The Crash of Hennington (29 page)

He drummed his fingers along his desktop. He inhaled and exhaled audibly. He was pissed off that he was this nervous about a meeting with anyone and began to grow even angrier at Archie. He shook his leg up and down, tapping his foot testily on the floor. He punched the page button so hard it almost hurt.

—Send him in, Rita.

A pale Archie sloped through the door, keeping his gaze aimed downwards, even when he collapsed into the chair facing Thomas.

—You all right, old man?

—Luther is gone.

A breadth of silence opened up. Thomas had no response. Archie seemed unwilling or unable to go on. Thomas’ annoyance grew steadily. The thought occurred that there was no way Archie would get this upset if it was Thomas who had ‘gone'. The only thing that tempered the feelings around the thought was the lack of surprise accompanying it. If Archie had ever made this sort of desperate fuss over
him,
Thomas would have been among the amazed.

—What do you mean, ‘gone', exactly? Did he leave town?

—No.

—Was he kidnapped? What?

Archie, clearly struggling to maintain his composure, set about methodically straightening his tie. Holy shit, was he
crying?

—It didn’t really hit me until now. I was fine until I got here. He’s been murdered, Thomas.

—What?

—The police called me over to his house this morning. His blood’s all over the bedroom, well, it
was
all over his bedroom, but someone tried to clean it up. And some idiot neighbor finally reported someone dragging a body out of the house.

—A body. Are you sure it was Luther?

—Who else could it be? And I know who did it. It was that little Rumour bastard he hired from you to fuck him.

Even in his various levels of surprise, Thomas read checked anger in Archie. So there was blame in this, too.

—How do you know that?

—It’s the only scenario that explains everything. Have you seen this Peter Wickham in the last week? Has he been in to work?

—No. He’s been taking some vacation time.

—You see? You see? There’s your answer. The police won’t listen to me. All this shit about searching for ‘possible suspects'. They won’t even admit that he’s been murdered. ‘No body', they say. I mean, the dumbfuck neighbor saw someone dragging out a body a week ago. A week, and the moron only reported it now.

—Why would someone wait a week to report a body being dragged from a home?

And now having to fish out the old man’s exaggeration. This was getting more aggravating by the second.

—They said they thought it was just someone helping a drunk friend.

—Which it very well could have been.

—Goddamnit, Thomas, help me! You’re the only one who can do this without screwing everything up.

—You want me to get you Peter Wickham before the police do.

—Yes! Yes, yes, yes. Find him, assuming he hasn’t fled already. Find him and bring him to me. Find Luther’s body—

Archie halted his speech, took a deep breath, and began a steady, almost stately weeping. It all fell into place. Archie didn’t care about Thomas’ run for Mayor because he needed Thomas’ help to find his precious favored son, and if there had ever been any lingering doubt about
that
exact status, it vanished now forever. As Archie wept on and on, something Thomas had not seen since the death of his own mother and sisters so many years ago, a final break occurred, without anger, without even much disappointment. Any connection between himself and his father disappeared like so much ether. A cold purposefulness moved in its stead. If this was how it was, then this was how it was. Business was business was business was business. He would put his private detectives on the hunt for Peter Wickham. It would mean diverting some
of them from the hunt for Jacki Strell, but so be it. There would be a price to pay, for everyone involved, but so be that, too.

So be it. So be it.

—Rita?

—Yes, sir?

—Please have Mr Banyon’s chauffeur come in and help him to his car. Mr Banyon is feeling unwell.

—Certainly, sir.

Thomas looked at Archie, still hunched forward, still crying.

—Go home and stop worrying. I’ll find Peter Wickham for you.

—Thank you. Thank you, my son.

Archie held out his hand. Thomas declined to take it.

64. Rest.

He could not, would not think, ‘Luther’s body'.

