Atropos (2 page)

Sure, Hank thought, until she decided she could use a million-dollar book-and-TV-movie deal.

“Give it up,” he said. “It’s not going to work.”

“Hank, what are you talking about?”

“No Van Horn has ever payed blackmail, or ever will.” He was quoting Gramps.

“Blackmail? Hank, I
love
you. Don’t be silly.”

There it was again, that smirk. The bitch was enjoying this.

“We’ll work something out,” she said.

“Work something out,” Hank said. Then he said, “Bitch,” and his hands jumped to her throat and started shaking her. He was not aware of wanting to do it. His hands did it, as though they were a pair of staffers who thought they knew more than the elected official they were supposed to serve.

Pina tried to talk, but her voice came out in a series of bubbling noises, like a sound effect in a cartoon. Then her eyes got wide, and her hands came up to try to pull his away. She started to scream. Hank’s hands shook her harder, to make her stop. She had a lot of nerve, screaming.
She
was the goddam blackmailer.

She stopped screaming. Her tongue came out, and her head flopped back and forth like the head of a teddy bear, as though it were held on only by stitching on the outside.

“Bitch,” Hank said again, and kept shaking for another half minute. When he let go, Pina flopped to the mattress.

“Now let’s talk about that abortion,” he said. He was panting and sweating. He wasn’t so angry anymore.

He nudged her. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t sulk.”

He pushed her hair off her face and rolled her over.

And she was dead. Her face was twisted and blue, and her tongue was out, and strands of her long black hair were clinging to the surface of one staring eye.

He’d strangled her. He hadn’t meant to, but he had. The bruises on her throat might have been a tattoo reading
CHOKED
. He’d been shaking, of course, but he didn’t remember
squeezing.
He had no
intention
of squeezing. Of course, he had no intention of shaking her, either—he’d just found himself doing it.

Well, he thought, at least she won’t be coming around with a brat making trouble for me. Then he realized what kind of trouble he was in already.

But he didn’t panic—he planned. He planned while he got dressed. He planned while he pushed Pina’s tongue back in and got the hair out of her eyes and placed her comfortably on her back. Five minutes later, the fire was beginning to crackle.

It was a shirt-sleeve night, but Hank started shivering as soon as he reached the sidewalk. It was simply, Hank was sure, the contrast between the heat of the fiery room and the relative coolness of normal weather. All he had to do now was reach his car (parked down two blocks and over one) and drive away. He’d call Ainley Masters, and together they’d decide what Hank should say when told of the tragedy.

He heard a sudden explosion and the sound of shattering glass. Hank hit the ground and started crawling for cover, the way the family security experts taught every Van Horn. There was a roaring and a bright light. He looked back at the bungalow and saw what had happened.

The heat built up inside had popped one of the windows. Now the air was rushing in and turning the house into a furnace. The flames spiked up through the roof like bright yellow spears.

Hank allowed himself a small smile. The more heat, the less evidence.

Pina and her little bastard would burn to nonexistence. The less there was, the less there would be to react to for the police and the press.

Hank heard the voices as he was getting to his feet.

“Fire ... my God!”

“... Like a bomb, for Christ’s sake ...”

“... anybody called the fire department?”

The noise and the light of the fire had drawn them, a little excitement for a run-down neighborhood. A crowd for Hank to filter through. A good thing. He worked his way toward his car.

More voices.

“... hope there was nobody inside.”

“Senator?”

“... and where’s the goddam fire department, will somebody tell me that? That fucker could spread!”

“Senator? Senator Van Horn?” The owner of this voice had him by the sleeve. It was a short man with brownish teeth and slicked-back black hair. “Senator, I’m Jack Smael. I’m party coordinator for this neighborhood.” He held out his hand to shake. Hank took it automatically. Jack Smael went on to tell Hank how they had met a couple of years ago at the victory party for Congressman Delgado.

Hank’s mind was empty. Habit and training brought the proper words to his lips. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. Good to see you again. How are you?”

“More to the point, Senator, how are you? You look like you got too close to the fire. You need a doctor?”

All of Hank’s resources were devoted to keeping the calm politician’s smile on his face. There was nothing left for speech, or action, or thought.

