Well. Let it be said for Sacra Silver that he had chutzpah, if not a keen sensitivity to the danger inherent in irritating my brother. For a moment, it occurred to me that this might all be an elaborate practical joke: Sacra Silver, an old friend of Mary's, perhaps a character actor specializing in playing outrageous, creepy types, had dropped by, and they had decided it might be fun to play a little trick on Garth. But, of course, it wasn't that at all. Mary was clearly terrified of the man. Sacra Silver was a wild card.
"Now I understand the stage name," I said cheerfully to the man in the chair. "You're a comedian."
"Shut up," Silver said in a perfunctory tone, continuing to stare at the opposite wall. "This is between Mary, her old man, and me. Butt out."
"Mary," Garth said in the same soft tone, "I'm asking you to tell me what's going on here. Who is this man?"
"Garth," Mary stammered, "it isn't… I don't. . I'm so sorry. I'm just. ."
"He's your guest, Mary, so it's up to you to tell him it's time to leave. I think you should do it now. Then we can talk."
Garth waited perhaps five seconds, just long enough to watch his wife helplessly glance back and forth between him and the man in the chair. Mary seemed incapable of speaking or moving. Then Garth abruptly turned, walked over to Silver, grabbed the front of the man's shirt, and pulled him to his feet. The T-shirt ripped, baring Silver's chest, revealing an enormous, grotesque tattoo of a black, spiderlike creature with large emerald eyes in a tortured human face.
"You're in my chair," Garth said in the same mild tone he had used with his wife. "I want you out of it, and I want you out of-"
Sacra Silver reached back with his right hand to his hip pocket, drew something out. There was a sharp, ominous click. I started to shout a warning, but there was no need. Mary screamed when the multi-bladed butterfly knife glinted in the bright lights of the room, but Garth was ready. He released his grip on the man's tattered shirt just in time, and the blades sliced through the empty air where his wrist had been a moment before. Garth popped him with a left jab to the nose, then hit him hard with a right hand to the stomach, doubling Silver over. He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the knife, twisted. The weapon clattered to the floor. Then Garth stepped around behind the man, grabbed the nape of his neck with one hand and his belt with the other. Garth turned him around, marched him unceremoniously to the open window at the front of the room, and tossed him out headfirst, just beyond the edge of the outside deck. I nodded appreciatively. There hadn't been a wasted motion.
I had heard no sound behind me, but perhaps that was understandable considering all the commotion in front of me. I started when I felt a small hand touch my back. I turned, and was startled and alarmed to see Vicky, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, staring up at me. I did not think we had been making that much noise, but it had obviously carried to the bedrooms in the west wing of the house.
"Mr. Mongo?" the child said.
Garth was Garth to the child, and Mary simply Mary. But I was still "Mr. Mongo," a tide I had bestowed upon myself when I had first met her, under rather perilous circumstances, and had made a desperate bid for her trust-and all-important silence-by telling her I was Santa's chief helper. "Hello, sweetie," I said, quickly stepping in front of her and stroking her cheek. "What are you doing up?"
"What's wrong, Mr. Mongo?"
What was wrong was the spectacle of violence. In the two years since we had taken responsibility for her, Garth, April, and I had gone to great pains to insulate Vicky from all kinds of violent images; the girl had seen enough death and suffering, and heard enough screaming, to last more than a lifetime. Now I swept her up in my arms, cradled her head on my chest, and turned so that she could not see the expression of terror and shock on Mary's face. "Nothing's wrong, sweetheart," I whispered in her ear. "Garth just dropped something."
Garth stood very still in front of the window, watching me, his face impassive, but his eyes gleaming with anxiety. The child in my arms was breathing regularly, and her eyes were closed. I nodded reassuringly to my brother, and only then did he turn, lean out the open window, and look down at the water below. He remained there for almost a minute, but apparently didn't see anything, for he finally turned away and headed for the door.
"Don't go down there, Garth," Mary said in a low voice that vibrated with tension. "It's a trick. You don't know anything about him. He's a very dangerous man."
Garth stopped and stared at his wife, and I could see in his soulful brown eyes the same surprise and confusion I felt at Mary's curious behavior. Garth and I had seen Mary shot at, and we had witnessed her instantly turn away from a lifelong faith in pacifism to shoot a man who had been about to kill Garth. Mary Tree was certainly no coward, and yet she appeared to be totally intimidated by the man Garth had just thrown out the window. Finally Garth simply shook his head, turned, and walked out of the room. Mary put one hand to her mouth and looked at me in alarm. I didn't know what to do, and so I merely shrugged as best I could with the girl in my arms. After a few more moments of hesitation, Mary bolted for the door to go after Garth.
Satisfied that Vicky was asleep, I carried her back to her bedroom. I put her to bed, tucked her in, then went out, closing the door quietly behind me. I went back to the music room, walked over to the window, leaned over, and looked down. Garth was almost directly below me, slowly paddling his canoe in the area where Sacra Silver would have fallen. The river's surface was placid, reflecting the light from the full moon overhead. Mary was out of sight, and I assumed she was standing up on the section of beach beneath the overhang. Garth looked up, saw me at the window.
"Can you see anything from up there?" my brother asked.
I shook my head, then turned away from the window and headed for the door.
Garth stayed out on the river almost forty minutes, paddling the canoe in ever-widening circles in a systematic search for our departed guest. Finally he paddled back to shore, pulled the craft up onto the beach in front of the boathouse, then came over to where I was standing next to a silent, pensive Mary. I noticed that Garth did not look at his wife.
"He's not dead, Garth," Mary blurted suddenly, turning and gripping Garth's right forearm with both hands. "He just wants you to think he's dead, make you worry. I know him." She paused and sucked in a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, and rapidly shook her head back and forth. "Damn him. Damn him!"
"I'm not worried," Garth said in an even tone. "If he's dead, so be it. I'll take the consequences. If he's not dead, he'd better stop playing possum pretty damn quick and get his goddamn car out of the driveway."
My brother abruptly turned and headed up the path to the side door. Mary and I followed. Inside the house, he went directly to the telephone in his office, called the Cairn police. He calmly, without any hesitation, told whoever was on the other end of the line what had happened. When I noticed that Mary was no longer standing beside me, I went out of Garth's office, returned to the music room. Mary was standing at the open window, staring out into the night. I went to her, placed my hand gently on her back; her muscles were hard, knotted.