Not a Creature Was Stirring(11)

“Very rich people,” Tibor said, and then, “Protestant, of course.”

Gregor bit back a smile. If he knew anything about rich people—and he did; that was one thing a twenty-year stint in the FBI had done for him—the Hannafords were Protestant the way he was Armenian. It was part of the definition.

“Of course,” he said.

Father Tibor sighed. “I don’t suppose it matters in America. Religious pluralism, they call it. I’m having a hard time getting used to it.”

Gregor studied the old man, curious. “Is that what all this is about? Robert Hannaford being Protestant? Your note said—”

“Wait,” Tibor said.

“I’m, sorry.” Gregor settled into his chair, as well as he could. He was so big, and the chair was so small, he felt a little like a beach ball trapped in a paper clip.

Across from him, Tibor took in an immense breath, let it out again, seemed to count to ten in his head, and stood up. “I have talked to Lida Arkmanian,” he said. “She says you are a very famous detective.”

“Famous?”

“That you once had your picture on the cover of Time magazine.”

“Yes, Father, I did, but that was—”

“She said you were very intelligent. I think in this matter you are going to have to be very intelligent.”

“Why? What matter? Father—”

Tibor sat down again. “I have had a communication from this man Robert Hannaford. He came here to this office one day last week. He was in a wheelchair. He had a driver with him and he had to be carried up the stairs. But that was just because of his legs. He was not a weak man. Even at his age, over seventy, he is not a weak man. He’s not going to die tomorrow. Or next week. He must work himself very hard. The upper half of his body is—” Tibor made a wide motion with his hands and arms. “You see?”

Gregor didn’t see anything. Talking with Father Tibor Kasparian was like swimming in ink. It didn’t make any sense, and the world was dark. But this was a direct question, and one he could answer, so he did.

“That’s not so strange in America,” he said. “Disabled people here seem to go one way or the other. Either they give up entirely, or they become obsessive about building up what body they have—”

Tibor brightened. “As a method of control? Yes, that’s what I thought it was. All through our talk, I got the impression Mr. Hannaford was a man who loved to be in control—of himself, of me, of everything. It was not pleasant.”

“No,” Gregor said. “It wouldn’t be.”

Tibor drummed impatiently against the desk. “I don’t think this is a good man,” he said. “I’m not saying that just because he reminded me—reminded me of other things. I’ve had a very long life, Mr. Demarkian. It was a bad life, but I think this man was worse. He—I don’t know how to say it—it was as if everything he did was a he. Even the expression on his face, that was a lie. And yet, you know, I think he was telling me the truth, when he talked. The exact truth as he knew it. I don’t think he said anything false.”

“Yes,” Gregor said. This was something he understood. He’d met a number of people who fit this description when he’d been at the Bureau, and most of them hadn’t been on the criminal lists. Politicians were the worst, but they weren’t the only ones. Lobbyists, businessmen, the head of a large consumer-advocate group: acculturated psychopaths. No intelligent psychopath had to murder a dozen little old ladies to get his kicks. He could wreak far more havoc by going into government work.

Gregor didn’t think Tibor needed any of this explained to him. If he hadn’t already figured it out, it had to be because he didn’t want to. Besides, there were more immediately interesting things going on here.

“What did Robert Hannaford want with an Armenian priest?” he asked.

Tibor flushed, bright red. Gregor felt the ink seeping back into his life.

“Father,” he started, cautious.

Tibor waved him to silence. “No, no. You must understand. You are famous—”

“I am not—”

“Yes, you are. I’ve read the articles. Mrs. Arkmanian kept every one. I realize you are very modest—”

“Father, I am not modest. I’ve never failed to take credit for something I’ve done right in my life. And that Time magazine article—”

“Yes?”

Gregor felt himself hunching up. He’d always been uncomfortable about that damn Time cover. No, worse than uncomfortable. He was not a natural extrovert. Left to himself, he even tended to be something of a recluse. The first time he’d seen that magazine on a newsstand, he’d wanted to go home and hide in a closet. Permanently.