Nick Nolan

by Double Bound (Sequel To Strings)

  "He did. And I'm not saying this to you to make you feel guilty; I'm only hoping that it'll be...healing somehow. To know he needed you."

  He felt his anger grow. "Why are you telling me this? Why are you trying to make me feel so guilty? He was an asshole, Mom. The only thing he cared about was work and making us all quiet and invisible!"

  She clutched the back of the chair with one hand, rubbing her thigh nervously with the other. "But I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, Artie. I only want you to know that he appreciated you, as his son. And I know he was sorry for the way things turned out."

  His fury was ablaze, but his voice was calm. "Well, it's a great thing he kept it such a goddamn secret all those years, and it took this long for you to let me know how he felt. Thanks for that, by the way."

  "But, Artie--"

  She looked sad, and it killed him. He took a deep breath. "Mom, look, I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to help me out, and I'm glad you let me know this." He smiled at her. "I'll think about what you've said; really I will. I'll see you later."

  And with that, he retrieved his laptop bag from his bedroom, went out the door and got into his car.

  He used to wait for you.

  He headed north toward the shopping center in the middle of town, where he knew of a dreary coffeehouse whose only draw was its free Internet access; he figured he could set up his computer, slug some caffeine, and see if there was anything promising on the community message boards. Maybe he'd even ask for a job application; that would be great, being a forty-year-old man filling coffee orders for teenagers. Hooray!

  But what sort of job would he look for? under what category would he find his next opportunity for disaster?

  Then the truth hit him:

  He had no college degree, he had no references from his last jobs, but what he did have was a dishonorable discharge from the U.S. Marines.

  Should he go back to the FBI and try to get a desk job, so he wouldn't be able to screw up any more cases? He could try, but since his superiors had censured him after discovering he'd omitted critical information about having been Jonathan's lover, thus accepting an assignment with his security clearance in jeopardy, then had accepted Katharine's employment offer without leaving the bureau after the customary one month's notice, there was little chance they'd ever hire him back.

  Yes, he'd burned that bridge, and it was such a short time ago that the wood was probably still smoking.

  A startling thought occurred to him: what was the use of trying to jump-start his life when there was absolutely nothing to salvage--no lover, no home, no career, no friends--and at almost forty, if he hadn't made it happen by now, would he ever?

  He was sick of starting over.

  He'd done it more times than he cared to remember.

  And each time had ended with failure.

  He remembered how depressed he'd been as a teenager, and his plan to smash his van into that tree in front of his house; he'd really only joined the Marines because there was nothing else to do, but there was always the chance he could die a hero.

  And joining the FBI after Danny's death was really just "military lite"; it wasn't anything he'd ever really aspired to.

  In fact, he'd never discovered what he was destined for.

  Could it be that underneath whatever uniform he chose for himself, there would always be the same aimless man wandering around naked underneath it, just waiting to fail?

  All I ever do is fuck up, so what's the point in starting over? No one will miss me, except maybe Jeremy, and now he's gone because I made the wrong decision again.

  I'm so tired of feeling sad and lonely....

  Katharine was right.

  I should just get it over with.

  A great heaviness overcame him, and he pulled the car to the side of the road and bowed his head.

  He could feel the knife twisting in his soul, but who was shoving the hilt?

  After a few moments, he knew:

  I am.

  Because as much as he hated himself for it, he would never be able to see himself through eyes other than his father's.

  He used to wait for you.

  You need to forgive him.

  So was this it? He scanned his surroundings and saw there was a short pier a block away that he could drive his car off.

  No drowning. Anything but drowning.

  An overdose? His mother, most likely, had a stockpile of meds he could swallow a couple handfuls of, along with some Southern Comfort-- just like Jonathan's mom had.

  But what if she didn't have anything stronger than Advil? And what if it didn't work? He'd heard that trying to overdose was probably one of the least reliable methods of suicide, because if you're revived, you may have to live with permanent organ and brain damage.

