Fall from Grace (21 page)

“Never?”

“Meaning never. This may sound like a funny scruple. But I never set foot on your parents’ property, because I knew it had been your mother’s home since birth.” Carla’s tone hardened. “You’d like me to have pushed him, I know. That would cure your mother’s financial problems, and end the police investigation of your family. But why would I kill Ben? And why would he ask to live with me, then leap to his death hours later?” She looked Adam in the face. “Someone took a dying man, unable to defend himself, and threw him off the cliff. Maybe someone in your family. No matter what else you feel, I hope that makes you as sick as it makes me.”

With startling suddenness, Adam saw another building block of Sean Mallory’s case against Teddy: Carla’s account, if believable, made suicide seem far less likely. And it undermined Clarice’s claim to have seen a woman standing on the promontory with Ben on an earlier evening—or, at least, the inference that it was Carla Pacelli. “Let me get this straight,” he rejoined. “My father told you he was dying, but failed to mention that he was leaving you ten million dollars.”

Carla nodded. “Ben said that he’d take care of me. But he didn’t say what that involved, and I didn’t feel like interrogating a dying man.”

Adam leaned forward. “Then how do you explain his bequest?”

“I don’t try,” Carla snapped. “At least not to you. I’ve told you I’m uneasy with Ben’s will, and that the rest is for the lawyers to sort out. But you know better than most that their marriage was a sham.”

Abruptly, Adam stood. “Not to my mother,” he said with suppressed fury. “All my life I heard about my father. Right up until I left, she was worried about him and other women. And she was right to worry.”

Impassive, Carla gazed up at him. “You were there. I wasn’t. I apologize for insulting her.” She stood to face him, placing a light hand on his arm. “I don’t know how or when the court will resolve her petition. But if she fails, she can stay in the house for as long as she needs. I don’t cherish the idea of being her landlord, or serving up eviction notices.”

“But that’s where my father put you.”

“Not because I asked him to, or because he was insane.” She paused, then finished in the same even tone. “If you’d still been speaking to him, you’d understand that the last few months were the sanest of his life. Cancer allowed Ben to see himself whole, and hope that some good lived after him. Whether or not you think that I bewitched him, how else do you explain his gift to Jenny Leigh?”

“I have no idea,” Adam retorted. “Do you?”

“I think so. Ben read me one of her short stories in a literary magazine, and told me she had talent. His career had been a lucky one, he said—these days a writer’s life is even harder. Especially for a young woman from the Vineyard who’d had even fewer breaks than him.” Carla’s voice softened. “I thought he might do something to help her. Maybe he imagined that a piece of him would live through her. But if that impulse was in any way selfish, Jenny was the beneficiary.”

A crosscurrent of emotions silenced Adam. One clear, cool thought emerged—this account of his father’s generosity, the act of a sane and compassionate man, strengthened Carla’s case for upholding the will. And the intensity of her gaze, the light touch of her fingers on his arm, suggested how deeply she wanted him to believe this.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she told him. “But I’ve only lied to you once, for reasons of my own, and not about Jenny or the will. Even by the standards of a ‘fearless moral inventory’ I can live with that.” She removed her hand, drawing back a step, still looking into his eyes. “Good night, Adam. Thank you for dinner.”

For a moment, he was frozen there. Before he could respond, Carla turned and left.

Thirteen

Leaving Atria, Adam drove down Water Street and parked in the shadow of the Edgartown lighthouse. The image of Carla Pacelli lingered in his mind.

I’ve only lied to you once, for reasons of my own, and not about Jenny or the will.

Refocusing his thoughts, he watched the porch of the Harbor View Hotel. Forty minutes passed, time dragging in the darkness. Then the woman came through the door, glancing at her watch, and walked swiftly toward the parking lot. As Adam had instructed her, she was alone.

Starting his car, he turned into a side street and waited. In minutes, her car passed along the only route toward Chilmark. Adam turned in the same direction as though by coincidence. For twenty minutes, he trailed her until she reached the cemetery where his father lay, satisfying himself that she would not pick up anyone else. Then he slowed, watching her taillights vanish around a curve, and pulled onto the dirt road toward his home.

