The Fives Run North-South (31 page)

Paul looked at his watch. He could be at the airfield in
forty
-
five
minutes. Ben and Cary had a head start, but they were flying commercial. He packed some stuff into his suitcase, grabbed his jacket, and left the room in a hurry. He’d leave Ben a message on his phone on the way over. Knowing that knucklehead, he’d probably be too dazed by his crush on Cary to check his messages.

They finally got off the ground nearly two hours after their originally scheduled departure. As the plane lifted off, their conversation diminished. As it ascended, Ben’s eyes grew heavy and he dozed off. He awoke with a heavy head and saw that Cary’s head was back against the rest, her eyes shut. He wasn’t certain she was asleep, but he left her alone and looked out the window. The clouds below were heavy, almost looking as if they were flying close to the water. He rubbed the back of his neck, aching a bit from sleeping while sitting. He thought about her kiss when she got into his car. It seemed otherworldly, so dark, early in the morning, so unexpected.

Wow.

So great.

Amid the circumstances: the loss of his father, and the strange, sickening feeling that people were closing in on
them
—
her
ex
-
husband
, this real (or imagined) Randall Grosse, the person who’d broken into his and his father’s
home
—
he
felt a violation. Dirty interference. All trying to knock them off their intended course. Interrupting what could
be
—
could be—
the
start of…

Well, the start of something he’d not experienced too often.

He’d not had many relationships of any substance since Atlanta Samantha (and other than getting her pregnant and being more obsessed than in love, he’d be hard pressed to label that a relationship either). And while he’d like to blame it on lack of quality in the women he’d dated, the corner of his brain dedicated to honest reflection found a way to point out that it was more due to his own lack of effort. Or a
weak
-
kneed
fear of jumping. But now, sitting next to Cary on this plane and thinking back to seeing her at the funeral in that purple dress…it almost felt as if they were both following a script (or novel) that required little in the way of effort other than to read the lines and show up on time. He felt as if both felt equal amounts of attraction, which is certainly unusual. Half the fun of watching relationships sprout and wilt is the game involved when one side is more invested than the other.

He felt her hand cover his.

“Hey,” she said, sleepily.

“Good morning. Again.”

“I’m starting to get a bit nervous,” she said. “This is going to be…is there a word that’s stronger than ‘strange’?”

“Fucked up?”

“That’ll have to do.”

The plane descended. They straightened their chairs. Ben could feel Cary growing more tense as the plane near its landing. By the time they were rolling on the ground, her arms were tight across her stomach.

“I don’t want to do this,” she said.

“I know.”

They got out of the plane, feeling the humid air hit them like the wall of a bubble as they walked the tarmack into the airport. It took a while to get through to the car rental counters, and the line there was a
double
-
whammy
: both long and
slow
-
moving
.

“I think there’s a
stupid
-
question
contest for customers today,” Ben whispered in Cary’s ear as they overheard discussions between those in line before them and the counter attendants.

Finally, they pulled out of the rental car parking garage and plugged Fred’s address into the GPS unit they got as an option with the rental car. It was a red car.
Of course
,
Ben thought.

“Do you want something to eat first?” Ben asked.

She shook her head. Quickly. Too quickly.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

“No. Not at all.”

“We can call this off.”

“No, we can’t.”

They drove in silence, seeming to hit every light as it turned red. Ben thought of turning on the radio but decided against it. He could feel the anxiety radiating from her as the GPS brought them closer to their destination. As they made their final turn and heard the robotic voice say “One mile to destination,” it was nearing one in the afternoon. Ben didn’t know if it was hunger or his own nervousness, but he felt a crawling in the inside of his stomach.

It was a residential street, but not a very nice one. Certainly not a neighborhood with homes the caliber of the one Fred Spencer had shared with Cary. Ben could tell Cary was thinking the same thing as she pulled the slip of paper with the address from her purse and
double
-
checked
what they’d plugged into the GPS. While some cars were parked along the sides of the street, it was pretty open. The street was overvegetated, with thick palms close to the
narrow
-
lot
houses. The age of the neighborhood was evident, the street cracked up, and the driveways narrow by today’s standards, built before most passenger vehicles grew fat.

“Arriving at destination on right.”

Ben brought the car to a halt against the curb. They both looked at the home.

“Wow,” Cary said.

33

P
aul’s jet rolled to a halt. From his window, as expected, he saw the corporate limo pulling up to the runway. He’d checked on his laptop and had learned that Ben’s flight had been delayed. He’d made good time. Adding in the time it would take Ben and Cary to navigate the airport and secure a rental car, he felt like he’d made up most of their head start. He hoped it’d be enough.

What a deal
,
he thought.

