For Every Evil (7 page)

Hale glared at her, speechless.

“There’s nothing you can do about it. You’re a rotten writer. You could never hope to mimic my style this late in the game. Face it. You need me. And from now on, you’re going to listen to my viewpoint.”

His eyes bulging with rage, he brushed a hand through his silver hair. “Something’s going on. And damn you, I want to know what it is!”

She laughed. It was a strangely high, mirthless sound. “I was nearly killed the other night,
darling.
Perhaps even you can understand how it might change one’s perspective. I’m simply no longer going to live my life in your shadow.” She could see his body grow rigid.

“Meaning?” He spit the word at her.

“I’m
writing the column, now.” She blew a handful of soapsuds at him. “Close the door on your way out.”

He stared at her in complete disbelief. Then, crumpling up the newspaper, he hurled it at her head.

Several hours later, Hale leaned back in his leather armchair and glared at the huge TV screen directly across from him. Sunday afternoon programming was definitely the pits. Nothing but
Columbo
reruns and mind-numbing sporting events. Picking up the remote, he switched it off, glad for the return to silence. He swiveled his chair around and looked out the gate house’s second-story window, noticing that Ivy’s Porsche was finally gone. Well, good riddance. If he hadn’t left the main house himself and come up to his office to bury himself under a pile of work, he might have strangled her right there in the tub. No, a cooler head
must
prevail. Not that he didn’t have some very special plans for dear Ivy. But they would have to wait.

The sound of a ringing phone broke roughly into his thoughts. Absently he picked it up. “Micklenberg here.”

“Mr. Micklenberg? This is John Jacobi.”

“Who? Oh, hell. I know who you are. What do you want?”

“Well … I just finished reading your review of my work in the
Times Register.
I wanted to thank you.”

Hale inhaled deeply. “The whole thing was a mistake.”

“What?”

“Those weren’t my words.
My
review was never printed.”

“I … don’t understand.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. And I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain it to you. Have a good day, Mr. Jacobi.” He dropped the receiver back on the hook. The nerve of some people. He tore up the letter he’d been working on and tossed it into the wastebasket.

Again, the phone interrupted him. He could feel his temper rising. He had to get out. Take a walk. Do something besides sit and brood. Instead of answering it himself, he let the machine take it. No more morons were going to bother him today. He fiddled with the volume control to make sure he could hear the message. Then, switching off the computer, he stood and grabbed his coat, slipping it on while he listened. After a few seconds a young boy’s voice said, “‘For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none. If there be one, seek till you find it. If there be none, never mind it.’ “ The machine clicked off.

Hale stood in the center of the room, unable to move. When Louie had recounted a similar incident the other night, he’d found it curious, but in all the commotion, he’d dismissed it as just a prank call. Annoying, but of no particular importance. But now, here it was again. Who was doing this? And more important, why?

He slumped back into his chair, staring blankly at the top of the desk. Someone was trying to rattle him, that’s what it was. All in all, it was a puny effort. Having a child read the message was a suitably sinister touch, but it wasn’t going to work. Of course Hale knew he’d made his share of enemies over the years. An uncompromising critic always made enemies. And, to be fair, this wasn’t the first time someone had tried to pay him back for a bad review. It was just … this time, something seemed slightly off-kilter. Perhaps he’d antagonized a genuine weirdo. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t admit to a certain fear of such things. Still, the bottom line was, the police had to be kept out of his business. Whatever was going on, he would handle it himself.

Opening a small safe on the floor in back of his chair, he drew out the gun. He checked the clip. Good. It was loaded. He might as well carry it with him. Until this guy, whoever he was, got tired of playing his little game, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Fifteen minutes later, Hale knocked on Betty Malmquist’s front door and waited for her to answer. He glanced down at the shopping bag he was holding, pleased that it was stuffed to overflowing with small, beautifully wrapped presents. He’d been collecting them for weeks. He couldn’t wait to see her face.

“Hale!” she said, standing back and allowing him to enter. “This is a wonderful surprise! I didn’t expect to see you today.”

He noticed right away that she was using her walker again. Her little dog, Arthur, scratched at his leg, wanting a pat on the head. Hale bent down and gave him a hearty scratch.

“Come into the parlor,” she urged, shuffling slowly under the small arch. He recognized the dress she was wearing as her very best. Even though she rarely got out to go to church these days, Sundays were still special. Hale loved that about her. She reminded him so much of his grandmother.

“I can only stay for a few minutes,” he said.

“You’re not going to work?”

“Not today.”

She eased herself into a chair, patting the back of her white hair into place. Arthur leapt into her lap. “Can I offer you a sweet?” She nodded to a small bowl of lemon drops on the coffee table.

“Sure.” He took several. “How’s Arthur feeling?”

“Fine, thanks to you. I don’t know how I could have afforded his medical bills if you hadn’t offered to pay for them.”

“We can’t have you losing your best friend.”

She smiled, lowering her eyes. “I think I have two best friends. I’m a very rich woman.”

He lifted the shopping bag onto the coffee table.

“What’s that?” She stared at it curiously.

“Just a little something for you — to make those long winter days seem less long.”

“Now, what have you gone and done?” Her voice was scolding, but he could see the delight in her eyes.

“There are several dozen small gifts here. I want you to open one every day until they’re gone.”

“Hale, you shouldn’t! This is too much.”

