Man With a Squirrel Read Free Page B

asked.
    â€œBetter to call it the power of darkness,” Molly said. “It’s more acceptable in PC terms, and leaves room for the discussion of the age-old struggle between the powers of darkness and of light. Cover-Hoover’s interested in power. She’s ambitious enough to be looking for popular support now that she’s got establishment backing. If she’s willing to move toward the talk-show circuit, the theme of satanic cults would come in handy. Cover-Hoover is building a movement to go with her reputation. That’s where Ophelia comes in, because Ophelia knows the medium, and Cover-Hoover is thinking in terms of a TV presence. Ophelia’s stuck out west for the time being, but she’s talked to the Doctor on the phone. ‘Just see what she’s like,’ Ophelia says, ‘before we start talking ways and means.’ I’m leery of the whole business, so I’ve been dodging the Doctor’s calls. Whenever my sister asks my opinion she has some hidden agenda.”
    Molly went upstairs to get the day moving.
    *   *   *
    Fred left his car at the Alewife subway station and took the Red Line toward Boston. He got off at Kendall, across the river. There was a sting in the air as he came up from underground, surrounded by the new wilderness of tall office buildings. He stepped out onto the ratty old bridge called the Pepper Pot. The slouched low skyline of the “real,” old Boston on its hill, complete with gilded State House dome, stood out in silhouette against the new Boston.
    The river was broad and dirty above the dam. The body had been discovered several miles farther upstream, not far from Harvard University, probably not that far from where it had taken its last dive. It would be a nasty body of water for the dead white male to lie down in. The Charles is a small river. Fred, if asked, would have advised a person wishing to dispose of a corpse to choose another place.
    Fred watched the river, where a few intrepid sailors strove to keep their little boats erect. Red Line trains clattered behind him. He wasn’t in the mood for Clayton’s nervous puttering, which became more trying the less there was to do. This was a good morning, therefore, to check Charles Street. For about four blocks, Charles Street, running parallel to the river on the Boston side, supported a sequence of antique shops where paintings occasionally arrived. Works of obvious quality tended to surface first on Newbury Street, at which point Clayton Reed normally lost interest in them; but occasionally something of not-obvious quality turned up on Charles Street, mixed in with the Bavarian glass, armchairs made of horn, and stereopticon photographs of dead families.
    Fred’s job with Clayton Reed had never been defined. It was quite well paid and subject to endless redefinition, according to what was happening. Basically, Clay was as much a collector as Fred was a noncollector, and Clay didn’t pick things up; so Fred did a good deal of lifting and kept his eyes open for paintings that might appeal to Clayton.
    It was standard practice that if Fred saw something he thought interesting and that might otherwise escape, he should grab it for Clayton’s account, as long as it wasn’t too expensive. If Clay didn’t think much of it, they’d ditch it later.
    Clay had disposed of a few things Fred still regretted; but Clay had never once faulted Fred’s choice. Clay’s tastes in painting were so broad, and his personal foibles so particular, that Fred had a twenty percent chance of choosing something that actually stayed in the collection when he did haul in a painting on his own.
    In general, especially when a large expenditure was involved, they had plenty of time to confer before a commitment was made. Clayton loved the period of deliberation, because it allowed him to perfect his foibles.
    Once over the Pepper Pot, Fred crisscrossed the