“I don’t want you in jail.”

“Liar.”

“I’ve gone by your place a couple of times, and you’re never there. Why don’t you go home?”

“I am home. I’m home right now.”

“I hear traffic. You’re at a pay phone.”

“Guess I can’t put one over one you, can I?”

“You can’t stay out on the street. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m safe as long as you can’t find me. You and Sandra Price.”

“Richard, you’re smarter than this. You know you’re not thinking clearly.”

“All I know is what I saw tonight. You and Sandy, best pals. It explains a lot. You helped her put up those pictures of me. I’ll bet it was your idea. But I’m on to you now.”

Hearing him talk like this—it broke her heart. Once again she tried to get an answer to her question. “What do you do at night?”

“I walk. I ride the bus.”

That was responsive, at least. “Where do you go?”

“I get around.”

“Where?”

“Around and around and around...”

“Have you been to mom and dad’s graves?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Did you see me there this morning? Did you leave something on my car?”

“Like bird shit?”

“Did you leave a note?”

“Yes, it was C minor.”

“Richard, I want to know if you left a note on my windshield.”

“You ask stupid questions. You’ve always been stupid and useless. I was the smart one. I’m the real doctor. I’m an M.D.”

“Just tell me if you were at the graveyard today.”

“So you can track my movements? Put a homing beacon on me?”

“How about my house? Have you been here? Have you been inside the house?”

“It’s not your house. It’s mine. It should have been mine.”

“Did you break in? Did you come here after the rally—”

“Serves you right if I did. You shouldn’t be mixed up with her. She’s against me. If she’s your friend, it means you’re against me too.”

“Richard, I want you to listen to me. The posters don’t have your picture on them. Nobody is looking for you because of any crimes. I’m not working with Sandra Price.”

“I saw you with her. Who am I supposed to believe, you or my own eyes? You want me put away, and you want my money. You want the money I inherited from Mom.”

“There’s hardly any money left.”

“And the family papers too. The family papers you care about so much.”

“Have you looked through those papers? Have you read them?”

“I can read. I’m an M.D.”

“How much do you know about our family? Our father?”

“He’s the father of lies.”

“What does that mean?”

“The devil is the father of lies.”

“Was our father the devil?”

“He killed himself. And not just himself.”

“Who else did he kill?”

“You and me. And Mom. He killed us all.”

“Anyone else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Richard, please trust me. I’m on your side.”

“Lying bitch.”

“You saved me in San Francisco.” She gripped her left arm, feeling the scar. “Remember that? Now I’m trying to save you.”

“Save yourself.”

“I’m not the one in trouble.”

“Yes, you are, big sister. Yes, you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re part of this family. You can’t escape.” He sucked in a breath. “I’ll be going now. Got places to be.”

“Richard!” Her voice broke. “Don’t hang up, please don’t—”

Click, and he was gone.

She sank to the floor, her head down, her body numb. She’d lost him. He might never call again.

twenty-two

In a corner of the darkness he lay curled in a fetal ball, rocking slowly back and forth, hugging his knees.

Like a fetus in the womb, awaiting birth.

Or rebirth, possibly.

At times he thought—was almost sure—that he had been born once before, as old Jack. And now, though he was a new man, he was still the old one.

At other times he thought this was a snare and a delusion, that old Jack was dead and he was only who and what he was.

But what he was—that was the true miracle. His calling, his destiny was unique in the world.

For years he’d fought against it, waging a lonely, secret battle.

At last he had yielded, and by yielding, he had won.

Now he was free. He contended against himself no longer.

It was illness that liberated him. His weakness was his strength.

People looked at him as a sad freak, a ruined shell. They pointed and mocked. But he was stronger than they knew.

Take what he had done tonight, for instance. Following little Jennifer to the gymnasium, watching her from the bleachers, in plain view of everyone, but unseen, because he wanted to be unseen.

And afterward, while she lingered over supper with that whore Sandra Price, he had returned to the house, slipping in so easily through the window.

He’d thought for sure he could find the diary. Take it from her, away from her unworthy eyes.

But it was nowhere. Nowhere.

She was a clever bitch. She’d hidden the treasure. Hidden it so craftily he could not find it.

He could have waited for her to return. Could have made her show it to him. But then he would have had to kill her. And he wasn't sure he was prepared to do that.

Not quite yet.

Soon, perhaps. His patience was great, but not inexhaustible. And he would weary of their telephone games eventually.

When he was ready, he would do it.

And he would make old Red Jack proud.

1902

It was springtime in Denver, and Edward Hare was getting married.

He stood before the dark and wavy mirror over his dresser, adjusting the knot of his tie. He had been barbered and bathed and beautified, and he was pleased with the reflection in the glass.

Though he was in middle age now, forty-two years old, he had the bearing of a younger man. Hard living had kept him fit, and the mountain air had cleaned the soot from his lungs. He had even forsaken smoking, convinced that cigarettes left him winded.

Nothing must abbreviate his life. There was yet much work to do.

Satisfied with his necktie, he checked his pocket watch and found himself with an hour to spare before he was needed at the chapel. He poured a whiskey and reclined in his favorite armchair with yesterday’s Post, which he had not had time to read. The usual controversies over pastureland and water rights took up the headlines. But on an inside page he discovered an item of greater interest.

A wire-service story datelined Albany, New York, reported that Governor Benjamin B. Odell had commuted the sentence of Ameer Ben Ali, now believed to have been wrongly convicted in the murder of Carrie Brown.

Certain industrious journalists had pursued the matter for years, insisting that the telltale trail of blood to Ali’s hotel room had not been present when they first visited the scene. One of them had sworn out an affidavit to this effect.

And then there was the farmer’s tale. A Mr. George Damon of Cranford, New Jersey, had come forward to claim that a Danish immigrant in his employ was out of the house on the night of the whore’s murder. A few days later the Dane vanished for good, allegedly leaving behind a bloody shirt and a key from the East River Hotel, its label reading 31, the murdered woman’s room number.

“Danish,” Hare muttered. “I knew it was some continental jabber.”

He had no doubt that this Cranford hireling was the blond foreigner who should have been framed for the crime. It was sheer bad luck the man had gotten away, though this misfortune had been offset by the apprehension and speedy conviction of the Algerian, Ali.

Now Ali was in the clear—en route back to Algeria, the story said. The case was once again officially unsolved, but the authorities would never concern themselves with it. They had more pressing business. Besides, he could not be tracked down here, or tied to an event of eleven years ago. He had a new name, a new life. He was a prosperous and respected businessman, a pillar of the community.