“Look at you!” she said, her fury renewed. “Scared that my parents might have their ears to the keyhole. Even now you can’t stop worrying that someone will disapprove instead of trying to get to the heart of this trouble between us, this terrible split.”
He was alarmed by her words, and the worst was yet to come. When he reached out a chilled hand to take hers, she slapped it away. Then her eyes flared, as brightly as if she had struck a match in the darkness.
“This can never work!” she said. “Never! I kept waiting, kept thinking you would come around, and that your better instincts would prevail. But you are becoming exactly what your father wants-just another person to say yes to whoever he needs to please.”
“That’s not true. I-”
“I can’t see you anymore, Kurt. I don’t want to see you anymore. Not with all of the growing up you still have to do. Because some people never grow up, or not in a way that allows them to develop the courage of their convictions. And I am afraid that you are one of those people. I am sorry, Kurt. Good-bye.”
He felt like she had kicked him in the stomach, and he was momentarily incapable of answering as she turned to go. Instead of protesting, or pleading, or running after her, he just stood there in the snow, rooted to the spot, mutely confirming every terrible thing she had just said.
He would think of plenty of suitable answers later, of course, such as, “I’m only sixteen. Give me time to grow into this.” Or, “Please, don’t mistake foolhardiness for courage. If we don’t fight battles only of our own choosing, then they will pick us off, one by one, on the grounds of their choosing.”
But by then he was alone on the U-Bahn, staring gloomily at his skis and his dripping bicycle. When she slammed the door to the house he was still stranded on the sidewalk, a strangled cry of protest dead on his lips, with no company to console him except the moon, the forest, and the chill darkness of a winter night in Berlin.
NINE
Delivering the news of Gordon’s death to Viv turned out to be worse than an ordeal. It was a fiasco. The first bad sign was Willis Turner’s police cruiser parked in the Wolfes’ driveway. Turner emerged from the driver’s side as Nat and Holland hopped out of the FBI Suburban. The fat policeman waved a sheet of paper at them while nodding toward the end of the dirt lane, where two New York State Police cruisers were just arriving, blue lights ablaze.
“Is this your idea of breaking it to her gently?” Nat asked Holland.
“I’ve got no idea what these clowns are up to. You better get in there.”
Nat hustled up the steps to where Viv was already throwing open the door. A breakfast cigarette burned between her lips. She looked primed for an outburst of foul temper as she surveyed the onslaught.
“What the hell do they want now? And why are you leading the charge?”
“I didn’t bring them.” He steered her back inside and shut the door behind them.
“But I’ve got bad news, Viv. About Gordon.”
Nat felt her sag as anger gave way to fear. He settled her into a chair at the kitchen table, then sat down beside her and took her hand.
“How bad?”
“It’s his heart.”
The cigarette fell from her lips.
“Where’d they take him?”
“I’m afraid he didn’t make it, Viv. They found him this morning, passed out on the floor. He regained consciousness for a few seconds, then they lost him.”
She sighed loudly and shuddered into a sob. He squeezed her hand. An odd little sound escaped her lips, like the moan of a leaking balloon. Then her face twisted, and she sobbed a second time before somehow regaining control. At exactly that moment Willis Turner and Clark Holland burst through the door, arguing at full volume.
“This is a court order!” Turner shouted, still waving the sheet of paper. “These archives are material evidence in the investigation of a suspicious death!”
“The court run by your grease monkey crony? That’s fucking worthless!”
“Not when it’s backed by the enforcement power of the New York State Police.”
Two troopers in sunglasses loomed into view, followed by a third, who toted a rifle.
Nat and Viv were still holding hands. Neither could believe what was taking place.
“The death is suspicious?” she asked, whispering as if they were watching a movie.
“I suspect it’s just a pretext. He wants the boxes.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? The way this town works, maybe he’s selling them on eBay.”
They giggled in spite of the moment, or perhaps because of it, and the release of tension restored enough of Viv’s composure for her to take command.
“Gentlemen!” she shouted, rising to her feet. “Don’t you think your behavior is a little inappropriate? Haven’t you done enough for one day? Out of my house, immediately!”
By then the first two troopers had collected the boxes from the sun-room and were lugging them out the door, one under each arm, like burglars with small televisions.
Holland seemed to realize that for the moment he was defeated, and either good sense or good breeding prompted him to nod respectfully and lower his voice.
“Sorry for the scene, Mrs. Wolfe. I was just delivering Mr. Turnbull to break the bad news. I’ll see that the others depart immediately.”
Turner was happy to oblige now that the goods were being loaded into the trunk of his cruiser. But he couldn’t quite hide a smirk of triumph even as he offered condolences.
“My respects, ma’am.” He dared to tip his hat. Then he nodded at Nat. “Mr. Turnbull? A word outside, if you don’t mind.”
Holland shot Nat a warning glance, and Viv again squeezed his hand. Even now, Nat was drawn irresistibly toward the departing archives, but there was no way he was going to leave Viv in the lurch like this. Then she dropped his hand.
“You’d better go see what he wants,” she said. “Heaven knows, that’s what Gordon would have wanted. But come back later, Nat. I’ll be needing you.”
Then she nodded her assent, which was benediction enough for Nat. Holland frowned as Nat scooted out the door to find Turner waiting by the cruiser, arms crossed.
“Holland will head straight to federal court, you know,” Nat said. “Albany, I’m guessing. They’ll be back before the close of business with a search and seizure order.”
“Maybe,” replied Turner. “But among the many conveniences this town has footed the bill for in recent years is a mighty fine copy machine. I figure I can get the better part of it duplicated in the next six, seven hours, especially if you’re there to help show me the good stuff.”
Nat had expected something like this. The state cops were ready to roll, engines idling for an armed escort into town, and now Turner was proposing to hire away the FBI’s handpicked expert. The feds sure had underestimated this dumb-looking prick.
“What’s your interest in this?” Nat asked.
“Like I said. Evidence.”
“Is there really anything suspicious about Gordon’s death?”
“How am I supposed to know until I’ve examined the evidence?”
“Who’s paying you, some collector?”
“Just doing my job as the town’s peace officer, Mr. Turnbull. The only person being asked to moonlight is you. You on board or not?”
“One condition. No, two.”
“Name ’em.”
“I get copies of your copies. In fact, I’ve got a digital camera back at my room that will go twice as fast as your machine. Then I can burn everything onto a CD for you.”
