The Art of the Devil (27 page)

Finding a smile that in reality probably came off more like a baring of teeth, she closed the distance. ‘Hi.'

Stepping down from the booth, he searched her with slightly more than professional interest. Finishing, he turned his attention to the black case. ‘Guitar?' he asked.

She shrugged lightly. ‘Surprise Christmas gift for Josie. Don't spoil it by telling.'

‘Let's take a look.'

She handed over the case. He set it on the gravel driveway and hit the catches. For a moment he admired the guitar in silence; then he nodded. ‘Very nice.'

When he took out the instrument, her breath caught. But he seemed only approving, not suspicious. ‘Nice,' he said again. ‘Very nice. I play a little myself, you know …' To prove the point he straightened, leaning against the guard booth, and strummed a few chords. After adjusting the tuning of the highest two strings, he strummed again. Without warning he burst into song:
‘
Oh, some people say a man is a-made out of mud, a poor man's made out of muscle and blood; Muscle and blood and skin and bones, a mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong …'

She managed to keep smiling. ‘What a lovely voice you've got!'

He blushed with surprising force, tucked the guitar back into the case. ‘Great gift,' he said. His voice cracked on the last syllable, and suddenly she realized that this man was sweet on her. If she had not been so distracted, she would have seen it earlier. ‘Josie will love it. And our ears won't bleed after listening to her play. Hide it in your room and don't let anyone see it until Christmas Day! Don't worry – your secret's safe with me.'

Inside the herdsman's home, she climbed the stairs quickly.

Cursing the lack of a lock on the bedroom door – Dunbarton's insistence – she pushed the guitar under the bed until the case encountered the wall. Briefly, she considered using a pillow to block it from view; but that might attract attention. Better to trust the shadows. It would be a matter of small time anyway.

Sitting on the bedspread, she tried to shove back the encroaching mental thunderclouds and form a plan of action. Afternoon had not yet turned on its axis toward evening. Enough daylight remained for her to assemble the rifle and take the shot now. But the optimum time to fire would be morning, when the sun, due east to anyone standing on Farm One, would give her essential extra seconds of confusion.

Haste will be your downfall.

She bit her lip hard enough to draw salty blood.

A dainty knock on the door; then Josette allowed herself entrance without waiting for permission. ‘Do you ever have the feeling,' she asked as she came in, ‘that you've been waiting so long for something that you slept right through it?'

Elisabeth fixed a smile onto her face.

‘That's how I feel today.' Josette plopped down beside her on the bed. ‘In a way it's a marvelous feeling though, because I know it's not true. What did you find out from the travel agent?'

Elisabeth paused. She had forgotten her promise. ‘Josie – they were closed.'

‘What?'

‘I meant to get back later in the day. But time just ran away with me.'

Josette gave her a black look. ‘Time,' she repeated, ‘just ran away with you.'

‘I had errands to run.'

‘Errands to run.'

Elisabeth shrugged.

‘Libby,' said Josette after a moment, gravely. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you.'

‘Oh, don't make a big fuss. On your day off you can swing by and—'

Josette stood. The mattress sighed relief. ‘I can read between the lines. I told you: I may be a lot of things, but I'm not stupid.'

‘Josie—'

‘If you really wanted to go with me, you would have done this. So I guess you don't. But that's all right.' She wiped an easy tear from one round cheek. ‘Better to find out now, I suppose.'

‘You're making too much out of this,' said Elisabeth.

Deep creases appeared on Josette's face. ‘Well, that's good to know,' she said.

Turning, she let herself out.

Stonily, Elisabeth watched the door, waiting for the girl's return. Twenty seconds passed; forty; a minute. At last she released a strained breath. This proved the point. During daylight, behind an unlocked door, there was insufficient privacy to assemble the rifle.

She changed into her Viyella robe and then went to draw a bath in the second floor's free-standing, claw-footed tub. When she eased into the scalding water, her back and legs unclenched gratefully. Pushing wet hair out of her face, she settled deeper. She soaked until her entire knotted body relaxed, releasing tension in a spasm. Then she toweled off, returned to her room, collapsed across the bedspread. Her muscles oozed; her breathing was rapid and shallow. She found her still, calm center and tapped into it.

