The Long Road Home (23 page)

Turning the final curve, he spied the big house over the field of purple heather. Though night was setting in, the house was dark. Not a single bulb shone. He panicked, thinking himself a fool for leaving her alone. He broke into a run. As C.W. approached, the melancholy music of Ravel poured out loudly across the mountains.

C.W. entered the house with caution, holding the screen door with his hands to prevent it from slamming. He could hear only the music. Looking around, all was back in order, yet not. She had evidently cleaned up the mess, but no dinner was on the stove. Only an opened wine bottle sat on the counter.

“Nora?” he called. No response. Only music. He followed the sad strains through the kitchen, up to the great room, but it, too, was empty. Fear gripped him. He was about to head up to Nora’s room when from the corner of his eyes, he spotted a shadowed movement out on the deck.

He strode across the room and slid open the glass doors.

“Nora?” he bellowed.

“I’m here.” It was a hushed response from a dark corner.

Relief flooded him as he crossed the distance to her side. Nora was curled up under a blanket on the wooden bench, resting her chin upon her knees. Her eyes were on the sunset, now but a long, thin pink line in the valley.

He lay his hand upon her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t speak immediately but waited until the waning sunset sank into darkness. Then, when he could no longer see her face, she answered.

“It’s all over. I’ve lost.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “The auction is two
weeks off. I thought we decided we’d have time to come up with something.”

She reached out and handed him a large padded envelope.

“Everything is gone. Here. Read it. It’s from Bellows. The Blair Bank won’t wait two weeks. I can’t make it. I can’t balance that budget without my account.”

C.W. shook open the papers as he paced to the window where light shone out in a narrow beam.

Another page briefly described the SavMor property, and another was a copy of a letter from the Blair Bank, signed by Sidney Teller.

C.W. carefully and with precision folded the crumpled papers and slipped them into the envelope. His hands shook in anger.

C.W. leaned against the window, his head falling back against the cold glass. So, it was Sidney. Sidney was behind the MacKenzie deals. Sidney had orchestrated the robbery. Sidney
was bringing him, and his family, down. C.W.’s anguish redoubled. Why Sidney? His brother-in-law, Cornelia’s husband, his colleague, and friend. He had hoped it was Agatha. But all fingers pointed to Sidney.

He swallowed the news; it was bitter. Now he was alone in this fight. He felt like the leader of a retreating army. The ammunition was stolen, the morale was low. He released a laugh, for fear he might cry.

C.W. lowered his head to gaze at Nora. His eyes acclimated to the dark, giving him full view of her slumped shoulders and sagging jaw. She had once said, with such spirit, “There were some things worth fighting for.” He had taken that spirit to heart; it was his rallying call. Where was that spirit now, Nora? The
I Ching
taught that adversity breaks the inferior man’s will but only bends the superior man’s spirit. How far could Nora bend before she broke?

“Do you know what the real kicker is?” Nora asked out of the blue. Her voice was laced with uncharacteristic bitterness. “First I put my trust in Mike, and he died leaving me worse than penniless. Then I put my trust in this farm, with an almost religious zeal, and it can’t break even.” She let out a sharp laugh. “I sure know how to pick them.”

C.W. gathered his wits and moved to sit beside her on the bench. He gripped both her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake.

“That’s the problem, Nora,” he said slowly. “You’re not picking. You’ve been drowning in rough waters and are grabbing for anything that remotely resembles a lifeline. What you need to do is learn how to swim. And to do that you have to put the trust in yourself. Otherwise your trust will always be misplaced.”

She looked at him with a queer expression on her face. “I
could have chosen a little cash, you know, but I picked the farm. This was going to be my security. My future.”

He dropped his hands. She wasn’t listening. “Security, huh?” He shook his head. “Anyone who depends on a farm for his security is nuts. First of all, it has one of the lowest rates of return on the market. Second, and this is important, so listen up, boss lady.

“Second, security doesn’t come from a profit margin, whether it be a farm or a restaurant or a bank. Security is the knowledge that whatever happens, whatever garbage fate throws your way, you trust in yourself.”

She tossed a dubious glance his way. “But what happens when you don’t know who you are, and you don’t trust in yourself?”

