. At that moment, he didn't know who to hate more: Oliver for shattering his knee or his father for setting the catastrophe in motion.
When his composure returned, he looked back at the corkboard. The evidence mounted in the succeeding photos just as it had for Bill Caulfield. The first was Charlie standing in the Caulfield's kitchen with an array of tools at his feet. He stared at the picture, stunned that Oliver took it without arousing his suspicion. The camera must have been tiny. The next three photos showed Charlie carrying the bag of corn, then his lower body in a tight shot of the mice scattering in the basement, and finally him holding the drill up in the attic. The holes Oliver had drilled were clearly visible behind him. Charlie was horrified and impressed at the same time.
All of a sudden, Oliver's collection of Bill Caulfield pictures made sense. Oliver hadn't accidentally exposed his own motivations for sabotage. He had framed Charlie and created a no-lose scenario for himself. Bill had already lost his wife, his job, and his house. The only way for him to avoid jail was to convince the jury someone had done this to him. That someone was Charlie. The legal battle would be long and nasty. No matter who won, the battle would take its toll.
Another series of pictures began with the farmhouse in daylight. The next showed the rental car parked beside Henri Deudon's, the photo Laroche had been e-mailed. The next was Deirdre naked and strapped to the bed. Underneath, was a photo he hadn't seen: Henri Deudon with his neck oddly twisted among stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The implication of the photos was clear: Charlie killed him for the money. Worse, the money was gone and Charlie was sleeping with his widow.
Charlie gasped at the next photo even as the footsteps came closer down the hall. The pattern on the couch cushions was unmistakable. They had been pulled aside to show the money neatly stacked in boxes underneath. He gasped. The money was in his house and there was no way he could get to it without alerting the police and firemen swarming around the barn. Oliver had used the snakes to keep him out while he moved the money in. By now, Oliver had cleaned the house and removed the snakes. Charlie's version of the story would sound like insanity. The body upstairs, the money in the couch, and the widow in his bed were damning evidence. Bill Caulfield might be the least of Charlie's legal troubles.
Oliver would show the police to the money then send them here.
The door swung open, but Charlie was transfixed on the next photo. TJ Lynch lay with a bullet hole in his forehead. The dead man in his house was no surprise, and the image was much less horrific than suddenly encountering the body in the dark. A figure took two steps into the room and Charlie felt the weight of the revolver in his hands. Astounded by a final gruesome epiphany, Charlie popped open the cylinder and pressed the ejector. Five live bullets dropped on the floor along with two spent casings. This was the gun that killed TJ Lynch. The other bullet was meant for Oliver. The bullet he fired through the window linked him to TJ's killing with prints and powder on his hands.
Oliver couldn't have scripted the timing more perfectly. No sooner had the depths of his plan gripped Charlie than his captor appeared inside the door. The pictures had engrossed him when he should have been shredding them one after the other. The gun had done its job, too. He knew he should have shunned it from the beginning. Why had he picked it up? Why had he fired it? Perhaps Oliver had always expected to survive; expected Charlie to take the high road and rush here to clear his name. Oliver had gathered an insurmountable pile of evidence and drawn Charlie to it.
More footsteps.
The truth was going to be hard to argue. He was sure Oliver had linked him to his father's death somehow. The murder in Piolenc would be hard to dispute with the stolen money hidden in his couch and the widow living with him. The case for the detective's murder was practically ironclad, the gun still in his hands, the spent casings at his feet. Charlie collapsed in the chair and faced the man before him. The gun had sealed his fate as surely as if he'd shot Oliver Joyet twenty minutes earlier. Now empty, it could only drag him down.
Oliver had won.
Beaten, Charlie drooped forward and stared down at the two empty shell casings. The footsteps stopped three feet behind him.
"I guess you're not going to shoot me then?" a familiar voice asked.
Charlie wheeled around with the gun still in his lap, the cylinder open. The man with the long, mustached face smiled down at him. He'd traded his uniform for jeans, a white oxford, and a blue windbreaker. His hands were empty, but Charlie wished he hadn't ejected the shells. He also wished he'd made the calls to Piolenc as promised.
Again Oliver's orchestration of events was impeccable. Laroche materialized a moment before Charlie began destroying the pictures. Soon the Westport police would arrive and the two jurisdictions would clash over his punishment like packs of hungry dogs fighting over a fresh kill.
"How'd you find me?"
"I would have been here sooner, but that car of yours is awfully fast. I lost you a few miles back." Laroche stepped closer and eyed the photographs.
"You followed me?"
Laroche leaned over the desk and inspected the pictures. "I tried."
"From the winery?" Charlie stared at him too wary to hope.
"Yes. The man with you, was that Randy?"
"He looks a lot different doesn't he?"
"I saw what he was doing." Laroche gestured in frustration where his sidearm would normally be, an apology of sorts that he hadn't been able to help. He then traced his finger down the column, stopping on the photograph of the dead man and the money. He pulled the tack and set the picture on the desk in front of Charlie. "You two seemed like chums? Why would he do this to you?"
"He hated my father."
Laroche sighed sympathetically then pointed to the photo of the money in Charlie's couch. "The money from Piolenc?"
Charlie nodded.
"Where is this?"
"My house," Charlie said, expecting Laroche to produce a pair of handcuffs at any moment.
