Carter & Lovecraft (30 page)
Elise wasn’t listening. “He attacked Amara.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Amara. The housekeeper. So much trouble. Apparently we’re going to have to ship her whole wretched clan over because of this.”
Lovecraft spoke slowly. “When you say ‘attacked’…”
“Sexually. He…” Elise looked at Lovecraft, utterly bewildered. “She’s so
homely
. Why would he do that? I imagine his love life is quite busy”—which Lovecraft parsed as
You black people do sex a lot, don’t you?
but let it go—“so why does he take it into his head to lay hands on Amara?” She touched her own top lip. “She’s quite hairy,” she whispered.
Lovecraft could see that Elise wasn’t going to provide any indications of her son’s state of mind, only her own. “May I see him?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It’s why I called you, after all. He’s in his study. You know where that is, don’t you? Perhaps you can find out what’s wrong with him.”
Lovecraft got up and went to the door. “The election…?”
“I don’t see how he can go ahead. I’ve already told Marcus to wiggle him out of it. It means giving the Democrats a clear run, but Kenneth was never going to win this time. We’ll put around something about illness or an emotional upset.” She looked appraisingly at Lovecraft, seeing two birds that single stone could deal with. She shook herself out of the momentary reverie. “In any case, it’s important we clear this mess up and make sure Kenneth is fit and ready next time.”
“Yes,” said Lovecraft. “That’s the important thing.”
Elise nodded and smiled, impervious to the ironic sentiment.
* * *
Lovecraft found Rothwell in his study, just as his mother had said. He was not, however, at his desk. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his legs splayed. He wasn’t looking unkempt, as she had been expecting. He was washed and shaved, and his clothes were fresh.
In his hand, he held a revolver that he played with lazily. Lovecraft’s heart started at the sight of it, but she breathed again when she saw the cylinder was out, and—even from where she was standing at the entrance—she could see the chambers were all empty. Between his legs she could make out what looked like thick crayons on the carpet.
“Hi, Ken,” she said quietly.
He looked up at her and smiled. He seemed sad, philosophically so. It was not a mien she was used to seeing from him. “Hello, Emily. I suppose Mother called you?”
She nodded and walked closer. As she did, she saw the crayons were not crayons at all, but cartridges. “She’s concerned about you.”
“Hmmm…” He put down the gun and picked up one of the cartridges. “Yes. I’d be concerned about me, too. Look at this.” He waved her closer. “Here’s a funny thing.” When she kneeled down beside him, he showed her the rear of what she could now see was an empty .410 cartridge. “See that?” He held the brass closer so she could inspect it.
There was little to see, but for two small dimples in the metal of the center fire cap. “Hammer’s fallen on that one twice,” she said, unsure what he wanted from her.
“Beautiful. Observant. Clever. I really like you, Emily. It’s a shame you’re going to leave me. Mind you, I was going to leave you, so that’s fair. Nothing personal. You’re just too left-wing. Sorry.” He looked her in the eye. She’d never seen him so guileless, so open and undefended. “You were going to leave me, weren’t you?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, absolving her. “No, that’s good. That’s the right thing to do. I tried to fuck you in the ass when you didn’t want to. Hard to get by a thing like that. I’m sorry about that, by the way. Did I say that at the time? I’m sorry. I keep having moments. Had one last night.”
“I heard. The housekeeper?”
He nodded. “There’s something not quite right with me, isn’t there?” He held up the spent cartridge. “Hammer fell on it twice. The first time was a misfire, but it fired perfectly the second time. I fired all four in the cellar.” Lovecraft knew the house had a single-lane firing range in the cellar; they’d had impromptu shooting matches down there when they’d first started going out together. She’d caught on quickly that he could just about stand losing as long as it was only by a small margin. It had still been fun, though. With a pang, she realized those matches had stopped at about the time she’d come to understand the true dimensions of their relationship. “Bang. Bang. Bang.” He looked at the cartridge, ran his thumb across the dimpled metal. “Bang. Why didn’t it fire the first time, Emily? If I could understand that, maybe I could understand what’s wrong with me. There’s something not quite right with me.”
“Kenneth.” She said his name gently, as if to a child. “Does this have to do with William Colt?”
