The Art of the Devil (3 page)

Isherwood was looking at a framed, gilt-edged photograph on the desk. In the photograph, the Chief's wife wore a wide-brimmed sun hat and a huge smile. Isherwood could not remember the last time his own wife had smiled so broadly – if she ever had.

‘Do right by this,' the Chief was saying, ‘and it may be your ticket back to active duty. You're a good man. And everyone deserves a second chance now and then. Get it?'

Isherwood jerked his chin up and down. ‘Got it,' he said, in a voice not quite steady, and reached for his fedora on the desk.

ANACOSTIA, WASHINGTON DC

L
ater that night Francis Isherwood sat in his study, stroking a tortoiseshell cat and restlessly quartering the bookcase with his gaze: Shakespeare, Milton, Mommsen, Housman; Shakespeare, Milton, Mommsen, Housman.

The stillness was palpable. For as long as Evy had been in the house, the constant babble of the TV from the parlor had put his nerves on edge – but the absence of sound proved even worse. His gaze ticked to a calendar on the desk. The day was Friday, the eleventh of November, 1955. Veteran's Day. Had Evy been here, he would have been trying to tune out the sound of Jack Bailey hamming it up with good-natured contestants on
Truth or Consequences
. Instead, he tried to tune out silence.

Eventually, he pushed out of his chair. Moving closer to the bookcase, paced by cats winding between his ankles – with six cats in the house, four seemed to be underfoot at any given time – he ran his eyes along a line of photographs on a high shelf. Here was young Francis Isherwood, graduating from the University of Washington with a degree in criminal justice, his face shockingly boyish beneath a black mortar board. Here a slightly older Francis Isherwood posed as a state trooper, crisply outfitted in blue, half-sneering, proud to a fault. Here a still more mature variety wore a sober charcoal suit and navy tie, with a lugubrious expression to match. Appearances to the contrary, he thought, that had been the best year. He and Evy had been getting along like gangbusters, and at the tender age of twenty-seven, after less than eighteen months chasing counterfeiters, he had been assigned the plum role of presidential protection, safeguarding FDR himself.

His gaze ended up in a window, from which his reflection gazed stonily back. And here was Francis Isherwood at rock bottom: jobless, wifeless, and lacking now even the comfort of the bottle.

He returned to the desk, opened a drawer, removed a flask of Jack Daniels, and twisted off the cap.

In a fit of sudden fury, he flung the open flask across the room, whipsawing streams of whiskey onto ceiling and floor, sending cats scattering.

The flask landed on edge, pulsing liquor out onto the carpet. In a flash Isherwood was on his knees, cradling it like a wounded child. Too late; the contents had emptied with devastating speed. But there were other hoards, of course – in the living room and the glove compartment of his Studebaker, and beneath their marriage bed and inside the toilet tank, and in the package store or the bar just down the block. And if all else failed, there was always Sterno beneath the sink, waiting patiently between cobwebbed bottles of Lysol and Gold Dust.

His hands were shaking worse than ever. God damn Evelyn, he thought. If he weakened and took a drink, the fault would be hers. He had done his best, but if his goddamned wife insisted on undermining him, his best would not be enough. Earlier that night he had placed a long-distance call to Boca Raton – damn the expense – where Evy was staying with her sister as she ‘figured things out'. He'd heard the desperate note in his own voice as he'd told her about Spooner's call, begging her to come home and cover his back as he seized the long-awaited chance to redeem himself.

Would it have killed her to play along? He needed her faith, now more than ever. Yet faithless, worthless, nit-picking Evelyn had questioned him just when she should be reinforcing him. She had dared suggest that perhaps he
wouldn't
be able to stay dry—

Isherwood snorted aloud with enough vehemence to startle a nearby cat. He lit a cigarette which tasted like shit, dropped it into the puddle of whiskey on the carpet. After a moment he reached for another cigarette, which he snapped in two in the process of bringing to his mouth.

Cats spooling between his feet, he stumbled to the basement. Somehow he managed to descend the creaky steps in darkness without breaking his neck. At the flick of a switch, a single bare light-bulb mounted in the ceiling stuttered to life. The cellar was filled with accumulated junk, boxes and Mason jars, old magazines, dusty books, pottery and flowerpots and piping. After a momentary hesitation, he pressed forward. Silt and cobwebs smothered the clutter; his nose tickled, his eyes watered.

