Seven Wakings Page 18

  I push aside self-pity. “What’s going on?”

  “Mike’s out of surgery, but hasn’t woken up yet.”

  “Does Archer have Mike’s phone?”

  “Yes. He knows to contact I.A. the minute Mike wakes up.”

  An idea, bordering on brilliant, floats to the forefront of my mind. “Joe’s the family lawyer right?” I open the stall door and pace the bathroom.

  “Yes. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m Gilchrist; I have the authority to change anything.” I play with a towel folded into the shape of a swan.

  It takes her a minute to get it. “You wouldn’t!”

  “I definitely would.” I make a list in my mind. “Have him bring Richard’s existing will, a new one, and notary stamp. I’m sure there’s a video camera here. ”

  “You certainly know how to sweeten the lemon you’ve been given. We’ll see you soon.”

  After we hang up, I disrobe and step into a marble shower. Water shoots from three sides. Showerheads are placed at several levels starting at the ankle. Washing quickly, I step out and see myself naked in a full-length mirror. I’m strapping for my age; tall and lean. It’s hard to imagine me as a predator. I look like an older, blue-eyed George Clooney.

  There’s a knock at the door. Muffled by acoustics, I barely hear Charlotte’s voice.

  “I’ve placed a rack of clothes just outside the door. There are several options for your consideration.”

  I crack the door; startle her. “Might I ask for one more thing?” Water drips onto the floor.

  Charlotte’s eyes are cast down. “Of course, Sir.”

  “Have a video camera and tripod sent up.” I grab a towel from behind the door.

  “Right away.” She tips her head to the side.

  After Charlotte leaves, I towel off, put on the robe, and step into the bedroom. There’s a rack of clothes holding several suits, shirts, ties, and pairs of shoes. She has also laid out three silver trays: one arranged with briefs, another filled with socks, and a third with handkerchiefs.

  I pick a black suit, light-blue shirt, and an Armani stripped tie. My briefs are silk, socks cashmere, and kerchief linen. Before changing I shave and brush my teeth. While applying Gilchrist’s aftershave and deodorant, I think about how many kids associate his scent with abuse.

  Once attired, I walk to the bedroom door. Charlotte is waiting outside in the hall, holding a small gold tray.

  “I assume you’ll be wearing the Vacheron Constantin.” She is referring to the watch on her tray.

  I pick it up, forget to be Gilchrist. “Sure looks expensive.”

  “The last appraisal was $1.8 million.” Her expression is neutral.

  I cough. “Well, that’s a very nice watch indeed.” I make a mental note to give it to her before day’s end.

  “You have excellent taste, Master Gilchrist.” She lowers the tray. “Allow me to show you to the conservatory. I’ll have your guests meet you there.”

  She leads me down a sweeping staircase with the fluidity of a ghost. Arriving at the bottom I look up. The cathedral ceiling is three stories high, white and trimmed in gold. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs above us.

  I stop in my tracks. The way it catches the light is breathtaking. It’s like there’s magic in every jewel.

  Charlotte stands in front of me. Her posture is so perfect she looks held up by a string. With shoulders set back she says, “You do love your Strass.”

  “It’s stunning.” I feel like a baby fascinated with a mobile.

  She moves forward, seems ready to get rid of me.

  I follow closely behind. Charlotte leads me through corridors, past countless rooms through a colossal kitchen, and out to the conservatory. A circular table sits in the center of a labyrinth with matching iron chairs.

  Charlotte gestures to the table: “A single soft boiled egg, wheat toast, grapefruit, and a Boilermaker.”

  I see a tall beer and a jigger of vodka. “Water will be fine. I’d rather stay sharp for the evening.”

  “As you wish.” Charlotte excuses herself and I walk to the table.

  Sitting, I lay a cloth napkin on my lap and look around. There are songbirds in a cage the size of a silo, housed in gold mesh. Behind the wire are Baltimore Orioles, Indigo Buntings, Yellow Warblers, and a Tufted Titmouse.

