by Ray Garton
After getting a seat on the first plane headed for Washington in the morning, he called Everett and told him what he was doing. He explained why Renny’s odd behavior led him to believe there was something to find in all this and asked him to pass the information on to Eli.
“I didn’t expect you to fly to Washington for this, Falczek,” Everett said. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble, you know.”
“You kidding?” Falczek said. “This is gonna be fun. I already feel fifteen years younger.”
He reserved a room at the Crowne Plaza Hotel and arranged for a rental car, then packed a suitcase and garment bag, and put some writing supplies and his laptop in a briefcase. He’d suspected he’d never use the top-of-the-line laptop his daughter Amy had given him last Christmas, but he was glad to prove himself wrong. It might come in handy on this trip. She would be happy to know he was putting it to use.
Now he sat in a cramped, uncomfortable coach seat listening to Ol’ Blue Eyes, on his way back to his old stomping grounds. Alone. He turned up the volume of the music a little to cover the sound of a squawling baby a few seats up. He hadn’t flown in so long, he’d almost forgotten why he hated it so much. But the feeling in his gut—the hook that had been buried there and was now pulling him inexorably forward—made the discomfort worthwhile. And as he’d told Everett, it made him feel young again.
2.
Falczek’s plane landed at Ronald Reagan National Airport in Arlington County, Virginia. He’d had time to eat only a banana as he rushed around early that morning and was hungry by the end of his flight. He’d had little appetite that morning because parting with Doug had created a knot in his stomach. He’d grown more attached to the dog than he’d suspected. Mrs. Fitch had come by early to pick up the dog and his food, and while Doug was always happy to see her, he knew something was up. The dog whimpered as Falczek left him in Mrs. Fitch’s backseat, and the sound nearly broke his heart.
Once off the plane, he got his bags, then his car, and drove to the hotel, which was only about a mile from the airport in the neighborhood known as Crystal City in the southeastern corner of Arlington. After a sweltering summer of thick smoke that fell over northern California like a filthy blanket, it was a pleasure to see blue sky again, to feel direct sunlight hit his face.
It was a little after three in the afternoon by the time he got to his room. He ordered cod and asparagus from room service, then took a quick shower before it arrived. He ate his late lunch in the white robe provided by the hotel while he watched the news on TV, then dressed in one of the two suits he’d brought and dropped a small voice-activated digital recorder into the right side pocket of his coat.
Renny had a sprawling estate in Loudon County—known as “horse country” to the locals—and a three-story townhouse in Old Town Alexandria. He’d been at the townhouse when Falczek spoke to him the night before. Chances were good that Renny was out and about—he’d never been much of a homebody—but Falczek decided to try the townhouse first.
He drove his nondescript rental car along the quiet streets of Old Town Alexandria, past the oaks and poplars, the expensive houses on small lots, some of which dated back to colonial times, trying to find his way to Renny’s townhouse after being away for a decade. When he spotted it, he snagged the first parking place he could find.
Falczek went up the front steps of the house and rang the bell, then waited. No sound from inside, no response. He rang the bell one more time. He was about to turn and walk away when he heard quiet movement beyond the door. He reached into his pocket and turned on the digital recorder.
A lock clicked, then the door was opened only a few inches, pulling a security chain taut. An eye peered through the opening below the chain. The eye was so wide and showed so much white, it looked wild and insane. Set deep in its socket beneath a sharply defined ridge of brow, it was surrounded by pale, wrinkled, crepe-like skin.
“Whatta you want?” the old woman said, her voice coarse from a long life of smoking.
“Hello, ma’am,” Falczek said with a smile. “I’m here to see Lionel Renquist. I’m John Falczek, a friend of his. Is he here?”
From inside the house, Renny said, “Who is it, mother?”
Mother? Falczek thought.
“Someone named Tom Farmpeck,” she said with irritation that bordered on anger. She pulled away from the opening.
