by Lee Goldberg, Scott Nicholson, J A Konrath, J Carson Black,
“Crazy,” Jacob said. “Renee smuggled me in two buckets of the Colonel’s finest.”
“That’s why you didn’t like the cafeteria grub.” Steve Poccora moved the rolling table with the food tray to the corner of the room. “You didn’t touch it. Figured you’d be used to it by now.”
“Mez compliments au chef,” Jacob said in mutilated French.
The nurse took his blood pressure and pulse, wrote numbers on a chart. “Your diastolic’s a little high, but nothing to be worried about.”
“Do I look like I’m worried?” Jacob asked.
“He’s not the worrying type,” Renee said. “I do that for both of us.”
Poccora looked from one to the other, as if deciding not to be the birdie in their badminton game. “Yell if you need anything.”
“‘Scream’ is more likely.” On the television, the talk show host had a parrot perched on his shoulder. The bird’s trainer stood nearby, holding up a snack food. The host looked nervous, as if he feared an embarrassing episode involving droppings. The bird gave a soundless squawk, warming up for a ribald wisecrack.
Poccora picked up the food tray. “I hate parrots,” he said, looking at the television. “They always get to cut you down, but you can’t make a snappy comeback. They’re too dumb to get it. Like talking to a ventriloquist’s dummy.”
“The worst ones are the dummies who look just like the ventriloquist,” Jacob said. “They let their evil side out.”
“Hey, you try being nice when some guy has his hand shoved up your rectum,” Poccora said.
“They call that a ‘prostate exam.’”
The nurse started to laugh, then gave up. He walked between them with the food tray, paused at the door. “You sure you don’t want any of these pancakes?”
Jacob looked around the room for the fly. “No, Steve. They’re all yours.”
Steve dipped a finger into the syrup and pretended to lick it. “Hate to see good food go to waste. But this is no good. I know the infections that go through this place.”
He left, and the forced humor shifted back to unbearable tension.
“Where do we start?” Renee asked after twenty seconds of silence.
“Please. You’re starting to sound like my old shrinks.” He fumbled for the remote, wanting to punch up the volume.
“Let’s start at the beginning, then.”
“The beginning. My first big mistake.”
“Jake, don’t do this.”
“You’re the one who wants it to be over. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along? It’s just pathetic that you needed this kind of excuse to get your nerve up.” The tears were hot in his eyes, burning with the memory of the fire and all the rest of it.
His thumb pressed the volume button. Renee moved forward with angry speed and slapped the remote from his hand. He stared at the silent television as its colors blurred in his watery vision.
“Talk to me, you bastard,” she said.
His throat was tight, rasped raw from the ventilator tube that had been stuffed into his lungs. He tried to convince himself that the fire had damaged him, taken the soft words from his tongue, leaving a handful of ash in the cavity where his heart used to beat. Part of him wished he had died in the fire. Part of him had died in the fire. But not the right part, the half that needed killing.
Renee’s breath was on his cheek, but he was miles away, in the dark, searching for that cool grotto that the drugs carved in the stony recesses of his skull.
“You can’t keep your eyes closed forever.”
“Long enough.”
“That won’t make it go away. We’ve got to deal with it. You can’t crawl into your shell and pretend it never happened.”
“Take the money. It doesn’t matter.”
“Donald called me. He wanted to know when you’ll be ready to go back to work.”
“I’m through.” And he was. M & W Ventures, Inc., had built ten apartment complexes, a half-dozen subdivisions, three shopping centers, the country club, and a pair of chain motels. That qualified as a life’s work, didn’t it? Even for the son of Warren Wells. Maybe Donald Meekins could take the oversize prop scissors they used for ceremonial ribbon cuttings and snip the W off the corporation’s name.
Jacob had made his mark on the world. A reputation you could take to the bank. Something you could use for collateral.
