reflected the tastes of the era, a walled area with private roads and every accommodation money and talent could buy. The original structure with its simple design had long ago been obscured by new additions that social position demanded, and Cameron’s Castle had ceased to become a joking venture into the country, but a place where only the fashionable were invited.
That was three generations ago.
Now it wasn’t a six-hour carriage drive any longer. A superhighway sliced through a corner of the estate, making one-third of it unusable. Public utilities won condemnation proceedings and stretched a row of ugly latticework pylons hung with high-voltage cables from east to west. New York City was an hour and fifteen minutes away and obscured by fog, but Grand Sita was worth ten times more than it cost if the land developers could force it onto the market.
Due northeast, two miles away, the vast complex of buildings that housed the machinery of Barrin Industries nestled in the archaic splendor of ivy-covered red brick on the edge of Linton, a city built, structured and occupied by people working for Barrin or servicing its employees. At one time, Linton was only the name of the millowner who had his establishment on the bank of the river. With the advent of the first Barrin factory it became a city without government. Time had changed that, though. They had a mayor now, a city council and all the trappings of modern society. They had murders, fires, a small race riot and a welfare program.
From the crest of the bridge over the railroad tracks you could see the curve of the road that turned east midway between the estate and Linton, boring through the seven miles of countryside to the summer domain of the Barrin family old Cameron had named Mondo Beach, a vast crescent of sand and surf that looked out on a still unpolluted section of water.
We turned at the fieldstone columns where the ornate wrought-iron gates were rusted into the open position. The roof of the old gatehouse had collapsed and the building was unoccupied, but an old dungaree-clad gardener riding a motorized lawn mower looked up curiously, waved and motioned for us to go on in.
Leyland Hunter said, “Most of the staff have died or retired. They never replaced them.”
“It’s still beautiful,” Sharon told him. She was peering out the window, a strange expression on her face. “I never came in this way.”
“I thought you were only here once,” I said.
“In the house. Many a time I sneaked onto the grounds.”
“Hell, I used to sneak out. It’s hard to picture somebody wanting to sneak in.”
“This was the house on the hill, Dog. Every kid I knew used to envy the ones who came here.”
“I had more fun in town.”
Hunter chuckled again, his eyes moving between us both. “I’m afraid you were to the manor born, but not bred, Dog. Whatever genes your father carried sure took hold in you.”
“Bastards have more fun, buddy,” I assured him.
“And coming home doesn’t raise any nostalgia at all in you?”
“Not a damned bit. This place doesn’t represent opulence for me at all.”
“What does, Dog?” He had stopped smiling and was watching me with a lawyer’s eyes now.
“I’ve seen better and worse.”
“You’ve played a lot of poker, too, haven’t you?”
He didn’t have to tell me what my face looked like. I said, “I hardly ever bother to bluff, Hunter boy.”
“Again, that qualification.
“So I’m stupid,” I said.
The gravel drive gave way to old-fashioned Belgian paving blocks as we pulled into the area in front of the house. I let my eyes drift out the side window and took in the towering three-story mansion with its imposing Doric columns flanking the broad staircase, and for a single second I could see the old man standing there, hands on his hips, the cane in his hand, lips twisted in a snarl as he waited for me to walk up to where he could take a cut at my rear end, a sample of what was waiting for me inside. My mother’s face would be a pale white oval in the upper window, suddenly covered by her hands, and the grinning faces of Alfred and Dennison would be hidden behind the great oak door, unseen, but their muffled laughs of anticipated pleasure ringing in my ears. Somewhere the girls would be cleverly out of sight, but not out of earshot of that cane landing on my hide.
But he never made me yell and he couldn’t make me cry. I did that later when I was alone, not from the pain, but the damn humiliation of having to take Alfred’s lumps for him. Or Dennie’s. Or one of the girls’.
It passed in a second. The old man was out in the family plot now, my mother discreetly buried in another cemetery, and the others probably above such trivia by now.
The only one there was a middle-aged butler obviously awaiting our arrival. I didn’t recognize him. “Fine reception,” I said.
Hunter nodded and hefted his attache case. “You aren’t exactly a
“Just tell me one thing, Counselor. Am I expected?”
“Of course not,” he told me. “Do you think I want to spoil all the fun?”
I grinned at him, then the grin broke into a taut laugh. I said, “I have the feeling you’re going to drag this out as long as possible.”
“You feel right, Dog. Until now, my relationship with the Barrin family has never been what you’d call fun. I think it’s about time I had a little.”
Sharon shook her head and stared at both of us. “Look, maybe it would be better if I waited in the car.”
“Kitten,” I said. “after all the trouble of sneaking onto Grand Sita. I think you deserve seeing what the Barrin clan is
The butler’s name was Harvey, and he took our hats, ushered us to the polished walnut doors of the library, slid them open ceremoniously and stepped forward to announce us.
Somehow the years fell away again for another brief instant and it was like peeking into the same room when something of momentous portent was being acted upon. There were other people then and Cameron Barrin would be seated behind the hand-carved desk. Now there were seven faces, five oddly familiar, and one was behind the desk. The butler’s voice had the same intonation old Charles’s had had and there was that same casual, almost disdainful turning of the heads as we were announced.
Harvey said, “Mr. Leyland Hunter, Miss Sharon Cass and Mr. Dogeron Kelly.”
It was funny. No ... it was damned well hilarious. Oh, they saw us all at once and were willing to grant Hunter a degree of recognition with supercilious smiles, then offer Sharon an expression of semipolite curiosity, but when my name sank in there were five people there who damn near shit in their pants.
Dennison stared at me from behind the desk, his beady little eyes almost popping out. Alfred stiffened in his chair and knocked over an ashtray. Veda had a drink halfway to her mouth, didn’t know what to do with it and set it on the floor like some harridan in a Bowery barroom. Pam and Lucella just gave each other open-mouthed expressions before they looked at me again.
Only Marvin Gates, the husband Pam kept on the marital leash, was able to smile. He was half drunk, impeccably dressed like an outdated Hollywood director and he raised his drink in my direction. “Ah,” he said, “the family skeleton has come out of the closet. Welcome home.”
Pam snapped out of her shock as though she were being awakened from a bad dream. The voice that used to be shrill was coarse now and she snapped, “Marvin!”
“Sorry about that, dear,” he told her. “Thought it was the proper thing to do, y’know?” He took another pull at his drink and grinned again.
“Don’t bother getting up,” I said to the room in general. I took Sharon by the arm, led her to a leather wing- back chair and sat her down. Behind me, I knew Leyland Hunter was watching the entire tableau with satisfaction, so I put on the rest of the show.
Somehow Dennison had struggled to his feet and was standing there, still glassy-eyed, and reluctantly held out his hand. “Dogeron ... I thought ...”
I squeezed his hand and saw him wince. “No, I’m very much alive, Dennie.” I ran my eyes over his pudgy body. “You’ve gotten fat, kiddo.” I dropped his hand, looking down at the remains of the slob who had made my life so miserable those long years ago. He was four inches shorter than me, weighed just as much, but it was all in front and back of him, bulging through his clothes. I said, “How’s your pecker these days, Dennie?” Behind me I