“What are you doing in the neighborhood, Senator?” Jack Smael asked. “Next time, let me know, I’ll arrange something. I don’t have to tell you how important it is not to let an opportunity to meet the public go to—Oh, I got it. This is Miss Girolamo’s house; she’s on your staff. Jeez, I hope she’s okay.”

The smile went away. Hank could feel the muscles fail one by one. His face seemed to hang on him, dead and alien, like fungus on a tree.
I’ve got to get out of here,
he thought.

Then he heard the sirens, and saw flashes of red and white light on the black smoke billowing from Pina’s house.
I’ve got to get out of here.
He threw Jack Smael’s hand away like something dirty. “I’ve got to get out of here!” he said, and turned and ran.

Ainley Masters lived alone in an apartment on Lakeside, on the most exclusive block of that exclusive street. He had accumulated the necessary money in the course of serving the Van Horn family throughout his adult life. No one begrudged it to him—he had earned it.

He had earned his share of enemies, too. Hank had to stand on the doorstep for the better part of two minutes before Ainley peeped through all his peepholes and undid all his locks.

“Senator,” he said, as he swung the door open. “What the hell happened? Have you been attacked?”

Hank’s mistake was trying to tell it so it made sense. It was impossible to relate what had happened to him tonight so that it made sense. A few disconnected phrases made it past Hank’s mouth. “Pina’s dead ... fire ... somebody saw me—lot of people ... had to get away ...”

“Stop it.”

“Ainley, help me! The police will be after me, I’ll go to jail. I didn’t mean—”

“Hank,
shut up!
”

The Senator shut up and goggled at him. Ainley, though about ten years older, had
never
called him “Hank.”

Hank looked at him, waiting. Ainley was thinking. He had a very good face for thinking—large, dark, sort of sad eyes, long aquiline nose, thin lips, strong chin. He was quite a small man, but he gave an impression of power all the same.

“There’s the phone,” Ainley said. “Call the fire department. Give your name. Report the fire.”

“But, Ainley, the fire department was just getting there when I left. I thought it was the police, that’s why I ran, but I realize now—”

“You ran because you were obsessed with calling the fire department,” Ainley said. “You’re so agitated, you aren’t thinking straight.”

“That’s the truth,” Hank said. “Can I have a drink?”

“After you make the call. Maybe. As soon as you call, I’ll get the family lawyers busy.” Ainley had gone to Harvard Law at Gramps’s expense, and had passed the bar years ago, but he had never practiced law. His brain was too valuable to waste in court, or in drawing up documents.

Ainley handed Hank the phone. “Call,” he commanded. “Your name, and the address of the fire. Nothing else. Just hang up.”

Hank made the call. The dispatcher had tried to ask questions, but Hank pretended not to hear them. He turned to Ainley. “Was that okay?”

“That was fine, Hank, especially with the strain you’re under. You know, I can guess exactly what happened tonight.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Ainley was stern.
“Don’t
tell me. I’ll guess. You and Miss Girolamo and a few others?”

Hank nodded.

Ainley nodded back, as if he’d expected that. “And a few others worked late. You drove Miss Girolamo to the house the campaign has provided for her. You left her there, and headed for your own home. On the way, you realized there was a document you’d forgotten to give her, something to do with the upcoming campaign. You have such a document in your car right now, don’t you, Senator?”

“I’ve got neighborhood income breakdowns, but—”

“Neighborhood income breakdowns. It was important she have them, an important addition to her duties. You turned back to bring them to her. When you got there, you smelled smoke. You went inside—the door was unlocked—and called her name, but there was no answer. The smell of smoke was stronger. You went through the house, fighting flames and smoke, looking for her. It was a terrible risk, but the Van Horns inspire loyalty by giving it.

“You couldn’t find Miss Girolamo. You knew the fire department was needed, but by the time you made your way out of the house, you were so dazed by heat and smoke that you were temporarily at a loss as to what to do.

“The approach of the fire department—or at least the sirens and the distant lights, you didn’t actually see any fire trucks, did you?”

Hank shook his head.

