That Was Before

by Dan Lawton

  “Help me understand this,” a voice said through the glass. It was not Patricia and it was not the suited man next to her. It must have been one of the stiffs whose backs faced Randolph. “What did you think would happen?”

  “The truck would explode and nobody else would get hurt,” Patricia said. “And everything would default to me.”

  Patricia’s attorney feverishly wrote on a notepad.

  Randolph backed away from the glass. He had heard enough. He understood completely; he should have been dead.

  “You okay?” It was O’Reilly.

  Randolph nodded. He was.

  “You want to keep listening?”

  “No. No more.”

  Now O’Reilly nodded. “Will you come with me? I want to talk to you about something.”

  He looked toward Larry, who had a phone to one ear and a finger in the other. He was a busy man and there were always fires to extinguish.

  “All right,” Randolph said because he had nothing to lose. Why not hear what the man had to say? He followed him.

  O’Reilly led him to a vacant room like the one Patricia was in, just without the glass. A wall-mounted heater hummed from the corner. An empty Styrofoam cup was overturned on the edge of the table which a handful of chairs surrounded. O’Reilly took one and motioned for Randolph to do the same which he did.

  “How are you doing?” O’Reilly said. “Feeling good?”

  “I’m okay. Readjusting.”

  “That’s good. Glad to hear it.”

  Awkwardness.

  “You wanted to talk?”

  “Indeed. Indeed I did.”

  “Well?”

  “Have you heard from Sheila?”

  Sheila.

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not at all.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “How do you feel about it all?”

  “Mixed emotions. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, I understand. I get that. How would you feel if I offered you the chance to get some closure about everything?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The opportunity to get her in a room and ask her all the questions you need answered.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No.”

  “Then how?”

  “We find her. You and me.”

  Randolph readjusted in the miserably uncomfortable chair he was in. His back was stiff. He did not like the sound of O’Reilly’s proposition. “Why?”

  “I know this was personal for you, but I still have a job to do. My job goes on with or without you. But it would be easier with you, with someone who knew her. Closure for both of us.”

  “I’m starting to think I didn’t know her at all.”

  “She wouldn’t have run off with someone she didn’t trust, I can guarantee you that.”

  “How would you know?”

  “As I said before, I’ve been following her for a long time. I know her pretty well too.”

  “If that’s the case, why don’t you just find her yourself?”

  “I don’t know her like you do. I know the paper version of her, but not the real her. The person.”

  “Yeah, well, I think I’d rather just move on.”

  “There would be a monetary gain on your end. All expenses paid. A hefty finder’s fee.”

  He shook his head. “Wrong guy. Money doesn’t motivate me.”

  O’Reilly interlocked his fingers and rocked in the chair, studied Randolph. “Why don’t you think about it? Give your emotions some time to settle.”

  Randolph stood. “Fine. But I wouldn’t expect anything. I think it’ll be easier for me if I just move on. I hope you can understand that.”

  O’Reilly stood too. “I do. I respect your decision. But if you change your mind, you know how to contact me.”

  “Right.”

  The men shook hands, and Randolph left.

  He ran into Larry in the corridor who was still engaged on the phone. He held up a finger to ask Randolph to wait, which he did. Larry told the phone to hold on, then he pinched his shoulder to his ear and addressed Randolph: “You good?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Listen, I’ll expedite all this paperwork. Shouldn’t be long.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This is going to cost you.” Larry rubbed his thumb between the other fingers on the same hand.

  Randolph tried to smile, but he found it exhausting. He just wanted to go home. Larry stepped away and reengaged his conversation through the phone. Randolph exited the police station, hopped into his truck, and took himself home.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Six weeks later. A lot had happened. Larry, despite being cold and impersonal and without anything that resembled empathy, did what he said he would. Randolph’s divorce from Patricia was expedited and she was removed from all joint accounts. It surprised Randolph how much of the paperwork could be filled out from afar, with just a witness. He was awarded everything without a fight.

  The house was under contract. It would sell for list price after the inspection and bank appraisal all went without a hitch. The couple moving in was young and eager and full of life. Randolph truly wished them nothing but the best. He was happy to pass it along to who seemed like wonderful people. Though what did he know about being a judge of character? He had been wrong before. He would net what felt like an absurd amount of cash from the deal which would be added to the pile he already did not know what to do with.

  He planned to reassess his life, realign his values, and determine what was important to him in this new phase. He resigned to the idea that going back to work was both unnecessary and not something that interested him any longer. The firm had stopped calling anyhow and apparently had moved on, so why should he not do the same? He thought he deserved a break. From everything.

