CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JERRY PRESSED CHARGES, WHICH WERE EVENTUALLY DROPPED. He filed a lawsuit claiming millions of dollars in damages, and then he called every reporter in the country to tell them I’d been harassing him for weeks, I’d lavished money on him, tried to buy his “friendship,” and when that didn’t work I set out to ruin his life.
Looking for refuge from the publicity, I went back to Boston for a few days, but only after getting the all-clear signal from Ingrid—the Falcon was in the United Kingdom on business. He showed up unexpectedly on Saturday in the middle of the night.
I’d fallen asleep watching TV on the sofa in the study, Cromwell on his back stretched out next to me, paws in the air and snoring softly, keeping me nice and warm and compressed, when I heard the Falcon come in. I felt as if someone struck a match on the sole of my shoe, panic crackling through me as if I were a live fuse. Cromwell’s tail thumped in recognition.
“Quiet,” I whispered, practically begging him to be silent, my hand on his muzzle.
After shrugging off his coat, signature white gardenia boutonniere coming loose and landing just outside the study door, the Falcon twisted off his tie and tossed it over the banister, where it immediately became a matter for someone else’s concern. He headed up the staircase and began pounding on my bedroom door and shouting my name.
“What on earth?” Ingrid’s door opened.
“Where the hell is Collie?” the Falcon asked.
“Isn’t he in his room?”
“Is everyone around me totally useless?” he shouted.
“Collie!” My name his favorite profanity, he turned around and kicked over an antique cupboard in a surprise attack that sent its priceless contents sailing, iridescent cranberry, cobalt, and amethyst exploding into shards of glass like needle teeth to cover the carpet.
Terrified members of the staff crept from their rooms on the third floor, pausing to stop and gasp when they saw what he’d done.
Oh, but he was only getting started.
Cromwell licked my face and curled up alongside me on the sofa, ears pricked, listening to the sounds of dishes smashing in the kitchen. The Falcon was breaking every dish in the house, every plate, every bowl, every saucer, and then he headed up the back staircase to the second floor. I was calling him, but he didn’t hear me. He tore apart my closets, emptied the drawers, threw all of my clothes down the stairs, and then he started in on the furniture, pitching dressers, nightstands, chairs, desks, lamps, stereo equipment, even my mountain bike, for Christ’s sake—he was murdering every inanimate object he could get his hands on, and frankly, I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.
“I guess you heard what happened,” I said, ducking as he pitched one of the rival New York papers at me, the story about the lawsuit on the front page. All I could see was the name “Peregrine Lowell” in huge bold type.
“Erotomania? Who is this fat f*ck, anyway? Are you insane? Is there no end to the embarrassment you’re prepared to cause me?”
I looked up at him from my place on the sofa, stunned to hear him use an expression like “fat f*ck”—Jesus, it felt like the start of Armageddon. I was half expecting him to hit me or piss on me or both; he was spinning like a funnel cloud, his skin radiating a color that doesn’t exist in the natural world. My hand on Cromwell’s broad back, I pushed myself to my feet, recognizing a unique opportunity.
“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you that I won’t be coming to work for you at the newspapers.”
Like a giant cobra, he recoiled and struck—my hair blew back off my forehead, he was spitting fury, coating me head to toe in a venomous glaze, shellacking me in his personal poison.
“You’re my only living heir, God help me. You’ve never given me any reason to take you the least bit seriously, so why would I start now? You’re Charlie Flanagan’s son through and through. Collie Flanagan . . .” He hissed my name, and it made a scalding sound like acid hitting pavement. “And please, spare me the pathetic show of independence. The only way you’ll ever amount to anything is if it’s handed to you on a silver platter. I’m all that stands between you and a lifetime spent in a padded room fashioning a giant ball out of tinfoil.”
Like flames deprived of oxygen, he suddenly vanished, the air still sizzling and sending out sparks, snapping with the improvised electricity of his rage. I put my arms around Cromwell’s neck and gave him a hug.
“It’s a good thing you’re his favorite,” Uncle Tom said when I told him what happened.