Defense for the Devil (45 page)

Then Frank was at Barbara’s side; he touched her cheek gently, and she realized her face was wet with tears.

“It’s contagious,” she said, and groped in her purse for a tissue.

“I reckon it is,” he said, surveying the hordes of people who could no longer control themselves. He grinned. “Let’s move this circus out before I start blubbering.”

41

The Arno party
was both raucous and reverent; food appeared in an endless stream of casseroles and pastries, pasta dishes and salads, hams and smoked turkeys…. And they all talked and laughed and joked and wept. The party was in James Arne’s house; it was the biggest house available, and it was crowded with family and friends in every room, all of them eating and talking. No one ever finished a sentence, and no one minded. They all touched one another a lot, hugged one another, patted, caressed, loved one another without reservation.

At ten-thirty Barbara, Frank, and Shelley said good-bye and escaped into the foggy night. Ray, Lorinne, and Maggie came out with them to the car, where Ray shook hands with Frank, kissed Shelley again, and then held Barbara’s shoulders for a moment before he wrapped her in a bear hug.

“I’ll never forget you, what you did for us. Never,” he said huskily.

When he released Barbara, Maggie said, “I just want to say, you have a room at the inn anytime you want it, anytime at all. You’re family now. On the house, just like the rest of the family.”

Then, finally, they were inside Frank’s Buick, leaving. None of them said a word as Frank drove Shelley to Bill’s townhouse. Shelley got out but hesitated at the side of the car. Barbara rolled down her window and said, “I don’t want to see your face until the day after New Year’s. Get some sleep. Rest.”

Shelley nodded. “You, too.” Suddenly she leaned over and put her head in and kissed Barbara’s cheek. “Thanks, Barbara. Just… thanks. It’s the best holiday of my life suddenly.”

She turned and ran to the door, where Bill was standing, waiting for her. Frank started to drive. After a moment he said, “When we get home, let’s have a bit of that good Courvoisier I’ve been saving for lo, these many years.”

Later, in front of a fire in the living room, with one of the Things grunting on her lap, she tried to sort through the days to come, the things she still had to do—write a report for Major and Jolin, start a search for a secretary, go over the accounting with Bailey, clean up her own files, move back to her own apartment. Change the lock on her door.

She bit her lip. Change the lock. Move his things to his apartment, hers back into her place, although there was little of hers to move back. Suddenly she wondered, was the price too high?

Frank got up to poke the fire, the other Thing complained at being moved. The Christmas tree glowed, the fire was comforting, the cognac was excellent, and, outside, the fog pressed close to the house.

And she was thinking of the things she had intended to accomplish. Palmer was spinning his new web; she had given him an out, defended him even. She shuddered: defending the devil. All his company had to do was deny receiving the title transfer and letter of authorization in the mail, and the suspicion would land on Trassi, who had vanished, probably to Argentina or the Riviera, or who might even be dead now. Palmer had delivered the rest of the program to his client, who no doubt was celebrating as merrily as the Arno family.

This whole affair had started with a monstrous lie concocted by Major/Wygood; a tissue of lies had followed, and the trail from there to here was littered with bodies. Far from feeling elated, jubilant over her victory in court, she felt as if she was sinking into gloom and despair. She felt uncertain about her own actions, uncertain how far she was capable of going to save a client, win a case. She didn’t even know why she was doing this, what she was trying to prove, if anything. Was the price too high?

“Bobby, let’s talk a minute,” Frank said quietly, back on the couch with the Thing settled in again, grunting.

She looked up, startled by the realization that he had been watching her, maybe even tracking her thoughts.

