Now You See Her (31 page)

He laughs. “Ah, our good friend perchlorate. Perch.”

“Perchlorate?”

“A business opportunity, waste disposal of perchlorate. And it’s patriotic. Did you know that, Ms. Cutter? Did you know it’s
red, white, and blue?”

“No.”

“Indeed. The disposal project assists our nation’s defense industry. NASA, the air force, all the military branches—perch
is the crap in their diaper. Every rocket they fired for the last fifty years, the leftover shit is perchlorate. Science says
it’s contaminated the lettuce fields all over America, gives us cancer salads. The problem is hushed up in Washington, of
course, so we’re really doing the government a favor. Perch is all over Cape Cod, in case you didn’t know. It drives the eco
freaks crazy. The trial lawyers would love it, but perch won’t pad their wallets. Not when it’s disposed of. Customers count
on us for disposal.”

“In the Eldridge drainpipe.”

“Wherever. As a businessman, Ms. Cutter, I jump at new ventures but take care of the old ones too. If it’s making money and
not broke, we don’t fix it. We stay in for the long haul.”

What long haul? The days of B&B Auto up to now? The days of Big Doc’s cult house and his ravings on sewers, toxins, and parts
per billion? Living on-site before the fire, Doc knew about the toxic waste disposal. Did Henry Faiser know too, because he
was in and out of B&B Auto hawking his stolen watches and shoes?

That’s the Carlo connection. It has to be Carlo who made certain the chop shop drain stayed in place when the deluxe high-rise
was built. He worked construction then. What did Devaney call him? A model employee.

I have to get out of here. “My wife told you there’s someone special here to see you.”

“Jeffrey, I’m going upstairs—”

“Hell you are. You sit still and keep your mouth shut. Next time you’ll follow orders and do what you’re told.” Jeffrey snaps
his fingers toward the shadows of the dining room. A gangly man steps forward. He has long blond hair in a ponytail. He stands
with his back to the front door, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with the very man who circled Barlow Square days ago in my
car. Now he barricades the Arnots’ front door.

“This is the man I’m going to meet?”

“Oh no, I can do much better than that. Much better.”

Then it’s Carlo. The Inferno fanatic lurks somewhere in this house, waiting for Jeffrey’s signal. My ankle throbs, my left
hand is sweaty on the cane.

Jeffrey calls out, “We’re ready. Come down, please.” He sounds oddly deferential. Then I understand why. The man who’s coming
down the stairway is recognizable from the jutting jaw, the blazing white teeth of the smile. It’s the face I’ve seen on TV,
the face I saw up close in this very house.

It’s Senator Jordan Wald.

R
egina Cutter, I believe we’ve met before.” In a navy blazer, khakis, and running shoes, Wald bounds forward boyishly. Then,
my God, we are shaking hands. For the second time, I feel the strangeness of his handshake.

“Drink, Jordan?”

“Mineral water sounds good. A runner has to stay in training.” Tania jumps to the bar, grabbing ice cubes with silver claw
tongs. The water fizzes. “Tania, my dear, thank you.” Tania sits back down, still grasping the tongs. Wald flashes his smile
and faces me. “Jeff and Tania are the motor of the Carney-Wald campaign. They’ve been on board from the beginning. They’re
charter members of the Green Circle, our most valued supporters. Did you know that, Ms. Cutter?”

“Not until now.”

“Opening one’s home repeatedly takes very special people. The best.” Wald lifts his glass to toast the Arnots. Jeffrey nods.
A pale Tania clutches the tongs. Wald seems perfectly cheerful, as if the room were now buzzing with political supporters,
wine, and the riffs of the jazz trio. He looks like a man ready to collect campaign checks.

He conspicuously ignores the ponytailed man who stares out into the middle distance, unmoving as a figure from a wax museum.

“So, Ms. Cutter—or may I call you Regina? Reggie? Which do you prefer? Or is it Gina Baynes?”

My heart stops. “I don’t answer to ‘Gina’ anymore. Or ‘Baynes.’ ”

“Not since moving to Boston? That was last winter, wasn’t it?”

“February.” The word sounds choked. “And before that, Chicago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” My smallest voice.

He laughs. “We politicians need to know our constituents’ backgrounds. How else can we serve the Commonwealth? Am I right,
Jeff?” Arnot grins. “Don’t worry, Regina, your private life is safe with me. But you’ll see our Boston families enjoy nothing
more than family history. For us, genealogy is, well, it’s either our tic or our trademark. Your choice.”

