Living Proof

by Peter J Thompson

  Zach pulled his baseball cap lower on his head and stepped through the doors of the Greyhound bus terminal. His T-shirt clung to his back, and he wasn’t sure if the sweat was from nerves or the overpowering Phoenix heat. He stood, knees weak, hands trembling, unable to believe he was finally doing what he wanted with his life—returning home, to Chicago. At last, he didn’t have to do what his parents told him to do. He wasn’t a little kid anymore, doing whatever they said without complaint. At almost sixteen, he was plenty old enough to make his own decisions and his own choices. He thought of Lindsey and smiled. In just a couple of days he’d see her again. Without meaning to, he laughed out loud, but quickly stopped and covered his mouth. Standing by himself, laughing like an idiot was a sure way to attract attention.

  Zach glanced around the terminal. Along the front wall, behind a long counter, several ticket agents stood in front of computers, display boards behind them showing the bus schedules. He shuffled toward the ticket counter, stood in line and reached into his pocket to make sure he still had his money. He’d cleaned out his savings account the day before. All his birthday money, everything he’d earned from mowing lawns and shovelling snow back home, and from his summer job working at dad’s old company. Money intended for his college education—close to three thousand dollars—was now divided between his pocket and an envelope at the bottom of his backpack.

  The line moved quickly, and it didn’t take long for one of the ticket agents to motion him over. Zach ordered a one-way ticket to Chicago. He was afraid the ticket agent would ask him questions or make some comment about his age. At five foot nine and one-hundred forty-five pounds, he wasn’t exactly the biggest kid, but with his wide shoulders, he could probably pass for at least a year or two older. He readjusted the baseball cap, covering his reddish-brown hair and took a pace forward. The ticket lady barely glanced at him, punched something into the computer and announced the price. Zach glanced behind him to be sure no one was watching, then pulled the money out of his pocket and counted out exact change. She handed over the ticket and told him the bus would be leaving within the hour.

  Simple as that. Why had he been so worried?

  Zach found a seat toward the back of the room where he could keep track of what was going on. He reached for his cell phone before remembering, again, his parents had taken his away when they moved and refused to replace it—even though everyone else in his class had one. The kids probably thought he was Amish or something. He took the old iPod from the top of his backpack, slipped his earbuds on and sat back to wait. The rush of excitement hit him again, churning his gut and making his pits sweaty. He couldn’t wait to step on the bus and get out of town. Arizona, probably the hottest, grimmest, grimiest, most boring place on earth, could go to hell. He hated the heat, and the sun and the sand, and almost everything about it. Hated his new school, too. The kids were different, and he didn’t fit in at all. Most of all, he hated all the lying.

  He turned up the volume on his iPod and tried to relax. It would take almost two full days to reach Chicago. Two days stuck on a bus with no bed and no shower, sitting next to a stranger who probably smelled bad and might be a serial killer or something for all he knew. The trip might well suck, but, still, he couldn’t wait to board the bus and take his next step to freedom. Freedom from his lying parents. His hands clenched just thinking about them. They claimed to love him and want the best for him. They tried to explain how they were doing this to keep him, Brenda and Anthony safe. But that was a lie, too. If they really cared about him, they wouldn’t have moved without warning in the middle of the night. They wouldn’t have cut off all contact with his friends or made it so they couldn’t talk with Grandma Kate, or Uncle Lou and Aunt Tracey or any of the other relatives. This wasn’t about love. His dad made a decision and they all had to live by it.

  Zach looked up as a young mom inched her way up the aisle. She was pushing a stroller while at the same time trying to pull along a suitcase. Her hands were full and a young boy, maybe four or five years old, walked alongside her, his little hand clutching the hem of her dress. The baby in the stroller was crying, loud enough to hear above his music, and the mom looked weary. They stopped a few seats away from Zach. The mom was trying to take her bags off and set them down, but she looked overwhelmed. Zach slipped his earbuds down on his neck.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  The mom had the baby in her arms now, trying to stop the crying. She glanced over and gave Zach a flustered smile. “No. Thanks, I’m fine.”

  Zach was about to slip the ear buds back on, but the boy was staring at him, his brown eyes wide. The mom was flustered and she might not ask for help, but Zach could tell she needed it.

  “Hey, you want to see something cool?” he asked the boy.

  The boy didn’t say anything but nodded his head. Zach glanced back at the mom, and she shrugged her assent.

  “Watch this,” Zach unzipped his backpack and pulled a small sketchpad from the top. He took a pencil out and made a show of opening the book and inviting the boy closer. The boy moved in and sat in the seat next to him. Zach drew a small sideways oval near the bottom of the pad, and then two long ovals right above it.

  “What’s that?” He asked.

  The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  “Keep watching.” He added small circles to the bottoms of the ovals and darkened them in.

  “Those are eyes.” The little boy exclaimed.

  Zach smiled at him and kept drawing. He made a long half circle below, turning his sketch into a grinning face. A few more lines and its tongue was sticking out.

  “Hey, that’s a face. Who is it?”

  Zach smiled again, but didn’t say anything. A few more lines and the kid was bouncing up and down with excitement. Zach finished the drawing by putting two near circles at the top for ears.