  I get lost in thoughts about: Mac and Kate, whether I.A. will show up in time, and my impending death. Changing my mind about the drinks, I slam the snit of vodka. Old habits die hard.

  Charlotte returns and puts my phone on the table. “You left this upstairs, Sir. I’m sure you’d be lost without it.”

  The light is blinking.

  “Thank you,” I say absentmindedly, and look at the aviary. This time I don’t notice the birds, but rather an energy so vile I feel nearly burned by it.

  She says, “It may be best to hold off, Sir.”

  I look at Charlotte and glance back to the cage. “You don’t think I should go over there?”

  “I’m just concerned about your time. You do have guests coming.” She takes my empty vodka glass. “This may not be the time to give into your urges... Sir.” She turns to leave.

  I have to know the truth, to see how awful Gilchrist really is. Walking to the cage I see a keypad and punch in Gilchrist’s birthday— 9231953.

  Nothing happens.

  I realize my mistake and punch in: 09231953. Metal gears tumble. The floor to the cage rises slowly. Birds fly toward the top. A stairwell leads down into the dark. I feel for a switch; there isn’t one. As I step down, lights flash on; they’re governed by motion. The stairs and walls are mahogany.

  The lights awaken an odor. The smell is faint at first then quickly swells. My God. It’s the smell of old sweat and sex. I cover my mouth and nose.

  My mind heaves, wants to back out of the room. I’m engulfed in static. I watch my hand grip the rail; my feet shake forward. Everything inside of me wants to withdraw, but I’m pulled toward the truth.

  Another light flashes on.

  I walk to the bottom. Patterns in the wood floor swirl to a large, round bed in the middle of the room. Most of the bedding is white except the bottom sheet, which is red. Wing-backed chairs surround the bed, as if for voyeurs. Several spotlights and cameras stand at-the-ready. At the other end of the room, home-theater seating is directed toward a large screen. A video projector is aimed toward it. Innumerable canisters of film, coiled in metal tins, are propped on their sides on shelves that maze the room.

  I don’t need to see anymore. Turning to run up the stairs, my head is buzzing, ears pounding. I saw a lot of bad things working for Child Protective Services, but never anything like this. My heart breaks for all of the kids affected by the monster I’m in. Running up the stairs, I can’t get out quick enough.

  Charlotte is standing by the garden table. The fact that I’m panting and sweating disgusts me. I’m sure she’ll have the wrong idea.

  She ignores my condition. “Was your food a disappointment?”

  “I’m… just not hungry. Are my guests here?”

  “They just arrived. Would you like me to escort them back?”

  “Actually, have them meet me upstairs. We have some business to conduct.” I wipe my forehead with my handkerchief.

  Charlotte gathers the dishes. “Very well then.” She reaches for the beer.

  “Leave it.” I guzzle half the glass and wipe my mouth. “Let’s go.”

  We separate in the kitchen: her for the entryway, and me for the stairs. After entering Gilchrist’s room, I head for the photo album; have to know if Charlotte’s in there. Sitting down— on one of two red chairs— I reach for the photo album on the trunk and flip page after page of young victims— each named and dated.

  Then, on page thirty-one and thirty –two, are images of a young African American girl. The innocence in the “before” photo is wrenching. She’s riding a bike— hands free— toward the camera, with a smile that could light up the night. It�
��s definitely Charlotte. Charlotte Seybold.

  The “after” photo shows her naked, on the floor, in the fetal position.

  Not only should we take all worldly possessions from Gilchrist, but he should also lose every digit, be doused in gasoline, and set on fire in front of his victims.

  There’s a knock at the door. I close the book and bellow, “Come in.”

  Charlotte appears and ushers in my “guests.” A man follows her and brings in the video equipment.

  I meet Kate halfway across the room as she rushes to hug me. Charlotte’s eyes harbor a look of disdain for me that I’ve never encountered. She touches Lynette’s arm and says something under her breath.

  As Kate releases me, Joe crosses the room to shake my hand. “Nice to see you Richard. I understand birthday wishes are in order.” There’s a look in his eyes I can’t discern, like he’s searching.