“You saved a man’s life this past week. You don’t have to explain the ins and outs of it to Shelley or me or Bailey or Jane Waldman or Bill Spassero. We all know. And you can’t explain to a hell of lot of other people who will never know. That’s how it is.” He held up his hand to forestall anything she might have said. “There was a time when I was about your age, when I still believed the law was holy writ, and I would have fought the devil himself to keep it pure. Then, one day, I came to understand that laws are written by people like me, like us, fallible people, biased people, who are incapable of writing holy law. On that day, I came to realize that justice takes precedence over the imperfect laws we swear to uphold. And, Bobby, your sense of justice is very fine. You’re going to brood about cases now and again, try to replay them in different ways over and over—that can’t be helped, it’s your lot in life. But your instinct for justice won’t be fettered by imperfect laws, and you have to live with it. You’ll pay the price more than once, and you’ll have black nights, but you’ll go on doing what you have to do.” He stood up. “And what I have to do is get some sleep. Good night, honey.”

She watched him walk from the room; both cats stretched, yawned, and followed him.

The main thing is to keep busy, she told herself, and she kept busy. She talked to Jolin, and then to Major, who begged her to come to the island, at her convenience, to discuss the whole case. She hesitated only a moment, then said yes, she would like that. Jolin was especially interested in the fact that the FBI was looking into Palmer’s connection to Senator Delancey, who, he said, was chairman of a joint telecommunications committee.

She had her accounting session with Bailey, who said he would send a guy to change her locks if she wanted him to. Next week, after the first of the year. She started to sort files and worked on her final report to Major Works.

Late in the afternoon she went to her own apartment to see
what needed doing there before she could move in again. She came to a dead stop when she saw the desiccated Christmas tree in a bucket.

Upstairs, she walked through both apartments, touching things lightly as she passed them—John’s oversized desk, his chair, his robe over a chair in the bedroom. Next week, she told herself, and left again without moving anything.

New Year’s Eve she went to a party at Martin’s restaurant, where many of her old clients greeted her like a long-lost kinswoman. Everyone danced at Martin’s parties; everyone sang. Hot and sweaty, she sat down to cool off, and she spied Maria Velasquez dancing and realized that Maria could be her perfect secretary. She had done a little work on Maria’s behalf once, and knew the young woman was capable and smart, and with a little training, she could become for Barbara what Patsy was for Frank. She grinned at the idea, and at the next break in the music she offered Maria the job and hired a secretary. And, she chided herself, this is the way you bow out, ease yourself out of the filthy law business. Then she danced with Martin.

She didn’t stay long after the midnight countdown. “Happy New Year,” she whispered, pulling into Frank’s driveway. All over town fireworks were exploding, guns were being fired. It was raining hard again, and Frank’s car was not in the garage yet. He was ringing in the New Year with old friends and might be late, he had warned her. “Pretend you don’t notice if I come staggering in in the wee hours.”

She didn’t bother with an umbrella, but pulled her coat over her head and dashed the few feet from the garage to the front porch. Then, as she was unlocking the door, she heard a soft voice, “Happy New Year, Ms. Holloway. No, don’t stop. Let’s get inside and dry ourselves. I’m afraid your Oregon climate is rather wretched.” Palmer had stepped out from behind the large azalea shrub at the porch; he grasped her arm and propelled her inside the house.

He was all in black, a long raincoat, black hat, gloves, shoes. He was holding a gun with a silencer. “Ah, this is better,” he said. “Living room.” He drew her with him to the living room and looked around approvingly. “Take off your coat, Ms. Holloway, and please sit on the couch, and I’ll see
if a new log will rejuvenate the fire. I do appreciate a fire on a rainy night such as this. Does it ever not rain here?”

She pulled off her coat and put it on a chair back, then started to sit down.

“Not at the end. Why don’t you center yourself on the couch? I think you’ll find that more comfortable.”

“What do you want?” She sat down in the center of the couch, where nothing was in reach. Both cats wandered in; one joined her, the other one went to sniff at Palmer’s feet and legs. He ignored it.

“You didn’t really believe we were finished, did you? I find that hard to accept.” Slowly he took off his coat, holding the gun steady as he pulled one arm free, then he shifted the gun from one hand to the other to free his other arm. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans; he didn’t take off the black gloves. “Now, please, don’t move while I tend the fire. I’m afraid I got a chill out there in the rain, and I’m sure you must be feeling chilly as well.”

