Chapter LXII
CHAPTER LXII
Aldo Bern had assumed personal responsibility for tracking down Eugene Seeley, which was why Bern was currently in Nashville, Tennessee, a place that already appeared as alien to him as the moon. An additional element of urgency had been added to Bern’s quest by the death of Donnie Ray Dolfe, whose heart had been removed the previous night without a small army of yokels becoming aware of it until someone tried to wake Donnie Ray for breakfast.
In addition, the Swishers, who had been keeping two of the children on their property, had died in a fire at their home. According to Donnie Ray’s grieving daughter Clemmie, there was no sign in the smoldering ruin of the cases in which the children were being kept, suggesting that whoever killed Donnie Ray had also dispatched the Swishers, recovering the kids along the way. The remaining two children were in the possession of Devin Vaughn and Mark Triton, and both men were understandably anxious that the Seeley difficulty should be resolved as quickly as possible.
But Aldo Bern was very weary.
BERN UNDERSTOOD THAT TROUBLES, when they came, had a habit of arriving not individually but in numbers. That was life, as Frank sang— or maybe it was Marion Montgomery first; Bern couldn’t say for sure—but sometimes those troubles were cumulative, caused by a failure to pay attention to details. A pebble dislodged on a hillside by a careless step caused a stone to shift, followed by a rock, then a boulder, until finally everybody was lying under a ton of rubble.
Bern tried to locate the moment when that first pebble had come loose. It might have been when Blas Urrea offered Devin Vaughn a seat on the cryptocurrency carousel, a ride on which Urrea himself had opted to pass. Then again, it might have been the gold or the scrap metal, and before that the coke and the fentanyl. It might even have been their initial meeting, when nothing more than a handshake had been exchanged. Bern wasn’t prepared to go so far as to describe Blas Urrea as the author of their misfortune, but he’d helped underwrite it. Devin Vaughn had done the rest himself.
Bern couldn’t recall the last day that had gone by without some contact from Devin: a fire that needed to be extinguished, or a decision that required Bern’s input. Bern had grown to accept that he’d cease to be bothered by others only when he was dead, although even then, given the life he’d led, his problems might only be starting. Nonetheless, the days when he would have preferred not to turn on his phone were becoming more frequent, as were those when he elected not to pick up a newspaper or watch BBC News first thing. Bern wondered whether it was a function of age: that at some point a person had seen and heard enough, so that even the seemingly infinite variations on human suffering grew monotonous.
I should have walked away long before now , he reflected. I ought to have left Devin to navigate this world’s obstacles unaided .
I stayed too long.
I am a dead man.
BERN COULD HAVE ASSIGNED the task of tracking down and neutralizing Eugene Seeley to an underling or independent operator, but he didn’t like farming out scut work to others, notably when it might involve taking a life. It wasn’t that Bern cared to spare someone else from guilt, because he knew plenty of men, and a few women, who had a better chance of spelling guilt than feeling it. However, all those movies featuring intelligent, ruthless, highly paid professional assassins charging seven-figure fees for hits were, in Bern’s experience, largely horseshit—Reapers being among the few exceptions, and even they had been relatively affordable. A modest four-figure sum would buy you a disposable chump with a gun and no conscience. Five figures would secure you someone who might actually do the job without getting caught, or slipping on the blood and knocking themselves unconscious. No, it was more that murder was a solemn endeavor, and the fewer trailing hooks and loose ends left after the act, the better. That was why, in all his years of lawbreaking, Aldo Bern had sanctioned only a handful of killings. In Bern’s view, executing someone wasn’t just a last resort but an admission of failure.
And while competent individuals capable of murdering for money were rare, rarer still were the ones who could be relied on not to give up their paymasters under pressure. Offer them the choice of a needle or life with or without the possibility of parole and most would bite your hand off for a clean cell and three squares a day. That went double for somewhere like Tennessee, a state that always did have a taste for execution. Back in the thirties and forties, Tennessee was executing up to three prisoners a day. Now it was down to about three a year, but the executioners had a reputation for being half-assed by botching the lethal injection, and the electric chair would strike only the most desperate as a more favorable option. Hell, Tennessee liked judicial killings so much that if it couldn’t buy poison and the power went out, some hillbilly would beat you to death with a rock and invoice the state for his efforts. In Bern’s view, the perfect assassination would conclude with the suicide of the assassin, but it being difficult to find a triggerman who might consent to such an arrangement, he had now been forced to take action personally. After all, if you couldn’t trust yourself, who could you trust? So Bern would find Eugene Seeley, and the woman from Mexico too, and kill them both.
INITIALLY, BERN HAD FEARED that the Nashville Codex Corporation might be nothing more than a front—a bare-bones website, a private commercial mailbox, and a telephone number that went to an answering service in India or Pakistan—but someone, somewhere, was producing ornately restored and reworked Bibles and religious books in the name of the NCC and accepting money in return. A little digging came up with an address that was now the site of a housing development, with no connection to the NCC. But thanks to the banker Elena Díaz, Bern knew of the various financial institutions with which the NCC did business and the account from which monthly payments were made to Shining Stone Senior Living in Murfreesboro to ensure that the NCC’s nominal president, Varick Howlett, didn’t expire facedown in his soup.