  Charlotte shakes her head and shows herself out, closing the doors behind her.

  I make eye contact with Joe. “What’s the matter, is it too hard to see me in this skin?”

  He lets go of my hand. “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

  “I think you’ll believe I’m Emma when we talk about the new will.”

  He looks me over. “You certainly have my attention, no matter who you are.”

  Lynette moves past Joe and hugs me longer than usual, as if she’s saying goodbye. “It’s good to see you, even like this.”

  I look down at her. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” She takes a step back, and looks up at me.

  “Make small talk when I know what you’re thinking.”

  She starts to cry. “This is all so hard. Mac’s in danger, Kate’s upset, you’ll be gone soon… and I’m just so damned tired; I can hardly function. I don’t mean to complain; your situation is worse than mine. And there’s not a damn thing I can do to hold onto you.” She pulls a tissue out of her purse to wipe her mascara.

  “Seriously? What happened to ‘living in the present’ and me being a Bodi- whatever?”

  “Psychobabble bullshit.” Lynette blows her nose.

  Kate laughs. “You must be tired, if you’re talking like that.”

  “Listen, we don’t have very long until I have to leave for the party, so let me tell you about some things I found.” I tell them about the room under the aviary and the book of photos. “The victims names are listed in there. Archer and Mike can look into old cases to try and match them to these girls. If they were taken across state lines, it’s a federal offence. The FBI would get involved. Maybe they can find out where they went from here.”

  Kate grabs my arm. “You don’t think he killed them, do you?”

  I smooth her hair. “No honey. I think some of them might actually work for him— like Charlotte— and others may have been shipped out of the state or even to a different country.”

  Lynette says, “I agree. Gilchrist might be a pedophile, but he’s too stable— on a societal level— to be a killer too. Although there are exceptions to every rule. ”

  Joe removes a shoulder bag. “I’ve filled in the legalese on the new will. All you have to is fill in the blanks.” He hands me paper and a pen, then proceeds to set up the tripod.

  The rest of us go to the library room, where Lynette and I sit in the chairs and Kate takes a seat on the edge of the trunk. As I look through the will, I tell them how I’m going to change it.

  Kate smiles and says, “You’re not messing around.”

  Lynette flips through the photo album. “If these girls left here and were dropped in a strange place— with no way to support themselves— they probably went straight into prostitution… or drugs.”

  “Or both.” I put the finishing touches on the will.

  Joe looks in. “Ready.”

  “Definitely.” I hand him the paperwork.

  He smiles as he looks it over. “I wouldn’t testify that you’re Emma James, but I would certainly swear you’re not Gilchrist.” Joe hands the paperwork back, and points out the section I’m to read aloud.

  Lynette closes the album. She and Kate follow me out of the reading room and stand next to Joe. I center myself in front of the camera.

  With tape rolling I begin: “On this day— September 23rd, 2012— I, Richard Gilchrist, being of sound mind and body do hereby revoke all previous wills and codicils. In an attempt to right the wrongs of my past, I do hereby bequeath all of my worldly possessions— including financial holdings, properties, and material belongings— to a new foundation for the victims of child abuse, neglect, and endangerment; to be named at a later date. Joseph Montgomery, will handle the legal aspects of this foundation, and Lynette McCollum-Hayes will be in charge of running the center.”

  She nods her acceptance of responsibility.

  “Removed from this inheritance are all of my family members, including my adoptive daughters: Vanessa Montgomery and Kim…” I look to Joe. “Is this a typo?”

  He stops the camera and stands next to me. “Where?”

  I point out Kim’s last name.

  He smiles. “No… that’s right.” And goes back to filming.

  How could I not know her last name? I start from the beginning. “Removed from this inheritance are all of my family members, including my adoptive daughters: Vanessa Montgomery and Kim Khim— as their damaging actions toward children should afford them no reward. I dispose of this property freely and willingly and am under no coercion to do so. A written copy of this addendum will be witnessed and signed by Joseph Montgomery and Lynette McCollum-Hayes.”

