"Willow's a wreck. Well, maybe not a wreck. But she's very stressed by the idea of a deposition at some point in the coming months."
She stood up straight. "Really?"
"Uh-huh."
"Charlotte is, too. Or she was. She seems fine now. But she had one final meltdown before she became the great, unflappable thespian. It was last week when we were having breakfast with Paige Sutherland. The deposition came up, and Charlotte got all weird about lie detector tests."
"Lie detector tests?"
"That's right. She said she would refuse to take one. And then she stormed off to the ladies' room."
"Well, the idea of a deposition must be very scary for them. Lord knows I'm dreading mine. Alas, that's one more part of this nightmare for which I can take credit."
"Beat yourself up. There isn't enough pain going around at the moment."
"You know," he said, "if only Spencer would talk to me. It would make such a difference."
"What exactly would you say to him?"
"I honestly don't know. But the idea of us simply returning to speaking terms would be huge. We wouldn't have to discuss the lawsuit. We could talk about, I don't know, all the other things we have in common."
"Like hunting?"
"Like raising daughters. Like playing tennis."
"The two of us don't even talk about tennis anymore, and it used to be something we were pretty passionate about. Even during the finals at Flushing Meadows this month--remember how Spencer and I always got tickets when we were younger?--I don't think we said one single word about tennis."
"I wish I could talk to him about this press conference. That's the main thing. I understand the lawsuit. Really, I do. It's FERAL's involvement and the media frenzy he wants to create that I find so disturbing. It's the way my daughter and my niece are being dragged into this in such a public fashion."
"And you, too."
"Yes, obviously. Me, too. But if we were talking, there would still be hope. There--"
"John, you couldn't stop this train even if Spencer would hear you out. It's way beyond the station. He thinks his lawsuit against the gun company is a way of showing Charlotte this wasn't her fault."
"Maybe I should drop by the apartment when you're all at the Cloisters. What do you think? Spencer and I could talk this out--maybe even get to the point where he'd be willing to join us on Sunday for brunch."
"He won't even be here, he'll be working at FERAL. He's still learning to use his new left-handed keyboard and mouse, but at least he has such things at the office. His voice input software hasn't arrived yet--"
"He will need that now, won't he?"
"Well, it will help."
"God, this is awful."
"Please, stop it. Okay? Yes, it's awful." While she paused, she heard Charlotte drawing out the first syllable in the word garden as if she were holding a musical note, and softening the r almost to the point of nonexistence. Her mind was flashing back now to that breakfast last week with Paige Sutherland. She couldn't imagine there was some important detail about that horrible night in New Hampshire that she didn't know. What had occurred was pretty clear: Her brother had left his loaded rifle in the trunk of his Volvo, and her daughter had thought her husband was a deer and accidentally shot him. It was only complicated if you were a lawyer. Why then had Charlotte freaked out about a lie detector test? Why was Willow, in John's words, a wreck about the idea of the deposition?
Was it possible there was something she had missed? Something all the grown-ups had missed? Certainly she had asked Charlotte again when they'd had breakfast with Paige. And Charlotte had insisted there was nothing more to the story than what they already knew.
Actually, that wasn't quite accurate. Charlotte had retreated angrily to the ladies' room at the very suggestion something more had occurred that night. And so she decided that when Lee Strasberg was done with their daughter--or, perhaps, before Charlotte went to bed--she and her daughter would have a chat.
"Tell me," her brother was asking her, "how would Spencer react if I just showed up at his office on Saturday afternoon?"
"Trust me, you don't want to go there. You probably wouldn't get past the guard in the lobby, anyway."
"Why don't I just see how I'm feeling that day--and whether I've managed to marshal some arguments that might make a difference to him? Play it by ear?"
She sighed. "Sure. Why not?"
In the living room Spencer and Charlotte continued to work, and Catherine wondered how she had wound up an outsider.
BY TEN O'CLOCK Spencer was sound asleep. The combination of an extra sleeping pill, the pain in what remained of his shoulder, and the ceaseless exertion of trying to learn to exist with one functioning arm had exhausted him. And so Catherine left their bedroom and knocked on Charlotte's door. She hoped the child was finishing her homework and was about to go to bed herself. She wasn't. She was on the computer sending instant messages to her friends. Catherine looked at the communications on the screen and realized that Charlotte wasn't chatting with her usual pals, but instead with the kids--teenagers, actually--who were in the upcoming musical with her.
"Who are you talking to?" she asked, hoping to elicit some specifics.
Without turning around Charlotte mumbled, "People in the show."
"That's what I figured." She pointed at one of the responses and monikers on the screen. "Let me guess: Dudester 1035 is a boy?"
"Uh-huh."
"And he lives at 1035 . . ."
"Ten thirty-five Fifth. He goes to Buckley."
"Does Dudester have a name?"
"Archibald."
