The Long Fall

37

There was a bank of public-access computers on the first floor of the library. It was easy for me to look up society page newspaper articles, which finally gave me the location of the Hull residence. The family mansion was on a private road, Road Royale, thirty-five minutes north of the city.

Getting to the entrance of the road took forty minutes from the library parking lot.

I told the guard that I was delivering an envelope for Mr. Hull from a man named Jacobi, one of The Twelve, as Poppy Pollis called them.

The guard wasn’t very concerned, and I saw why when I had driven about three miles down the pastoral country road. The Hull home was protected by a fourteen-foot-high electrified black iron gate that was topped with razor wire. It looked like the domain of a wealthy Third World oppressor, not the second cousins of the tyrant but the thing itself.

I stopped at the front gate and pressed a coral-colored button.

It was a beautiful day. Birds were chattering and the clouds hung around gracefully appreciating the deep wood as they basked in the rising heat.

“Yes?” a young voice asked over the intercom.

“Leonid McGill for Bryant Hull,” I shouted. I always shout when speaking into intercoms.

I was expecting another question but instead the gate rolled to the side as if my coming were prophesied in one of Poppy Pollis’s old books of Albany lore.

The house was a letdown. I was expecting a Russian battleship replete with cannon and high metal buttresses but it was just a house; a big house, a very big house—a mansion in fact. It was four stories and took up the space of half a city block but my imagination had led me to expect so much more.

It was an old structure built from gray stone—intended to last. The front door was set back on a large green porch that was lined with twelve-foot pillars of white marble. Walking toward that door, it felt as if I were walking into the maw of a great gray and toothed toad.

I RANG THE BELL and waited for a while. The front door was at least fourteen feet high and eight wide. A big brass doorknob was in the lower center space. I had been standing there for maybe three minutes when the huge plank finally swung open.

“Yes?” the fair-skinned, russet-haired girl-child said. I knew her face from the articles I had perused at the library, which her great-grandfather had helped to build. From my reading I knew that she was twenty years old. Hannah could have passed for fifteen but she ®€…had none of the awkwardness of an adolescent.

When she looked at me she caught sight of something that was a part of her imagination. She smiled at the phantom I represented as I grinned at her beauty.

“Leonid McGill,” I said.

“May I help you?”

“I wanted to see your father, Hannah,” I said.

“Have we met?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Is he here?”

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“When do you expect him?”

“What is your business with my father, Mr. McGill?” This phrase I believed came from the instinctual caution of the wealthy.

“It’s a private matter.”

“Oh,” she said, pouting over the words. “Well . . . what do you do for a living?”

“Many things,” I said with gravity. “I work for myself, but always on someone else’s behalf.”

“That’s cryptic,” her college education said.

“We’ve just met,” I replied.

That got her to smile.

“Come on in.” She made a jaunty turn and led the way into the gray mausoleum.

Hannah traipsed down the entrance hall. She was wearing a tawny shift with an uneven hem that showed a lot of her powerful and slender legs. There was a city girl’s sway to her hips.

The hallway was lined with family portraits and pastel-colored doors.

We came to a room that was kidney-shaped and small. There was a burgundy couch and a matching chair arranged around a fireplace.

The girl gestured toward the chair.

“Please have a seat,” she said, or, rather, her breeding said with reflexive grace.

She flopped down on the sofa, pulling one foot up on the cushion.

I sat, taking care not to stare at her hamstrings.

“I want to be a pilot,” she said. This childish bravado I thought might be the real Hannah Hull. “What do you think about that, Mr. McGill?”

I hunched my shoulders and poked out my lower lip. “The sky’s the limit as far as I’m concerned.”

“That’s pretty brave of you.”

“What’s brave about telling a young person that they can do something?”

“My father might be mad at you,” she said speculatively.

“I don’t owe him a thing.”

This answer so surprised Hannah that she sat upright and stared.

“Why are you here?”

“Do you know a Thom Paxton or a Willie Sanderson?”

“I never heard of Thom Paxton. I don’t know a Willie, either, but once we had a woman work for us, a cleaning lady named Sanderson. Lita Sanderson. I don’t remember her having a family. Who are these people?”

“One of them died seventeen years ago,” I said. “The other, Sanderson, tried to kill me maybe seventy-two hours back.”

“He really tried to kill you?” She moved to the edge of her seat.

“Really, really.”

“And you think my father knows something about it?”

“I think he might know something about Paxton or Sanderson.”

“Murder is the worst crime man can commit,” she said.

“It’s very high on the list,” I agreed.

“I want to be a pilot,” she said again, “but I’m studying philosophy.”

“At Wellesley.”

“Yes. How do you know that?”

“The rich can’t hide much from the people,” I replied, thinking that I had heard the same words from my father, though intending something very different.

“I’m doing a summer paper on anarchism,” she went on, shrugging off my insincere Marxist patter. “It’s about people who believe that they are morally required to share the fates of their victims. In other words, the murderer must murder himself to keep his intentions pure. What do you think about that?”

I felt as if someone had stabb³€eone haded me in the liver. This pain didn’t start with Karmen Brown, it was something from a long time ago, a cloud that hung over the length of my entire life. It was rare that I was ever touched so deeply by a stranger. I looked up at the girl. Her expression was inscrutable but nonetheless intent.

“I need to speak to your father,” I said, automaton-like. “When will he be home?”

“They’re at our house in the city,” she said. “Two blocks north and half a block west of Gracie Mansion. It’s a big, ugly house.”

I stood up abruptly, feeling that knife shift in my gut.

Hannah stood up, too.

She reached out, maybe intending to stay me by touching my hand. But she didn’t touch me.

I have a daughter—sort of. I’m over half a century in age but I felt something very natural about this aborted invitation. There was a momentary connection between us.

“Who the hell are you?” someone shouted.

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