  Joe keeps the tape rolling as the three of us sign and date the new will.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Master Gilchrist, may I be of any service to you?” It’s Charlotte.

  I say one last thing into the camera. “In addition, I do hereby bequeath this watch to Charlotte Seybold, as a gift of apology to her for years of indentured servitude.” I hold up the watch to the camera, specify the brand and worth.

  Joe turns off the video camera. “That should just about do it.”

  I holler to the door, “Be right there!”

  Kate says, “It isn’t every day that you can give away a million dollar watch.”

  “1.8 million.” I wink at her and head to the door. Stepping into the hall, I say, “Charlotte, I know I’ve been more than unkind to you in the past, and for that I do apologize. As a token of my remorse, I would like for you to have this.” I remove the watch.

  She searches my eyes. “What’s come over you today, Sir?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve finally seen the error of my ways and am going to do everything in my power to set things straight.” I reach for her wrist.

  Charlotte pulls away; her eyes challenge me. “That’s nice in theory, Sir, but it will take more than a watch to put things back together.” She sets her jaw.

  “Let’s consider this a small beginning.” I drop the watch into her apron pocket and tell her we don’t need a thing.

  “Your new driver will be here soon, Sir. Will your guests be riding with you?”

  I think about the possibility. “No.” Joe’s supposedly missing, and the Chief knows Lynette and Kate. “They won’t be attending the party.”

  There’s a nearly indiscernible smile on her face. “I didn’t think that was Master Montgomery’s type of thing.”

  I can’t help but smile. “No… definitely not.”

  She tips her head and goes to the stairs.

  I close the door, and realize something. “I have to die.”

  Kate puts her arm around me. “Maybe you’ll keep coming back. Remember… you said ‘anything’s possible’.”

  “No… I mean Richard Gilchrist has to die, otherwise the will has no meaning.”

  Lynette looks concerned and says to Joe, “Can’t you just hide this one from him?”

  Joe shakes his head. “If a will’s constructed at a later date, it would supersede this one.”

  There
’s a knock at the door. Without waiting for a response, Charlotte says, “The driver’s here, Master Gilchrist.”

  I look toward the door. “What should we do about Richard?”

  “What do you mean do?” Lynette says, “We’re not going to do anything to him.”

  “No. Of course not.” I bite my tongue because Kate’s in the room. I think of something. “Would you excuse me? I just have to…”

  Lynette looks at me sideways. “Why do you suddenly have to go to the bathroom?”

  “Prostate issues.” I head to the bathroom and callout “It’s like I’m hauling around a honeydew.” I shut the door behind me and look through the medicine cabinet. Nembutal, Xanax, Seconal. That ought to do it. I pour the pills into my pocket, and pretend to wash my hands.

  Emerging from the bathroom I say, “Let’s get the party started.”

  Kate looks at me. “Can you hold your water until you get there, Grandpa?”

  I put my arm around her. “If not I’ll just go beside the road.”

  Joe puts the new will and the tape in an envelope, then we head downstairs.

  As we show ourselves out, I watch the three of them get in Joe’s Mercedes. My driver holds open the door of the limousine but I hesitate before getting in. Sometimes the most inane moments stop me; seeing them drive away is one of them. I’m becoming less important.

  “I’ll be your driver for †he evening, Sir.”

  I drift off as he introduces himself, and duck into the back seat.

  As we head out, I watch telephone wires sway between poles against a grey sky. They look like tethers pulling me toward the end of my life. To distract myself, I start scrolling through Gilchrist’s phone. There are countless new e-mails, ranging from simple birthday wishes to million dollar opportunities. But one stands from the rest; it’s from Archer, sent a few days ago. Double-clicking on the message, it reads: “We need to talk.”

  I’m dumbfounded. Why would Archer be in contact with Gilchrist? And why wouldn’t he tell us?

  My phone rings; it’s Lynette. “Archer called to say that Mike’s awake. They’ve contacted I.A. and are coming up with a game plan right now.”