He could lose everything, his kids, his wife, his soul, but still those buildings would stand, a testament to willpower and vision. Asphalt to pave his way to a better future. Steel bones, concrete flesh, and a blueprint for his soul. Material evidence for Judgment Day, a devil’s bargain.
“You’re not through,” Renee said. “I won’t let you be through.”
He wondered how much of it had been for her. Where did spousal support cross the line into need, what separated encouragement from the shrewish demand for perfection and achievement? Was it his own insecurity that drove him, or was her relentless desire for his success the whip that kept him in a lather? Was she the ventriloquist whose hand had guided him through his lockstep sleepwalk of greed?
No. She didn’t deserve that much credit. Where he’d been, where he was going, were decisions shaped in the forge of his guts. He could blame other people, and that was fast becoming his latest survival tactic, but the justifications always rang hollow.
In the end, it comes down to you and the stranger in the mirror.
“Leave me,” he said.
“It’s not going away, even if I do.”
Jacob smiled. The movement was painful to his chapped lips. “It’s already gone.” He felt the thump on his chest from the weight of the remote control she had tossed there.
“You and your fucking martyr act,” she said. “As if you’re the only one who has to suffer.”
“I’ll give you the damned divorce. Anything you want. The money, the cars, the house . . .”
The house. Which was nothing but a heap of charcoal in one of Kingsboro’s squarest subdivisions.
“And the kids,” he said, his voice taking on a shrill giddiness. “You can have the kids. No arguments from me. I don’t even want visitation rights.”
“Jakie.”
He clenched the sheet with both hands, tried to squeeze juice from it, pressed his teeth together until his temples ached.
“Calm down. You’re scaring me.” She moved to the head of the bed, reaching for the button that would signal the nurse’s desk.
“You should be scared.”
“Do you think this is any easier for me?”
Jacob looked at her, the green eyes made large by her lenses. He was supposed to love this woman. He knew it, something strong tugged the inside of his chest, a deep memory turned over in the grave of his sleeping heart. How could something so sure and real have turned into this? How could an eternal bond dissolve like mist exposed to the bright glare of morning?
“I’m sorry,” he said. That stupid, useless word crawled out of his dry mouth. He couldn’t stop it. The response was automatic. He’d said that word so often in the past ten months.
“This is impossible,” she said. She pulled her purse to her lap, opened it, took out a pair of clip-on sunglasses, and flipped the dark lenses over her eyes. Jacob was glad her eyes were gone. Now he could look at her fully.
“There’s something else,” she said. She brought a crumpled envelope from the purse. “I guess you wanted to get in one last little twist of the knife.”
“What are you talking about?”
Renee fished a note from the envelope and read it. “‘Hope you liked the housewarming present. Yours always, J.’”
Jacob’s stomach became a great claw clutching at his other abdominal organs. “Where did you get that?”
“I found it in my car. I guess you figured it wouldn’t burn since I was parked on the street that night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s your handwriting, Jake. Don’t play any more
games. Please.” A solitary tear slid from beneath the black curve of one plastic lens.
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The fire, Jake. The investigators think it might have been arson.”
“I know. They talked to me about it last week. I told them I don’t know why anybody would want to set fire to our house. There’s nothing special about it. It’s not even the best one on the block.”
“But this note—” Her voice broke and all she could do was hold the beige paper in the air before her face.
“—is nothing,” Jake said, his pulse like a frantic clock ticking against his eardrums, a timer for an explosion. “Throw it away.”
“It’s your handwriting. And the insurance—”
“Don’t talk crazy, honey.”
“I’m just confused. None of it makes sense. And Mattie . . . Oh, Jake.” She squeezed the paper into a ball, stood so fast that her purse fell and scattered its contents across the antiseptic floor. She leaned over him and put her head gently on his chest.
He reached out a wounded hand and stroked her hair. “Shh. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“Please don’t let it end like this,” she said, her sobs making the narrow hospital bed shake.
“Everything’s going to be good as new,” he said, his heart jumping so much he was sure she could feel it through the thin cotton of his hospital gown. “Trust me. I’m not going to let anyone take you away from me.”
