The King of Lies (34 page)

Authors: John Hart

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Espionage, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #Fathers and sons, #Mystery fiction, #Legal, #Detective and mystery stories, #Legal stories, #Fathers - Death, #Murder victims' families, #Fathers, #North Carolina

EPILOGUE

M
any months have passed, and the pain has lessened to an occasional throb. I still have trouble sleeping at night, but I don’t mind; my thoughts are not unpleasant. I keep Vanessa’s letter in the drawer of my bedside table, and I read it from time to time, usually at night. It reminds me of how close I came, and that life is not a given. It keeps me honest, and maintains what I’ve come to call “this precious clarity.”

The clock reads just after five, and although my days start early now, there is no hurry; and the dream is still fresh upon me. So I swing my feet onto the cool floor and walk from the room. In the hallway, there is light from the moon, and I follow it to the window. I look down on still fields, then to my right and to the river. It winds into the distance, a silver thread, and I think of currents and of time, of things that have been swept away.

The courts ruled that the cash and jewels from my father’s safe were part of his estate. They would go to the foundation. But the buildings sold quickly, and for a better price than I’d hoped. In the end, I sent over $800,000 to Jean, and she used it to purchase a cabin on the wooded shores of Lake Champlain. I’ve not visited yet. Still too soon, Jean told me, the world still too entirely theirs. But we are talking about Christmas.

Maybe.

As for my share of the money, I used it as best I could. I restored the aging farmhouse, bought a decent tractor, and acquired the adjacent two-hundred-acre parcel. It is good land, with rich soil and a bold stream. I also have my eye on eighty acres that borders to the south, but the sellers know my ambitions and their price is still too high. But I can be patient.

I hear the door swing open behind me and smile in spite of myself. She only wakes when I find my way to this window. It’s as if she knows I’m here and rises to join me in looking down on this garden we’ve made. Her arms slip warm across my chest, and I see her face in the window—Vanessa, my wife.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“I had the dream again.”

“The same one?”

“Yes.”

“Come back to bed,” she says.

“In a minute.”

She kisses me and returns to bed.

My hands find the windowsill and I feel the cold draft coming through. I think of what I’ve learned and of those things I have yet to discover. Farming is a tough life, replete with uncertainty, and much of it is new to me. Yet I’ve grown lean and welcome the long hours that have made my hands so hard. It suits me, this life. There is no rush, neither to judgment nor to action; and that, perhaps, has led to the greatest change of all, for I have yet to face a single regret.

Yet I remain my father’s son, and it is not possible to escape fully the reprehensible choices he made. I know that I can never forgive him. But fate, which can be so wayward, is not without a sense of justice. Ezra played his games with Barbara, manipulated her for his own twisted ends. At her insistence, he changed his will, inserted a clause providing that any child of mine would inherit the fifteen million dollars in the event of my death. It was Barbara’s idea, her safety valve, and I am quite certain that my father planned to change it once he was through with her. But she killed him before he could sign the new documents. Maybe that’s why she shot him. I’ll never know. But I realized, when I finally read through his will, that there was no time limit involved. So I did the research, and what I learned was this: When I die, whenever that might occur, my child will inherit a large part of Ezra’s millions. I filed a caveat on the matter, seeking declaratory judgment. Hambly fought it, of course, and the loss still embitters him. But the will was specific, and the law favored my interpretation.

After awhile, I retrace my steps and slip under the covers. She’s warm, on her side, and I flatten myself against her. The dream seems more real each time, and each time takes longer to leave me. We walk over green grass, the three of us.

Tell me the story, Daddy
.

Which one?

My favorite
.

I reach for Vanessa, my hand finding her belly. She sinks deeper under the covers and nestles back against me.

“I hope it’s a girl,” I whisper.

“It is,” she says, and settles her hand upon my own.

I can’t say if she knows this or simply feels it. For me, it is enough. I hear her voice from the dream—my little girl—and I contemplate the vast fortune that will one day be hers. I think for the last time of my father, and of his feelings about women and money. There is poetry in this, an irony that completes the circle, and I wonder if he is restless in that dark and forever grave.

I stay in bed for a few more minutes, but the day beckons and I am restless. I pull on jeans and a sweater, and Bone follows me downstairs. It is cold outside, and I stand on the porch in the predawn light. I take a breath that fills me up and look out across the silent fields. There is a low mist in the hollow places, and the hilltops rise to meet the coming sun.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

N
othing happens in a vacuum, and bringing a novel to publication is no exception. It takes time and faith, and the road can be long. To those who walked it with me, I would like to express my sincerest gratitude.

First and foremost, I would like to thank my wife, Katie, a source of constant support and invaluable advice—and the finest eye for fiction that a writer could ask to have looking over his shoulder. I love you, baby. To my agent and good friend, Mickey Choate, who wasn’t scared to take a chance on a new guy—thanks for the faith and for the lessons. And along those lines, many thanks to my editor, Pete Wolverton, the most irreverent man I’ve ever met and the most capable. Let it never be said that you don’t step to the plate. To Katie Gilligan, who is as sharp as a tack—thanks for putting up with me; you’re the best. And a comprehensive and sincere thank-you to everyone at St. Martin’s Press, St. Martin’s Minotaur, and Thomas Dunne Books who worked so diligently to make this book possible.

To everyone who read the manuscript at its worst and still calls me a friend, my most profound gratitude. And to the following people, whose goodwill was so evident: Nancy and Bill Stanback, Kay and Norde Wilson, John and Annie Hart, Mary Hart, Charlotte and Doug Scudder, Sterling Hart, Ken Peck, Annie P. Hart, John and Megan Stan-back, Anne Stanback, Charlotte Kinlock, Mark Stanback, Nancy Popkin, Joy Hart, John Betts, Boyd Miller, Stan and Ashley Dunham, Sanders Cockman, Sean Scapelatto, George Guise, Linda Parker, Darby Henley, Debbie Bernhardt Gray and Allison Wilson, and David and Jennifer Wilson. Special thanks to Clint and Jody Robins, who were always there, and to Mark Witte, a friend of the written word, who had a very fine idea. Thanks as well to James Randolph, attorney and friend, who took the time to make sure I’d not forgotten too much about the law, and to Erick Ellsweig, who knows why. If I have failed to mention anyone, the fault is purely mine. Rest assured that I know who you are and that you have my thanks as well.

There are others whom I have encountered along the way—people whose paths I never imagined I would cross—who have helped to make the whole experience more than I ever hoped it could be. My warmest gratitude to Mark Bozek and Russell Nuce, who bought the movie rights, and to the wonderful authors who have been kind enough to read this book and share their thoughts on it: Pat Conroy, Martin Clark, Steve Hamilton, Thomas Perry, Mark Childress, and Sheri Reynolds. What a privilege this has been for me.

Finally, an extra-special thanks to Saylor and Sophie, my daughters, for hanging the moon.