He smiled at her. A big, open smile. “Beautiful. Observant. Clever. I’m not as clever as I thought I was. I don’t think I’m clever at all. Yes.” He toyed with the cartridge. “It’s everything to do with William Colt. He’s very clever.” He looked at Lovecraft again and the smile faltered. “I’m sorry, Emily. There’s something not quite right with me.”
She held him as he wept.
* * *
Elise Rothwell looked up from her third untouched coffee of the morning to see Lovecraft enter the kitchen. She saw the young woman’s eyes were red, but said nothing. She shied away a little when Lovecraft placed a revolver—silver and black, its cylinder out and empty—on the counter.
“I don’t think he’s suicidal,” she said, “but I’d keep that away from him, all the same.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. I think he’s had a small breakdown. He’s not lost to us, Mrs. Rothwell, or at least, that’s the impression I get. He’s had some sort of shock.”
Elise looked at her uncomprehendingly. “A shock? What kind of shock? When could that have happened?”
“I don’t know. It could have been as simple as him thinking something he didn’t want to think, and it shook him. Only he knows what did it. But I think with help, kindness, and a little time, he’ll be okay. He’ll be better. I’m no psychiatrist, though. I think he’s going to need one. And, please, don’t put him somewhere. It might be better if he stays in familiar surroundings.”
“He can stay with me for a while,” said Elise Rothwell. “He grew up in that house. It might make him feel safer.”
“That sounds good.”
“Somebody discreet to help him. I think I know who to ask.” Elise shook herself as if awakening from a dream and arose, all bustle and intent. She picked up the cooling coffee cup and tossed its contents into the sink, placing the cup and saucer in the dishwasher. “I shall get that organized at once.” She looked at Lovecraft as if she were the help, the vulnerability gone, her briefly annealed armor hardening once more. “Thank you for coming, dear. I’m sure you have things to be getting on with.”
* * *
Carter and Harrelson were waiting for her in the apartment above the bookstore when she got back. It was quickly obvious to them that she did not especially want to talk about where she’d been. Harrelson passed her a plastic shopping bag. “We got you a holster for the Beretta,” he said. “Hip holster. Figured being able to draw fast would be more use to you than concealment. And I brought along my old Blackhawk ankle rig if you want to try that instead.” He shook his head. “This had better be all we think it is. I’m pissing away my career here if we’re caught, and there’s probably jail time coming, too.”
“If we’re wrong, then it’s a hell of a shared delusion,” said Carter. “We deserve to be in an institution. Not a penal one, either.”
Lovecraft looped the hip holster on and tried the Beretta in it. Under her jacket, it was all but invisible. “Looks like I get a fast draw
and
concealment,” she said. She hoisted the Mossberg with its strap, extended magazine, and extra cartridges stored on the folding butt. “This thing weighs a damn ton with all the extra shit on it.” She shrugged. “Rather have it than not, though.” She put it in the duffel bag, now emptied but for the gear they were taking, and dropped in Harrelson’s ankle holster next to it.
“Okay.” Harrelson sat on the sofa, rubbing a smear of gun oil from the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. “What’s the plan?”
Carter looked at Lovecraft, who shrugged.
“Yeah,” said Harrelson, “that’s what I figured. We just swoop in and…?”
“Mess things up,” said Lovecraft. “We don’t know what’s so important about Waite Road, but something is. We find out what it is, and break it.”
“In the end house,” added Carter, “the one like a meeting house. That’s where Colt went.”
Harrelson smiled, albeit ruefully. “It’ll do. It’s not even the weakest due cause I’ve ever seen a warrant issued for. So when are we doing this?”
“Now?” said Carter. “Good a time as any.”
“No,” said Lovecraft.
“No?”
“Lunch,” said Lovecraft.
They took Lovecraft’s car, an aging Ford station wagon that would not have looked badly out of place in an episode of
The Rockford Files
.
“This is … characterful,” said Harrelson. “Metallic brown. Nice.”
“Get in and shut up,” said Lovecraft. “No. Better. Shut up and get in.”
“Don’t argue with an armed librarian, Detective. Oh, and I call shotgun.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Harrelson muttered, “like a picnic.”