  Tens of taped, labeled moving boxes filled every room of the house. He had given most of Patricia’s belongings to charity. His second garage sale was scheduled for this weekend to purge the rest of his stuff he no longer wanted or cared about. Downsizing and minimizing was the simplicity he desired in his life. He kept most of the books, though, except for the ones he did not enjoy the first time around.

  When he needed a break from packing, he phoned Bruce—because that was what they did now; they communicated. At least once weekly since he had been back. Randolph wanted nothing more than to rekindle his relationship with his son and be more involved in Max’s life—and soon the new baby too. Bruce and Janet chose to be surprised this time, unlike with Max. Randolph had a hunch it would be another boy. Only time would tell.

  “How’s the packing going?” Bruce asked.

  Randolph heard Max’s laughter in the background. “Going fine. I’ve got the downstairs all set for the most part, upstairs next. Some things are going to have to wait until the very end, though.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’re things?”

  “Busy. Work’s been crazy trying to meet a deadline for a new client. Janet and Max are doing just fine.”

  Randolph did not know what exactly it was his son did for a living, but that was not because he did not care; he did not understand. It was something with digital communications, he knew that much. He would get a better understanding of it before long, though, so he and his son could have intellectual conversations about it. Anything to reconnect.

  “Are you sure you don’t need me to come out there and help?” Bruce said.

>   “No, no. I’m fine. You’re busy. I’m going to hire a moving company to do all the heavy lifting anyhow.”

  “All right. When do you think you’ll be out here?”

  “Few weeks. I’ll have everything shipped and drive myself, take the scenic route, do some sightseeing along the way. Are you sure you don’t mind if I leave my pod in your driveway for a bit?”

  “Not at all. It’s no big deal.”

  “Thanks, Son.”

  Randolph was moving to Utah. There was nothing left for him in Iowa anymore. Once the house deal with finalized, that was where he was headed. Bruce agreed to let him crash on his couch for a short time until he found a place to rent. It would not be long, though—Bruce’s realtor was on the prowl for a one-bedroom place nearby. It would not be difficult to find with Randolph’s substantial budget and minimalist desires.

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Same, I guess. Have you talked to her?”

  “No. I don’t know what to say to her.”

  “I get that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Well, I think you should.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. If you want to, I mean. What happened between her and me has no bearing on your relationship. But don’t let me influence you. Do whatever you think is best.”

  “Thanks for saying that, Dad. Means a lot.”

  “Of course.”

  A female voice chattered in the background. “I’ve got to run now, Dad. Janet’s about to put dinner on the table and Max needs a new diaper.”

  “Go, go! Please. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  “All right then, sounds good.”

  “Goodbye, Son.”

  “Goodnight, Dad.”

  The next day, Randolph called to check in with Herm, just because. Herm still felt bad about what happened, but Randolph tried his best to assure him none of it was his fault. He considered Herm a friend.

  “Your money’s fine,” Herm said.

  “I’m sure it is. It’s in good hands.”

  He felt Herm’s relief through the phone. He made a mental note to order a pie and have it sent to Herm’s house for him and his wife to enjoy. A showing of gratitude, it would be, for all Herm had done to help wrangle up the facts about the missing money.

  Later, Larry’s bill came in the mail. He opened it and grabbed his checkbook and did not think twice about questioning the amount or the billable hours. For all Larry was not, he contributed so much; Randolph was thankful to have him on his team. He was worth every penny.

  He went for a long walk. The days were extended and the temperatures were consistently higher for longer, and he needed to get away from all the dust that had been disturbed and encroached his aura. He left his phone at home, desperate to disconnect from the outside world that did nothing but disappoint him. It reminded him of the version of himself he used to be. The version he liked. The version he was comfortable with.

  His legs tired before anything else, and it felt wonderful to break a sweat that was not brought on by anxiousness. Sheila entered his mind only occasionally these days, but it was without angst—he would forget about their fling as if it never happened before long. He would be okay.

  The idea that his wife—rather, ex-wife now, which was strange to say after being together for so long—wanted him dead still hurt, though. Worse, she did not just fantasize about his non-existence and imagine what her life might have been like without him in it like a normal person—she paid for it to happen. With his money.

  Yikes.

  The father of her son, the grandfather to Max, the acquaintance to many—none of that mattered. Not to her. He loved her once, and for many years. He thought she loved him too—no, he knew she did. Things just did not work out. Her reaction to it was theatrical, though, unreasonable. It was proof that you never really know someone.

  But maybe that was too simple. Maybe Patricia was disturbed in a way no one else knew. Why else would she have pretended to be someone she was not and pay to have her husband killed? How? There was no way she would have gotten away with it even if Benji and Sheila had succeeded. The evidence of foul play would have been obvious to even the worst investigator. The trail of money made it even easier. And that Benji fellow would have surely ratted her out and provided evidence to prove it.

