The Shadow Man (4 page)

“I’m going to have to take a business trip during the coming adjournment,” Andrews told his wife that evening in the brick-walled den of their Williamsburg home.

“Are you?” Ellen said with disinterest that almost dripped. She was sitting in the flickering glow emanating from the flames behind the glass fire screen that protected the glossy hardwood floor from sparks. Her shapely legs were propped up somehow insolently on a hassock, and she was idly leafing through what appeared to be a catalog of expensive jewelry. Ellen had a weakness for jewelry.

At forty, she appeared ten years younger, slim of waist and hip, gaunt of chest. Her shoulders were slightly stooped. Her face, with its prominent cheekbones and sweeping, lean jaw line, would have possessed a sought-after fashion-model look but for her nose, which was turned up and jauntily incongruous on such an otherwise hungry countenance. When she was younger, Ellen couldn’t leave men alone. Now she could but didn’t. Love had changed to indifference in Ellen. Sex remained. But not with Andrews.

“You’ll be here?” he asked.

“No,” she said. Her heavily made-up gray eyes didn’t flicker as she flipped a colorful page of whatever she was reading.

Andrews didn’t ask where she’d be, though he didn’t doubt it would be with Millikin. In that respect he trusted her to be discreet, because if her longtime affair with Millikin, a lawyer who had handled Andrews’ father’s estate, became public knowledge, Andrews could divorce her without any more political damage than had been done. And Ellen wanted above all to maintain her position and wealth as Andrews’ wife.

As for Andrews, he could accept their situation. They weren’t the first political couple to continue a marriage publicly because neither would stand to gain from a divorce. Through the years they had learned to make room for each other, to lead separate, private lives. In the beginning, Andrews had thought that their arrangement couldn’t go on for very long, but it had. There simply was no real reason to end it. They had adapted.

The root of their situation was easy enough to identify for Andrews. Six years ago Ellen had married him for money and status. Nothing complex about it. Since then she had no longer liked herself or Andrews. Possibly she hadn’t foreseen that.

Andrews had been almost glad when two years ago she had taken up with the unctuous and worldwise Lawrence Millikin. Like Ellen, he understood the situation and would be discreet.

Shortly thereafter, Andrews had met Pat Colombo. She became the fourth person other than Andrews to know and understand his position. Judy Carnegie had been the third. From the beginning, Andrews knew it would be stupid to try to keep that sort of secret from Judy.

The applecart continued to roll and not be upset. In fact, not an apple had dropped.

“A friend of yours died,” Ellen said unexpectedly, flipping another glossy page.

“Dana Larsen,” Andrews said. He looked closely at her impassive, fire-shadowed features. “How did you know?”

“Kate Hogan happened to phone me from New York. It was in the papers there.” She turned to focus artfully slanted eyes on Andrews. “But how on earth did you find out so soon?”

“Somewhat the way you did,” Andrews said.

“An unfortunate accident.” She returned her attention to her reading.

Andrews said nothing more. He got up from his deep armchair and left the room, feeling the coolness of-Ellen recede as he went into the kitchen. He considered having a scotch, then decided against it and poured himself a glass of milk. He often awoke in the middle of the night if he tried to unwind near bedtime with alcohol.

He tossed down the milk, rinsed the glass and climbed the stairs to his bedroom at the end of the second-floor hall.

Andrews’ bedroom was spacious and carpeted in pale green. Within reach of the king-size bed were a bookcase and a table on which sat a digital clock-radio with a built-on reading lamp. The bed’s headboard was brass. The rest of the furniture was walnut and there was not much of it. The effect was tasteful and restful. On one wall was an oil painting of the Irish seacoast. The painting had been given to Andrews years ago by a friend he’d endorsed for an unsuccessful Senate race. It wasn’t a particularly good painting, but its colors matched the décor, so he left it. On another wall was a studio photograph of Andrews’ father, taken when he was in his late thirties, slightly younger than Andrews’ age now. Occasionally, as he lay in bed before sleep, the fact amazed and frightened Andrews.

