Tripplehorn was not to blame for any of this. He was simply Job to Grainger's God, and God was the originator of everything.
39
He landed at JFK Monday afternoon all eyes. But after waiting in the interminable passport line that snaked around stanchions, reminding him of Disney World, Lionel Dolan crossed the border into the United States of America without trouble. He rented a Hertz Chevy from a stiff young man with pimples, and on the curb spun the car keys on a finger and watched travelers lean on oversized bags and discuss prices with New York-harried bus drivers. Taxis came and went. Police officers loaded down with radios and other equipment lurked in the corners. But no one, so far as he could tell, gave a damn about the twitchy man in his late thirties who kept rubbing his jaw and looking around. He went to find his Chevy.
Milo wanted to collect his things from Stinger Storage. That little garage held money, extra credit cards, old IDs, and a variety of useful weapons, just waiting for him. Instead, he drove north to 1-95, out of Long Island toward New Rochelle, then headed west toward Paterson. While that garage was full of promise, he had to assume it had been compromised. He was a fool, he now knew, and he'd probably made plenty of mistakes over the years. Now, no doubt, a few broad-shouldered Company men were there, one behind the payment counter, a few others sitting in black SUVs with the air conditioners running full blast.
He drove quickly, but not in any visibly panicked way, knowing by the time he turned south again, parallel to Manhattan but inside New Jersey, that he only had an hour until Lake Hopatcong. Did Tom know he was coming? He probably suspected. Had Tom requested Company backup? At this point, Milo could admit to knowing nothing. All he could do was drive in such a way that the radar-toting Jersey cops wouldn't pull him over.
Soon, mountains straddled the highway. It had always been a strange feeling, when he and Tina and Stephanie would head out for occasional weekends with the Graingers, to realize how much nature was so close to Manhattan. In the city, it seemed as if the entire world were made of concrete, steel, and glass. The sight of forests was a perpetual surprise. As he had six years ago, driving to Portoroz on the first stage of a journey that ended with Tina and Stephanie, he thought that maybe this was the only place to really know balance, in the mountains.
No, he was too old to believe in the promise of new terrains. What he, as a Tourist, could not have known was that people are geography. Only people give character to nature. Wherever his family was, that was where he belonged.
He and Tina and Stephanie used to drive this road to see both Tom and Terri, when she was still alive. Terri Grainger had been a schizophrenic entertainer, wanting one moment to invite the world into her house for feasts, drink, and good company, and other times wanting only solitude out here, solitude even from her husband. But when she was 'on,' she was one of the great hostesses, making Tina feel that, in their lakeside house, she could find a subtle replacement for the family in Texas she missed.
All those T's-Tom, Terri, Tina, and Texas. He grinned, remembering something Tina had once said about Patrick and Paula in Paris.
For a long time, Tina accompanied Terri to her chemo sessions. She became the older woman's confidante. Then, when the cancer worsened, and even the most optimistic knew this was going to be a losing battle, Terri shifted gears. She withdrew and ended phone calls in midsentence. She didn't want Tina to suffer through the end with her.
Milo parked under the pines along Brady Drive, not far from the shore, but a good half mile from Grainger's house, hooked his knapsack over his shoulder, and began to walk. Pickup trucks and Fords rolled past, and sometimes a driver gave a toot on the horn and a wave. Milo smiled and waved back. Once he was close enough, he climbed off the road and worked his way through the foliage toward the lake.
Grainger had picked it up in the seventies from an estate sale. It was from the thirties, built in a Teddy Roosevelt-inspired cabin style. According to Grainger, during the Depression the industrialist who owned it had moved here from Manhattan, with his wife and servants, in order to save money.
The Graingers had let the servants' quarters collect spiders and hedgehogs-the two floors and three bedrooms of the main house were enough to keep up.
He spent forty more minutes in the woods, circling the house to see it from various angles and check the trees for surveillance. Once he was convinced the woods were empty, he approached the house. On the far side, where the living room windows looked out on Grainger's parked Mercedes and the small pier, he saw that Grainger's rowboat was gone.
The house was unlocked, so Milo went inside and looked around. It was empty. He climbed the stairs by the door, passing the bedroom and heading for Grainger's office. It was a small room, with a single large window that looked over Lake Hopatcong.
It was the time of day photographers call the magic hour, when the light of the setting sun refracts just so, and faces seem to glow in the way pregnant women are said to glow. The lake glowed, and so did the small form in its midpoint: Tom Grainger, fishing.
He went through desk drawers until he reached the locked one at the bottom, which he had to force open with a screwdriver from another drawer. During those old weekends, he'd seen the contents of this drawer: the German Luger Grainger claimed had been taken from a German soldier during the Battle of the Bulge, and a box of 9mm ammunition. He checked the breech, then loaded the magazine.
If Grainger was surprised to see him, he hid it well. He was tying the boat to the pilings when Milo stepped out from behind a tree, the pistol hanging by his hip. 'Catch anything?'
Grainger, breathing heavily, didn't bother looking up from the rope. 'Never do. Not in the last years, at least. I've got a suspicion some jackass dumped something in the lake and killed them all.' He straightened, finally looking at Milo. 'On the other hand, I've caught nothing since Terri died. So maybe it's just me.' He noticed the Luger and frowned. 'You didn't break my desk to get to that, did you?'
'Afraid so.'
Grainger shook his head. 'The key was in the top drawer.”
“Sorry.'
'Oh well.' He started to take the fishing pole and lures from the boat, then looked up at the clear sky. 'I'll leave them. It's not going to rain.'
'Good idea.' Milo waved the gun. 'Let's go.'
Protest-that's what was missing here. Grainger wasn't protesting anything beyond the destruction of his desk. He had known that Milo would come. In fact, Milo suspected the old man had been waiting for him, day after day, fishing to fill his absent hours.
They found places in the living room. First, Grainger went to the liquor cabinet, which was stocked with a dozen bottles, and picked out a ten-year-old scotch. He poured it into a collins glass, replaced the bottle, and filled another with Finlandia vodka. He gave the vodka to Milo, then took the narrow, leather-padded chair, while Milo sat on the cushioned sofa. Between them was a low coffee table, and against the wall sat an antique radio, from the days when the house was first built. Grainger said, 'So. I see you made it back in one piece.'
'I did.'
'And you came to see me. Am I your first stop?”
“You are.'
'Good.' Grainger sipped his scotch. 'Tell me. What evidence have you collected?'
Milo took a breath. He knew the answers lay with this man, but the whole trip here he hadn't actually formulated how he was going to extract them. He had no method at his disposal, because the methods he knew didn't take into account godfathers and old friends and Company men who knew all the methods by heart. He said, 'I've figured out that I didn't need to collect anything for my defense, Tom. You tricked me into running.”
“I just tried to help you out.'
Milo felt the urge to shout-nothing in particular, just whatever nonsense touched his lips when his mouth opened. It wasn't only that Grainger was his friend and the closest thing to family Milo had in his daily life; it was this: the comfortable chairs, the living room stocked with old-world knickknacks, and the two of them nursing drinks from crystal glasses.
