Resolve (31 page)

Then I thought about how Jacob would consume his tainted gel when his heart would be racing, his blood would be pumping wildly, and his physical abilities would be strained to the max. I could practically see him squeezing the liquid into his mouth and mindlessly tossing the pack onto the side of the road with the thousands of other packs and cups that would be swept away hours later. I thought about how he would make it only a few yards before he realized that something was wrong. I contemplated how I expected him to die immediately. The entire process should normally take several minutes, but in Jacob’s exhausted state, death would come quickly. Finally, I wondered what was wrong with me.

I was fine.

.2

N
obody can really explain it. You are completely tapped out of energy and every fiber of your being is telling you that you aren’t going to make it. Even visions of crawling to the finish line and reaching out for it like it’s an oasis in the desert seem unrealistic. Then, with no fathomable explanation, you find a barbaric source of power usually reserved for cornered animals.

With the end in sight, my legs are churning relentlessly, although I don’t remember asking them to take on this terrible task. My arms are pumping harder and I stand a little straighter. The ground scrolls beneath me. I’m not in control now. It’s something else.

Not once have I been one of those people who break down at the end of a race, and the lump in my throat is unnerving to me. I have tried my best to balance the scales, but the loss feels so much greater than the gain. The deafening ovations from those around me aren’t loud enough to soften the screams of the dead. Fighting back tears, I find myself engaged in a final sprint against an invisible competitor. The line is moving toward me—faster and faster. Unwittingly, I let out a guttural cry of pain, frustration, and finality. Leaning forward, I’m crashing through an imaginary barrier and arms reach out to slow me down.

Somebody wraps a crinkly blanket around me and my hand suddenly holds a sports drink. A faceless woman who is shorter than I am is trying to put a medal around my neck. She keeps repeating something I can’t understand, but when I lean over and the medal slides into place, she is pacified. Getting my bearings, I follow a line of people through a corral where cookies and watermelon slices are ravaged as if this is a food drop at a refugee camp. Beyond the commotion is a small plaza shielded by the overhang of the convention center. People are walking in every direction, finding family members or looking for a place to sit. One face is still. She sees me and we are walking to meet each other. I’m telling her that it’s over. She’s saying that she loves me.

This is my favorite part of the entire journey.

EPILOGUE

T
he majority of the students vanished along with the semester. The school barely had time to mourn its latest loss before the dorm rooms emptied and the classrooms became empty shells. The unexplained death of Dr. Jacob Kasko was a final slap in the face to a university that had endured too much. Tear-jerking words were spoken, cards were sent, and another funeral I wouldn’t attend was held. The media gave little attention to Jacob’s death, and any time they did mention him in
The Bloody ’Burgh
stories, it was only as an aside. Another tragedy for a small school, but not really newsworthy. People die during marathons. It just happens.

Wearing old jeans and a brown leather jacket, I walked into the Whitlock Building where the most senior university employees were packing up their desks for the summer while the newer staff members looked on with intense jealousy. I headed right for a sign that read
DEAN
CLYDE
SILO
—
ACADEMIC
AFFAIRS
.

I passed through the first door and into the dim waiting area. Beatrice Holbrook was coiled behind a stack of files on her desk. She elevated to a state of high alert when she saw me enter the empty waiting area. Without acknowledging her, I took a direct path toward the entrance that she so carefully protected. Her chair screeched angrily as she rose up and attempted to block me from the door. As always, she wore a crooked scowl, but her usual air of superiority was somehow lacking.

“He’s not available. You need to make an appointment like everybody else,” she said as she backed up against the door, made her arms parallel to the floor, blocking my path.

“Beatrice,” I said coolly, with an underlying maliciousness, “get out of my way before I rip your arms off and use them to knock out what’s left of those decayed fangs that you call teeth.”

The arms lowered, the little bit of blood in her face drained away, and she obediently slinked back behind her desk. Apparently, killing a graduate assistant with my bare hands was having a positive effect on my ability to communicate with people.

Pushing the door open, I found Silo using his index fingers to perform wrathful acupuncture on a masochistic keyboard. He turned a shade of green when I walked up to his desk.

“What do you want? I’m busy. Make an appointment.”

“Six-month paid sabbatical. No, you aren’t. And my appointment is right now.”

His face was turning from green to red. I suddenly felt Christmassy.

“Have you lost your mind? You’re lucky you still have a job! If it were up to—”

“It’s not. I’ll also need a glowing letter of recommendation. You can leave the date blank; I’ll fill it in later if I need it. Consider it your last official act before you resign.”

Silo stood up and raised his head to look up at me. He moved back from his desk to minimize the effect.

“I’m not giving you anything! Get out of here now or I’ll have you arrested!”

I leaned over and picked up his phone.

“The number is 9-1-1. Want me to dial?”

“My God, you really have gone mad. If you don’t get out of here, I swear I’ll—”

“Maybe we should dial 4-1-1 instead. They can probably give me the number for the Dry Creek Charter Service in Arizona.”

He lowered the finger that he had been pointing at me and swallowed hard.

“I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do. Missing money from a school in California. A sister who owned a small transportation company. A sudden influx of cash. Blah, blah, blah.”

“You don’t—”

“No, I don’t have any proof, but I’m pretty sure that if the cops in California and the feds get together, it won’t take long for them to indict you. If someone were to point them in the right direction, that is. Did I mention that there is no statute of limitations on what you did? They can put you away, Silo. They can put you away for a long, long time.”

He thought about all of this and I could see him trying to come up with any possible way he could escape this. The sag in his shoulders stipulated some measure of concession.

