Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

“That’s entirely up to them.”

“This is-”

“Revolutionary?”

“Revolutionary? Jesus Christ!”

“I don’t think he can help me with this.”

“Help? You seem to be doing quite enough on your own. What about Stevenson and Daniels and Carter Lawrence?”

“Nick and Harvey know nothing. I can’t be responsible for what they may think, but they know nothing. I’m sure they’ll be cooperative with the authorities. They’ll answer all their questions. They have nothing to hide and nothing to offer. Their truthful answers won’t change a thing. As for Carter, what can I say? We share a certain immunity, one which I have surely violated and forfeited. But he has not. Carter is a victim. As this unfolds, I’m sure the press will present him in a very favorable light. For law enforcement to pursue and harass Carter Lawrence while the real culprits live and go free-that can’t happen. And besides, he knows nothing or almost nothing. He never knew where I was, or when, and he doesn’t know where I am now. None of them-Nick, Harvey, or Carter-have any of these details, nor have any of them been privy to my activities up to now. I’ve never admitted to them what I’ve admitted to you. I’ve never discussed it with them. If you think about it, you and Isobel are the only people with specific knowledge, directly from me, about what I’ve already done and what I plan to do in the future. You heard what Isobel said. What she knows can’t be published without your own exposure, and even then, it lacks corroboration. Just your word. This conversation, for example.” Leonard looked around the patio, out toward the open sea, then behind him at the closed sliding doors, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “We’re alone. Just you and me, Walter. No corroboration.”

“Michael DelGrazo,” Walter said. “You might just as well have said Kaiser Zoesay.”

“Do you have any more questions about this?” Leonard asked.

“Did you shoot Pitts with the Walther? Why did you meet Carter Lawrence, Nick Stevenson, and Harvey Daniels in Clarksville, Tennessee? How come-”

“No, Walter. Only questions about this.” Leonard held up the folder with both hands. “You already know the answers to the other questions, most of them, anyway. And in time you’ll figure out what you don’t know now. But we’ll never speak of it. Never.”

“Dr. Roy?”

“Never.”

“You think this is justice, don’t you?” said Walter. “You’re acting righteously? You believe that, don’t you?” Now it was Leonard who chose silence. Walter continued. “Your wife, your daughter, your grandsons-they ate lunch and died. The meat killed them, and there were people who let that happen. What did you do? You killed those people, the ones who could have prevented it. One by one, you shot them down. For their complicity, they died.” A touch of sarcasm, mixed with murky anger, rose in Walter’s voice. “Oh, of course, you saved the best for last. The guilty must pay, and pay, and pay some more. What you’re doing to Stein and Maloney is worse than death, at least for them it will be. Shit, they go from living on five hundred dollars a minute to five hundred a week. How are they going to do that? They can’t live in their homes if their wives own and keep the property, or you’ll kill them. They can’t use a car that belongs to someone in the family, or you’ll kill them. They can’t wear the same clothes, make phone calls on the same cell phones, eat the same food, use the same health insurance-God knows what else they can’t touch, or you’ll kill them. But they can stay alive. That you’ll allow. For men like that, they’d be better off dead.” Walter leaned forward across the table separating the two men. Leonard was perfectly still, stoic.

“For Stein and Maloney,” said Walter, “money is like drugs. They’re addicts, and you know that. A lifetime of fabulous wealth, and now they’re reduced to poverty. They can’t make it. They’ll cheat. Somewhere, somehow, they will. Maybe Nathan Stein gets some money-a hundred grand, two hundred grand-from one of his kids. You know, kids can have a hard time seeing their fathers suffer. Perhaps Maloney begs his wife to put some money in a Swiss bank account for him.

It could happen, right? They take the money and you kill them. You call this justice? For whom? For Nina? For Ellen? For her sons? I don’t think so. Vengeance, that’s what it is. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ And who the hell are you, God? Whose guilt are you killing for?” Leonard didn’t say a word, the expression on his face remained unchanged. “Where were you?” Walter asked. “Where were you when it mattered?”

Now Leonard seemed about to say something, but instead, he breathed deeply through clenched teeth, sat back, and a small, almost imperceptible, nervous and hostile smile crossed his lips. He would not be baited.

“I know about Barbara Coffino,” said Walter. The smile on Leonard’s face disappeared. Walter could see him catch his breath before it choked him.

Leonard broke the awkward silence by asking, “Have you ever killed anyone, Walter? You look like the kind of man who’s killed. Perhaps you’ve considered killing me. I suppose I’ll never know. You also look like the kind of man who knows- who knows -killing is sometimes the only way. If I’m wrong, tell me. But I know I’m right and you know it too.” They looked at one another, each man keenly aware, whether they liked it or not, they shared a common value, a common judgment, a common past.

Isobel returned to the patio, this time leaving open the sliding doors behind her. Walter could not interpret her look. The expression on her face, the tightness in her cheeks, the lines across her forehead, this was all new to him.

Leonard said, “I hope you’ll take it, Isobel. For Nina, Ellie, and for the boys.” He turned to Walter and said softly, “If you’ll call a car I’d be grateful. It’s time for me to go.”

“Go where?” Isobel asked.

“Home.”

“When is the next ferry, Walter?” Isobel said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure,” he said, trying to recover himself.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Leonard. He knew there was a boat waiting for him in the harbor at Cruz Bay, and a chartered Gulfstream, fueled and ready to fly, on the tarmac at St. Thomas. Walter used his cell phone to make the call and told Leonard the car would be ready in ten minutes.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait at the gate. And I’ll see myself out. Please don’t get up.” He shook hands with Walter, who was still seated at the table, his back to the water, looking in at his own house through the glass. Then Leonard turned to Isobel, where she stood. He smiled and extended his hand to her. When she took it, he covered hers with his other hand and held on to her tightly. “I hope you’ll take it,” he said before walking out. He did not look back.

Walter reached over for the file folder Leonard left behind. He opened it and began to read the first page of the first document, the one Leonard referred to as the cover letter. “Holy shit!” he said.

“Holy shit is right,” Isobel said, her attention far away on one of the small, empty islands offshore, unaware of anything Walter was reading. “You don’t know the half of it. That was Nicholas Stevenson who called me. When I called him back he offered me a job. He wants me to be the Executive Director for a new organization of which he and his partner Harvey Daniels are trustees. You won’t believe this. It’s a nonprofit foundation called The Center for Consumer Concerns. He wants me to come to Atlanta to discuss the details. Isn’t that a bit strange, don’t you think? Leonard Martin’s law p-partners offering me a job, especially this sort of job?”