The Colonel

by Beau North

  And then, someone started knocking on the door. Not just knocking. Hammering on the door. Ben managed to roll out of bed, still fully dressed but for his shoes. He shuffled through the silent house, across the semi-lit hall, down the stairs, and through the formal receiving room. He swung the door open to see a police car parked outside, its bubble lights silently flashing red and blue. The sky was pearly gray, telling him it was early morning. He could live with that. The officer who’d knocked looked him up and down, and Ben couldn’t help but do the same.

  She was a petite black woman with large, brown eyes and a high, clear brow. Her hair had been pinned back in a no-nonsense bun. She was, Ben noted, astonishingly pretty. She was also looking at him with no small amount of suspicion. The name pinned to her shirt simply read “K. Barnes.” Behind her, a hulking man, in the same police blues, stood looking bored.

  “Can I help you, officer?”

  “Sir, we got a call that someone had broken into this house. Caller said that there shouldn’t be lights on since the house is unoccupied?” She said the last like a question but in a way that politely demanded he explain himself.

  “Ah, right. Hang on one second.” He reached into his pocket and produced his wallet, fishing out his ID. “I’m Ben Fitzwilliam. I own the property.” Ben was fairly certain he owned the whole block but kept that part to himself.

  Officer K. Barnes looked down at his ID and then back up at him, brows raised. “Resident of New York State?” Her voice was smooth and lovely. There’s music in her voice and danger in her eyes. Where had he heard that before? An old song, maybe?

  “I just moved back. Took the train down last night.”

  “Can you wait here for a minute, sir?” she asked. “I’m just going to check this out.”

  “Sure. Oh, here…” Ben removed a business card from his wallet and handed it over. “That’s the caretaker; he’ll tell you.”

  “Just a moment.” She took the card and his ID and walked back to the patrol car. She was economical in the way she moved and walked, not clipped or hurried, but not taking her time either. Ben asked the other officer if he’d like to come in and he shook his head, wordlessly. Okay, so we’ll all just stand awkwardly with the door open. Works for me.

  Nervous energy brimmed through him, waking him up more than any cup of coffee could. Whether it was exhaustion or anxiety, he wasn’t sure; he only knew he wanted to go back inside and take the longest, hottest shower he could manage. He wanted to wash New York and the dust of memories old and new from his skin. Start over, start clean. Officer K. Barnes came back, handing his information back to him.

  “That checks out,” she said, still looking like she didn’t believe a word he said. “But you’ll want to get your Maryland ID when you get a chance.”

  “Thank you, Officer K. Barnes,” he said, smiling at her. He knew he most likely looked terrible, unshaven, and wrinkled. He was still somewhat fit and, he admitted, fairly good-looking, taking after his father in all but the color of his eyes. She was younger than him, beautiful enough that she probably got leered at by creeps all day, and—most troublingly—she was armed. But he couldn’t help himself. There was an air about her that commanded him to smile. The officer gave him an assessing look and nodded, her lips parted in a slight, coy grin that made him suddenly feel warm. “Welcome home, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  The car was still there but wouldn’t start. Ben thought a dead battery to be the most likely culprit. He spied a hulking shape in the corner of the garage under a tarp. It was his father’s motorcycle, a relic from the 1940’s, and had been passed between his father and his uncle Will several times. He’d been there the day it was delivered to his father, on Christmas Eve of 1979. In the twenty-three years since, Ben had never forgotten the look on his father’s face when he saw that motorcycle, some combination of longing and humor.

  It had been well cared for, once, but now sat as neglected as everything else. The round headlight looked to Ben like a milky eye, regarding him with cold patience. I can wait, Benny boy. Ben quickly threw the tarp back over it. He never knew why the sight of it had so affected his father.