He winks at me, actually winks. I feel rigid as wood. Could a front window provide escape? Could I smash a big pane and get
out?

“Here’s a little surprise I’ve been saving for Jeff and Tania. There’s a Wald family connection to the Arnots’ house, a true
fact I’ve learned lately. And, Tania, you’ll be interested to hear this, with all your fine antiques.”

Tania looks up. Jeffrey frowns and looks wary. All eyes are on Wald. “Here it is. My great-great-great-grandfather was an
architect. He designed a number of Boston houses, particularly here in the Back Bay. Yours, I understand, is one of them.”

My God, that’s Dehmer. Dehmer, who married Clara Eddington. I sit stock-still. Is this a trick? Jeffrey grunts. Tania murmurs
something unintelligible.

“Yes, indeed, I’m descended from Charles Dehmer, who lived on Beacon Hill, though unfortunately, my great-great-great-grandfather
died in a carriage accident. But on my mother’s side, I am a Dehmer. That makes me kin to this house. Here’s to all of us.”
He drains his glass and gives it to Tania, whose hand is shaking. Wald seems oblivious. It seems that he knows nothing about
the breakage and nighttime mayhem. Or Edmund Wight. Or his calamitous courtship of Clara Eddington.

Tania bites her lip and pinches the tongs. Her face is stone gray, her eyes two coal-dark pits. Jeffrey looks at his watch.
“Jordan, if you don’t mind, the schedule—”

“Of course. Let’s move on.” He faces me. “Regina, political life is complex. A candidate must always know the score. It seems
you’ve been tampering with the scoreboard.”

“I—”

“Maybe not purposely. You had good intentions, right? But you got out of your depth. You plunged into the Boston of the past,
into an incident very painful to me personally.” His voice drops low. “My own son was gunned down by a drug-crazed man on
Eldridge Street. You know that?”

Silent, I nod. “Thirteen years ago Eldridge Street was full of addicts and drug dealers. My son, tragically, sought drugs
there. As a father, I live daily with that knowledge.”

I nod again, my ankle throbbing as a new pain sensation rises in my right thumb. It feels suddenly hot and raw.

“As a parent, I’m haunted by what I could have done to prevent my son, Peter, from turning to drugs. A good student, he was
college age.”

My thumb is searing. It looks normal, but burns as it once did in the donut shop with Devaney when I held the stopwatch. And
in Newton at the Home and Garden Alliance. I close my eyes and see blood ooze at the knuckle.

“A tragic, senseless killing that robbed my son of his future.” My thumb is on fire, my vision a scene of spurting blood.
I can hardly bear it. Wald stands over me, towers over me.

“But fortunately, the killer was brought to justice and is in prison. Norfolk Prison.”

Does he expect me to say Henry Faiser’s name? Wald’s own thumb is inches from my eyes. It’s malformed. And shiny, likely from
scar tissue. That’s why his handshake feels odd. Because of his right thumb. His right thumb… Didn’t the gun dealer warn me
about holding a gun, locking down the right thumb? Hold it two-handed, he said, clear of the trigger. “Unless you want to
lose your right thumb.”

“The jury convicted the assailant. No one else will die as his victim. Justice was served.”

I see Wald’s own thumb bloodied, ripped, and mangled. My gaze drops to his shoes, running shoes. What did he call himself
at the microphone here at the fund-raiser? A runner to go the distance for Massachusetts? The love nest condo in Eldridge
Place had a track suit. And the stopwatch that made my thumb burn raw was a runner’s stopwatch, the watch found in the weeds
near the weapon.

“My son, you see, was an environmentalist. Greenpeace, Sierra, the Wilderness Society—he was their captive.” His gaze locks
on mine. “Peter was an idealist, as young people often are.”

I nod, thumb blazing. “But idealists won’t compromise. Reasoning with my own son was out of the question. The environment
was nonnegotiable. You can understand the problem. Anyone in public life understands the basics of compromise.”

“Compromise,” I echo in a whisper out of fiercest pain.

Wald goes on. “In life, in business, to serve the greater good. Our heating oil business, for instance, where Peter learned
of certain … activities. He worked part-time in my trucking business, you see. He drove certain routes.”

Sick with pain and revulsion, I stare. “A father-son standoff was the last thing in the world I wanted. He brought it on.
He went to Eldridge Street. He had no business there. That route was for other drivers, other deliveries, not his—”

Jeffrey interrupts. “He went for drugs, Jordan. He had a habit.”