“Then you’ve got a problem. A serious one,” he said without missing a beat.

“Right,” she replied dourly.

He ran his hand through his hair. “Nora, it’s only one farm.”

She stood up and glared at him. “Only one farm!” she shouted back at him. “It’s
my
farm. It’s all I have left in the world.”

He was glad to see her spirit, yet she was missing the point. “It’s not all you have left. You have yourself!” He held back from adding that she also had him. He was certain she did not want to hear that now.

Suddenly her face twisted and she buried her face in her hands. “Damn these tears,” she cried. “I hate them. I am so damn tired of crying. I am so tired of being hurt.”

He sat and watched her suffer, suffering himself. He rubbed his large hands together, then looked at them with disgust. What good were these big, strong hands when they couldn’t patch up her battered soul?

She wiped the tears away with determined strokes and
smoothed out her hair. After a quick wipe of the nose, she straightened and faced him.

“Listen, it’s getting late. Let’s call it a day.”

“If you’d like to talk…”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve said enough already.”

It was a dismissal. He knew she was shooting from a point of pain, but it still hit its mark. He gathered his books and grabbed his coat. She hadn’t turned to walk him to the door, or even bid him farewell. She sat on the deck, arms folded and chin back to her knees. Her only movement was an occasional wiping of her eyes.

“Nora, look at me. I have to leave. Tomorrow. Just for a few days. But I won’t leave you like this.”

She lifted her eyes. Even in the dark, her despair was easy to read.

“It’ll work out. Trust me,” he demanded, his finger jabbing the air.

“I trust no one,” she said in a thin voice.

“Such cold words. Not even a good-bye.”

“The truth is cold. Farewells are bitter. I have learned this too late in my life.”

Hoisting his books with a frustrated yank, C.W. marched away, his heels reverberating on the wooden deck. At the stairs, he stopped, his hand gripping the railing. Damn fate, he thought, his face contorting in anger. Tomorrow he was taking a chance that could spin his life into orbit. He didn’t deserve this treatment. Neither, he decided, did she.

Spinning on his heel, he swept down upon her like a March wind, lifting her in his arms and kissing her, long and hard, with a passion born of desperation.

“Do not give up hope,” he said, squeezing her tight.

Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Alone and breathless, Nora shivered in the night air.

SIDNEY TELLER HAD been sitting on the edge of his chair ever since Charles Blair walked into this hastily rented conference room on the outskirts of the city. When he first saw Charles walk in with his faded jeans and checkered flannel shirt, he had been appalled. The Charles Blair he knew had always been an impeccable dresser. That wasn’t the only radical change.

Sidney noticed dark circles under Charles’s angry eyes and the pallor of his skin, despite the tan. Emotion from a man whose stone face was legendary. Charles Blair was a changed man. Sidney was unnerved.

Charles approached the conference table with the same authority he always had; his shoulders were straight and while he didn’t linger, Charles Blair never hurried. He rested his long fingers on the table while he paused to study Sidney seated at the far end.

Sidney ventured a smile. “Welcome back.”

“Yes, thank you.”

A smile did not crack Charles’s iron composure. He sat down and methodically folded his hands.

Sidney shifted his weight and reached for the briefcase at his feet. It was to be business as usual, he thought with a pang of disappointment and a twinge of fear. Not even cordiality, after all this time. Sidney yanked the briefcase to the table. The click of the polished brass latches pierced the strained silence between the two men.

“I have only one question, Sidney.”

Sidney’s hand stilled on the many files he had begun to unload. His glance darted up quickly.

“Tell me about the SavMor loan.” Charles’s voice was threatening.

Sidney’s face flattened. He cleared his throat. “SavMor is a small company that the bank loaned some $300,000. It’s one of those faulty loans stamped with your approval.” He waved his hand in a nervous, impatient manner. “It’s a flimsy operation, way overdue on the repayment schedule. Of course, I’ve refused further delay requests.”

Sidney’s anger leaked into his voice. “I’m doing my job, Charles. And frankly, I’m trying to save your neck.”

Charles considered this very carefully, as though weighing every word.

“And that was your sole reason for refusing a delayed repayment schedule?”

