“Do you have any advice for me?” Mr. Holt asks. “One father to another?”
“Don’t have more,” Lomax says flatly. “And don’t spend money that isn’t yours.”
“Well put, well put,” Mr. Holt says, then he gets that fierce, faraway look that settles over him whenever he discusses his business affairs. “Yet I may soon share your financial woes, Mr. Lomax. If this Crash continues to have its way with my companies.”
Lomax knows it’s unlikely that the Crash poses any real threat to his employer. He inherited his vast fortune from his father, R.J. Sr., and despite Junior’s philandering preoccupations, he’s since grown the business and now owns half the province of New Brunswick: coal, steel, oil, both newspapers, banks, service stations, Automats, grocery stores, and shipping. It’s said that you can’t go for a Sunday stroll without inadvertently stuffing fifty cents into Holt’s pocket by the time you get home.
“And the child? You’re certain it’s well formed?” Mr. Holt asks.
“It is, sir,” Lomax confirms. “The mother is still recovering from some complications. But the little girl is as healthy as can be.”
“Good, good. Girl, boy—it doesn’t matter to me. I’m going to need someone to leave all this money to, aren’t I? If I manage to keep it?”
“You certainly will, sir.”
“And the mother?” Mr. Holt says some seconds later, in the lesser tone of afterthought. “She’s fully recovered, you said?”
Like many of Mr. Holt’s conquests, Euphemia Baxter began as his employee. After she caught his eye while cleaning one of his banks, he asked Lomax to install her in an apartment that he keeps for such purposes, and for six months he visited her regularly while his wife played bridge. Mr. Holt’s infatuation eventually flagged, as it always did, and he’d already moved on to another girl when Euphemia announced she was pregnant. Mr. Holt was unexpectedly pleased, both because of the prospect of an heir and because the pregnancy proved his theory correct: it was his wife’s defect that had so far prevented him from siring a child. Immediately a deal was struck, with Euphemia agreeing to receive a sum of money to carry the child, which the Holts would then adopt. To avoid scandal, Mr. Holt suggested that Euphemia remain sequestered in her apartment until the birth. So over the course of her pregnancy, it fell to Lomax to bring her groceries, books from the library, and the ten-cent magazines she liked. Then, four weeks ago, mere days before the baby was due, Mr. Holt insisted that Lomax relocate her to his isolated country estate in preparation for the child’s arrival.
“She’s not entirely recovered, sir,” Lomax says. “There’s been bleeding and cramping, and she’s running a high blood pressure, but—”
“Dear Christ, Lomax,” Mr. Holt interrupts, waving his hand in front of his face to dispel the image. “Spare me the gory details.”
“She’s been resting for three weeks now. And she’s regained some of her spirit. The doctor said she’ll be fine as long as she stays in bed and doesn’t move around.”
“Good, good. You’ll see to it that she does, won’t you, Mr. Lomax?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And when Mrs. Holt returns from her mother’s in Connecticut next week,” Mr. Holt goes on, “we’ll formalize the adoption papers and bring the child home with us to Saint John.”
Lomax parks the Packard on the cobblestones of the country house, which sits amid a picturesque expanse of trees, brooks, and knolls that Mr. Holt pays a game warden to keep well stocked with fox and grouse for him and his guests to shoot each summer.
Lomax stifles a groan as he lifts himself from the car, a cascade of low-grade voltage spilling through his back and running down into his thighs. He stifles a second groan when he stoops to gather the gifts from the rear seat.
“The cook isn’t up quite yet, sir,” Lomax says while examining the darkened main floor windows as they approach the house.
“We’ll be quiet,” Mr. Holt says, his eyes flickering as he brandishes a bouquet of purple daffodils. “Let’s go greet the future, shall we?” He throws open the door and strides to the master bedroom near the back.
As they approach the door, Mr. Holt removes his hat and tightens his tie. “Euphemia, darling, it’s R.J.,” he says in a softened voice, his ear pressed against the wood while rapping it with his chunky class ring.
Silence.
“She and the child may be sleeping, sir,” Lomax says softly.
“Oh, there’s no harm in just a peek,” Mr. Holt says, delicately trying the knob, which is locked. He raps again.
After the tenth unanswered rap, Mr. Holt’s good mood fouls, like a boy who’s run joyfully out into a field with his new balloon and immediately let go of its string. “Where’s the damned key?” he asks, examining the lock.
“The locks in this place are old, sir; every door has a different one.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Mr. Holt shouts. “What do I keep an ogre like you around for? Certainly not for conversation, I can assure you of that.”
Lomax sets down the gifts and aligns his shoulder so that it will connect squarely with the door. He takes a short, awkward run and strikes the oak panel, which is sturdier than expected, and a screeching noise sounds out as the jamb pulls away from the frame. Exploding into the room, Lomax feels an awful ripping sensation run up his spine, and immediately collapses, nearly vomiting from the lightning that’s now crackling up his vertebrae and forking into his brainstem.
“They’re gone,” he hears Mr. Holt say.
On all fours, Lomax forces his eyes into focus. The bed where he last saw Euphemia nursing the child is now empty. Beside it, the French doors that face the back woods yawn open.
“Women can behave curiously after a birth, sir,” Lomax manages to say while rising with tremendous difficulty to his knees. “They do odd things. Lavern saw ghosts. But Euphemia is likely just out for a walk in the woods.”
“In the snow? With a newborn?” Holt yells. “This isn’t one of your twenty worthless whelps, Mr. Lomax! This is my only child she’s stolen!” In a rage Mr. Holt demands an immediate search of the grounds, and Lomax limps for the telephone.
While they await the search party, which Lomax raised by claiming that one of Mr. Holt’s guests has gone missing, Lomax hobbles to the servants’ quarters to question the cook and the maid, who both haven’t seen Euphemia since early the previous evening. It’s just shy of noon by the time the groundskeepers and groomsmen arrive from Mr. Holt’s mansion in Saint John, as well as a handful of trusted men from the Holt steel mill. After the party is assembled, the game warden leads them into the woods carrying a silver bugle. They search throughout the afternoon, and much to Mr. Holt’s annoyance, Lomax’s injury prevents him from joining them for any duration. Just as the dark starts to filter into the trees, Mr. Holt approaches Lomax on the second-floor terrace that overlooks the property.
“You visited Euphemia last night, did you not?” Mr. Holt says.
“I did, sir,” Lomax replies. “Around seven. To check on her condition.”
“Did she mention any second thoughts about our agreement?”