Lovecraft’s admonition to Harrelson to be quiet proved unnecessary. As they drove, the gravity of what they were about to do grew on them oppressively, and conversation did not come easily, nor did the prospect of imminent action improve the atmosphere as they approached the landward end of the isthmus leading onto Waite’s Bill.
Lovecraft slowed the car, coming to a halt some twenty yards from the entry road. “Okay. Anyone wants to back out, here’s your last chance. I won’t hold it against you if either or both of you want out.”
Carter was looking at the house overlooking the entrance. It was looking just on the edge of being unkempt. The grass was untended, and the car sat in the drive with mud over its rims like it had been driving in a field. It seemed at odds with the character of the man he’d spoken to there not so very long before.
“What about you?” said Harrelson. “None of us have to do this. That includes you.”
Lovecraft shook her head. “They hurt a friend of mine. If they can hurt him, they can hurt anyone. I can’t let that go.”
“Colt tried to kill me,” said Carter. “He’ll try again. Big picture aside, it’s self-preservation.” He looked at Harrelson. “You’re the only one without a dog in this. If we fuck up, this could go very badly for you.”
“I’m not letting you down.”
“We could do with a reserve,” said Lovecraft suddenly. “You know? Like in battles? You could be our reserve, Detective. Hang back here, and we’ll call you if we need you. Then you’d be responding to a call for help.”
“Plausible deniability,” added Carter. “Stand you in good stead if IAB get involved.”
Harrelson considered it. “I’d need my own car.”
“Walk up to the main street and hail a taxi. You could be back here in half an hour.”
“Yeah.” He wavered, a man in dilemma. “Yeah, you’re right.” He got out of the car, leaned by Lovecraft’s window, and said, “Thanks. Don’t get killed while I’m gone.”
They watched Harrelson climb the incline toward the main street in the mirror.
“That was good of you,” said Lovecraft.
Carter didn’t argue the point. “It’s not his war. And he’s right—we don’t have a plan. All we have is a shitload of weapons and some personal animosity. What are we supposed to do? Kick down the door and shoot everyone?”
“I thought that was SOP for cops? Sure I read that somewhere.”
“Heh. Okay, how about this? There’s a stand of trees along the riverward side of the street. You take station there with the shotgun. I’ll go to the house, knock, introduce myself, go in, and…” He slowed to a halt.
“Why do you go to the door?”
“Because you’re the one with the shotgun, and it’s not concealable. Also, I’ve had combat training.”
“Cool. Have the woman without the combat training cover your back. What could go wrong? Okay … hypothetical: you go in. I wait, and I wait, and I wait, and meanwhile they’re cutting you to pieces inside in sacrifice to their dark god, and I’m outside. Waiting. I don’t see how that’s a win for us.”
“I’ll be on my guard. Push comes to shove, I’ll fire a shot as a signal. Then you can come in. No, better yet, call Harrelson to tell him you’re going in. If he’s only a minute or two away, wait for him.”
“This sucks. This is the worst plan ever. Kicking down the door and shooting everyone is beginning to look pretty sophisticated in comparison to that.” She sighed. “Unless we can talk the FBI into believing what’s been happening, it’ll have to do. Okay. Let’s … just get it over with.”
She drove slowly onto the isthmus road, and slowed still further as the trees closed around them. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath as the daylight, poor enough as it was beneath an overcast sky, attenuated still further and felt dank and unhealthy. Emerging from the tunnel hardly helped things. Waite Road stood before them, and felt almost hyper-real, as if Providence was a studio set and now they had emerged from the backlot. Carter and Lovecraft felt actual and extant in a way they never had before, fictions rising from the page.
At Carter’s direction, Lovecraft turned left and along the short dirt track to the lick of open land between the river’s edge and the wooded windbreak. “Turn it around and park here,” he told her. “The car can’t be seen from the houses or the road, and we can get here quickly enough if need be.”
If need be
. The possibilities to fulfill
If need be
were too multitudinous to consider. They both had a strong sense that the expedition would finish with them leaving Waite’s Bill in a hurry and then pretending nothing had ever happened.
They got out of the Ford and opened the bag of weapons. Lovecraft took out her Mossberg, put the sling over her head and right arm. She took a loose cartridge from the bag and slid it through the port. “And one in the chamber. Okay. I would say, ‘Locked and loaded,’ about now, but I already feel like a big enough asshole.”