"Archibald?"
"Oh, sorry, that's his name in the play," she said, typing a response as she spoke. "His real name is Sawyer."
"How old is Sawyer?"
"I don't know. A little older than me."
Catherine had a pretty good idea that "a little older than me" meant fifteen at least. Maybe sixteen. She hoped that no fifteen- or sixteen-year-old Buckley boy was chasing after her waif of a daughter--a daughter who seemed especially tiny right now in a pair of bright red pajamas that were sprinkled lavishly with ivory moons and yellow stars. Regardless, ten o'clock was late for instant messages when you were in the eighth grade and so she asked Charlotte to log off and join her. She sat down on her daughter's bed and waited there, aimlessly stroking a teddy bear that three or four years ago had meant so much to her child, and which even now Charlotte couldn't quite part with.
When the girl joined her, sitting down by the footboard with her legs crossed at the knees, she said, "I still haven't done my history reading for tonight. But I think I'll only need fifteen or twenty minutes. Is that okay?"
"Bedtime is supposed to be ten. You know that. But, yes, it's fine to stay up a little late to finish your history. I think Sandy would be angry with me if I didn't give you that extension," she agreed, referring to Charlotte's history teacher, an older fellow on the faculty whose actual name was Sanford Clunt but (thank God) insisted that his students call him by his first name instead of his last.
"Thanks," she said, and then she jumped off the bed and retrieved her history textbook from the floor by her desk. When she returned to her mother she smiled and murmured, "Good night." Then Charlotte waited, clearly expecting her to leave.
"One thing," Catherine said, instead of rising.
"What, Mom?"
"Last Friday, when we had breakfast with Paige Sutherland, you got upset."
"It felt like you were accusing me of shooting Dad on purpose."
"I simply asked if there was something else you wanted to tell us. And the idea that there might be more to what happened than I knew only crossed my mind because you"--and she wanted to phrase this perfectly--"expressed some concern about a lie detector test."
The child nodded.
"So?" she asked Charlotte now. "Do your father and I know absolutely everything we need to know about that night in New Hampshire?"
"Scouts honor."
/> "You've never been a scout."
"Then yes."
"Yes?"
"Mom!"
"I'm just making sure." She sat up and pulled her child to her, and held her for a long moment. She savored the fruity smell of Charlotte's shampoo, and surprised herself by whispering into her ear that she loved her. She guessed she surprised the girl, too. Every bit Nan Seton's daughter, Catherine knew she was not particularly effusive. Then she kissed Charlotte, stood up, and went to the door. From the frame she reminded her not to stay up too late.
When she returned to her own bedroom, she felt better. Not completely reassured. But better. A little bit better.
CHARLOTTE STARED at the page in her history book, her eyes glazing and the words growing indistinct. She simply couldn't concentrate. She wondered if someday she might be a lawyer instead of a great actor. She hadn't lied to her mother; she had in fact answered her question with what she considered scrupulous accuracy. She had told her that she and Dad knew everything they needed to know about that night. That was all.
And her parents did know everything they needed to know. They most assuredly did not need to know about the marijuana or the beer. They did not need to know what she was feeling when she pulled the trigger. The truth was, she herself didn't even know anymore.
The one absolute and inescapable reality was that she had crippled her father for life, and the best way she could help him now was to do all that she could to assist with his lawsuit and his campaigns for FERAL. And if that meant not telling the lawyers everything at the deposition, then so be it. So be it.
So--and she drew out the first syllable as if she were a little British girl in the late nineteenth century, before snapping the last two together--be it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight.
When John arrived for a meeting in Chris Tuttle's imposing office with its views of the lake on Friday morning, he was surprised to discover a second man standing by the window, watching a lone, large sailboat cut its way south through the water. Instantly, he decided that given the way this stranger was dressed--a denim shirt with a string tie and black pants tucked into a pair of auburn cowboy boats inlaid with snakeskin--the guy wasn't a lawyer. He guessed the fellow was about his own age, maybe a couple of years older: His hair was starting to recede and his skin looked as worn as his boots. He had a pair of silver and turquoise bracelets on his wrist and similar silver rings on three of his fingers.
Tuttle motioned for the two men to join him around his desk, explaining to John as he introduced them that this stranger was a ballistics expert. His name was Mac Ballard, and since he'd been testifying the day before in a trial in Albany, Tuttle had been able to commandeer him this morning. He lived just outside of Santa Fe, and he wasn't flying back until Saturday.
"When I called his office yesterday and learned he was only a few hours south of us, I grabbed him," Tuttle said to John, as he retook his seat on the far side of his great steppe of a desk. "We may be a nonparty, but it behooves us to know all we can about your rifle."
"You replace your gun yet?" Ballard asked John, smiling. He spoke slowly, forcefully, his voice a deep combination of inappropriate interest and menace.
"No."
