The Covington Mansion

By Christopher Watkins

Kagan Parsons lives with his husband, Cody, and their fledgling family at the Covington Mansion, an ancient historical residence in downtown Tulsa. Matthew Collins, a noble, gifted clairvoyant, gets far more than he bargained for when he accepts a new position as a live-in assistant to Kagan Parsons, heir to the Parsons Oil fortune. During his stay at the Covington Mansion, Matthew mediates communication between the past and the present, the living and the dead, and the multitude of enigmatic people populating the Parsons dynasty, namely Kagan and his father, JD Parsons, who are constantly at odds with each other. But Matthew becomes rapidly and increasingly entranced as he learns the dark history of the Covington Mansion, consisting of homicide, freak accidents, and restless, embittered spirits. He also becomes privy to the infamous mysteries and unspeakable scandals within the Parsons family. And the further he explores, the more he tempts his own fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684565603

Book preview

Chapter One

Where in the Hell Is Your Ambition?

Promptly at 8:55 a.m., Matthew Collins stepped off the elevator of the fourteenth floor of the Parsons Tower. The offices were pristinely upscale. Chic. Firm carpet. parsons oil etched into frosted glass plaques. Around his neck he wore his employee ID badge, per regulation; with it he electronically badged his way into his department, passing by another frosted glass plaque that read 2d data entry.

He was dressed in business casual attire, black slacks, a dark-blue shirt, and a matching tie. He carried a large metal thermal cup with a clear plastic lid, and it was full of Powerade. It was a prize he’d won a year ago for outstanding data entry efficiency. He sat at his desk and started up his computer and then opened up the POI (Parsons Oil intranet). It was Monday, the day for entering negative quantities—in other words, adjusting the quantities of various supplies for the Parsons Oil Tulsa warehouse to their actual quantities, actual quantities that were physically counted by the warehouse employees and handwritten down on paperwork.

All other data entry clerks sat at their cubicles, waiting for their negative-quantity paperwork to arrive from the carrier. Matthew didn’t need his paperwork to start; he already knew what the figures were and began typing them in correctly. He kept his eyes on his screen and typed in numbers rapidly via 10-key with his right hand, while hitting the Tab key in between each box on his screen with his left. On the 10-key, his fingers looked like a giant spider doing a tap dance. A colleague named Benson from across the aisle took his eyes off his Facebook page and began watching Matthew while tapping a pen to his head, wondering what Matthew was doing.

When the carrier, with her cart, began walking up the aisle, delivering paperwork to the clerks at their cubicles, placing them in their in-baskets, Matthew was over halfway through. Once the carrier arrived at his cubicle and plopped Matthew’s stack into his in-basket, he’d finished his negative quantities. The carrier then delivered Benson’s paperwork to him; he sifted out his stack of negative quantities, clipped them to the plastic arm attached to his flat-screen, and began entering his figures, likewise via 10-key, but he kept his eyes on the paper.

From the top of his stack, Matthew took the hard copy of his negative quantities and hit Finalize on his screen. They printed. He took the hard copy of the originals, pushed himself in his rolling chair over to his printer, snagged the adjustments, stapled them together, and then filed them away in his cabinet in the folder for the current date.

His phone began ringing, and he pushed himself back over to grab it.

Collins, he answered.

Matthew Collins? a deep man’s voice with a thick Okie accent asked. A voice he didn’t recognize.

Yes.

This is JD Parsons. Come on up to my office, please.

Uh… For no real reason, he aimlessly looked over his shoulder, entertaining the possibility that Edward in Human Resources was playing yet another practical joke on him. "Sure. Okay. This is the JD Parsons?"

That’s right. Come on up to my office, please. You know where it is?

Though he’d never been there, nor had he heard where it was, he answered, Yes…sir. I can find it.

I wanna have a little chat with you. And then JD hung up.

Matthew could hardly believe it: JD Parsons, the founder, owner, and CEO of Parsons Oil. And he wanted to see Matthew, in person, immediately. He paused a few seconds to try to see what it was about. Something about a job offer.

He left his cubicle, neglecting to push his chair back in, and walked to the elevators. He pushed the upward-arrow button and waited. Knowing which elevator car would arrive, he turned around and went to the set of elevator doors behind him. The bell dinged. The doors slid open. He stepped inside and hit the button for floor 38. The Parsons Tower was the third tallest building in Oklahoma, and 38 wasn’t even the top floor.

The elevator doors closed, and the car ascended fast; the air pressure slightly intensified on Matthew’s eardrums. The car went up and up, and he clung to the rail in reaction to a slight dizzy spell. He watched the digitized numbers on the panel above increase one by one until 38 appeared and the doors parted. Matthew stepped off into a posh entryway, even more posh than those of the other floors. With his badge, he tried to scan his way through the only available door straight ahead, but he was rejected by a negating, pulsing buzz and the scanner blinking red. A woman’s voice over an intercom asked, Name?

Matthew Collins.

The door clicked and buzzed; he pushed his way through.

What on earth can this be about? he thought, walking down a long and wide corridor. So help me, God, if I have to explain how I can enter in figures before I get my paperwork. The corridor was aligned with office doors and interior windows, some open, some shut. There were no names of employees or associates on plaques on the doors. He felt heavy thoughts walking through this floor. People in these offices were making crucial, colossal decisions, and the intense residue of these thoughts gave Matthew yet another mild headache.

Instinctively, he turned left at a T and went to a corner office. JD’s secretary, Cheryl, at her large desk outside JD’s office, looked up from her computer, stuck her hand under her desk, and clutched onto something. Matthew instantly realized it was a loaded handgun resting firmly in an under-mounted fixture. Standing along both sides of the set of double doors behind her were two armed security guards. Cheryl asked, Name?

Matthew Collins. I was just at the door.

It was the same woman on the intercom.

Badge, she said, holding her left hand out, her right still holding on to the gun, concealed from his physical vantage point. He gave it to her; she held the bar code on the back under a scanner on her desk, it beeped affirmatively, and she returned Matthew’s badge to him, then checked her computer screen.