Meanwhile, a visit to Shining Stone confirmed that Howlett remained alive, because Bern was admitted to his company, or what passed for it, Howlett now consisting of barely more than a wrinkled bag of fragile bones that spoke little and remembered less. As if to prove the point, Howlett opened his eyes, regarded Bern blearily, mumbled something unintelligible, and immediately nodded off again.
Bern had brought a bunch of flowers, some premium marshmallows, and a refurbished iPod Nano onto which he had downloaded a selection of songs from the fifties. He sat next to Howlett as one of the orderlies hovered watchfully nearby, just in case Bern took it into his head to begin beating up on the old man. The dayroom felt uncomfortably hot to Bern, but was barely warm enough for Howlett and the other residents, who were all wrapped in layers of clothing and blankets.
“Varick doesn’t get many visitors,” said the orderly, “or not beyond the usual one, and even she don’t come by more than once or twice a year.”
The orderly’s badge identified her as Loucilla, one of those older Southern Black names passed down from generation to generation, and not always to be embraced with gratitude. Loucilla must have been content enough with hers; she could easily have shortened it otherwise.
“I worked for the Nashville Codex Corporation until I retired a few years ago,” said Bern. “I live in the Northeast now and don’t get back here very often, but I remain invested in Mr. Howlett’s care.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m glad to hear you calling him Varick so fondly, but to me, he was always ‘Mr. Howlett.’ Funny how these habits linger, no matter how many years go by or how old we get. The boss remains the boss.”
Bern saw Loucilla begin to relax. He’d talked his way past the front desk while her superior, Brent Cutler, was tied up on a call, Bern arguing politely that he’d traveled far and had only so much time to spare. Loucilla must have been worried that Bern might get her fired. It was important that he set her mind at ease. If she was relaxed, she might reveal more.
A middle-aged man, wearing a cream short-sleeve shirt and a red, white, and blue tie held in place by a gold Jesus fish clip, entered the dayroom. Bern, who had never owned a short-sleeve shirt and wouldn’t have accessorized it with a tie if he had, summoned up all his reserves of patience and diplomacy. He recognized Cutler from his profile on Shining Stone’s website. Cutler, not Loucilla, was the person whom Bern really needed to bring onside.
“You must be Mr. Cutler,” Bern said, rising to extend a hand. “My name is Whittier. I’ve known Mr. Howlett for many years, since back when I worked for the Nashville Codex Corporation. Best job I ever had. I even retain business cards as mementoes.”
From a cheap steel case purchased in a discount tobacco outlet on Lebanon Pike, Bern produced one of a batch of cards he’d had run off in a print store. According to the card, he was George Whittier, Northeast Director of Sales (Retired)—or George Whitefield Whittier, named after one of the founders of Methodism.
“I believe that was why Mr. Howlett hired me,” said Bern, “even if I have to admit I got off lightly compared to him, Whitefield being less of a mouthful than Pantycelyn Strawbridge, fine compellations though they are.”
Just as Loucilla had done earlier, Cutler commented on Howlett’s general lack of visitors, and Bern offered the same explanation for his failure to present himself previously, adding that he couldn’t speak for the absence of any other current or former employees of the company.
“But Mr. Seeley comes by personally, doesn’t he?” asked Bern.
“We haven’t seen Mr. Seeley in years,” Cutler replied.
Cutler kept his tone neutral, avoiding any suggestion of judgment being passed, but it wasn’t hard to see that he regarded this lack of in-person contact as a failing on Seeley’s part, if not one to be criticized openly so long as the monthly payments continued to be made.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bern. “It may be that I should have a word with him. But someone does come by to check that Mr. Howlett’s needs are being met, right? Ms. Loucilla here alluded to a visitor.”
Cutler indicated that Loucilla should feel free to respond.
“Miss Mertie,” said Loucilla. “But she ain’t been in since Thanksgiving.”
“That would be Mertie Udine,” Cutler clarified. “I believe she’s Mr. Seeley’s personal assistant.”
“Of course,” said Bern. “Mertie knows what she’s doing. Nevertheless…”
He let his concern at Seeley’s lack of involvement hang unspoken yet audible to him that hath ears to hear. He moved on to discuss the playlist of songs on the iPod, which he said he’d assembled because he’d heard that music could be helpful or comforting to those tested by God in the manner of Mr. Howlett. After more polite chitchat, Cutler gave signs of wanting to be on his way, George Whitefield Whittier having delighted him long enough.
“Actually,” Bern added, “I’m not here solely to pay my respects to Mr. Howlett. As I was explaining to this kind young woman here, I’m also one of those responsible for ensuring that Mr. Howlett is well looked after, and for signing off on the relevant expenses.”
