According to Their Deeds (31 page)

“A situation at the office, Charles. Somewhat out of control.”

“Is it serious?”

“More than it should have been. I might have overplayed my hand.”

“You often use game metaphors when you talk about your work, Derek.”

“Everything is a game. Everyone is an opponent.”

“I hope I’m not.”

“Only in chess, Charles.”

“I wouldn’t want to play against you in anything more important, Derek.”

“You would be a worthy adversary. But I have more than enough to worry about as it is.”

“You have a very different view of life than I do, Derek. I see human interactions as generally cooperative.”

“Then here’s a game, Charles. Your view of life, or mine? Which would win?”

“Mine doesn’t find value in winning. We could say, Which accomplishes the greatest good, yours or mine?”

“Mine doesn’t find value in the greater good. We need an intersection, Charles, where our views cross.”

“Personal contentment?”

“Personal success.”

“Perhaps, Derek, the winner will be whichever of us believes he is winning.”

“And how do we play, Charles?”

“Just living our lives, Derek.”

“More than that. Let me think, Charles. Perhaps I’ll find the proper game board for our game of lives.”

“And if I don’t want to play?”

“That’s part of my side of the game, to set you to.”

TUESDAY

MORNING

Storms rode the fast wind and in the wind rode everything that wasn’t held fast. Loose clothing whipped around solid limbs, including Charles’s jacket and the sleeves and legs of Patrick White’s dark suit, standing on the front steps of the shop.

“Mr. White!” Charles’s voice was whipped by the wind, too. “What can I do for you?”

“We need to talk,” Mr. White said. He had no smile.

“Just a moment, and I’ll open the door.”

He turned the key and stepped into the abrupt tranquility. He turned the lights on and the alarm off. Mr. White turned the tranquility off.

“I’ve come to warn you,” he said. He was in the center of the room, an emotional whirlwind. Every volume on the shelves was watching him.

“About what?” Charles said, trying to get some of the attention for himself.

“Borchard. He’s getting ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“His next murder.”

The doorknob rattled.

Patrick White spun to face it. His back was now toward the counter, but Charles could still tell what his expression was because it was mirrored in Alice’s face as she opened the door. There was a brief motionless moment, and then the wind hurled Alice over the threshold and almost into Mr. White’s arms.

“Good morning, Alice,” Charles said at his calmest.

Her keel evened, and she managed to get around the visitor and to safety behind the counter. “Good morning, Mr. Beale.”

Charles had stepped forward and faced the bloodshot eyes of the storm.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he said at his even calmer calmest.

The books in the basement noticed Patrick White, but they were less impressionable. They knew human nature; they took his measure and then returned to their own business.

“Mr. White. Please, sit down.”

The judge took his seat at the bench, and Charles slid around to his own chair behind the dock.

“Now,” Charles said. “I will be candid. You’ve come four times now to rail against John Borchard. I want you to understand that I don’t know if anything you’ve said is true. These accusations are very serious and you could get in trouble for making them. I also don’t know why you’re making them to me.”

But Mr. White was gone, his jaw slack, and his blank eyes staring far away. Charles turned toward where he was looking, but the view was hidden.

He chose not to wait for the return. “Mr. White?”

“It’s you.”

Charles lost focus himself for a moment. “What?”

“He’s going to kill you.” Then the stare was on him full and ferocious. Charles’s was still foggy.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. Believe it or die. You’ll die if you don’t believe it.”

“I still don’t.”

“Then it won’t be my fault.” He shuddered in frustration. “I’ve done everything I can. I’m trying to save your life.”

Charles wavered. “Why would he want to kill anyone?”

“He’s mad.”

Charles tried wavering in a different direction. “What makes you think he would want to do anything to me?”

“He’s building a bomb.”

Even the books were now paying attention again.

“How do you know?” Charles asked.

“I’ve seen him.”

“You’ve seen John Borchard build a bomb?”

“Yes. I’ve been watching him. Look at this.”