  No, thanks.

  A gun? Could he actually put a barrel to his temple, or in his throat, and pull the trigger? That would be over quickly, but then there'd be such a mess. He remembered seeing a video of some congressman who'd been charged with corruption, and the man had very calmly stuck a gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger at a press conference, in front of staffers and the media and anyone in America who'd been unfortunate enough to be watching. And it was a mess: He'd been haunted by the image of the fat old guy staring blankly from where he'd slid down onto the floor, with a river of blood pouring out of his nostrils and down his shirt. That blood, it never seemed to stop as the cameras kept rolling and people screamed in the background. Gallons of it. everywhere. It must have taken them days to clean it up.

  No, shooting it would not be.

  So what would be the best way to do it, should he decide it was time?

  Check it out on the Internet.

  He put the car back in drive, turned around and made his way toward the coffeehouse. Once there, he found a place close by to park, grabbed his computer and walked through the doors.

  Thankfully, the place was deserted except for the tiny old lady behind the counter and a sullen teenage girl in goth makeup who slouched on a droopy brown-andred-plaid sofa, her feet up and twitching atop the battered coffee table.

  "Hi," he said to the old lady, while perusing the overhead menu. "Could I please just have the coffee of the day?"

  "You'd like the large size, I'll bet," she told him, smiling. "You're a big man."

  He looked down at her and smiled back, noticing the tatters on her navy blue visor.

  "Sure. Large would be fine."

  "Comin' right up!" she piped, and went to work.

  He looked at the baked goods and decided on a blueberry scone. "Could I get one of those, too?" he asked, pointing to it.

  "Try one of the cranberry ones, and if you don't like it I'll still give you the blueberry for free. The cranberries are perfect on a sunny day like today--tart 'n'

  sweet."

  He shrugged. "Sure, I was hedging between the two anyway."

  She gave him his order and he paid; then he sat down at the seat farthest from the glowering young lady, who held an empty cup in front of her while perusing an old Us Weekly magazine.

  He popped open his laptop, waited for it to start, then Googled best ways to kill yourself.

  The search netted more than four million results.

  Guess I'm not the only one who feels like this.

  He began clicking on the various links and found that many of them were facetious, but some did offer practical advice. And others were message boards with pleas from strangers to believe in Jesus, or to seek counseling.

  Not a bad idea--the counseling, that is.

  Then he hit on a site run by survivors of abuse and began reading the list of reasons not to kill yourself:

  You will never again feel the thrill of even a small accomplishment.

  Your life has value, whether or not you believe it.

  You didn't choose to be abused.

  You are in control of both your destiny and your pain.

  All good arguments, he thought, but they still d
idn't address the profound, utter sadness and grief-- or was it anger?-- he was trying not to feel.

  Grief for losing Jeremy...Danny...Jonathan...my job...of never having had a real father or a son or any real self-esteem...of only having this anger inside--equal parts anger and all of this useless, frustrating, unrequited love.

  Would he ever have anything to look forward to again? He couldn't ever imagine loving anyone as much as he did Jeremy. And without love, what was the point?

  What harm would it do to forgive him? He can't hurt you anymore--unless you let him...

  He used to wait for you.

  "You young people spend so much time on those things," squeaked a voice from behind him. He turned and saw the little lady from the counter, wiping down a nearby table.

  "Yeah, it seems like we can't live without 'em now."

  "Seems like a sorry excuse for human interaction, if you ask me. What're you so busy studying there?" She craned her neck to see, and Arthur tried to block her view by leaning sideways in his seat.

  "Just a...project I'm researching."

  "Oh."She continued wiping the table, then picked up some half-empty cups from the counter, which she dropped into a nearby trash can.

  He thought he'd better be sociable. "So do you own this place?" he asked, not caring.

  She laughed. "No, but I wish I did. I love it here."

  "You do?"