Before undressing, Andrews switched on the portable Sony TV. An old movie came on the screen, a Western. A beautiful woman in a long dress—maybe Joan Blondell—was arguing with Randolph Scott. Suddenly Scott stopped arguing and grabbed her and kissed her. She fought with spirit at first, then returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm. An arrow abruptly fixed itself in the wooden buckboard behind them, and Scott threw the woman to the ground to protect her.

Andrews wondered if the real Randolph Scott and Joan Blondell had been even a little bit like their screen counterparts. Or did that matter, as long as we could see some of the best in ourselves in them? Scott was kissing Blondell again, this time with gentle reassurance.

Tomorrow, after the Senate adjournment, Andrews would see if Pat Colombo had found out if she could get away from her work to spend the final week of the three-week recess with him at the Colorado cabin. Andrews would use at least part of the preceding two weeks to look into Dana Larsen’s death, for which he felt partly responsible. Moral obligation.

No, Andrews thought, sitting down to remove his shoes and socks, not moral obligation. Nothing so noble. How could he owe anything to Larsen now? What difference could it make to the dead?

Curiosity, then? Something that simple? He stood and took off his shirt. A sense of adventure? A puzzling out of the bizarre for answers with possibly greater implications than anyone anticipated?

Bullshit! Andrews told himself. He walked into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Moral obligation, he decided, almost with embarrassment.

Shots rang out from the TV.

Dr. Laidelier, director of the Belmont sanitarium, led Andrews down a wide hall from the reception area to his office. The doctor was a tall, shambling man with bushy gray eyebrows. He had deep-set blue eyes with diamond glitters of intelligence in them. His gray pinstripe suit, though obviously expensive, hung gracelessly on his long, gangly frame, and Andrews noticed that he was wearing scuffed brown wingtip shoes.

Holding the office door open for Andrews, Dr. Laidelier smiled warmly and motioned for him to enter.

The office was large, well furnished though not plush. One wall was lined with bookshelves that were stuffed with old as well as new volumes packed in with disregard for their arrangement. Along another wall were banks of black file cabinets. Behind the doctor’s unpretentious metal desk was a wide window overlooking the sanitarium grounds.

“You told my secretary that this was about Martin Karpp, Senator,” Dr. Laidelier said, lowering his tall frame in sections into the chair behind the desk.

Andrews was seated in an upholstered chair that undoubtedly was more comfortable than Laidelier’s desk chair. He wondered if the office’s effects were carefully calculated for the benefit of the patients. “About Martin Karpp,” Andrews said, “and about Dr. Dana Larsen.”

“A tragic thing about Dr. Larsen,” Laidelier said. He sounded sincere. He was a man who projected sincerity to spare.

“Did Dr. Larsen discuss his work concerning Karpp with you?” Andrews asked.

Laidelier shook his head no. “He came and he went. We talked a few times about things in general, but not about Karpp or Dr. Larsen’s work.”

“Then he never came to you and questioned the security surrounding Karpp?”

Laidelier’s vivid eyes caught the angled sun and deflected it in Andrews’ direction. “I don’t understand what you mean... security. I assure you that Karpp is well guarded.”

“It’s the possibility of his escape that concerned Dr. Larsen,” Andrews said.

The tall, unkempt man behind the desk was silent as he carefully regarded Andrews. He was one of the few men whose scrutiny made Andrews vaguely uncomfortable and produced the compulsion to squirm in his chair. But Andrews sat still.

“It would probably be a good idea, Senator,” Laidelier said, “if I called Joseph Morgan in here. He’s chief of security at Belmont.”

Andrews nodded, and Laidelier pressed an intercom button and asked his secretary to summon Joseph Morgan.

Within a few minutes Joseph Morgan was seated in a chair near the opposite corner of Laidelier’s desk, so that the three men formed a perfectly equilateral triangle. Morgan was a beefy, well-dressed man with reddish-blond straight hair and the moon face of a saddened choirboy. He sat totally relaxed and looked with frank curiosity at Andrews. Morgan hadn’t seemed impressed when the doctor introduced him to a U.S. senator. There had been no flicker of the awe or respect Andrews had noted in other lower-echelon government employees. And Morgan did work for the U.S. Government. Dr. Laidelier was in charge of treating the inmates; Morgan was in charge of keeping certain of them here to treat.