I think someone’s playing a practical joke on me or something, he said, wary about actually being summoned here and that Cheryl was going to order him away. But she was satisfied with whatever she saw on the screen and told him, Mr. Parsons is expecting you. Then she picked up her desk phone, hit a button, and said, Collins is here. After hanging up, she stood and said, Mr. Parsons will see you now. The security guards did not move. Empty the contents of all your pockets into this, she said, moving from behind the desk and holding out a small plastic basket. He did as requested. Now, please extend your arms.

Hesitantly he complied, but when she began patting him down, he carefully stepped away and asked, Would you please ask one of those men to do this?

Cheryl understood and said to the guard on the left, Take this from here.

Matthew was a twenty-seven-year-old virgin. Never married. And so far, he’d never gone further with a woman than a handshake. The guard patted him down. Feeling increasingly violated, he finally said, Dude, I’m not armed. What do you want me to do? Strip?

If Mr. Parsons had any reason to doubt you, yes.

Likewise, JD Parsons’ name was not mounted on a plaque on the door; the guard opened it for him, and Matthew stepped through.

Sitting at a conference table straight ahead was a young redneck country boy who looked like he’d rather be in a blue-collar, industrial job. He looked even younger than Matthew. Confused, he asked, Mr. Parsons?

The young man raised his arm and pointed with his first two fingers toward his right, across the room.

Matthew stepped in farther and looked around the door toward where he was pointing.

Contrary to the cold, formal theatrics, JD Parsons rose from his desk at the other side of the office, and he instantly extended a hand, though Matthew was nowhere near him yet, and he formed a beaming smile on his face.

Collins! JD said joyously, in that heavy Okie accent, as Matthew approached. The other guy kept his seat at a conference table. JD was strangely dressed—strange for the office, that was. He was wearing cheap blue jeans with a faded graphic OSU T-shirt and broken-in cowboy boots. His hair was naturally black and cut short.

JD Parsons’ office was huge; it was larger than a suite at a five-star hotel. His desk was large, expensive, and traditional, but organized; adjacent to it was a separate, more modern desk for his computer.

Mr. Parsons…, Matthew said, nervously. He finally made it to him, and they shook hands. JD had a firm grip and gave his hand one vigorous shake. Matthew noticed that JD was wearing his class ring. As he wondered why a man who’d come as far as JD Parsons had in life would still be wearing his class ring, he realized the only reason he wore it was that it was his daddy’s ring.

JD, please, he corrected and gestured to one of two luscious leather-upholstered armchairs that faced the desk. They sat. JD folded his hands on his desk surface. He was a man and a genuine gentleman, but Matthew could see a few foggy colors of not dishonesty but dangerous associations with others. He was also a kook, but a fun, amusing kook.

He advanced a quick glance back at the young man at the conference table. Though his appearance was neat and clean, Matthew could tell he was a flunky of JD’s. All JD said about him was, I insist on having at least one witness during all my meetings. Then Matthew, through another intangible vibe, realized the flunky was one of JD’s sons-in-law. And his name was Hunter Rebstock. Matthew began getting a slight whiff of rotten eggs; he smelled rotten eggs around people who were discontent. Hunter was happily married to one of JD’s daughters, but Hunter was discontent about the conditions under which his marriage began. He had a dream that he had to sacrifice to marry JD’s daughter.

Full-length windows aligned the two exterior corner walls. Matthew observed them and asked, Are all the windows in the building bulletproof?

Uh…, he said, turning in his chair, taking a needless glance at them, no. Just mine. How didja know that?

I can just tell.

Well, Collins…

Matthew, please.

Matthew, what do you want out of life?

I’d say… I want to serve the Lord, follow Christ, help others, reach others…

I guess I meant what do you want from your job, here at Parsons Oil? Matthew knew JD didn’t interrupt because he didn’t want to hear about God; he just wanted to get down to business.

He paused to think before saying, Money. They both shared a quick laugh, and then he continued. Serving the Lord doesn’t automatically get the bills paid. I love my job, very much. Everything’s fine.

Hunter remained completely silent, but his eyes and his attention did not avert JD’s and Matthew’s interaction for a second.

The reason I asked…the reason I called you up here…is because I’ve been thinking about you.

Really?

"You’ve been here at Parsons Oil for five years. You started in data entry, and…you’re still in data entry. You seem to be completely plateauing in my company. Is that what you want?"

I’m happy, yes.

That’s good, that’s all that matters. It’s just that many opportunities for advancement have passed you by and you’ve never once applied for one of them. And there’s now another opportunity for advancement. Would you even consider going for it?

I wasn’t even aware there was an opportunity.

"Well, it’s a, shall we say, special opportunity. I’m seeking out employees from within and talking with them, one by one."

How many others have you spoken with?

Just you.

Matthew was flattered. Well, I’ve never really liked drastic change in my life. That’s why I’ve never applied for promotions. There are many things in my personal life that spontaneously change, so… I prefer continuity in the workplace.

Hunter raised his brow and looked down for a beat as JD leaned back and waved his arms a little. Collins! Where in the hell is your ambition?

My personal life fulfills me plenty.

JD wasn’t agitated by Matthew’s response; he understood and politely said, Well, then, that answers all my questions. He stood and extended his hand again. Sorry to have wasted your time.

It’s all right.

Have yourself a nice day.

Thank you. Pleasure to have met you. Matthew headed for the door but then caught Hunter staring at him, not glaringly, but as though defying him to take another step.

JD then said, Oh, Collins, one more thing. He turned but said nothing. With a kind, playful attitude, JD said while pointing, Would you kindly get your ass back in that chair? Matthew smiled and nodded while he returned and took his seat again. Were you seriously gonna walk out of here and not even ask me what the opportunity is?

With a smile and a cheerful, semi-interested tone, he asked, Okay, what is the opportunity?

Glad you asked! It’s actually somewhat of a…freelance odd job, working for my firstborn son. JD took an eight-by-ten tabletop frame from his desk and gave it to him. It was a family photo; JD and his wife, his breathtaking, stunning blond wife with perfect posture, were seated in matching armchairs in a living room. His adult children, all seven of them, were standing, from left to right, in descending order of age, behind them. Sure enough, Hunter was in the photograph, too, standing in the middle next to his wife, one of JD’s daughters. That’s my wife, Barbra, and the mother of all my children. And my eldest son, Kagan Parsons. He’s on the left. Heard of him?

