CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Confession”
Sunday morning.
Otto went to mass at our Lady of the Redeemer on Felton Avenue, a gray stone gothic monster with a sharply steepled tower and gargoyles. Otto told Steve to stay on a grassy patch just outside the door. Steve settled down to people watch.
The congregation only filled a third of the benches and most of the parishioners were elderly. Where were the young? Were they raising a generation of feckless seculars who never thought about the nature of life, the hereafter and their place in the cosmos? How was that even possible?
Otto knew how it was possible. Look at his old man. If the family failed to instill spiritual values, the state cannot impose them.
He took communion and waited for other parishioners to confess. He brought Steve a paper cup of water. An old man with flaxen hair shot him a dirty look over the dog.
“Bless the beasts and children, sir,” Otto said.
The last elderly woman left the confession booth. Otto waited a minute to allow the priest to compose himself and slipped inside. The dark booth contained a hint of human warmth, the smell of lilacs, leather and dust. Through the slats Otto saw that the priest was an old man and he wondered whether the Church was dying, whether they had enough acolytes lined up to man the confession booths.
And when all faith had disappeared, then what? Would man finally declare himself the god he’d been waiting for?
Everywhere Otto looked faith was on the rout.
“How are you, my son?” the priest said in a wheezy voice.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”
“How long since your last confession?”
“Five years.”
A raspy intake of breath. “Why so long?”
“I took an oath. I was duty bound. Confession wasn’t on the table.”
“You harm no one but yourself by not confessing.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“So you are,” the elderly priest said and cleared his throat with a moist gurgling sound. “Proceed.”
Otto was out of practice. His natural reticence had always been at odds with his faith. He didn’t need the Church to feel contrition. He needed the Church to forgive him. He went blotto, blinked several times and it snapped back into place.
“I, uh, lust after my ex-girlfriend and wish she’d dump the guy she’s dating.”
“Pretty venal, my son.”
“I fantasize about getting him out of the picture. I don’t know--sometimes in a car wreck, sometimes throwing him off a cliff.”
“But you would never act on these fantasies, would you?”
“Of course not. When I have them I feel ashamed.”
“That’s how you should feel until such time as you are able to rise above. What else?”
“I killed four men.”
Silence.
“Did you murder them?” the priest said at last.
“That’s a gray area, Father. I was working for my country.”
“Were you in the military?”
“Not exactly. Two of them were bad men. Their crimes would gag a dog off a gut wagon. The others were self-defense.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
“I have nightmares. I see those guys…sometimes I’m stalking them. Sometimes they’re stalking me. Always, always overwhelming anxiety. I can’t find my unit. I can’t find my gun. I see a blazing man. He leaves an after-image on my retina, even when I wake. When I wake I’m so relieved it’s just a dream, but then I remember it was all real and it makes me feel like--it makes me angry. I have the stink of burning flesh in my nostrils…”
I have these fantasies. These fantasies of mowing everybody down.
“My son, all your sins can be washed away in the blood of our Savior. Do you feel remorse?”
“Of course I do. Some of them had families. Sometimes I dream about their kids-- naked and starving, their little ribs showing and distended bellies--and huge eyes, holding out their hands…”
“Have you made any effort to reach out to those children?”
“That’s against the rules, Father.”
“Mmm. What about this blazing man?”
“He was real, Father. Ghaddafi’s son Malik. I saw him burn. That’s why I’m on the job now.”
“It’s just that…the image of the burning man is also biblical. Some scholars say that the reference to God’s burning bush could also be interpreted as a burning man, or an angel.”
“This guy was no angel.”
“My son, if you truly seek forgiveness it is yours.”
Otto’s throat was bone-dry. He swallowed. His voice cracked. “I dream sometimes about shooting people.”
“Did you shoot those men you killed?”
“All but one.”
“Do you fear you’re in danger of acting on this impulse?”
“No! Never. But I have these dreams. What bothers me is that evil is real and good isn’t. I’ve seen so much evil, Father. I’ve tried to understand it but sometimes…”
“Evil exists because God exists. Evil exists because good exists. If you believe in Satan you must believe in God.”
“I don’t know what to believe, Father.”
“I shall pray for you, my son.”
***
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“The Stanley”
Sunday morning and afternoon.
Alvarez lived near the Botanical Gardens in an old Victorian with a fenced-in back yard. Steve and Alvarez’ two English pointers raced around the yard.
“I really appreciate this, Gus,” Otto said.
“No problem. We love dogs. And Steve’s a sweetheart. Wish I could go with you.”
“I don’t know how long this will take--I might be up there the whole week.”