One last bit of sangfroid, she told herself, would carry the day.

Her stomach was flipping. She was happy to skip dinner, lying motionless as the sun slowly crossed the blue sky outside her window. By the time the sky turned red, the evening chill was growing teeth.

FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

Emmerich and Rudolf Wulff settled down around a crowded table.

Both men shared their father's piercing gray eyes, thick white hair, and stately profile. Emmerich, the elder, had the sharper wit and chin, and Rudolf the sharper nose and sartorial sense. Their guests were a high-ranking officer of the FBI, a congressman who had made his reputation chairing the House Committee on Un-American Activities, and a quartet of millionaire bankers who had earned their fortunes trading with German industrialists between the two wars. Despite widespread knowledge that their wealth had been made rearming the Fatherland on the backs of slave labor from concentration camps, these men had thrived during the past decade. As far back as 1924, the Teutonia Club of Chicago had begun an active campaign to make inroads into American business and politics, and now there was far too much money at stake for any capitalist worth his salt to stand for very long on principle.

Wives were present, and so conversation remained light. ‘This Rauschenberg,' said one. A dismissive wave of her hand rattled pearls on a heavy bracelet. ‘Pure tripe. An insult, is what it is.'

‘Making art out of trash,' said another, and chuckled. ‘Or is it trash out of art?'

‘You know, he got his hands on a drawing by de Kooning – and then erased it. Then he called
that
art. He couldn't have chosen a better subject, if you ask me. That one, he got right!'

Husbands listened tolerantly, indulgently. Whenever talk veered toward the political – the back-door socialism of the Salk vaccine, or Wayne Morse's defection from the Republican Party, or the rise of the minimum wage from seventy-five cents to one dollar, or the sudden eruption of violence between the North and the South in distant Vietnam – the men exchanged fraught glances and gently steered the discourse back toward more inoffensive channels: Lucille Ball, Ed Sullivan, Martin Melcher,
The $64,000 Question
. Plates were cleared, fresh wine decanted, finger bowls served on doilies, cigarettes lighted.

At nine o'clock, the elder Wulff excused himself for a moment. In the parlor he switched on the radio, scanning through broadcasts of breaking news. Returning to the table seconds later, he caught his brother's eye and gave his head a small shake.

Another bottle of wine was opened. ‘Have you been to Altman's in New York lately? They're offering a mink-handled can opener now. And the funny thing is, I
want
it …'

GETTYSBURG

After consulting with the receiving nurse, Chief Emil Spooner was directed to a corner of the ER.

He was met by a doctor who seemed to his weary eyes too young to be out of high school. ‘In layman's terms,' said the doctor, ‘one bullet punctured a lung, which collapsed and is sucking air. This is a potentially life-threatening trauma. But I can tell you: he's a fighter. I think he'll pull through.'

‘Can I see him?'

‘He's in surgery. Needle decompression, tube thoracotomy.' The young doctor's professional courtesy did little to disguise the density of his personal indifference. ‘The endotrach is being performed now by Doctor Edmonds, the best we have.'

‘When can I see him?'

‘Once he's out of surgery, he'll need rest. I think it's safe to say not before morning.'

Inside the waiting room, Spooner lit a cigarette. Taking a seat, he scuffed vengefully with one toe at a glob of paint that had dried unevenly on the floor. He had just finished losing one old friend. He could not take losing another.

He exhaled a contribution to the blue fog hanging in the waiting area, checked his watch. Couldn't see Ish until morning. The immediate threat to the farm had been removed – Agent Zane, calling with the news about Isherwood, had reported Hart's body found on the backcountry road.

Spooner stood. He wanted to see Richard Hart, or what was left of him, face-to-face.

Beneath the sodium glare of the Fleetwood's headlamps, the forest at night evinced little charm. Three miles from the hospital, four black-and-whites belonging to Gettysburg's finest served double duty as roadblocks and spotlights. Soaked with man-made illumination, the crime scene looked artificial and unreal: remnants of two automobiles, splintered and charred, on an unpaved road littered with bloodstains and shattered glass and twisted metal and spots of pumice powder.