Instead, Laroche took the picture down and laid it on top of the last one.
Charlie straightened in his chair with a rush of hope. His eyes asked what he couldn't force his lips to.
"I believe you, Mr. Marston. I know who killed Henri, but I can't prove it." Laroche began indiscriminately removing pictures from the board and piling them on the desk as he talked. "He killed your father, I'm sure of that. He'll get what he deserves."
"You're going to help me?"
Laroche shrugged at the pile of pictures as if to say, "aren't I already?"
Charlie rushed over to another board and skimmed over the pictures and clippings as he pulled them down. The first column showed photos of Roger Joyet and Charles Marston shaking hands. An index card was tacked underneath with the handwritten caption, "A partnership with Marston leads to downfall." Underneath, five newspaper articles detailed the downfall of the Joyets from wealthy winery owners to the discovery of propylene glycol, their suspicious deaths, and ultimately the sale of the winery. One headline reported their car accident as a suicide. The police report underneath told a very different story. Oliver Joyet reported seeing Charles Marston tampering with the wine. He was just thirteen then and no one believed the distraught boy who'd just lost his parents. His statements never made it into the newspapers. Charlie realized that Oliver had been working to impose a death sentence ever since.
The next five columns were hauntingly similar. Each started with a partnership between Charles Marston and a small winery owner and each column ended with a mishap. Every winery suffered a decline in business, some reported in the papers, some not. They all resulted in a sale to the Marston family. As time went on, there were fewer news clippings, a sign that Charles was mastering his craft.
Charlie couldn't imagine how Oliver collected the information for the final column without wiretaps and a first-class investigative team, but judging by his surveillance of the winery and the Caulfield home that is what he had become.
The pictures showed Charles handing a briefcase to two men. The caption beneath was labeled "Charles Marston pays National Institute for Appellations Committee to fail Chateau Piolenc." Bank statements tacked below showed one hundred fifty thousand dollars withdrawn by Charles and then deposited in equal shares by two other men. The timeframe for the transactions was thirteen days. The typewritten narrative below explained how the owners couldn't sell the wine without approval of the panel. Oliver's case would have been convincing even without the evidence of the five previous frauds.
Charlie moved away in disgust and stood at a table full of neatly arranged paperwork. There were six columns arranged on the table, each with an envelope addressed to a Charles Marston victim, a stack of papers detailing the entire fraud, and an envelope full of photographs similar to those arranged on the corkboards. Behind each column was a FedEx box, prepaid and waiting for someone to stuff the contents inside.
Laroche filled a trash can with the pictures and documents, hefted it to his chest, and left Charlie to wait for the police.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Pinto hung up with the dispatcher and watched through the window as Frenet seated the women in a cruiser. He was glad Frenet was dealing with the hysteria outside. Joyet was much more rational and for the first time since he arrived, Pinto had a silent moment to piece together what had happened. He pulled out his pad, checked his watch and wrote: "Arrived 11:12 am."
Beneath that he added: "Recently deceased victim hanging in foyer. Identified by widow as Charles Marston---Owner---Marston Vineyards." Pinto didn't add that Oliver had accused him of being a thief. He'd whisper that to the chief later. He also omitted any description of the body. The blood dripping from the calf supported the dispatcher's opinion that Marston was killed while Oliver Joyet was on his cell phone calling it in. He'd sworn he heard the rope snap, but Pinto decided the time of death was best left to the coroner and the detectives. They could examine the body and listen to the tape themselves later.
He continued to describe the scene:
Oliver Joyet bound to stair post on second floor w/ duct tape.
Ankles/wrists bound, mouth taped over.
Neck taped to post.
Laceration (bandaged) on upper arm. Fight w/ Marston? Sr or Jr?
Who applied the bandage?
Elizabeth Marston, Deirdre \_\_\_\_\_\_\_, "guarding?" w/ bat
Kitchen knife by front door
Tape residue on women's wrists, faces---appears to match tape on Joyet
Charlie Marston (Jr) not on premises
Who freed the women?
Barn on fire. Set?
Ten minutes elapsed from call to arrival.
Pinto glanced up from his notes at Oliver. He looked like your average accountant who'd been through a bar fight. His voice matched the 911 call and Pinto convinced himself that Oliver couldn't have caused this much chaos in ten minutes. Charles Junior looked guilty. The women might be covering for him. What mother wouldn't?
Pinto put his pad away and crouched down next to Oliver.
"Why don't you tell me what happened when you got here."
Oliver motioned over his shoulder with his head. The wound in his triceps must have been painful. Even uninjured, being trussed to the pole like that would be terribly uncomfortable. Pinto knew from experience that if his suspect trusted him, he'd be more likely to tell what he knew.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
"My back's killing me."
Pinto looked down at Rodrigues by the door and then looked behind Oliver to his hands. Even with his hands free, the tape around his neck would hold him. Oliver wasn't going anywhere.
Oliver smiled when Pinto removed his pocket knife and began cutting. He sliced the dozen layers of tape that held his chest to the post then he knelt down and cut his hands free. Oliver pulled the tape from his chest piece by piece, balled it up, and tossed it in the corner.
"Hold still," Pinto said, and cut between Oliver's neck and the post.
Oliver tried to stand, but couldn't manage it with his ankles bound.