Especially Joshua. No, he wouldn’t let Joshua win this time. Not again. Not like always.
As he spoke soothing words and petted her with one hand, his other hand eased across her body to the paper in her fist. He tugged gently and she let go. He glanced at it, saw the cursive letters leaning to the left. Familiar handwriting. He tucked the paper underneath his sheet, secretly, and let her finish crying.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jacob Wells was released from the hospital on May twenty-ninth.
Steve Poccora wheeled him from his room to the elevator on the day of his release. Jacob insisted he was fine, but Poccora said it was hospital policy to treat everybody like infirms until they reached the door.
“After that, it’s your business,” Poccora said. “Trip and break your leg, for all I care. But we can’t have you suing us for something that happens on the inside.”
Jacob couldn’t tell if the nurse was joking. So he sat in the wheelchair and watched the elevator lights blink as they passed each floor down to ground level. The elevator opened and a man Jacob recognized from the Chamber of Commerce stepped on with a bouquet of pink roses, tulips, and Queen Anne’s lace. Jacob couldn’t recall the man’s name, though he had the thick neck and jowly, red complexion of a former football player. Probably someone in masonry supplies.
“Jacob,” the man said, flashing his money smile. “How’s it going? You doing okay?”
“Never been better.”
The smile faded. “Listen, sorry to hear about . . . you know.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’ve been praying for you.”
“That helps. Thanks.”
The man pointed to the flowers. “For my wife. She’s in maternity. We just had our third.”
Jacob nodded, staring past him at the hospital lobby, the wax sheen of the industrial tiles, the patient information desk staffed by an old lady with pince-nez glasses. Poccora wheeled him out of the elevator and the doors closed with a soft hiss, cutting off the smell of the flowers.
“Dawson,” Jacob said.
“Huh?” Poccora said.
“The man’s name was Dawson. You ever do that, draw a blank when you’re talking to somebody, then it pops right into your head later?”
“No, man. I think you’ve been in here too long.”
They reached the glass entrance and Poccora stopped the wheelchair. Jacob sat looking at the world outside, a changed world, a lesser world.
“End of the ride,” Poccora said.
“Yeah,” Jacob said.
“Your wife picking you up?”
“Yeah. She’s right outside. I phoned her from the room.”
“Good. You two ought to work things out. Take care of each other. Maybe you can have another kid someday.”
Jacob stood. Though he had been walking the halls for the last few days, his legs were cotton candy. He waved to Poccora and went through the exit, wondering how much of himself he’d left in the hospital. The outdoors was welcome after the stale, recycled indoor air, but it somehow left an aftertaste of smoke on his tongue.
The mountains were thick and bright green with new growth and a late spring rain had washed the dust from the streets. Kingsboro had only two cab companies, each of those operated by solitary drivers who kept their own hours. Jacob could have called Donald, or any one of half a dozen friends and business associates, but the walk seemed a worthwhile challenge after the weeks spent in the hospital bed. Besides, a borrowed ride might corner him into conversation.
The talk would go to banal matters such as whether the Atlanta Braves would finally do it this year or how the late snows had affected the golf course at the country club. Anything except what Renee had called “the eighty-ton elephant in the living room.” Jacob’s loss. Or plural losses, depending on how deep into personal history the friend was willing to go. He never wanted to hear the words “I’m sorry” again.
The burns had healed better than he deserved. The skin was still a little shiny and tight, but with no permanent scarring. Dr. Masutu said he was lucky. If the house hadn’t collapsed and spat him out when it did, the carbon monoxide might have finished him off. The doctor had tried to convince him that his daughter had been doomed no matter what Jacob had done, but Jacob didn’t believe it.
He’d originally considered going by the office, sitting behind his desk and seeing if M & W Ventures still held any appeal at all. But there were too many reminders, too many photographs. His desk was just another piece of a broken past. He headed down the sidewalk, away from downtown. He had no more destinations, only a long journey away from places he had known.
