Richard Patterson - Fall from Grace

Walking toward him along the shoreline was the lone figure of a woman. He waited, shivering in the chill wind.

Spotting him, she briefly stopped, then closed the remaining distance. Only when she stood before him could Adam see her features.

Amanda Ferris looked into his face. “Why are we meeting like this?” she said. “At midnight, in the loneliest place on earth. I keep wondering if you’re a serial killer.”

The reporter’s voice was slightly louder than required to carry over the pounding surf. Perhaps it was nerves, Adam thought; perhaps not. Calmly, he said, “First take out your tape recorder. I’d guess it’s in the pocket of your blouse.”

Her face and eyes became immobile. “What do you mean?”

Now Adam was quite certain. “Do it,” he snapped. “Or go back to the swamp you came from.”

Ferris’s shoulders turned in, as though she were hunched against the cold. Then she reached into her pocket and held out a digital tape recorder in the palm of her hand. “Erase my voice,” Adam ordered. “Then throw it at the water.”

Ferris stiffened. “Take it, if you like. Then give it back when we’re through.”

“With my fingerprints on it?” Adam said coldly. “Quit playing with me. You’re not qualified.”

Ferris stared at him. Then she erased the tape and flung it into the surf with an angry underhand motion. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“You’ve already researched me on the internet,” Adam replied. “Not to mention calling Agracon. As to why I’m doing this, you’ll understand by the time we’re through. But ‘off the record’ doesn’t cover this encounter. Except for the benefit to your career, the next half hour never happened.”

Watching her eyes, Adam took stock of her once again-bright, determined, and aggressive, with a good measure of cupidity and amoral curiosity. Her job was not about anything save the public desire to pick the bones of celebrities like Carla Pacelli and his father-or, perhaps, become one. At times, Adam was glad that he no longer lived in America.

“All right,” Ferris said sharply. “Let’s talk about what both of us want.”

“I already know what you want,” Adam replied. “You think someone killed my father-that’s why you’re still here. But you’re getting nowhere with the state police.” Adam glanced up at the promontory. “Like you, I’m curious about how my father fell from there to here. Unlike you, I can’t pay people to find out. But I do know who might take your money.”

Shifting her weight, Ferris studied him with narrowed eyes. “Explain to me what you get from this.”

“First let’s talk about what you need. To start, you want the complete autopsy report, focusing on the marks on my father’s body or evidence on his clothes-rips, mud, hairs or saliva that weren’t his. The report is under wraps, so that’s a bit of a trick-”

“In other words,” she interjected, “someone will have to sell it-”

“Next you’ll want the evidence they found on the promontory, including footprints and any signs of a struggle. Beyond that, you’ll need the witness statements-especially from my family, Carla Pacelli, and Jenny Leigh.”

“That’s a lot to get.”

“You’re a clever woman, and money will make you smarter. As for me, I want copies of everything-starting with the autopsy report. And I expect to hear what you know before you print it.” Pausing, Adam spoke slowly and deliberately. “Don’t even dream of holding out on me, Amanda. If you do, I’ve already figured out how to get you indicted for obstruction of justice-”

“You’re joking.”

“Hardly. You’ve got three choices-failure, a career-making story, or a potential stretch in prison. The risks you should be taking aren’t with me. From what I’ve learned, your career is on the bubble. So how badly do you need this story?”

Almost imperceptibly, Ferris seemed to recoil. In an undertone, she said, “You’re a very strange and scary person. It’s pretty much common knowledge that you couldn’t stand your father.”

“I’m rethinking our relationship. So how much nerve do you have? I can always go to TMZ. com.”

Ferris clamped her lips, then nodded.

“Good,” Adam said. “While you’re at it, check out Carla Pacelli. From the rumors I’ve picked up, she claims to have known nothing about the will before he died. Prove that false, and her entire story unravels. That would interest me.”

“And the Enquirer,” Ferris agreed. “So tell me where I start.”

Feeling the tug of conscience, Adam hesitated. His deepest loyalty, he told himself, must be to his mother and brother. When he spoke, his mouth felt dry. “There’s a policeman in Chilmark,” he answered in a monotone. “He can’t ever know I’ve given you his name, and, as best you can, I want you to protect him. But he’s in desperate need of money.”

After she had gone, Adam remained on the beach, his soul leaden. His mind framed useless apologies to Bobby Towle.

How did I get here? he thought. How did all of us get here? He did not want to face the world, or himself.

At length, he found a familiar patch of sand in the shadow of the promontory. Ten years ago, at night, he had picnicked here with Jenny.

How else do you explain his gift to Jenny Leigh?

A central question, Adam knew. But now he could barely stand to look at her. He sat back, envisioning her face before time had poisoned his memories.

That evening, the air had been balmy, dusk peaceful and enveloping. The surf was a whisper, not a roar; the cloudless night when it came distilled light from a full moon. Listening to Jenny, Adam had loved her as only a young man could love.

It was just after she invented Celebrity Pac-Man. Wrapped with Adam in a blanket, she explained the scoring system for social avarice in Chilmark. As her inventiveness grew, her voice filled with wonder at the hungers of the human psyche. Finishing, she said, “It’s sort of sad-funny, isn’t it. Funny because of the way these people scheme to drop the name of someone like your dad, sad because their relationships aren’t real-even with themselves. It must be terrible to feel so empty.”

She sounded like his father, Adam thought, but far kinder. “You have the soul of a writer, Jenny. To me, the worst books are those where you feel nothing for the characters but pity or contempt, and wind up depleted at the end. But even your sharpest observations are leavened with compassion.”

Impulsively, Jenny kissed him. “How do you know if you’ve never read my writing?”

“And how can I read your writing,” Adam replied with humor and frustration, “if you won’t let me?”

“It’s a problem,” Jenny said blithely, and then her voice became quiet. “I’m sorry. But so much of it is personal to me.”

And painful, Adam suspected. “Lovemaking is personal, too,” he answered lightly. “And we do that all the time.”

Only when he said this did he connect her writing to Jenny as a lover, both of them elusive in different ways. He could know her body and yet, in their most intimate moments, there was something beyond his grasp. But now she was snuggling against him. “If that was a hint,” she murmured, “I just might be available. But only if I’m on top. This sand’s a lot harder than the bed in your parents’ guesthouse.”

Adam felt his body stir. With feigned casualness, he replied, “Oh, all right. As long as you let me try something first.”

“Such as?”

“It’s a surprise. The only clue is that it requires an absence of clothes.”

“I think we’ve already been there,” she said reproachfully.

Adam grinned. “I promise you we haven’t.”

When she was naked, Jenny straddled him. But instead of slipping inside her, Adam grasped her hips and lowered the moistness between her thighs onto his warm mouth. “Oh,” she whispered in surprise, and then said nothing at all.