Pinto stepped back, again checking Rodrigues, but hesitated to free him further.
"Do you mind?" Oliver motioned to his ankles. "You can cuff my good hand to the rail if it makes you feel better."
Pinto helped him up, tightened the cuff around his wrist and fastened it to the unbroken section of the rail. When the cuff clicked closed, Pinto relaxed. No killer volunteered to be cuffed at a murder scene swarming with police. Oliver had to be innocent.
Pinto knelt down and focused on cutting the tape and not Oliver's khakis.
The crushing pain in his windpipe came from nowhere. The knife dropped to the soggy carpet as he clutched his throat in vain for breath. Rodrigues was only twenty feet away somewhere between the foyer and the dining room. Pinto couldn't see him and he couldn't make a sound. There was a rush of air and then something slammed into his temple. The world flashed white and then everything went black. He felt himself falling as if in a dream, falling down into nothingness.
...
Pinto collapsed in a heap pinning Oliver's feet to the floor, his belt just in reach. Oliver fished in the pouch that had held the cuffs, no keys. He moved on to the next pouch and then another. Someone moved at the bottom of the stairs. The gun was within reach, but Oliver couldn't imagine winning a shootout with a dozen cops while cuffed in plain sight.
He rolled Pinto aside, stood up and spoke loudly. "Then I came in through the door. Charles was standing here," he motioned to the gap in the rail, "all bloody. I don't think he could see anymore. Then, I saw Charlie behind him."
The officer in the foyer moved on and Oliver knelt down and resumed fishing through Pinto's uniform for the keys. He continued his story in case the men downstairs were still listening. "Charlie looked rabid. I screamed no, no, but he pushed him anyway. I ran up the stairs but it was too late. Charlie had the knife and then..."
Bingo, the keys were on a tiny ring in his chest pocket. The cuffs clicked open. Pinto's 9mm Glock popped from the holster, not a ton of stopping power and only ten bullets. Regardless, Oliver was amazed to be free. He almost broke into a trot, but realized his heavy footsteps would attract attention downstairs. He stalked on wobbly legs through a tidy bedroom, out the window, and onto the garage roof. He closed the window and inched down toward the expansive vineyard. There he realized the white shirt he'd worn to highlight the blood was now a major liability. He'd stick out anywhere he went.
He decided to try the escape the Marstons had tried, but in the opposite direction toward the forest. He knew the woods around the winery better than anyone. With luck, the police would be so engrossed with the women and the fire they wouldn't notice him sneaking down the slope and jumping over the stone wall. As long as they took their time finding Pinto, crawling along the wall to the woods, would be a snap.
He let go of the window frame and his sneakers began to slide on the mossy slope. The grating on the asphalt shingles would have been loud on any other day, but the fire and the commotion surrounding it completely drowned it out. He felt like a panicky ski jumper reaching dangerous speed for the first time. Halfway down, he did the only thing he could to slow himself; he dropped to his butt and slid. The shingles scraped the undersides of his thighs until he got his knees bent and leveled the soles of his sneakers back down on the shingles.
Still too fast.
At the end of the roof, his shoes caught the aluminum gutter and sent him head first over the ten-foot drop to the grass. His left arm crumpled on impact, slowing him only marginally. The force threw him over on his back and his ribcage met the ground with a thud that blew every breath of air from his lungs.
He lay on his back watching oceans of gray smoke. His arms were lifeless, his ribs on fire, but his legs were strong enough to carry him to freedom. Oliver never expected to survive this day. Energized by the prospect of freedom, he picked up the Glock and ambled to the wall. When he reached it and tumbled over, he looked back. No one followed. They were overwhelmed with what he'd left behind.
There was life ahead for Oliver. He had enough money to start again and live the life he'd missed. He regretted not keeping the money from Piolenc. The dead men would make it tough enough for Charlie. Unfortunately, Charlie was probably burning the pictures right now.
Gathering sawdust, he mused.
If only he'd sent copies to a lawyer. At the time, it felt too much like a setup. Charlie had surprised him. He held his water and rushed off to destroy the evidence.
Well played, Chuckie, but it's not over yet.
Chapter Fifty-eight
The three men in the car with Charlie were wary, not afraid since his hands were cuffed, but alert to every movement he made, however subtle. The gun, zipped in a plastic bag on the front seat, had convinced them Charlie was the sort of crazed sociopath who could kill his own father and terrorize his mother into complicity. The empty cylinder and his peaceful demeanor didn't matter. To them, the freshly-fired gun proved his guilt. They had carefully bagged five bullets and two empty casings without a single comment about the odd condition of the house. One of the officers swore he could smell gun powder on Charlie's fingers and ordered him not to wash his hands until they were tested for residue. The test wasn't necessary. After six shotgun blasts and one with the revolver, Charlie could smell the powder himself.
Laroche had offered to take the gun, but Charlie refused. The gun was all that remained of Oliver's case. When he learned his pictures were missing, he'd center his arguments on the gun and Charlie didn't want to make himself look guiltier by trying to hide it. Right then, the gun was the only thing keeping the cuffs on Charlie. When the police put them together in the same room, Oliver would argue some wild theory about Charlie killing Henri, his father, and the detective. As the car drove on, Charlie wondered what connection Oliver would dream up to link these three strangers. Whatever Oliver said, Charlie could explain the gun and his father's death. The dead detective and the cash in the couch would be far more difficult.
