He didn’t look at Meloux, just turned and headed toward the trail along the stream.
I lowered the door back into place. Quiet as a congregation leaving a church, we abandoned the clearing.
FORTY-SIX
We moved more slowly on the return and didn’t make it back to the log home before nightfall. Wellington pulled a powerful light out of his pack and led the way. I brought up the rear with mine. Wellington had no trouble following the trail, faint as it was, and I figured this wasn’t the first time he’d been to the burned ruins in the little clearing. We stopped often for Meloux to rest. He’d proved his point, and now he was feeling the physical cost of the journey. I shared the bottles of water in my pack. Wellington had brought his own. He also had trail mix, which he offered around. We didn’t speak except for the necessity of safety: “Careful of that log,” or “Watch your step.” When I finally saw the lights of Wellington’s place ahead of us, I felt a deep relief.
We crossed the yard, mounted the front porch, and went inside. I smelled food cooking and realized I was starved.
Wellington said, “It’s too late for you to return tonight. You’re welcome to stay here. There are plenty of rooms upstairs. I asked Benning to prepare dinner for us. As soon as you’re settled, we can eat.”
We brought our bags in from the Bronco, and Wellington himself showed us to our rooms.
“I’m going to wash up, and I’ll see you downstairs in the dining room in a few minutes,” he said. He went to his own room, which was at the far end of the hallway.
I shed my shirt. As I stood at the sink in my bathroom, washing off the dirt and sweat and DEET, Schanno knocked and came in. He stood in the bathroom doorway, trying to scrape the dirt from under his fingernails while I finished cleaning up.
“This guy Wellington is one cold fish,” he said. “Meloux delivers all the evidence to back up his claims, and Wellington doesn’t say a word to him. He might not be the kook Ellsworth played, but he’s hard to figure.”
“I imagine it’s a lot to absorb.”
“Sure, but most people are going to react somehow. Him, it’s like he’d just watched you peel an orange.”
“Henry Wellington’s not much like other people.”
“He was my son, I’d give him a kick in the ass.”
I grabbed a towel from the rack and began to dry myself. “I have it on good authority, Wally, that you never raised a hand-or foot-to your kids.”
“I’ll take my Python back. There’s still a lot we don’t know, like why Morrissey went after Henry in the first place.”
I hung the towel, pushed past Schanno, and grabbed the clean shirt I’d laid out on the bed. “Wellington’s hard to read, I admit, but I didn’t get a dangerous feel from him.”
“All the same, I’m going to sleep with the Python under my pillow tonight.”
“Suit yourself.” I took the weapon from the pack and handed it over.
“How much you figure there is in gold up there?” he said.
I buttoned my shirt. “Enough to set you and me and Meloux for a lifetime. Drop in the bucket to Wellington.”
We left my room, and I knocked on Meloux’s door but got no answer.
“Maybe he’s already downstairs,” Schanno suggested.
I poked my head in the room. The old Mide lay on his bed, fully clothed, not dead-I could tell from the slow rise and fall of his chest and his soft snoring-but dead tired and dead to the world. I closed the door softly.
We found Wellington in the dining room, pouring mineral water into the glasses on the table. He’d changed back into his loose-fitting white clothing and sandals. A meat loaf sat on a platter in the middle of the table. An hour earlier, it had probably been perfect. Now it looked overcooked and dry. There was a big bowl of fresh green beans mixed with crisp bacon bits, roasted red potatoes, a tossed salad, and a good-looking dark bread.
“I don’t have beer,” Wellington said. “I can offer you wine, however. I still keep some good vintages on hand for when my family visits.”
Schanno and I both settled for the water.
“And Mr. Meloux?” Wellington asked.
“He’s sleeping,” I said. “It’s been a long, hard day.”
We sat down to the meal. Once you got past the crust from the additional cooking time, the meat loaf was delicious, quite savory, as were the beans and the roasted potatoes. The salad contained pears and had a refreshing lime dressing. The bread was homemade, substantial and tasty.
“Benning usually does your cooking?” I asked.
“I live here alone most of the time, so generally I do my own.”
I figured that was enough small talk. “You employed Edward Morrissey, Mr. Wellington, and Morrissey tried to murder Henry Meloux.”
Wellington carefully dabbed his lips with his napkin. “So I understand.”
“Why?”
“I really have no idea. Ed Morrissey worked for me on occasion, but he was what you might call a freelance security consultant. When Rupert telephoned and told me about the watch and your request for an interview, I contacted Morrissey to arrange for him to oversee your visit to Manitou Island. I wanted to know what you were up to, and I didn’t want Ellsworth handling you alone. After your visit, Morrissey phoned in his report. He indicated you were simply working a con, trying to squeeze some money out of me. He told me he’d taken care of the situation discreetly, as he had on other occasions in the past. I was surprised when Rupert called to tell me the police were investigating the incident in Minnesota.”
“Surprised but not troubled?”
“I didn’t know Henry Meloux or his story.”
“Morrissey never reported that part to you?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“Of course it does, now.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell you everything?”
“That’s a question for which I have no answer.”
“What about Rupert?”
He shook his head. “Rupert’s only part has been to pass along requests that seem to have some merit. Those have been blessedly few. He made it clear from the beginning that he wanted no part in my charade, and he’s done his best to keep Northern Mining distanced.”
“You don’t care about Northern Mining?”
“I gave the company the best I could for most of my adult life. When I stepped away and secluded myself here, I severed myself from any worries about Northern Mining. It was an amicable divorce. I have no desire to renew the relationship.”
“And you don’t mind that Preston Ellsworth has played you as pretty much a lunatic?”
“My family knows the truth, Mr. O’Connor. What the rest of the world thinks of me is a concern I left behind a long time ago.”
Benning came from the kitchen. “Would you care for dessert or coffee?”
“Gentlemen?” Wellington asked. “I have fresh strawberries and sweet cream.”
My stomach was full, and I was tired, so I said no. Schanno did the same.
“We’re fine, Sandy,” Wellington said to Benning. “Why don’t you call it a night? I’ll clean up.”
“You’re sure, sir? It’s no trouble.”
“It was a good meal. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Very good, sir.” Benning vanished the way he’d come.
“I’d be glad to help,” I said.
Wellington set his napkin on the table and waved off my offer. “I won’t hear of it. You’re my guests. I’m just going to fill the dish-washer anyway.”
It felt as if the evening had been drawn to a close, but there were still many questions unanswered. Most of them didn’t involve me. They were between Wellington and the man I was certain was his real father. I couldn’t imagine Wellington not wanting to talk with Meloux, but I saw no sign of eagerness on his part.
I went upstairs to my room still at a loss to understand what kind of man he was and what kind of son.
FORTY-SEVEN
I was tired, but I tossed and turned in a restless sleep. I didn’t think Wellington would have us all murdered in the night; still, there were a lot of unanswered questions flapping around in my brain. Why had Morrissey followed me to Meloux’s and tried to kill the old man? Was he acting on his own or under orders? Orders from whom? The Wellingtons had something to lose, maybe, if the truth of Meloux’s story was ever made public, but I figured a lot of fortunes had been built on the graves of innocent people. It wasn’t that startling, and Leonard Wellington’s treachery had happened a long time ago. Both sons-Rupert and Henry-seemed civilized, if a little on the chilly side. On the other hand, a lot of civilized people have convinced themselves that in the right cause it’s acceptable-noble, even-to bloody your hands. If neither of the Wellingtons was responsible, then who? If it was all Morrissey’s idea, then why?