He reflected on the decade since Rob Keaton had taken a chance hiring him as his literary agent. In life’s
“what
-
if”
roulette wheel, Paul could only imagine where he’d be now had that not happened. Probably a
run
-
of
-
the
-
mill
lawyer, married, and somehow living a comparatively joyless collection of days. As Rob Keaton’s agent, he’d had opportunities other, more experienced and crusty agents could only dream about. Yet perhaps the best benefit of his career path had been the resulting friendship with Ben, almost like brothers to each other (much more than Paul’s real brother and insurance agent who really,
really
liked all things insurance). Paul had marveled at Rob’s pride in his
son
—
a
pride not anchored in accomplishments, but in simply the wonder he felt for his son. He remembered a conversation they’d had while sitting on this very plane, going to California to finalize the film rights deal (along with Rob’s desire for some level of creative control) for
Stemside
, which would remain the most successful of the films based on Rob’s work.

“He’s done well, considering,” Rob had said.

“Considering what?”

“Look, unless the father in question is a complete
failure
—
and
even in most of those
cases
—
kids
assign too much perfection to their father’s
make
-
up
. When you have kids…”

“When? More like ‘if.’”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Either way, you’ll soon learn that strange feeling you get when your kid looks at you. The feeling that you’ve taken part in some sort of genetic con. Like you’ve been given this
charged
-
up
force field that filters out your flaws, but it only works on your kids. It’s probably evolutionary. The ego boost we get from our kids keeps us wanting to stay in their presence. To build up our own egos. It keeps us bringing them food and other goodies. So those kids who saw their dads as flawless super heroes got more meat, and
out
-
evolved
the ones who didn’t.”

“Darwin think that?”

“Darwin’s father was an overstuffed fellow who reportedly once called his son a
‘rat
-
catching
disgrace.’ That would peel the Teflon off his skin. But my theory is still valid.”

“Well, I know you don’t think Ben’s a rat catcher.”

“No. He’s a better man than me, but has the misfortune of not only my
super
-
hero
force field, but the additional curse of having to listen to all the windbags go on and on about how successful his father is. It has crunched up lesser sons of famous folks.”

“I suppose.”

“You’ll see,” Rob said.

“Oh?”

“It’ll take me being gone. But I guarantee you he’ll be better than me at everything. Hell, you’d be surprised how he’s already surpassed me in most everything that really matters.”

“Not sure I like this conversation too much,” Paul had said.

“Don’t squirm. I’m sure dads see their own kids with too much of a filter, too. But in this case, I see how it’s going to end for Ben after I’m gone. It’s why I’ll rest easy.”

“I agree that Ben’s going to be okay. The rest of this conversation I’m blaming on the altitude,” Paul had said.

Now, as Paul walked down the planes steps to the waiting car, he hoped that perhaps Rob had been right about it all. And somehow he felt an overwhelming responsibility to do what he could to make it so. He jumped into the car, telling the driver the address Walter had given him.

The house was a
flat
-
roofed
ranch. Probably had been pretty nice when it had been built. Ben guessed in the late seventies. And it had probably been since the late eighties that anyone had made a real attempt to make it presentable. The house had nearly been digested by the vegetation, and whatever stucco siding was visible had a fuzzy black coating.

“I can’t believe this would be Fred’s.” Cary said, almost in a whisper.

“Look,” Ben said, pointing to where the driveway curved around an outstretched tree. A BMW with Massachusetts plates. “It’s his, isn’t it?”

Cary nodded, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, Jesus…” she said. “I’m going to throw up.” Then she saw the look on his face. “Not really. But, God…”

“You ready?” he asked. “And do you want me to come with you?”

“Yes.”

“To which?”

“To both.”

“Okay,” Ben said. “But at any point if you want me to leave you to talk privately, just say the word. Or we can have a secret signal.”

“How ’bout I just say so.”

“Whatever makes you happy. I’ve just always wanted to have a secret signal.”

Cary smiled, and as he’d hoped, the muscles in her face relaxed. Just for a few seconds, though. She reached for the door handle, putting her hand where she thought it would be. But being unfamiliar with this rental car, she missed it. As she moved her hand over the door seeking the handle, it was clear she was shaking. Ben opened his door and got out.

They walked up the
weed
-
filled
path, up the three steps to the small porch, and stood by the front door.

“Ready for some fun?” Ben asked, nodding toward the doorbell.

“You have an odd idea of fun,” she said.

“You’re not the first woman to point that out.”

“Let the games begin,” Cary said, putting her finger on the doorbell.

Nothing.

“Did it even ring?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” Ben said, putting his head beside the door. “Push it again.”

She did. That time he heard a chime from inside, so he nodded his head. They stood frozen, heads tilted trying to listen for some movement or activity inside. They let that internal clock tick, the one that gave enough space between doorbell rings to be reasonable, not too impatient. Moments passed. Cary put her finger over the button, raising her eyebrows to Ben. He nodded. She pushed again. Again, no response.