Actually, I think I have. I had no idea he was your son, despite his name. He studied the young man. Kagan was very beautiful. His hair was slicked back, and his suit was sharp and splendid. From the picture, Matthew felt a poignant intensity in Kagan’s eyes and forehead. He had a medium build in his body, stunning complexion, and a thin, well-groomed beard. Standing before Kagan were his son and daughter. Because Kagan’s wife appeared to be absent from the photo, Matthew got the idea that she might’ve died in childbirth or from something else, and he didn’t want to create an awkward moment by asking about her.

Kagan is a model and an actor, JD said. You probably saw him on television, in a commercial, or some damn thing. After he studied Kagan a little more, Matthew began smelling liquor in his nostrils. Kagan was an alcoholic; in fact, he was drunk when the photo was taken. Matthew always smelled liquor when he met alcoholics, though he rarely met alcoholics. In his gut, he also began feeling a fracture between JD and Kagan, that of a cast-iron wedge having been driven through wood; there was something about Kagan that JD hated, but Matthew couldn’t see it yet.

He gave the picture back to him.

So the job is working for my son, but not here, of course. Kagan couldn’t care less about the oil business. I love all my children equally, but I must admit, Kagan is my favorite. Probably because I’m only forty-five years old and he’s already given me some grandbabies. JD was beaming when he said that.

You’ve a beautiful family.

Thank you.

What would I be doing?

Uh, Kagan is digitizing his finances or something like that, and he needs an assistant for data entry, record retention, paperwork, and stuff, same thing you do here.

I see…

But…there’s some things about Kagan that I feel you need to know first.

Okay.

With an awkward grin on his face, and as pleasantly as he could, he said, My son is a little crazy. He laughed a little. But he won’t hurt you. Bottom line: Kagan is a great husband and father, and a genuinely good man. And goddamn, he can make people laugh! I think you’ll love him.

Okay. Uh, I guess, I’ll…

You ever heard of the Covington Mansion?

The Covington Mansion? No.

Get up. JD escorted Matthew to the window facing north. From there, they had an aerial view of the Brady District of downtown Tulsa. Tapping his first two fingers on the glass three times, JD said, It’s that big-ass place there, opposite the Guthrie Green, at Cameron and Boston. It’s the size of a Walgreens. And it was. It was within walking distance from the offices. Its roof was steep, and from an overhead view, it was shaped like a giant bold capital H.

That’s where he lives. The wife and I bought the Covington Mansion not too long after Parsons Oil took flight, before we had the kids. JD slowly walked Matthew back to the door. And because Kagan was the first to get married, we gave him the house as a wedding gift. And now he’s filling it back up with his own family.

I see.

He wants to see you today. I was thinking you could go right now, take the rest of the day off, with pay.

Thank you. Yeah, sounds great. But he didn’t mean it; he felt completely pushed into this.

"Do a good job for my son, come back to me, and we’ll see about a promotion. If you want."

Thanks. So much.

The men shook hands again, and Matthew turned and walked out as Hunter remained seated. As Hunter scratched his jaw with his noticeably long but clean fingernails, manicured in a masculine fashion, his eyes followed Matthew as he left.

Chapter Two

Who the Fuck Are You?

With little effort and with his belongings returned to him, Matthew pushed his way through the revolving door to First Street, looked both ways, and crossed with a sprint in his steps. When he arrived at the T straight ahead, he slowed down. He took his time; he was still being paid. He passed through the Center of the Universe, an acoustical vortex marked with a circle of bricks in the path. Inside the Center of the Universe, noises echoed louder than when they were first issued but were inaudible to those outside the circle.

While he made his slight climb over the wide concrete bridge to Boston Avenue, a train carrying industrial freight roared, chugged, and clunked its way underneath. The concrete path ahead was partially paved with cobblestone and benches and flower beds, in which trees and shrubs aligned the bridge.

He stopped at a mobile taco stand. Matthew bought one, mainly to support small business and because he’d skipped breakfast. He ate it as he continued his walk to Boston. Boston ran north and south; streets running east and west beyond First Street were in alphabetical order. On either side of Boston stood brownstone-looking buildings and shops with apartments above them. Matthew never frequented the downtown Tulsa shops, though they were so close to home.

When he arrived at the T of Archer and Boston, he crossed and continued forward, passing by a bicycle rack and several cars parked in their spaces angularly.

It was at this point where he could see a full-length brick wall with two sets of iron gates just up the next block on the left. Matthew jaywalked to the west side of the street; he passed a bar and then Club Majestic. Outside the club was a sign: please do not pay the panhandlers. Opposite the club was the Woody Guthrie Center, featuring a giant mural of the incomparable Woody Guthrie on the brick wall. Above him was the title of one of his songs, This Land Is Your Land. He held his guitar, and written on his guitar was the message THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.

Matthew crossed Brady Street and continued down Boston, walking up an abrupt but short slope in the sidewalk, and to his immediate left, he saw the Covington Mansion.

Majestically and boldly it stood, fortified almost on the border of downtown Tulsa. The only things Matthew knew that were beyond that point were the Channel 6 newsroom, the 244 freeway, and the Tulsa OSU campus.

Matthew turned and took a good look at the Parsons Tower. It was stalwart; it pillared over downtown Tulsa, commandingly, dominatingly, and intimidatingly. The eye of the great and powerful JD Parsons pierced his back as he drew closer to the house.

The Covington Mansion was a giant colonial townhouse. The front-yard space was tight and very limited. The house had two floors, stacked directly on top of each other. In between the house and the adjacent brownstone, on which fire escapes were attached, was an alley.

He saw that the first gate, automatically operated, led to a paved ramp down to a garage, cutting into the basement level. Basements in Tulsa houses were rare because the land in Oklahoma was infamous for having high moisture, which easily caused leaks in basements. Matthew thought it to be one of God’s comic and ironic jokes that for most houses so close to Tornado Alley, it was impractical and easily problematic to have basements.

Matthew continued down the sidewalk to the main gate, likewise automatically operated. An ovular plaque was hanging by chains above the main gates; the plaque read, THE COVINGTON MANSION.

The gates were wide open, and he passed through them, walking up the street-level driveway. A police car was parked there. Though he’d always had an aversion to police, Matthew’s veins and nerves pulsed with comfort, and he saw colors of a warm, loving family residing inside. These vibes seasoned his heart as it began quickly swelling with euphoria. He now wanted to be here.