  “That’s Mickey Mouse!”

  The mom glanced over and Zach showed her the quick drawing.

  “Wow,” the mom bounced her baby on her shoulder, “You have a real way with kids.”

  “I have a brother just a few years older than he is.” Zach said.

  “How did you do that?” the boy squealed. “Can you teach me?”

  “I can try. Here,” Zach gave the boy the pad of paper and the pencil. “We’ll do it together this time.”

  He guided the boy’s hand as they slowly went through the steps. They worked together, one step at a time. By the time Zach heard the announcement for the bus leaving for Chicago, the boy was able to draw a crude version on his own.

  “That’s me. I’ve got to go.” Zach stood up.

  “Thank you,” the mom said. “That really helped. Don’t forget your pad.”

  “No, I’ve got another one. He can keep it. If he forgets how to do it, they have this on YouTube.” Zach zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “See you buddy. Have a great trip.”

  He smiled as he hurried to join the stream of people moving toward a side door. His tension and anger was gone now. It felt good helping the mom and playing with the kid. He was several years younger, but the way he got so enthusiastic about the littlest things, the kid reminded him of his brother Anthony. It was going to be weird being away from his family. He was mad at his parents, but he knew he wasn’t running away for good. After a few days back home in Chicago he’d let them know where he was so they wouldn’t worry. They’d see that they needed to treat him more like an adult then, and it would work out better for all of them.

  He followed the people walking out a side door to an open area where several buses were parked, engines running, belching exhaust fumes into the superheated air. A group was gathered near the front bus, and he stepped to the back of the line. Others lined up behind him and Zach clutched his backpack a little tighter. When it was his turn, Zach stepped onto the bus and handed his ticket to the driver.

  “This is going to Chicago, right?”

  The dr
iver punched the ticket and returned it to him. “With stops along the way, it sure is. Hold onto that. You’ll need it later.”

  Zach reclaimed the ticket, nodded and made his way toward the rear of the bus. About half the seats were already taken. A tall man with long hair and a cowboy hat stared at him as he sidestepped past, a weird half-smile on his face. Zach turned away and walked further back. The guy creeped him out. No way he wanted to get stuck sitting next to someone like that.

  He found a window seat near the back, sat, and stowed his backpack between his legs. The bus was air-conditioned, and the cool air was a relief. Turning his head, Zach stared through the grey tinted windows as the rest of the crowd boarded, and he wondered when he would see Phoenix again. Not any time soon, he hoped.

  A gray-haired lady with a mole on her neck smiled at him, and dropped into the seat beside him. She looked like someone’s grandma. Zach returned her smile, relieved she wasn’t someone creepy. He readjusted his earbuds and settled in for the ride. After a few minutes the driver shifted the bus into gear and started it moving. Zach kept staring out the window as they merged onto the expressway. This is it. He was really going through with it.

  The scenery changed from office buildings and strip malls, to housing developments and construction sites, to bare desert. He settled more comfortably into the soft seat. Soon enough he’d be back in Chicago. He smiled at the thought.

  Before they’d fled to Phoenix, life had been good. He’d made the school football team, and right before the sudden move, he was moved up to the varsity team, one of the few sophomores to make it. Everyone else on the defense outweighed him by at least thirty pounds, but the coach said he played bigger than his size and he wasn’t afraid to hit. Zach wouldn’t be able to return to school or join the team again, the season was nearly over anyway, but he couldn’t wait to see his buddies. He’d emailed his best friend, Kyle, and told him he was coming. It was going to be great seeing them all again. The truth, though, was that if it was just the guys, he’d probably still be sitting in his new home pissed off, but doing nothing about it.

  It was all about Lindsey Cunningham. Even though he’d just met her, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The day before the move he’d met her at the mall and she smiled at him. He’d gathered up his courage and approached her and they’d talked and joked around for over an hour. Before she left, she gave him her number. She was cute and funny, and Zach couldn’t pull his mind away from her. If they hadn’t moved, she would have been his girlfriend for sure. And it was all his parent’s fault she wasn’t.

  The situation might have stayed that way forever, but then last week, after getting into another fight with his mom, he finally got up the nerve to contact Lindsey. The following day he messaged her from the computer at the school library. He’d been certain she’d be mad at him, but she understood it wasn’t his fault and was glad to know he was all right. Even though it was just by message, talking with her made his heart race. Right then and there he decided to run away, and they made plans to meet again at the mall the following Monday.

  Zach kept staring out the window at the sand and rocks and straggly cactus. He couldn’t wait to be back in Chicago.

  26

  Joseph Gorski smiled with contentment. His office took up a corner of the forty-third floor, and the view was breath taking. One window faced south, framing a clear view of the Chicago Loop, with its jumble of skyscrapers, new and old, all in unique workings of metal, concrete and glass—a marvel of man’s domination. A lone hawk soared above it all, circling the spire of an old Art Deco era building. The other window faced Lake Michigan, with nothing but blue all the way to the horizon. The walls were lined with pictures, one of him with his arm around the mayor of Chicago, another with the governor looking up at him, others with him with sports stars and celebrities. This was so much better than his office on the second floor of the old distribution center. That office was noisy and drafty and overlooked a big asphalt lot filled with trucks and semi-trailers.