  After his early visit by the lovely Officer Barnes, Ben took a quick inventory of the house. Towels and linens would need to be purchased and a new mattress ordered. The fridge was clean but old. It would need to be replaced and stocked. The water heater, he was glad to note, seemed to work fine after a few minutes. The heat would definitely need to be looked at. Ben made his list from the small steno pad he always carried with him, an old habit he’d clung to even after tape recorders had become so compact and convenient. He called the caretaker, who didn’t seem terribly amused about getting a wake-up call from the Annapolis PD, but he agreed to come bring a new battery for the car. “I’ll just add it to your bill,” he said grumpily.

  The caretaker was Cal Holland, an old navy vet who made his living looking after some of the grand old properties like Fitzwilliam House. Annapolis boasted of several such homes, bought up when the market was good by people who might come occupy them for a few weeks out of the year or rent them out to politicians and Naval Academy staff.

  When Cal showed up with a bag of McDonald’s breakfast and a large coffee, Ben could have kissed the old coot.

  “I’m sure you’re used to more elegant fare,” Cal said, handing the bounty over.

  “Just don’t tell my doctor,” Ben said as he tore into the food. It tasted like heaven. Salty, greasy heaven.

  They managed to get Richard’s car—an aging Jeep wagon—started with the new battery, but Ben added full tune-up to his growing list. He could have stayed in New York and had all this prepared ahead of him, but he’d felt some irresistible pull telling him to come down and do it himself. He was surprised to find that he liked the prospect of making this house his home, having been virtually untouched since his father last breathed. Ben wasn’t romantic about the past. He was a journalist; he lived in the now. The past was for contextualizing the present, nothing more, but he couldn’t resist the notion that the house was haunted. Not by ghosts―but by secrets.

  And he meant to unearth them.

  2

  BEN

  April 7, 2002

  Annapolis, Maryland

  He was in Safeway two days later, standing in the frozen foods aisle and pondering the existence of a frozen dinner that proclaimed itself to be “Mexican Lasagna” when he spotted a familiar face over by the ice cream.

  “Officer K. Barnes. Hi.”

  She seemed confused at first, as if an ostrich had just walked into the frozen food aisle and started complaining about the price of Lean Cuisines. He saw the light of recognition spark in her eyes a moment later. He supposed she hadn’t recognized him clean and shaved and not covered head-to-toe in the dust of yesteryear.

  “Oh, if it isn’t B&E,” she said, smiling her half-cocked smile.

  Breaking and Entering, very funny. “Ben, actually.”

  “Oh, I know who you are. I think pretty much everyone knows the great Fitzwilliam scion has flown back to the nest.” She spoke teasingly. Ben was instantly and utterly smitten. She was even lovelier out of uniform, her hair worn loose in a mass of soft-looking curls. There was a beauty mark high on her right cheekbone that he hadn’t noticed before. Her clothes, jeans and a bright white v-neck, made her look younger than she had at their first meeting. Rein yourself in, old man.

  “People are talking already, are they?”

  She puckered her lips in a crooked smile. He tried not to stare. “Don’t be surprised when you get dragged to every garden party from here to DC,” she said, plunking a pint of Ben & Jerry’s into her basket. Cherry Garcia.

  “I’m not much of a garden party type.”

  “What you are is single, straight, and rich enough to make Jesus weep. Not to mention your…Pulitzer.”

  “My, my, but people do talk.”

  “That they do.”

  She noticed then his cart, piled high and threatening to spill ov
er. Her brows raised.

  “Oh, I just got my new fridge today. I’m stocking up.”

  “For who? Fraternity row?” She nodded at the cases of beer he’d stacked underneath.

  “Well, they’ve got a good selection.” Great. Now she thinks you’re a rich asshole…and a drunk.

  “Mmmhmm.”

  They stood there for a moment, saying nothing. It might have been awkward, but Ben felt perfectly comfortable just...standing there with her. He wanted to know everything about her. Who was she? Why was she a cop? Was Cherry Garcia her favorite ice cream? Had she always lived there? One question nagged him more than most.

  “Well I guess I should—”

  “What’s your name?” he asked at the same time. He smiled apologetically. “Sorry, you’ve got to go. I understand.”

  “Thanks. I want to get this home before it melts.”