Matthew then realized that the tall brick fence enclosing the entire property was also a sound barrier; opposite the house was the Guthrie Green, a small park in which concerts and events were held.

There were tall shrubs growing to his right. Once he passed the shrubs, he saw that they were planted to divide the front yard in half. A small kidney-shaped swimming pool was courted in by the brick fence and the shrubs.

A large, fairly bulky man with a lot of chest hair was swimming laps in a pair of black Nike speedos. It was not Kagan. The man, when coming up for air, saw Matthew standing in the driveway, and he crossed his arms on the edge of the pool.

Hi! the man said. Before Matthew had a chance to introduce himself, the man continued, in a deep, authoritative voice while nodding toward the front double doors, Just let yourself in. Find Melinda. Or Deborah.

Where have I heard that voice before?

He didn’t know who either of those women were, but after a mysterious lull in which the man looked Matthew in the eyes and held back something he wanted to say, he instead dived back under and resumed swimming laps. Matthew walked around the police car but stopped to read a sign staked in the flower bed, which said, NOTHING IN THIS HOUSE IS WORTH YOUR LIFE. Behind the text on the sign was a picture of a shooting-range target full of bullet holes.

But Matthew was born and raised in Oklahoma; this was the norm, and it didn’t perturb him. He went up the steps to the small porch, opened the right-hand front door, and stepped inside.

Because of the basement floor, the house stood on footings, as opposed to a concrete slab, making his steps reverberate and thump throughout the hardwood flooring.

He shut the door. A staircase was ahead to the left. A gallery-size hall lay ahead, which cut immediately to the right.

Who the fuck are you? a woman hollered, hurrying to him from the living room with a spray bottle of heavy-duty, all-purpose cleaner and a dirty rag. Matthew went to her. She had ivory skin and naturally blond hair down to her shoulders, but dressed casually.

Matthew Collins. Kagan Parsons is expecting me.

Oh, Jesus! she muttered, but Matthew heard her think. I can’t believe that drunken bastard is actually pulling this bullshit!

And then he realized she was Melinda. But not Kagan’s wife. Matthew knew it best not to retort with anything antagonistic he heard from someone else’s mind. Melinda was the housekeeper, but not in uniform. Just go in there, she said, pointing him to the living room, frustrated.

He waited for her to walk out before going in. The living room was a little narrow, but long and filled with nothing but posh, traditional furnishings, kept regularly and strictly dusted, polished, and vacuumed. When he saw a crucifix above the mantel, depicting Christ nailed to the cross, slumped over and dead, sadness struck him sharply.

Matthew turned around when he heard some kids running down the stairs. Another woman, a little older than Melinda, met them in the hall. The two children were a boy and a girl; the boy looked the older, and chocolate was smudged around his mouth.

You got into the chocolate again! the woman yelled. Your daddy’s gonna tan your hide! Matthew realized she was their mother and Kagan’s wife. But why wasn’t she in the photograph on JD’s desk?

KJ, Lizzie, go on upstairs! Lizzie, help him wash his face! And don’t touch anything, KJ, until you’re squeaky-clean. And don’t come crying to me if you get a tummy ache either!

Deborah and Melinda met in the hall after the kids bolted excitedly and noisily up the stairs. Melinda agitatedly muttered something to Deborah while pointing to Matthew, and then she went upstairs. A third child, another boy, rushed past her, giggling, and ran into the dining room. They’d had more children since that picture was taken.

Deborah, in a much more hospitable mood, hollered to Matthew, Be right with you!

Then she let herself into a door at the end of the hall. It was Kagan’s study.

Surrounding the fireplace in the living room were two matching sofas, facing each other. They both stood on tall legs. He sat himself on one of them. Matthew then realized that Kagan was not home.

Soon after, Deborah came in with a manila file folder, and she offered her hand, saying, I’m Deborah. She was dressed quite modestly, but not repressed. Her hair was up in a large tight bun, and she was wearing a plain long-sleeved blouse and a full-length skirt. She was Pentecostal.

Matthew Collins, he said, standing and shaking her hand. From the touch of her hand, he felt strong vibes of maternity and love for children; in fact, she and Kagan were closer than he first realized. She was much older than Kagan. She was in her late forties, and she’d known Kagan since he was born. Though he felt love between them, he did not feel romance. It was a dead marriage.

Was this what JD hated about Kagan? That he’d married an older woman whose childbearing years were almost at an end? And then they’d fallen out of love? Checking his watch, he sat, and Deborah sat opposite him, and said, If you don’t mind my asking, why aren’t those kids in school?

Oh, I’m homeschooling them myself until sixth grade.

How nice.

Mr. Parsons insists. And Mr. Parsons is not here, so I guess I’ll be doing your interview.

That’s fine.

She opened the folder, and with an air of uncertainty, she said, I have your résumé here. Um…you’ve been at Parsons Oil for…five years?

Yes.

Um, what have you been told about coming to work here?

Mr. Parsons is needing some help with digitizing his finances or documents or something, and he needs help with paperwork and data entry.

Okay. She stared at the papers in the folder in her lap.

What an incredible house, he said, trying to break an awkward silence.

Then she shut the folder and looked at him with an apologetic smile. I’m so sorry. For wasting your time. I’ve no idea why Kagan wants to hire you. He never tells me these things, and he’s at a photo shoot all day.

His father said Kagan wanted to talk with me right now.

I’m so sorry, there’s been some kind of a mix-up. It would be best if Kagan does your interview. Um… She bit her lip. You know what? I’ll call Kagan right now.

She stood, and then so did he; she exited through a door off the back of the living room, and then he took his seat again.

Matthew heard a slight rustling behind the sofa where Deborah just was.

And then a child’s giggle.

He scooted to the edge of his seat and craned his neck until the child rose up. It was another girl.

The girl put her index finger to her lips and made a Shushhhhh! noise; they were playing hide-and-seek. Matthew smiled and winked as she then sunk below the love seat again. The first girl Matthew saw, Lizzie, darted into the living room, straight to Matthew.

I’m looking for Jade, she said with a few of her fingers in her mouth.

You’re Lizzie, right?