  She must have been so desperate that she ignored those risks. Which had to have meant something. What, though, he could not say. He had not gotten that far in his thought process yet. He needed more time.

  Randolph felt sad for her. He genuinely hoped she got the help she needed—there were obviously some demons she had trapped in her psyche that needed massaging. She was troubled.

  He made his way back to the house. He hesitated to call it home because it represented anything but. Even with all he had purged and donated, the house still had Patricia’s fingerprints all over it. All the paint colors, the thematic schemes with matching curtains, the improvements they made over the years to appease her desires better. The best decision—the only decision—was to move out and move on. The energetic young people would make their own memories, write their own history. Hopefully, their story ended better than Randolph’s did.

  Cold tap water lubricated his throat as he threw back the glass. Hydration swam through his system—he felt it in his bones. His brow dripped, so he wiped it away with a coarse paper towel and discarded it in the trash. It felt good to be alive. He was thankful for that, if nothing else. He would find himself again.

  On the counter, his phone screen illuminated with a missed text, so he checked it. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers when he read it, and it took all he had to keep it from doing that. While dry before, his hands were suddenly damp.

  It can’t be.

  He read and reread the message three, four, five times over. The number was private. His first reaction was to discard it at spam; his second was to respond and wait for a message back. But he did not know what to say, or if he should engage. It could have been a trap. Seven or eight weeks ago he would have pursued it. No question. But not now.

  That was before.

  Now was after.

  That was the old him. The old new him; today’s new him was more like the old him. He liked it that way. Instead of taking the bait, he scrolled through his contacts and touched the name of the person who would know what to do. The phone rang.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Benji was in jail awaiting trial. While his booking hearing had been weeks ago, there was no follow-up on the calendar anytime soon. Bail was out of his reach—all the money he had been given from Cheyenne that remained had been returned to her husband. Benji had nothing. He was doomed for a life of solitude within the walls of a prison. Though it was still not clear how much time he faced.

  The court-appointed attorney he was granted to defend him meant well, but she was green and incompetent. Her advice was to accept a plea deal for a shorter sentence in exchange for full transparency. What she did not know was what that phrase truly meant—full transparency. If he were to reveal the details about everything he had done to get where he was, the deal would be off the table or additional charges would be filed. She had no idea. He lacked trust for the other side to follow through with what they said they would do.

  The man from the airport—who he now knew was named Gary O’Reilly, who was not an INTERPOL agent but may as well have been—did not fulfill his end of the bargain. In exchange for help tracking down Shay, Benji was supposed to receive immunity. That, clearly, had not happened. He felt like an idiot; he should have never fallen for it.
Though, in fairness, what choice did he have? Gary knew Benji had hacked into the tapes and built a pipe bomb, so it was only a matter of time before he connected the dots.

  In short: He was fucked.

  Whether the threats from Gary about the sentence he faced—twenty years, he said, maybe forty or more—were real or not, Benji’s life was over. If he got out, he would be an old man without any modern skills and no recent life experience. What would he do? Where would he go? The world would pass him by. His life was over.

  Would anyone visit him? He was disconnected from his three brothers, who were off living their lives. His father was not in the picture and had not been since he was young. And his mother, well, who knew? She was up to her old tricks, he imagined, spreading her legs and trading her mouth for cocaine. Perhaps she was into harder drugs now, or maybe she was dead. Nobody had contacted him to tell him otherwise, but she had not reached out either. In all respects, Benji was alone.

  Even so, Shay could go fuck herself. Cheyenne too. They were liars and manipulators and scoundrels. They used him. Just like they used Cheyenne’s husband. Benji felt for the man, imagined the pain he must have been going through. His wife wanted him dead and his new lover was just using him for his money. It was sad, really. If only he could go back to that day at the coffee shop when Cheyenne first came in and not listened to his dick. None of this would have ever happened.

  That was before.

  Now was after.

  It was too late.

  Benji slid off the mattress and stood. He paced the box he now called home, free to do nothing but think. His cellmate was bizarre but not dangerous. Public indecency he was in for, so he said. It seemed harsh to be in jail for showing his wiener, but Benji did not ask the details. He was sure there was more to the story than that. Thankfully, the bottom bunk shielded him from as much exposure as possible from his perverted cellie on top. Nothing weird had happened between them.

  Though there was always some sort of ruckus during waking hours, the block was relatively quiet today. The two men in the cell next to his constantly debated political issues that neither one knew anything about. It was entertainment, at least, but also insufferable. The intelligence of the men around him was embarrassing. He imagined it was how Andy Dufresne felt all those years in Shawshank—superior to all his peers, entirely out of place. The only difference was, Benji was not innocent.