The radio crackled with some official gibberish and one of the officers up front confirmed their arrival in less than a minute.
Charlie balled his fists again. He'd alternated splaying his fingers on the bench seat and pressing his palms higher against the backrest to no avail. His chained hands made comfort impossible. Every shift exacerbated the pain in his ribcage where Oliver's heel had struck bone.
They passed a mob in the vineyard that looked like a huge, blue-shirted pruning crew fanning out in a wide arc. Charlie glimpsed two canine officers working their dogs in the center and took a tremulous breath.
"What's going on out there?"
The men glanced at each other and the driver spoke. "The chief will advise you on the situation." Police speak for sit there and shut up.
They whizzed by seven, two-toned state police cars at the roadside. A few green pickups and SUVs were mixed in among them.
"You didn't let him go?" Charlie asked.
Their hesitation was answer enough. "Oh, my God! Do you have any idea what he's done to us?"
The driver stoically turned down the long seashell drive unmoved by Charlie's outrage. Up ahead, it seemed that every piece of Westport public safety equipment was arrayed around the blazing barn. Firemen rushed excitedly around the perimeter, the white water rushing from their hoses doing little to dampen the flames. The senior officer parked amid a cluster of police cars, got out, and daintily held the plastic-bagged revolver as he led the way into Charlie's house. Charlie struggled out of the back seat and followed, flanked by the two younger officers.
Inside, three neatly dressed men stood in the center of the living room with a uniformed officer in each doorway. Chief Brock, an overstuffed man who'd been muscular some years ago, faced Deirdre and Elizabeth as they sat on the couch. With Oliver presumably gone and the pictures destroyed, the police wouldn't know what was hidden beneath the cushions. Charlie wished there was a way to signal his mother to stay seated, but before he could think of anything, a tall man in dress pants and a tie gripped his arm and led him into the kitchen. He silently prayed Deirdre didn't complain about something hard underneath her seat as Detective Miller firmly escorted him to a chair in the dining room.
"What are you doing with him? He has nothing to do with this." Elizabeth's protest trailed off as Miller removed one cuff then reattached it to the chair.
A stout officer unsteadily joined them from the front entry and sat in silence at the far corner of the table. He produced several sheets of paper and waited for Miller to begin. He lacked the authoritative edge of the other officers, as if he himself were intimidated by the proceedings. Charlie spotted a black bruise forming around his windpipe and assumed that this was the man that had let Oliver escape. He might be the only remaining vessel for Oliver's story. The mishap would also explain his taciturn demeanor.
Miller began with polish distinct from his comrades. He looked fortyish and Charlie guessed he'd retired early from a city precinct for the slower pace of rural law enforcement. Miller acknowledged that Charlie knew his rights, but asked for his cooperation to speed the investigation along. Despite his manners and words to the contrary, Miller's penetrating glare revealed his true feelings on the case.
Miller took up a position to Charlie's right, forcing him to focus his attention on one of the men at a time. "I've listened to some very interesting stories this afternoon, and I assume yours will agree with your mother's and that of Mrs. Deudon." Miller held out his hands and tipped them like the Scales of Justice. "The problem I have is that Mr. Joyet's statements align very closely with the facts. He's the one who called us. He told us you were going to burn down the barn and kill your father. Voila, the barn is on fire and alas, your father is hanging next door. He also said we'd find you in his home with a gun." Miller waved the revolver in the plastic baggie. "You have to agree he's been very reliable."
"Where is he now?"
"Careful, Mr. Marston. Joyet's disappearance is the only thing keeping you out of jail at the moment. Why don't you start by telling me where you got the gun?"
"If Oliver was innocent, he would have stayed around."
"That's precisely what he said about you. Answer the question, Mr. Marston. Where did you get the gun?"
"I came into the house, found my father dead in the foyer, and went upstairs to help my mother. The gun was on the bureau by the door."
Miller nodded presumptively as if he'd heard this before. "It wasn't in a drawer or the gun cabinet. Someone left it lying in plain sight."
"Not someone, Oliver. The women were tied up in there. Ask them."
Miller ignored the suggestion. "How'd you know to look upstairs?"
"I was approaching the house through the woods and I found a little lean-to that Oliver had been watching us from. There was a monitor that showed my mother bound to the bed in the guest room. I think he wanted me to find it."
Miller stared back, as if no proof Charlie could offer would offset the gun sitting on the table. Charlie pointed out the front window with his free hand. Miller paused, then left the room a moment and sent an officer trotting across the driveway and up into the trees. The man across the table wrote something and passed it to Miller as he came back. Miller browsed it and pushed it aside.
"So, tell me why Oliver Joyet goes to all this trouble. What could he possibly gain from this?"
The inference stung. Charlie stood to inherit millions, but not until both his parents passed. "Oliver hated my father. Getting even was all Oliver cared about."
Miller listened skeptically as Charlie chronicled Oliver's quest for revenge. He didn't take a single notation as Charlie explained the original fraud here in Westport and the death of Oliver's parents. He looked bored as Charlie described a man so consumed with rage that he paid to have Charlie's knee broken almost three years ago. The stout man started at the mention of Charlie's knee, but didn't interrupt.