He opened his suit jacket and withdrew two folded sheets of paper. All eyes were on them as he flattened them out on the desk.

Each was a photograph of a book, the same book on the same dark, heavily grained wood surface, with the corner of a brass penholder. The book was closed in one picture and open in the other. The closed book was a browned and aged antique, identical to many in the room watching them.

“The Kant,” Charles said.

“He can!” Patrick White said. “He is! See?”

The open book showed the yellowed pages cut, not in a rectangle as the Locke had been, but in a rounded, irregular shape. Exactly fitted inside was a black device, with one red and one gray button. The pictures were enlarged and grainy but still clear enough.

“Where did you get these?”

“I took them,” Mr. White said, smirking. “Now you believe me?”

“I don’t understand what they mean.”

“He’s making a bomb. What else could it be?”

“It can’t be.” Charles was still reacting slowly.

“And who else would it be for? An antique book! It’s for you!”

“Where did he get it?” Charles was speaking to himself. Patrick Henry White answered for him.

“It’s what he’s going to do with it that matters. But we can stop him. I couldn’t stop him before. This time I will.”

“Wait,” Charles said. “Let me think.”

For once Mr. White was the one left behind. Charles stared at the pictures.

“What are you going to do?” he asked finally.

“I’m going to stop him.”

“How?”

Suddenly, Patrick White stood. He took the papers from the desk and stuffed them away.

“Where are you going?” Charles said.

“I see what you’re doing,” Mr. White said. “He’s got you. Hasn’t he? If I tell you anything, you’ll go to him. He has you in his control.”

“But . . .” Charles shook his head. “If I’m on his side, why would he want to kill me?”

But Mr. White was beyond answering. “It’s all too late, anyway. He has everyone else on his side. Everyone else but one.”

“Who? Karen Liu?”

“Borchard has her, too.” Then he was on the stairs, and Charles hurried after him. He caught up halfway across the showroom. Alice shrank back into a corner behind the counter.

“Wait,” Charles said.

Patrick White stopped. “What?”

“You have no right.”

“No right? For what?”

“To do anything to John Borchard.”

“After what he’s done to me? Who else will?”

“You are destroying yourself, Mr. White.”

“I’m already destroyed.”

Before Charles could answer, he threw the door open and let himself out. But the door didn’t slam shut behind him. A customer was coming in, an older woman, in high heels and cashmere sweater and blue jeans. She shut the door softly and smiled sweetly.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but would you have any Greek tragedies?”

“Alice said you were in the basement with someone,” Dorothy said. She looked at him more closely. “And you look rather white.”

“It’s a Patrick White-white.”

“He was here again?”

“Very much. I’m worried, Dorothy. I think he’s going to do something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it serious, Charles?”

“I hope not.”

“What did he say?”

Charles took a slow and deep breath. For a moment he was seeing something far beyond the room, and then he was seeing only Dorothy.

“Nothing specific. Dear, I’ll be out for the rest of the morning. I’m going to talk to John Borchard.”

“Was Mr. White saying more wild things about him?”

“Yes. That’s what it mainly was.” He stood. The wind rattled the window. “I think I’ll take Angelo with me.”

“Sit up here,” Charles said.

Angelo shrugged, and closed the back car door and opened the front. Even that door was quiet closing by his hand.

“How do you do that?” Charles asked.

“How to do what?”

“How are you always so quiet?”

“That’s not a
how
you do.”

“Everything you do is silent.”

“You just don’t be noisy.”

For a while Charles was not noisy. Then he said, “I’m trying to decide if that’s not an answer or if it is.”

Angelo said nothing else, and in the car it was quiet.

“That building is it,” Angelo said, pointing. Charles pushed through the other cars into the left lane and turned into the parking lot. He parked at the front door. The first floor was painted cinder block. Above and to the side was sheet metal. The sign said
Tyson Estate Agents
.

“Hello?” Charles looked through the front room of two metal desks and cabinets.

“Just a minute,” a voice said from a hall. Charles waited. Angelo stood.

