What You Owe Me

Chapter nine: Midnight At Pier Two

Pike did not raise his voice. He looked at the seven directors, still frozen in their leather chairs, and said, "I believe this meeting is adjourned."

No one argued. Chairs scraped. Folders were gathered with shaking hands, and the directors filed out past the portrait of Nora's father without a word, Tench last of all, not looking at anyone. Somewhere in the confusion the Danforth lawyer slipped out as well. Jonah heard the door close behind him and his quick footsteps in the corridor.

Then there were only three of them in the long room.

Pike laid his hand flat on the ledger. When he spoke, he sounded like a man reading a lease aloud to a tenant.

"A debt may be paid by another," he said. "That is a courtesy the House allows. But it is allowed only with the House's consent, and Mr. Pruitt, you never asked for it."

"I didn't know I had to," Jonah said.

"Ignorance is not a currency. We do not accept it either." Pike's tone did not change. "The payment you made will be audited tonight, at midnight, on Pier Two."

Jonah felt his stomach tighten. Of all the places in the city.

"If the payment holds, the account stands, and Miss Kessler's clock stays where you set it. If it is counterfeit, you will be entered in the book as a defaulter. The House will collect from you the way it collected from Aldo."

"And what does that mean?" Nora asked sharply. She had moved to stand beside Jonah without seeming to decide to.

Pike turned his courteous gaze on her. "It means there will be no body," he said. "No grief. Only a gap where he used to be."

The room was very quiet. Out in the yard a crane groaned and went still.

Pike reached inside his gray coat and drew out a long chain. Something hung at the end of it, swinging gently in the light from the windows. It was a split piece of dark wood, notched along one edge.

Jonah's own stick began to hum in his fist.

The two pieces were the same length and the same age. Their grain matched, line for line, like two halves of a torn page. Pike held his up beside Jonah's hand, and for a moment the air between them seemed to tremble.

"Your mother signed for it," Pike said.

Jonah's head came up. "My mother signed for what?"

"Bring yours tonight." Pike let the chain slide back into his coat. "It is the other half of a very old promise."

He said nothing more. He did not need to. It was the only bait he had set out, and Jonah had already taken it.

"I'll be there," Jonah said.

"Jonah." Nora caught his sleeve. "Don't. You can't walk into an audit on this man's word. You don't know what he wants, or what's waiting for you out there."

"He said my mother signed for it." Jonah's voice came out low. "Three days ago I didn't know she was dead. If there is something she left me, I'm not going to stay away from it because I'm afraid."

Nora's jaw worked. She did not like it, and she said so a second time, and a third. But she let go of his sleeve.

Pike inclined his head, the way a man does when a bargain has been struck. He tucked the ledger under his arm and crossed to the tall windows, where he stood looking down at the drive like a man waiting for a train.

That was when Jonah heard it. Gravel, under tires. Many tires.

Down on the drive, a convoy was rolling through the gates of Kessler Hall. Walter Danforth's black sedan led it, with Preston's silver coupe close behind. A sheriff's cruiser followed, and two deputies in tan uniforms got out of it before it had fully stopped. One of them carried a folded paper.

The lawyer had not wasted a minute.

Nora squared her shoulders. "Stay here."

"No," said Jonah.

She looked at him. Then she nodded once, and went out, and he followed three steps behind.

The morning was bright and cold. Nora walked onto the front steps of Kessler Hall and stopped at the top, her coat open in the wind. The cars had pulled up in the broad gravel drive. The deputies were already coming up the path, with Walter strolling behind them and Preston a step behind that.

"That is far enough," Nora said.

Her voice carried. The deputies slowed. Walter raised a hand, and they stopped at the edge of the gravel, where the drive met the lawn.

Walter smiled at her. He wore a gray overcoat and a patient expression, and he looked like a man who had come to settle a small misunderstanding. "Miss Kessler. I'm sorry to trouble you on a Monday."

"You are on my property," Nora said. "Every one of you. Leave."

"Of course. As soon as we've done what we came for." Walter spoke calmly, almost kindly. "I'm afraid you've been sheltering a man named Jonah Pruitt. He is a parolee who has violated the terms of his release. He failed to report this morning, and in the eyes of the state he is a fugitive." He nodded toward the deputies. "These gentlemen are here to take him in. I would hate to see you accused of harboring."

The deputy with the paper held it up, as if that settled things.

Nora did not move. "Mr. Pruitt is my guest."

"I'm sure he is."

Jonah stepped out from behind her.

He did it quietly. He walked to the edge of the top step, in his canvas jacket, with the wind pulling at his collar, and stood where Walter could see him.

Walter's eyes found him.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The smile stayed in place, the way a coat stays on a hook after the man has left it. Then it began to fail. It slipped at one corner, then the other. His face did not change so much as empty.

Jonah's voice was very quiet.

"Nobody saw a thing," he said. "I heard you say it."

Preston, who had been smiling over his father's shoulder, took a step back.