Gin Palace 01 - The Poisoned Rose

Dupont Sanctuary, above which clouds were beginning to fragment and let through the morning light.
    The man waiting for us was handsome, but there was harshness to his face, which for some reason I thought I had somehow seen recently. But if he was who I thought he was, that couldn’t be. If he was who I thought he was, then I hadn’t seen him in decades. I looked in his face for something that I would recognize from all those years ago.
    We didn’t shake hands, only nodded to each other as we came face to face on the stone patio.
    “I don’t think I would have recognized you if I saw you, Mac,” he said flatly. “It has been a long time.”
    I recognized his voice, the way his mouth moved when he spoke, the way his eyes looked at me.
    “Jean-Marc,” I said.
    “You have a good memory.”
    “Not really. If we weren’t here at the house I don’t think I would have made the connection.”
    Beside us was a wrought-iron table with a glass top and four chairs around it. On the table was a leather knapsack and a pair of binoculars and a tall glass half filled with a clear liquid. It was over ice that had melted down to their white cores.
    The three of us sat at the table in a way that allowed each of us a clear view of the sloping lawn and the water beyond. Beams of sunlight were punching through the clouds almost everywhere now. The rain was moving on, and the drops it left behind sparkled in the reopening light.
    Jean-Marc sat across from me, Long to my right, his back to the house. I saw Long shift several times in his seat till he was comfortable. Holstered behind him, to his belt, was his gun.
    Jean-Marc leaned back in his chair and stared at me, sizing me up.
    “How long has it been?” he said. “Fifteen years?”
    “Longer than that, I think,” I answered. His friendliness made me cautious. I had never liked Jean-Marc much, even as a boy.
    He was part of the Bishop family—old money, a real fixture in town. I had grown up not far from here, and we had played together, Jean-Marc and his twin sister and me, for two summers starting when I was ten, till my adoptive father put an end to that.
    “I hear you still live in town,” he said. Even when he smiled his eyes were harsh. “Above that bar by the train station. With your girlfriend, or something like that.”
    “I live alone,” I said. I looked at Long, then back at Jean-Marc. His dark face was cleanly shaven. His brown eyes were piercing and alert, like the eyes of a hunting bird. He wore a polo jersey tucked neatly into jeans and tennis sneakers. His hair was black and short, parted low on the left side. On his right wrist was a gold watch that did all kinds of tricks in the emerging sunlight.
    “Listen, I don’t have much time to play catch up with you, Mac,” he said. “Things are kind of hectic here right now. Family stuff, you know. So I’m just going to get down to it, to why I had you brought here. I don’t mean to be rude, but the clock’s ticking.”
    He paused, then said, “I need to ask you, as a favor to our family, to cease your attempts at contacting my sister. I understand the pressure on you, but I can’t let you continue to interfere with family matters. Do you understand?”
    “No.”
    “You don’t understand?”
    “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
    “I can understand your wanting to help her, considering what you and Marie went through as kids. But I need you—we need you—to just, please, leave her be.”
    “Jean-Marc, I don’t—” I stopped suddenly and looked at Long. I don’t know why I did that. I looked back at Jean-Marc. “Marie,” I said. “Marie Welles is your sister. Marie Welles is Marie Bishop.”
    “She started going by the name Welles several months ago. Part of her ongoing refusal of her own family. The doctors say it’s a common thing for someone with her disorder to do.” He smiled. “You know, I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize her. It’s been a long time. Plus, she’s had her share of reconstructive surgery over the years. As she grew older she became quite vain, obsessed with her face, all the things she didn’t like about it. And her hair was blonder back then, from all the sun. I prefer it blond, myself.”
    “I just saw her,” I said, still a little stunned. “She acted at first like she was waiting for me to recognize her. But when I didn’t, she said nothing, just let me go on thinking we were strangers.”
    “She has become