My name’s Elizabeth. Only Deborah calls me Lizzie. He then assessed that Deborah must be their stepmother, Kagan’s second wife.

Okay, Elizabeth, he said, friendly and childlike, why don’t we try to find her together? Now, where in this room could she be hiding?

Elizabeth grinned and ran behind the sofa, out of his vantage point. He heard exclaiming and laughing, and then the two girls re-emerged from behind the couch.

How did you know? Jade asked.

It’s so easy! You always hide there! Let’s go find Niles!

Yes!

The two girls gripped hands, and Matthew began leading them to the door Deborah left through off the room. Jade gasped and said, No!

What? he asked.

We can’t go through that door. Mother forbids it. To say Matthew was now confused was an understatement. Lizzie was calling Deborah by her first name and Jade was calling her mother.

"Well, your mother just left through this door herself. It’s all right."

Matthew, beginning to get a headache from all this confusion, rubbed his forehead while he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Elizabeth ran by him through it.

Jade, you coming? he asked.

No. I’ll go look upstairs. She ran out, her steps lightly tapping.

Matthew shut the door; the room was a home gym. There was a bench press, a treadmill, and a large set of individual barbells. A thin wide full-length mirror was glued to the wall, and there was also a wall-mounted flat-screen. Strangely, there was a staircase adjacent to the exterior wall, and it was obviously the only original structure in the room, from when the house was first built. Under the stairs that went up was another set of open stairs that went down to the basement. Next to the stairs was a side exterior door.

Elizabeth began leading and said, Let’s go ask Nonna where Niles is.

She darted into the next room, and he followed. The next room was a formal library, built almost entirely in mahogany. Full-length bookcases aligned the walls. Matthew looked up through an opening in the ceiling, aligned with railing, and he saw that the library had a second floor of bookcases. Sitting in a wheelchair was a middle-aged woman with stale-blond hair that was partially beginning to gray. Matthew could see that, recently, her hair was graying unusually fast due to a constant feeling of stress and discomfort. Strong were her vibes of fear and discontent.

Matthew was about to introduce himself to her, but then he realized that, for some reason, this woman could not speak. Slowly she turned her head and raised her eyes to him, but she did not even attempt to open her mouth and speak or communicate.

He glanced over to a small wooden desk and saw a vase of roses in which a get-well card was on a plastic stick; next to the roses were a couple of booklets from St. Francis Hospital, one titled Discharge Planning, the other Understanding Stroke.

Elizabeth took her Nonna’s hand and, in a slight whisper, said, Buongiorno, Nonna! Is Niles hiding in here?

After an uncertain pause, the woman squeezed Elizabeth’s hand twice. It must’ve meant no.

Matthew looked over and saw a boy, most likely Niles, poking his head up from the other side of the woman’s hospital bed. Matthew could not see how or to whom in the Parsons family this ailing woman was related.

Nonna never knows where Niles is, Elizabeth said and then ran across the room and out the only other door.

Just as she pushed her way through it, Deborah intercepted her in the dining room beyond and grabbed her shoulders, saying, Walk! We walk indoors. We run outdoors.

Okay! And then she walked off.

Using all four fingers, Deborah gestured for him to come to her, away from the wheelchair-bound woman, but then he felt a sensation of the woman crying for help, in her mind. He wanted to stay; she was, to him, clearly in emotional distress. She wanted to say something. She had a diabolical revelation to make. But then he realized that she couldn’t speak English.

He left her.

Deborah took him to the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen; it was off the hook. She gave him the receiver. Deborah, like many Pentecostals, didn’t personally use cell phones or modern technology.

And then he got a strong whiff of alcohol in his nostrils again as he said, Yes?

Matthew, this is Kagan Parsons. I’m so sorry about this mix-up. My father is a little crazy. I did not tell him to send you to my house today.

It’s all right. No problem.

I’ll be busy all day, but why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night? We’ll have our interview then.

Okay. Sounds great.

Come back to the house at six o’clock tomorrow. Melinda makes the best meals. You’ll love it.

Tomorrow at six.

Thanks. See you then.

They both hung up.

When Matthew left the house, he was a little dizzy.

Chapter Three

I Want You

Though he loved what he saw at the Covington Mansion, he still resented what was happening; he didn’t ask for this job, and he didn’t want it. God, give me strength and knowledge. God, help me make the right choice. God, please show me the way, show me Your plan.

He went to his room and changed into sweatpants and stripped to his T-shirt, planning to enjoy his day off with pay by staying in alone and relaxing.

While he rinsed off his plate from last night’s spaghetti dinner in the sink and the pot in which he’d cooked the sauce, Matthew thought some more about JD. JD was a cool guy, and he would feel insulted if Matthew didn’t at least just meet with his son, especially since they were both making the time to personally meet with him. Then he placed the plate and pot in the dishwasher and made himself a sandwich with leftover egg salad.

He told himself that he didn’t have to take the job. He just had to go for dinner the next night.

Then as he lay down on the sofa with his sandwich and turned on his plasma screen, he set a reminder alert for five o’clock the next day on his phone and titled it Dinner at Parsons.

The next day, Matthew returned to work and performed routinely. The first thing he did on his computer was Google Kagan Parsons. Once he typed in Kagan’s name, Parsons appeared on the autocomplete list. There he found his Wikipedia page. There was an even more electrifying picture of Kagan in the upper right-hand corner; it was a black-and-white headshot, presumably taken from another photo shoot. He was slightly raising his eyebrows and running his fingers through his hair.

Matthew read:

Kagan Thomas Parsons, born in 1990…

That makes him twenty-four now.

Firstborn son to the prominent and wealthy Parsons Oil family of Tulsa and heir to the Parsons fortune, is a renowned high-end fashion model. His six brothers and sisters are Sharon Parsons, Abram Parsons, Chance Parsons, Carly Parsons Rebstock, Jason Parsons, and Thomas Parsons. Kagan Parsons was discovered when he was eighteen years old at John Cassablancas Model Talent Management, and when he was eighteen, he signed his first contract with Calvin Klein. His work as a model quickly boosted his fame in and beyond the Tulsa society scene, and he’s most noted for his alluring, captivating eyes. His father, JD Parsons, has been quoted in society columns saying, The future of our son [Kagan] knows no bounds. With his irresistible charm, his limitless ambition, pretty face, and his inheritance, he could take over the world.