The door closed, the chain snicked along its track, then the door was pulled all the way open. The old woman was tiny and appeared to be swimming in the pale blue quilted housecoat she wore. Her skull was clearly defined beneath her tissue-thin skin. Her right eye squinted as if it were stinging, while her left eye bulged with what appeared to be a mixture of shock and rage. She had no teeth and from the eyes down, her face sunk inward like a piece of fruit going bad. Short, thin white hair with nicotine-yellow streaks splayed from her clearly visible scalp. She looked at Falczek as if he had just uttered a physical threat.
“Whatta you want?” she said again, just as irritated as before.
Behind her, Renny emerged slowly from the darkness of the house, leaning on a cane as he walked. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “Go eat your pudding.” He sounded tired and distracted.
Eyeing Falczek suspiciously, the old woman turned and disappeared into the house, moving at a surprisingly good clip. Renny watched her go, then faced Falczek.
He hadn’t seen Renny in a decade, and the years were all there on his face—and more. He was still the tall, straight, regal looking gentleman he’d always been, but his face was pale grey, much narrower, cheeks hollow, mapped with wrinkles that made him look older than his years. His hair was thinning on top, and Renny was still dying it, but against the gaunt, aged face, the dye was more obvious now, and a little sad. He did not look well at all, and it occurred to Falczek that perhaps he’d been right to wonder if Renny was in ill health. He wore a yellow shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and khaki pants, all of which seemed too big for him.
Renny tilted his head back and to one side as he gazed down his narrow patrician nose at Falczek with heavy-lidded eyes. “What the devil are you doing here, Falczek?” he said wearily, his Georgia drawl more pronounced, his words slightly slurred.
Falczek smiled. “I haven’t seen you in ten years, I travel all the way across the country, and that’s the greeting I get?”
“If you came just to see me, then you wasted a trip,” Renny said, closing the front door. “Come to the library.” He turned and led Falczek into the house, favoring his right leg by leaning on the cane in his left hand. “Have you eaten?”
“I just had lunch.”
They went down a hall, the old floor creaking and popping under their feet, and into a room lined with shelves of books. Renny was a voracious reader and collector of old books, with a vast store of rare first editions, many of which were signed. He kept the valuable editions in a specially built room in his Loudon County home. The shelves in this library held reading copies. Unlike most people with shelves of books, Renny had read all of them, and would read them again.
“Why the cane?” Falczek said.
Renny went to a chair in the corner with a book on the seat. From the table beside it, he took an empty glass and went to a window under which a sideboard held an array of crystal decanters and an ice bucket.
“I’ve had problems with my knee the last few years,” Renny said as he made a drink. “It’s been getting steadily worse. Last week, I had a little fall, which made it even more painful. The doctor tells me it needs replacing, but... ” Ice clinked, then cracked as he poured some amber liquid over it. “Drink, Falczek?”
“No, thank you,” he said, thinking that Renny was starting his drinking much earlier these days. There was a thickness to his voice that told Falczek he’d been at it for awhile. “Is that woman really your mother?”
“I’m afraid so.” Renny took his drink back to the chair, put the book on the table, and sat down. He nodded toward
the small loveseat.
“I don’t remember you ever talking about your mother,” Falczek said as he sat down in the loveseat. “You said your father had died, and I just assumed she was gone, too.”
“She’s ninety-four years old, and she will outlive me. She left us when I was in high school. Just packed up and moved out one day, left a note that said she wasn’t happy anymore. She shows up a few months ago, destitute and with nowhere else to go, and expects me to take care of her.” He sipped his drink then shrugged one shoulder. “What’s a boy to do?”
“Good of you to take care of her in spite of her past behavior. Is she... well... “
”Competent? I know she looks barking mad, but she’s not. Her mind is a steel trap. And it reminds me of why steel traps are illegal in most states. She’s wretched,” he said with a gentle smile. “I despise her. She is proof that there is a god, and that, for some reason, he loathes me.”
