Chapter 4
I began to laugh, softly at first, then louder, with only a small trace of hysteria. Chris looked at me in disbelief, and a stewardess rushed to our seats.
“Miss, ah, Grey”—she consulted her passenger listing—“we’ll be landing in less than three hours. Would you like another drink? Or maybe a pillow or blanket? Most of our passengers find that resting is a good way to pass the time.”
“I understand,” I said, still choked with laughter. “I am sorry, and yes, I would like another glass of wine. Thank you for asking.”
Her arched brows told me she thought I had already had enough, but she dutifully fetched my drink. After she left I took one long sip and, sufficiently calmed, turned to Chris. The expression on his face had changed from guilt to embarrassment. I smiled in my most reassuring manner, but he relaxed only slightly.
“Look, Chris, I think it is very sweet of you to be concerned about me, but I can take care of myself. And if I can’t”—I shrugged—“well, I’ll deal with that if it happens.” I turned my face to the window again. “It wouldn’t be that great a loss, after all.”
He wasn’t meant to hear my last words, but his ears were sharper than I thought.
“How can you say that? Doesn’t your life mean anything to you at all?”
“Chris,” I sighed, forcing my gaze away from the night sky, “I’m old and tired. I have led an interesting life, if you can call it that. I’ve lived through three major wars, and more historical events than you can remember. Everyone I have ever known or loved has died or will die, while I go on virtually forever. And what sort of legacy do I leave? A few dresses on a rack somewhere, a couple of pages in some lousy scrapbook, or maybe just a hazy memory locked inside the head of some man I met in a bar, someone I subsequently and cold-heartedly drained of a portion of his blood so that I could live?” I shook my head slightly. “No, Chris, it would not be that great a loss.”
“But what about Dad?” His tone of voice was indignant and belligerent, his expression and question displaying such a youthful ignorance that, unexpectedly, I grew angry.
“What about him? He wants no part of me, a fact he made quite plain in the letter he sent less than two years ago. I would be a sorry fool if I believed anything else.”
“Oh.” Chris gave me an odd look; he opened his mouth and shut it quickly, as if he wanted to say something else then thought better of it. He shook his head instead. “Why did you agree to come back with me?”
I sat quietly for a moment, listening to Max’s laughter echoing in my head. “Now’s the time, my dear, to give him the speech. You know, that one about how the future doesn’t matter, about how you have to be with the man you love. You were quite eloquent about it once, if I remember correctly.”
“Just stay out of it,” I murmured, turning my face to the window.
“What?”
I looked back at Chris and gave him a half smile. “You are right, Chris.” Laughing softly at my own folly, I continued. “It seems a shame that over a century of living did not make me smarter, but where your father is concerned, I am a fool. Now”—I reached over and gently smoothed his hair—“settle back and get some sleep. I have some thinking to do.”
It was raining when we landed in New York, a cold rain, soft but insistent. Due to a technical problem at the gates, we had to walk from the plane to the terminal, and although the airline supplied umbrellas, we were still completely soaked by the time we got inside. The airport was crowded; somehow I had managed to forget just how many people lived there. We arrived at the baggage claim, and I was trembling, not with the wetness of my clothes and hair, but with the overwhelming presence of so many humans. My senses were deluged by the odor, the jostling, the warmth of these living bodies all pressed together. I leaned against the wall and rubbed my hands over my face, feeling faint and exhilarated at the same time.
“You okay?” Chris came over to me, our suitcases in hand.
I nodded weakly. “Can we go now?”
He led the way through the airport, and eventually we burst through the front doors into the night. I sighed my relief; he hailed a taxi and we got in.
“Where are you staying?”
I looked over at Chris. “I haven’t made any arrangements yet. I had thought I might go back to my old place.”
He reached into his pocket and handed me a set of keys. “Dad’s place is empty right now. Why don’t you stay there for a while?”
I looked at the keys and hesitated.
“Go on,” he urged. “Why spend the money for a hotel? I’d feel better knowing that you were there. Besides, I live just a few blocks away; it would be more convenient.”
“Fine,” I agreed, “but just for now.”
When we arrived at Mitch’s apartment, Chris walked in with me and opened the door. It was exactly as it had been when Mitch lived there. Except for the musty, unoccupied odor that lingered in the air, it was as if he had just stepped out for a moment.
“I hope it’s okay.” Chris glanced around doubtfully. “I cleaned up the best I could.”
I looked at the room, the books neatly lined up, the tables dusted, the vacuum cleaner tracks on the carpet, and felt a small shiver of déjà vu. “I see that you Greers are all the same.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” I gave a small laugh at his confusion but did nothing to explain myself. The similarity to his father was almost uncanny; the neatness, the expectation of my arrival was so much like Mitch’s attitude that I could almost feel his presence.
“Well”—Chris moved nervously toward the door—“if everything is okay, I guess I’d better be going. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll go see Dad.”
“That would be fine. Call around sunset. I assume there are visiting hours at night?”
“Seven to nine,” he informed me. “We should probably leave here no later than six.”
“Great. See you then. Good night.”
He closed the door and I heard him go down the stairs and out the front door. The cab door closed, the motor surged, and he was gone, leaving me alone with my memories.
For a time I wandered through the apartment, studying the rows of books, amazed once more at their variety. Idly, I ran my finger down the spines of the books, then went into the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty except for two bottles of wine. Silently thanking Chris for his forethought, I poured myself a glass from one and carried it and my suitcase into the bedroom.
This room was also clean—too clean, it seemed to me, but I restrained the urge to open my valise and throw the clothes about. Instead, I opened the closet and looked at the rows of Mitch’s clothes. A faint smell arose from them, and I closed my eyes for a minute to isolate the aroma, to breathe it in more deeply, to fill my lungs with the odor of him.
“Damn.” I turned away from the closet and left the room. All at once I felt restless and trapped, and knew that I could not sleep there that night. Tomorrow during the sunlight would be soon enough. I picked up the phone and called a taxi.
The cemetery gates were locked and the graveyard was surrounded by a tall, heavy fence. Smiling to myself about the old joke, I reached down and grasped the padlock in my hand, looking up and down the street to see if I was being observed. There was no one in sight; I had sent the cab driver away, and who else in their right mind would be visiting a cemetery at night? Who, indeed, I thought with a small laugh, pulled the lock apart, pushed open the gates, and closed them again behind me.
Walking quickly, I passed through the older section, where the tombstones were tilted at odd angles and the ground gently rounded. As if from a great distance, the noises outside the gates seemed muffled and indistinct. Even the sounds of my passage were muted; the scratching sounds of my boots on the gravel were no more than a whisper in the night.
I had received directions to the grave site when I had purchased the plot, and as I entered the newer section, I recited the landmarks to myself. “Three trees clumped on the right, two benches and a water faucet, then the third grave to the left.” It turned out to be nothing like my dreams, but then, I thought with a shrug, what is?
The granite marker stood tall and proud, bearing the simple inscription over which I had commiserated for much too long, especially when one viewed the final result: his name, the date on which he died, and one word, “Father.” I had considered many inscriptions—some were humorous, some slandering or sentimental—but realized finally that my feelings about Max were too confused, too convoluted, and had settled for that one relationship. It made little difference that somewhere else lay another much loved under that same title; his earthly remains had long since gone to dust, and Max, I reasoned, was truly the father of the creature I had become.
I stood for a long time, contemplating his grave. I waited for his voice in my mind, his step on the path, the emergence of his grasping hands. There was nothing but silence. Feeling oddly at ease, I sat down on top of his grave and leaned against the tombstone. The grass was icy and the stalks pushed themselves into my stockings, but the earth remained still and I was alone.
“Max.” I addressed him solemnly, my quiet voice forcing strange echoes from the surrounding stones. “I want to make peace. We have paid for your death. Both Mitch and I have paid. Let it go. Let us go.”
There was no response, not even a glimmer of his presence. I laughed softly at myself, for I already knew that he chose his own time, his own appearances. But still I sat for some time, thinking, weighing the actions of my past, searching my mind for any alternatives that could have been chosen over his death. I came to the same conclusion as always: He had given me no choice; his death had been unavoidable. And although I regretted the deed and missed his presence as acutely as I would a piece of my own body, I knew finally that, given the same situation, I would kill him again.
I rose from the ground slowly and with a sigh. This was as much peace as I would realize, tonight or any other. There was nothing here for me; there never was. I brushed away the dead leaves that had adhered to the back of my cloak. As my hands touched them, they crumbled, but the brittle crunching sounds they made did not disguise the approaching footsteps. I stiffened and remained standing with my back to the path, not really wishing to face this apparition.
“Deirdre?” There was surprise in his voice, and recognition. “It is you, is it not? It’s been a long time.”
Inwardly I relaxed. The slightly accented voice seemed vaguely familiar, but it was not Max’s. I turned around.
I knew that we had met before, but I could not quite remember his name. He was distinguished, handsome and his clothing spoke softly of old money. I pulled my cloak together and folded one arm over it, ashamed of my own apparel, suited more for the life I led in England than the one I had led in America. But I gave him a gracious smile and extended my other hand to him. “So nice to see you again, Mr., ah . . .” I felt myself blushing, wishing I could remember his name.
“Lange. Victor Lange.”
Even before he said it, his name and the situation surrounding our meeting came back to me. The recollection caused me to shiver slightly; he had been the one to give me the final clue that enabled me to discover who Max really was. I regretted his role in the affair; eventually Max would have dropped his shield and let me know himself. Perhaps his death could have been avoided. I looked at him with an uncertain smile, wondering if he knew he had been indirectly involved in the killing of his friend.
He took my hand and raised it to his mouth. His lips moved delicately over my knuckles and he laughed. “But of course you wouldn’t remember me; we met only once, and that, briefly.”
“I do remember you, Mr. Lange. After all, it’s been only two years. But I am surprised that you remember me.”
He dropped my hand and smiled at me. “How could I ever forget someone like you? Besides, I’ve been waiting for you. Max said you would come here sooner or later. I walk here often, watching for you.”
I jumped, startled. “Max said?” I questioned him, my voice raised to a higher pitch than normal. “But Max is—”
“Dead,” he interrupted, his charm lost suddenly in the flare of anger. “A most regrettable occurrence.” His eyes glittered in the moonlight and, I, barely aware of my reaction, backed away a few steps from him. He noticed my movement, and his expression and voice softened. “Forgive my poor use of the language, I didn’t mean to alarm you. Max never actually said it to me. It was merely a part of the stipulations of his will: that I should watch for you after his death.”
“His will? But what has that to do with me?” I gave him a suspicious glance. “Or you, for that matter?”
Victor threw his head back and laughed loudly. “How like Max to not tell you. He was always such a secretive bastard, wasn’t he? I won’t keep you in suspense any longer, Deirdre. I am executor of his will and you, well, you are a very rich lady.”
“Rich?” I shrugged slightly. “I was rich before. How much did he leave me?”
“Everything he had, my dear. You are his sole heir.”
I stared at him in shock for a second, then repeated in disbelief, “His sole heir?”
Victor nodded, smiled, and took my arm. “I knew he hadn’t told you, although I advised him to many times over. Max always insisted that he had all the time in the world, that he would explain everything at the right moment.” He began to walk back down the path, gently urging me along.
“Well,” I said, hoping that the bitterness I felt did not show, “that moment never came.”
“No.” His tone was noncommittal as he pushed the front gates open, giving first the padlock and then me a quick, curious glance. “Careless of the caretakers to leave these unlocked.”
“But so convenient for late-night visitors.”
He gave me a shrewd look, then smiled and patted my arm. “You can’t imagine how good it is to see you alive and well. When you disappeared after Max’s death, I was very worried.”
“Why would you be worried?”
He did not answer the question right away. “I left town on business the very night he was murdered. By the time I returned, Max was buried and you were gone. Without a trace, I might add. I’m afraid I may have jumped to the wrong conclusion, not that it matters at this point.”
I looked at him expectantly, but he seemed deep in thought. “And that conclusion was?” I prompted Victor.
He shook his head briefly and gave a small, angry laugh. “It does seem ridiculous now that I consider it again. I rather thought that Greer had killed you also. And hid your body.”
“Mitch Greer? Why on earth would you have thought that?”
Victor shrugged. “As I said, it doesn’t matter at this point. What is important is that you are here now, and safe. We’ll need to get together sometime soon. I have many papers for you to sign. Where will you be staying?”
“At a friend’s apartment.” My privacy was still a major concern, and I saw no need for Victor to know where I would be. Especially that I would be at Mitch’s place. There was too much I did not know about him and his anger at Max’s death was still strong; the vehemence with which he said Mitch’s name proved it. “I’ll call you at the Imperial, if that’s suitable.”
“Fine.” He waved and a car pulled up to the curb. The driver emerged, nodded to us, and opened the back door. Victor motioned for me to enter, but I shook my head.
“I think I’ll just stay around for a while and go home later. It’s a lovely night.”
He glanced at the sky and smiled his agreement. “If I were thirty years younger, Deirdre, I would be pleased to stay and keep you company. But watch yourself; this is not exactly the best neighborhood around.”
I stood on the curb and watched as they drove away. After they were gone from sight, I glanced back once more at the quiet cemetery, then began to walk slowly in the direction of Mitch’s place. Three blocks away I hailed a taxi and rode back home.