Terrible Praise Read online

  “It’ll dry out before we leave,” I assure her, and she places a hand up between us to say she’s backing off as she returns to her morning paper. I grab my tablet and open CNN.

  “Elizabeth…”

  “Hmm?”

  “You look terrible.”

  I smile around a large gulp of coffee. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “No, you do,” she insists. “Worse than usual, dear. Are you well?”

  I chuckle from behind my tablet, and set it aside. “Nothing a walk won’t fix.” I pat her bony hand, which she pulls away to fish her cell phone from the pocket of her robe. She moves so quickly I hear it ring before I can make any attempt to snatch it from her. “Mom it’s six thirty. Who are you calling?”

  “Dr. Gregg,” she whispers around the fingers muffling the microphone.

  “My pediatrician?”

  “He’s your doctor, Elizabeth, and a friend.”

  “He’s retired, and I am an adult now,” I snap, reaching over the island to grab the phone before anyone answers. Reluctantly, she hangs up, lips pursed. She stands slowly, a tremble passing through her legs, and wobbles to the sink to rinse her mug.

  “You really should get more rest,” she says, bracing herself against the sink. “Sleeplessness ages a woman, you know.”

  I tighten my grip around my own mug and force a smile. Homicide is never the answer.

  * * *

  Traffic is at a dead stop on Michigan Avenue this morning. Every third car seems to be laying on their horn as though the blame rests solely on the driver directly in front. My mother jumps every time. She’s never been one for loud noises, one reason she gave me for never having a second child. One shrieking infant, she said, was enough. Some days even my violin practice was too much. I steer my steps closer to her and lay a hand on her shoulder, as much to comfort as to guide.

  “Heathens,” she seethes. “This is why we have public transportation.”

  My movements feel sluggish today, my muscles stiff. I lose track of my mother’s one-sided conversation about the evolution of the Chicago Public Transit System and the invaluable role several of my forbearers played, as I try to recall the details of my dream last night. I really should start keeping a journal. They’re so much harder to reconstruct once I’ve left the limbo of my bed. I remember that I was standing over Mother’s bed. There was someone behind me, in the doorway. I was certain of the presence before I turned around.

  A jarring boom rumbles down the sidewalk and my mother wraps her hand around my wrist. She looks up at me anxiously as I take her hand, and steady her by the elbow. The gridlock bubbles over to the pavement and foot traffic comes to an abrupt halt.

  “I think we’ve walked enough today, Elizabeth.” My mother has stopped in the center of the sidewalk, but then, so has everyone else. She keeps a firm grip on my hand, tugging me back in the direction we came. I chance a glance over my shoulder, aghast. All I can see is a pale, white mane peeking up over the heads of the pedestrians behind us. Then the eyes, large and black and empty. Oddly familiar. Terrifying. Before I understand exactly what’s happening, and whether or not this is another nightmare, I’m on the ground beside a blue post box screaming with my arms raised, my eyes pressed shut.

  “Whoa! Easy now…Easy…Steady now.”

  When I open my eyes, Mother has one hand pressed to the horse’s neck and the other wrapped around a lock of its white mane. I sit on the pavement fighting for breath, my body drenched with sweat. A large man, equally winded, with a sun-kissed face and a dirty denim baseball cap comes rushing forward. He reaches out to take my hand, his face awash with concern.

  “Are you all right, hon?” The rancher steadies me on my feet. “You poor thing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He slaps me between the shoulders and turns his attention to my mother. “Thank you so much ma’am,” he gushes with an honest-to-goodness tip of his cap. “We’re just passing through from a show, and Buck here hates a long haul like nothin’ else.”

  Mother makes polite small talk with the flannel-clad southern gentleman as he wraps a bridle around the horse’s head. Buck shakes his thick neck and chomps the bit back in his teeth. “He don’t normally make such a fuss in his trailer. But it happened once or twice when he was young that he kicked his way loose.”

  “Magnificent animal,” my mother praises. She strokes along the beast’s broad pale nose as I stare into Buck’s wide black eyes. I watch the horse rear as the rancher turns him around, morning sun streaming down his haunches. My whole body goes cold at the sight.

