Resolve (28 page)

His guard is down.

He shouldn’t have let his guard down.

Around the time he comes fully into focus, I pass a sign announcing the irony of the situation. The uncomplicated marker tells me we’re passing through
FRIENDSHIP
.

W
hen the phone rang on Monday, I had been cooling down from a painful eighteen-mile run. The marathon was less than a week away, and although I hadn’t been able to train the way I would have liked, I felt I was ready. The voice on the phone was that of Beatrice Holbrook. With all of her usual pleasantness, she informed me I was reinstated and expected back at work the following day. Her words were more of a demand than an invitation, and I could tell she had really been hoping to speak to an answering machine.

Not being one who wants to end calls on a negative note, in the most congenial voice I could muster I said, “Why, thank you so much
Mrs.
Holbrook. It is always wonderful to speak with you. And might I add, you
look
lovely today.”

She cackled back, “What in the world are you talking about, Keller? You haven’t seen me today. And it’s
Ms
. Holbrook.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be if I would have met you years ago, you sly minx.”

She hung up. Rhetoric is a lost art.

There had been no word about my gun. For a nationally publicized homicide, the lab must have rolled out the red carpet for its arrival, but I still hadn’t heard from the boys in blue. If I were them, I would let me sweat a while too.

On Tuesday, I decided to skip stopping by my office, instead reporting directly to a classroom full of uneasiness. The messages I had left with the graduate student who had been teaching my classes had gone unanswered, so I asked the students in my first class where they left off. After a long, nervous delay, I finally got an answer and picked up the lessons from that point. The tautness in the class was unbearable. Several seats were empty and I had received email notices that a few students had dropped the course. The combination of the killings and my newfound reputation as Dr. Death was creating a less-than-optimal learning environment. Regardless, the semester would be over in a few days and perhaps everybody could step back and reset. From the thorny expressions I observed in the classroom, I concluded that it would probably be a good idea for me to get a fresh start somewhere else.

After class, I went to my office and the sun beamed through my window as I tried to decipher some notes left behind by my timid substitute. The ink had smeared across the pages the way that happens when left-handed people write. It took me an hour and two cups of hazelnut coffee before I felt like I was up to speed. The next few minutes consisted of me deleting phone messages from reporters who wanted to get a comment from me. I had screened my phone calls at home since the story broke nationally, and persistent journalists had taken to calling my work number as well. I was only a minor part of the story, and not demonized in the least, but it was still an aggravation I didn’t need.

While deleting the twelfth message, there was a knock on my door. Fearing that a reporter had decided to pay me a personal visit, I stayed seated and hoped for the best. Along with the second knock came a question.

“Cyprus? You in there?”

Without getting up, I told Aaron to come in.

My two cups of coffee paled in comparison to whatever Aaron had in his system. His eyes darted around the room like they were following an angry fly, and he tapped his right forefinger and thumb together rapidly like he was transmitting Morse code.

“Hey . . . Cyprus. I wanted . . . I just wanted to come by and see how you were doin’. A lot of crazy stuff around . . . We’ve missed you on the runs. Not the same without you . . . and now Randy. The papers say that he may have fired the gun that killed that police officer. Doesn’t make sense, does it? You think you know somebody and . . . WHAM! Out of left field, there it is.”

I waited to speak, in the hope that his eyes would settle on me. For a brief moment they did, and I could see his pupils. They were dark saucers that were taking in too much for the mind to handle. If I had to guess, I would have said that at least one of Aaron’s reasons for obtaining psychiatric treatment was for manic-depressive disorder. Mr. Manic was the one speaking to me now in staccato sentences and fidgeting madly.

“How have you been, Aaron? Have you been holding up okay?”

“Yeah . . . you know, you do what you can. Ever since that Lindsay got killed . . . ever since then, it’s just been one thing after another. She goes and gets killed and all hell breaks . . . well, we’ve got jobs to do, you know? How do they expect us to do that when people are getting smoked? Randy . . . you know, he wasn’t a bad guy. Sure, he was kind of a prick sometimes, but not all the time. I just don’t know what . . .”

I politely pushed my way into the conversation with, “The semester’s almost over. If you aren’t working the summer session, maybe you and Debbie can get away from here for a while. Take a vacation. Maybe take that new boat out. Come back in the fall with a fresh perspective.”

“Oh, that would be a real treat!” Aaron’s hinges came off. “Sit in a car with her pecking away at me the entire time! And she won’t get on the damn boat! Seasick! For twenty years she never got seasick, and now she says she gets seasick when we’re out on a small lake! Doesn’t make sense, does it? I don’t think . . . I know she’s not sick. She sits at her damn book club, sipping tea, bragging about how her big dope of a husband thinks she can’t go out on the boat because she gets
seasick
!”

I let my right hand find a desk drawer where I kept a pair of scissors. Silently, I wrapped my fingers around their wide base.

“That’s what they do! They talk and ridicule . . . soooo superior. Soooo condescending. And if you don’t agree with them one hundred percent, then there’s something wrong with you!
You
need to adjust.
You
need to see your . . .
You
have to give in to their demands! When you’ve been married as long as I have, you’ll see. You’ll see . . .”