Luther was dead, no question about it, but that was not the end of the argument. There was a fantasy, an old wives’ tale, an absurd metaphorical fable out of the Sacraments. There was his grandmother’s solemn, sworn word to the truth of it all, a legend heard from a friend of a friend, a tale woven and passed along by the invisible They, ‘They say …'. There was an ancient story that any priest would deny ever existing or ever having survived Pistolet, but if you asked five times on five different occasions, that same priest would reward your persistence with a quiet wave inside and relate whatever hearsay still clung to the Church’s misty past.

Peter refused to entertain, even for a second, any of the doubts, any of the utter, empirical impossibility of it all,
because he knew, without knowing how, that his faith would have to remain unwavering. It would never, ever work, it was completely impossible, it was perhaps blasphemous, even dangerous, but these conditions had to be disregarded. He shut out all doubts. In that moment of complete devastation, of thorough-going grief, he had sealed his decision and would, from here on out, act on faith.

Death is the end. Almost always. What had filtered through the Bondulay for generations, never confirmed, was the rare case of the soul who had not left for the greater beyond but who had been filled with enough grief to be unable to live in this world, whose spiritual pain took their life but didn’t push them any further. Theirs was not death, it was a rest from grief.

And they could be called back.

Peter didn’t know how, but he would find out. Luther was the rare case. He would call Luther back, and when Luther was rested, Luther would return. It was preposterous, it was impossible, it was outside the realm of sane thinking, and Peter knew it would happen beyond a shadow of a doubt.

There were logistical problems. He could only stay at his own flat for a short time because it would obviously be the first place any authorities would look for him. He didn’t doubt they would be looking either. It was only a matter of time before someone started investigating the trail, and he would have to use the brief interval wisely. He had decided that first night to take Luther to his own house anyway, allowing what little time he had there to think of the next move. He had taken Luther’s car, driving it down the darkest streets he could find. He took Luther up to the bedroom and drove the car back to Luther’s house. He got back on his cycle and sped home.

That night he went online to find some practical information.
It was most important of all to keep Luther in a condition of rest, so that when he returned (which was inevitable, only a matter of time), he would have an undamaged vessel to return to. Peter found what he was looking for and went and purchased the entire waxseed oil stock from five different all-night markets and returned home. He removed Luther’s clothes and coated every inch of him with the brown, viscous oil. He kept his mind on the business in hand, ignoring the lips he had kissed, the body he had stroked, the hands he had held. He took clean sheets and wrapped Luther tightly, legs bound together, arms bound to torso. By eight in the morning, Luther rested peacefully on Peter’s bed. The oil was only a temporary solution, but it would do for now. Peter sat on a chair in his room and finally drifted off to sleep. He would decide what to do later.

And then time had just kept passing without a decision. A day, then two, then almost a week. Peter had called in with vacation time and then never left the house, never left Luther’s side. He prayed with long-forgotten words from his childhood, asking (who?) for both guidance and for the safe return of Luther. He did more research on the computer looking for Bondulay teachings that might be helpful. He dusted off his own long-forgotten copy of the Sacraments, reading it cover to cover. He even got the name of the local Bondulay minister, one Jarvis Kingham, but somehow never got the courage to allow another person, and their inevitable doubts, into the mixture.

But he was becoming more and more concerned about staying in the house. Someone would start looking soon. Luther couldn’t go missing for long without someone noticing, estranged father or not. But Peter also became
less
sure of what came next, of what to do, of where in the world he could take Luther to keep him safe until he returned.

On the seventh morning, waking up for the seventh time in the chair in his bedroom, for the seventh time looking immediately to Luther still prone on the bed, Peter realized something. He blinked into the morning air, already baking hot. He let out a long breath, feeling alert and completely awake. Within a moment, he was sure. He went to Luther, touching him firmly, tenderly. A second later, he grabbed his helmet, ran to his cycle, and took off into the burgeoning day.

65. I’m Begging You.

Even before Cora opened her mouth, Max knew what she wanted, but that didn’t mean he was going to make it any easier for her.

—Maggerty’s coming along well.

—That’s great. Max—

—He’s responding really well to the Thoraxin, too. He still can’t hold a regular conversation, but he no longer seems to be perpetually terrified.