Miller looked dubious, but didn't speak. It could have been a ploy to keep Charlie talking, or he could have been truly convinced Charlie was guilty. Either way, Charlie obliged by describing what Oliver had done to the Caulfields and then the similar things he'd done to them here. The officer in the corner took copious notes. When Charlie finished, Miller dispatched officers around the farm to check Charlie's story. Then they sat looking at each other and waited.
A dog barked outside. Charlie shot a look to the window in time to see twenty men parade toward his parents' house. This was the search party from the vineyard and, by the flurry of activity outside, they hadn't found what they were looking for. Charlie had survived Oliver's torment for months, fought him, outsmarted him, caught him, and strapped him down. In less than an hour, these men had managed to lose him. At some level, Charlie was glad Oliver was gone. Without him twisting the facts, he was sure Miller would eventually come around.
Miller left Charlie with the quiet officer for nearly half an hour. Neither spoke.
He appeared a while later in the doorway with an officer who'd just rushed in. Their whispering wasn't quiet enough to keep the conversation from Charlie. The dogs originally bolted out among the vines to a shallow hole. They found six .308 shell casings in the dirt. They returned to the house and, after a few circles, they picked up a track behind the garage that went down along the stone wall and into the forest. The canine officers and the dogs found progress on the path fairly easy, but the troopers stomping through the brush at their sides barely managed to hack their way through the wiry tangles of briars, never mind search for a fugitive. They were confident they were following Oliver's trail, but they couldn't be sure how far behind they were.
They'd never catch him in those woods.
Miller sat down with a notepad and slowly pieced together a timeline. His questions were more specific since returning from outside. The threats in his questions waned and his eyes grew less intense. He picked over the facts, searching for details to fill in things he'd missed or didn't understand. His hostility disappeared and, as he learned the depths of Oliver's torment, his tone became apologetic. The one question Charlie couldn't answer lay unasked on the table. Miller stood up, never asking why Charlie went to Oliver's house or what he'd done there.
Miller removed the cuffs and led Charlie into the living room to join Deirdre and Elizabeth. The television was tuned to a rerun of You've Got Mail to occupy their eyes if not their thoughts.
Later, on a trip to the kitchen for a soda, Charlie noticed an officer on the back deck, not facing in to watch the prisoners inside, but facing the vines to protect them. Another officer was similarly stationed on the front steps. The shift signaled a change for Charlie. The police weren't treating him like a suspect anymore. They'd seen enough to know Oliver had killed Charles regardless of what he said on the emergency services recording. But the change also meant they didn't know where Oliver was. They were here to protect them now, but eventually they'd leave and Oliver would be back.
A sketch artist arrived with a notebook computer in place of the artist's pad Charlie expected. Elizabeth, Deirdre, and Charlie split their attention between her and the movie as she flashed a series of facial features on the screen. The artist displayed a large light-bulb-shaped head that resembled Sebastian. She added bushy eyebrows, a protruding nose and close-cropped hair. Her image captured him so well it could have been a black-and-white photograph. Oliver was more difficult since Charlie had only seen his face sans whiskers for a few panicked minutes. The women had been with him longer, but couldn't offer much help with his features either. They agreed on a likeness before the artist left, but no one was enamored with the result.
Several minutes after the movie ended, an officer came in with a second report on the search. He announced his news this time, rather than whisper. The troopers followed the trail for two miles through the forest and into the dunes around Horseneck Beach. The wind-driven sand and thousands of scents made tracking impossible.
Oliver Joyet was gone.
Chapter Fifty-nine
As day faded into evening, the fire apparatus, police cruisers, and curious onlookers parked around the winery dwindled. Dueling news crews reported one last live segment. When they packed up and drove away, all that remained of the crowd were two police cruisers stationed in front of Charlie's house. In the last few hours, Charlie had given his first interview since leaving Ohio State. Later, he watched himself rebuff several questions about his father's relationship with Oliver Joyet. The artist's renderings also played on the newscast and it was stunning how much the images resembled Oliver and Sebastian. Anyone who watched the news would have seen them by now and their hope for going unnoticed anywhere in Massachusetts was slim.
The chief was uneasy after witnessing what Oliver had done; probably because one of his officers was responsible for letting him go and if any more harm came to them, it would smack of incompetence in the papers. He argued to move them somewhere safer until Oliver was caught, but Charlie refused. He explained his last encounter with booby traps and his need to start settling insurance claims, although his prime reason for staying was hidden beneath the couch. Laroche would be waiting for him the next afternoon and somehow Charlie was going to be there with the money. The police stationed outside would make it difficult, but as darkness fell their presence was entirely welcome.
The chief's idea of protection was deterrence. He posted two conspicuous guards round the clock with their cruisers parked directly in front of the house. As if that wasn't enough, the men wired flood lights all around the house with enough candlepower to illuminate every blade of grass, leaf, and twig within a hundred yards. Motion sensors lined a perimeter fifty yards from the house. Any movement in that zone would flash the yard into artificial daylight. Each officer carried a panic switch in case Oliver eluded the sensors and got close to the house. The lights would keep them safe unless Oliver cut the power again.