“He had no business. No business on Eldridge Street.”

“Buying drugs,” Jeffrey says. “Drugs.”

“No business there at all.”

“Cocaine and hash. He met his dealer.”

“A father in public life had no choice,” Wald says. “Measures had to be taken. Everything was at stake. He wouldn’t listen,
wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. His conscience, really. He became… dangerous.”

Through the fog of pain, I make sense of what Wald is telling me. Peter Wald learned his father’s trucks dumped toxic waste.
Peter went to Eldridge and found out. Peter was adamant. No compromise was possible. Vowing to tell authorities, he posed
a threat.

“Yes, it was drugs.” Wald begins to parrot Jeffrey. “It was. And self-defense on my part. I came immediately, but he provoked
me in the street. A father tries to help, but things happen …it was self-defense.” Wald recites the words as if they’re anchors
that will hold me steady to his version of the past. I meet his gaze. Piety and righteousness gleam in his eyes, but I know
I’m looking at the face of Peter Wald’s killer.

“Life goes on, Regina, as it must. My memorial to Peter is environmental law. I continue my son’s passion for green causes.
My fatherly duty endures in the Massachusetts Senate. As lieutenant governor, I can make certain those efforts will not stop.”

He leans close. His breath smells of clove and rot. “Providing we’re not smeared by rumors and allegations. Providing a certain
Boston police detective stops his personal mission and comes to his senses. We don’t blame you, Regina. We’re prepared to
wipe the slate clean, but we need to know a few things. We need to know the so-called new evidence.” He crosses his arms like
a TV prosecutor. “We need to know who else the detective has talked to. Who you’ve talked to.”

So this is why Wald’s here. It’s damage control by diplomacy. And if that doesn’t work, then what?

“I…I have nothing to say.”

“Take your time, Regina. No harm is meant. Consider your own future. When the Carney-Wald administration takes office, my
door will be open. We’ll have positions to fill. The Commonwealth needs good people such as yourself. Right now I simply want
information so we can correct any falsehoods. As a citizen, you can help prevent campaign mudslinging. You don’t want to be
implicated in slander.”

“No.”

He flashes his white teeth. “So we agree. The rest is simple.” Simple indeed. And crystal clear. The clean slate begins with
the elimination of Reggie Cutter.

I walked into this snare with eyes wide open, yet I must not give in. The cane—can I use it? The mounted armor, the breastplate?
Can I get to a phone and hit 911?

“I’d like to stand up, please. Powder room…”

“But of course.” Wald steps aside as if he’s gallantry itself. With the cane in my left hand, the whisky in the right, I exaggerate
my halting steps across the shag carpet. I’m in the middle of the room, suddenly drawn to the chandelier I’ve so shunned.
It gives me an idea. Jeffrey, Wald, and ponytail there at the door—they’re a triangle. I’m in the middle, and Tania is nearly
in a heap off to the side.

Cold sweat runs down my back. I stand directly under the chandelier, the steel blades too high to reach. “Regina, we need
to hear from you.” Wald is prodding. “Visit the powder room, collect your thoughts, and let’s proceed.”

My hands are icy. In this instant, a new current wafts here in the room. It’s chilly. The AC? No, it’s sharp, more like winter.
And it comes with a jangling of what sounds to be metal on metal.

I shiver and look up. Is the draft swinging the chandelier back and forth? And did the lamplight shift? Because the blades
have turned dull gray, as if coated with dust. No, with frost. Before my eyes, snowflakes begin to swirl. Wald and Jeffrey
Arnot stand in place. Don’t they hear this? See or feel the cold? Tania is unmoving. It’s freezing in here. I look up again.

Wald’s voice comes from afar. “Regina, let’s not abuse the Arnots’ hospitality. Gazing at the ceiling won’t help us. I’m ready
to listen. Speak up.”

Ice is coating the halberds and swords and knives of the chandelier. The glaze thickens before my eyes. It coats the slender
wires suspending the entire light fixture. The whole mass glitters, with a snow squall whirling like a storm. Cold flashes
against the back of my throat. My eyes water. I think of airplanes forced down from ice on the wings. Ice storms split winter’s
stoutest trees from end to end.

I know what I must do. The cane goes first, my one and only weapon sacrificed for the moment. I drop it as the wires of the
chandelier ping and tick like a ship’s rigging strained to the hilt. “Oops, Senator, would you please?” Trust Old Boston manners.
He springs.