Having goofed off while on the clock long enough, he then closed the page, opened his POI, and began entering his figures into the database, and his paperwork was, again, still stacked in his in-box. Benson from across the aisle, with his papers clipped to the arm on his monitor, watched him again hitting his 10-key like a savant, until he leaned over and said, Okay, I’m finally going to ask, How are you doing that without looking at your hard copies?

Matthew finished, hit Finalize, and humbly said with a little grin, I have good peripheral vision.

I’ll say.

Matthew picked up his metal cup and tossed back the last of that morning’s Powerade, then headed to the lounge for another from the vending machine. On his way, he took a side trip to the north-facing windows and looked back out at the Covington Mansion.

His view now was quite lower than the view from JD’s office, but he let his eyes travel from the house to a billboard he hadn’t noticed before, near the entrance ramp onto the 244 from Boston. It was an advertisement for something he couldn’t quite make out because the slogan was in a large font, upstaging the product. The slogan read, THIS CAN BE YOURS.

That evening, straight from work, he walked back to the Covington Mansion. Soon after he rang the bell, the door opened, and there stood Kagan Parsons himself, with a set of aviator sunglasses on. Matthew was caught off guard; he expected Melinda or Deborah to answer. All he saw when looking into those large silver-tinted sunglass lenses over Kagan’s eyes was his own reflection.

Matthew Collins? he asked in a thick Okie accent just like his father’s.

Yes.

Kagan Parsons. They shook hands. Kagan stepped aside, and Matthew stepped inside and stumbled a little from the scent of alcohol (whiskey, to be precise) that he smelled in his nostrils. Kagan was drunk, but composed.

Kagan shut the door as Matthew tried to figure something out. He couldn’t see what exactly, but Kagan had gone through a drastic change since the family picture on JD’s desk was taken. And in person, the intensity of his life force was even stronger. Matthew took a good look at him; he never would’ve otherwise believed Kagan was a high-end fashion model. His appearance, right then, was sloppy and tired. He was barefoot. His fly was open, and his belt was undone; the only thing holding up his pants was the button. He was wearing an old hoodie, and he now had long hair drawn up in a man-bun, several strands hanging around his face, and he hadn’t groomed his beard in weeks.

The only thing Kagan and JD seemed to really have in common was an equally thick Okie accent.

Let’s talk in my study. Right this way.

Matthew followed him. When he heard Kagan think, Invoices, remember the invoices, he stopped and tried to concentrate as he stared at him.

Matthew was pissed. He couldn’t see what Kagan really wanted; Kagan was tense, and he was heavily guarding a hidden agenda. Matthew began feeling what Kagan was feeling: numbness in his temples and nose from his drinking. Kagan was also grinding his teeth. Kagan stopped and asked, You coming?

Matthew resumed following him through the door to his study just as one of the boys that he’d met on his previous visit ran by him.

The study was bright and walled with dark wooden paneling.

Melinda! Kagan said to himself, crossing to the windows. "God…damn it! He thrashed the curtains shut. She knows the sunlight bothers me!"

Now the only light in the room was coming from the desk lamp. Kagan sat as his desk, which, like JD’s, faced two armchairs. He took off his sunglasses, and despite the run-down look of exhaustion on his face, the cool intensity in his rich blue eyes still took Matthew’s full attention under arrest. Matthew sat in one of the chairs.

Okay, let’s do this. He opened the folder that Deborah had the previous day. What has my father said about the job?

Something about digitizing your finances.

Right. Well, for now. Before we begin, before I can tell you anything, I need you to sign this. Kagan handed a short document to him, and he took it. It’s a confidentiality agreement, basically saying that any information you obtain about anyone or anything while you’re here, you have to take it to your grave. My sister Sharon is also my lawyer, and she insists.

The document was short and sweet, but legally thorough. Matthew speed-read it and signed it. And then Kagan made a Xerox of it on his printer. While it was copying, he went to a small wet bar and filled a glass with whiskey.

Drink?

No, I don’t drink.

Kagan gave him a stare through a lull and then asked, Why? Matthew chuckled as Kagan sat his drink on his desk. He stopped chuckling when he realized Kagan wasn’t being funny.

Uh, I just prefer not to drink.

Kagan gathered the copy and original, gave the copy to him, and said, Well, you should. He took a sip. As he then filed the original in his filing cabinet and sat back down, he asked, Ever heard of Teresa France?

No.

She’s a litigator who’s suing my father on behalf of the stockholders, and that is very bad news for us all.

I wasn’t aware of that.

She hasn’t gone public with her case yet. I don’t know the gory details, but my father’s done nothing wrong. About a year ago, there was a discreet SEC investigation against my father for insider trading, but they never proved a thing. There is something wrong, though. I had to lie to my father about why I wanted you. There’s some invoices for Parsons Oil that’re missing. Kagan handed him a Post-it with some writing on it and referred to it. Invoices between Parsons Oil and this plastics company, from 1991 to 1996. He gestured instructively. Find them.

Where might they be?

In this house. Presumably misfiled among the filing cabinets in the basement. Directly below this room, actually.

I don’t know. Shouldn’t your lawyer handle this?

I don’t want Sharon to handle this. I want you. Matthew could sense how much he meant that. How much he was enjoying this song and dance. Partially, this was a game to Kagan. You know what all the paperwork looks like better than her, and my father says you’re the best in the data entry department.

Your dad really said that?

He did. My daddy doesn’t know about the invoices. Sharon came to me about it. We both don’t want to bother him with this. His plate is full enough. I’ll double your pay from Parsons Oil for as long the job takes. Don’t work yourself too hard but don’t drag your feet either.

That does sound nice. But I still don’t get what all this is about.

Let me start from the beginning. When my father first started Parsons Oil and married my mother, before me and my brothers and sisters were born, he bought this house and stored a lot of business records in it. Kagan paused to toss back a sip of his whiskey. And when I got married, my parents gave the house to me, but they left behind a lot of their old shit, namely the old business records, all in filing cabinets in the basement. I want you to move in and go through everything down there—

Wait, move in?