The last sentence trailed off as he drew in a breath. With the influx of air, came a change in disposition.

“You’re still going to run the race, right?” he said. “It should be a good one. The weather is supposed to be great!”

Aaron’s switch had again flipped, and it was as if we had been discussing what type of sealant was best for a wooden deck. He was halfway out the door before I could answer him.

Releasing the hidden scissors, I assured him, “I’ll be looking out for you.”

Mile 24

P
ulling my sunglasses back down from the top of my head,I leave Friendship and charge into Bloomfield on Liberty Avenue. Houses vanish as some of the last independent drugstores hang on to real estate pressed between car dealerships and bakeries. Bloomfield could be a snapshot from 1975. Even the Starbucks is embedded in a building that used to serve as a movie theater. Pubs on each corner pledge freedom while a magistrate’s office promises consequences.

Just as I had hoped, he’s right where I need him to be. His stride is powerful and purposeful, but I have pent-up fury at my back. Just like clockwork, he’s done exactly what I expected him to do. Making the exact movements I had envisioned so many times over the past few days, he carries on unsuspectingly. From behind the tint of my shades, I take him in and observe the man run down the hill, past deserted sidewalks on a street where most of the thinned-out runners are spread out in gaping intervals.

The course map had spelled it all out. This was the perfect place. There is a wide spacing between medical stations and few spectators who would notice or be ready to assist him. Any serious spectators have already gravitated to the finish line. Really—who cares about the twenty-fourth mile? It’s the finish that people live for.

My heart skips a beat when he slows down. First to a jog, then to a walk. Even from a comfortable distance behind him, I can feel his entire being radiate
distress.
He walks past a few locals who are too busy waving at their neighbors from across the street to notice the man pass them. Out of habit, and traditional runners’ courtesy, he moves to the right side of the road to give any pursuing runners a wide berth. I slow down even more, but not so anyone would notice.

One stumble forward, one to the side. He’s in limbo between the street and the sidewalk—the purgatory of dry grass seems to slow him even more. Next, he’s on one knee with one hand clutching at his throat and another waving above his head. Pure hope that someone will notice him.
I
notice him.

Finally, he puts himself on his back and continues to raise an arm. He turns his head toward a little African-American girl in a church dress. She’s holding her mother’s hand and seems anxious to leave. Her mother is oblivious and converses with a heavyset woman in blue nurse’s scrubs. He raises his hand, pleading. The tiny girl waves back and giggles.

Before I reach him, an elderly Korean man bends down beside him. The Korean man is trying to ask him if he’s alright, but the sick runner can’t seem to respond. Words won’t come. The Good Samaritan says something to the woman in scrubs and she runs over to her new patient. I can tell from the way her lips are moving, and the exaggerated head bobs, that she’s trying to get answers from him and she’s not having any luck. The nurse turns toward the little girl’s mother and I see the woman dig in her purse for a cell phone. She finds it and dials. Then the nurse speaks to the Korean man, who starts running toward the next medical station. It’s too far away. I know. It’s on the map. I’ve done my homework.

I drift to the right side of the street and drop my speed down one more gear.

Turn.

Look at me, you bastard!

This direction! She can’t help you! Look in this direction!

As if he could hear me, his red, puffy, weakened neck surrenders and his hive-covered face is unveiled to the street. He looks blankly toward the loose gravel around a storm drain and then up at me. Without breaking stride, I raise my glasses and silently confess. Before the race, I told myself I would smile at him, adding insult to mortal injury, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m ending his life and he knows it. There is no further insult needed.

Just as I pull past him, his jaw falls open and awareness leaves his body. His respiratory system has failed him. His throat is closed. The arm he had placed across his chest slides down and off of its lifeless table. As concerned citizens start to form a circle around him, I can still see his arm dangling off the curb.

Feeling a little lighter, and a lot heavier, I pull the sunglasses down again, and continue at the same pace. No rush now. It is a beautiful day for a run.

I
t was the Friday before the race and a spring rain had blown in from the west. It would be a few weeks until the cold rain would be replaced by turbulent thunderstorms. The structure hosting the school’s athletic facilities and the surrounding fields were nearly empty as most students and professors focused on final exams and made plans for adventurous summer trips.

From the laughable shelter of a half-bare tree, I watched the front of the recreation building and waited for him to arrive. Right on schedule, he ran to the front steps and checked the device on his wrist. He surmounted the steps leading up to the entrance with easy bounds.

Aaron was nowhere to be seen. It turned out that in the morning some thug had walked into the parking garage and committed some terrible acts of vandalism on his car. What a shame. He was going to be very busy talking to campus security and his insurance company for quite some time. That garage was becoming a very dangerous place.

When the right amount of time had passed, I flashed my university ID to a student employee who never looked up, and entered the locker room. I turned to my left and waited near my usual spot.

Jacob had a white towel around him when he appeared at the lockers. A drop of water from the shower was still clinging to his earlobe when he saw me sitting in front of my locker. The false display of perfectly white teeth was a nanosecond too late.