It took almost twenty minutes to find the box he was seeking. One by one, then, he removed photograph albums from the carton, considering them querulously in the dim light. Finding the album he wanted, he prevaricated briefly before opening it. Good memories could be the most painful of all. But this was why he was here. He wanted to remember.

Evy in her youth had been slim and dark and striking. In snapshots taken with a Kodak Brownie, the earliest days of their courtship played out: Evy posing before the Jefferson Memorial during the Cherry Blossom Festival, kicking up one playful heel; Evy sipping a root beer at the A&W in the Palisades. Then a trip to New York: Evy boarding the Cyclone at Coney Island, looking nervous (she had called it a death trap); Evy standing beside Isherwood, holding his hand, before the Statue of Liberty. He remembered kissing her, that evening, hard enough to feel the shape of her jaw. Everything had been perfect, or as close to perfect as real life allowed. And then had come the war …

After VE Day he had come home to a nation – and a woman – eager to throw a victory parade, award a medal, and move blithely ahead into a stainless-steel future. His wife's head had been filled with Doris Day and Pat Boone, Norman Rockwell and
Father Knows Best.
She had proudly showed him her new Frigidaire, stocked with iceberg lettuce which could last for weeks without spoiling. She had exhibited even less interest in hearing about the war than he had shown in telling about it … and that was saying something.

Falling back onto his haunches, he sighed.

After a few moments, he stood; his knees popped like gunshots. Loading the memorabilia back into the box, he closed the flaps and then pushed the carton all the way into a corner, beneath cobwebs, into shadow.

EAST OF GUILFORD, PENNSYLVANIA: NOVEMBER 12

The train rocked gently across a landscape dotted with ponds, barns, tumbledown fences and weathered silos.

Inside a passenger car, Barbara Cameron sat ignoring the book in her lap, stealing glances at the girl sitting just across the aisle. The girl held a copy of
Confidential
magazine – the September issue, which had been one for the history books, revealing ‘The Real Reason for Marilyn Monroe's Divorce' and
‘The Astor Testimony The Judge Suppressed' and, juiciest of all, ‘The LowDown on That ‘Disorderly Conduct' Charge Against Tab Hunter'
.

Of course, respectable people only read gossip rags behind closed doors. But this girl was perusing the magazine quite openly, without shame. Stealing another look, Barbara decided that
girl
wasn't quite the right word. This was a young woman, several years older than Barbara herself, wearing a stylish sapphire angora and an air of self-possession. Her blonde hairstyle was a fashionable beauty parlor wave – no home Toni perm here – which framed a pale, pretty, tranquil face.

After a few moments, Barbara summoned her courage and scooted a few inches closer to the aisle. ‘That's a good article,' she said. ‘I read it a million times. I practically memorized it.'

Looking up, the blonde smiled politely.

‘“It all started with a vice cop who was drifting in and out of Hollywood's queer bars on the afternoon of October fourteenth,”' Barbara recited, ‘“looking and listening for tips on the newest notions of the limp-wristed lads. The deputy struck up a conversation with a couple of lispers who happily prattled that they were set for a big binge that very evening …”'

The blonde laughed. ‘You've got some memory.'

Barbara shrugged. ‘It's funny: if you're interested in something, I find, you can learn it without even trying. But math? Forget it. My name's Barbara Cameron, by the way.' After allowing a tiny pause, during which the young woman might have volunteered her own name, Barbara charged on. ‘Where are you heading? I'm going to visit my sister in Guilford. I go every Saturday: my day off.'

‘Isn't that funny! I'm going to Guilford, too.'

‘Really! What for?'

‘My husband's a pastor. They've offered him a position with the church. He asked me to come take a look around – you know, see what's what.'

‘Well, you'll absolutely love it. Guilford's charming.'

‘Oh, I hope so.'

‘I know so.' The blare of the train's whistle broke the morning quiet. ‘You can see for yourself; we're here.'