Kagan sat and stared at him with stern anger in his eyes before saying, My biggest pet peeve is getting interrupted, and this is the only time I’ll correct you nicely. Matthew nodded apologetically. I want you to move in because Teresa France might have the house being watched, and I don’t want her wondering why a data entry clerk from Parsons Oil is making daily trips to JD Parsons’ son’s house. If anyone asks what you’re doing here, just answer, ‘No comment.’ Plus, I want you working day and night. You have carte blanche to search anywhere. There’s no room that’s off-limits. If Teresa France finds out these invoices are missing, she’s gonna sic the IRS on my father for tax evasion. That fucking bitch asked for everything in discovery.

Matthew endured the obscenity with a straight face and masked his objection to it by changing the subject. Your father said you’re not in the oil business. Why are you hiring me for this?

By choice, I’ll never be involved in the oil business, but I’m going to inherit Parsons Oil one day. Anyone who threatens that is an enemy and, as far as I’m concerned, very expendable. And that’s exactly what Teresa France is: an enemy. She’s suing my father for my birthright, and that is unacceptable. Kagan then stood, lighting himself a cigarette. Matthew then noticed two plastic baskets on the desk. One was labeled unread, mostly containing unopened mail; the other was labeled burn, meaning documents to be burned. That tray was about to overflow. Let’s walk, he said to Matthew, grabbing his whiskey, leading him out through the main door and back down the hall. Kagan dragged on his cigarette. Melinda’s prepared a nice room for you upstairs. I’ll show it to you first.

Matthew pointed to the main stairs to his left and uttered, Uh…?

There’s a more convenient staircase this way. He followed Kagan on down the hall.

How large is the house?

Four floors, counting the attic floor and basement. They crossed through the living room to the door that Jade said was forbidden. Kagan opened it and said, 4,700 square feet each floor. They crossed through the home gym to the odd staircase Matthew had seen before. This was originally the servants’ staircase. These are the only stairs that have access to each floor, altogether.

Kagan started up, but as Matthew took the banister and began walking up after him, he glanced down over the railing and only got a glimpse of the wood flooring of the landing in the basement. He felt a thick barrier of repression around his temples, ears, and eyes. Yes, the Parsons were a loving, happy family, and no, Matthew saw no danger. But now more than before, he realized that it was just a thin cosmetic facade. He now felt a strong sense of lockdown and secrecy, and this had been so for many years. Whether or not this feeling was coming from Kagan or the house, he couldn’t tell.

As Matthew climbed up the stairs, he began smelling blood. A massive amount of warm human blood. It was simmering up from the basement, as though from a large simmering caldron. His abnormal sense of smell rendered him unable to tell if the scent of human blood in the basement was residue from years ago or if the blood was fresh and if the body or bodies from which it was spilled were still on the premises.

Should Kagan or anyone make one wrong move, Matthew began mentally preparing to run for his life.

Chapter Four

Ti Senti Bene?

Matthew had to hold his breath until they reached his bedroom. When entering, he relieved himself with a silent exhale through his nostrils softly enough for Kagan not to notice. The room was uncluttered and plainly furnished with a double bed that had a bookcase as the headboard, matching nightstands, and dresser with a mirror. An old fainting couch was against the wall, and he had a northern view of Cameron Street.

Kagan pointed to an antique wardrobe cabinet and said, That wardrobe is empty, and you can hang your clothes in there. None of the bedrooms have closets except for the master suite.

They returned to the main floor by the same stairs; they went into the library. The middle-aged woman he saw the last time was still silent and in her wheelchair. At her hospital table on wheels, but sitting opposite her, there was another woman, younger, whom he hadn’t met. Though she, too, was not in uniform, he knew she was the older woman’s personal home caregiver.

Matthew very badly wanted to speak with the middle-aged woman alone.

Kagan introduced the home caregiver. Matthew, this is Katherine. Katherine, Matthew.

Katherine didn’t even look up when she uttered, Hey.

For what reason, he didn’t know, but already she didn’t like Matthew; his flesh was bitterly chilly in her presence. She radiated coldness like an open fridge. Katherine was playing gin with her patient. Their cards were propped up on Scrabble tile trays. She held the woman’s hand with her left, and she held a pen with her right.

She then said, Martha, just squeeze three times whenever you want to quit playing.

Without peeking, Katherine began tapping her pen to the top of each of Martha’s cards, from Martha’s left to right. When she tapped the middle card, Martha squeezed. Katherine played that card for her. Kagan said to her, Mama Longhetti, this is Matthew. Matthew, Martha Longhetti, my mother-in-law. Then he borrowed her hand from Katherine and asked, Did you eat already?

He got two squeezes.

Why not? Not hungry?

One squeeze.

Well, please eat when you’re hungry. Matthew, if ever you want to ask Nonna something, just take her right hand and hold it.

But ask her if she wants to speak with you first, Katherine said in a cross tone.

Watch yourself, you bitch! Kagan thought and then said, Yes, please. We talk with her like we always would.

Matthew was mesmerized by Martha; she was fighting very hard to think.

Mama, if you wanna talk with Matthew, you’ll have to wait till after dinner. Everybody’s hungry. Do you want to talk with Matthew after dinner? One firm squeeze. To Matthew, he said, When you’re speaking with her, just keep it down to yes-or-no questions. She’ll squeeze once for yes, twice for no. Back to Martha, he asked, You want us to leave you two alone now?

One strong squeeze. Kagan crossed to the dining room.

Matthew stayed behind, took Martha’s hand, and said, I’m happy to know you, Martha. Do you want to tell me anything now?

One squeeze.

Katherine scoffed and caught up with Kagan in the dining room, thinking, I can’t watch this! So Matthew took her seat.

Do you know what I’m really here for?

One squeeze.

Okay, yes-or-no questions, uh…

Uh, just think about what you want to say. Say it in your mind. Concentrate as hard as you can, but don’t overexert yourself.

He could hear her, loud and clear, like an alien transmission over a radio channel with an absent broadcast. I’m sorry, Martha, all I’m getting is Italian. Do you know any English?

Two squeezes.

How can you understand me, then? Did you used to know English before your stroke?

One squeeze.

Squeeze if you can hear me.

She didn’t. Does someone here know Italian and English?

One squeeze. Probably Deborah.

Matthew! Kagan hollered from the next room, louder than necessary. Dinner!