“White collar cases are tricky. I could get a good lawyer. I could beat it. Hell, I could probably cut a deal and get off with probation and restitution.”

He was right. Years had passed. Evidence could have been lost. Witnesses could have moved on or died. Any decent prosecutor would agree that any hopes for a conviction would be slim.

“They don’t give probation on felony murder charges.”

“I didn’t kill anyone! What are you talking about?”

“You unleashed Steven on me. You saw an opportunity to take care of two problems at once. You saw a way to protect your big-money professor and friend, and get rid of me in the process. You sent Steven after me.”

“I did no such—”

“How did you schedule your meeting with him, Silo? The day he died, you had an appointment already scheduled with him. I had tried to call him at home that day and got his machine. I even went by his apartment and he was nowhere to be found. Even the cops, with all their resources, couldn’t find him, Silo. How was it that you were the only person in the world who seemed to be able to talk to Steven?”

With a shaky hand, Silo picked up a cup of coffee from his desk and took a long sip. He put the mug back down, having delayed long enough to formulate a thought.

“I called his cell phone. People carry cell phones, you know.”

“Where did you get the number? It’s not listed in the school directory. The police obviously didn’t have it either. But somehow, the Dean of Academic Affairs happened to have his cell phone number.”

Silo looked everywhere but my direction. He adjusted a suit that covered him like a tarp blankets a car.

“That doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter how I ended up talking to him. It still doesn’t have anything to do with murder.”

“Oh, but it does. You see, when you sent Steven to kill me, it was a felony. And here’s the best part—when I killed him,
you
became guilty of murder.
You
are responsible for the death that occurred during the commission of a felony. Not me. I was simply defending myself. Sweet deal, huh?”

“You don’t have any proof that I told him to do anything! You’re bluffing!”

I was exaggerating, but not completely bluffing.

“You see, it doesn’t matter. Once the cops start combing through your phone records and ripping your life apart, they are going to come to one of two conclusions. Either you sent Steven to kill me or, at the least, you knew about Jacob’s relationship with Steven. The way I see it, that’s the only way you could have reached Steven—through Jacob. And if you knew Jacob and Steven had some sort of relationship and you hid that fact even after Steven died—” I made a whooshing sound and shook my head, “then your life will become a living hell. Cops don’t like people who keep secrets from them, and I’m pretty sure that they would have talked to you after I killed Steven. Your unwillingness to come clean back then will be foremost on their minds.

“They will say that if you knew about Jacob and Steven, then you probably knew about Jacob and Lindsay. The criminal charges will probably be nothing compared to the lawsuits you will face from Lindsay’s parents. Her father is a big-time, cutthroat civil attorney, and I’m sure he’ll see to it that you die penniless in a state home for senior citizens. I don’t know exactly how it will all play out for you, but on top of an indictment for embezzlement, I’m guessing it won’t be good.”

The cutthroat attorney thing was total improvisation. I was really feeling it.

“And don’t think for a second that I’ve gotten over the fact that you tried to run me over. I’m still more than a little upset about that, and it’s taking all of my strength to restrain myself from beating you senseless right here. But you know what? At this point, I don’t even care if it was your idea or Jacob’s. Both of you had a vested interest in keeping tabs on me and making sure I didn’t learn the truth. So here we are. What’s it going to be? Me, out of your hair and you riding off into retirement, or cops, courtrooms, and cameras. I have a pen right here. You can handwrite the letters if typing is too difficult for you.”

I couldn’t believe it. He actually acted as if he was thinking about it. He turned his back to me and looked out onto the ghost town. His ego just wouldn’t allow him to completely surrender to me. I knew he was going to fall into line and so did he. He just had one last petty move to make.

“I need some time to think it over.”

“Sure thing. You have until close of business today. Don’t take too long; people around here are dropping like flies.” In an ominous tone, I added, “Look what happened to Jacob. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you before you write those letters.”

Silo turned in time to see me exiting the office for the very last time. Looking over my shoulder, I caught him curiously examining his coffee mug that was not precisely where he had put it down. For some reason, he looked concerned as he stared into the swirling whirlpool of caffeine.

If Beatrice had thought I had lost my mind before I entered Silo’s office, the laugh I let out as I walked through the waiting room cemented it for her.

The Silesian Deli provided me with the best lunch I could remember in months. Lemmy had outdone himself. Or Lincoln. The deli guy. When I had finished, I dumped the contents of my tray, including the pen I had used to harmlessly stir Silo’s coffee, into the trash. Pens are never the same after they get wet.

Three letters waited for me in my office. I was being granted a six-month paid sabbatical for unspecified research purposes. The letter of recommendation was sufficient, although I would have probably said more about my young Robert Redford good looks. The third letter wasn’t an original. It was a copy of Silo’s letter of resignation. The poor guy was retiring for health reasons. Good for him.

Did Silo actually send Steven after me or was it purely a malicious act perpetrated by Jacob or his overprotective lover? I never found out. Even if Silo admitted to knowing about Jacob’s secret affair with Steven, or his manipulation of Lindsay, it wouldn’t have mattered. Proving his culpability would have been nearly impossible and I was all killed-out for the year.

Several months after I last saw Silo, I did hear some terrible news about the former Dean of Academic Affairs. It turned out that his retirement wasn’t all he was hoping for. Apparently, the university in California he had ripped-off received an interesting packet of information in the mail regarding an old embezzlement case. Somebody had hired an internet research company and uncovered some information regarding the nearly forgotten investigation. The FBI was called in, along with the California Attorney General’s Office, and Silo was shortly thereafter relocated to one of the Golden State’s less desirable retirement communities.

Anonymous packages . . . what can you do? At least I learned what an Attorney General’s Office does.