Escape the Night by Richard North Patterson

closed for a moment. “Not anymore.” His eyes opened. “Cheer up, Father—I may even take HUAC with me.”
    Watching Charles’s expressionless face, John Carey realized with a stab of fear that his son’s passion had fled, that they were no longer joined even in anger or ambition. He felt suddenly tired. “Well,” he said dismissively, “I can’t force manhood on you. But you’re still responsible for editing the manuscripts you’ve started. Those can be done at home—after that, we’ll discuss what else you might do. Considering his mother, it might be good if at least Peter saw you work at something useful.”
    â€œAs you like.” Charles stood, reaching for his coat. He walked to the door, then turned. “Clayton Barth still troubles you, doesn’t he. You gave him no way out.”
    It took John Carey by surprise. “Why should I have,” he snapped. “The only person Clayton Barth had the power to destroy was his own son.”
    Charles’s slight smile in the doorway seemed almost pitying. “Sweet Jesus Christ,” he murmured, and was gone.

CHAPTER 4
    In the months that followed Charles’s leaving, for the first time in his life, John Carey felt alone.
    For seven years, his sons had circled him like strange dogs, bound by their hungers and the scent of his will. Neither Charles nor Phillip knew its terms, how often it had been changed, even whether it existed. Neither asked. Yet its gift of power had drawn the two competing brothers to his side in a subtle alchemy that took the place of love. Feeling the ruin of a chemistry which had relied on Charles’s need, Black Jack Carey slapped at the knowledge as though it were a cobweb, denying what he could not face.
    One gray and gloomy Tuesday, shortly after Peter’s third birthday, John Carey called his chauffeur and left the office early, appearing at Charles’s in his long black Lincoln to announce: “It’s time I knew my grandson.”
    He gave no reason: John Carey could not explain his need for Peter, even to himself. Charles, regarding him with cool blue eyes, said, “He’s playing upstairs,” and John Carey’s time with Peter began.
    Peter knew nothing of the black-haired dandy who had terrified his sons. To him, his grandfather was a florid, soft-spoken man with shrewd black eyes and a white mane of hair, whose callused hands gripped him tightly as they crossed the street.
    â€œGrandpa, how did your hands get so rough?”
    They were waiting in line at the Hayden Planetarium, shortly after Peter’s fourth birthday. John Carey smiled ruefully down, eyes penetrating and a little sad. “Do you really want to know?”
    Peter nodded.
    â€œThen the stars can wait.”
    The chauffeur drove them through the Holland Tunnel and into New Jersey, to the bindery.
    Peter looked at the long, gray building. “What is it?”
    â€œThey make books from sheets of paper. I would bring the sheets here in a wagon drawn by horses.”
    â€œHorses? Are you very old?”
    John Carey frowned. “I never think about it. Would you like to see inside?”
    It was dark and hot and smelled like glue. The man in charge treated John Carey like someone special. “I want Peter to know how books are made,” he said. The man stopped what he was doing to show them: at the end, he gave to Peter a finished book, its spine stamped with fine gold print, which his grandfather read aloud, “Van Dreelen and Carey .”
    â€œIs that our name?”
    John Carey nodded. “These are our books.”
    â€œDo you still drive them?”
    â€œNo. Not anymore.”
    â€œBecause the horses are all dead?”
    â€œThey don’t use horses anymore—we have trucks. Other men drive them for me.”
    â€œThen what do you do?”
    John Carey tucked the book back under Peter’s arm. “I decide what books