The Matlock Paper Page 11

  Matlock was struck by the serenity of Herron’s home. He’d never really looked at the house before. A dozen times, more or less, he’d driven Lucas home after faculty meetings, but he’d always been in a hurry. He’d never accepted Lucas’s invitations for a drink and, as a result, he had never been inside the house.

  He got out of the car and approached the old brick structure. It was tall and narrow; the faded stone covered with thousands of strands of ivy heightened the feeling of isolation. In front, on the large expanse of lawn, were two Japanese willow trees in full spring bloom, their purple flowers cascading toward the earth in large arcs. The grass was cut, the shrubbery pruned, and the white gravel on the various paths was gleaming. It was a house and grounds which were loved and cared for, yet one had the feeling that they were not shared. It was the work of and for one person, not two or a family. And then Matlock remembered that Lucas Herron had never married. There were the inevitable stories of a lost love, a tragic death, even a runaway bride-to-be, but whenever Lucas Herron heard about such youthful romanticizing he countered with a chuckle and a statement about being “too damned selfish.”

  Matlock walked up the short steps to the door and rang the bell. He tried practicing an opening smile, but it was false; he wouldn’t be able to carry it off. He was afraid.

  The door swung back and the tall, white-haired Lucas Herron, dressed in wrinkled trousers and a half-unbuttoned, oxford-blue shirt, stared at him.

  It was less than a second before Herron spoke, but in that brief instant, Matlock knew that he’d been wrong. Lucas Herron knew why he had come.

  “Well, Jim! Come in, come in, my boy. A pleasant surprise.”

  “Thank you, Lucas. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Not a thing. You’re just in time, as a matter of fact. I’m dabbling in alchemy. A fresh fruit gin Collins. Now I won’t have to dabble alone.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The inside of Herron’s house was precisely as Matlock thought it would be—as his own might be in thirty-odd years, if he lived that long alone. It was a mixed bag, an accumulated total of nearly half a century of unrelated gatherings from a hundred unrelated sources. The only common theme was comfort; there was no concern for style or period or coordination. Several walls were lined with books, and those which were not were filled with enlarged photographs of places visited abroad—one suspected during sabbaticals. The armchairs were thick and soft, the tables within arm’s reach—the sign of practiced bachelorhood, thought Matlock.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever been here—inside, I mean.”

  “No, I haven’t. It’s very attractive. Very comfortable.”

  “Yes, it’s that. It’s comfortable. Here, sit down, I’ll finish the formula and bring us a drink.” Herron started across the living room toward what Matlock presumed was the door to the kitchen and then stopped and turned. “I know perfectly well that you haven’t come all the way out here to liven up an old man’s cocktail hour. However, I have a house rule: at least one drink—religion and strong principles permitting—before any serious discussion.” He smiled and the myriad lines around his eyes and temples became more pronounced. He was an old, old man. “Besides, you look terribly serious. The Collins’ll lessen the degree, I promise you.”

  Before Matlock could answer, Herron walked rapidly through the door. Instead of sitting, Matlock walked to the wall nearest him, against which was a small writing desk, above it a half-dozen photographs that hung in no discernible pattern. Several were of Stonehenge taken from the same position, the setting sun at dramatically different angles. Another was of a rock-bound coast, mountains in the distance, fishing boats moored offshore. It looked Mediterranean, possibly Greece or the Thracian Islands. Then there was a surprise. On the lower right side of the wall, only inches above the desk, was a small photograph of a tall, slender army officer standing by the trunk of a tree. Behind him the foliage was profuse, junglelike; to the sides were the shadows of other figures. The officer was helmetless, his shirt drenched with sweat, his large right hand holding the stock of a submachine gun. In his left hand the officer held a folded piece of paper—it looked like a map—and the man had obviously just made a decision. He was looking upward, as though toward some high terrain. The face was taut but not excited. It was a good face, a strong face. It was a dark-haired, middle-aged Lucas Herron.