  “Elizabeth?” My mother shakes me by the forearm. “Some equestrian you are. And after all the money we spent on riding lessons.”

  With difficulty, I pry my eyes from the fast-fading sight of the horse and back to my mother. “What?”

  “Are you crying?” My mother recoils, pulling her hand away as though weakness is a virus she might catch. Her expression is a strange mix of concern and alarm. I shake my head emphatically, but touch my fingers to my cheeks. I’m more than a little startled when they come away damp.

  “What’s gotten into you?” she gasps, tugging at my sleeve to resume the walk home. My eyes remain fixed on the moisture glistening on my fingertips.

  “I have no idea.”

  III

  The New Deal

  I cannot recall a time when I have enjoyed waiting for someone more than I do in this instance. The house is quiet, save the howling of two inbred Lhasa apsos locked in the cellar. I have been so patient, certain that he would betray us but without a crumb of evidence to prove it. Until now.

  A small part of me thinks it was a brave thing to do. Foolish and ignorant, but brave.

  Everything is as I would have it. The sound of his Bentley rumbling to a halt in his heated garage. His car keys ringing out against the marble counter in the kitchen where he discards them until morning. The falter of his confident steps as he regards the cries of his sniveling pups, trapped behind a locked door. Now he asks himself: Did Christine lock the dogs in the basement? No. Olivia maybe? Impossible.

  The wretched creatures yap and nip at his heels when he frees them. I hear their clipped nails drumming along the hardwood floors, across the kitchen tile, up the carpeted staircase—tracking my scent through his home. They call to their beloved master when they trace me to his office. Their tiny paws pound the closed door, digging at the space between it and the floor, searching for a way inside.

  His steps rush across the landing to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He rummages loudly through his belongings, slamming drawers until he finds his courage. I hear the cold steel click of a cocked hammer, and I can scarcely contain my anticipation. He chides the pups for their raucous whimpering and scoots their soft bodies to safety with his foot.

  A hand on the door.

  A deep breath.

  A moment’s valor.

  He steps across the threshold with the pistol raised, and inches into his own darkened office. The light from the hall falls over my face and he finds me seated, once again, at his chair behind the desk. This time in his home with his personal records splayed in front of me.

  “Good evening, Andy.” I bare my teeth and the paste-like pallor of his normally ruddy face twists from a look of recognition into abject contempt. The gun shakes in his hand as he lowers it to his side, and flips the light on the wall with his elbow.

  “What are you doing in my home?” His voice is a low growl, which might sound threatening were he a worthy adversary and not a traitorous servant.

  I arch an incredulous brow. “Your home?” I throw the heels of my boots up on the corner of his elegant desk, lazily sweeping my hands around the room. “Andy, all that you have is ours.”

  He swallows firmly, rubbing a hand over his mouth and forehead to mop his own sweat. He closes the door behind him and walks to the front of the desk, his eyes scanning the folders strewn about.

  “Why are you here?” he asks, tapping the barrel of the gun against the de
sk. I could not have wished for a better reaction than the one he is so generously providing. It is all that I hoped for and more, since the very first time I imagined this confrontation.

  “Put that away, Andrew,” I warn. “A weapon will not save you, and I find the presence of gun in a civil conversation quite rude.”

  The gun quivers in his grasp—his attempt to unnerve me having failed—and he lets it drop from his fingertips and clatter on the table. Andrew removes his suit jacket and with his last shred of dignity, settles perfectly straight in the chair across from me. To his credit, he outwardly appears as calm and composed as he would be walking into any negotiation. But there can be no compromise tonight. There is only one thing I want. I throw my feet down on the floor and he jerks in his seat, his hand shooting up to cover his neck, which he tries to play off as loosening his silk tie.

  “Something to drink first?” I can hardly help myself, his panic is intoxicating and I want this to last. His fingers flex around the armrests when I rise and cross to the bar in the corner. The spread is arranged on a small glass cabinet, identical to the bar in his office.

