Abattoir (15 page)

“Third and last my friend, you can make a cap call.”

“What the hell is
that
?”

“That’s when you ask your partners how deep they want to dig their hole, and whether they’re willing to throw good money after bad.”

Cantrell put his hand across his forehead.

“What do you think?”

“You’re paying me to provide options, Alex, not to do your thinking for you. I know this place means a great deal to you, and I’m sorry as hell that things have turned out this way. Chalk it up to good old Murphy, blame God, blame your past life, but frankly, things aren’t looking too rosy. But I can’t tell you which road to take. All of them have consequences and you’re a bright guy, you don’t need me to tell you that. Give it some thought, a few days at most, and let me know. We’ll get the partners together and try to hammer something out. That’s my counsel.”

With that, the meeting was clearly over. Cantrell rose and extended his hand to Billings.

“Alex, one last question,” the lawyer said. “What do
you
plan on doing? Are you still there? Do you plan to stay?”

Cantrell paused at the office door.

“Yeah, Josh. I’m there and I’m staying. No matter what.”

“In God’s name, why?”

Cantrell flashed a weak grin, shrugged his shoulders, and strode into the hallway.

§

It was twilight when he returned.

The feeling of deep dread, almost familiar by now, came back like a breath of chill wind the moment he turned up the drive.

The Exeter loomed in the wintry dusk, its verdant landscaping now brown and dry. He saw no lights in any of its windows. Nor were there any other cars in the parking lot. The empty spaces made the place look sad and naked.

Still, anything was better than the circus of press that had filled this lot only a week ago. The frenzy had lasted forever. He felt considerable relief that the media seemed to have finally lost their appetite for whatever the Exeter was serving up.

The bleakness also permeated the interior. For the first time, Cantrell felt the emptiness of the vast building, the sheer
mass
of its silence. There were no sounds of human occupation—no television, no music; no footsteps on floors and stairs, no laughter.

He noticed a small doll on the floor—a Raggedy Ann. Its once pretty face had been trampled by dirty shoes, the movers no doubt.

The little thing had been left behind during someone’s move. He picked it up, regarding its expressionless face. The doll’s feelings were impossible to gauge, but he felt sure that its owner was happier to be somewhere else. He tossed the doll into a corner.

The staircase which wound around the tall tree—still green and lush despite the season—looked stranger than the last time he examined it. Its angles and shadows even more perverse; still maddeningly impossible to analyze, even for an experienced architect.

His eyes turned toward the skylight far above. He was almost disappointed to see nothing there—no gauzy form wafting its way down the atrium toward him.

A sudden sound made him jump—a loud thump followed by the hammering of steel against steel.
The furnaces. I’m jumping like a cat at a furnace.

He sighed, shaking his head at his own timidity.

As he began walking up the staircase, however, he couldn’t help but think that the sudden sound was something more; that the house was laughing at this rational man who tried to explain everything in rational terms.

§

When she saw his car pull into the empty parking lot two stories below, Su Ling felt enormously reassured. The past four hours had been torture. She was acutely aware of the slow passage of time, and the horrific emptiness that had now become the Exeter. With only her and Anna left in the entire building, she felt infinitesimally small and vulnerable—at the mercy of . . . she wouldn’t allow herself to finish the thought.

She quickly turned on the light and blew out the solitary candle she’d been burning in the living room. She knew it was foolish, but felt that the muted light of a candle left her less exposed.

She went into the kitchen and did a cursory check of the dinner she’d prepared—straightforward American comfort food. She passed through the living room and made sure that Anna—who sat drawing in the middle of the carpet—was okay. She checked her makeup, adjusting her top in the bathroom mirror.

She thought she looked good, and could not entirely suppress a feeling of giddiness. And with that sensation, a pang of guilt, like a cloud passing over the sun. She thought of her husband—only gone a year—how much she loved him, and missed him.

How could she possibly be falling in love again?

There was a knock at the door. She almost ran to open it.

She gave Cantrell a tight hug as he entered, and saw the look of dread and despair on his face immediately melt away.

When Cantrell saw her—dressed in black slacks and a pink cashmere sweater that exposed a thin band of smooth belly—he felt something he hadn’t felt before. He already knew that he’d gone well beyond just liking her, but this was something else.

They sat together on the couch, silently enjoying each other’s presence as they watched Anna’s pencil make long, sometimes vicious, movements across her tablet. There was something almost hypnotic about the child’s actions. While they first appeared erratic, on closer examination, there seemed to be a definite purpose to each line and scratch.

“What does she do when she runs out of paper?” Cantrell asked.

“I took Sharon’s advice,” Su Ling replied with a smile. “I have reams of tablets for her; she’ll never run out.”

“What do you make of it, Su? What does it mean?”

“I wish I could believe she was trying to communicate with me. I think that’s wishful thinking. Sharon was convinced that part of Anna’s mind was trying to communicate to itself, almost as if she were trying to find a way out of her silence—out of her sadness—through her pencil. I think maybe Sharon might have had something there. All I know, Alex, is that it’s important. I
know
it is . . . ”

“How is she taking Sharon’s absence?”

“It’s impossible to say. She doesn’t react to anything, as you know. Her drawing now is the same as it was before. Does she miss Sharon? Maybe somewhere deep inside. I hope so. And I know there’s no question that Anna liked Sharon very much.”

“How could you tell?”

“Mother’s intuition. The same intuition that tells me she likes you very much too.”

Cantrell blushed. “Really?”

“Yes. And I have to tell you, my daughter has very good taste.”

They stared at each other, laughed. They brought their foreheads together, pulling back, smiling. Su Ling reached out and caressed the back of his head, brought his lips to hers. The kiss was deep and long. At last, she pulled away and whispered in his ear.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

He smiled.

