carnage IN the village the Daily News had said. Six bodies—four clustered mid-block, and two more, one at each end of the block—all killed by a single crushing blow to the skull. The police were laying it off to a "hippie drug war" because of all the speed they had found on the victims.
Victims! The irony of it! We were almost their victims! And what they got was probably right in line with what they had planned for us!
Still, it didn't sit right. Even though he knew he could tell the police nothing that would help them solve the case, it felt wrong to be hiding his involvement. He firmly believed that everything in life should be open, honest, and aboveboard. An impossible ideal, he knew, one the world would laugh at, but one by which he struggled to live his life.
The ideal had to start somewhere.
But another nagging question tormented him: Who was their savior? And why? Some sort of vigilante? Someone who just liked to kill? Or both?
He shook off the questions. He was too tired to wrestle with them today. They'd never be answered, anyway. At least not by him. He wasn't getting his usual amount of sleep lately. Visions of Carol—teasing, vamping, dancing across his brain—were still keeping him too excited to sleep.
This had to stop!
With an effort Bill turned his mind back to his weekly chess game with Nicky.
"There's someone I think you should meet," Bill told him.
"Who's that?"
"A new applicant who wants to adopt a boy."
Nicky didn't look up. "What's the use?"
"I think this couple is right for you. Their name's Calder. The husband is an assistant professor at Columbia. The wife's a writer. They don't want an infant. They want a bright boy under twelve. I thought of you."
"Did you tell them my head looks like a grapefruit someone left sitting on one side too long?"
"Knock it off! I don't think they'll care."
At least they had said they didn't care when Bill spoke to them. They were a bright, young, stable couple. They had passed their interviews, reference checks, and home inspections. And they'd said they were more interested in what was inside their child's head than the shape of his skull.
"Save us both the trouble and match them up with someone else," Nicky said, and moved his queen. "Check."
Bill moved his king one square to the left.
"No way. You're it, kid. This is one couple who won't be put off by your Lynn Belvedere act."
Still Nicky did not look up. In a careless tone he said, "You really think these folks might be the ones?"
"Never know until you try each other out."
"Okay."
One word, but Bill detected a note of hope in his tone.
He watched Nicky picking at his face as he hung over the board, studying the pieces and their positions. Suddenly his hand darted out and brought in his bishop from half the board away. He looked up and grinned.
"Checkmate! Ha!"
"Damn!" Bill said. "I hope Professor Calder's good at this game. Someone needs to teach you some humility. And stop picking your face. You'll turn that blackhead into a full-blown pimple if you don't watch it."
"It's called a comedo," Nicky said. "The little white ones are called 'closed' and the black ones are called 'open.' The plural is comedones."
"Really."
"Yeah. That's Latin."
"I'm vaguely familiar with the language. But I never realized you were such an expert on blackheads."
"Comedones, if you please, Father. Why wouldn't I be an expert? I'm covered with them. Comedo ergo sum, you might say."
Bill's barking laugh was cut short by a shooting pain in his ribs. But inside was a warm glow. He loved this kid, and no question about it: Nicky was going to make a great addition to the Calder family.
2
"Oh, my God!"
It was Carol's voice. Jim rushed into the downstairs library.
"What's wrong?"
She was sitting in a dark green wing chair that dwarfed her. But then, Hanley's downstairs library, with its high ceiling and rows and stacks of books that seemed to go on endlessly, tended to dwarf everyone.
"Take a look at this!" she said, pointing to the open book on her lap.
Jim knelt beside her. The book was obviously a college yearbook. He stared at the black-and-white photo under Carol's fingertip. It showed a dark-haired fellow with an old-fashioned center-parted haircut, intense eyes, a square jaw, and slightly protruding ears. Below the picture was a name:
RODERICK C. HANLEY
It was the first time Jim had ever seen a photo of Hanley as a young man. Other than that…
"So?"
"You don't see it?"
"See what?"
"Trim your hair, lop off those big sideburns, and that's you!"
"Get off!"
Carol took out her wallet and pulled a photo from it. This one was in color, a miniature of one that hung in their bedroom: their wedding portrait. She put it next to the old Hanley photo.
Jim gaped. The resemblance was astonishing.
"We could be twins! I wonder if he played football?" And if he did, I wonder if he enjoyed breaking arms and legs on the other team?
"Doesn't mention it here."
"So he probably didn't."
"Well," Carol said, "we still don't know who your mother was, but from this it looks like you're all Hanley. If there was ever any doubt that you sprang from his loins, as it were, let them now be forever put to rest."
"Far out!" said a third voice.
Jim looked up to see Gerry Becker leaning over the wing on the other side of the chair. He bit his tongue. Becker had hung around the mansion all day yesterday and had showed up this morning shortly after Jim had arrived with Carol. He wanted to tell him to take a hike, but Gerry said he was doing a "feature" on Jim for the Express and needed lots of background. Jim liked the idea of a feature article. Maybe it would get picked up by the wire services. Maybe his mother would see it and get in touch with him. And maybe, too, the recognition factor might tip some fence-sitting publisher toward buying his new novel.
Who knew? Maybe it would work. But if it meant putting up with Becker on a daily basis, was it worth it? He had practically moved in with them.
"Two peas in a pod, all right," Becker said. "You know, when I was at the Trib—"
"I thought I left you upstairs," Jim said, trying to hide his exasperation.
"You did. But I came down to see what all the excitement was about." He pointed to the yearbook photo. "Hey, you know, if we could get a copy of your yearbook from… where was it?"
"Stony Brook, class of sixty-four."
"Right. Stony Brook. We could put them both side by side in the article. The effect would be groovy. Think you could find Jim's old yearbook, Carol?"
"I'll hunt around when I get home," Carol said.
"Make sure you do, okay? Because I'm going to make this a big article. Really big."
Jim saw her eyes flash at him, silently begging to get this pushy so-and-so out of here. He knew how much she disliked Becker.
"Come on, Gerry. Let's get back to the upstairs library."
"Right on. Don't forget, Carol. I'll check with you tomorrow, okay? Or maybe later on after you guys get home."
"I'll let you know when I find it, Gerry," she said with a smile that looked so forced it would have been far better had she not tried to smile at all.
3
Bitch! Gerry Becker thought as he followed Jim upstairs. Stevens's wife must think her shit don't stink! Where'd she get off with the high-and-mighty act? Nothing but a hick broad from a hick Long Island town whose husband suddenly got lucky. Big fucking deal! Gerry held it all in. He had to stay on Jim Stevens's good side until he got what he wanted for this story. Yeah, a feature on James Stevens, sudden heir to Dr. Roderick Hanley's fortune, including exclusive interviews with the famous scientist's unacknowledged son—that alone might be enough to ride the wires.