Together they rose, holding onto seat backs as a conductor passed through the car. Moments later, they stepped out onto a deserted platform. On this sleepy Saturday morning, the small town sprawling on the other side of a parking lot beneath a still-kindly November sun appeared uninhabited, with only the church steeple visible above the trees. The wind gusted, carrying scents of compost and distant burning leaves. Moving down the platform they passed a sign announcing GUILFORD: POPULATION 320.

The whistle blew again; doors closed, steam vented, and gears engaged. As the train pulled away, Barbara led the way off the platform, down a shallow staircase. ‘Say, would you care to join us for lunch? I'm sure my sister would love a chance to tell you about the town. She's Guilford to the core: born and raised.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't want to put her out.'

‘No trouble at all, I'm sure.'

‘That's so sweet of you. If you're really sure it's no trouble …' Crossing the empty parking lot, the blonde suddenly stopped, taking a pack of Luckies from her purse. ‘Would you happen to have a light?'

Barbara stopped beside her, reached into her own Bakelite handbag.

‘I don't know where my mind is,' the blonde added apologetically. ‘I have plenty of cigarettes, but no matches.'

‘Well, I know just how it is.' Absorbed in her handbag, Barbara paid no attention as the blonde stole behind her. ‘Sometimes I can't even—'

The garrote slipped over her throat and drew taut.

A truncated gasp; the Bakelite handbag tumbled to the parking lot. Elisabeth threw her weight back, pulling. For the better part of a minute the two figures remained almost motionless, straining against each other as two pairs of hands clutched at the garrote.

At last Barbara Cameron went limp. But Elisabeth kept up the pressure for another full minute, just to be certain. Finally satisfied, she lowered the body onto the macadam, breathing hard. Forearms trembling, she checked for a pulse. Then she got her hands beneath the dead girl's arms and dragged the corpse toward a nearby shaded side street, where a two-door Ford sedan was parked with gardening implements waiting in the trunk.

THE TREASURY BUILDING

Behind his desk, the Chief no longer bothered to half-rise upon Isherwood's entrance; only his brow climbed.

For a long moment, he surveyed his agent in silence. Then he said, ‘Sit down, Ish.'

Isherwood obeyed. A shaft of mid-morning sunlight streaming through the window made him wince. His brain throbbed; his joints felt filled with crushed glass. He could not bring himself to meet the Chief's eyes. Yet somehow he got a cigarette into his mouth without breaking it, and then held still enough to let the Chief light it for him.

‘Dry?' the Chief asked.

‘As a bone.'

‘Can you keep it up?'

Isherwood grinned rakishly. ‘No sweat.'

‘Listen.' The Chief set his elbows on the desk, faced Isherwood directly. ‘You're a good man, Ish. Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. But that doesn't mean you won't be held accountable. If I had my druthers, you'd stay dry for a month before we try this. But we don't have that luxury.'

Isherwood said nothing.

‘Agents at Gettysburg won't know your real reason for being there – we'll imply I'm just testing the waters before returning you to active duty – but they can still report back to me. If you take a drink, I'll hear about it.' A calculated pause. ‘Also: you'll meet with Max in person, couple times a week, to keep me apprised of your progress.'

Isherwood managed not to stiffen. He nodded brusquely.

‘One more thing.' The Chief pooched out his lips, choosing his words carefully. ‘There's no lack of men in this country today sitting just where you are now – dying for a drink and trying to get the hell past whatever happened over there. There's no shame in it.'

Silence.

For a final moment, the Chief seemed to weigh something. Then he gave a tepid smile. Opening a drawer, he produced a holstered gun and a black billfold. ‘Consider yourself back in service, Mister Isherwood – on a provisional basis. I'll call ahead; they'll make room for you on the farm. Anyone gives you trouble, tell them to talk to me. Keep your eyes open and poke around a little. But remember: Ike's not to be riled, and the hornet's nest's not to be stirred.'

For the first time since entering the office, Isherwood met the man's gaze. ‘You won't be sorry,' he said.

‘I hope not.' The Chief's smile turned wry. ‘Half of me thinks this is a waste of time. But watch the President, Ish. And watch his watchmen even closer. If you suspect anybody – even if all you've got is a feeling – tell Max.'

‘Got it.'