—It still bothers you, doesn’t it?

—I don’t like the idea of trying a new medicine on him without his assent.

—He can’t give his assent, and your new job gives you legal power of attorney. You specifically asked for it, remember? Now—

—But that doesn’t give me the right to treat him like a guinea pig.

—Stop whining, Max, you made the right decision. You’ve circumvented his free will but made him an immeasurably happier person. Let the philosophers figure out the right and wrong. Listen—

—I still wish we knew what happened. No witnesses. No sign of The Crash. It’s strange—

—Would you just shut up for a goddamned second? I’m trying to talk to you.

—I’m not running, Cora. I don’t care how awful Thomas Banyon is. The people in this city aren’t stupid. Someone will run against him, and he’ll lose.

—But what if that doesn’t happen? He’s got more influence than you think, Max. He could win.

—Then the voters would have the man they wanted. It’s democracy, Cora. If Thomas Banyon wins the election, then he wins the election. End of story. This isn’t a monarchy with rungs of ascension.

—That’s evasion. You know what a disaster Thomas Banyon would be.

—I don’t want to run.
I haven’t had a single second thought since deciding to drop out of the race. I’m not even ambiguous about it anymore. Besides, how in the world did the options boil down to just me? It’s not like I could step into the race and somehow automatically win.

—You’re the best candidate we have. Do you honestly think they’d choose Thomas Banyon over you?

—Yes, as a matter of fact. The man’s got power, money, and influence.

—So do you.

—A fraction of what he has. And what if I
was
a real challenge? Do you have any idea how ugly a race against Thomas Banyon could get?

—What about how ugly Hennington would become if he actually won?

—Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cora. It’s just Mayor. No offense, but it’s not like we’re electing a god to control our destinies. He implements a few unpleasant policies and cuts a few
ribbons. He’d have one term tops. Someone would get riled during his term, someone
viable
, and would run against him in five years and win. I think maybe you’re over-reacting.

—And I think maybe you’re
under-
reacting.

—That’s not a word.

—Shush. You yourself admit that he’s got the consolidated power to win. Why then do you think he wouldn’t use that power to
stay
in office and ruin the city?

—You’re overdoing it. How many times have you complained to me about lacking the authority to do something? Or your frustration over the Council watering down a perfect piece of legislation so badly that it manages to make whatever the problem was
worse.
That’s the way things go. It’s just government. Most people don’t care. And you know
why
they don’t care? Because government doesn’t touch them.

—You’re going too far the other way. You know government affects them. I’ve tried to
make
it affect them in a positive way. The Mayor sets direction. The Mayor
initiates.
The Mayor sets the tone of how the City runs itself. In the hands of someone like Thomas Banyon—

—You’re giving him too much credit. Some bad leaders are just bad leaders. Some oily politicians are just oily politicians. Just because he’s venal and rough-and-ready with the law doesn’t mean he’s evil. He’s a bully, not a demon. There’s a difference. His father will probably keep him in line anyway.

—I don’t think Archie Banyon will have much say in the matter. Plus, there’s more that you don’t know. Thomas Banyon is being supported, might have been
recruited
for all I know, by an old nemesis of mine.

—'An old nemesis'? Are you a superhero?

—You’re just looking for a slap, aren’t you? Someone from my past named Jon Noth has suddenly re-entered the picture after forty years. Frankly, he seems to have turned into a
complete loon in the interval. I had to have him forcibly thrown out of a fundraising dinner because he more or less threatened me and Albert.

—Oh, him.

—Yes, and guess who’s suddenly standing with Thomas Banyon when he announces for Mayor?

—You’re kidding. How?

—Trust me, I’d love to know. Suddenly the man who veritably stalked me at public functions won’t return my calls and has disappeared from sight. Something’s going on. I don’t know what it is, but it’s more than just Thomas Banyon running for Mayor. Jon Noth has something up his sleeve. If Thomas Banyon wins the Mayoral race, I have no idea what that means for Jon’s plans.