The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Stanton?” Bracewell asked.

  “Call me Remy,” he said. “I’m feeling okay, all things considered.”

  “Alena and her father spared no expense in your treatment and recovery,” he said.

  “The last time I got shot, nobody sent flowers,” Remy said. Paul said nothing. “That was a joke.”

  Paul smiled weakly, then leaned towards his wife and whispered in her ear.

  Alena responded audibly, “I texted him. He’s on his way.”

  Paul nodded and Remy noticed him take a sharp breath. He didn’t know who “him” was, and whether “him” coming was good or bad news.

  “Who’s coming?” Remy asked. “Are you talking about my friend Trevor?”

  He couldn’t think of who else might visit. He doubted Andrew Pulaski would bother; his secretary likely ordered the chocolates. Other than Trevor, he had few friends in the city, and couldn’t imagine that Alena or Paul had gone through his contacts list.

  “My father,” Alena said. “He wanted me to let him know the moment you woke up. He wanted to meet you in person.”

  “Your father? I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” Alena said. “You saved our lives. My father always takes care of people who take care of his family.”

  “Do I know your father?” Remy asked. He could appreciate Alena and Paul looking out for him, but he just wanted to heal up and go home. He wanted to eat bad hospital food, sleep some more, then get the hell out of this place. It was a boss hospital room, but it was still a hospital room.

  “I don’t know if you’ve ever met him,” Alena said, “but I’m sure you know him.”

  “That…doesn’t make any sense,” Remy said.

  “It will,” Alena said with a confidence that unnerved Remy. For a moment, he wondered if this was all some sort of cosmic joke. Taking down a gunman only to be subjected to some creepy family ritual like a Brooks Brothers version of the redneck cannibals from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  “I have a stupid question,” Remy said, raising his functioning arm.

  Alena laughed. “Are we back in grade school?”

  Remy and Alena laughed. Paul did not. Remy registered this.

  “Who are all these flowers from? I don’t have this many friends, Andrew Pulaski isn’t the sentimental type, and I don’t remember owning any 1-800-Flowers stock. Would you mind checking the cards?”

  “I know many of them were sent by my father’s friends and associates,” Alena said. She went over to a large crystal vase filled to the brim with red roses and yellow calla lilies. “This one reads, ‘Mr. Stanton: the city thanks you for your heroism. You had our back. Now we’ll have yours. Governor Emily Richardson.”

  Had there been any water in Remy’s mouth, he would have spat it out.

  “Emily Richardson. Governor Emily Richardson. Those flowers were sent by Governor Richardson. Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Alena said.

  “Um…why?”

  Paul Bracewell looked at his wife, then back at Remy. He said, “What you did the other night was really brave. And the fallout has not happened in a vacuum.”

  “Fallout?” Remy said. “Did I prevent a nuclear war or something?”

  Alena said, “Maybe not that far off. My father met Governor Richardson when she first ran for city council. She officiated my wedding. She was extraordinarily thankful you were there the other night. A lot of people were. And even more so that you pulled through. She said she plans to visit in person.”

  “Governor Richardson,” Remy repeated. “I voted for her.” Remy looked at Paul. “Hold on. Why did she officiated your wedding? And what do you mean by ‘the fallout didn’t happen in a vacuum’?”

  “See for yourself.” Paul picked up a remote control from the tray on Remy’s bedside and turned the television on. He flipped through the channels but didn’t have to go far to find what he was looking for.

  Anderson Cooper was on CNN reporting live in studio. A chyron read UES HERO WAKES UP. Anderson cut to a live video feed and a reporter standing outside Lenox Hill Hospital.

  “Wait,” Remy said. “That’s not about…”

  Just then, a picture appeared in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Remy recognized the photo. He remembered taking it. He’d gone out drinking the night before, came into work hungover beyond belief, and was horrified to learn he was required to take a new photo for his employee ID. He’d been pleasantly surprised at how it came out.

  That photo was now being broadcast on CNN.

  He was the UES hero.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Remy said.