Martha cringed at his voice; she twitched her lips, and her blood pressure went up. Matthew felt the pulses of her blood through the veins in her wrist increase in tempo through his fingertips. Please try to remain calm. I’m here to help, and whatever’s wrong, I’ll take care of it for you. He looked around for anything she might want. He saw a flat-screen above the fireplace on mute. Taking her hand, he asked, What channel?

No squeeze.

This channel?

One squeeze.

Wheel of Fortune was on.

Want me to move you?

Two squeezes.

I presume all ‘Pleases’ and ‘Thank-yous’ are implied?

One squeeze. He then felt her and her friendly warmth; she had reached temporary relief and peace. Or at least she was the closest she could get to it right now.

Matthew unmuted the TV, then as he was about to cross to the dining room, he stopped to look through the French doors and observe the many pine needle trees along the brick fence in the backyard. Those trees were old and tall, healthy and thriving, their flexible limbs and needles submitting to the breaths of wind. But Matthew sensed something was wrong with those trees. Their reason for being planted was shady and scandalous.

There was also a large gray sedimentary rock in the flower bed in the corner. It, too, bothered him. The large rock wasn’t there for a scandalous reason, but something was wrong with it just the same.

He crossed to the dining room. It was a large room, even larger than the library and the living room; the hardwood floors continued throughout, and the panels in the chair railing were cut out of the original mahogany. A glorious chandelier, imported from London, illuminated the room, the many glimmering crystals dividing the light into tiny streams the size of pencil led in multiple directions. Matthew’s entire apartment could practically fit in here. The table was also giant; the surface looked about twenty feet long. Presently, it could seat sixteen people.

The first man he’d met at the house, the man who was swimming in the pool in speedos, had just arrived home and came into the room. But now he was in his dark-blue Tulsa police officer uniform, belt, badge, and all, and he set his cap on the credenza. He went to Matthew, and smiling, he offered his hand. Cody Parsons. Happy to see you again.

Matthew Collins. They shook hands. Cody’s right arm was covered in black tribal tattoos running from his wrist and up into his sleeve. He was very well-built and kept his hair buzzed.

Nice to meet you, and welcome. Take your seat.

Matthew approached the only chair at which a full plate of pork tenderloin, rice, and corn was placed. The silverware was traditionally set.

Before his plate was a place card wedged in a sterling holder with matthew collins printed on it. He moved the card to the side and sat.

Kagan had topped off his whiskey. Still, he was drinking it straight. Melinda, still not in a maid’s uniform, sat opposite Matthew; next to him was Katherine, and opposite her was Deborah. Formally, Kagan sat at the head of the table, but at the head of the other end was Cody. Matthew began realizing why Deborah wasn’t in JD’s family photo. When Kagan brought his glass to his lips, Matthew saw his thick silver wedding band on his left ring finger. On Cody’s same finger was an identical band.

I’m sorry if I was rude earlier, Katherine said to Matthew. I’m just protective of my patients.

It’s all right, thank you.

Handing him the latest copy of The Tulsa Voice, opened up to an article, she said, Check it out. Awesome story.

He took the paper; skimming through it, he saw it was an article about Kagan Parsons, the provocative, high-end fashion model who did something very daring. But it was a loving gesture to his husband of seven years. Despite that his contract with Calvin Klein forbade him to acquire any tattoos, he recently, without permission, got a large black tattoo. Then Matthew glanced at the attached photo. It was of Kagan; he was looking over his shoulder into the camera, and on his bare back was the tattoo, in a bold, edgy font: cody. The rest of the article appealed to Calvin Klein on behalf of Kagan’s friends and followers not to take legal action against Kagan Parsons for breach of contract.

That explains it. JD dislikes Cody. Martha, Cody’s mother, dislikes Kagan.

Cody, before starting to eat, got up and went to the library. Matthew could see them from his vantage point. To her, as he took her hand and kissed her on the cheek, Cody said, in his Italian accent, Buonasera, Mama. Good evening, Mama. Ti senti bene? Did you have a good day? She squeezed. Sentirsi bene? Feeling well? She squeezed.

Who are you? Matthew asked Deborah as Cody returned to his seat.

Deborah. Deborah Giddens.

I mean…

I’m the children’s governess.

Matthew had never heard of servants out of uniform and eating with the family; he was quickly learning that the Parsons family certainly marched to their own drummer with custom-cut values and rules.

What? Kagan asked, quite unfiltered and blunt. Did you think she was my wife? Kagan began cracking up in the face of Matthew’s awkward silence. Everyone else enjoyed a chuckle, but Kagan held his head back and cackled loudly. Matthew, Deborah was governess to me and my brothers and sisters when we were babies! How creepy that would’ve been if I’d married her! No offense, Deborah!

The feeling is mutual, Kagan, she said in a playful, combative tone.

Matthew bowed his head and began blessing his meal. When Cody looked over and saw that Matthew was praying, he said, Everybody, quiet!

Kagan didn’t hear him. Just plain creepy! And then he belched deeply and loudly and didn’t excuse himself. Matthew was right next to Kagan; the smell of whiskey from him and his glass was making him a little dizzy. Or maybe even a little buzzed.

Kags, shut up! Matthew, hey. Matthew stopped and looked at him, afraid that Cody was about to ask him not to pray in their house. What Cody actually said surprised him. Would you please say grace out loud for us?

Sure. Everyone set down their silverware, Katherine with more uncertainty than everyone else, and after Matthew bowed, so did the rest.

Before Matthew started, Cody and Kagan, while crossing themselves, both said in unison, In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Matthew prayed, God, you are truly an awesome God. I pray for the Parsons family and their friends and, hopefully, my new friends too. God, may Your will be done. I pray that You watch over all those in this household, especially my new friend and sister in Christ, Martha. Cody began quietly tearing up. God, please place Your healing hands on her. Restore her voice to her, God. I’ve never heard it, but I’m sure it’s a sweet voice. Help her be able to tell us…her pains or troubles, God. I’m sure she has some. We all thank You for sending Your Son for us all…

Under her breath, Katherine muttered, Wrap it up.

Bless this food for which we are very thankful. In Christ’s name, amen.

Amen, said only Melinda and Deborah. Kagan and Cody, while crossing