Forgive Me, Alex (15 page)

Man, you almost lost it there. Get a grip!

Not exactly the smartest thing I've ever done. I wanted to kill him right there in the store, and with only about a dozen witnesses.
Dumbass!
If I
do
act against him, it would be helpful if I didn't first throw the spotlight on myself.

Linda agreed to leave her car at Starbucks and ride with me to Frank's place. She's remained silent for the entire trip, upset over my antics, but I think there's more to it. I consider launching a conversation, but best give her time to sort through it.

Frank knows I'm bringing a friend, but I provided no details. I'm home only about half the time, often on the road for weeks on end. My hunts for serial killers take time, as those bastards are typically a tricky, intelligent bunch—difficult to find. I often cross paths with the FBI, whom I must carefully avoid. In fact, I've seen Linda on two separate occasions since our last meeting three years ago. She doesn't know this—can't bring myself to tell her. The FBI at-large would not appreciate my unique avocation, and Linda would be hard-pressed to do so.

Suspect's rights? I couldn't care less. Miranda? Pfft! Harsh interrogation methods? You betcha. Judge? Nah. Jury? Nah. Executioner? Yep.

Linda might look the other way because she feels indebted to me, because I saved her from a vicious death at the hands of Ronald Allen Stegman. Yet even she has limits, a line she can't cross. What would she say about my phony FBI badge and ID, or about my informant inside her august organization?

I walk quite the tightrope, and I fear I've drawn her onto it. Without a net. Perhaps
that's
what she's thinking about during this uncomfortable silence.

I take the plunge as we pull into Frank's driveway. "Here we are."

She doesn't look at me.

"How long you going to continue the silent treatment?"

"I'll let you know."

Geez, Tony, that was smooth. You do have your way with women.

I bolt from the car and hustle around to open her door, hoping a little chivalry will earn me some points. She steps out and turns toward the house before I can get there, leaving the car door open. I close it.

Yeah, nice plan! Well, if at first you don't succeed....
"I stay here when I'm in town. Frank enjoys the company, and I help him out around the house, a nice arrangement for both of us. He's not so sprite anymore, but don't let that—or his good-old-boy charm—fool you. He's still sharp as a razor. Let's see how long it takes him to charm
you
again."

She throws me another one of her silent, incredulous rebukes, shakes her head, and says, "I'm not
that
easy, you know."

I laugh and reach for her hand, the perfect opportunity to break this frosty mood, but she pulls away from me.

"Come on, