Antonio’s was just outside of Monticello on Route 42 toward Port Jervis. It was a restaurant that had been converted from a turn-of-the-century Queen Anne-style two-story house set off the road on six beautiful acres of lawn, gardens, and ponds. The wood cladding had been replaced with aluminum, as were the Wedgwood blue shutters. Because the rooms were so large, Antonio left the interior walls essentially intact. The separated dining areas gave people a sense of privacy and importance, and the beautiful, hand-carved mahogany balustrade and stairway gently curved to an upstairs that was now solely used for catered events.
As was usually the case when he was to meet his in-laws anywhere, Del found they had arrived before them and were waiting at the table. Judson Brooks was truly a fanatic about being on schedule, even when that applied to recreational and social activities. Time was always money and a wasted minute was a wasted dollar.
“Good,” he declared with regal authority the moment Del and Jackie appeared in the dinning area that overlooked the largest pond. From the tone of his voice, anyone would have thought he had serious doubts they would appear.
“We’re not that late, Daddy,” Jackie said quickly. “It’s only five after seven.”
“Seven-ten.”
’We’ve been here nearly twenty minutes because he gets me here so early,” Pamela Brooks complained.
Judson’s habitually red cheeks blanched brighter and his lime green eyes turned stone cold. Somewhere early on in the formation of his personality, Del’s father-in-law had developed a hair-trigger sensitivity even to the slightest, most inconsequential criticism. Del wondered if it wasn’t part of a strategy because anyone who had business with Judson Brooks knew that if he reacted so aggressively to a negative remark about small things, he would be an absolute nuclear antagonist when and if he were challenged on serious matters. Be prepared if you wanted to argue with Judson Brooks. That was the admonition practically engraved on the wall behind his desk in the bank.
“You look very nice, dear,” Pamela said, turning her shoulders so that she couldn’t see her husband’s indignant glare even out of the corner of her eyes.
Jackie’s mother was still a very attractive woman, who, despite her lack of exercise, was able to hold onto her svelte figure. She was always accused of having plastic surgery because her youthful appearance never changed from her rich, smooth complexion to her perfectly straight nose and soft, full lips. Sometimes people mistook Jackie and her mother for sisters.
Jackie and Del sat.
“You look like you need a drink,” Judson told Del.
Judson had the most scrutinizing and intimidating gaze, Del thought. He couldn’t imagine a marine drill instructor with a better ability to fixate going nose to nose. It was certainly a large part of what made Judson Brooks formidable in any one-to-one situation. He practically radiated strength. Burly, thick-shouldered, and barrel-chested, he was as physically intimidating as he was psychologically. He had been a halfback in college and loved pointing to the picture of himself on the office wall and saying, “Those were the days when I could convince with just a pair of shoulders.”
“I could use a drink, yes,” Del admitted, and ordered a vodka and tonic as soon as the waiter approached. Jackie had her usual glass of Chardonnay.
Antonio’s was one of those upscale restaurants where no pressure was put on the customers. No maitre d’ hovered over the table using all his or her power of suggestion to get people to pay their bill so another party could be seated. The waiters were instructed not to bring the menus to the tables until the customers requested them. Dining was an event here. Conversation over cocktails was truly respected and even encouraged, and when it came to getting the entree, everyone was to expect a longer wait because most everything was cooked and baked on request. If someone was unable to relax here, he or she was probably unable to relax period.
Del really was hoping to do just that. He did feel as if all of his organs were stretched tight, his heartbeat echoing in his bones. He forced a smile for his mother-in-law.
“Poor Del,” she said, shaking her head. “Thrown into such a bizarre mess. Stress plays such havoc with your nerves, with everything, I’m sure. I wish you didn’t have so much pressure on you all the time,” she added, the underlying and subtle suggestion about his failure to impregnate Jackie clearly implied.
“That’s the danger of being a public servant. You don’t have the freedom to choose your battles,” Judson said. “Even with a law degree and honors, you’re still a bureaucrat.”
Here we go, Del thought, with not even a fair chance to get settled into position. It was as if he and his in-laws had a single, continuous conversation interrupted when they parted, but resumed immediately as soon as they met again.
“If we all chose our clients on the basis of what was only good for us, Dad, few defendants would get their constitutional right to a fair and proper defense,” Del replied. He glanced at Judson and then he quickly looked around the room. He recognized Dan Ackerman, the new town of Liberty supervisor, who was gazing his way and talking with a smile to the other people at the table. They glanced at him as well, but no one had yet approached their table.
“You’re a young man on the way up,” Judson insisted. “You’ve got to be concerned about that. You don’t have the luxury some of these fat, secure lawyers have. You’ve always got to consider the downside, Del. As a banker—”
“Dad, do we have to talk business now? This is such a great place. Let’s just relax,” Jackie softly suggested. “Okay?”
His women always tiptoed around him, Del thought. What comes first: fear, respect, or love?
“I’m not talking business. I’m just making conversation. We can talk about substantial things without it being a bore, Jackie.”
The waiter brought their drinks. Del nearly gulped half of his.
“You know, I’ve been talking on and off with Arnold Sacks,” Judson continued. “He’s had his eye on Del for some time now. They’ve got a spot opening up soon in his firm and what an opportunity that could be. Why Michael Geary was just telling me yesterday that Sacks, Levits and Aster are actually getting most of their clients out of New York City and Long Island these days. You want to be part of something that’s got growth potential. When I first started in banking, my father’s best advice to me was look for a bank that has legs. What he meant was don’t get into something that has a limited future. If the company grows, you grow too; if it doesn’t, you don’t.”
“I’m hungry, Judson,” Pamela said softly.
“So get the waiter to bring the menus. I don’t suppose you read the editorial in the Record today,” he continued, directing himself solely to Del.
“Didn’t get a chance to look at the paper.”
“Del didn’t get home until an hour ago actually,” Jackie said.
“Where have you been? It’s Saturday,” Pamela asked as if they were all Orthodox Jews and he had violated the Sabbath.
“Del was in New York,” Jackie said before Del could reply.
“New York? Today?”
“What for?” Judson practically demanded.
Del sipped his drink and looked down for a moment. Maybe this was good, he thought. Maybe this was the ultimate challenge and if he could make his in-laws see, he could make anyone see.
“A college buddy of mine, Alan Gordon, has a younger brother in premed at Columbia. He’s specializing in cardiology and he arranged for me to see one of the most highly respected cardiologists in the northeast, Doctor Warren Childs.”
“Why?” Judson asked. He was leaning forward on his elbows now. He looked capable of leaping over the table.
“The district attorney is seeking to prove that my client was capable of deliberately causing someone to have a fatal heart attack by doing things most people today consider laughable. They could be annoying, but lethal? Hardly.”
“It has to be shocking to find a dead rat in your bed, Del,” Pamela said. “I think I could have a heart attack too.”
“Especially if you already have a heart problem,” Judson added pointedly.
“They haven’t produced any evidence proving she did that,” Del said.
“Well, we all know the story whether we want to or not, thanks to the media. She was doing similar things for some time. Who else would have done it, for crissakes?” Judson cried.
“I don’t know. The point is that even if she did, it’s still quite a stretch to say that was the sole reason for Henry Deutch’s death at that moment. I was able to show Doctor Childs Henry Deutch’s most recent EKG results, and in his opinion, Deutch’s heart muscle was still relatively healthy. He thinks Doctor Bloom’s diagnosis of unstable angina was probably correct, but, and here’s the good part for us, the dosage of nitroglycerin was probably insufficient, which would certainly contribute to Henry Deutch’s heart attack.”
“Probably? What kind of an expert is that?” Judson asked.
“As good as any they’ll have. Doctor Childs was confident enough on the basis of what we have that he was willing to so stipulate and, if necessary, be a defense witness. It would certainly add the element of reasonable doubt. I’ll just have to convince the court to give me the money.”
“Money?” Pamela asked quickly.
“Expert witnesses are paid for their time,” Del said.
“Then you mean to continue full steam ahead with this?” Judson asked.
“It’s what I’m paid to do,” Del replied.
Judson reached into his jacket pocket and produced the news clipping.
“Here’s what you missed,” he said, handing it to Del. Jackie looked over his shoulder and read the headline.
THE ULTIMATE EXCUSE—ABUSE UNDER ATTACK
California had its O.J. defenders, and now we have our witch defenders. Harassing someone to death because you think he’s the Devil is okay if you’re a white witch.
“I never said anything like this. This is disgusting,” Del said, reading on. “It belongs in the Enquirer or the Star, not in a legitimate newspaper. If you follow this logic anyway, we should stone the woman on the basis of accusations alone.”
“The point is no one is taking her defense seriously. She’s a nutcase. Have her committed, if you want, but don’t try to defend someone who thinks she’s killing the Devil or something. Few people beside some kooks in that town care about her or see her as someone doing good. Pamela’s right. Most people will believe you can be frightened to death. Paula Richards is going to be able to make a good case, even if you bring in your experts, Del. Clergymen, legal scholars, important people think Paula Richards is right in another sense: this spiritual, psychic twisting and turning of the mind, confusing and ruining good people has got to come to an end. Everyone is sensitive to cults and their leaders these days. We need to get back on track with family values.”
“She’s not a cult leader, Dad.”
“That’s not what I hear. She’s turned some of those people into crackpots, mumbling chants, wearing chicken feet on their wrists or around their necks. She’s just like the others. Charlatans, all of them.”
“She can’t be both,” Del said.
“What?”
“If she’s a charlatan, she can’t have the power to kill someone with her rituals.”
“What do you mean, Del?” Jackie asked suddenly, too interested to put it aside. “You’re going to prove she doesn’t have any supernatural powers? Is that your strategy?”
“No. That’s not even the point.”
“You don’t really believe she has any, do you?” Pamela asked.
Del stared a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve just been concentrating on the medical-legal aspects.”
“You don’t know?” Judson repeated, his eyebrows lifting.
Del was silent.
“I’m hungry,” Pamela said.
“Waiter,” Judson snapped. Then he sat back. “All I want to say and I won’t say another word, is you better think about your future, too. You might be more on trial than that woman,” he concluded.
“In more ways than we know,” Del muttered. “In more ways than we know.”
Only Jackie heard and she suddenly looked troubled, very troubled.
Tony Monato stepped out the rear door of Kayfields and lit a cigarette. The short order cook stood there for a moment, gazing into the darkness as if he was looking at something specific and not merely running lines of thought across his inner eyes. The scratching sounds on his right spun him around in time to see the large rat slither through the spilled garbage and then under the broken slab of fence between Kayfields and the abandoned supermarket in one of what had been Henry Deutch’s buildings.
“Son of a bitch,” Tony muttered. He turned the can upright again and slammed the lid down.
Some of those rats were as big as ground hogs, he thought. If they could be harnessed, they’d pull down the damn building. Maybe now that Henry was gone, something serious would be done with the big shack, he concluded. Then he turned and walked around the building to the main street.
He paused and looked up and down the street, content that it was deserted. When he started to walk, he seemed to prefer the shadows. He headed toward the old school house. The sky was overcast. Without any moonlight or starlight there was only the weak streetlights here and there, but he appeared to fear even that and avoided all illumination.
In fact, when an automobile approached the village, Tony paused and leaned back deeper into the shadows to watch it pass. He recognized the driver to be Gina Carnesi from the way she held her body tense and upright, leaning over the steering wheel as if she were driving over broken glass. Some people are terrified the instant they get behind the wheel, he thought. They’re the ones who cause most accidents.
After she passed, Tony continued, tossing his cigarette in the air and watching it explode in tiny sparks on the macadam. He walked with determination, mumbling to himself, his words running together until they sounded more like a chant.
“I deserve more. If it wasn’t for me . . . more. I deserve more.”
He crossed the street then quickly went behind Tilly Zorankin’s fruit and vegetable store to follow a path through the overgrowth made by children years ago when the Sandburg elementary school was still functioning. It had long since been incorporated into a centralized district and the building vacated, most of the windows now shattered dark holes that looked like empty eye sockets.
It was Tony’s idea to meet here. No one but children were on the property during the day and no one was anywhere near it at night. It was safe, no chance of being seen, no way to tie him to what had happened. He crossed quickly over what had once been the playground, his chantlike mumbling running down like some CD player losing battery power.
He paused and gazed around and behind himself to be sure there was no one unexpectedly nearby. The remnants of a swing set and a seesaw were still there: pipes and boards, but nothing else. The stillness made him feel more solemn and certainly more aware of his own heavy breathing.
Slowly now, he continued forward, his worn sneakers crunching gravel as he plodded along. When he reached his spot just behind the building, he waited for a sign, the flash of a cigarette lighter or a candle, something to indicate that the rendezvous was imminent. Silence and darkness unnerved him. He had hoped this would be fast and to the point and he could be quickly gone.
Tony didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, but he fancied himself a careful man. You don’t have to believe in spirits and all sorts of unnatural events, but you can have a healthy respect for the possibilities, he always thought. Why go under a ladder if you didn’t have to, for example?
He turned to look to his left and then his right. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now. He could distinguish among the shadows and realized when one was moving toward him. Good, he thought. Let’s get this going and over with. He was eager to retreat to his small one bedroom apartment over the restaurant, pour himself a congratulatory two fingers of bourbon, and put his feet up on the hassock in front of the television set. He’d be on his way to the Phillippines sooner than he thought. Lately, seeing his mother’s relatives was more important than ever.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette lighter and another cigarette, which he lit quickly. He had barely taken a puff when he began to speak, the smoke following his words as if they were on fire as they left his lips.
“The way I see it,” he said, “is what I did is worth more, especially now. And don’t tell me anything about being greedy or about being like him,” he added quickly. “I’m not greedy. I’m not here to ask for a whole lot, just twice as much is all. It’s worth that.”
He waited for some response. The silence sent a trickle of icy fear down the back of his neck.
“A lotta people are comin’ around here askin’ questions these days, lots of questions. I ain’t said nothin’ to nobody . . . yet, but I gotta look after myself, too. I might have to take a short vacation until this is all over, right? You see that, right? That cost money, money I don’t have. It’s better for you if I go. Right?
“Well?”
Where it came from, he didn’t know. It was like a long, silvery finger that poked him in the diaphragm and then drew a line up to his heart. The line turned red. He gazed at it in absolute shock. Then he looked up once before the world slipped from under his feet and sent him flying back. All the shadows were merged into a solid wall of darkness.
“Huh?” he said as if someone had spoken.
Before he hit ground, he was dead. His fingers held onto the cigarette which burned his skin and began to singe it until it went out. Darkness seemed to pounce over him then, and in a moment even the shadow was gone.
Munsen Donald closed the door to his small office in the firehouse and quickly got into his patrol car. He carried his emotional fatigue like a lump of lead in his stomach, lumbering, shoulders slouched, his head down. He groaned like a man twenty years older when he sat and adjusted his legs before starting the engine. Then he took a deep breath and headed out to make his one final sweep of the village before returning home to where he knew Lisa worked hard at finding distractions to keep herself from thinking. He knew that every once in a while she would finger the charm Anna had given him to give to her.
Part of his fatigue resulted from his regret in having to put together a report for the district attorney, listing and describing all the occasions when Henry Deutch called him to complain about things Anna Young allegedly had done. Anna didn’t deny much of it when he had confronted her. Yes, she had thrown curses at him as he drove by. Yes, she had dropped chicken bones and eyes of newts on Henry’s street. Yes, that was she who had stood in a circle she had drawn on the macadam outside his house one night months ago holding a candle and performing some incantation. Munsen told Henry there was no law against her being in the street.
Much of this was common knowledge. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to, keep it from the district attorney, but somehow, Munsen knew that Anna understood and even didn’t care. He drove on.
As his headlights swept the street before him, he caught sight of someone moving quickly over the sidewalk, crossing the street a little past Kayfields and then continuing east. George Echert’s black Labrador mix lifted his head and rose from his stoop in front of the garage to look at the pedestrian. The dog stared a moment and then lowered his head without barking a comment.
Whoever it was apparently was no stranger to the dog, Munsen thought, or else had a way with animals. It reminded him of Aaron Baer’s Dobermans. He continued to cruise slowly behind the dark figure. As the figure moved under the last streetlight on the main drag, he realized it was Anna Young wearing a black hooded rain coat. Something glittered in her hand. She paused to glance his way and then she entered her shop and was gone. He slowed to a stop. She didn’t put on a light. Moments later, a light went on upstairs. What the hell had she been up to now? he wondered. He stared at the window a moment before making a U-turn and heading up the hill toward home.
Sad, he thought. It’s sad that the only sign of life in the streets was this solitary woman returning from one of her mysterious trips into the darkness. Even the half dozen or so teenagers who often hung out around their automobiles, talking and listening to music were absent. Nervous parents had reined them in, he concluded. He couldn’t imagine even contemplating Sandburg was dangerous, not his Sandburg, not this sleepy little place with its lifelong residents and wonderful resort history.
Where’s it all leading?
He sped up. The lights of his home never looked as warm and welcoming as they did tonight. He couldn’t wait to have Lisa in his arms, to hold her and make her feel that he would wrap his strength around her forever and ever and keep her from harm.
All he had to do was convince himself he could.