Spooner's driver pulled onto the shoulder, killed the engine. The Chief of the Secret Service stepped from the car. As he approached the cordon, a chill moved from the rear of his neck, stiffening the hairs, down to the small of his back. When was the last time he'd visited an actual incident? Years ago … no, decades.

He ran his eyes over the baker's dozen of men on the scene, trying to find the officer in charge. He saw cops from two counties, investigators, a medical examiner from the State Police, and various technical experts from both township and borough. Noting a human-shaped chalk outline on the road, he felt a sour flash of disappointment. Unless he wanted to tramp down to the morgue and pull rank, it seemed the conquering hero would be cheated the sight of his vanquished foe, after all.

He sighted a man wearing a dun-colored sheriff's uniform and gleaming silver star: heavyset, friendly-looking, with flushed cheeks and a thick brown beard. When the man passed close by, Spooner chose his moment and stepped forward, unfolding his shield. ‘Emil Spooner,' he announced. ‘Chief of the Secret Service.'

Inspecting the credentials, the man did a slight double-take. Then he removed his hat, as if receiving a lady. ‘Hell,' he said. ‘It's an honor. Sheriff Howard Knox.'

‘Lead me through the scene, Sheriff?'

Knox provided escort through the border of security. As a forensic photographer circled, snapping smoky photos with a blinding magnesium flash, the sheriff guided Spooner between the carcasses of the cars.

‘Here,' said Knox, pointing out a row of ejected shell casings running unevenly toward a nearby fringe of forest. ‘Now here,' he said, taking a knee.

Aping him, Spooner found the residue of muddy footprints pacing the shells – and wandering beside the footprints, small round marks, sometimes ground into bloody smears of viscera. He looked away, retying a shoelace that didn't need it.

‘Tread from the soles belongs to your perp. Circles are from his crutch.' Each word puffed heavenward on a fragile wisp of steam. ‘Your man Isherwood gutshot this prick. You can see how he staggered away through his own intestines – and then, here, ended up crawling; these marks are knees and elbows. And he checked out –' as Knox directed Spooner's attention to the chalk outline – ‘over here.'

Spooner nodded.

‘Here's how I break it down. Perp parks his Chevy around the blind curve …' Knox's index finger followed the trail of shells and faint footprints toward the forest. ‘Vehicle reported stolen, by the way, thirty-six hours ago in New York. You can see the tire prints where he pulls off here, and then where he pulls back into the road, when he sees your man coming, here. Hurries back to the forest, gun drawn. Your man comes around the corner, as indicated by tire marks here; and hits the automobile here. Dazed. Perp leaves his blind and comes forward, firing six shots from his Colt Python – which we find over here. And over
here
–' indicating a spot about two feet away – ‘a knife. Vicious little number: twelve inches. Entry points into the Mayfair correspond with the perp walking forward as he fires – but your man has ducked down his head. Suffers multiple gunshot wounds, but gets lucky – nothing fatal. There's a lot of smoke and radiator steam and confusion going on. But he's already banged up pretty good by the crash. Still, he's enough on the ball to get his head down and pull his service pistol. Waits until the perp is right up beside the vehicle. At which point he gets off his shot. Makes it count. Perp has swapped gun for knife, by this point; drops the knife here, and goes for the gun again, which he drops here, along with the crutch. Hurt pretty bad. Evidently decides that discretion is the better part,
et cetera
.' The index finger followed a purplish series of stains back toward the treeline. ‘Only, he's dripping his innards the whole way. Goes down for the count. Meanwhile, your man drags himself out and away from the burning car, onto the road here, which is where our patrolman finds him. That's how I read it.'

Spooner lit a Winston with a shaky hand. ‘No sign of a rifle?'

‘Rifle?' The sheriff frowned. ‘No, sir.'

Spooner frowned back. ‘The Python,' he said after a moment. ‘Modified?'

‘Yes, sir. Nifty work. Down at the office now.'

‘Modified how?'

‘Balance, grip, sight – custom job.'

‘Made to look like something else?'