The Conspiracy Club (35 page)

T
hree days after the death of Augusto Graves, during one of several attempts to steal a moment with Angela, Jeremy’s beeper went off.

Seconds later, so did hers.

They were in his office, sitting on the floor, greasy napkins in their laps, takeout burgers in their hands.

A duet of squawks. They cracked up. First time they’d laughed since that night.

“You first,” he said.

She called in. Diabetic coma on Four East, and another patient had reacted adversely to prednisone withdrawal. She was needed stat.

She got to her feet, gobbled a pickle slice, wrapped her quarter-eaten lunch in its wax-paper jacket, placed it on his desk.

He said, “Take it with you.”

“Not hungry.”

“I’ve noticed. I think you’ve lost weight.”

“You haven’t exactly been gorging.”

“I’m fine.”

“So am I. Dude.”

She slung her white coat over her shoulders. Placed her hands on Jeremy’s wrists. “We
will
talk, right?”

“Not up to me,” he said, smiling. “The schedule.” His beeper went off again.

She laughed and kissed him and was gone.

The call was from Bill Ramirez.

“I’m hearing rumors, my friend.”

“About what?”

“Your being involved, somehow, with capturing that lunatic Graves.”

“Pretty crazy rumors,” said Jeremy. “And he wasn’t captured, he was killed.”

“True,” said Ramirez. “It didn’t sound logical. A quiet guy like you being involved in heroics.”

“Heroics?”

“That’s what’s floating around. That somehow you figured things out for the cops, did your shrink thing, helped them profile the bastard. I’ve even heard a really crazy one saying you were there the night they got him.”

“Sure,” said Jeremy. “I’m dusting off my cape, as we speak.”

“That’s what I thought. Maybe it’s the administration, floating those rumors. It’s been a PR nightmare for them — anyway, I figured you should know — never liked that guy. Arrogant.”

“From what I hear, Bill, arrogance was the least of his problems.”

“True,” said the oncologist. “Speaking of heroics, the reason I’m calling is to give you a little good news, for a change. Our boy Doug has somehow managed to ease himself into a nice little remission.”

“That’s great!”

“I’d never have predicted it, but that’s my line of work — humbling experiences every day. Hard to say if it’ll be long-term or not, his presentation’s been so weird. But there’s no transplant on the horizon, and I’m sending him home, continuing his treatment on an outpatient basis. I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it, Bill. When’s he being discharged?”

“Tomorrow
A.M.
, if nothing changes. Talk about a cape. To my mind,
this
kid’s Superman.”

Marika sat next to Doug on the bed. Both of them in street clothes. Doug wore a Budweiser T-shirt and jeans. His prosthetic leg was attached. Both his hands were hooked up to IVs. His color was better. Not totally right, but better. Some of his hair had fallen out. He beamed.

“Hey, Doc. I kicked major-league medical ass.”

“You sure did.”

“Yeah, I told you that motherfucker leukemia was going to see who was the boss.”

“You’re the man, Doug.”

The young man nudged his wife. “Hear that? That’s coming from an expert.”

“You are the man, honey.”

“Right on.”

“So,” said Jeremy, “you’re going home tomorrow.”

“First thing I’m gonna do is get out to the brickyard, find me some nice used ones, put up that wall in my parents’ backyard that I’ve been promising. Put a little niche for a fountain in, too, and run a water line to it. Surprise Mom.”

“Sounds great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks — c’mere, Doc. Gimme a shake, I wanna show you my grip.”

Doug thrust out his right hand. The IV line looped and thrummed. Jeremy approached. Doug grabbed him, squeezed hard.

“Impressive,” said Jeremy.

“Sometimes,” said the young man, “I feel like I can
climb
walls.”

T
he day Arthur came to see Jeremy, the mail brought another surprise.

Cheap white envelope.
OFFICIAL POLICE CORRESPONDENCE
stamped on the back.

Inside were two squares of cardboard taped together. Jeremy cut the tape and extricated what was sandwiched within.

The snapshot of Jocelyn and him. Her tiny frame made Jeremy look like a large man. Both of them happy. Her blond hair windblown, all over the place.

