A few minutes later von Heilitz came into his room. Tom barely glanced up from his book. The old man spun a chair around and straddled it backwards. “Do you want to know what Truehart’s been doing?”
“Okay,” Tom said, reluctantly closing the book.
“He knows of a man that Jerry could have hired—a guy named Schilling who makes a shaky living brokering used rifles, old cars, even a few motorboats, whatever he can get his hands on. He did a two-year stretch in the Wisconsin state prison for receiving stolen goods a few years ago, and ever since he’s been living in a little place near a run-down tourist attraction outside Eagle Lake. Near that machine shop where they kept the stolen goods, too. Two people saw this Schilling talking with Jerry Hasek in a bar. The night of the fire, he disappeared.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Tom said.
“No, not exactly, but Tim went to the local bank. Schilling has a little account there, and after Tim had a long talk with the manager, he had a look at the account records. Every summer for the past four years, Schilling has been putting something between eight and ten thousand in his account.” Von Heilitz grinned at him.
Tom didn’t get it.
“Schilling was Jerry’s fence. He went back to his old business when Jerry and his friends started breaking into lodges.”
“What does that have to do with the fire? Or with someone shooting at me?”
“The day before you arrived in Eagle Lake, our hero deposited five thousand dollars in his account.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Tom said.
“It was a half payment, most likely. He would have collected the other half when your body was discovered, but by then Jerry and his friends were in jail, thanks to you.”
“He hired his fence to kill me?”
“Probably Schilling volunteered, once he learned there was ten thousand dollars in it for him. Now, Schilling’s sister lives in Marinette, Wisconsin. She’s married to another con, a friend of her brother’s, who’s in jail on an armed robbery charge. Tim thinks our man might have gone to stay with her for a week or so, and he called the Marinette police to watch her house.”
“So they’ll probably get him,” Tom said. “They should. They should get the person who killed Barbara Deane.” He looked down at The Divided Man, and opened it again.
“Tim thinks that your old friend Nappy LaBarre is getting close to telling him what he already knows. If they arrest Schilling, Nappy’s information isn’t going to do him any good. Nappy’s going to have to sell out Schilling in a hurry, if he wants to turn state’s evidence and have his charges dropped.”
“Okay.”
“Is that all you have to say? Okay? The noose is tightening around your grandfather’s neck, and it’s all because of you.”
“I know.”
“Is part of you sorry about that?”
“I wish I knew,” Tom said. He saw his grandfather again, turning toward the window like a wounded lion.
Von Heilitz stood up and turned the chair around. He sat down facing Tom, put his elbow on his knee, and cupped his chin in his hand.
“It’s just that he’s my grandfather, I guess. I was brought up to think he was really special—a kind of hero. He kept everything safe. Everything depended on him. And now I feel—I feel cut off from everybody.”
“Come with me to talk to David Natchez,” von Heilitz said. “For one thing, you might be able to help us work out where Glen would be likely to go, if he wants to hide somewhere while he gets ready to leave the island. It would help you get over the shock.”
Tom shook his head.
“I’m serious—you have had a shock, a serious one. I know you’re angry at me, and that you don’t want to be. In the past two days, everything you thought you knew turned inside-out, and—”
“Stop,” Tom said. “Maybe I am angry with you, but you don’t know everything I’m feeling.” Saying this made him feel like a sulky child.
“No,” von Heilitz said. “But after all this is over, we’ll be able to get to know each other a lot better.”
“Couldn’t you have gone after my mother, seventeen years ago?” Tom asked. “When you came back to Mill Walk and found that her father had taken her to Miami? You just let him take her away—you just gave up. You might have lived across the street from us, but I never saw you, except for those two times you came to the hospital.”
Von Heilitz had straightened up in the chair. He looked uncomfortable, and said, “Glen would never have let me see her. Even if he had, she wouldn’t have left with me.”
“You don’t know that,” Tom said. “She was over eighteen. She could have married anyone she wanted. You just let her slip back into—into helplessness. You let her be sold to Victor Pasmore. Or you let Victor be bought for her, or however it worked.” Then it seemed to him that he was talking about Sarah Spence and Buddy Redwing, and another degree of misery entered him. “You didn’t do anything,” he said, and then could not say any more.
“You think I haven’t thought about that?” the old man said. “I was in my forties. I was used to living by myself, and going wherever I liked. I didn’t think I’d make a very good husband. I never pretended not to be selfish, if selfishness means giving yourself permission to concentrate on a few things at the expense of everything else.”
“You liked being alone,” Tom said.
“Of course I did, but that wasn’t the most important reason. I think I was just another kind of father to Gloria. You can’t have a real marriage on that basis. Not only that, what I wanted to do would have half-killed her. I couldn’t marry Glen Upshaw’s daughter. Can’t you see that? Just after you were born, I began to realize that he had killed Jeanine Thielman. I wanted to destroy him. Things turned out the way they did because we were all the people we were—Gloria and Glen and me. The only good thing that came out of it was you.”
“You only came to see me twice,” Tom said again.
“What do you think it would have done to your mother if I had insisted on seeing you?”
“That’s not why,” Tom said. “You were too busy being shot at and eating lizards and looking through windows and solving murders.”
“You can see it that way, if you like.”
“The only time you wanted to really spend time with me was when you saw that you could use me. You wanted me to get interested in what happened to Jeanine Thielman. You wound me up like a clock and turned me loose. And you’re pleased because I did just what you wanted me to.”
“And you did it because of who you are,” von Heilitz said. “If you’d been another sort of kid, I …”
“You wouldn’t have done anything at all.”
“But you’re not another sort of kid.”
“I wonder what I am,” Tom said. “I wonder who I am.”
“You’re enough like me to have met me next to Hasselgard’s car,” von Heilitz said. “And to have turned up at the hospital on the day Michael Mendenhall died.”
“I’m not sure I really want to be like you,” Tom said.
“But you don’t want to be like your grandfather, either.” Von Heilitz stood up and looked down at Tom, sprawled on the St. Alwyn’s double bed with a paperback book beside him. Tom felt strong and conflicting currents of emotion—the old man wanted to come near him, put his hand on his cheek, hug him, and what he had said made it impossible.
“What I told you in that clearing was the truth, Tom. I do love you. And we’re going to accomplish something great. It’s been a long time coming, but we’re going to do it—together.” He put his hand on the bottom of the bed, and hesitated.