  "You bet. I get to meet nice people all day long, different folks every day, and some of the regulars are real good company. And I like making people happy with the coffee and the pastries here. Peps 'em up. They're real good."

  He agreed in his head that they were. "How long've you worked here?"

  "Four years. Started here just after my husband passed away."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Thanks. Just needed something to do to keep the blues away," she told him, with big exaggerated blinks of her eyes. "If you don't stay busy, then you find a way to go crazy."

  "Isn't that the truth," he agreed, thinking it actually was.

  She continued straightening magazines and cleaning up spilled sweetener packets.

  "Do ya want a refill, young man?" she asked him.

  Young man. "I'd love one. Thanks."

  She hefted the diner-style coffeepot over to him and carefully filled his cup. "Do ya mind if I take a load off for a second?"

  He motioned to the chair next to him. "Please."

  She sat herself slowly into the old club chair. "You know, after my Donald died,"

  she began, "I had a really hard time."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Forty-two years. And we dated for three before that. He was the best man I ever met--never a harsh word, always worked hard, loved our kids. He was as good a husband as a woman ever gets to marry in this life. Only thing, though, was that he smoked."

  "My dad died of lung cancer. Donald, too?"

  "Oh, no. He used to smoke when he'd take the dog out for a walk; I wouldn't let him do it in the house. Then one evening he never came back--some teenager in a BMW mowed them both down in a crosswalk."

  Arthur closed his eyes reverently, then met her gaze. "Oh, God, I'm sorry."

  Her eyes softened behind her glasses. "And to think I was angry at him that night because his dinner was gettin' cold; because you know he loved to chat with folks they met on their walks, so they was always coming back kinda late," she said, fiddling with the wet cloth in her hand. "Pot roast and rice pilaf with peas. I can still see it warmin' on the stove under the foil."

  She pushed herself up from the chair. "Sorry to burden you with this."

  "No burden...but I do have a question, if you don't mind."

  She smiled brightly, and he saw she wore dentures. "I don't mind."

  "What kept you going?" He blinked at her, and looked over to see that the glum teenager was also listening.

  She rested one hand on the chair and cocked the other hand on her hip, still clutching her wet rag. "I s'pose I had some long times feeling sorry for myself, of course. And the kids already moved away and had the little ones in school, so there was no point havin' 'em come back here. But I had one friend o' mine left at the time--Ruthie, and she's gone now, too, of course--she told me, 'You need someone who needs you.' And o' course she was right...everyone needs to be needed."

  "And who did you find who needed you?"

  "Well, that's the funny part," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Right after I hung up from talkin' to her, I stepped outside to take out the trash, and there was a dog, a beautiful red dog sniffin' around my yard. No collar, needed a bath somethin'

  fierce. And when she saw me she came runnin' to me like I was her best friend in the world. 'Course I took her in and put up signs and all, but no one ever called for her. Named her Emma Lou, after my little sister who used to look up to me so."

  "So where's Emma Lou now?" he asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  She whistled, and a white-faced golden retriever came trotting out from behind the counter, went up to Arthur and stuck her nose in his crotch. "Hi, Emma Lou,"

  Arthur cooed. "What a sweet girl you are."

  Emma's wagging tail almost knocked over his coffee, but he grabbed it in time.

  The feel of her soft, red-velvet head in his hand choked him up; he hadn't realized how much he'd been on the verge of tears since everything happened.

  "You're hurtin', young man."

  He let go of the dog's head. "I'm sorry."

  "No, you're not hurtin' her; you're just hurtin'. I can see it on you."

  He looked up. How did you know?

  "Don't do anything you won't live to regret." She laughed. "That's my motto. And go find yourself someone, or something, that needs you. That's my five-cent advice."

  He nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes. "Is Emma Lou here available?" He laughed, taking in the dog's sweet brown eyes and generous grin and lolling tongue and hot breath on his chest.

  "Oh, no; no one's gonna take her away," she said, with a laugh. "Except maybe for God, but then again, he's gonna have a hell of a fight from me."