He remembered: The strands had tickled him like crazy, and she’d gotten a kick out of that.

Oh, you’re ticklish?

She’d gone for his ribs, grabbing with strong little fingers. Giggling like a kid, so pleased with herself.

He stared at the photo for a long time, placed it in an unmarked envelope, set that in a lower drawer of his desk.

Atop the
Curiosity
file.

One of these days, he’d do something with it.

Arthur had a tan.

The golden glow merged with his natural ruddiness, turned the old man’s skin into something luminous.

Nearly eighty, but the picture of vitality. Traveling — and learning — had served him well.

He found Jeremy just as he had the first time. Sitting alone, in the doctors’ dining room. Three
P.M.
, an off-hour for lunch. Jeremy’d filled his days with patients, just as he had since the night underground, had eaten nothing earlier. The room was empty.

Arthur wore a beautiful royal blue pin-striped suit and a pink shirt with a contrasting white collar. His bow tie was gold shantung. A peacock blue handkerchief flowed from his breast pocket. In one hand was a cup of tea, a burnished leather briefcase dangled from the other. A large case, hand-stitched, stamped with Arthur’s initials, which Jeremy had never seen before.

“May I sit down?”

“Sure.”

Arthur settled, took time to dunk his tea bag. Stared straight into Jeremy’s eyes.

“How was your trip, Arthur?”

“Excellent.”

“Travel and learn.”

“That’s what it’s all about.”

“You taught me plenty,” said Jeremy.

The old man didn’t answer.

“Why the need to be oblique, Arthur?”

“Fair question, my friend.” Arthur sipped tea, stroked his beard, pushed the cup to the side. “There are multiple answers. First off, at the level of hypothesis, one can never be sure. I truly
was
learning. Second, I felt I needed to pace things so as not to repel you. Admit it, son. If I’d laid everything out, you’d have thought me demented.”

He smiled at Jeremy.

Jeremy shrugged.

“Third — and this may offend you, Jeremy, however I think a lot of you and would never dissemble — certain things need to be striven for to be appreciated.”

“No gain without pain?”

“A cliché but no less valid for that.”

“You guided me with riddles and games for my own good.”

“Exactly,” said the old man. “Perfectly put.”

Jeremy had known this moment would arrive. He’d wondered how he’d react. Weeks had gone by since the subterranean nightmare. He rarely thought about it, and the horror had faded to a macabre cartoon.

Interestingly enough, the late-night supper with Arthur and his friends had surged in his memory — grown clearer, more real.

“After supper,” he said, “you seemed to grow distant.”

Arthur nodded. “Forgive me. I was . . . torn. I knew what you were about to undergo. I wondered.”

Some things need to be striven for.

Now, having asked Arthur the question and receiving the answer, he could only smile.

“Okay,” he said.

“That’s it?” said the old man. “You’re satisfied.”

“About that I am. I do have other questions. Since you’ve pledged not to dissemble.”

“Fair enough.”

“Was your family’s killer ever found? One way or the other?”

Tears sprang to Arthur’s eyes, and that was answer enough for Jeremy. But the old man said, “Never.”

“Did any suspects arise?”

“One suspect,” said Arthur. “A local handyman. A clearly disturbed man. Later I was to find out he’d spent time in an asylum. I’d been concerned about him for some time, was certain I’d seen him leering at my wife.” Arthur’s voice caught. “She was beautiful, my Sally. Men were always looking at her. I have pictures, in my apartment. One day you’ll see them. But this man . . .”

“What happened to him?” said Jeremy.

“Nothing of a police nature, son. Perhaps now, with the technology we have, he might have been arrested. But back then . . .” The old man shook his head.

“You just let it go?”

“At the time, I was too weak to react. Everything I’d worked for, taken, just like that.” Arthur sniffed. Blinked. His beard trembled. “My children were sweet, Jeremy. My wife was beautiful, and my children were sweet.”

He pulled out the blue pocket silk and patted his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said Jeremy.

“Thank you.” Arthur stuffed the silk back in his breast pocket. Perfect casual fold. He said, “Two months after my family was taken from me — sixty-three days to be precise, the handyman was brought to the emergency room, here. Strangled bowel — one of those things that just happens. He was treated but to no avail. His guts turned to gangrene, and he was dead within three days. I never saw him alive. However, I did have the opportunity to assist at the autopsy.”