  Anderson Cooper said, “We have word that Rawson Griggs himself is on his way to visit Jeremy Stanton at Lenox Hill Hospital. Mr. Griggs has not commented on the attack, other than releasing a brief statement thanking law enforcement for their swift action leading to the arrest of Dastan Nogoyev. Nogoyev was incapacitated by Jeremy Stanton following the incident on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, in which Nogoyev and an unidentified accomplice pulled guns on Mrs. Griggs and Mr. Bracewell.”

  “Rawson Griggs,” Remy said. “Your father is Rawson Griggs.”

  “That’s right,” Alena said.

  “You’re Alena Griggs, then.”

  She nodded, said, “That’s right.”

  “These are some amazing drugs,” Remy said. “Because otherwise you’re like a quadrillionaire.”

  Alena smiled. “I don’t think that’s a real word. But yes. Rawson is my dad.”

  Now Remy knew why Alena said he would know her father. Everyone knew Rawson Griggs. The whole world knew Rawson Griggs. More people could pick him out of a lineup than the Pope.

  And if this was true, if Alena really was the daughter of Rawson Griggs, she was one of the most revered young heiresses in the country, the only child of one the wealthiest, most powerful, and most influential men alive. Rawson was a business tycoon, a trendsetter, and an economic disrupter. And until she married Paul Bracewell, Alena Griggs was the most eligible bachelorette on the planet. Now here she was, standing in Remy’s hospital room, laughing at his jokes.

  “Dastan Nogoyev,” Remy said. “Is that the man I hit?”

  Alena nodded. “You broke his nose and fractured his cheekbone. He was unconscious when the police arrived. To be honest, I think a few of them were disappointed they didn’t have to draw their weapons.”

  Remy noticed Paul Bracewell looking out the window, fidgeting.

  “The other man,” Remy said. “The one who shot me. Nogoyev’s accomplice. What happened to him?”

  “They haven’t found him yet. The FBI told my father, quote, ‘the investigation is ongoing.’ But if I know how much this city loves my father, half the NYPD is looking for this asshole, and the second he pops up….”

  “But he’s still out there,” Remy said.

  Alena nodded. “We have security.”

  Remy saw Paul chewing a fingernail.

  Remy turned back to the television. Anderson Cooper continued. “The Department of Homeland Security and FAA announced that they discovered a plane ticket purchased two weeks ago in Dastan Nogoyev’s name. The flight was scheduled to depart JFK on Aeroflot Airlines, have a two-hour layover in Moscow, and then arrive in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, where Nogoyev was born. Sources within the FBI tell us that they believed the attack on Mrs. Griggs and Mr. Bracewell was premeditated, and that Nogoyev and his accomplice planned to leave the country in its wake.”

  “But they don’t know who the other man is,” Remy said. “So he could be halfway around the world right now.”

  “They will find him,” Alena said. “My father spoke to NYPD commissioner Ragsdale and he assured us that before the week is out they’ll know more about Dastan Nogoyev and his accomplice than their mothers do.”

  “As long as everyone is safe now,” Remy said. He heard Paul make a noise like hmph. He seemed completely removed from the conversation, like there was something else
on his mind.

  Back on CNN, Anderson Cooper said, “We have word that Rawson Griggs is arriving at Lenox Hill Hospital as we speak, no doubt to pay thanks to the young man who saved his daughter’s and her husband’s lives.”

  The camera cut to a feed from a helicopter flying above Lenox Hill Hospital. A convoy of cars approached the hospital entrance: a massive black SUV, followed by a long black limousine, then backed up by another SUV. The three cars pulled up to the curb. Remy sat up to see the television better, then yelped as a searing pain shot through his body. He fell back into the bed, sweating.

  Alena rushed over.

  “Take it easy,” she said, handing him more water.

  Remy watched the screen, captivated, as several large, suited men exited the cars bracketing the limo. The helicopter camera zoomed in. The men wore sunglasses and earpieces. Security. No doubt Rawson Griggs never went anywhere without a cavalcade of protection, and the events of the other night surely made him even more cautious.