  “Sure, enjoy,” he said, hating himself for sounding like the worst kind of teenage pipsqueak.

  “Ah”―she turned around―“my name’s Keisha. Just so you know.” She gave him a lopsided grin that made his heart leap into his throat.

  “Nice to meet you. I mean, really meet you,” he stammered.

  “Was it now?”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around town.”

  “Maybe you will, B&E.” And with that she turned and walked away, leaving him grinning like an idiot while blocking the frozen desserts.

  Keisha. He tasted the name like salt and sugar dissolving on his tongue. It was a common enough name; there’d been two Keishas and one LaKeisha at the Times. It had never sounded so pretty until he’d heard her say it. He looked down at the beer in his cart and frowned.

  May 5, 2002

  Fitzwilliam House

  Annapolis

  “Hot damn, we did it, Cal.” Ben admired his handiwork. The desk was in shambles. Splinters of wood stuck out like porcupine quills along the edge of the drawer.

  “Probably just ruined some priceless antique―not that little Lord Fitzwilliam couldn’t afford another.”

  Ben smiled. The caretaker’s grumblings never bothered him. Cal had always been this way, even with his father. The two hadn’t been friends, exactly, but Richard had liked Cal a great deal. Like Ben, he’d always found Cal’s abrasive manners to be the height of amusement.

  “It was priceless only in that it was made by my great-grandfather. You can tell because this leg is a bit shorter than the others. It was never going to make it to Sotheby’s, dahling.”

  “Hmph. Probably went to all that trouble just to unearth a couple of old nudie mags.”

  Ben grinned, tested the drawer again. It rolled smoothly enough considering he’d just pried it open with a crowbar.

  “Well, those might sell at auction,” he said, putting the crowbar aside. In the month since he’d been back, the office was the one room he hadn’t touched. The door remained closed while everything else was addressed. The house now boasted new appliances, new drapes in a cheerful yellow, new mattresses and linens. The gardens were being spruced up (a chore that Ben was surprised to find he loved) and several pieces of furniture had been rotated from the attics and refurbished. The house was...pretty much the same, but it bore his mark as it had once bore his father’s.

  The office had not been the time capsule he’d been expecting. Most of the paperwork had been sent off to the attorneys and money managers and all the people who now handled what remained of the Fitzwilliam family empire. Most of the family money came from shipbuilding until his father had taken over the accounts and started investing. He’d had a knack for growing industries, though not all his investments had weathered the storms of the last fifty years. The steel mills died slowly and the publishing houses hung on as long as they could, proving that Richard Fitzwilliam had at least been an optimist.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, now empty. The books had been boxed up and put into storage or moved to the Gramercy Park townhouse with his mom and his aunt. This room was dustier than the rest of the house had been, and the feeling of haunting was stronger here. He was beginning to give up when he tried the bottom drawer of the large, cherry desk. Past the front door, it was the only lock he’d encountered.

  Ben called Cal to see if the caretaker had a key for the drawer, and he’d come, complaining the whole time. Ben didn’t really buy it. He suspected the old man was lonely. When no key could be found–perhaps thrown out when the house was cleaned and shuttered after Richard’s funeral four years ago–Ben had to resort to force. Hence the crowbar. The first thing he’d seen when he pried the drawer open was a pistol, gleaming and hungry, despite the decades in the dark.

  “You know what? I could eat a horse,” Ben said, closing the drawer enough so that Cal didn’t see the pistol. “Let me make lunch for you. Steak? Burger? I’ve got some salmon.”

  “I’m a vegetarian, not that you’ve ever asked. The doc put me off meat six years ago.”

  “No problem. I’ve got some veggies marinating, and I’m dying to give the new grill a test drive. How ’bout it, Cal?”

  Cal assented, and Ben had been happy to listen to the old man gripe about one thing or another while he manned the grill, never letting on the thrill he felt at the prospect of that now-open drawer. The sight of his father’s service pistol had only doubled his excitement, and by the time he’d sent Cal home with a full stomach and a check “for your trouble,” he was fairly buzzing with anticipation.

