Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

Jamison looked taken aback. “Oh, okay.”

Baron turned back to Decker. “Now that I’m reasonably sober, shall we try again?”

Decker once more told him the names, leaving out the now identified DEA agents.

“Well, I’ve lived in Baronville really my whole life, other than a truncated stint in college. I suppose if these people lived here their whole lives I could have met them, or run into them, or known them in some way without actually remembering precise details.”

“Joyce Tanner lived here for over forty years. She was about your age. Swanson lived here his whole life but he was in his thirties. Costa and Babbot were more recent arrivals.”

“I can’t say that any of them ring a bell.”

“We found a photo of you and a Little League team. The kids were holding a championship banner. It was dated from last year.”

Baron smiled. “That’s because we won the state championship last year.”

“Congratulations. The bank sponsored your team. Costa was an SVP there. He had the photo in his home.”

“Did he? I wonder why?” Baron turned to Jamison. “I played baseball in college, on scholarship. I was actually drafted by the Braves my freshman year.”

“Impressive,” Jamison said.

“I was a pitcher. Had a good, live arm. And I could hit too. Good wheels.”

“So what happened?”

Baron once more smiled disarmingly. “It’s otherwise known as life.” He looked at Decker. “I coached the Little League teams here for about ten years. But my last was the year we won the championship.”

“Why your last year? They don’t like winning here?”

“People said I was too controversial. Translation: I was too Baron for them.”

“So why did they allow you to coach for a decade?” asked Decker. “Were you less Baron back then?”

“I’m not sure. You’d have to take that up with the good people of the town. It might be because they got to order me around and scream at me if we did poorly. So, to play that theory out to its logical conclusion, maybe they were pissed off that I coached a state championship team and that’s why when I showed up for the season’s spring training this year I was politely told that my services would no longer be required.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t remember the gentleman’s name. Just that his tone was... gleeful.”

“Why do you stay, Mr. Baron?” asked Decker. “Why stay and take all this crap every day?”

Baron took his feet off his desk and sat forward. Though his look was more serious, there was amusement still in his light blue eyes. “It may sound a bit masochistic, but I’ve come to enjoy the duel. And if I leave, that means they’ve won. And besides, where else would I go?”

“Hell of a way to live your life.”

“Isn’t it, though? Still, it is my humble life after all.”

“So you still say you don’t know Bradley Costa?”

“Can’t say that I do. I just coached the kids. The bank paid for the uniforms, baseballs, and juice boxes.” He abruptly stood. “I’d show you around the house, but you might need a tetanus booster first. How about I take you both on a tour of the grounds? They’re not nearly as grand as they used to be, but it might provide a diversion from life in Baronville for about a half hour. And there is a lovely if rather ghoulish walk to the family crypt.”

Before they could answer he simply walked from the room.

Jamison looked over at Decker. “Wow, just walking out like that. Who does that remind you of?”

He looked at her. “Who?”

Her only response was an exaggerated eye roll.

Baron had slipped an arm through Jamison’s as they took a winding paved road down to the family burial ground.

“It’s an old-fashioned concept now, of course,” remarked Baron. “Burying ourselves on our property. But back then it was the thing to do. That’s why there’s a paved road like this, because the funeral procession would drive down to it. I even have a spot ready and waiting for me when my time is up. I hope the funds will be there to actually allow me to be interred.”

Jamison said, “Do you want to be buried here?”

“I don’t want to die at all, but it’s not up to me, is it?”

There was a brick wall over six feet high set around the site, surrounded by thick trees, which threw everything into gloomy relief.

“Yes, it is very oppressive here,” said Baron, perhaps reacting to Jamison’s subdued expression.

He took a key from his pocket and opened a rusty wrought iron gate, the only entrance to the burial ground.

He pointed to an inscription written on a brass plate bolted to the wall next to the gate.

“That’s Latin?” said Jamison.

“Very good, Alex,” said Baron.

“What does it say?” asked Decker.

“Something like, ‘Screw unto others as you would have them screw unto you,’” replied Baron.

“It does not say that,” Jamison said with a laugh.

“Well, perhaps just in spirit. The loose translation is something like, ‘Here lie the mighty Barons for all time. Peons take notice.’”

Jamison laughed again.

He led them inside the spacious grounds. Most of the graves were marked by an elaborate piece of marble or granite with the name of the dead on them. The stones were all neatly arranged and perfectly straight and upright. Someone clearly had been taking care of them. In the very center of the site was a large marble mausoleum badly stained by the elements.

Baron led them over to it and patted the rusted wrought iron door that was the entrance to the structure. All around the door the marble was stained with patina from the metal leaching onto the stone. The exterior walls were covered in dirt and grime and streaks of white mixed with rust stains and clumps of fungus.

“In here lies our founder and benefactor, the aforementioned John Quarles Baron the First,” he announced. “He along with his wife, Abigail, and their children reside in there. Along with other family members who died after them.”

“It must be spacious inside,” noted Decker.

“It represents another bone of contention with those living in Baronville that the Baron dead here are housed better than they are.”

Decker noted that on one side the mausoleum had sunk a few inches into the ground. “Structural problems?” he asked.

“I think we can blame it on his being cheap, even with his final resting place.”

“It’s pretty grimy,” observed Jamison.

“I come down here from time to time to take care of the grounds and the other grave markers. But I don’t bother with this one. You can’t power wash this thing or use acid. It would just damage it or cause the marble to disintegrate. And I’m not scrubbing it by hand. I wouldn’t do that even if I had loved Baron the First, which I don’t.”

He held up another key. “Would you like to see inside?”

Jamison immediately drew back, but Decker said, “Sure.”

Baron unlocked the door and pushed it open. He led the way inside.

Decker followed and Jamison reluctantly brought up the rear.

On either side of the space were crypts set in long shelves on the walls. In the very center was a large granite crypt stained with age and moisture. Baron led them up to it.

“My ancestor, if not in the flesh, at least in the bone. He of course had to take center stage.”

Decker and Jamison gazed down at the last resting place of John Baron the First.

“Impressive,” said Decker. “Is everyone in here a Baron?”

Baron shrugged. “I haven’t actually been in here since I was a little boy and my grandmother died. That’s her spot over there,” he added, pointing to a crypt along the left side of the wall. “I remember that this was the creepiest place I’d ever been in, and could barely wait to get out.”