When he opened the fire screen, and then reached for a log, she tensed, but he smiled at her and said, “Nothing foolish, Ms. Holloway. I really would rather not shoot you; that’s not part of the scenario, but if I have to change the action, improvise, then, of course, I shall do so. I think in the leg. No lasting damage that way, but something memorable. You see
,
I don’t intend to do you any real harm tonight, but I must have your cooperation.” He poked the fire, and moved away from it as the log blazed up. “Ah, how pleasant a fire is. Part of our heritage, I suspect, it satisfies the atavistic in our psyche.”

“What is your scenario?” she demanded. There, in the middle of the couch, with a goddamn cat halfway in her lap, she felt totally immobilized.

“I have come to think of you as my own personal death angel, Ms. Holloway. You know her, the mythic figure that appears when a death is imminent? Those who move into her sphere are doomed, and no one knows the breadth of her sphere until too late. She appears with awesome beauty and awesome power, and often seems unaware of the deaths that follow her path. She herself is always unaffected by the deaths she foretells. A powerful figure indeed, one to be feared and avoided if at all possible. I believe in her with all my soul.” His voice had taken on the lilt of a balladeer; he looked relaxed, at ease as he remained standing near the fireplace with the golden cat at his feet. “My dear mother told me all the old legends, of course, and she told them as true stories, but she also said that the only way to win the struggle that is life was by confronting our fears and banishing them. I have found that a useful homily.”

“We have no unfinished business,” Barbara said coldly. “We both said at the start exactly what we wanted, and we both delivered what we said we would. We are through.”

“No, not through, not quite. You see
,
there is also the pesky matter of reputation. I’m afraid mine has suffered greatly in the past few months. My organization has been decimated. I have lost valued friends, allies, and employees, and I fear that word will get around that an insignificant woman in a mudhole of a Western town was the agent for the destruction of a powerful machine. That won’t do, you must understand. I can’t refute one by one the malicious gossips who would relish such a revelation. And not many of them share my belief in the death angel, I’m afraid. We have lost our sense of wonder and awe; myth no longer moves us or explains the world to us. No, people will say I let a small-town female lawyer wreak havoc and did nothing in return. In my business, as in yours, one’s reputation must be jealously guarded at all times.”

“But you don’t intend to do me any real harm,” she said bitingly.

“That’s correct. Soon, I imagine, your father will return from his revelries. I told you I wept when my father died; I did. Without shame, I wept.”

Barbara felt a wave of ice crash over her. The Thing on her lap stirred and complained. Then it raised its head, listening. The Thing at Palmer’s feet was listening, too.

He raised his gun and said, “Shh.”

Both cats relaxed again and Palmer said, “Even they are appropriate. Early-warning systems. How very convenient.” He smiled at her. “And I see
you already grasped my intentions. You are a very intelligent young woman, very intuitive. I suspect there is a lot of the Irish in your blood. I sensed it before, of course. Yes, the scenario. Your father will return and if you call out to him, he will come into the living room here; if you don’t call out, he will come. So we don’t have to concern ourselves with getting him to walk through the doorway. And when he does, I’ll shoot him. Will you weep for him, Ms. Holloway?”

“How many people can you shoot before you run out of plausible-sounding explanations?”

“No explanation will be required. Mr. Palmer is celebrating a joyous New Year’s Eve party in California. Many important and influential people will attest to that. And by the time they get around to investigating the truth of the claim, I will be there, and express my shock and horror in an appropriate manner. You, of course, will relate this evening’s events in great detail. But, Ms. Holloway, no one will believe you. I’m afraid I shall have to inflict the small amount of damage to your person that I alluded to earlier. No lasting damage, you understand. A blow to the head, enough to raise a bump; then I shall bind you and leave you to watch your father bleed to death. I fear the blow to your head and shock will unbalance your mind. You see
,
the death angel herself cannot be killed; we shall see
if her mind can be destroyed. You, of course, will assume a new role, that of avenging angel, and our little private game will continue until the day comes that you will have to be restrained. I won’t forget you, Ms. Holloway; I shall send you flowers periodically, dark red roses. Which is worse, Ms. Holloway, death or the destruction of a superior mind?”