Candlemoth (36 page)

    I looked
towards the basement door there behind me in the hallway.

    Nathan
shook his head.

    'Nathan
-'

    'Fuck
it,' he said. 'Fuck it, I'm here… I can't bear to stay locked up in this
fucking house any more. Let whatever comes come, I'm ready.'

    'Nathan,'
I said again.

    Nathan
shook his head again.

    'Fuck
it, Danny… might as well face the music as go crazy in here.'

    I
sighed inwardly. There was nothing audible. It was like some internal collapse.
The walls of the soul were giving way.

    I
turned and walked to the door.

    I
raised my hand.

    I
could see a silhouette through the frosted glass.

    The
latch snapped back.

    I
could sense Nathan behind me, right there in direct line of sight.

    I
slowly opened the door, and I recall trying to fill the ever-widening gap with
my body, knowing at once that such an action was futile. If Nathan had given up
hiding then he would be seen whether I tried to hide him or not.

    I
gave up my resistance.

    I
pulled the door wide.

    'Danny!'

    'You
were surprised to see Linny Goldbourne?'

    I
looked across at Father John. 'Surprised? I was stunned. Christ, I never
thought I'd see the girl again.'

    'What
made her come, d'you think?'

    I
shrugged my shoulders. 'I don't know. There was something about her, something
distant, like you could never really nail down exactly what she was feeling or
thinking. Apparently she was like that with everyone, had been all her life,
and that was part of the reason people found it so easy to accept that she'd
gone crazy. They were comfortable with the idea of Linny Goldbourne being crazy
because it explained their own difficulty in relating to her.'

    'You
thought she was crazy?' Father John asked.

    I
smiled, shook my head. 'No, I never thought she was crazy, no more crazy than
me or Nathan or anyone else.'

    I
leaned forward and looked at Father John. 'The truth? The truth was that I
loved the girl… loved her as much as I'd loved anyone, and the way she left,
everything that happened at that time -'

    I
stopped mid-flight. I didn't know what I was saying.

    'Go
on,' Father John prompted.

    'She
was different, that was all, and I think that was her method of dealing with
her family situation.'

    Father
John frowned. 'Her family situation?'

    I
waved my hand nonchalantly. 'People said her father was Klan, this kind of
thing. He was an influential man, big money, big opinions, and rumor had it
that he was Klan. A guy I knew in Sumter, a guy called Schembri… even he told
me something of the guy's reputation. Even heard her father was in some way
involved with Robert Kennedy's death.'

    Father
John raised his eyebrows. 'You think he was?'

    'I
try not to think about it now.'

    'How
come?' Father John leaned towards me.

    I
looked at him. I looked to his left at the one-way window. Everything I said
here would be taped. I shook my head. 'Whatever he was into was whatever he was
into, I have no opinion about it. There were rumors, hearsay… nothing else.
Linny Goldbourne sat in a car with me, we heard on the radio that Robert
Kennedy had been killed, and that was the moment she left.'

    'When
she heard Kennedy had been killed?'

    'Right.'

    'And
you think her father was involved?' Father John asked.

    I
shrugged. 'All I know was that we heard he'd died, and she changed… everything
changed at that point. She left and I didn't see her until after we came back
to Greenleaf.'

    'And
you think she suspected her father had some involvement in the assassination?'

    I
shook my head. 'There were people at the time, later, weeks later… people who
said that Goldbourne had business interests, millions, billions even, tied up
in industry throughout the South. There was an opinion that the industrialists
and money men were as afraid of Robert getting to the White House as they had
been of his brother before him. There was even some guy, an investigator,
Stroud I think his name was, and he was mouthing off about how Goldbourne was
implicated in all manner of things that might lead back to the Kennedy
administration.'

    I
sighed. I felt agitated. 'Linny left… she went home, and that was the end of
the era.' 'But you suspected she might have known something, and when she heard
Robert had been killed she got scared?'

    'I
don't have an opinion about that.'

    'Have
none or don't want to have one?'

    I
sighed. 'You want me to tell you what happened?'

    Father
John relaxed slightly. He leaned back in his chair, lit another cigarette. 'That's
why I'm here,' he said.

    I
smiled. 'I thought you were here to save my soul.'

    Father
John nodded. 'That too.'

    I
noticed he was not carrying his Bible today. I thought to mention it but
decided not. Right now Father John Rousseau was the only man I could speak to
and I didn't wish to unsettle this relationship.

    'It
was the week before Christmas 1969, the end of the '60s, the end of an era in a
lot of ways…'

    Linny
Goldbourne had heard from Marty Hooper's elder sister, who in turn had heard
from Karl Winterson, who in turn had heard from Benny Amundsen. She didn't tell
me that right away, she told me a little later, and the mere fact that so many
people were talking about my return to Greenleaf gave me slight cause for concern.
Greenleaf was a small place, but not that small. This was no seven hundred
population miss-it-with-a-blink watering hole, it was bigger, much bigger than
that. I presumed that people were interested because Ma had died. I put it down
to that.