On the eastern side of town, Kingsboro was a schizophrenic mix of land uses. Medical offices were clustered around the hospital like brick vultures around carrion, while some old farmhouses sat back from the road behind them, their gardens showing the first green shoots of corn and potatoes. A nearby gas station had pumps that didn’t accept credit cards and its lot was a black crumble of concrete, yet a glossy sign heralded the modern British energy conglomerate that had taken over. A row of faded apartments slewed up a slight rise of earth beyond the hospital, some of the windows held together with masking tape. Soaring above those flat rooftops was a glistening, seven-story Holiday Inn.
His father had built the Holiday Inn. It was Warren Wells’ last attempt at an Appalachian Tower of Babel before his death. Jacob averted his eyes from the inn, the tallest building on the landscape. But his father touched something on every horizon, from the community arts center along the highway to the recreation fields in the plains along the river that bore the Wells name. Warren Wells had built too much of this town, his civic stench lingering in a hundred corridors. Jacob had succumbed to the allure of following in those loud footsteps.
Being born here was enough of a mistake, and being born who he was made it even worse. But he’d compounded it by returning. He had once thought his escape was complete. Then along came Renee with her drive for him to succeed, and she pushed him to the only territory where victories mattered, where his accomplishments had a measuring stick. Victory from the ground up.
Now Kingsboro was where he buried his dead.
After a mile, the sidewalk ended and he walked along the clumped grass that edged the road. His breath was hard and cold and his heart beat too rapidly, but he forced his feet forward. Cars roared past, pickup trucks loaded with lumber and sewer pipes, soccer dads in SUV’s, little old ladies on their way to the hairdresser, cable television techs in their long
vans. Something purred in Jacob’s jacket pocket. He stuck his hand in the pocket, pulled out the cell phone, and stared at it as if it were an alien artifact. Renee must have brought the jacket to the hospital, the phone planted as a ploy to bring him back around to his old self.
Jacob the developer, the builder, the one who carried the bloodline. Jacob the upstanding citizen and loving husband. Jacob, father of two—
He turned and hurled the phone as far as he could, wrenching his shoulder with the effort. The small, silver rectangle spun end over end, disappearing into a tall thicket of briars and scrub hemlock. A warped wall made of wooden slats marked the edge of a mobile home park behind the weeds. A hand-painted sign in English and Spanish offered weekly rentals, cash only. Crumpled beer cans and cellophane food wrappers clung to the weeds. This place was in dire need of a bulldozer, a cosmic clean sweep.
He walked on, the traffic thinning, his head throbbing under the midmorning sun. The birds had started their journey north, and species the likes of which he’d rarely seen passed overhead or twittered from pine branches. The land gave way to clusters of small houses, old but neatly kept, owned by people whose ancestors had bartered away the property that had made outsiders wealthy. Jacob was tired and his legs weak from lack of use, but he kept moving in a pitiful yearning for escape.
But he knew that, no matter how fast or how far he fled, he couldn’t outrun himself.
A car came growling up behind him, slowed, passed. He glanced at its dented green flanks and immediately assigned its driver to the lower class. It was a 1970s family car, a gas-swigging chunk of Chevrolet steel that only a rural American could drive without shame. The windows were tinted so he couldn’t match a face to such a metal monstrosity.
The car slowed again, its brake lights blinking twenty feet ahead of Jacob. The car idled in a throaty rasp of rusted muffler. Jacob kept walking. He moved past the car, looking up the road, wondering where all the traffic had gone. Even along this residential stretch beyond the town limits, there were too few roads to avoid a steady stream of vehicles.
The Chevy’s engine accelerated and its exhaust hung on the damp air. The car eased up alongside Jacob again, and sweat crept beneath his eyes and scalp line. He glanced toward the car, not turning his head, and saw only his own reflection in the tinted passenger window. The car kept pace with Jacob, and he fought the urge to break into a run.