Renny looked tired and defeated, pale and drained. Some of his southern gentlemanly air remained, but his speech and movements were much slower than Falczek remembered. He wondered just how much Renny had drunk that day, although this seemed to be something more than inebriation.
Frowning, Falczek said, “Is everything all right, Renny?”
After another sip of the drink, half of Renny’s mouth curled into an approximation of a smile. “No, of course not.” With his left hand perched on the silver handle of his black cane and his drink held in the other, he looked Falczek over. “You look well,” he said. “What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Oh, not much, to be honest. I do a little writing to keep my mind working. I’ve been fooling around with a book on the history of newspapers in America, but they’re on their way out, so I’m not sure anyone cares to know where they came from.”
Renny’s right eyebrow rose over his half-closed eye. “And now you’re doing a story on Paaxone?”
“Just helping out a friend, like I said.”
“Uh-huh,” Renny drawled skeptically. “You flew all the way over here to help out a friend?”
“I admit, I’m a little curious. A drug like that, manufactured by a corporation as enormous as Baxton-Carville, just disappears? Suddenly becomes unavailable to the patients to whom doctors have prescribed it? That’s a little strange, don’t you think?”
Renny leaned back in his chair, looking blissfully relaxed and at ease. His eyebrows rose high as his eyes closed, his mouth curved into a slight smile, and he sniffed disinterestedly.
Falczek leaned forward, elbows resting on his spread knees. “What aren’t you telling me, Renny?”
The older man’s smile disappeared and his slack face tensed as he turned his gaze away from Falczek. He sighed. “This is a waste of time.”
“I don’t think so. You talked to your friend, the lobbyist’s wife—Lauren Parks.”
Renny’s forehead creased as he stared at the window. “Lauren,” he said. He merely breathed the name, but it sounded so sad.
“I’m guessing it went something like this. You passed my question about Paaxone on to her, and Lauren told you something. Right?”
No response.
“Whatever it was, between the time that she told you and your phone call to me last night, you were told to keep it to yourself. Is that right?”
Renny sighed.
“This information—whatever it is—was not meant to be passed around. I’ll bet Lauren wasn’t even supposed to know, was she? Maybe she overheard it from her husband, or was told by one of her friends, maybe the wife of one of Braxton-Carville’s execs. Someone stumbled onto her indiscretion before you could pass it on to me and the leak was patched quickly. Maybe even... aggressively?”
Renny’s entire body jerked stiffly as he released his irritation in a burst of breath. “This is a-a-a, it’s a complete waste of time,” Renny snapped, glaring at Falczek. “I don’t know what you expect of me, or, or—” He rolled his eyes and sighed. As he spoke, the pitch of his voice rose. “I have nothing for you, Falczek. Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What you believe is irrelevant.” Another sigh. “I have nothing for you, and frankly, I have more important things on my mind at the moment. I don’t need this aggravation.”
“Are you going to make me... apply pressure, Renny?”
His eyes widened slightly as he looked at Falczek with the look of a man assaulted. “May I remind you that you are in my house?”
“What is Braxton-Carville up to, Renny?”
He put his drink down on the table so hard that some of it sloshed from the glass and the small ice cubes danced and rang. “I am not the font of information I once was, Falczek,” he said as he stood and slowly walked to one of the shelves, tilted his head back and seemed to occupy himself reading the spines of books for a long moment. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Life has slowed down. Some of my friends have passed on, others have... found interests that don’t include me.”
Falczek recognized Renny’s technique of diverting the conversation to other topics, blurring the focus. He had no intention of going along with it.
He said quietly, “You might have slowed down, but you’re still plugged into this town. Plugged in enough to have stumbled onto the reason why Paaxone has disappeared—in northern California, anyway. I intend to find out why. I hope you’ll tell me what you know, but if you don’t, then you will force me to—”
Renny turned to face Falczek again and said, “I’m dying.”
