The Secret History - Donna Tartt [197]
Dalmane. Yellow and orange. Darvon. Red and gray. Fiorinal. Nembutal. Miltown. I took two from each of the bottles he gave me.
“What,” he said, “don’t you want more than that?”
“I don’t want her to miss anything.”
“Shit,” he said, opening another bottle and pouring half the contents into his pocket. “Take what you want. She’ll think it was one of her daughters-in-law or something. Here, have some of this speed,” he said, tapping most of the rest of the bottle on my palm. “It’s great stuff. Pharmaceutical. During exams you can get ten or fifteen dollars a hit for this, easy.”
I went downstairs, the right-hand pocket of my jacket full of ups and the left full of downs. Francis was standing at the foot of the steps. “Listen,” I said, “do you know where Henry is?”
“No. Have you seen Charles?”
He was half-hysterical. “What’s wrong?” I said.
“He stole my car keys.”
“What?”
“He took the keys out of my coat pocket and left. Camilla saw him pulling out of the driveway. He had the top down. That car stalls in the rain, anyway, but if—shit,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know anything about it, do you?”
“I saw him about an hour ago. With Marion.”
“Yes, I talked to her too. He said he was going out for cigarettes, but that was an hour ago. You did see him? You haven’t talked to him?”
“No.”
“Was he drunk? Marion said he was. Did he look drunk to you?”
Francis looked pretty drunk himself. “Not very,” I said. “Come on, help me find Henry.”
“I told you. I don’t know where he is. What do you want him for?”
“I have something for him.”
“What is it?” he said in Greek. “Drugs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, give me something, for God’s sake,” he said, swaying forward, pop-eyed.
He was far too drunk for sleeping pills. I gave him an Excedrin.
“Thanks,” he said, and swallowed it with a big sloppy drink of his whiskey. “I hope I die in the night. Where do you suppose he went, anyway? What time is it?”
“About ten.”
“You don’t suppose he decided to drive home, do you? Maybe he just took the car and went back to Hampden. Camilla said certainly not, not with the funeral tomorrow, but I don’t know, he’s just disappeared. If he really just went for cigarettes, don’t you think he’d be back by now? I can’t imagine where else he would have gone. What do you think?”
“He’ll turn up,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”
I looked all over the house for Henry and found him sitting by himself on an army cot, in the basement, in the dark.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, without moving his head. “What is that?” he said, when I offered him a couple of capsules.
“Nembutal. Here.”
He took them from me and swallowed them without water. “Do you have any more?”
“Yes.”
“Give them to me.”
“You can’t take more than two.”
“Give them to me.”
I gave them to him. “I’m not kidding, Henry,” I said. “You’d better be careful.”
He looked at them, then reached in his pocket for the blue enamel pillbox and put them carefully inside it. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “you would go upstairs and get me a drink.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking on top of those pills.”
“I’ve been drinking already.”
“I know that.”
There was a brief silence.
“Look,” he said, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I want a Scotch and soda. In a tall glass. Heavy on the Scotch, light on the soda, lots of ice, a glass of plain water, no ice, on the side. That’s what I want.”
“I’m not going to get it for you.”
“If you don’t go up and get it for me,” he said, “I’ll just have to go up and get it myself.”
I went up to the kitchen and got it for him, except I made it a good deal heavier on the soda than I knew he wanted me to.
“That’s for Henry,” said Camilla, coming into the kitchen just as I’d finished the first glass and was filling the second with water from the tap.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs.”
“How’s he doing?”
We were alone in the kitchen. With my eyes on the empty doorway, I told her about the lacquer chest.
“That