  Holstein and Beech, the old-money investment firm Andrew’s great-great-grandfather, Harold Opes—then a mere banker—conquered through a takeover with the aid of his most affluent client, Fane, whom he knew as Stephen Radu. Harold was seduced by the promise of a fortune that would follow his family through the ages, and cement Harold’s legacy. A firm handshake in those days was the whole of the transaction, and a bargain was struck. The Opes family gained Holstein and Beech, and we made good on our promise. Dealing directly with me, an heir from each generation retains control of the firm, which now bears the Opes name, and in return Fane’s wealth is kept hidden in various shell companies and off-shore accounts. It has enjoyed steady growth for decades without incident. Which brings me back to the problem of Andrew Opes.

  “Scotch is your preferred indulgence, is it not?” I ask, but I already know the answer. I drop a perfect cube of ice into a short glass, and pour two fingers of Johnny Walker Black Label. Andrew watches me silently, unable to look anywhere else as I run a slice of lemon around the lip of the glass and drop it gingerly into the amber liquid. I have studied Rachel so closely for so long, the preparation is automatic.

  Andrew’s blood rushes through his veins as I circle him, his pulse so loud I am almost faint with the promise of what will soon follow. I stand behind him and lean over his shoulder, settling the glass in his trembling hand. My fingers run up the tops of his weak arms as I pull away, and his body shakes with the slightest touch. I need a moment for myself before continuing, to gather my faculties and my control. It would be a shame to see all my meticulous planning spoiled by gluttony.

  “Rachel sent details of the account in the Caymans,” I bait. Andrew says nothing, but takes a long sip. I must credit his reserve. He barely blinks. His pulse, however, tells a different story. “Did you know that I keep a record of every statement you have ever given me filed away for safekeeping?” He nods slightly, to ensure I have been heard, but he seems to recognize that he can make no stronger defense than his continued silence. His eyes are distant, intentionally empty.

  I reclaim my seat behind his desk and remove a folded envelope from my jacket pocket. “Lovely girl, Rachel. No excuses, no delays.” I open the envelope and remove the documents I compiled for Fane earlier this evening. They detail balance, withdrawals and deposits into my Lord’s second largest account. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the monthly balances appear to be repeating themselves, down to the cent, every two years.”

  I lift the packet to his eyes. Andrew takes the corner of one page with his free hand, running his eyes down the assorted balances, before he lets the paper float to the desk. He leans back in his seat, flicking his tie free from the front of his trousers and takes another long drink. His swollen belly puckers the buttons of his starched white Oxford.

  “Tell me, Andrew, did you think you could hide this from me forever?” I flip open a folder of his personal finances, and turn them around to face him. Charges made to the Cayman’s account, with his authorizing signature and expert forgeries of mine. Withdrawals of varying amounts, vacations, a summer villa in the south of France, a BMW for his wife Olivia, orthodonture for Christine. Every penny accounted for, but no credits toward the funds he liberated, no payment ledgers that I could find in the hours between Olivia leaving for yoga and Andrew returning home for the evening.

  He parts his lips, about to speak, and raises his glass again looking me square in the eye. He brushes the knee of his trousers, scrubbing away a smudged paw print. My anger is beginning to get the better of me.

  “Perhaps I have done a poor job of impressing upon you the severity of my allegations, Andy. Now would be a good time to speak.” I tap the edge of the folder against the desk. Andrew finishes his drink and stares down into the melting ice, watching it clink against the glass as he swirls the cup, gathering the last droplets of scotch in the watery residue. Waste not, I suppose. His silence spreads out between us. When I think he will freeze me out completely, he straightens quickly in his chair, as though waking from an unpleasant dream.

  “All that I have is yours,” he reflects, speaking softly to himself. “All that I have.”

  Finally, a bit of progress. I lean forward and rest my chin upon my palm. There is a storm brewing inside this horrid little man as he begins to accept his fate. I am more than anxious for a glimpse behind the mask of polite indifference.

  “What did you expect, Kathryn? What did the elusive Mr. Radu expect?” he asks with a scotch-sharpened tongue. I smile.

  “Do go on, Andrew.”