“Well,” Ben said, looking over at the BMW. He turned back to the front door. There were two windows, one either side of the door. Grimy, but uncovered from the inside. He cupped his hands over his eyes and peered through the glass. Inside he could see a
wide
-
open
living area with the beginning of a kitchen in the back, on the far left side of his range of view. The house was definitely being used, and despite the dinginess of the exterior, the sparse furnishings looked new, in great shape, and fairly expensive. He saw electronic equipment, also
new
-
looking
. A large television and stereo, both surrounded by speakers. High end stuff.

“Nice stuff in there,” he said, pulling back to let her have a look.

“Fred likes toys.”

She moved her head side to side, trying to increase the angle of her vision so she could see farther into each side of that room. Then she froze. “Oh,” she said.

“What?”

“Out back.” She moved away from the glass so he could see in.

On the far side of the house, beyond the furnishings, was a back wall that was
well
-
lighted
by large windows and a patio door. He could see into the back yard, which was actually an
in
-
ground
swimming pool surrounded by a large tile and concrete deck. He saw what she’d spotted. Bare feet, wearing sandals, at the end of a lounge chair. All that was visible was from the knees to the feet, but they were definitely male legs.

“You think that’s him?” Ben asked.

“I’d think so, but can’t be sure,” Cary said. She pressed the doorbell. Ben watched, and saw no movement from the legs.

“Maybe he can’t hear the bell out there,” he guessed.

Cary pressed again. Harder, though it made no difference in volume. Ben reached down and grabbed the door handle. It was locked.

“Now what?” Cary asked, a slight tremble in her voice.

Ben stepped back onto the walkway and looked to either end of the house. “Why don’t I circle around?”

Cary stepped back with him. She looked, and as he’d noticed, saw that it wasn’t likely to be an easy task. Trees, shrubs, and weeds were tight to the sides of the house. “No problem. I think. I’ll just make my way through, give him a shout. You stay here at the front door in case he comes inside or hears the bell.”

She bit the side of her lip. “What I really want to do is give up, go home, and forget the whole thing. But…”

“Let’s finish the job. I’ll be back in a flash.”

Ben moved to the driveway side of the house. As he’d guessed, the overgrowth was passable there. He gave a quick thought to snakes. Sure to be snakes. He’d heard that if you make a lot of noise it moves them out. As he tripped over a root and rustled into a shrub, he knew he’d solved the noise thing. After a few minutes he was nearly through. He saw the concrete patio area and parts of the pool just on the other side of a thick, somewhat prickly looking bush. It was tight against the house, and on the other side, crammed into the side of a thick palm tree trunk. There was no clear path, but though thick (and prickly, though not
skin
-
piercing
by the looks of it) it looked as if with a bit of a push, he could penetrate it to the other side.

Here goes nothing.

He put his arms across his face and pushed into the bush with his legs. His shoulder bumped the house, knocking him slightly deeper into the bush. The force of his momentum thrust him out of the bush and onto the patio like a spitball through a straw. He let out a small cry as his legs failed to catch up with his body, and he sprawled onto the concrete and tile, landing with an “umph.”

To his left he saw a man jumping up in surprise. Ben gathered himself quickly, standing up. He saw Fred Spencer in a bathing suit covered by a robe. He had headphones on; he’d been listening to music, which in addition to being outside, explained why he couldn’t hear the doorbell. His hair was askew and his eyes wide open in shock. Ben held out his arms as Fred ripped the headphones out of his ears.

“Easy,” Ben said. “I’m sorry to scare you…I’m…”

“I know who you are!” Fred said. Still excited.

“You couldn’t hear the doorbell…” Ben said.

Fred’s head swiveled with more energy than Ben thought necessary. He still seemed panicked. “I’m here to talk…” Fred seemed to be shaking everywhere, almost unnaturally. Then Ben noticed how thin the man was; strangely thin and spastic. While facing Ben, Fred backed toward the house, reached behind him, and opened the patio door. He backed into the house, nearly tripping over the threshold, and disappeared.

Now what?
Ben thought.

He hoped that maybe Cary was seeing this and would ring the doorbell. He stood still, thinking that following Fred might not be wise.

Then Fred reappeared. Ben froze. Fred’s arm was outstretched, shaking, and holding a gun.

“Whoa…” Ben said, holding up his hands.

Fred’s eyes were wild, opened wide in fear or shock. Ben felt sweat break out all over his body. “Please…” he said.

“I didn’t mean to,” Fred said. “I really didn’t mean to kill your father!”

“Wha…?” Ben started.

Then the bang. The gun. And the slamming into his chest as the world fell away and he felt the back of his head hit the patio. A brief flash of hazy blue sky above him.

Then darkness.