3.
Falczek blinked a few times as he looked up at Renny. He hadn’t expected that—and he was not entirely sure he believed it.
“You’re ill?” Falczek said.
Renny chuckled without smiling, sipped his drink, and said, “Look at me. I look like a Charles Addams cartoon.”
“What’s the problem?”
Renny turned, went to the window, and stared out as he spoke slowly. “I’ve never been one for regular doctor visits. I hate the bastards. The way they sit in judgment of you atop their Mount Olympus of medical school and internship, the way you have to treat them with deference as if they were all born of virgins. You smoke, Mr. Renquist? You drink, Mr. Renquist? Don’t exercise much? Eat fatty foods? Well, let’s see how the gods of health are punishing you for these sins and what kind of side-effects-laden penance I’ll have to prescribe to you. Now bend over and spread your cheeks, Mr. Renquist, so I can insert my bill.” Ice cubes jingled as he sipped his drink again. “My insurance company stiffened up last year, imposed more rigid requirements. In order to maintain my coverage, I had to start having yearly physical exams. So I held my nose and went through with it early this year. I have lung cancer. Inoperable. Stage four. The usual treatments of radiation and/or drugs might—just might—give me a few extra months, but they would be miserable, agonizing months. I’ve chosen to forego that.”
Renny stopped talking and continued to stare out the window and sip his drink. Falczek stared at his back, eyes narrowed with scrutiny. He’d seen Renny do this before, give one of his little impromptu performances to manipulate or wring sympathy out of someone. He was fast on his feet and a smooth and convincing liar. Falczek didn’t buy it. He stood and began to pace slowly behind Renny.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Renny,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Unless you have supernatural healing powers I know nothing about... no.”
“I hope you’ll let me know if there is.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, back to the subject at hand.”
Renny sighed as his shoulders slumped.
“I want to know what you’re not telling me,” Falczek said.
“I am not discussing this any further.”
“In that case, I’m going to have to do something about what I walked in on here in your house that night. Remember that, Renny?” He didn’t have to specify the night or the year—Renny would know precisely what he was talking about. He turned t
oward Renny, who did not move for a long moment.
Finally, Renny turned to him. “We’ve never discussed that,” he said, nearly whispering.
“No, we haven’t.”
“Why would you do that to me? Now? Given the circumstances of... my life?”
“The circumstances?” Falczek said with a chuckle. “You don’t think I believe any of that, do you? I’ve known you a long time, Renny. Long enough to know you well. Long enough to know better.”
Renny’s mouth dropped open and stared at Falczek for several seconds. “What... what could you possibly get out of telling anyone about that night? I’m dying, I won’t be around much longer, what could you—”
Falczek started out speaking slowly, but as he went on, the words came faster and got angrier. ”You want to die with everyone knowing what you did? That you were responsible for the death of an underage boy you were fucking? The other boy I saw in here with you—they were both in the paper the next day, with no mention of you, of course—he was badly beaten. Did you do that yourself, Renny, or have someone else do it for you? To scare the kid into keeping quiet about the fact that his friend OD’d on drugs you gave him, in your house, where you were fucking them both? You want that to get out just before you die, Renny? You want that to be in your obituary? But it’ll be worse than that, because you’re not dying, and you’ll be around for all the fallout. I don’t believe you, Renny. You’ve told that story before. Remember? At that New Year’s Eve party back in—what was it?—eighty-eight? Eighty-nine? Something like that. You whipped up that little story about bone cancer and said you had only a few months left, and when your friend—your best friend—started crying, you put your arm around her and said it wasn’t true, you just wanted to see if she cared. You laughed, remember? You laughed. And all your bitchy friends who are so afraid of you because of the social weight you pull around here, they all laughed, too, like it was funny. But it wasn’t. It was cruel and sadistic. What kind of person does that, Renny?”