  “I keep that old photograph to remind me that time was not always so devastating.”

  Matlock snapped up, startled. Lucas had reentered and had taken him off guard. “It’s a good picture. Now I know who really won that war.”

  “No doubt about it. Unfortunately, I never heard of that particular island either before or since. Someone said it was one of the Solomons. I think they blew it up in the fifties. Wouldn’t take much. Couple of fire crackers’d do it. Here.” Herron crossed to Matlock, handing him his drink.

  “Thanks. You’re too modest. I’ve heard the stories.”

  “So have I. Impressed the hell out of me. They grow better as I grow older.… What do you say we sit in the back yard. Too nice to stay indoors.” Without waiting for a reply, Herron started out and Matlock followed.

  Like the front of the house, the back was precisely manicured. On a flagstone patio, there were comfortable-looking, rubber-stranded beach chairs, each with a small table by its side. A large wrought-iron table with a sun umbrella was centered in the middle of the flagstones. Beyond, the lawn was close cropped and full. Dogwood trees were dotted about, each spaded around its trunk, and two lines of flowers—mostly roses—stretched lengthwise to the end of the lawn, about a hundred feet away. At the end of the lawn, however, the pastoral effect abruptly stopped. Suddenly there were huge trees, the underbrush thick, mangled, growing within itself. The side borders were the same. Around the perimeters of the sculptured back lawn was an undisciplined, overgrown forest.

  Lucas Herron was surrounded by a forbidding green wall.

  “It is a good drink, you’ll admit.” The two men were seated.

  “It certainly is. You’ll convert me to gin.”

  “Only in spring and summer. Gin’s not for the rest of the year.… All right, young fellow, the house rule’s been observed. What brings you to Herron’s Nest?”

  “I think you have an idea.”

  “Do I?”

  “Archie Beeson.” Matlock watched the old man, but Herron’s concentration was on his glass. He showed no reaction.

  “The young history man?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll make a fine teacher one day. Nice little filly of a wife, too.”

  “Nice … and promiscuous, I think.”

  “Appearances, Jim.” Herron chuckled. “Never thought of you as Victorian.… One grows infinitely more tolerant of the appetites as one gets older. And the innocent whetting of them. You’ll see.”

  “Is that the key? The tolerance of appetites?”

  “Key to what?”

  “Come on. He wanted to reach you the other night.”

  “Yes, he did. And you were there.… I understand your behavior left something to be desired.”

  “My behavior was calculated to leave that impression.” For the first time Herron betrayed a trace of concern. It was a small reaction, the blinking of his eyes in rapid succession.

  “That was reprehensible.” Herron spoke softly and looked up at his imposing green wall. The sun was going below the line of tall trees; long shadows were cast across the lawn and patio.

  “It was necessary.” Matlock saw the old man’s face wince in pain. And then he recalled his own reaction to Adam Williams’ description of the “unpleasant necessity” of sending Sam Kressel the false report of his actions at Lumumba Hall. The parallel hurt.

  “The boy’s in trouble. He’s sick. It’s a disease and he’s trying to cure himself. That takes courage.… This is no time for campus Gestapo tactics.” Herron took a long drink from his glass while his free hand gripped the arm of the
chair.

  “How did you know about it?”

  “That might be privileged information. Let’s say I heard from a respected co-worker of ours—in the medical line—who ran across the symptoms and became concerned. What difference does it make? I tried to help the boy and I’d do it again.”

  “I’d like to believe that. It’s what I wanted to believe.”

  “Why is that difficult for you?”

  “I don’t know.… Something at the front door a few minutes ago. Perhaps this house. I can’t put my finger on it.… I’m being completely honest with you.”

  Herron laughed but still avoided Matlock’s eyes. “You’re too wound up in the Elizabethans. The plots and counterplots of The Spanish Tragedy.… You young faculty crusaders should stop trying to be an amateur Scotland Yard. Not too long ago it was fashionable around here to have Red Dogs for breakfast. You’re just magnifying the situation out of proportion.”

