by Jeff Shelby
To see John Anchor die.
FORTY
I couldn't sit still.
The interior of the car was suffocating, Lauren's voice and face haunting me as if she were there with me.
If only.
I got out of the car and started walking.
I'd learned in my years of looking for Elizabeth that one of the few things that calmed and centered me was walking. There was something about the slow and steady rhythm, the cadence, that helped clear my thoughts and allowed me to focus, to think clearly. I was able to set all of the noise in my head to the side and see the one thing I needed to see.
I walked through downtown Minneapolis for several hours, going up and down the blocks, moving north to south. I tried to pay attention to what I was seeing, but it was like the things in front of my face weren't registering. I was seeing them, but I couldn't identify them. I'd read about face blindness before, where people literally weren't able to identify people by their faces. I felt like I was suffering from something similar at that moment, where I couldn't identify anything in front of me except the sidewalk and the streetlights. I wondered if it would come to me later, or if I'd remember anything I'd seen or would it all just dissolve and fall away.
I didn't know and I didn't care.
As I walked, I wondered if I wouldn't just be better served to leave. Jump on a plane, fly to Arizona, pick up Elizabeth and take her home. Putting off the inevitable – telling her about Lauren – wasn't going to make it any easier nor make it hurt less. She was going to be my concern going forward. Maybe rather than putting any of that in jeopardy, it would make more sense to start with that part of our lives, to let this go.
But even as I thought it, I knew it wouldn't work. If Anchor was still out there, he could still hurt me, hurt Elizabeth. I couldn't live with that. In the same way that I'd needed to see the man responsible for Elizabeth's abduction go away, I needed Anchor gone, too. For peace of mind. For closure. And, if I was being honest, for vengeance.
I wasn't sure if I was a vigilante now. I wasn't sure what I was any longer. The lines had blurred so much that I couldn't even make out an image. If I'd looked in a mirror, I wasn't sure what I would see in the reflection. And I knew that I'd be different by the time I got back to Elizabeth. I didn't know if that would be good for either of us.
I halted at the corner, the red hand on the traffic sign signaling me to stop.
I took a deep breath.
I wasn't sure what it said about me that killing had become an easy thing for me to justify. I could explain it all away as ridding the planet of bad people, but that didn't make it any better. I'd crossed some sort of line that now skewed my point of view. Was I going to take out every person that angered or threatened me going forward? I didn't think so, but I also didn't like that I'd moved so quickly across the line and that I didn't know how to step back behind it.
The light turned green and I stepped into the crosswalk.
I wondered if this would be it, the moment that righted our world, no matter how badly damaged that world had become. Would ending Anchor create that normalcy Elizabeth had asked about it? Would it let us move forward and leave everything else behind, letting us live like normal people for a change, people who weren't always looking over their shoulders, waiting for the next domino to fall? I didn’t know how it could be with Lauren gone, but I also knew that we couldn’t stay where we were, in a constant state of near panic. We needed to right our world, even if I had to do some very wrong things. I just didn’t know if this was the right answer.
As I walked in the direction of the hotel, we were going to find out.
FORTY ONE
The Foshay Tower was the landmark building that most people associated with downtown Minneapolis, even though it wasn't the tallest or even the most visible. I remembered reading an article about it when I'd been in Minneapolis looking for Elizabeth. Modeled after the Washington Monument, it was a 1920's era building that had been renovated in the mid-2000's, rescued from deterioration and irrelevancy and turned into an upscale hotel, one that was regularly regarded and spoken of as the nicest in the city. It stood next to a steakhouse and across the street from one of those fancy fondue restaurants. The entrance and exterior were unassuming, blending in with the other buildings that surrounded it.
I pushed through the revolving glass doors and stepped into a towering lobby that screamed art deco. Pink running lights that edged the ceiling illuminated the front desk, and a large sitting area filled with leather chairs and futuristic lounge seating were occupied by twenty-somethings with cocktails in their hands. Hotel staff stood off in the shadows, waiting to be beckoned by the people that were paying a fortune to stay and play there.
I made my way to the elevator at the far end of the lobby. The interior was dimly lit, making the car feel elegant, intimate. I pushed the button for the 28th floor and let the doors close.
The elevator hummed quietly upward and I watched the numbers above me tick off one by one until we reached the 28th. A small bell dinged and the doors opened.
The starkness of the white marble caused me to squint. It was like walking into a clean lab, without the machinery. My feet tapped quietly against the immaculate floor and I walked toward a small white podium at the end of the narrow hall. No one was behind it and I stood there for a moment.
To my right were a variety of exotic plants as well as a glass and metal case, showcasing expensive lotions and gels and towels. To my left was another narrow hallway.
I walked down the hallway.
There were two rooms at the end of the hallway. The door on my right was closed. The one on my left was half-open.
I glanced at my watch.
It was 4:25pm.
I was right on time.
I pushed open the half-open door and poked my head into the room. The massage table was empty save for a lone, white terry towel folded into a sharp square in the middle of it. The room itself was actually a circle and at the back end of the room, I saw the door with downward angled slats. I walked over and opened it.