    Linny
hadn't changed. She was still as beautiful as ever, stunningly so, and the
verve and enthusiasm with which she breezed into the house was almost
overwhelming. She once again encapsulated me within everything she was, and I
was swallowed. Jonah and the whale.

    I
remember standing there, standing breathless and still and silent as she
embraced me, embraced me as if nothing had happened.

    And
then she saw Nathan.

    'Oh
my God… oh my God… oh my God! Nathan!

    Nathan
Verney! Come here, Nathan Verney… oh my God, you're alive!'

    Nathan
stood rooted to the spot at the other end of the hall.

    His
expression was a complete mystery.

    Linny
rushed towards him, her arms out, almost running, and when she reached him she
seemed to enclose him completely.

    Nathan
was caught off-balance and almost fell backwards.

    I
thought nothing of her reaction to seeing him at the time, for Linny was always
so enthused about everything.

    'My
God, Nathan,' she shouted. 'When did you get back?'

    'His
parents had told everyone that he went to Vietnam,' I said.

    Father
John nodded.

    'They
were ashamed of what he'd done, at least that's what Nathan felt, and so they
told everyone that he'd gone to Vietnam and died.'

    'They
didn't expect to see him again?' Father John asked.

    'Nathan
said they must have
hoped
they wouldn't see him again.'

    'Why?'

    'So
they wouldn't have to explain how come he wasn't dead.'

    'But
he never spoke to them?' Father John asked.

    I
shook my head.

    'And
you never went to see them to tell them he was alive?'

    'No,
I never went to see them… didn't see them again until after.'

    'After
what?'

    'After
he was dead,' I said.

    'Yeah,
right, sorry,' Father John said.

    I
raised my hand. 'I actually feel really tired,' I said.

    'Okay,
just tell me what happened with Nathan and you after Linny came back.'

    'Tomorrow,'
I said. 'Let's talk about it tomorrow.'

    'Tell
me now, Danny.'

    'Why
the hurry?'

    Father
John looked momentarily awkward. 'The tape,' he suddenly replied. 'Use up the
video tape.'

    I
glanced at the one-way window, remembered the camera behind, the fact that
every word, every sound, every expression was being recorded.

    I was
puzzled.

    'You
wanna talk about this today because you don't want to waste a video tape?
That's the problem? What is it, you payin' for them or something?'

    Father
John smiled. He looked a little embarrassed. He shook his head. 'No, I'm not paying
for them, Danny. It's just that -'

    'Just
that we don't have that much time do we, Father? Four weeks, give or take,
right?'

    Father
John smiled, something reassuring in his expression. 'Right,' he said.

    I was
quiet for a moment.

    'So how
come all of this is so important to know?' I asked.

    He
shrugged his shoulders, an effort at nonchalance. 'Important? I just feel I
want to know exactly what happened, Danny. I've read the trial records, read
the statements, listened to the taped interviews -'

    I
smiled. 'You've listened to the tape where I confessed?'

    'Yes,'
Father John said. 'I've listened to your confession.'

    'So
you've heard everything.'

    'I've
heard everything that I'm meant to hear, read everything that I'm supposed to
read, but there's so much missing.'

    I
looked up. I wanted a cigarette. 'Missing?' I asked.

    Father
John shook his head slowly. 'You take in everything, you study all of that
stuff, and you come away… at least
I
came away with a definite feeling
that here was a man who didn't fight back.'

    I
smiled. 'Didn't fight back? Fight back against what? Against the might of the
North Carolina District Attorney's Office, the Federal Court, the Fifth
Circuit, the State Appellate, the Supreme Court, the Governor? Or was there
someone else involved that maybe I should have argued with'

    Father
John leaned back. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I do understand what happened.'

    I
nodded. 'And what happened was what was meant to happen, and for all I know had
been arranged long before Linny Goldbourne came back.'

    'And
how did it make you feel, the fact that she'd left so suddenly after Robert
Kennedy's death the year before, and now had returned so unexpectedly?'

    I
smiled. 'It made me feel great, Father John, it made me feel… Hell, I don't
know. I don't think I'd ever stopped loving her.'

    'Tell
me.'

    I
took another cigarette. I was smoking so much now. Had I possessed any reason
to concern myself with the subjects of health and physical well-being I would
have slowed down.

    But I
had no reason to think of these things.

    A
month and I'd be dead.

    I
looked at him, this priest, this man of God, and in his face I saw all the
weatherworn signs, the moments when his own faith must have been tested to its
limit. It was hard in a world such as this to consider that things were
arranged in any other fashion than to bring a man down.