As the temperature dropped, the men donned long blue coats against the chill. Fortunately, the breeze that had blown all day had died down. One man settled into a chair on the porch and watched the front yard. The other alternately paced back and forth across the deck to keep warm and sat at the picnic table five or ten minutes at a stretch. Both men carried shotguns in addition to the 9mm they normally carried.
The situation inside was nearly as uncomfortable. Neither of the women would sleep upstairs where the body had been found, so they shared Charlie's bedroom just off the kitchen and he ended up on the couch. He feigned displeasure even though the scenario suited him nicely. He spent the night with his eyes half-open and the loaded .357 the chief had delivered on the coffee table. The floodlights kicked on twice during the night and each time Charlie grabbed the gun and sprang for the window. The first time he saw two does browsing in the grass. The second time a red fox cruised by in search of a meal.
Sometime around 3:30 a.m., Charlie eased up to the windows and found both officers asleep. He quietly pulled apart the couch and removed the twelve wine cases stacked full of hundred-dollar bills. There was no time to count, so he evened the stacks by eye as best he could then taped them shut and wrapped them with bright-red gift wrap patterned with white Christmas trees. He would have preferred inconspicuous brown shipping paper, especially given the time of year, but the recipients would find the wrap quite fitting. When he finished packing his "gifts" under the couch, he lay on top with his eyes on the ceiling.
He was still asleep when the first visitor arrived in the morning. After some strenuous arguing the day before, the insurance agent had arranged a delivery from the Volvo dealership, a new black S80 identical to the disabled one. Elizabeth would eventually replace her Mercedes, but hadn't even considered a new car yet.
At Charlie's behest, Elizabeth and Deirdre arranged a trip to visit a local funeral home. The officers escorted the women and left Charlie with the .357 holstered on his hip to protect himself. He waited ten minutes after the cruisers left then loaded the boxes into his car and drove off to meet Laroche. Together they lugged them inside and addressed two boxes to each of the names from Oliver's list of victims. The young brown-uniformed man took each box as they finished, validated the address information, and moved it onto a conveyor.
"So, what will your boss say when you come home without your man?"
"Nothing. He thinks I'm on vacation."
"Are all your vacations this exciting?"
Laroche grinned. "I told the Westport guys what happened in that farmhouse. They promised to call me when they catch him."
"You'll never extradite him, not after what he did to my father."
"No. But he paid someone to kill Monique Deudon. I want to stop him before he kills anyone else."
The young man behind the counter asked for two hundred seventy-four dollars. Charlie peeled off three hundreds and handed them across the counter. He collected his receipts for the hefty packages and the two men stepped outside.
"You have the death penalty over there?" Charlie asked.
"Haven't you ever heard of a French firing squad?"
Charlie grinned for the first time in days. "If I catch him, I'll call you first."
They shook hands and Laroche climbed into his rental and headed for the airport.
All the way back to the house and through the next days corralled inside with guards all around, Charlie thought about Laroche and how fortunate he'd been for his assistance. Without him, Charlie might have been confined in a much smaller space, indefinitely.
Over the days that followed, information about Oliver Joyet and the Marston family faded from the news. The police had staked out Oliver's house, impounded his car, seized his bank accounts, and put tracers on his credit cards, but Oliver had disappeared cleanly. Charlie expected no less from a man so thorough in planning his revenge. Oliver wouldn't resurface until he ran out of cash.
On the fourth day, the family and a few close friends gathered for the funeral. It was a glorious spring day. Bill Caulfield was in attendance without his soon-to-be ex-wife. The police secured the entire section of the cemetery and, for the first time, Elizabeth appeared with her goons, as Charlie liked to call them. The personal security agents, as they referred to themselves, each measured at least six-four. The chiseled men were always armed and always alert, scanning, watching, ready.
A week later, Deirdre stood and waited as Charlie hugged his mother goodbye. The two thick-necked men stood with their backs to Elizabeth, scanning the crowd gathered around the gate.
"Are you going to be ok?"
Elizabeth patted the shoulder of the man closest to her. "With these guys looking out for me, I'll be fine."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know, sweetheart."
"I wish you weren't going back."
"With your father gone, they need me in Piolenc. And I just can't imagine staying in Westport now. I don't feel safe there."
"I know... I'll come see you soon."
"You've got a lot on your hands. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
"I'll come see you after the crush."
"We'll have a nice Christmas at the chateau."
Elizabeth kissed him, looked approvingly at the young man she'd raised, and then joined the slow-moving line to the gate. Charlie watched until she disappeared down the jetway with her security guards ahead and behind.
...
Deirdre led Charlie on an aimless trek around the terminal for the next fifty minutes. They looked in shop windows, neither really impressed with the merchandise from Providence, but Charlie did buy her a yellow Cape Cod sweatshirt to add to her miniscule wardrobe. Deirdre kept browsing, walking, anything to keep her eyes from resting too long on Charlie.
They stopped in a pub for lunch and she watched him with a regretful smile between bites. Charlie paid altogether too much attention to his sandwich, barely looking up. The few times their eyes met, he filled himself with a mournful sigh. The question was not far beneath. He'd asked her to stay the night before, but she couldn't. Not another farm, not another man with a heart that screamed out for children to nurture. She imagined the faces of Charlie's children in the families walking by. A sturdy little boy with light hair toddled by and Deirdre had to force her eyes back to her plate to hold back tears.