God, he loved doing things for her. It gave him more pleasure than just about anything in his life. “Are your grandchildren taking good care of you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“I don’t need to be waited on. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”

“They’re getting groceries for you, right?”

“They are.”

He hesitated. “Because if they’re not —”

“Hale, you mustn’t worry.” Her eyes moved to the steps leading to the second floor. “I’ve missed seeing you these past couple of weeks. I always enjoy hearing you at work upstairs.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

She nodded, smoothing her apron. “I suppose you’ll be flying to Europe soon. I like to think of you visiting far-off places. I almost feel like I’m doing it with you.”

“I wish you could.”

“The postcards are wonderful. I have an entire stack in my bottom dresser drawer. Sometimes, on Sunday afternoons, I take them out and look at them.”

She was breaking his heart. He’d known for years she wasn’t in good health. It was her eighty-seven-year-old body. There was nothing he could do. “Well, I’ve got to get going. I promise, next time I’ll bring some of that Chinese food you love so much. And we can get out the Scrabble board. You owe me a chance to recoup some of my losses.”

“You’re a dear boy. You … haven’t
stopped
working, have you?”

“No. Just taking a breather.”

“Well, then, I’ll look forward to your next visit.” She started to get up.

“No. Just sit there. I can show myself out.”

“Take good care of yourself then, Hale. I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

“Please,” he said, realizing his voice was almost desperate, “do that. Don’t forget me. You’ll never know how much I count on those prayers.”

Just after dusk, Rudy sprinted up the stairs to John Jacobi’s second-floor apartment. The artist lived in an old fourplex on Grand Avenue in St. Paul — a fairly funky address by even the most discriminating standards. Although Rudy hadn’t grown up in the Twin Cities, he was learning fast.

As he approached the door, he touched his hair, making sure the stiff February wind hadn’t completely rearranged his look. The weather had become so bitter. And the way he was dressed, he must look like a snowman.

He unzipped his jacket, then knocked. He wished the butterflies in his stomach would fly away and never come back. Having been raised in a religious time warp, so many things still felt unfamiliar to him. He’d never had this kind of freedom before. He even had a car at his disposal whenever he needed one. He relished each new experience, remembering how utterly constricted his life had once been. Never again, he repeated to himself. Never, ever again.

As John opened the door, Rudy could see a table set in the dining room. Springsteen’s
Nebraska
CD played softly from speakers affixed to the ceiling above the built-in buffet. Rudy hadn’t known what to expect, but this was wonderful. “Hi.” He smiled, stepping into the foyer almost reverently. John’s artwork was everywhere.

“You’re dressed for a blizzard, I see,” said John, grinning. “Just toss your gear over one of the chairs.”

Rudy quickly took off his heavy coat and muffler, his eyes traveling around the spacious rooms. The furniture was old — circa 1950 — but meticulously maintained. The hardwood floors were bare. One entire wall was filled with books.

“Make yourself at home. I’ve got a few things to finish up in the kitchen before we can eat.”

“Can I help?” asked Rudy. The pungent fragrance of garlic wafted from the open doorway. “It smells great.”

“I’m making pasta. And a Bolognese sauce. There’s a bottle of valpolicella on the dining room table. Help yourself. Unless you’d prefer beer or a soft drink.” John watched him for a moment, his expression amused.

“No, the wine’s fine.” The one perceived vice Rudy’s father had not denied himself — or Rudy — was alcohol. Rudy had grown up drinking wine and beer at church festivals.

“Great. I’ll just be in here.” John crossed to the kitchen and disappeared.

Rudy’s attention was drawn immediately to an old upright piano. Two pictures rested side by side on the back. Picking one up, he saw that it was a high school graduation photo. This was the first time he’d seen John without a beard. Even though the face was young, the expression was every bit as determined, the eyes no less thoughtful. He studied it briefly before turning it over. On the back was the photographer’s imprint: kekkonen photography, deer river, Minnesota. Interesting. John had never said where he was from. The second photo was much like the first. Only this time, the young man was blond. Must be a friend, thought Rudy. He knew John was an only child. Setting the picture back on the piano, he headed into the dining room in search of wine.

“Where’s Deer River?” asked Rudy. He stood in front of a chopping-block table, cutting up a cucumber for their salad.

John, who was waiting for the water to boil, glanced over his shoulder. “Why do you ask?”

“I noticed the photos on the piano.”

“Oh. Right. Well, are you familiar with northern Minnesota?”

“Somewhat. My mother’s family is from Bovey. That’s near Grand Rapids.”

John smiled. “Is that right? It’s a small world. Deer River isn’t far from there.” He returned his gaze to the pot.

“Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Your family. Living in a small town. You know. Your roots.”

John shook his head. “I miss … the woods. My father died when I was eleven. We were quite close. And Mom … just a year ago. I don’t have any family left, other than an aunt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose you miss her — your mother, I mean. It was such a short while ago.” Rudy thought of his father.

Turning around, John nearly knocked his wineglass off the counter.

“Was she ill?”

He shook his head. “It was” — he paused — “a freak accident. Our house sat on about fifteen acres. It was a densely wooded area. She was out back digging potatoes one afternoon when a rifle shot hit her. Best the police could figure was that it was a hunter. We had signs posted near the highway that said it was private property, but it seemed like every year we’d get some yahoo stomping around looking for deer in the fall.”