Thomas Perry - Blood Money

“That’s right,” said Ziegler. “But that leaves us with an awful lot of territory.”

“I’m leaving at the same time—actually a little earlier. I’ve got a flight to San Diego with a stop in Phoenix, so I can drop the Arizona letters. In San Diego I have a rental car waiting, so I drive north up the coast—L.A., Santa Barbara, San Francisco, and all stops in between. Then I fly to Seattle with a stop in Portland. By then, my bags will be empty, so I’m mailing more boxes to the hotel there. I fly to Minneapolis, rent another car, and drive the Midwest—Milwaukee, Des Moines, Kansas City, Chicago. I’ll get my second mailing in Chicago, rent another car, and head east through Cincinnati, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, New York. Then I fly back here with a stop in Dallas. We should both be finished in about a week.”

Henry Ziegler stared down at his computer again, then back at Jane. He said apologetically, “I’ve been so wrapped up in setting this up—the mechanics of it—that I’m having trouble believing it’s almost over.”

“I know,” said Jane. “I keep going over everything to see if we’ve forgotten something.”

“Now are you ready to tell me what you did it for?”

Jane looked down at Ziegler’s computer screen instead of his eyes. It occurred to her that this was part of what computers were for. “Sure,” she said. “I’ve come up with a lot of reasons since we started, and they’re all pretty sly. That’s what I am, you know.”

“I noticed that.”

“And all of the reasons sound okay when you say them to somebody else. I wanted to be sure the money never got to people who want me dead. I thought that maybe, if the money is really, verifiably gone, then it would give them a reason to stop looking for Rita. I wanted to help Bernie keep his son out of trouble. A lot of the time, while we were writing letters and signing checks, I would get pleasure thinking about some charity that had helped someone I know, and how much good a lot of money would do. But when I say the reasons to myself, they sound like excuses somebody made up to account for something she was going to do already.”

“They do?”

“Yes,” she said. “There are too many of them. The charities weren’t the first thing I thought about. I thought of them because I once saw somebody loot a trust fund and make it look as though they were giving it all to charities. I noticed that it was hard to sort out afterward. It took the auditors a month or so to even trace how it had been done. I also noticed that when they had, it didn’t bring the money back.”

“That’s what I’ve liked about it since I first heard the idea,” said Ziegler. “Charities are all watched and audited. The IRS knows what they take in and every dime they spend. The IRS knows what each contributor gives, because he’s going to deduct it on his tax return. They think that’s all there is to know.”

“How about you?” asked Jane. “Have you figured out why you did it?”

“I think I know more than I did the first night,” Ziegler answered. “Charities are nice, but I never risked my life for them before, so I hardly think that can be what I’m doing now. I think it must be because I want to be a player—to be near the light and the fire. The side you’re on isn’t up to you. It’s who you are. The only choice you have is to be in the place where big things are going on, or be someplace else.”

Jane hesitated for a moment. It sounded too readily understandable, maybe even familiar. “I’d better get to work,” she said softly. She moved into the living room and began arranging packets of envelopes and packing them in the four big duffel bags.

Jane squeezed her eyes closed and gritted her teeth. She wanted Carey. She wanted to be with him right now. She was tired of measuring her words. She wanted to talk, to tell her old friend everything, to find out what he thought.

As Jane stuffed the four big duffel bags with letters, she became aware that someone was behind her. She turned to see Bernie and Rita watching. Rita said, “Which one is mine?”

“What?”

“You got four bags. We each take one, right?”

“Wrong,” said Jane. “Henry and I are going to mail the letters. I picked four bags because a person can handle two at a time.”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Bernie. “You think I can’t mail a letter?”

“It’s not that you can’t do it,” said Jane. “It’s that people might see you doing it.”

“Nobody’s looking for me,” said Bernie.

“But if they see you, do you think they won’t know who they’re looking at?”

Rita scowled in frustration. “We did everything you asked for. We have a right to see this through. People are looking for me, but I dyed my hair, got new clothes … I’ve changed.”

“You look terrific,” said Jane. “But you don’t look like a different person just yet.” Finally, she stood up. She walked through the dining room and muttered to Ziegler, “Come in here.” She walked into the kitchen, and the others followed her. They watched her open the cupboard and take four glasses down, bringing each one to the counter with a clack that made Ziegler wince. She took the newly opened bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, filled the glasses, and handed one to each of them.

Jane looked around her at each person in turn. Rita and Bernie stared at her stubbornly. Henry Ziegler just looked confused. Jane said, “Lady, gentlemen, and fellow philanthropists—and I mean all of those words sincerely—you have already accomplished the best thing you could have done with your lives if you had been born with the sense to start out with that in mind. You have given your all. Here’s to you.” She raised her glass and took a drink, then smacked it down on the counter.

“That does not mean, however, that I have joined with you in a brave little democracy. The world works on deals. I still have one with each of you. You have kept your end, and I’m going to keep mine. At the end of this, we are all going to walk away and go live some more. You should know that I’ve been in a few airports since this started, and each time there have been a few more big, ugly men standing around to watch the gates and the baggage claims, looking very hard at each face they see.

“The instant the first batch of checks hits the mailbox, the situation is going to get worse. In a matter of weeks, or even hours, the people who thought that money was theirs are going to start feeling wounded and frantic. They’re already looking hard for Rita. If they see Bernie’s face, it will take them a whole half-second to get over their shock that he’s alive, and another half-second to come after him. This means that Bernie and Rita are going to stay in this house, invisible, while Henry and I mail the letters. End of speech, end of discussion.” She walked out of the room.

Rita stared after her for a moment, her eyes unfocused and thoughtful. Ziegler looked uncomfortably at Rita, then went back to his computer.

Bernie patted her shoulder. “I guess she’s right,” he said softly. “We’ll just lay low. It’ll only be for a while.”

Rita said, “That’s not what you said when this started. You said they’d keep looking for forty years.”

Bernie chuckled. “If they do, so what? You’re a kid. You can do that kind of time standing on your head. I just finished doing fifty.” He waited for Rita to see the humor in it, but it seemed to be lost on her. He left her alone in the kitchen.

The next morning, the men helped Jane load her big suitcases into the car. Jane took Rita’s arm and pulled her aside for a moment. “If nothing goes wrong, I should be back in a week or so. You have everything you’ll need, so don’t show your face if you don’t have to.” Something in Rita’s expression worried her. “Are you all right?”