“Rotting from within. Appropriate.”

Arthur’s hand reached across the table and took hold of Jeremy’s sleeves. “It
felt
right. The fact that he’d been taken that way seemed the most fitting thing in the world. It wasn’t until years later, when I met others in my situation, that I realized the grand truth.”

“Expediency trumps virtue,” said Jeremy.

“Virtue is divine, but not limited to God. It’s something He shares with us. Something we need to use judiciously.”

“The sword of war comes to the world for the delay of justice,” said Jeremy. “Disorder.”

Arthur withdrew his hand. His glorious tan had been leached of its glow. He looked old.

“May I get you some tea, Arthur?”

“Please.”

Jeremy brought him a cup, watched him drink. “Do you have energy for more?”

Arthur nodded.

“I want to know about Edgar, I know about Kurau, but not Edgar’s personal involvement. Was it simply a political matter?”

Arthur closed his eyes, opened them. “Edgar’s story is his to tell. What I can tell you is that Edgar invested his personal resources to build a clinic for sick children on the island. Babies and toddlers who might otherwise have perished. Antisepsis and proper medication, well-trained native nurses. Edgar put all that together. The riots destroyed everything.”

He reached down for his briefcase.

Jeremy said, “When we share with God, it sometimes gets messy. Michael Srivac, for example. He was a building contractor in Robert Balleron’s town. Fierce competitor to Balleron. No one was arrested for Balleron’s murder but several months later, Srivac died in a single-car accident. Freakish accident, from what I can gather. The brakes on his car just gave out, and the car had been serviced two days before.”

“That is no surprise,” said Arthur. “During World War II, more military planes crashed shortly after major maintenance checks than at any other time.”

“You’re saying that one God did all by Himself?”

“Tina’s story is—”

“Hers to tell,” said Jeremy. “The same goes for Shadley Renfrew, right? His wife was murdered thirty-two years ago. The evidence pointed to her surprising a burglar. A known criminal was suspected — a cat burglar. But he was never brought to trial due to insufficient evidence. Six months later, his body washed up on the north shore.”

“Shadley was a remarkable man,” said Arthur. “Voluminous memory, fine eye for detail. Wonderful Irish tenor. He raised his daughter—”

“All by himself. She told me. I walked into the shop just as she was closing it down. I assume the books are being well cared for.”

Arthur nodded, reached again for his case, drew out a black velvet box, and placed it in front of Jeremy.

“A gift?”

“A minor token of our appreciation.”

“ ‘Our’ being the City Central Club. Renfrew was a member, wasn’t he? His passing left an empty chair.”

Arthur smiled. Before Jeremy could say more, the old man was up, briefcase in hand, striding away, a bounce in his step.

Jeremy opened the box. The interior was white satin over a compartment formed to cradle its contents.

A repousse silver goblet.

Jeremy removed the cup. Weighty. Inside was a note. Fine blue rag paper, folded once. Familiar writing in black fountain pen ink:

To a young scholar and gentleman,
With gratitude, admiration, and earnest hopes that you’ll consider this humble proposition: One soul passes, another enters. Life is fleeting, brutish, ecstatic, mundane.
Let us punctuate our brief sojourn with fine food, warming libations, and the sparkling camaraderie of souls in synchrony.
Fondly,
The Central Conspiracy Club.

Okay, he’d been close.

“Y
ou’ll like them,” said Angela.

“You’re sure it’s what you want?”

“It’s exactly what I want.”

Sunday, one in the afternoon. Rampaging blizzards were rumored to be racing down from Canada, but the air, ever perverse, had warmed.

They were lunching at a place near the harbor. Fried seafood and coleslaw and beer. Nice view of the lake. Just far enough to obscure the oily film on the water. From their table, the water was God’s own mirror.

The publicity surrounding Augusto Graves’s crimes, his relationship to Central City — and to Ted Dirgrove — had thrown the hospital’s front office into a tailspin. Dirgrove had taken an extended leave of absence. The charming young women at Development sat idly. The inept security guards contended with reporters.