The man on the stoop was in his sixties, red-faced, but that could have been from the wind. Dressed in a heavy mackintosh, a wool cap pulled low on his head, heavy wool pants, and worn boots. Although he was carrying a large Manila envelope, he definitely was not a salesman type.
“Merrihew,” he said curtly.
Charlie opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Just long enough to get warm. Is there a driver waiting?”
“No.”
Charlie glanced at his boots, dry. He would not have waded in snow in the driveway or walkway to the house. Charlie had shoveled enough snow that winter to build his own ski resort. He motioned toward the living room. “You might want to keep your heavy things on until you warm up.”
Merrihew was already pulling off the mackintosh. He strode ahead of Charlie and tossed the coat onto a chair along with his cap and the bulging envelope he had brought in, then went to the fire and held out his hands to it, facing the flames. He was a heavy man, solid, not fat, as if he worked out regularly.
“Mr. Merrihew,” Charlie said pleasantly, “ten days ago I told your secretary that I am not at present looking for a job. One week ago I repeated that same message to you directly. Nothing’s changed. I’m still not looking for work.”
Actually, Merrihew’s secretary had called and said quite coolly that her employer would consult with Charlie on Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week, and if he would name the day she would make a reservation at the Plaza for him. When Merrihew called he had said brusquely that he would make it more than worthwhile and was keeping Wednesday afternoon open and would expect Charlie at three.
Merrihew swung around and just then Constance strolled in, looking as elegant as always, in a powder-blue sweater, slim black pants, and walking shoes. Her at-home work uniform.
“Constance, meet Mr. Merrihew,” Charlie said.
“Dr. Leidl, a pleasure,” Merrihew said, inclining his head fractionally.
Charlie raised his eyebrows at Constance and she nodded so slightly that it might have gone unnoticed. Merrihew had done some homework. Constance had a Ph.D. in psychology.
“I want thirty minutes of your time,” Merrihew said. “I’ll pay whatever the going rate is plus a substantial bonus on satisfactory completion.”
With an exaggerated sigh Charlie looked at his watch, then waved toward a chair and seated himself in his Morris chair. Constance settled into the wing chair opposite him, and Merrihew took the green upholstered chair that neither Constance nor Charlie ever sat in. It was not very comfortable.
“My father was a hog farmer,” Merrihew said. “I hated that farm with all my soul. He died when I was sixteen and I inherited three thousand dollars; my mother got the farm. I decided to spend my inheritance traveling and I went to South America, to Peru. I wanted to see Machu Picchu. On a train I kept seeing the mountains cut into tiers, stair steps with stone retaining walls, terraces with crops growing on each level. Corn, potatoes, beans, squash... It fascinated me. Those Indians did that with hand tools, baskets, no wheels, no pack animals bigger than llamas. Centuries later they’re still there, still growing crops, irrigated, drained, cared for, and productive.”
He was gazing at the fire with a contemplative expression. He sat stiller than most people, Charlie thought then, no twitches or adjustments of his position, no hand motions. As still as a buddha.
“Something happened to me on that trip,” Merrihew continued. “I didn’t know what it was until years later, but that’s when it started. I talked my mother into giving up the farm, going into the meat-packing business instead, and I made it work. I went to school, architecture and engineering, and began to branch out in other enterprises. I made a lot of money.” He wasn’t boasting. His voice was dispassionate, nearly a monotone.
The cats came in and Brutus eased himself into Charlie’s lap, Ashcan into Constance’s. Candy sniffed Merrihew’s feet and legs; he made a shooing motion at her, and she raised her tail and stalked out disdainfully.
“When I was twenty-nine,” Merrihew said, “I went back to Peru, but that time I knew what questions to ask and who could answer. The terraces are marvels of engineering in a landmass that must be the most inhospitable on earth. The Andes are like steeples in many places, nearly vertical in others, but nothing stopped those genius engineers. Wherever they wanted terraces, they carved them out of rock and created them.
“I’m doing the same thing,” he said in a lower voice.
He paused and turned his gaze to Charlie. “Twenty-five years ago I located my mountain and bought the southern flank, all of it. I put together a team of architects and engineers, and we started work on the plans. Eight years ago we started earthmoving. I realized that that was what all the money had been about, to bring to fruition my boyhood dream.”
He began to describe the community he was building and his face changed, became impassioned as he leaned forward with his eyes gleaming. Each terrace was sixty feet wide, houses no more than thirty-five feet deep, backed up by the mountain on the north, clerestory windows, skylights, solar panels. An elevator, an escalator. Each to provide a lift to the next terrace, a people-mover belt to cross the space to the next elevator or escalator, stairs, all covered with clear Lexan. A four-foot-wide walkway winding through gardens along the entire length of each terrace, spectacular views from every level... “From below all you will see will be some retaining walls and endless gardens rising up the mountain.”
Charlie glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes.
Merrihew’s eyes narrowed and he stopped talking abruptly. A moment later, in the same dispassionate way he had started, with the same nearly impassive expression he had worn, he said, “Then the accidents started. Five years ago, two men, two fatal accidents. Four years ago two more. Three years ago, two. Last year, three fatalities. Plus near-fatal accidents each and every year since they started.”
“Accidents happen,” Charlie commented. “Construction is a dangerous occupation. I assume there were investigations.”
“Of course. Locals, state, OSHA, insurance people. I hired my own detectives two years ago. Nothing. But someone is out to destroy it all, to destroy me.” A gleam in his eyes became more pronounced and made him look dangerous suddenly.
Charlie dumped Brutus, stood up, and went to the fire to give it a poke. Sparks flared and he turned back to Merrihew. “Look, it’s hopeless. Accidents, all investigated, that go back five years. There’s nothing anyone can do now. Use more caution on the job, bring in some new superintendents, new foremen, a whole new crew, whatever it takes.”
“I’ve done all those things,” Merrihew said. He stood up. “There’s a person behind it. I want you to go to the site and spend a little time with the accident reports and the investigators’ reports. I’ve looked into you, your past work. I know you push the envelope and get results. I want you, Meiklejohn, your expertise. Just find out how they got killed and who’s responsible. I’ll handle it from there. The end of the month or first of April. The snow will be gone by then. No work’s due to start until late April. You’ll have time to look around, visualize the deaths and how impossible it is that they were all accidents.”
Charlie shook his head. “As I said from day one, no thanks. The end of this month I’m going fishing for four or five days and when I return, it will be tax-wrestling time. After that, my wife and I are due a little vacation. Besides, Mr. Merrihew, it’s hopeless. Teams of investigators worked on it while the accidents were fresh, memories unfogged by time. There’s no point.”