The Hollow Ones(87)
Blackwood looked at her strangely, as though unsure of the answer himself. “Yes,” he said. “Why indeed.”
In the end, the FBI incident inquest never went forward.
The Office of Professional Responsibility, the Bureau’s internal affairs division, declined to adjudicate the matter, based almost exclusively upon the surviving Peters daughter’s sworn eyewitness account of what transpired on that tragic night.
Walter Leppo was determined to have perished in the line of duty, and his family received his full pension with incentive awards.
While her testimony absolved Odessa of any wrongdoing, due to the lack of a disciplinary hearing, Odessa was never formally cleared, and therefore her good reputation could never properly be restored. Her service weapon was reissued to her, but she was not returned to regular, active investigative duty. She was instead offered special assignment status, her position to be determined.
To Odessa, this reminded her of Earl Solomon’s unique and unusual arrangement with the Bureau throughout his career. She was resistant to this assignment, and determined she would voluntarily resign from the FBI.
Linus encouraged her not to do anything rash. “Give it a couple of days,” he said. “Then decide what’s right for you.”
Odessa appreciated him standing by her through the entire process. But she couldn’t help but think about what that old woman told her in the back room of that botanica.
He is a good man, and devoted. He has genuine feelings for you. You are his one true love. But he is not yours.
A few days later, while she was home alone trying to figure out her next life step, Mr. Lusk appeared at her apartment door. She was surprised by the sudden rush of excitement she felt at his visit.
“Blackwood?” she said, assuming. “He wants to see me?”
“Oh no, Ms. Hardwicke,” said Mr. Lusk, in his theatrically mannered way. “I am here because of a legal matter.”
She shrugged. “What would that be?”
“Specifically, the estate of Earl Solomon.” Mr. Lusk furnished a sheaf of papers secured with a large black clip. “You have been named his executrix.”
“I never…?” She flipped through the top pages. “I never agreed to that.”
“Well, it’s most convenient, in any event. Seeing as you are the sole beneficiary of his estate.”
He handed her another sheaf of papers. She was shocked.
“His estate?” she said. She flipped to the final pages of the will, signed in Solomon’s shaky hand, dated just a few days ago. The man whose life she had ended. “This doesn’t seem right.”
“I assure you, it is.”
“So his house…I own a house now?”
“Once it goes through probate. But that should be essentially clerical. Good luck, Ms. Hardwicke!”
Mr. Lusk started back down the hallway. “Wait,” she said, holding the door open with her foot, leaning out after him. “What about Hugo Blackwood?”
“Yes?” Mr. Lusk looked confused. “What about him?”
“Uh…nothing, I guess. Tell him I say hello.”
“I will, certainly. If I see him.”
And with a smile he was gone.
Odessa let herself into Earl Solomon’s one-story house in Camden, New Jersey. She stood quietly inside the door for some moments, reflecting on Solomon, a man she barely knew, yet felt she knew so well. There was so much she didn’t understand.
After a quick check of the house, she went out to collect the mail. Flyers and circulars and a couple of bills she would have to start taking care of. And a square package wrapped in paper and tied with twine—addressed to Earl Solomon, no return address.
She rushed back to the house and tore the package open. Inside were four boxed reels of Mylar recording tape, labeled: NEW JERSEY 2019 / HOLLOW ONES.
Odessa opened the back wall inside the narrow utility closet and accessed the secret room. She carried the boxes to the far end of the bookcases of cataloged recording tapes, filing the boxes onto the start of a new, empty shelf.
She returned to the first bookcase, pulling out the very first recording. #1001 / MISSISSIPPI 1962 / VERNON JAMUS.
Odessa threaded the tape into the reel-to-reel player atop the desk and slipped the old, comfortable, corded headphones over her ears, settling into the wide leather chair.
She switched the lever to PLAY. A few moments of hissing and popping, and then Hugo Blackwood’s purring British voice began to speak.
EPILOGUE: The Box
Wall Street is a labyrinth. Canyons of glass and steel, occluding the sun and the sky. Night seems to fall earlier here than anywhere else in Manhattan.
But even then, the dark man in the long overcoat seemed to be walking only in shadow. He did so without effort or direction—shadows just collected around him, trailed him. And he dragged them along as he glided toward the unassuming mailbox.
The few people wandering the street avoided him—not out of fear, nor recognition, but because of an instinct imprinted in the most primitive part of their brains. Perhaps, in their fleeting observations, they noticed that he cast no shadow of his own.
The dark man approached the mailbox and extended an impossibly pale hand toward the mail slot. He deposited a small, letter-locked paper. It was addressed to Hugo Blackwood and sealed in wax with the symbol of a radiant, all-seeing eye.