A man in canvas work pants and a flannel shirt sauntered in. He frowned thoughtfully at Angelo.

“There’s no package. Really.”

Charles frowned thoughtfully back. “There is,” he said. “But actually a different package. I wonder if I could speak to the lady who works here?”

“Jane! The guy’s back again for that package.”

A moment later, she entered. She wasn’t in a gray suit as he’d seen her before, but she was obviously in charge, and obviously very blond.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” Charles said. “You don’t remember me, but I’ve seen you before.”

“Oh? Where?” She sat at a desk.

“About two weeks ago. My name is Charles Beale, and I was at the auction of Derek Bastien’s estate.”

The woman’s expression changed to annoyance. “Are you police?”

“No. I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong.”

“I know I haven’t. What do you want?”

“I want to see the desk you bought.”

“Do you have a key?”

“No.”

“Sorry. I can’t let you into someone else’s room.”

“That’s fine. I just wanted to make sure first that it was here. We’ll have a key here in a few minutes. May I use your telephone?”

“Go ahead.”

He dialed. “John Borchard, please.” Then after many waits, he said, “Would you please get a message to him? Tell him Charles Beale is calling from Tyson Estate Agents, and it is extremely important. I’ll wait.”

It wasn’t a very long wait.

“Charles. This is John.”

“I’m very sorry to interrupt you, but we need to talk, urgently. Could you come meet me here?”

There was a last wait, different from the ones before because of the heavy breathing at the other end.

“You are at the warehouse?” John said.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

The front door opened.

Charles was sitting, waiting, and Angelo was leaning against the wall beside him.

“Mr. Borchard. Thank you for coming.”

John Borchard’s face had room for many emotions. Anger was in his jaw, annoyance in the set of his mouth, and menace over the expanse of his forehead. Deep in his eyes there was worry.

“Charles,” he said, and all the emotions were in his voice as well. “Well. Why did you come here? Why didn’t you just call me? We could have talked without the dramatic effects.”

“I thought it would help us both to be truthful.”

“Perhaps. And why now?”

“Patrick White came to see me this morning. And I had another reason for coming here, John. I want to see the desk.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I do want to.”

At first, annoyance was winning. But not for long.

“All right.”

Blond Jane had only watched so far, but now she stood to lead the way to the hall and back, past locked metal doors in whitewashed walls to a door like all the others.

John Borchard unlocked it.

“Go ahead.”

Jane retreated. Charles entered with the quiet shadow of Angelo close. John came in last.

The room was large, cinder block, cement, gray and empty, almost. Only the desk was in it, in the center, its rich dark wood and ornament in blunt tension with its prison. Its back panels had been roughly removed and leaned against it.

An intricate mechanism enclosed the exposed back of the drawers on one side.

Charles moved to the front of the desk and respectfully pushed the two left drawers in an inch, then pulled the lower drawer out. John Borchard watched. The box, no longer hidden, obeyed and came out with the drawer.

“That would have been helpful to know,” John Borchard said. Annoyance was back, with real anger just beside it. “I suppose Derek showed you how it worked?” And then threat, a new expression not yet seen, appeared. “There is a great deal you need to explain to me, Charles.”

But Charles was looking at the wooden box. It matched the desk perfectly. The stain was the same, the wood was the same, and even the joints were the same grooves and slots as the antique drawer. The only difference was that it wasn’t as worn as the antique.

“It’s beautiful work,” Charles said. The box was empty.

“Yes, it is all very unfortunate.”

“Yes, very. Do you know who made it?”

“The drawer? No.”

“The desk itself,” Charles said.

“No.”

Charles moved slowly around it, stooping and peering. “It doesn’t say.” He felt the smoothness of the wood and the tight joining of the panels. Then he stood. “Now I’d like to see the papers.”

“I won’t allow that, Charles. Absolutely not.”

“You’ll need to, John. We’re going to talk through this, all of it. You have as much to explain as I do.”