Time Out of Mind (75 page)

“
Tilden?” Corbin saw the gates of Lyndhurst ahead of
him. “Tilden, why are we doing this?” He felt a growing
agony, which he knew was not his own.

Gould.

“
He's not here. The man's dead. If you're worried about
Margaret, why don't we just turn around and go back?”
Corbin was aware of the logical inconsistency within that
question, but it seemed to fit the situation.

Your harlot mistress
...
your hidden son . .
. Corbin saw the w
ords in his mind. Saw them. They were written in ink.

“
What's that? A letter?”

...
that it might be in your interest, therefore, to accom
modate me in this matter.

“
Gould.” Corbin knew. He felt Tilden's growing rage. “Gould sent Comstock.” But even as he said those words,
Corbin doubted them. He couldn't imagine why Jay Gould
would bother. Or what he'd want from Tilden. Unless it
was that old business about Cyrus Field. “Listen, why do you let him get to you like this? You decided to marry
Margaret no matter what, so marry her.”

Gwen is a slut. A whore.

The words shocked Corbin. He could not believe they were coming from Tilden.

To hurt Jonathan, hurt Gwen. He married a whore. His
children will be whoresons.

“
Tilden”—the anger was now Corbin's own—“what
are you trying to do?”

Do as I wish. Now. Always. Or I will point and say slut,
whore.

“
Tilden?”

He felt a brief moment of panic when he could not find the gearshift. But it was there. His hand found it. He'd just
lost it for a moment in the dim light inside his car.

Corbin looked up.

And when he did, he had only a quickly fading memory
of the words he'd just spoken. A puzzled memory. He had
no idea now what they meant, nor what it was that he was
searching for on the floorboards of his carriage. He dis
missed it from his mind. His attention was fixed upon the massive oak door in front of him and the consumptive little
weasel who would be waiting behind it.

Tilden had withdrawn a card from his case and out of habit
began to bend up its right end to indicate that he was there in person and wished to be received. He crumpled it in his fist and gave a violent pull of the door chime. This was not
a day for social niceties. He would push past the butler if
he must, but he would damn well be received.

“
Good afternoon to you, Mr. Beckwith.” He attempted
an unpracticed bow. “Himself will be down in just a min
ute when he gets some clothes on. He seen you comin' up
the road.”

“
We've met before.” Tilden paused at the threshold.
“The last time, you were holding a Winchester across your
chest.”

The big man moved to close the door, but Tilden put a h
and on it. No butler. No downstairs maid polishing and
dusting. No kitchen smells. He began to wish he'd thought to bring John Flood to stand at his back. “Why don't I see
any household staff?” Tilden asked. His left hand curled
into a fist.

The big man, his name was Charley Murtree, understood.
“The boss,`^ he told us you might get spooked. He said I
should tell you right off we ain't startin' nothin' if you
don't. You got my word on that, but to tell you true, I'd sorta like to try you. I mean that friendly, now.”

.“I said you got my word, Hoss.”

Tilden nodded to the one called Calicoon, who winked back at him. But Tilden stayed within the arc of the open
door.

Tilden drew a contemptuous breath.

Tilden blinked. “Cooked his brains?”

Murtree shook his head and spit a shred of tobacco through the open door. “He's got somethin' in his craw,
for sure. I don't think it's against you, though. I got so I
could tell when he respects a man and when he don't.
Likely he means to tell you soon enough.”

“
And when will that be, sir?”

Murtree gestured toward a bell cord. “Soon as I pull that
there rope which tells him you gave your word you and
him can have a talk without me and Calicoon havin' to tag
along. Mr. Gould ain't no coward but he ain't no fool. He
knows about that left hand.”

“
You think I'd strike that sick little man?”

”
I don't. But I'll need your word.”

“
You have it.”

Charley Murtree pulled the cord.

“
Walk with me, Mr. Beckwith.” Gould's soft voice came
from the carriage drive outside. He'd gone out some other
way. A secret passage would not have surprised Tilden. The small man gathered his lapels across his thin chest although
the day was mild. He stifled a cough, then gestured toward
his greenhouse, indicating it as their direction. He did not
offer his hand when Tilden joined him. He kept both behind
his back.

“
That business with Morgan”—Gould almost smiled— “walking through the exchange with his arm around you.
Neatly done, Mr. Beckwith. Very neatly done indeed.”

Tilden saw no point in admitting that he scarcely knew
what was happening at the time.

“
Has it occurred to you, sir,” Gould asked, “that your
maneuver with Morgan had an element of fraud to it? You
were, after all, implying a close tie with him for the purpose
of improving your income.”

“
Mr. Gould.” Tilden stopped. “If you hope to establish
that your standards and mine are the same at bottom, it's
going to be a long afternoon.”

“
Ah yes, my standards.” Gould began walking again,
shook his head, then stopped once more. ”I am trying, Mr.
Beckwith, to communicate with you. Clumsily, perhaps, I
am trying to find common ground. Please do not be so
arrogant as to reduce our relationship to good versus evil.”