"Want a suggestion on a different piece of hardware?"
"No."
He nodded. "I see. You already got your mind set on one."
He started to say no once again, but he stopped himself. He knew it was completely unreasonable to dislike this man on sight. Ballard was here, after all, on his behalf. He just wished Tuttle had consulted him first. But, then, would he really have told his lawyer not to bring Ballard in? Of course not. His discomfort had nothing to do with surprise. Rather, it was because this Mac Ballard knew all about guns and he didn't, and possessed a critical knowledge he lacked. It was because around Ballard, he was the moron who couldn't pop out a round from a thirty-ought-six.
"John has no plans to resume hunting anytime soon," he heard Tuttle answering for him. "Why don't you two sit down? John, you want some coffee?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Thank you," he said, taking the seat that didn't have the well-worked leather pouch beside it. He wondered if the damn thing was a saddlebag with a strap. "We should get through this as quickly as possible--whatever it is, Chris, you want us to accomplish this morning--because I'm only working a half day today. And, believe it or not, I really do still have clients of my own."
"Everything all right?" Tuttle sounded concerned.
"You mean the half day?"
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, yeah. As fine as things can be in my life these days. Sara and I are picking up Willow at school around lunchtime and driving to New York City. Her birthday's coming up. That's all."
"Very nice, very nice," Tuttle muttered. "Okay, then. I've told Mac what happened, all we know about the gun, and--"
"It was a good gun you had there," Ballard said, jumping in. He had crossed his legs, his ankle precisely atop his knee. The boot--its toe looked pointy enough to gouge out a splinter in skin--was practically in John's lap. "There won't be a problem with the extractor. Trust me. It's solid. Well tooled."
"That's what I gather. A friend of mine--a friend of both of ours," John said, motioning at Tuttle, "suggested the same thing. A sportsman named Howard Mansfield. He's a justice here in Vermont. He said it might be the ammunition. I was using Menzer Premiums, you see, and he said that sometimes a Menzer Premium in an Adirondack rifle--"
"Myth."
"Myth?"
"Some people have this myth in their heads that you need Adirondack ammunition in an Adirondack rifle. What'd he say? The rim on the casing was too shallow for the extractor?"
"Essentially."
"Malarkey."
"Howard Mansfield is a smart man. As soon as we examine the rifle, we're going to try loading some other bullets from that same box into the weapon. See if the extractor has difficulties with any of those."
"Look, I don't want to malign your pal. Maybe you got that rare cartridge with a defective casing. And maybe . . ." He paused for a brief moment, thinking, and John restrained his desire to jump in and tell this Mac Ballard just how smart Howard Mansfield really was. "And maybe you loaded and unloaded so many times that you really did manage to ding the casing. You know, you ripped off a small piece of the rim so the extractor would have nothing to grab. That, it seems to me, is a more plausible scenario than the idea the round was defective to begin with."
"You realize the casing is gone, right?" John asked. "It seems to have been lost when it was with the New Hampshire State Police."
"Your lawyer told me."
"So we'll never know if that's what occurred."
"I don't think that's it, anyway."
"Then what, pray tell, did happen?" He'd worked hard to keep the disgust out of his voice, but he knew after the words had escaped his lips that he'd failed.
"Well, my granddaughter has a set of blocks--"
"You have a granddaughter?"
"Two, my friend. I fell in love young. Real young. You have any?"
"No, and I'm years away. My daughter still has a week and a half left at ten and my son is an infant."
"You got a lot to look forward to. Anyway, my granddaughter has some wooden blocks. You know the kind, you've seen them. Rectangles. Squares. Cylinders. She's two and a half. And the blocks have a wooden tray with cutouts in which she can place them. They fit snug. Real snug. As the expression goes, you can't put a square peg in a round hole. The square will only fit in the square opening and the cylinder will only fit in the cylindrical opening--like a cartridge in a chamber. They have been very--and I mean very--precisely milled. Now, imagine you slipped something as thin as a cardboard match into the cylindrical chamber for the cylindrical block. What do you think would happen?"
John suspected he knew the answer and he considered volunteering it: The block would get stuck. But he wasn't sure where Ballard was going with this example and he felt sufficiently stupid already. And so he decided h
e would allow Tuttle the chance to embarrass himself for a change. Tuttle, however, remained silent, too.
"Well, then," Ballard continued, "I'll tell you. The block will get jammed in the chamber. It'll be wedged in there so tight that you won't be able to extract it without a mighty good tug. And all it takes to wedge it right in there is that little cardboard match. And if you think those blocks are carefully milled, well, just think how carefully a gun company manufactures the chamber inside its firearms. Think how exactly the right caliber cartridge fits inside. Now, I'll bet you loaded and unloaded your gun beside your truck. You did, didn't you? Think back: It's last November, and you're loading and unloading, loading and unloading. True?"