  “Did you think you could purchase a family? That you could own me? Isn’t that the purpose of this meeting?” His chest heaves, a dangerous glint burning bright behind his eyes. “When my dogs misbehave I tap their noses with my finger. They cry, they hide their faces, and they piss on the floor in submission. Is that what you expect me to do?” He tosses his glass across the table—drunk on his own fury—and folds his hands across his belly, settling back in his chair with a smug smile.

  For the life of me, I cannot understand how the man could have so little concern for his own safety by speaking so openly about his betrayal. I walk around the desk, taking a seat on the edge of the table, my legs spread open on either side of him. The angle forces him to look up at my face. I lower my eyes to his and run my fingers up along his neck, holding his clammy jowls in my hands.

  “Yes.” I stroke his warm cheeks with my thumbs. “That is exactly what we thought.”

  Andrew’s watery gray eyes blink rapidly, the rims bloodshot from a long day of imbibing. He makes a move to pull his face free, but I catch his head between my hands and keep his eyes on mine. Locked in my gaze, a single push for calm would be enough to strip the wind from his sails and leave him complacent, completely without fear. I do no such thing.

  “That is exactly what we have done, Andrew. What we will continue to do. All that you have, my friend. Your daughter notwithstanding.”

  He rips his head free and spits upon my face, quaking in his seat. “Fuck you.”

  I sit up straight and wipe my cheek with the end of his silk tie. My fingers wind playfully around the noose at his neck, before I jerk him forward. The seat flies out from under him, leaving him on his knees at my feet. The tie constricts his circulation, his face bulging and bloated with blood.

  “That was always the trouble with you,” I sigh. “From the time you were a boy you were smug. Tell me, Andy. Are you smug now?” With every word I bring my face closer to his, inch by inch. “Exposed, clawing at your throat, kneeling before the thing you hate most in this world? The very thing that made you the man you are today?” I see the whites of his eyes and release him. Andrew grips the carpet with his nails, gulping down the air that fights its way into his lungs and coughing at the force of it. He sits back on his heels, staring up at me.

  “Are you smug, Kathryn
?” he challenges with a tilt of his head. The anger coursing through him makes him lose all sense of decorum. “I may be a pencil-pushing accountant. But you? You’re nothing but a glorified errand boy.”

  My hand closes around his throat before I can think better of the act. Andrew is off the ground in an instant and prostrate on his desk, his fingers clawing at my hand, up my forearm. I have the presence of mind to watch my grip—firm enough to keep him trapped, but not so constricting that he should have the sweet luxury of fainting—and bring my lips to his ear.

  “A message then,” I whisper, “from our Master. As one errand boy to another.” I lift my head and part my lips so Andrew can watch my fangs descend and finally see me for exactly what I am, affirming the stories he has been told.

  The fleshy folds of his throat offer no protest, and I admit, I tear the skin back cruelly. He screams, of course, what else can he do? He kicks the sock clad heels of both feet against the back of my legs. I close my mouth over the wound, drinking loudly, my teeth driving deeper as I struggle to stop at taking only what is needed. His body jerks against the table, and soon the cursing, the shouting stops. Tears fall freely down his temple as all that he thought he owned slips away from him.

  The blood always tells a story. This time, the unremarkable tale of Andrew’s brief existence, rushing down my throat and playing on a reel behind my eyes. Andrew as a boy, no more than eight, running through the halls of Opes and Sons to his father’s basement office where he sees me for the first time, sitting with a sly smile across the desk from Robert Opes. I ruffle his hair, and Andrew sneers at the touch of my cool hand—hurried out of the room by his father’s secretary. I am there with him the first time he lays eyes on Olivia, a blushing schoolgirl in a lavender gown with a white carnation pinned to her breast. And finally, Christine, pink and slick in his arms. Her small, naked eyes opening to look upon her father’s beaming face. But Christine does not stare into Andrew’s eyes, she stares into mine. This frail creature, warm to the touch, curling in the crook of her father’s arm. I feel her as clearly as I can feel him now. The sight of her ignites a fire in my chest.