It was actually a smaller room in the shape of a U that connected the two massage rooms. A small table held all of the essentials – oils, towels, hand cloths, candles.
I pulled the door closed behind me.
And waited.
Dominic Stefano told me that he would have the room cleared for me to enter. I'd told him I needed access to the massage area prior to Anchor's arrival and that's what he promised to get me. Whomever he'd spoken with after putting me on hold explained to him that I should go into the U-shaped room and wait for Anchor to arrive, and that I'd know when to go back into the room.
I took several deep breaths and shook out my hands, trying to rid myself of the nervousness and anger and everything else coursing through my body. I was going to have just a few minutes with him and I needed to make them count, not wasting a second.
I checked my watch again.
4:29pm.
I waited.
At 4:31, I heard footsteps and muffled voices that I figured were out near the small podium.
“Christine will be in momentarily,” a woman's voice said. “She just finished with another client next door. Can I get you anything right now, Mr. Anchor?”
“No,” he said. “Tell her to hurry up.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said.
I heard footsteps and then the door closed.
For a moment, I tensed, thinking that someone was going to come through from the other room and find me in the connector. But I realized I hadn't heard a single sound from that room, and the light through the slats and beneath the door was dark.
There was no one in that room.
I moved closer to the door of the room Anchor was in.
I could see his shadow moving around. I heard a belt buckle clink and then what sounded like him undressing and hanging his clothes on the far side of the room. Then a small grunt as skin rubbed against leather; probably him positioning hi
mself on the table. A towel snapped loudly and then he exhaled, like he was exhausted.
Blood pulsed in my ears.
I put my hand on the doorknob for a moment and waited.
He coughed and from the location of the sound, I was certain he was on the table.
I twisted the knob slowly and pushed the door open even slower until I had a view of the table.
Anchor was on his back on the table in the middle of the room and I was looking at the top of his scalp and bare shoulders. He was holding his phone in his hands and it was propped up on his stomach, which was covered with the towel. His fingers were tapping the screen. The table was raised just high enough that he would've had to turn all the way over if he wanted to look at me.
“You're four minutes late,” he said without twisting to look at me. “I don't appreciate that.”
I walked up to the table and laid my hand on his throat.
I stared down at him. “I only needed 48 hours to find you.”
FORTY TWO
I had never seen John Anchor in any sort of disarray.
He seemed to wake up with an unflappable calm that couldn't be disturbed, no matter the circumstances. Whether on the phone or in person, he radiated a sense of complete control that no other living being had the power to disturb. And I assumed that was the point – act like you have control and people will let you have control.
But, now, Anchor couldn't hide his shock that I was standing over him, my hand pressed down on his throat.
“Not who you were expecting?” I asked.
His eyes darted in multiple directions, but he was doing his best to regain his composure. “Mr. Tyler. What a surprise.”
“I'll bet,” I said. “You killed Lauren.”
“You reneged on our deal.”
The way he said it made me even angrier, as if her life was some sort of commodity that could be traded so easily.
I squeezed hard on his throat, his Adam's apple pressing against my palm. “Killing her was never part of our deal.”
He swung the phone toward my head, but I'd already anticipated it and grabbed his wrist before it connected. I twisted his wrist hard and he yelped, dropping the phone onto the towel that covered his body. I picked it up with my free hand and swung it into the side of his face, using it as a mini battering ram.
Sweat glistened on his forehead and a line of thick red blood bloomed next to his now closed eye, shut tight with pain.
“You killed Marc Codaselli,” I said, pressing harder.
His eyes reopened. He gagged and his body twitched on the table. He was fumbling, stunned by both my being there and by the shot to his head. His arrogance and invincibility ebbing away by the moment.
I put his phone in my pocket and added my other hand to his throat, both of them acting like vices around his neck.
“You are a piece of shit,” I whispered. I leaned down, my nose almost to his as I squeezed his throat. “And Dominic Stefano hates you almost as much as I do. He wants to make sure you know he helped me.”
His eyes bulged as the sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Were you there when she died?” I said, digging my nails into his flesh. “Did you watch?”
His entire face went red and strange gasps exploded from his mouth as he fought for air. He tried to shake his head back and forth.
“I watched,” I snarled at him. “I watched what you sent me.”
His hands clawed at my arms, but my fingers were fused to his throat, squeezing his airway closed like a boa constrictor. His body spasmed on the table, but I used my body weight to lean on him and to pin down his chest, keeping him in place.
“This wasn't part of the deal, either, was it?” I whispered to him. “But this will end all of the...unpleasantness between us, won't it?” I squeezed harder. “To use your word.”
He shut his eyes, his mouth open in a desperate attempt to suck in air.
“Look at me,” I growled at him. “Look at me, Anchor.”
His eyes opened. The whites were flecked with blood as the capillaries burst inside of them. His entire face flooded with sweat. His hands slapped clumsily at mine. I could feel things in his throat collapsing, shrinking, breaking. His body slowed, the spasming dying off. His hands rested against mine.
“We're even now,” I whispered. “We're all square.” My hands trembled as I squeezed as hard as I could. “Because I do have the stomach for this.”