It was nearly midnight; no lights came from the house or guesthouse. Parking on the gravel driveway, Adam hurried in the darkness toward the promontory, recalling the shadowy presence that had followed him on the evening he had met with Nathan Wright. On the cliffside, the night was dark and cool and quiet, the only sound the susurrus of waves on the rocky beach below. For a second, he imagined himself as Benjamin Blaine.

Someone took a dying man, unable to defend himself, and threw him off the cliff. Maybe someone in your family. No matter what else you feel, I hope that makes you as sick as it makes me.

Slowly, Adam climbed down the stairs toward the place his father had landed. The distance his father had fallen in the darkness made his skin feel clammy. He imagined the last seconds of Ben’s life, as he hurtled through the night toward his doom.

You might ask Teddy, Bobby Towle had told him, the last time he was at the promontory.

Reaching the bottom, Adam turned from the site of his father’s death, walking toward the water. Here the tide was a continual low rumble, punctuated by the deep echoing surge of six-foot waves striking land. Thick clouds blocked the moon. His surroundings were monochrome—starless sky, dark water, darkened beach. Briefly, Adam took out the night vision goggles he used in Afghanistan.

Walking toward him along the shoreline was the lone figure of a woman. He waited, shivering in the chill wind.

Spotting him, she briefly stopped, then closed the remaining distance. Only when she stood before him could Adam see her features.

Amanda Ferris looked into his face. “Why are we meeting like this?” she said. “At midnight, in the loneliest place on earth. I keep wondering if you’re a serial killer.”

The reporter’s voice was slightly louder than required to carry over the pounding surf. Perhaps it was nerves, Adam thought; perhaps not. Calmly, he said, “First take out your tape recorder. I’d guess it’s in the pocket of your blouse.”

Her face and eyes became immobile. “What do you mean?”

Now Adam was quite certain. “Do it,” he snapped. “Or go back to the swamp you came from.”

Ferris’s shoulders turned in, as though she were hunched against the cold. Then she reached into her pocket and held out a digital tape recorder in the palm of her hand. “Erase my voice,” Adam ordered. “Then throw it at the water.”

Ferris stiffened. “Take it, if you like. Then give it back when we’re through.”

“With my fingerprints on it?” Adam said coldly. “Quit playing with me. You’re not qualified.”

Ferris stared at him. Then she erased the tape and flung it into the surf with an angry underhand motion. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“You’ve already researched me on the internet,” Adam replied. “Not to mention calling Agracon. As to why I’m doing this, you’ll understand by the time we’re through. But ‘off the record’ doesn’t cover this encounter. Except for the benefit to your career, the next half hour never happened.”

Watching her eyes, Adam took stock of her once again—bright, determined, and aggressive, with a good measure of cupidity and amoral curiosity. Her job was not about anything save the public desire to pick the bones of celebrities like Carla Pacelli and his father—or, perhaps, become one. At times, Adam was glad that he no longer lived in America.

“All right,” Ferris said sharply. “Let’s talk about what both of us want.”

“I already know what you want,” Adam replied. “You think someone killed my father—that’s why you’re still here. But you’re getting nowhere with the state police.” Adam glanced up at the promontory. “Like you, I’m curious about how my father fell from there to here. Unlike you, I can’t pay people to find out. But I do know who might take your money.”

Shifting her weight, Ferris studied him with narrowed eyes. “Explain to me what you get from this.”

“First let’s talk about what you need. To start, you want the complete autopsy report, focusing on the marks on my father’s body or evidence on his clothes—rips, mud, hairs or saliva that weren’t his. The report is under wraps, so that’s a bit of a trick—”

“In other words,” she interjected, “someone will have to sell it—”

“Next you’ll want the evidence they found on the promontory, including footprints and any signs of a struggle. Beyond that, you’ll need the witness statements—especially from my family, Carla Pacelli, and Jenny Leigh.”

“That’s a lot to get.”

“You’re a clever woman, and money will make you smarter. As for me, I want copies of everything—starting with the autopsy report. And I expect to hear what you know before you print it.” Pausing, Adam spoke slowly and deliberately. “Don’t even dream of holding out on me, Amanda. If you do, I’ve already figured out how to get you indicted for obstruction of justice—”

“You’re joking.”