When lunch was cleared away and the second boarding call for her flight was announced, Charlie gathered her things and walked her four gates down to meet the plane.
"You're welcome here anytime."
Deirdre inched closer.
"The new barn will be up next summer and the ocean's just two miles away."
She laid her head against him and filled herself with his cologne one last time. "God, I'm going to miss that," she said.
She could feel Charlie nuzzling the top of her head as she listened to his heart pounding away.
"What?"
"That heavenly smell. God, I'm going to miss you."
"You can always come back."
Deirdre knew she never would.
She wrapped her arms around his solid chest and squeezed. If only she was fourteen years younger it might have been different. Staying now would just prolong the inevitable. He was a good man, Henri with a worldly spin and a charismatic air. She longed to stay, but she couldn't give him what he deserved---a young pretty wife and a bunch of kids. If she stayed, Charlie would end up like Henri. He'd solemnly bury himself in his work, too decent to turn her out and too stoic to show he despised the life he lived. Charlie deserved so much more. If only she'd been this honest with herself before she married Henri.
Deirdre kissed him and pulled away.
"You are one great man, Charlie Marston. Go make wine and be happy."
Chapter Sixty
The steadily encroaching bushes funneled the new Honda to the center of the drive, slower, and slower still, brake hopping to where the branches threatened to scratch the paint and the girl dared go no further. Up ahead, the old driveway narrowed to little more than a footpath. Oliver was home. He brushed aside his young companion's straight blonde hair, kissed her, and opened the passenger-side door. The twenty-two-year-old girl had no idea she'd hidden a fugitive for over a week. Oliver had worked hard to make it the best week of her young life. When her longing smile followed his every step around the car, he knew he'd succeeded. She wouldn't forget him soon.
"What's this place?"
"An old shack I'm fixing up. I haven't gotten to the driveway yet."
"Where do you park?"
"I have a friend that lives next door."
Oliver had inherited this old house from his parents. He hadn't sold it to the Marstons with the winery and he doubted they knew it was his. He'd planned on living here since he was a child, close to the winery, but space enough for independence.
"I can see why you wanted to stay at my place."
"It's nicer inside than you think, really."
Oliver leaned in and lingered over a final kiss. "I'll call you Saturday."
She beamed at him as she shifted into reverse. He remembered seeing her neon-orange bikini for the first time and he filled himself with a heavy sigh. She waved goodbye and backed erratically down the drive like a snake wrapping itself around a long straight stick. He regretted that he'd never see that smile again.
She eased out onto the road, mechanically shifted into drive, and disappeared. Oliver turned and walked fifty yards down the driveway until he reached the path that led to Charlie's house. The leaves were rustled everywhere from dogs and men combing the woods. How surprised they'd be if they discovered he was back.
Oliver passed his lean-to and settled in at the base of a tree.
Charlie watched television until about ten and then moved to the back of the house. The lights went out at ten-forty. At two, Oliver slinked through the brush to the front door. The lock was new. He picked it almost as easily as the old and slipped in with barely a sound.
Charlie was such a sucker. The couch looked the same as when Oliver had been here last. He could hear Charlie arguing with himself about what to do with the money and finally settling on leaving it where it was just like he did in the attic. Fortunately, the couch was much closer to the front door. He lifted a cushion then froze at the sound of a creak in the floor somewhere behind him. Charlie had been asleep three hours and Oliver knew he slept like the dead. He'd walked around his room a dozen times at the chateau at night, testing, knowing a day like this would come. Still, his nerves trembled. Another floorboard creaked, louder this time; a footstep, undoubtedly a footstep. Oliver spun to the next squeak only to be blinded by an intense spotlight that rivaled July sunshine.
"Nice work getting away from the police and the dogs, Oliver."
Oliver couldn't see, but he knew the voice behind the light. "Cake really," he feigned casual indifference as his heart began pounding.
Charlie lowered the light toward the floor and flashed a shiny handgun.
"The money's not there."
"You're learning, Charlie. What'd you do with it?"
"I sent it to those people you wanted to help."
Oliver didn't understand.
"The winery victims, the people my father stole from. I sent them two cases each; about three million apiece. I thought you'd approve."
"How civilized of you."
"Vintners are the hallmark of civility. You should know that."
"What are you going to do now? Turn me over to the police?"
"The police? That's funny. I catch you, truss you up like a calf and they let you go in five minutes. Sure, let me rush right over to the phone."
Oliver finished pulling the cushion aside and peered down at the empty space beneath. Charlie wasn't bluffing, the money was gone.
Charlie waved the gun in front of the light again.
"Can you believe the chief of police brought me this gun? He's not a bad guy once you get to know him. That's not really an option for you though, is it?"
The glare reduced the gun to little more than a blur.
"You'll never believe what he told me. He said, if that guy ever shows up, you shoot him dead. In the house, the driveway, anywhere, you kill him. Shoot till you're out of bullets, he said. Not very neighborly if you ask me, but you are something of a problem, aren't you?"
A wave of dread washed over Oliver. Charlie could kill him with impunity. Kill him like a dog. Who would blame him for shooting an intruder in his house at two a.m.? Anyone who watched the news would know what had happened. No jury would convict him; no jury would ever hear the case. Oliver was completely at the mercy of a man he'd made it his mission to torment.