His body shook and his chest didn't rise beneath me. His bloodshot eyes went vacant, his pupils dilated, and they rolled back slightly toward his forehead.
I held onto his throat, my nails embedded in his skin, for another minute, making sure he was dead.
Finally, I unclenched my hands and pried them away from his throat. My arms and shoulders shook. My knuckles ached. My chest heaved. My shirt was drenched in perspiration.
I watched him for another minute, making sure.
But there was no question as his lifeless, bloodied body lay on the table, the purple and red marks glowing on his neck.
John Anchor was dead.
FORTY THREE
I stood there for a moment, my eyes fixated on Anchor's lifeless corpse.
I don't know what I expected to feel.
It didn't bring Lauren back.
It didn't make me feel good.
It didn't make me any less sad.
But I didn't feel badly about it, either.
It wasn't like after I'd killed Patrick Dennison, when I'd retched in the parking lot.
I just felt...nothing.
And I couldn't decide what that said about me.
FORTY FOUR
“I'm at the airport,” I said into my phone. “On my way back.”
“All good?” Noah asked.
I'd left the Foshay and driven straight to the airport. The soonest flight I could get out to Phoenix was still two hours away. I'd purchased the ticket, checked my case and gone through security. I found a restroom and washed my face and hands, scrubbing hard at my fingertips and nails. I bought a bottle of water, sucked it all down and tossed the bottle in the trash before heading to my gate. Then I'd pulled out my phone and dialed the number Carter gave me. Noah called back in less than a minute.
“No,” I said. “But I'm on my way back. Where should we meet?”
“Is it safe to meet?” he asked after a moment's pause.
“Yeah. It's over. We're fine.”
“Alright,” he said. “We're still in Phoenix. Why don't you call when you arrive and I'll have a place set up by then.”
I said that was fine and told him what time I'd be getting in.
“Got it,” he said. “You want to talk to your daughter?”
I sank back in my chair. It was the one thing I'd been thinking about since leaving Anchor dead in the Foshay. Having to talk to Elizabeth. What I was going to say to her. How she'd react.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Hang on.”
I watched a young couple in their twenties stroll by, a toddler in a stroller, backpacks strapped around their shoulders. The woman had a Starbucks cup in one hand and a small stuffed dog in the other. The man was pushing the stroller and the little girl nestled inside was reaching for the dog. They all stopped and the woman handed the dog to the girl. The girl squealed and hugged it. Both the man and the woman shook their heads and they continued on down the concourse.
“Dad?”
“Hey, kid.”
“What's going on? He wouldn't tell me anything.”
I swallowed, ran my tongue over my teeth. “I'm at the airport. I'll be there in a few hours.”
“Serious?”
I took a massive breath, exhaled. “Serious.”
“Mom's with you?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “No. She's not.”
“What? Why not? Why are you coming back then?”
My gut pinched itself around something icy. “Elizabeth. I'm coming to get you, okay? I'll be there in a few hours. I'm at the ai
rport now.”
“Dad? Where is she?”
“I...I genuinely don't know, kid,” I said, the words coming out of my mouth like marbles.
“You can't leave her,” she said, her voice breaking. “With that guy. You can't leave her.”
“I'm not,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “I promise you I'm not. I wouldn't do that.”
“So then what?” she said, her voice halting.
“Let's talk about it when I get there, alright?” I said.
“Dad, what happened?”
I wiped at my eyes. “I really don't know, Elizabeth. And I'm not lying about that. I genuinely don't know. But I need to come and get you, okay? I'll tell you what I know then. I swear to you.” I wiped at my eyes again. “But I gotta come get you, and I'm not leaving again.”
She sobbed into the phone for a few moments and it was painful: painful to listen to and painful to not be able to be with her and to hug her and to tell her that I was sad, too. It wouldn't make everything all right, but at least we wouldn't have been apart.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I'll be there soon. I love you.”
She managed something that sounded like, “I love you, too,” but I wasn't sure if that's what she actually said or if it was just what I wanted to hear. There was a scuffling sound and I didn’t know if she'd dropped the phone or what she'd done with it.
“Joe?” Noah asked. “You there?”
“I'm here,” I said, wiping hard at my eyes again. “She's gonna be upset. Just give her some room until I get there.”
“Alright. Anything we can do for her?”
I stood, more because I was anxious now than because I wanted to stand. “No, don't think so. Just keep an eye on her and give her some space.”
“Okay,” he said. “I'm sorry, Joe. I'm really sorry.”
I hadn't told him anything about what had occurred. It wasn't a stretch for him to figure out what had happened, though, based on what he knew about my leaving and what he'd probably just witnessed from Elizabeth. But there was something in his words that indicated he was truly sorry, and that he sympathized. Maybe that he understood somehow.
“Thanks,” I said. “I'll see you soon.”
I punched off the phone and stared at it for a moment. Then I shoved it into my pocket. I walked over to another chair, over in a corner near a window. I sat down and I watched the planes outside, pulling in and taxiing, hooking up to the jetways. I watched the ground workers wave and jog and lift and walk, almost like ants beneath the big planes.