Sidney grew increasingly nervous. “Of course. What other reason would there be? It’s a lousy company that never should have been granted a loan in the first place. There is no question here. We’ll be lucky to collect a cent.”

Charles looked at his hands.

“Did you know Mrs. MacKenzie’s home was robbed?”

Sidney was confused. “Yes.”

Charles’s eyes shot up. His gaze was wrathful.

“It happened a year ago.” Sidney’s words poured out quickly, like water over a flame. “Right after Mike died. Why bring it up now?”

Charles visibly relaxed. He spread out his palms and dropped his head again. When he lifted his eyes, Sidney saw relief in them.

“Why, indeed,” Charles said, a small smile at last easing across his face. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his waist, eyeing his brother-in-law speculatively.

“Sidney, accept a delayed repayment schedule for SavMor.” His voice was calm, though decisive.

“What?” Sidney blustered. “We have to collect on these bad loans. You’ll go down. And I’ll go down with you.”

Charles nodded. “Trust me, Sid. I know what I’m doing.”

Sidney considered. “Do you? Charles, come back. Take the helm. It’s mutiny out there.”

C.W. stood up and thrust his hands behind his back. “You know I can’t do that. Not yet.” He paced the conference room floor. With his wild, uncut hair, Sidney thought he looked like a caged lion seeking a route of escape.

“Is it the loans?”

“In part. Of course. Who is handling the repayment schedule?”

“Henry Strauss,” Sidney replied lightly. “I’ve been after him for months to let me call these in. He’s been holding on to these loans tighter than a miser holds a penny. Then last Thursday, he up and hands me the SavMor file and agrees I should go after them.”

C.W. swung his head around. A fresh bolt of anger crossed his face. “Last Thursday?”

Sidney fingered his report. “Out of the blue.”

C.W. immediately ceased his pacing. A lengthy silence ensued.

“Strauss. Of course. I understand,” C.W. said slowly.

Sidney looked at Charles with apprehension. He had heard that tone in Charles only a few times before. Dry ice. A ruthlessness so cold it scorched those who were touched by it. An eerie calm settled in the room. At length, Charles took his seat and with precise movements, closed his hands on the table before him.

“Talk to me, Sidney.”

Sidney stirred with excitement. He couldn’t help it. This was Charles’s battle call. War was being declared and Sidney was well armed and ready. “At last,” he said as he dug into his briefcase and pulled out reams of pages of his investigations. Sidney’s thoroughness had always been his best route of attack.

“As you’ve requested, I’ve looked closely into Michael MacKenzie’s background,” he said, handing C.W. one of several reports. Sidney picked out the vital points. “Only child of a small-time grocery chain owner, Catholic, born and raised in New Jersey. A poor student academically but labeled most likely to succeed. You know the type—a good-looking jock who was also in student government and several other organizations.”

“A manipulator even then.”

Sidney noticed the slight curl of C.W.’s lip.

While Sidney rambled on and on about details C.W. already knew, C.W. sifted through the collection of photographs of Michael MacKenzie that was included in the file. As a young man, Mike always sported a wide grin and a look of enormous “can do.” The all-American boy, through and through. It was no wonder Nora had found him attractive.

C.W. stopped at one photograph and brought it closer to
his face. In it, a black-tuxedoed Mike, white rose in his lapel, had his arm wrapped possessively around his smiling bride. In her pouf of white lace, Nora appeared virginal. A shining Venus about to be abducted by Vulcan.

C.W. was stabbed with jealousy, though he would never have admitted it. His tense fingers curled the edges of the photograph. No, not jealousy, he told himself. C.W. attributed this galling feeling to anger against a man who did his friend wrong.

C.W. pushed away the photographs. Sidney stopped speaking and looked up from his report. He didn’t like the morose look on Charles’s face or the twitching in his jaw. It wasn’t anger this time. In Charles’s expression Sidney witnessed a personal struggle.

“Should I go on?” he asked, tentatively laying down his report. “Charles, are you ready for this?”

C.W. shifted his gaze, focusing intently now on Sidney. He knew that Sidney had been forthright about the loan. He wasn’t hiding anything; Sidney was just doing an honest job. Agatha must have counted on his thoroughness. Sidney had not betrayed him. If he wasn’t so involved with the war, he’d have felt joy at this victory.