“Hardly. You’ve got three choices—failure, a career-making story, or a potential stretch in prison. The risks you should be taking aren’t with me. From what I’ve learned, your career is on the bubble. So how badly do you need this story?”

Almost imperceptibly, Ferris seemed to recoil. In an undertone, she said, “You’re a very strange and scary person. It’s pretty much common knowledge that you couldn’t stand your father.”

“I’m rethinking our relationship. So how much nerve do you have? I can always go to TMZ.com.”

Ferris clamped her lips, then nodded.

“Good,” Adam said. “While you’re at it, check out Carla Pacelli. From the rumors I’ve picked up, she claims to have known nothing about the will before he died. Prove that false, and her entire story unravels. That would interest me.”

“And the Enquirer,” Ferris agreed. “So tell me where I start.”

Feeling the tug of conscience, Adam hesitated. His deepest loyalty, he told himself, must be to his mother and brother. When he spoke, his mouth felt dry. “There’s a policeman in Chilmark,” he answered in a monotone. “He can’t ever know I’ve given you his name, and, as best you can, I want you to protect him. But he’s in desperate need of money.”

After she had gone, Adam remained on the beach, his soul leaden. His mind framed useless apologies to Bobby Towle.

How did I get here? he thought. How did all of us get here? He did not want to face the world, or himself.

At length, he found a familiar patch of sand in the shadow of the promontory. Ten years ago, at night, he had picnicked here with Jenny.

How else do you explain his gift to Jenny Leigh?

A central question, Adam knew. But now he could barely stand to look at her. He sat back, envisioning her face before time had poisoned his memories.

That evening, the air had been balmy, dusk peaceful and enveloping. The surf was a whisper, not a roar; the cloudless night when it came distilled light from a full moon. Listening to Jenny, Adam had loved her as only a young man could love.

It was just after she invented Celebrity Pac-Man. Wrapped with Adam in a blanket, she explained the scoring system for social avarice in Chilmark. As her inventiveness grew, her voice filled with wonder at the hungers of the human psyche. Finishing, she said, “It’s sort of sad-funny, isn’t it. Funny because of the way these people scheme to drop the name of someone like your dad, sad because their relationships aren’t real—even with themselves. It must be terrible to feel so empty.”

She sounded like his father, Adam thought, but far kinder. “You have the soul of a writer, Jenny. To me, the worst books are those where you feel nothing for the characters but pity or contempt, and wind up depleted at the end. But even your sharpest observations are leavened with compassion.”

Impulsively, Jenny kissed him. “How do you know if you’ve never read my writing?”

“And how can I read your writing,” Adam replied with humor and frustration, “if you won’t let me?”

“It’s a problem,” Jenny said blithely, and then her voice became quiet. “I’m sorry. But so much of it is personal to me.”

And painful, Adam suspected. “Lovemaking is personal, too,” he answered lightly. “And we do that all the time.”

Only when he said this did he connect her writing to Jenny as a lover, both of them elusive in different ways. He could know her body and yet, in their most intimate moments, there was something beyond his grasp. But now she was snuggling against him. “If that was a hint,” she murmured, “I just might be available. But only if I’m on top. This sand’s a lot harder than the bed in your parents’ guesthouse.”

Adam felt his body stir. With feigned casualness, he replied, “Oh, all right. As long as you let me try something first.”

“Such as?”

“It’s a surprise. The only clue is that it requires an absence of clothes.”

“I think we’ve already been there,” she said reproachfully.

Adam grinned. “I promise you we haven’t.”

When she was naked, Jenny straddled him. But instead of slipping inside her, Adam grasped her hips and lowered the moistness between her thighs onto his warm mouth. “Oh,” she whispered in surprise, and then said nothing at all.

Eyes closed, Adam could feel her body quiver as, gently and without hurry, he brought her to the edge. Then she cried out, the spasm running through her.

“Now me,” he said, and lowered her toward his hips. When he entered her, he gazed into her face, and saw that her eyes had closed, her face frozen in a blank mask. “Look at me, Jenny,” Adam urged.

But she did not. Only after she came again did her face soften, and then tears ran down her cheeks. “Lie down beside me,” Adam requested softly.