Su Ling rose and approached her daughter. Gently, she placed her hand on the girl’s drawing arm. Without looking up, Anna’s movements began to slow, and eventually stopped. The paper and pencil fell soundlessly to the floor. Su Ling’s hand moved to Anna’s and gently raised her. The girl followed her mother to the table and took her accustomed place.

It amazed Cantrell that although Anna was totally uncommunicative, there was an obvious understanding between mother and daughter—a modus operandi that went beyond words.

Dinner was quiet and pleasant. They talked of ordinary things, but their minds were on something else.

Cantrell marveled at the dexterity Anna showed as she ate. She was neat and meticulous, taking tiny portions of food from the small plate. Although she could not communicate a single word, nor even convey a meaningful expression, she conducted herself like any little girl her age.

After dinner, Su Ling led Anna away from the table to the bathroom. There, she brushed her teeth and was then led to bed.

Cantrell cleared the table and joined Su Ling at Anna’s bedside. They both tucked her in, and the girl was asleep almost before they left the room.

They found themselves back on the couch, finishing the last of their wine, looking at each other in the warm glow of the candles that Su Ling had relit.

Despite her best efforts, she found her eyes returning to the photograph on the wall—the one that depicted her, Anna and Quan. It seemed like a century ago, yet it still hurt. Maybe it would always hurt. Even as she kissed Cantrell, this time harder than before, her thoughts were divided.

As if sensing her apprehension, he cupped her face in his hands and let the words flow from his mouth with no hesitation, no analysis, no explanation.

“I love you,” he whispered softly.

She felt her cheeks grow heated, her heart quicken.

She hadn’t heard those words since Quan. Was it a betrayal to hear them now? A form of adultery? Could a woman be unfaithful to her dead husband?

No
. She would not cling to the past, no matter how attached she was to it. She would not look at Quan’s picture on the wall . . . at least not tonight.

She replayed Cantrell’s words in her mind, realizing in an instant that she believed him. And that she owed him the same honesty: that she loved him too.

Not because he was handsome or sexy, or that he was a successful architect; amazingly creative in his art; adept at translating his vision into tangible reality. These were all attractive, but what really drew her to him was the little boy she saw hidden deep inside.

The little boy who was afraid of failure, who dreaded his father’s disapproval,
anyone’s
disapproval, who needed someone to accept him, to hold him when the doubts rose.

She knew at that moment that she would surrender to Cantrell. She knew that, with his help, she could let go of her past.

He caressed her fine black hair, enjoying the sensation of his fingertips running through its length. He brought her lips once again to his.

He hadn’t planned on saying those three simple words. He’d never said them to anyone before.

Like Su Ling, he believed them.

There had been lovers in his past, or at least women whom he’d called lovers. None of them had lasted for very long. His work always seemed to push them aside, to take precedence over everything.

He couldn’t have predicted any of this. His life was already beyond complicated. But looking into her dark eyes, feeling the softness of her hair on his face, he didn’t have a single doubt. He wanted to fall into this woman; to melt together with her, to realize the strength he knew her love would bring him.

And the strength his love would bring to her. He saw far beyond her exotic good looks, even far beyond the loving and worried mother that she was. He, much like her, saw her past. He saw her as a little girl, very much like Anna, who was afraid, who feared losing her home and her parents, who wanted nothing more than to be secure and to be loved.

He also saw her courage. He saw how that frightened little girl had grown into this strong and persevering woman, this beautifully vulnerable yet courageous woman.

Now Su Ling brought her lips to his ear.

“I love you too.”

She felt his lips tremble and break into a smile.

“Will you make love to me?” she asked, a twinge of doubt still lingering in her voice.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, in one gentle motion, he swooped her up in his arms and led her into the dark recess of her bedroom.

Their lovemaking began gently.

They removed one another’s clothing piece by piece, bashfully at first, but soon with abandon. They caressed each other for a long time, enjoying the taste of skin, the scent of hair, the yield and resistance of physical pressure.

They teased each other as they grew bolder, and then became fast and fiery, leading to a climax that was as gentle as it was explosive, as spiritual as it was physical.

The lovers lay spent, wrapped in each other’s limbs. As their sweat cooled, they caressed each other, again gently at first, then more fervently, in spite of their fatigue.

They repeated the act of love, only this time, enjoying every moment with the ease of prior experience.

When the time for words returned, it was Su Ling who broke the silence.

“Thank you . . . ”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, kissing her again.

“
Our
pleasure,” she corrected him with a giggle.

14

The lovers fell asleep in each other’s arms, but their slumber was not destined to last long.

Once again, Cantrell was startled by a loud noise, echoing from somewhere below in the empty building.

The furnaces again . . .

But the noise repeated, growing louder, and did not stop. Eventually, it brought him fully awake. Su Ling’s breathing remained soft and regular. She was oblivious to the noise.

No, not the furnace . . .
somebody was knocking on the main door. He glanced at the clock—just after 3 a.m.
Who the Hell . . . ?

He got out of bed and fumbled in the darkness of the unfamiliar room for his clothes. He put them on hastily, creeping out of the flat into the dark hallway.

The banging was much louder now, like a sledgehammer against the thick wood.

Cantrell reached the door and angrily flung it open.

Momentarily illuminated by flashes of lightning, he immediately recognized the man, drenched in the cold rain that was falling.

The visitor was tall and slender, wisps of long white hair trailing from beneath his fedora. He wore a long, dark raincoat, carrying no umbrella.
He looks much older in person . . .

Without a pause, Cantrell began to close the door. Everett Cross deftly blocked it with his foot.

“You need to talk to me, Mr. Cantrell,” the familiar voice boomed through the rain. “You shut me out at your own risk.”