Across the table Sidney sat, file in hand, ready to pit his brain and wit against their common enemy. All right, Sidney, C.W. decided. Loyalty wins out.

A slow smiled eased across C.W.’s face. “I’m ready if you are,” he replied.

Sidney searched his eyes and found the old Charles. Sidney’s own smile was filled with relief.

“Skip all this background,” C.W. said with impatience. “I know it all. Let’s get down to business.”

C.W. then proceeded to deliver a complete report on the MacKenzie loans from the Blair Bank and all the pertinent
details involved. His memory was photogenic. “I’m expecting a complete rundown on MacKenzie’s business dealings for the past three years. Should be faxed soon,” he concluded, looking away.

Sidney was aghast. His respect for Charles’s cold logic and skill grew, as did his suspicion that this battle had become a personal vendetta.

“Unbelievable,” Sidney replied with a gasp. “How did you get all that information? I’ve tried every channel, but it’s been bottled up. There’s a consortium of secrecy out on the Street.”

“I’ve had some inside information. MacKenzie left behind incriminating information. It could be helpful.” C.W. contained a tight smile. “Or it could nail me to the cross.” He looked straight at Sidney, implying his own danger by association.

“I see,” Sidney replied, a frown creasing his face. “We’ll have to be all the more careful.”

C.W. looked at his brother-in-law with respect and affection. Ah, Sid, he thought to himself. You’re a good man. When this is all over, I’ll make it up to you.

“Look at this,” Sidney said, presenting a file. “Most of MacKenzie’s wealth was a ruse. He shifted assets from one company to another. What I can’t figure out is how he passed his annual audit.”

“He used accounting tricks. He really was quite clever.”

“More a mobster than a magician, I’d say.”

C.W. held his tongue.

Sidney never sprawled, but he leaned far back in his chair, arms crossed. “I can see other banks being duped by MacKenzie. But Agatha? She’s pretty shrewd, even if I hate to admit it. And why the forgery of your name?”

C.W. tapped his fingertips. “Consider the dates. Don’t you
find it interesting that coinciding with the dates of the loans are significant rises in MacCorp. stock?”

“I noticed that as well.”

“It’s obvious. Someone was buying. Heavily.”

“It had to be inside.”

“Loans made in my name. Loans suddenly called in. Figure the results.”

Sidney considered for a moment, then realization flooded him. “It was never intended for MacKenzie to repay the loans.”

“MacKenzie went into a selling frenzy. His house of cards collapsed.”

“Poor bully.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for him. I guess you could say he died by his own sword. Did you know that he illegally borrowed from his company’s pension fund?”

“You’re right. I don’t feel sorry for him.”

C.W. looked squarely at his brother-in-law. “I’ve confided in you about the MacKenzie-Blair connection because I trust you. I do not want the loans called in, not until after the auction. On that I must depend on you.”

“Of course. Charles, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. The pieces aren’t fitting together yet.”

C.W. saw the worry in Sidney’s face. He stood and walked the distance to his brother-in-law’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“The family is in this together. Sidney, I warn you, events may occur that will shake your confidence in me. But trust me, Sid. I won’t let you down.”

Sidney’s gaze rose to Charles’s face. The doubt and anger were gone, replaced by an appeal.

“You can count on me. As always.”

C.W. tightened his grasp on Sidney’s shoulder. When he
released it, he went straight to the telephone. He dialed the number of a trusted associate, one whose power on Wall Street was unquestioned, whose resources ran very, very deep. This man was his godfather. He had sat on his knee, dated his daughter, raced his ponies. This powerful man came to the phone directly, straight out of a meeting, to take Charles’s call.

After a brief, quite personal exchange, C.W. dove into the business with characteristic simplicity. “I need to know the income he declared to the tax authorities as well as the income actually earned. In particular, any stock profits. Dates, of course. I need to know of any concealed income and where he is currently invested. In short, I need to know what brand of underwear this man wears and how often he changes them.”

Sidney chuckled and pitied, in a remote sense, the man targeted by Charles Blair.

“The man’s name?” concluded C.W. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Henry Strauss.”