“I feel compelled to check on something Dr. Larsen came to me about not long before he died,” Andrews said. He looked at Morgan. “Is there any possibility that Martin Karpp could ever have left the asylum, then returned?”

To Morgan’s credit, he didn’t laugh or put on an incredulous expression. “Not in my estimation, Senator. The asylum’s security is tight. The main building, where Karpp is confined, is guarded around the clock and would be escape-proof even without guards. Brick walls, pickproof locks, barred windows. And you’ve seen the twelve-foot-high brick wall that surrounds the asylum. That wall is ivy-covered and pretty, but it’s topped with detection devices so that nothing can come or go over it without us knowing. Beyond the wall and the regular guards are two high, barbed-wire-topped chain-link fences, and the ground between wall and fences is regularly patrolled by guards with trained dobermans.”

Dr. Laidelier cleared his throat. “None of that is as noticeable as it might be. We don’t treat only the criminally insane here, Senator. Though we pride ourselves on our security system, it has to remain relatively unobtrusive to most of our patients and to their families.”

“Karpp is top security,” Morgan said. “Someone checks him every few hours.” Lightly, yet with great emphasis, Morgan raised a pale hand and tapped the arm of his chair. “Since the time Karpp was placed here, he’s been here.”

“Mr. Morgan will be glad to let you personally examine our security system,” Dr. Laidelier said. He seemed eager for this to happen.

Andrews thanked him, then asked, “Is Martin Karpp receiving any sort of treatment?”

For the first time Laidelier seemed a bit uncomfortable. He spread his long-fingered hands palms down in a gesture of helplessness. “Not to the degree I’d like,” he said. “We have only so much staff, so much operating capital. And frankly, Martin Karpp is here for life anyway, so we concentrate more on patients who have a chance for recovery and functional lives in outside society. Or who are under severe stress or in agony, which also doesn’t apply to Karpp. Priorities. Seemingly harsh. But realistic, I’m afraid.”

“I understand the realities,” Andrews said.

Dr. Laidelier smiled, as if to agree that, yes, a successful politician would. It was the first move he’d made that Andrews didn’t like. Beyond the doctor, outside the wide window, greenish-brown lawn stretched away in a mild slope to the vine-patterned brick wall. A line of small trees stood in grassless, geometrically perfect circles, their lower trunks painted antiseptic white. There were a few low shrubs here and there, and several ornate concrete benches. Off to the left was something that looked like a gazebo. All in all, a tranquil scene.

Almost impulsively, Andrews said, “I’d like to talk to Martin Karpp.”

“That’s easy enough to arrange,” Laidelier said amicably.

Andrews stood, offered his hand. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Doctor. Your help’s appreciated.”

Dr. Laidelier stood with a curious unfolding motion and shook hands. “Would you like Mr. Morgan to give you a tour of the grounds before or after you talk with Karpp?”

“It really doesn’t matter.”

“We can go now, then,” Morgan said. Dr. Laidelier’s authority over him apparently was limited if well defined. “After you, Senator.”

But at the door, Dr. Laidelier’s voice stopped them.

“Just out of curiosity, Senator, why did Dr. Larsen question our security?”

“He came across some evidence suggesting that Martin Karpp was seen outside the asylum walls.” Andrews felt it wise not to carry his explanation further.

Dr. Laidelier seemed taken aback. His bushy eyebrows writhed like caterpillars suffering in unison. “No,” he said, “no, that’s quite impossible, I assure you.”

“Dr. Larsen was such a realist,” Andrews said, “even a cynic.”

“He was a personal friend?”

“Yes. That’s why I want to satisfy my curiosity. Or I suppose what was his curiosity. I feel I owe his memory that much.”

“I understand, Senator.”

Andrews didn’t see how that was possible.
He
didn’t actually understand what he was doing here. He left the office and fell in beside Morgan for his tour of the Belmont sanitarium.