  Rather than rush right back to it, he went for a run. It was slow going after the months of stress-eating and drinking. He’d always been a runner; his one athletic accomplishment in high school had been track. In his prime, he ran the Central Park loop daily and the Hudson River Path every other weekend. For now, he was getting back into the habit by running in a loop through downtown Annapolis, starting by circling the State House and then down King George Street until it hooked onto the waterfront, turning at the gates of the Naval Academy and back home. He loved the pale stone chapel with its copper-domed cupola, restored in 1940, thanks partly to a sizable donation by his grandfather, the admiral. He loved the staid colonials and the red brick sidewalks, the steeple of St. Anne’s Parish that pointed up like a finger. It wasn’t the longest run, but he was out of practice. All the while, his mind still gripped the pistol.

  He’d taken a detour down Craig Street, slowing to catch his breath and watch the people milling around the city docks. In the time he’d been back, parts of himself had slowly begun waking up. Maybe it was the freedom from his work, maybe it was cutting back on the drinking; whatever it was had Ben feeling a giddy sort of energy. He’d not forgotten Fiona—in fact, he’d only just begun to mourn the death of their relationship. Ten years was a long time to spend with someone, to learn their bodies and their deepest fears, to know the sound of their laughter against naked skin or the particular sting of seeing them cry and know that you are the reason for it. Ten years was exactly the time it takes to inure oneself to the rhythm of their sleeping breath so that when it’s gone, you find that you can’t sleep without it. And so he missed her, but he didn’t call her. Her heart was a house where he no longer let rooms.

  His more immediate problem wasn’t his heart but his prick. The better his body felt...the better his body felt. He thought about sex with a distressing frequency, about slim fingers and full lips and the way Fiona would moan “Och, Christ” when he was at his very best. He slowed his pace to a walk, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve. It was late afternoon when shoppers and tourists milled around the waterfront despite the heat. Ben felt lonely watching them, the tourists holding hands, the midshipmen with their shorn heads. The families.

  A loud woop startled him, and he turned around to see Keisha Barnes leaning out of the window of her patrol car across the street. She grinned her cocksure grin and waved at him. He jogged over to her, feverishly aware of the sweat that soaked through his running clothes.

  “Hey there, B&E,” she greeted him. She was alone in her car, her hul
king partner nowhere to be seen.

  “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

  “Are you sure you should be running like that? A man your age?”

  “Well, so much for respecting your elders. This generation is a lost cause after all.”

  They shared a laugh, an awkward awareness between them. He admired her—desired her, even—and she knew it.

  “I’m just coming off duty,” she said. “I was heading home when I saw you, and I couldn’t resist.”

  “Actually, you might be able to help me with something,” he blurted. Jesus, Ben, what are you up to? “I need the assistance of someone who knows how to handle firearms.”

  Her brows shot up, full lips puckering into an all-too kissable ruckle. “You have my attention.”

  “Can you meet me at my house? I’m sure you remember the address.”

  “I can, or I can give you a lift.” The corners of her lips tilted up. “You’d have to sit in the back, though.”

  “I’m a journalist, Keisha, I’ve been in police cars before,” he said, trying to sound casual, worldly. He didn’t think he pulled it off.

  “Mmkay,” she said with a playful smile. “Hop on in then. Let’s give the neighbors a thing or two to talk about.”

  He climbed in and pulled the door shut behind him. He wasn’t just bragging when he’d said he’d been in police cars before. He’d participated in ride-alongs and had twice been arrested. His first arrest was in 1974 when he was the tender age of eighteen, at a Chicago march protesting the Vietnam War. His second came in 1998 when he reported on anti-Lukashenka protest leaders in Belarus. He was one of the fortunate that had been expelled from the country. So when he told Keisha that hers was the nicest police car he’d been in, it was the honest truth.

  “We do okay,” she said as she turned onto Prince George. Ben sat back and watched her drive, admiring the way she became all business behind the wheel.