  He glanced down to the street below. From this height, Lake Shore Drive looked like a steel-gray ribbon, the tiny cars shrunk to toy size. He loved this view. This was his station in life, at the top, in control. A god among men.

  Gorski ran his fingers through his silver-gray hair and stretched out his large frame. People used to look at him as a freak, a goon. Hell, growing up everyone said he’d be in jail or long dead by now.

  Fuck ’em. He’d arrived.

  The intercom buzzed—his secretary, Jill—Cookie he called her since she always smelled like a vanilla cookie.

  “Mr. Gorski? Your appointment is here. Mr. Byrd, and he’s with Mr. Stillwell from accounting.”

  “Send them in.” Gorski moved around to the front of the desk. It always set the right tone when he started a meeting standing. Right away it showed them who was boss.

  The door opened and Richard Byrd stepped in. Birdman. His partner and advisor, short and skinny with a big honking beak of a nose, he combed his dark hair in a swirling pattern that looked like a toupee, though he swore it was natural. He dressed in expensive suits, but they never looked quite right on him.

  Gorski had known Birdman since seventh grade when Richard first moved into the school, a little jerk too smart for his own good. He remembered how scared Birdman had always been, how he’d run away at the sight of Gorski. How he gave up his lunch money every day. Gorski gave him the name Birdman and it stuck. Most people now thought it was his real name.

  Birdman gave him a nervous nod and made his way to one of the chairs in front of the desk. Harry Stillwell, one of the accountants, followed him in and closed the door. Gorski had met him once before. Stillwell looked to be in his late thirties, tall, with puffy round cheeks and a crown of sandy hair around his balding head.

  Chipmunk.

  Gorski stepped into the younger man’s personal space, close enough to make him uncomfortable. He stuck his big hand out in greeting. Although Stillwell stood at least six feet tall, he had to look up. Gorski engulfed his hand and shook it firmly.

  “What’s up, Harry? Birdman says you have some information for me.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for seeing me.”

  Gorski put his arm around the man’s shoulder and squeezed him in closer and steered him toward the open seat.

  “Sit down. What’s on your mind?”

  “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Gorski,” Stillwell repeated. “As soon as I found this, I knew I had to talk with you personally.”

  Gorski released the accountant, lumbered back behind his desk and dropped into his oversized leather chair. The only items on his desk were his telephone and a gold framed picture of his wife.

  Gorski didn’t say anything for a while, letting the silence hold as he stared at Stillwell, whose forehead gleamed with sweat.

  “Talk to me, Harry.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Stillwell leaned forward in his seat. His hands quivered in his lap. “I went through all the billings, sir. Dissected the numbers until I knew exactly what was going on. This is very sophisticated, but it’s obvious to me someone is changing the books to divert funds.”

  Gorski stared silently, his brow furrowed in thought. He let the pressure build before speaking. “You sure of this?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s no doubt at all.” Stillwell reached down and pulled a manila file folder from his shiny leather briefcase. He passed the file across the desk. “Whoever did this was clever, sir. They covered their tracks well. I only found it by accident.”

  Gorski opened the folder and pretended to study the papers. Each spreadsheet was annotated with highlighted shadings and notes attached to explain the pattern of abuse. Gorski leafed through the pages. He wasn’t a numbers guy himself, Birdman took care of that, but the work did look impressive.

  “My God!” Gorski shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Have you seen this, Birdie?”

  “I did,” Birdman nodded. “Harry is right. I think there’s som
ething rotten there.”

  Gorski scanned the numbers again, liking the way they looked in their neat little rows, then he carefully closed the file. “Who else knows about this?”

  “No one, sir. I didn’t know who to trust, and I wanted to take it straight to you. You and Mr. Birdman.”

  “Good. You did the right thing. We’re going to find out who’s been doing this and catch the bastards! How much money are we talking about here?”

  “Well, sir, it’s a considerable sum. Just this last quarter alone, I traced back almost two million dollars.”

  “Could you tell where this money was going? Or any idea of who is behind this?”

  “No, sir.” Stillwell shook his head making the sweat on his forehead glisten. “There are a series of shell corporations involved, and I don’t have enough information to go any further.”

  Gorski leaned forward and planted his big elbows on the desk. He locked eyes with Stillwell. The man had to have balls to come in here. He stared at him, for another long moment. Stillwell’s bald head reddened, but he held the gaze.

  Gorski leaned back in his chair. “How long you been here, Harry?”

  “Five years, sir. Well, three years with Atlas Trucking, almost two years since the merger.”

  “In accounting the whole time?” Gorski stood and moved around the desk to lay a huge paw on the man’s shoulder. Stillwell flinched.

  “Uh, yes, sir. I’ve moved up in that time, and I’ve finished my MBA. I have some ideas that could really help the company.”

  “Are you looking for something out of this?”

  “I hadn’t—”

  “If you’re looking for money, tell me now. Don’t beat around the bush.”

  “Well, I was just doing my job. But money is always appreciated,” Stillwell