The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

20

THE NEXT NIGHT my father drove up to the Heights to introduce himself to Mr. Epstein. Mr. Epstein had told me he was not a Communist “now.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. To me communism seemed like such a ridiculous system that no rational person could respect or fear it. By the same token, I didn’t think anyone who had bought in to such a joyless mind-set could have the ability to rid himself of it.

My father did not ask me to go with him. I hated to think about the political collision he might have with Mr. Epstein. My father returned home in under an hour and went into his small study and resumed work on his book about his family, his fountain pen moving across a fresh sheet of paper, a Lucky Strike burning in the ashtray by his forearm. I knew he was among the horde of men in tattered gray and butter-brown uniforms advancing up a slope in sweltering July heat at a place called Cemetery Hill.

I pulled up a chair behind him. He didn’t look up from his work. “Everything go okay?” I finally said.

“Hi, Aaron,” he replied. “You gave me a start. I thought you might be a Yankee sharpshooter.”

“Was Mr. Epstein home?”

“Yes, he was definitely there.”

I waited for him to continue. But he didn’t. “That doesn’t sound too good,” I said.

“Mr. Epstein is a cradle-to-the-grave ideologue. A leftist but nonetheless an ideologue.”

“What’s an ideologue?”

“Someone who brings religious passion to a political abstraction only cretins could think up,” he said. “When you meet one, flee his presence at all costs. He’ll incinerate half the planet to save the other half and never understand his own motivations.”

“What are his motivations??

??

“Control, power, penis envy, addiction to breast-feeding, the fact that most of them are born ugly, God only knows. In one night, ten men like Mr. Epstein could have New York City in flames.”

I glanced over his shoulder at the ink drying on his manuscript page. “Are you still working on Pickett’s charge?”

“In part, but there’s another story about the charge that not many people know of. After the slopes were littered with Confederate wounded and dead, the federals tamped their muskets on the ground and chanted, ‘Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg’ as a taunt for the pasting they took going up Marye’s Heights.”

I wasn’t sure what his point was. He anticipated my question. “There’s no glory in any of this. Nothing good comes out of war. It only breeds more hatred and suffering and killing. Freeborn Negroes, man, woman, and child, were taken from their homes in Chambersburg and sent to the auction block in Richmond. Louisiana outfits participated in it, too. Robert Lee witnessed the terrorizing of the town and did nothing to stop it. The kidnapping and selling of Negroes was no different than the behavior of Nazis. That’s where ideology leads us, Aaron.”

I had never heard him speak this way. I went into the kitchen and made coffee for both of us and went back into his study and drank it with him and watched him work.

THE FIRST CALL to the River Oaks police station concerning Clint Harrelson’s property came at 10:33 P.M. The neighbor who called refused to give her name but said, “The jungle music coming out of that house is destroying my sleep and rupturing my eardrums and upsetting my husband, who happens to be stone deaf. Would you kindly do something about it?” The second, third, and fourth calls came from neighbors who heard shouting and then gunfire and saw from their balconies or through the bamboo at the back of the house the bizarre denouement of Clint Harrelson, anthropologist, oilman, rice producer, and apparent Aryan supremacist.

A song was blaring from the high-fidelity speakers in the game room. The pounding drums, the thumping bass chords exploding out of the piano, the peal of the clarinet and the wailing of the horns and the driving four-four backbeat were an assault on the sensibilities of the neighborhood. The underwater lights were on in the swimming pool, the surface dimpled with rain rings. The glass door on the game room slid back violently, then Clint Harrelson burst outside, barefoot and in boxer shorts, his skin as sickly as a toadstool. He began running and slipping along the side of the pool, looking back over his shoulder like a man caught inside the pop of a flashbulb. A figure in a hooded windbreaker stepped out of the game room and aimed a semi-automatic with two hands. The first shot tore through an umbrella and smacked against the brick wall at the rear of the estate. The second one punched through the back of Harrelson’s knee and kicked his leg from under him. The shell casings bounced on the concrete.

Harrelson had fallen across a canvas recliner. He gripped his knee as though trying to pull it to his chest. His fingers were shiny with blood, his mouth wide with rictus, his pain clearly beyond sound or words. “Why are you doing this?” he managed. “Please. We can turn this around. This will be no good for you or anyone else. Listen to reason. We have alternatives if you’ll only listen.”

The figure in the hooded windbreaker walked toward him. Harrelson tried to run again, grabbing pieces of pool furniture, dragging one leg as though it were boneless. The next shots exited his chest and stomach and throat. He fell headlong into the pool, his arms floating at his sides. He sank halfway to the bottom, red smoke funneling from his wounds, then rose to the surface and remained still, his hair pasted on his scalp, the blue water rippling across his back.

The shooter walked the length of the patio and onto the grass and through a cluster of camellia bushes into the darkness, closing the gate, shaking it to make sure it was snug. At first none of the eyewitnesses could move. Later all of them said they felt time had stopped, that in the aftermath of the shooting, they felt trapped inside a slow-motion film and traumatized by the fate visited on poor Mr. Harrelson. They gathered on a common porch in their bathrobes and drank straight whiskey poured by the owner of the house and shared their bewilderment. By the next day, their lawyers indicated that their clients could not swear to the accuracy of their earlier statements because of the previous night’s inclement weather. They also asked that names not be released to the press and that authorities contact the attorneys if they needed any more information.

In the morning the pool was drained and the tile and concrete scrubbed with lye and the filters cleaned with disinfectant by Mexican workers. Aside from the remains that lay on a slab in the county morgue, all the earthly fluids and chemical signatures of Clint Harrelson were hosed with the pine needles into the sewage system.

THE STORY GOT a banner front-page headline in all three of the city’s newspapers. The Houston Press ran a photo of Grady arriving at the funeral home in dark glasses and a white suit, a black carnation in the lapel, his jaw set, his hands balled at his sides like a New York gangster barely suppressing his sorrow and anger. The cutline referred to him as a former honor student, football quarterback, and marine. Behind him in the photo was Vick Atlas.

The story stated that Grady was sailboating when he received news of his father’s death. After I read the story, I drove to Valerie’s house. I was sure we were all going to be dragged into the investigation. I had become as cynical as Saber about the legal system, and not without reason. As soon as I got to Valerie’s, she told me Merton Jenks had already questioned her father.

“Why?” I said.

“Jenks thinks he might have done it,” she said.

There was a beat when I avoided her eyes. “Your father wouldn’t really do something like that, would he?” I said.

It wasn’t an honest question. I knew better. Mr. Epstein was not one to sneak through life on side streets. I hoped Valerie had an alibi for him. I didn’t want to think of him as a man who could commit murder.