Empire of Lies Read Free

Cavanaughs' kids, they'd probably pay us a dollar just for putting them in cages."
    I laughed. "The get-rich-quick scheme we've been looking for."
    "Has anyone ever told you that you have the nicest laugh in the world?" Cathy said. "I love that about you. The way you laugh all the time."
    "Ah, you're just saying that to get me to have sex with you."
    "Speaking of which, the kids are all going over to the Matthews house later for pizza and a video. We should have a couple of hours to ourselves."
    "I'm going to run you to ground like a cheetah running down a deer."
    "Ooh," she said.
    "Like a panther. I may even wear my panther costume."
    "You know your panther costume drives me wild."
    We held hands and drank lemonade and watched our children for a while in companionable silence.

    That, in brief, was my life before the End of Civilization as We Know It. And I loved it. I loved her, Cathy, and to hell with all the Tanyas of the world, let them go. I loved our children. I loved our neighborhood, Horizon Hill, the Hill for short. Big yards, Craftsman houses, lake views. Friendly, mostly like-minded people, hardworking dads, housewife moms, not too many divorces, lots of kids. Most of us were white and Christian, I guess, but we had a good number of Jews mixed in and a few blacks as well. In fact, I think we were a little overfond of them—our Jews and blacks—a little overfriendly to them sometimes because we wanted them to know they were part of the gang, that it was our values that made us what we were, not the other stuff. It was a place of goodwill—that's what I'm saying. I was very happy on the Hill.
    Now, after a few moments, Cathy spoke again. It was the last thing she said to me before the phone rang, before the lies and the violence and all the craziness started.
    She said, "Have you decided yet what you're going to do about the house?"
    It was my mother's house she was talking about. My mother—my poor old crazy mother—had finally died about eight months before. Her will had just cleared probate, and now her house had to be sold so my brother and I could split the money. Someone had to go back east and clean the place out and arrange to put it on the market. Cathy's question: Was I going to go now, or wait for my brother to turn up so he could help me?
    We'll never know what I would've answered. Even I don't know. Just then, the phone rang inside the house.
    "I'll get it," I said.
    My children's voices, the sough and birdsong of the world outside, were muffled as the sliding glass patio door whisked and thudded shut behind me. I walked two steps across our back room, our family room, to where the phone sat beside the stereo. I picked up the handset before the third ring.
    "Hello?"
    "Is this Jason Harrow?" It was a woman, a voice I didn't recognize.
    "Yes?"
    I heard her give a quick breath, a sort of bitter laugh. "It's funny to hear you talk after all this time."
    "I'm sorry. Who is this?" I still didn't know. My mind was racing, trying to figure it out.
    "This is Lauren Wilmont," she said. "Formerly Lauren Goldberg. Formerly your girlfriend, if that's what I was."
    It was a strange feeling. Standing there with the phone in my hand, with the family room around me and that voice I barely remembered speaking in my ear. My eyes flitted over the sofa and the stuffed chair; over the rug that was a blended tweed so it would hide juice stains and pizza and soda stains. There was a 36-inch flat-screen Sony TV in one corner. Shelves with board games stacked on them; Monopoly, Pictionary, Clue. Some of Nathan's cars and a couple of Terry's dolls were lying around. Outside, through the glass doors, I could see the tops of the kids' heads moving at the bottom of the slope of the backyard. I saw Cathy, in the foreground, turning in her chair, pointing a finger at her chest and raising her eyebrows to ask:
Is the call for me?
I smiled thinly. I shook my head no.
    And all the while that voice on the phone was talking on:
    "You