“That’s fine. There’s always someone here. Good luck.”
Otto took the interstate to Baseline and turned west toward Boulder. From Boulder, he took 36 north and west through Lyons winding up through the mountains to Estes Park. It was cooler in the mountains. Topping a rise, Otto saw Estes spread out before him, a gleaming little valley with a lake and a golf course in the middle, snow-capped peaks all around. The Stanley Hotel was immediately apparent at twelve o’clock, the wedding cake on the town’s crowded lace.
Otto paid five bucks to park the big Denali behind the hotel. He was early so he took a self-guided tour. The Stanley wasn’t that big. It was built by Freelan Stanley, co-inventor of the Stanley Steamer automobile, and its greatest claim to fame was having served as the inspiration for horror writer Stephen King’s
The Shining
. Otto meandered through the leather and brass-hued bar, paused at the broad display of King memorabilia just off the lobby, went out front onto the broad veranda from which he had an excellent view of the Rockies including Long’s Peak.
Otto watched children cavort in the swimming pool that looked out over the town. He sat in a white Adirondack chair. A black Infiniti SUV prowled up the hill heading for the parking lot. Otto relaxed in the warm sun, giving them time to park the car and enter. He got up and sauntered into the lobby. He did not have long to wait.
Two men appeared from the corridor leading to the bar and walked toward him. Winner was a trim five-ten with the confident gait of a movie star, thick, close-cropped hair. Ralston Goldfarb rolled like a sailor on thick thighs. He wore a purple and green Hawaiian shirt over creased white slacks, a straw hat and dark shades. A hefty gold chain dangled on his hairy chest and a cigar jutted from his black beard. A ruby the size of a hummingbird egg clung to a massive gold ring on his right hand. He looked like a narco-gangster.
Winner also wore sunglasses. He smiled and extended his hand. “White?”
Otto shook Winner’s hand. “Thanks for coming. You too, Mr. Goldfarb.”
“Call me Ralston,” the agent growled giving Otto the old crusheroo. The back of Goldfarb’s hands were covered with black hair. He wore a gold diamond ring the size of a lug nut on his left hand. “Let’s eat.”
Otto followed them back the way they’d come, through the restaurant out onto the patio behind the hotel. A waiter led them to a white-cloth draped table beneath a Bacardi umbrella in the shadow of the mountains.
There were perhaps a dozen other diners on the patio. Nobody gave Winner a tumble. The waiter took their drink orders and went inside.
“I really appreciate this, gentlemen,” Otto said.
Winner waved a hand. “Not a problem.”
Goldfarb twirled his cigar over a blue flame from a gold Dunhill. “In life, timing is everything, Otto. I had been planning to attend this conclave anyway and the boy here gets a week off from shooting while they find a new leading lady.”
“What happened to the first one?” Otto found himself asking.
“She claims she has food poisoning. What she’s really got is a psycho boyfriend telling her this movie is a career killer.”
“Be kind, Ralston,” Winner said.
“Kind my ass. That bitch has already cost the production 200 grand just fucking around with the lighting. This is the best part she’s had in years.” Goldfarb pointed his stogie at Otto. “You’re a G-man, huh? Mind if I see some ID?”
Bemused, Otto removed his badge holder, flipped it open and handed it to Goldfarb who took it and examined it like a jeweler. “So what’s this all about, Elliot Ness? The last time the Feds asked for my help was never.”
Otto looked at Winner. “What did Stella tell you?”
“She said you were investigating her father’s death. That’s it.”
“That’s right,” Otto said.
Goldfarb stared at him, the stogie once more lodged between his thick lips. “That’s all you’re gonna say? What’s it got to do with the Grove? This is my fifth trip, by the way. The Grove is invitation only. Every camper must receive a unanimous vote from the board of directors. Every camper is entitled to bring one guest. When Gabe asked if he could bring a guest I about shit my pants. You stir up any kind of ruckus there, or cause me any embarrassment whatsoever and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
“I assure you,” Otto said, “I’m the soul of discretion. I’m here to observe.”
“Don’t go ‘round asking any questions. They caught a reporter once sneakin’ around the mountain. Took his clothes and boots and sent him bare-ass back down the mountain. These are not people you want to piss off.”
“I understand, Ralston.”
Goldfarb grinned. He had a gold tooth. “I like you, Otto. You’re a no-bullshit kinda guy. So you’re collaborating with this
schmendrick
on the screenplay to
Detonator 4
.”
“That’s our story,” Winner said.
“And why not. He could hardly do worse than what’s-his-name, the Oscar winner. Oscar my rosy red patootie! Where’s the waiter? I could eat a buffalo.”