“Good, good,” Ainley said, like a doctor listening to a patient’s chest. “The siren and lights, without registering on your conscious mind, reminded you subconsciously of your resolve to call the fire department. In your confused state, it never occurred to you to ask to use a stranger’s phone, and you didn’t want to take time to find a public phone. So you came here.”

Ainley regarded him blandly. “Does that sound about right, Senator?”

Hank took a few seconds to repeat the story to himself. Ainley was amazing. Of course, the image of the Van Horns always being in control was going to be shaken, but Hank was sure Gramps, wherever he was, would look down and forgive him. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

“Senator?”

“Yes, Ainley. That’s exactly what happened. To the letter.”

“It’s a talent I have. I can put myself in another person’s place. Let me get myself presentable, and we’ll go to the fire department and talk to the press. Are you ready?”

“I will be,” Hank promised.

“Don’t get
too
calm. You’ve had a terrible experience.”

I certainly have, Hank thought.

“And don’t get too rattled, either. This is going to be sticky. Most of the press loves you, but they’ll latch on to this like a terrier and shake. Be contrite. Mourn her as a worker and a friend. Get indignant over suggestions of anything improper.”

“Of course, Ainley.” Hank was feeling better already. He could do this. Once someone gave him a program, he could stick to it and look good in the process. He was almost eager to get on with it.

While he was changing, Ainley called from the bedroom. “Oh. And, Senator, you have a talent I admire.”

Hank was surprised; it was so rare for Ainley to admit admiring anything. “What’s that?”

“Timing. On any other day, this would be the news story of the decade. Now it will get just a corner of the front page.”

“Why?” Hank knew it was silly, but he was almost disappointed.

Ainley reappeared, knotting his tie. He smiled sardonically. “I take it back,” he said. “It’s not your timing I admire, it’s your luck. I’ve got this from Washington, absolutely solid. Nixon’s resigning the Presidency at noon tomorrow. Come on, let’s go.”

Ainley was reaching for the doorknob when Hank grabbed his hand. “Ainley, is this going to work?”

“Why not?” Ainley said. “It’s worked before.”

Ainley, as usual, had been right. It
was
sticky. It was a lot worse than sticky. At times, it was agonizing. There was an autopsy (inconclusive—too little soft tissue remained unburned). There was interrogation by fire marshals and policemen. They’d learned the fire had been started by the space heater.

Senator, why would someone be using a space heater on a warm August night?

For one suicidal moment, when a fire marshal first asked him that question, Hank had been tempted to make up an answer. Then he’d realized that this was a matter about which an innocent man would be completely ignorant. He proclaimed his ignorance, indignantly.

But Ainley was also right about his other assertion—the story worked. Eighty percent of the ranking police and fire officials in the state owed something to the Van Horns, as did ninety-five percent of the judges, and a goodly number of the journalists. Most of the rest could see the futility of mixing it up with that kind of power over one little Italian-American social climber. The few remaining were easy to paste a label on—vindictive bastards who were out to smear, not only a Good Man and a dedicated public servant, but worse, an innocent young girl who could no longer defend herself.

A lot of that labeling was done by Mr. and Mrs. Aogostino Girolamo, recently retired from the gray, industrial town of Irondale, downstate from the capital, to a lovely condominium in Boca Raton, Florida, courtesy of a sympathetic Van Horn family. In the expressed opinion of Mrs. Girolamo, Senator Henry Van Horn was “a saint,” and their Giuseppina had been blessed to know him.

So while there were some sneers, especially out of state, when the inquest ruled Death by Misadventure in the case of Josephine Ann Girolamo, there was a minimum of harm done. Some said it might have cost the Senator any future chance at the White House, but the Van Horns, unlike some political dynasties, knew the White House was not an essential base of operations for steering the country in the direction you wanted it to go.

After all, Hank was reelected, and continued to be reelected, growing in seniority and power.

Mr. Nixon was long, long gone.

T
ROTTER HATED TO STOP
on an even number. He pressed his back down into the bench, tightened his hands on the grips, and forced the muscles of his legs to lift the weight one more time. It was burning, tearing agony, but it had to be done. When the thirty-pound weight clanked home at the top of the hinge, Trotter was tempted to let go and let the thing crash back down, but he didn’t. He eased it down, if anything that took that much effort could have anything to do with “ease.”