The security system was as tight as Dr. Laidelier and Morgan had described it. The buildings themselves were arranged so that the patients’ quarters were under constant observation, and all outside doors and windows were kept locked. The high brick wall surrounding the main building and its two smaller counterparts seemed, despite the sparse ivy, unscalable, and it too was built along flat ground that afforded easy viewing and little potential shelter. A number of men strolling about the grounds, whom Andrews had assumed were patients or visiting relatives, turned out to be highly trained armed guards.

But the real security was outside the brick wall, in the half-mile-wide perimeter along the barbed-wire-topped fences that were mostly concealed by woods. There uniformed guards roamed with leashed dogs, and along natural paths photoelectric detectors were set to reveal the passage of anyone who didn’t belong in the area. The armed guards had a businesslike, grim air about them. Andrews could understand why Dr. Laidelier preferred that they be kept out of sight of the patients and visitors.

“That’s about it, Senator,” Morgan said, as they trudged up the blacktop road toward the main building. The security chief was breathing hard from the exertion of the tour, his breath fogging ahead of him in the clear, cool air.

“Seems tight as possible,” Andrews said in a deliberately complimentary tone.

“It is, sir.” Morgan sounded pleased and proud. “The idea that anyone could have come and gone here without us knowing is—well, it just doesn’t wash with me.”

“I was never questioning your professionalism,” Andrews assured him.

“Oh, I know that, Senator. Do you want to talk with Karpp now or later?”

“Now, if it can be arranged.”

Morgan quickened his pace. “It can be arranged.”

The room was oddly shaped and gray. Martin Karpp sat across from Andrews, his bulky forearms resting on the oak table between them. Behind Karpp was a wall the upper half of which was clear Plexiglas. A guard in a dark-blue business suit stood in the anteroom beyond the transparent partition. He watched Andrews and Karpp with seeming nonchalance and disinterest, but there was a subtle attitude of alertness in his loose stance.

“They told me about Dr. Larsen,” Karpp said in a formal, carefully modulated voice. “I’m sorry. I liked him.”

Andrews got the impression that Karpp really had been fond of Dana Larsen. The series of interviews was the only real outside human contact Karpp had experienced in years.

“Dr. Larsen told me about a note someone left for him at his motel,” Andrews said. “Someone pretending to be you.”

Karpp’s taut lips lifted in what was only the suggestion of a smile. “Not me, Paul Liggett.”

“Aren’t you and Paul Liggett one and the same?”

“Yes and no.”

“Did Paul Liggett leave the message at the motel?”

Karpp said nothing.

“Do you always remember what Paul Liggett does, Martin?”

“Some of the time. Other times it’s just a blank space in my life.”

“Then it’s possible that Paul Liggett acted without your knowledge.”

Karpp seemed irritated by Andrews’ inability to grasp. “Of course it’s possible.”

Andrews sat for a moment studying the stocky, brooding man across the table from him. There was about Karpp a hint of underlying great strength, of awesome will. Andrews felt an iciness run through him, and he almost shivered. In his way, Karpp was more of a shaper of history than Andrews probably ever would be. In his own dark way.

“I remember you from when you were a governor,” Karpp said suddenly.

And Andrews realized that circumstances might well have placed him rather than Hugh Drake in Karpp’s gunsight. Andrews or anyone else in public life might be a target for someone like Karpp. That, really, was the horror of it.

“Are you all right, Senator?” Karpp asked.

It struck Andrews as ludicrous that Martin Karpp, a certified mental case incarcerated for life, should ask him that. He nodded, then asked, “Martin, how do you feel about being locked up in here?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Karpp said. “I suppose fate is why I’m here, why Jay shot Governor Drake, why I was the one who was caught. Fate all the way down the line.”

“Then you accept it?”

“I
do, yes.”

“And the... others?”

Karpp smiled. “It isn’t unanimous. But what difference does it make?”

Andrews slowly stood up, nodded to the guard. “I suppose none. Goodbye, Martin. Thanks for talking with me.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Senator,” Martin Karpp said behind Andrews, in a voice that might not have been exactly the voice he’d used a few minutes earlier.