***
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“Fried”
Sunday night.
Over crab cakes and antelope steaks, Goldfarb regaled them with scurrilous anecdotes about the rich and famous. Otto waited until Goldfarb had downed his third bourbon.
“So Ralston. What do you do up there all week?”
Goldfarb looked around for the waiter, who was right there. He ordered another drink. “Whoa--the whole week? No way. I have to be back on Wednesday. They have activities, a lot of discussion panels. Last time it was sustainable this and sustainable that. Pedestrian friendly communities. Like Brussels. These geniuses, these
schmendricks
, always trying to be the smartest person in the room. Always telling us how to live. I’m going to give up my four acre estate in Santa Rosa, my Mercedes SLS to live in a condo and walk to the butcher shop?! My ancestors would crawl from their graves and poke my eyes out with their finger bones.”
“What’s your impression of Witherspoon?”
“Emil’s one cool customer. Mr. Everything’s Under Control. One year Harry What’s His Name, the linoleum prince, had a heart attack. Emil’s got an ambulance and EMT team there in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes! In the fucking mountains!”
“Guy’s got no wife, no kids, no girlfriends, what’s up with that?”
Goldfarb shrugged and picked at his dessert. “You could say the same thing about Jodie Foster. Doesn’t mean he’s queer…”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Goldfarb and Winner simultaneously recited.
“Hobbies? Interests?”
“Emil’s an avid hunter. Several of the trophies are his. A fucking moose for Chrissake. All shot on the grounds.”
“You hunt?”
“Can you see me in my camo outfit crouching in a duck blind at four a.m? Neither can I. But a lot of guests do hunt. The lodge even provides guns.”
“How many guns do they have?”
Goldfarb stared into his bourbon. He sipped. Winner laid back still as a fawn taking it all in.
“Well there are two gun cabinets in the great room and each has at least a half dozen rifles and shotguns. Nobody hunts with a pistol although I suppose you could…”
“A Desert Eagle .50 will stop a grizzly bear,” Winner said.
Otto took out his little spiral pad and made notes.
“Good to know, Gabe,” Goldfarb said. “Good to know. The staff have pistols although you don’t generally see them.”
“All of them?” Otto said.
“I don’t know, but I’ve seen Bob Casey carrying a pistol. He’s head of security.”
“What’s he like?”
“Bob? Quiet professional. Movie buff. I’m pretty sure Casey was positive on Gabe’s invite. They’re not gonna invite some meshuga asshole like Sean Penn. We brought
Detonator
DVDs for everybody. Want a set?”
“Sure.”
“Seen any of Gabe’s movies?”
“I caught
Detonator
a couple years ago. Good movie.”
Goldfarb nodded in satisfaction as he removed a gold-foil wrapped cigar from his breast pocket. “What else you want to know? The food’s terrific. They got a French chef. Jean-Marc--been there for years. Studied at the Sorbonne.”
“What does that even mean, Ralston?” Winner said. “What is the Sorbonne and where is it?”
“Fuck if I know. The food’s good.”
“What can we expect when we arrive?” Otto said.
“First night is a big megillah. Big ceremony down by the lake.”
“Walk me through it. We drive up to the lodge. Who’s the first person we see?”
“Emil or Bob, probably. Emil likes to greet each visitor, especially newcomers. He’ll come out front. Staff will take your bags to your cabin. You go into the main lobby and sign in at the desk. You pose with a stuffed bear shot by Teddy Roosevelt. They usually have the evening’s events posted on a bulletin board.
“Emil will assign you a cabin and staff will take you there in a golf cart. You’re pretty much on your own until dinner. First night’s always barbecue on the veranda overlooking the lake. After coffee, everybody gathers on the great lawn for the convocation and the evening’s ‘impromptus.’“
“‘Impromptus.’ What are those?”
“Emil hands you the club and it’s your turn to speak.”
“What club?” Otto said.
“I forgot about the club,” Goldfarb said. “It’s like an Indian thing. Whoever holds the war club has the floor. Emil appears in a full Cheyenne war bonnet. We drink the blood of the white man. Hell, I’m always glad to do that!”
“Okay, so Emil hands you the club.”
“I get up there, there’s a podium, and I give ‘em my sure-fire plan to rule the world. Whatever you want to talk about. Me, I do enough talking. Last time I was up Richard Branson talked about commercial space flight. Some other guy talked about urban farming. Sustainable this and sustainable that…”
Goldfarb ran out of words, his mouth slightly open, his gaze unfocused. Winner leaned forward and moved his hand up and down six inches from the agent’s face. “Ralston’s fried. Help me get him to his room.”
***