  "Thank you," he told her.

  "I'm here every day," she replied. "And so's my little girlie."

  Chapter 51

  He drove back down Pacific Coast Highway at a reckless speed, weaving in and out of traffic, and flooring the poor old Taurus's accelerator anytime the signal ahead switched from green to yellow, or from red to green. But when he passed Zumirez Road he kept flying south, until he saw the familiar wall of immense granite boulders--placed there years ago by the county's tractors--that marked his destination.

  After his tires slid to a stop on the sandy asphalt, he jumped out, slammed shut the door, then picked his way down quickly, with arms extended for balance like a child playing airplane, through the huge rocks to the shoreline. Once his feet hit the sand, he turned north and began running toward the wealthy private enclaves that hovered on the cliffs beyond Boulder Creek, whose feeble stream and arid, rocky banks still served as Ballena Beach's unofficial No Trespassing sign.

  He continued running in the sand, on the firmest meandering strip of dark beige next to the water line, for twenty or so minutes, before rounding the final bend and seeing it: the familiar red-tiled roof of the Tyler mansion, and its stout metal staircase that zigzagged up from the pristine beach and its thundering waves, through the lumpy rugs of ice plant and cliff-hugging prickly pear cactus, to the white wooden gazebo offset from the crest.

  But the base of the stairs had been fitted recently with a security door, and he'd surrendered his keys earlier in the day.

  So he bent his knees and jumped up from the sand, and his hands had barely grasped the edge over the doorway before losing their grip, sending him ass over teakettle back into the sand. He tried a second time and gripped the metal tighter.

  Then he pulled and lifted his body in a gravity-defying chin-up over the top of the high barrier, where he balanced in a crouch until he could drop safely onto the stairwa
y.

  At once he began taking the risers two at a time, while pulling at the handrail as if in a frantic game of tug-of-war, until he reached the top, panting like a marathoner.

  His eyes scanned the expansive grounds and saw that everything looked status quo: The lawn was pristine and the roses were jaunty and the grounds looked characteristically maintained-- except for the fancy stone fountain, which was in need of another refill.

  Then he heard a strange noise behind him, so he turned...

  The familiar silhouette in the gazebo was bent over, head down, his elbows locked against the banister.

  Jeremy!

  He hurried across the flagstone path toward him, knowing she might have even spotted him already from inside her lair. Then as he drew closer he slowed and began padding softly, not wanting to intrude on this private moment of his, and not certain exactly what he was going to say.

  He heard the noise again.

  " Uh-hu-hu-hnnnn," Jeremy sobbed. Arthur heard him draw in another deep breath before continuing. " Uh-hu-hu-hu-hnnn."

  Upon hearing his grief, Arthur felt like a wooden stake had been hammered into his heart. He drew up next to the gazebo and stopped, then placed his hand on the nearest post. "Jeremy?" he asked softly.

  At the sound of his name's first syllable he whipped around, gasping. "What?" His eyes blinked unbelievingly. " What? " His eyelids looked beestung and his cheeks were blotched scarlet and white, and snot glistened equally from both nostrils; he'd even drooled a little down the front of his white polo shirt.

  I did this to him.

  Fighting his own tears, he held his arms wide, in perfect Cristo fashion.

  Jeremy fell into his embrace.

  "I'm so sorry I hurt you," Arthur whispered at last.

  "Don't," Jeremy replied, as his hands smoothed the familiar granite of Arthur's back. "Just don't leave."

  "I won't," Arthur said, and squeezed him tighter, breathing him in.

  "Promise?"

  Arthur reached up to smooth the back of his head, as his mouth slid down to kiss the crook of his neck. "Promise," he whispered.

  Jeremy pulled away from him and their eyes met. "Your e-mail," he said, and his face screwed up and he began crying again. "I got...your e-mail and I read it and then I...wrote you one back but it got...bounced back to--"