“We have some medicine,” she said to me, “for the especially bad days. She can have a little of that.”
“Can I call anybody?” I asked.
“We have a person we can call. In a minute,” she said to Appolonia. “We can call her in a minute.”
I wanted to tell Appolonia I was sorry, but it wasn’t the right time. And “sorry” felt like too meager a word. So I left them and went back out to join Sullivan.
A swarm of uniformed officers were busy handcuffing Eldridge and his boys, going through their wallets, jotting information down in notebooks and on clipboards and talking on radio receivers tethered by coil cords to their patrol cars. Sullivan was talking to a lieutenant, as designated by an arm patch sewed on her uniform.
“What’re we charging these guys with again?” he asked as I approached.
“That’s a question for Ross, but for now try the murder of Osvaldo Allegre and six other people at the Windsong Restaurant, investment fraud, bigamy and Christ knows how many counts of identity theft, falsifying records, illegal impersonations, and oh, assaulting a police officer,” I said, putting my hand on Sullivan’s shoulder.
“You’re shitting me.”
“Not intentionally. They thought they were assaulting a design engineer. That’s almost legal.”
He looked over to where the uniforms were talking to Edgar and Charles.
“Now I wish I’d shot em.”
“You’d had a big day, you were tired, and full of Burton’s beer. You nodded off in my Adirondacks. They came up behind you and dumped a burlap sack over your head. I doubt Butch was there. He would’ve known it wasn’t me. Anyway, you didn’t go down easy. Like I told you, you got in a few of those rights, might’ve got a grip on one of them through the burlap. Somebody panicked and stuck you with a knife—maybe had one on hand to cut the burlap, or a rope, or both. I don’t know what they had in mind for me, but you were screwing it all up. So they smacked you on the head, peeled off the burlap and left you there.”
“What the hell for?”
“You gotta know artists, Joe. Everything has to say something. Once the original concept was upended, they improvised.”
He looked past me at the uniforms leading Edgar and Charles toward separate cruisers.
“Some freaking artists. Whatever happened to watercolors?”
The Riverhead cops had secured Butch, Charles and Edgar in separate cars. A police van pulled up filled with plainclothesmen who began stringing yellow tape and taking photographs of the scene. I didn’t think Appolonia wanted to see much more of me, and I couldn’t get to Butch, so I said to Sullivan that I knew I’d be spending time with Ross, but needed to stop off at Burton’s on the way to check on Amanda. I asked him to call on his cell to tell them everything was okay.
“It’s not on the way” he said, but didn’t want to push it. He was happy just to be in the moment, in control again, faith restored in himself and his view of the world as a place where things could turn out the way you wanted if you only took a little trouble to make sure of it. A view of the world I didn’t really believe in, but liked that somebody did.
While I waited for the Riverhead cops to move the Cherokee out of the way I stared at the person sitting in the back of the police cruiser. Looking at him, all I saw was Butch, so that’s who he was in my mind. I hadn’t known Jonathan, not directly, though I might have liked him better. Not that I didn’t like Butch. Probably one of his gifts. He could make you like him. He knew instinctively how to control your perception of him, to trick your senses with distractions and diversions, like a magician, playing emotional sleights of hand. Even now, knowing what he’d done, I couldn’t look at him without feeling the urge to talk to him, to watch him perform and play the rhetorical master of ceremonies.
But moving closer that’s not what I saw. His head was bobbing up and down, and side to side, and his mouth was moving, and though I couldn’t hear it clearly, I could tell he was talking to himself, alone in the car, now essentially alone in the world.
I was assaulted by an unwanted vision of Butch and Jonathan having a conversation with each other. It wasn’t the last time I would see him, but it formed an image I could never fully eradicate from my mind.
—
Isabella let me through the gate at the head of Burton’s quarter-mile driveway without much of a fight. Probably on direct orders. The white pebble drive ran in a straight line between two tall privet hedges that hid the house from view until you made a sharp right turn and were suddenly confronted by a three-story porch and balcony-laden facade. At this point the drive became an oval, inside of which was a natural garden of indigenous wild shrubs and vines entangling pergolas and curved trellises. And strategically placed teak benches, on one of which sat Amanda.
“Eddie’s inside watching Burton paint,” she said when I walked over and sat down next to her.
“Good. Maybe he’ll pick up better work habits.”
“Joe said everything was okay but that’s all he’d say.”
“He’s big on need-to-know.”
“I need to know what happened.”
“I need a drink, and a place to sit, and Burton Lewis in the audience.”
“Okay But only after I tell you I’m glad you’re okay. Your well-being never seems to matter to you, but it matters to me. That makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Not sure.”
“You can still tell me you appreciate it.”
“I do.”
“Okay Let’s go find Burton.”
Soon after that Isabella had us set up in lawn chairs, way out on the lawn as it turns out, with a trolley full of refreshments and a stainless steel bowl for Eddie to drink water out of. Burton still wore a paint-spattered madras shirt and white cotton shorts, but looked grateful to be diverted from his task. I was more than grateful for the Absolut on the rocks.
“Ross Semple called here before you arrived,” said Burton. “He wants you there in about two hours. You’re meeting at the DA’s office, with the East Hampton investigators, people from the State and two FBI agents. I’m coming along, too.”
“You are?”
“To look after you. As Ms. Swaitkowski’s proxy.”
“Thanks, Burt. I appreciate it.”
“He told me a few other remarkable things, but I’d rather hear your version.”
“So who killed Jonathan?” Amanda asked.
It took a few minutes to explain that it wasn’t Jonathan Eldridge who got blown up in the Lexus, but an Italian named Osvaldo Allegre. And then about an hour to explain that the killer was Jonathan Eldridge himself. Sort of.
“A split personality. Like Sybil,” said Amanda.
“No, people like her are unaware of their multiple selves. Eldridge was not only conscious of Butch and Jonathan, he reveled in his creations.”
All children pretend they’re imagined characters at one time or another. For about a year my daughter wanted us to call her Madame Pele, a character out of Hawaiian folklore that for some reason had captivated her. It was almost predestined that a brilliant and inventive child like Butch would be moved to create entirely different personas to fit the contrasting lives he led, simultaneously pleasing his accountant father while protecting his growing psyche from the consequences of his mother’s illness. An illness that ebbed and flowed, but ultimately overwhelmed her, taking permanent hold. By then, his father was gone, and with Lillian safely ensconced with the Sisters of Mercy, there was nothing to thwart the development of Butch’s parallel personalities.
As time passed, the dual lives became more entrenched. In perfect contrast to the dutiful, tidy young man who spent peaceful nights with the erudite Appolonia, his other self also flourished—the wildly clever, charismatic, artistically courageous self. The alter ego that was allowed to become the bigger ego, allowed to be protean and abundant, evolving further as Butch Ellington, even more grand and audacious, but also darkly treacherous. And