  A crowd of onlookers had gathered in front of the hospital, held back behind police barricades. Four of the guards created a human funnel inside the barricade, leading into the hospital entrance. One of the guards spoke into a mouthpiece and then waved his hand as though signaling an all clear. Then the limousine door opened and a man stepped out. He waved briefly to the cheering crowd and entered the hospital.

  Alena smiled. “My dad is here. He couldn’t wait to meet you. Just a piece of advice: be yourself. He hates ass kissers.”

  Three minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Alena opened it.

  Standing there was Rawson Griggs. He entered and said, “Mr. Stanton. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid. But I’ll try.”

  Remy swallowed. The pain was gone. He knew at that moment that his life had irrevocably changed.

  Remy’s first thought, to his own still somewhat-drugged embarrassment, was, Rawson Griggs is a big motherfucker. I’m glad I didn’t have to fight him the other night.

  Rawson Griggs was far larger than he appeared in his photographs. Remy estimated he was around six three or six four, but a broad man with shoulders the width of a sawhorse, chest as thick as a barbecue grill, and a dark, Paul Bunyan-esque beard. Rawson was an oak of a man who looked like he could swallow a punch whole, digest it, and crap it back out. He wasn’t trim, but he wasn’t fat. His chest was thick, his midsection ample. His suit jacket was tight around the arms, and Remy was sure it was intentional. His brown hair was streaked with gray, with a part down the left side that curled up like an ocean wave. He clearly spent time at the gym, and though age had softened some of the muscle, Rawson still looked like a man who could break a two-by-four in half with his hands.

  Remy had seen Rawson on television hundreds of times. He’d graced the cover of nearly every magazine and newspaper in the world, the billionaire maverick who had built one of the most recognizable companies in the country, had more enemies than Batman, and enjoyed a lifestyle so lavish that entire magazine spreads had been devoted his wardrobe.

  Rawson embraced his daughter, enveloping Alena in his bear-like arms. Remy saw Griggs close his eyes as Alena disappeared into his bulk.

  When they disentangled, Rawson turned to Paul and simply extended his hand, as though greeting a colleague he was not particularly fond of.

  Paul shook Rawson’s hand, the elder man’s wrist as thick as his son-in-law’s arm. Immediately Remy could tell there was a chill between Griggs and the man who had married into his family. Rawson was cordial, but nothing more. Remy watched those few seconds with fascination. You could read a million articles and see a million interviews with a man like Rawson Griggs, but few people had the chance to see how he acted up close, in private moments, while the cameras were off.

  After he finished with Paul, Rawson said, “Alena, give us a moment.”

  “Of course.” She said to Paul, “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

  As they left, Remy saw two security guards follow.

  When the door closed, Griggs turned to Remy and said, almost wistfully, “She fights me, that one. If it were up to me, she’d have the National Guard protecting her every waking moment of her life. But she won’t have it. Wants to lead a normal life, as she calls it. But desire and reality make awful bedfellows.”

  Rawson’s voice was deep, baritone. He could have been on the radio. He wore a deep, black Brioni suit, so shiny it looked recently polished. It must have run ten grand. A bright red tie hung down below his leather belt. His shoes were polished, his hair fastened in place. If Remy didn’t know better, he’d think Griggs was a funeral director.

  Remy wasn’t sure what to say. “She seems nice,” he uttered, and immediately felt silly. He supposed it was a good thing he could chalk up any ridiculous statements to the injuries and medication.

  Griggs ignored the comment and began inspecting the various flower arrangements. He opened up the cards, which struck Remy as odd, given that they weren’t for Rawson. He supposed Rawson was cataloguing which of his colleagues had sent well wishes. Those who hadn’t would probably end up on some Griggs shit list, the notion of which was terrifying. Remy watched Rawson, transfixed, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Rawson Griggs was in his hospital room.

