“No. He already knew before you told him.”
The oboe player had finished his beginning and he started a melody, peaceful and minor.
“But how? How would he know?”
“He was the one sending you the letters. Karen, Derek was blackmailing and threatening you. It wasn’t John Borchard.”
The reedy music circled them as Karen Liu fought to understand. “That can’t be.”
“I’m sure of it. I’m completely sure.”
“He told you?”
“No. I didn’t know anything before he died. I’ve only learned it since. But I know it’s true.”
“Not Derek Bastien. I can’t believe it, Mr. Beale.” But then she said, “Did you tell any of this to Patrick?”
“No.”
“He was sure it was John Borchard.”
“I know,” Charles said. “If only I had told him.”
“I didn’t know what he was planning. I knew he had made some decision. That must have been it. The police said he was making a bomb and it went off.”
The oboe tune sped in faster circles.
“John Borchard is afraid,” Charles said. “He thinks the other person may still try to kill him. That’s why I need to find out who it is.”
“Why you, Mr. Beale?”
“I think Derek has challenged me to.”
Karen Liu didn’t question his statement. She had a different question. “What have you done, Mr. Beale?”
“What do you mean?”
“What have you done wrong? Everyone else has done something.”
“I’ve done lots of things wrong.”
“What is the worst?”
The oboe dove deep and then flew. “I killed my son.”
Finally, Karen Liu said, “How?”
“His name was William. There was something wrong with him. We never knew what.”
“What happened?”
“As he grew, he became hostile. Then he became violent. And then. .. I’ll be brief. He took his own life. He found a gun, somewhere, and held it to his head.”
“Mr. Beale-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“It was a long time ago, and it’s not a secret. I find I can usually talk about it now.”
“But how can you say that you killed him?”
“He was only seventeen. He was still under my care and my protection.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“Whose fault was it?” The oboe was passionate, wailing jaggedly high and low. “We don’t know if it was something hereditary. There are adoptions in our family, you see. Even though Dorothy is on the board of directors at the orphanage, she still can’t get any information about her own family.” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I lost control for a moment. Maybe I still can’t talk about it.”
“Thank you for telling me. It isn’t the same as what I’ve done.”
“I feel the same way about it.”
They sat for a while, listening, until the notes died.
“I have to go see Angelo,” Charles said. “Maybe he is a redemption for both of us.”
“I’ve never had a congresswoman cry on my shoulder before,” Charles said. He didn’t sit in his chair. “Is Angelo upstairs?”
“Yes,” Dorothy said.
“Have you talked with him?”
“We were waiting for you.”
“I’ll get him.”
“Sit down.” Charles had sat and Dorothy was sitting. Angelo lowered himself to the chair, bending but not yielding. He was absolutely expressionless.
Charles faced the black hair and narrowed eyes and swarthy skin that were all anyone saw of him.
“Do you understand what happened?”
“That judge, he said no more probation.” His voice was as blank as his face.
“Yes. He did.”
“And you said no jail.”
“No jail, no probation. It’s all over. You’re free.”
Silence.
“What will you do, Angelo?” Dorothy said.
More silence.
“You can do whatever you want now,” Charles said.
It was unnerving.
“All right,” Charles said. “We can talk again after you’ve thought about it.”
Angelo stood and left.
“What did that mean?” Dorothy said.
“I don’t know. He’s never been closed up that tight.”
“I’m almost scared, Charles.”
“Mr. Beale?”
“Yes, Alice?”
“Mr. Leatherman is here.”
“Jacob.”
Charles held out his hand. Jacob Leatherman took it, frail as an autumn leaf, his other hand propped on his walking stick.
“Do you have it?”
“I have it. I’ll bring it up.” Charles looked closer at Jacob. “Alice, bring a chair.”
“Whippersnapper.” But he didn’t complain, and he sat, his face the color of yellowed pages and faded ink. Charles knelt down on one knee.
“How are you, Jacob?”
“Just give me a minute.”
“Alice, get Dorothy.”
Jacob’s color was getting better.
“Jacob!” Dorothy flew down the stairs. “Why in the world did you fly overnight? Let me look at you.”
“I’m fine.” He glared at the three of them around him, Charles, Dorothy and Alice. “Just get short of breath once in a while.”
“And do you think you’re flying back tonight?” Dorothy asked.
“It’s this afternoon.”
“Alice. Call Mr. Leatherman’s store and tell them to change his flight to tomorrow. Then get a hotel room. Try the Marriott on Duke Street. Jacob, you need to take better care of yourself.” Dorothy looked him straight in the eye. “You are not as young as you used to be.”
“He never was,” Charles said.
“I’m not staying over the night,” Jacob said, but not firmly. Nothing about him was very firm.
“You need to do what she says,” Charles said. “There’s no use fighting. Believe me.”
“Well.” Jacob took a deep breath. “Maybe I could use a rest.”
“Of course,” Charles said.
“Flight was the worst I’ve ever had.”
“I know the best thing to revive you,” Charles said. “Can you make it downstairs? Dorothy, I think we’ll be all right. Thank you.”
It was a slow process going down the steps. Jacob was recovering, though, and at the bottom he clattered