At this Cutler shifted into more obviously obsequious mode, allied to a defensiveness now that the subject of money was out in the open. Seven thousand dollars a month wasn’t chump change and Cutler wouldn’t want to lose residents—not even to death, if that could be postponed for as long as possible.
“I can assure you that Mr. Howlett’s care is second to none,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” said Bern, “especially now that I’ve seen this place for myself. But if you have a moment before I leave, I’d like a quick conversation about how those of us who knew him in his prime might be of greater assistance. It may even be appropriate to increase the payments, if that would help.”
Again, Bern lowered his voice. He placed a hand on Cutler’s shoulder.
“I’m distressed to learn that Mr. Howlett has been wanting for visitors,” said Bern. “He deserves better. It doesn’t say much for the Christianity of those responsible, and I’m not sparing myself in that regard. The only consolation is that he’s in the right facility and being watched over by the right people—and at the right price,” he added.
Bern figured he had pushed the correct buttons, but was assured of it when Cutler replied “Amen,” either instinctively or calculatedly, it didn’t matter which.
“Amen,” Bern echoed.
“Amen,” added Howlett, who was awake again, and Bern was surprised by the strength of his voice. On that word, at least, it barely faltered. Bern beamed down at him, and Howlett beamed back vacantly. Bern took Howlett’s right hand in his and squeezed it gently. Howlett’s skin was cold and slightly moist, the bones, unencumbered by spare flesh, palpable beneath. It reminded Bern of holding an uncooked chicken leg.
“Looks like he recalls you,” said Loucilla.
“Then I’ll sit with him, if I won’t be in the way.”
Loucilla positively glowed.
“I’m sure he’d like that very much.”
LOUCILLA, AIDED BY A male orderly, commenced checking on the other residents, some of whom had their attention focused on the big-screen television on the wall, where TV Land was showing the first of that afternoon’s episodes of Gunsmoke . Cutler returned to his office, promising that all Howlett’s records would be available for scrutiny at Bern’s convenience.
“Printed, please,” said Bern. “I’m old-fashioned that way.”
Bern took a seat in the armchair beside Howlett. He wished the dotard no injury, and even felt a degree of resentment toward Seeley on Howlett’s behalf. Whatever corporate structure Seeley had instituted required Howlett as a figurehead, which probably meant that, every so often, Howlett might have to make his mark on a document, perhaps witnessed by Cutler or a tame lawyer, everyone pretending that this stooped little bird of a man was somehow compos mentis enough to comprehend what he was signing. Then again, Seeley could have consigned Howlett to somewhere far worse than Shining Stone, which implied some residual affection. It made Bern more curious to meet Seeley, even if he would be forced to kill him soon after.
Bern placed a pair of padded headphones over Howlett’s ears and pressed the iPod’s play button, keeping the volume low at first so as not to cause any alarm. Only when he saw Howlett grin and heard him hum along tunelessly did he increase the sound. He stayed with Howlett for an hour and pretended not to notice when the old man cried.
LATER, IN CUTLER’S OFFICE, Bern used the information supplied to him by Elena Díaz to assuage any remaining reservations Cutler might have had about his bona fides. Since Bern was already familiar with account details and dates of payment, Cutler saw no difficulty in allowing him access to everything else, going back to Howlett’s admission fifteen years earlier. At that time, according to the paperwork, the Nashville Codex Corporation was based in Belle Meade, but those premises were sold shortly after Howlett arrived at Shining Stone. All this Bern had discovered through his own efforts. What he still didn’t know, and what Cutler’s documentation failed to reveal, was where the NCC might currently be based.
The contact number supplied by Seeley to Shining Stone was the same as the one on the NCC’s website. It wasn’t linked to any billing address, so was virtually guaranteed to be a prepaid account and contract-free; it was one thing for a man like Seeley to be contactable, but another to be locatable. The cost of Howlett’s care was covered by a shell company based in the Bahamas but paid for from a U.S. bank account. The company would have been required to provide proof of a physical address in the United States to open that account, though a mailbox might have sufficed. But a firm couldn’t produce ornate Bibles from a mailbox, not unless it was farming the work out to angels who could also dance on the head of a pin. Bern took in the shelves behind Cutler. Alongside the file boxes, folders, and books on elder care was a leather-bound Bible with fresh gold stamping on the spine. A thought struck Bern.
“Has Mr. Seeley donated Bibles to Shining Stone?” he asked.
“Not to Shining Stone,” Cutler replied, “but he was kind enough to offer some to my church.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Did you collect them, or did he drop them off himself?”
“Oh, there were too many for him to deliver unaided. Our church is one of a number involved in missionary work across Tennessee and the contiguous states. We hand out Bibles to the poor and the homeless. We also provide clothing and food, but man cannot live by bread alone.”
“So how did the Bibles get to you?”
“We collected them,” said Cutler. “From the house in Madison.”