  Griggs then went to Remy’s bed, towering over him. Remy did his best to turn and face the man, but his sutures prevented him from twisting. Griggs seemed to realize this, and repositioned himself at the foot of the bed.

  “Better we can see each other man-to-man, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  Rawson pointed at the sling on Remy’s arm.

  “Are you a righty or lefty?”

  “Righty,” Remy replied.

  “Small favors,” Rawson said. “At least you’ll still be able to sign your own name.”

  “That was the first thing I thought when I woke up,” Remy deadpanned. Rawson smiled. Remy figured that was a good thing.

  “You know who I am,” Griggs said, the smile disappearing, his voice turning deadly serious. It wasn’t said with braggadocio, more to get it out of the way.

  “I do,” Remy said.

  “Then you know why I’m here.”

  “Um…sort of?”

  “I’m not a man who tends to take things lightly,” Griggs said, watching the tube hooked up to Remy’s arm. He watched the medication plink downwards as he talked. “I’m not overly sentimental. And I don’t let my emotions control me.”

  Griggs looked at Remy, stared him right in the eyes. Remy saw every line etched on the man’s face, every fleck of gray struggling for notice in that brown beard. Griggs made Remy shrink involuntarily.

  “But you saved my daughter’s life. And there is nothing in the world more serious to me than Alena’s safety,” Rawson said. “Emotions are tricky things. They can help you focus and discern what is and is not important. But if they overwhelm your senses, you can make terrible, irrational decisions. My emotions led me to make a terrible decision. I’ve fought for a long time with Alena over my insistence that she have protection twenty-four seven. She fought me on it. She’s a smart, tough woman. Probably tougher than I was at her age. I’m proud that she never took her privilege for granted. She wants to lead a normal life with Paul. Bodyguards don’t allow for that. So I relented. I let her go about her normal life. Not because it was the right thing to do, but because I wanted to make my daughter happy. Emotions, rather than intelligence, made that decision for me. And it was the wrong decision. And it nearly cost me my daughter.”

  Rawson came around to the side of Remy’s bed. Remy could feel his heart jackhammering in his chest. Rawson placed his massive hand on Remy’s right arm. His hand was rough and calloused, which surprised Remy. Remy had shaken hands with many wealthy men, and to a one their hands were soft, baby-like. Not Rawson Griggs. His hand felt like tree bark.

  “You saved my daughter’s life. You almost paid a price you never should have had to pay. But you didn’t think twice. And becau
se of that, my little girl is still on this earth. So, Jeremy, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you.”

  Remy’s mouth felt parched. “You’re welcome.” He reached for the water bottle Dr. Kurzweil had left on the tray but couldn’t reach it. Rawson handed it to him. Remy gulped it down. When he finished, Rawson took it to the sink, refilled it, and brought it back. “You can call me Remy.”

  “Remy,” Griggs said, as if rolling the name over on his tongue. “Does everyone call you Remy?”

  “People who know me do.”

  “And you like the name?”

  “I guess. Been called it since I was a kid.”

  “Well, it is a child’s name,” Griggs said. Remy detected an ounce of patronization in his voice. “Not many people would do what you did, Jeremy, nearly die for a stranger. And I believe you would do it again.”

  “I would,” Remy said.

  “I think there’s something special about you, Jeremy Stanton. And I believe the other night was the catalyst for something great.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Remy said.

  “I spoke to your doctors. Kurzweil. He’s the best there is. I requested him specifically for you. They anticipate you’ll be strong enough to leave here in about three days. Today is Sunday. That means you’ll probably be discharged by Wednesday. I want to see you in my office at seven thirty Monday morning.”

  “Mr. Griggs, I appreciate this, but I have to be at my job Monday morning.”

  “You report to Richard McCarty. I’ve met McCarty before. Not an impressive man. Andrew Pulaski keeps him around for amusement. I’ll talk to Andrew. He will excuse your absence.”

  “How do you…”

  “I know far more about you than you think, Jeremy. As I was saying. Take the weekend to recover, to think. Then, Monday morning, be at my office.”

  “Your office?”