  “That’s not true. I’m not a faculty crusader. I’m no part of that crowd, and I think you know it.”

  “What was it then? Personal interest? In the boy. Or his wife?… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I’m glad you did. I have no interest in Virginia Beeson—sexual or otherwise. Although I can’t imagine what else there would be.”

  “Then you put on quite an act.”

  “I certainly did. I took extreme measures to keep Beeson from knowing why I was there. It was that important.”

  “To whom?” Herron slowly put his glass down with his right hand, his left still gripped the arm of the chair.

  “To people beyond this campus. Washington people. The federal authorities …”

  Lucas Herron took a sudden, sustained intake of breath through his nostrils. In front of Matlock’s eyes, Herron’s face began to drain itself of color. When he spoke, he did so barely above a whisper.

  “What are you saying?”

  “That I was approached by a man from the Justice Department. The information he showed me was frightening. Nothing was trumped up, nothing over-dramatized. It was straight data. I was given a free choice whether to cooperate or not.”

  “And you accepted?” Herron’s words were uttered softly in disbelief.

  “I didn’t feel there was an alternative. My younger brother …”

  “You didn’t feel there was an alternative?” Herron rose from his chair, his hands began to shake, his voice grew in intensity. “You didn’t feel there was an alternative?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Matlock remained calm. “That’s why I came out here. To warn you, old friend. It’s much deeper—far more dangerous …”

  “You came out here to warn me?! What have you done? What in the name of everything sacred have you done?… Now, you listen to me! You listen to what I say!” Herron backed off, bumping into the small side table. In one whip of his left arm, he sent it crashing onto the flagstones. “You let it go, do you hear me! You go back and tell them nothing! Nothing exists! It’s all … all in their imaginations! Don’t touch it! Let it go!”

  “I can’t do that,” said Matlock gently, suddenly afraid for the old man. “Even Sealfont will have to agree. He can’t fight it any longer. It’s there, Lucas …”

  “Adrian! Adrian’s been told?… Oh, my God, do you know what you’re doing? You’ll destroy so much. So many, many … Get out of here! Get out! I don’t know you! Oh, Jesus! Jesus!”

  “Lucas, what is it?” Matlock got up and took several steps toward the old man. Herron continued backing away, an old man in panic.

  “Don’t come near me! Don’t you touch me!”

  Herron turned and started running as well as his ancient legs could carry him across the lawn. He stumbled, falling to the ground, and picked himself up. He didn’t look back. Instead he ran with all his might toward the rear of the yard, toward the overgrown woods. And then he disappeared through his huge green wall.

  “Lucas! For Christ’s sake!” Matlock raced after the old man, reaching the edge of the woods only seconds behind him. Yet he was nowhere in sight. Matlock whipped at the overgrowth in front of him and stepped into the tangled mass of foliage. Branches slashed back at him, and the intricate webbings of giant weeds ensnared his feet as he kicked his way into the dense woods.

  Herron was gone.

  “Lucas! Where are you?!”

  There was no answer, only the rustling of the disturbed growth behind him. Matlock went farther into the forest, ducking, crouching, sidling by the green barriers in front of him. There was no sign of Lucas Herron, no sound.

  “Lucas! For God’s sake, Lucas, answer me!”

  Still no reply, no hint of presence.

  Matlock tried to look around him, tried to spot a break in the patterns of foliage, a route to follow. He could see none. It was as if Lucas were matter one moment, vapor the next.

  And then he heard it. Indistinct, from all sides of him, echoing softly from some unknown place. It was a deep-throated moan, a wail. Near, yet far in the dense distance. And then the wail diminished and became a plaintive sob. A single sob, punctuated by a single word—clear, and spoken in hatred.

  The word was—

  “Nimrod …”

  12

  “Goddamn it, Matlock! I told you to stay put until I contacted you!”

  “Goddamn it, Greenberg! How did you get into my apartment?!”

  “You didn’t get your window fixed.”

  “You haven’t offered to pay for it.”