Charlie seemed to be reading his mind precisely. "It's odd to hold someone's life in your hands. This is how you must have felt when you killed that detective and my father." He let out a low, sardonic grunt. "Is that what I need to do? Do I need to kill you, or should I just shoot you in the knee and let you hobble for the next forty years. You and I could have cripple races."
Oliver raised a hand to shield his eyes. This was the second time Charlie held a gun on him, but this time he had no intention of sacrificing himself. He was cornered, nothing in reach but the cushion in his left hand. Furniture hemmed him in. The windows were closed; no time to open them and dive through without getting shot. Charlie stood between the only two exits leaving no way out.
"I saw the Ohio State pictures. What a fucked up thing to do! You're one hateful bastard, you know that? You didn't just screw up my knee, it was my life! In three seconds you took away the dream I'd been working for since I was nine." Charlie adjusted his grip on the gun.
Oliver didn't move, didn't speak. Justifiable homicide, he thought.
"I saw your evidence. My father was a prick. What he did to you was wrong and it sucks he got away with it, but he didn't deserve what you did to him. He didn't kill your parents. They could have started over. And you? You threw your life away after theirs. What a shame. Fifteen years, your whole adult life, wasted."
Oliver flashed to the girl he'd just left. How many women like her had he walked away from? How many years had he pursued Charles Marston and forgotten to make a life of his own?
"What about my mother? Her life's totally ripped apart. She's not even sixty, for God's sake. She's going to live the next twenty years missing my father."
"He got what he deserved."
"So he speaks. What about Henri, and Monique, and the detective? Did they deserve to die, too? What do you deserve, Oliver? Are you any better than them? Do I shoot you now or spend the next fifteen years waiting for you to come back? Maybe that's too good for you? Maybe I should cut off your fingers one by one like you did to that detective. Was he alive when you did that?"
Oliver dropped the cushion back on the couch. It would do nothing to stop the bullet he sensed coming. He felt himself quiver. He'd felt hope for the first time since he was a boy and now he was afraid to die. A week ago he welcomed death as a release from his tortured life, but the moment Charlie dropped the gun it had all changed. Charles Marston was gone; the purpose that had driven him, emptied his soul, didn't matter anymore. Suddenly, a next date with the blonde in the red Honda seemed all-encompassing. There was a life beyond Marston Vineyards. A life Oliver could have lived to see if he hadn't come back. He should have been satisfied with the million he'd taken from Deirdre, but it was too late.
Charlie raised the gun and leveled it somewhere in his direction.
A silent instant passed. Oliver eyed the doorway to the kitchen. Four steps and gone out the back. Four steps he'd never finish.
Charlie relaxed and eased the gun down.
"You know, Oliver. Insurance is a great thing. You burned down the damned winery and two million dollars worth of wine. And my car, I loved that car. Sand in the crankcase, not nice, definitely not nice. Did you see my new one outside?"
Oliver turned toward Charlie and the front door.
"They're paying to rebuild the winery. I'm going to update the equipment and lay out everything the way I want it. Oh, and that wine I had shipped here to get myself out of Piolenc, they're going to buy it along with the rest, lousy as it was. I'm going to start over. I'll probably have to sell the grapes this year and I've got a whole crew to rebuild, thanks to you and Sebastian. But next year, next year might be a great vintage."
Charlie backed toward the kitchen and gestured Oliver forward.
A faint smile crossed Oliver's lips and he took two hesitant steps.
"Say not thou, I will recompense evil; but wait onto the Lord, and he shall save thee. Proverbs twenty, twenty-two."
Oliver passed two feet in front of Charlie and out onto the steps. He backed slowly down the stairs and onto the grass, facing Charlie as he stepped into the doorway and followed him down.
"Remember one thing, Oliver."
Oliver stopped in the darkness, feeling suddenly exposed in spite of being freed from the tiny corner in the living room. He could run into the darkness, run for the money and disappear.
"Show up here again and I won't wait for the Lord."
Something rustled the hedge.
Clamshells crunched behind the Volvo.
Oliver wheeled around in the dark.
The first man he saw was a stout figure closing in from his right.
Oliver flashed a betrayed look to Charlie, who waved a telephone in his left hand, the gun still in his right. The police had heard every word of their conversation. Charlie had kept him distracted while they were rushing to get into position.
Four men blocked his path to the trees.
Before he could decide to run or surrender, Pinto's nightstick crashed down into his collarbone.
Author's Note
I hope you enjoyed this story about the Marstons, the Joyets, and the Deudons.
For your added entertainment (and possibly frustration) there are two messages hidden within the text of this book. If you want to try your hand at decoding them, go to www.22wb.com and read about the Hidden Code Contest. There you can find the official rules, clues to help you along your way, and the prizes you'll win if you are the first to decode both messages. Good Luck.
Don't miss A Demon Awaits, the next Randy Black book, and the latest, Gretchen Greene.
A Demon Awaits picks up the action on the very last page of this book and takes you in an entirely new direction. A Demon Awaits will challenge you to see the world through Randy's eyes and to follow him on another fast-moving adventure that will feel like the second half of Sin and Vengeance. I hope you'll give it a try.
Gretchen Greene is Randy's first adventure as a man on the run. Follow him as he tries to save a militant environmentalist that has stolen a revolutionary solar technology.
Thanks for reading!