  “We’re even. Where have you been?”

  Matlock threw his car keys on the coffee table and looked at his broken stereo set in the corner. “It’s an involved story and I suspect … pathetic. I’ll tell you all about it after I’ve had a drink. My last one was interrupted.”

  “Get me one, too. I’ve also got a story and mine’s definitely pathetic.”

  “What do you drink?”

  “Very little, so whatever you’re having is fine.”

  Matlock looked out his front window. The curtains were strewn on the floor where he had torn them in front of Adam Williams. The sun was almost down now. The spring day was over. “I’m going to squeeze some lemons and have a fresh fruit Tom Collins.”

  “Your file says you drink bourbon. Sour mash.”

  Matlock looked at the federal agent. “Does it?”

  Greenberg followed Matlock into the kitchen and watched in silence as he fixed their drinks. Matlock handed the federal man his glass.

  “Looks fancy.”

  “It’s not … Whose pathetic story gets first telling?”

  “I’ll want to hear yours, of course, but under the circumstances, mine has priority.”

  “You sound ominous.”

  “No. Just pathetic.… I’ll start by asking you if you’d care to know where I’ve been since I dropped you off.” Greenberg leaned against the counter.

  “Not particularly, but you’ll tell me anyway.”

  “Yes, I will. It’s part of the pathos. I was out at your local airport—Bradley Field—waiting for a jet dispatched by Justice a few hours ago from Dulles. There was a man on the plane who brought me two sealed envelopes which I had to sign for. Here they are.” Greenberg reached into his jacket pocket and took out two long business envelopes. He put one on the counter and began to open the second.

  “They look very official,” said Matlock, edging himself up so that he sat next to the sink, his long legs dangling over the side in front of the cabinets.

  “They couldn’t be more official.… This envelope contains the summary of our conclusions based on information you gave us—gave me. It ends with a specific recommendation. I’m allowed to convey this information in my own words as long as I cover all the facts.…”

  “Jason Greenberg gets two points.”

  “However,” continued the federal man without acknowledging Matlock’s interruption, “the contents of the second envelope must be delivered verbatim. You are to read it thoroughly—should it be necessary—and if it�
��s acceptable, you’ve got to acknowledge that by your signature.”

  “This gets better and better. Am I running for the Senate?”

  “No, you’re just running.… I’ll start as instructed.” Greenberg glanced at the unfolded paper and then looked across at Matlock. “The man at Lumumba Hall named Julian Dunois—alias Jacques Devereaux, Jésus Dambert, and probably several others we don’t know about—is a legal strategist for the Black Left militants. The term legal strategist covers everything from court manipulations to agent provocateur. When involved with the former, he uses the name of Dunois, the latter—any number of aliases. He operates out of unusual places geographically. Algiers, Marseilles, the Caribbean—including Cuba—and, we suspect, Hanoi and probably Moscow. Perhaps even Peking. In the States he has a regular, bona fide law office in upper Harlem and a West Coast affiliate in San Francisco.… He’s generally in the background, but wherever he’s in evidence, bad news usually follows. Needless to say, he’s on the attorney general’s list of undesirables, and these days that’s not respectable any longer.…”

  “These days,” broke in Matlock, “that includes almost everyone to the left of AT&T.”

  “No comment. To continue. The surfacing of Dunois in this operation adds a dimension not anticipated—a new aspect not considered before. It goes beyond domestic lawbreakers and enters the area of international crime and/or subversion. Or a combination of both. In light of the fact that drugs were used on you, your apartment broken into and ripped apart, your friend, Miss Ballantyne, indirectly threatened—and don’t kid yourself, that’s what it was—in light of all this, the recommendation is as follows. You withdraw from any further participation in this investigation. Your involvement is beyond the realm of reasonable risk.” Greenberg dropped the paper on the counter and took several swallows of his drink. Matlock swung his legs slowly back and forth in front of the cabinet beneath him. “What say you, in the docket?” asked Greenberg.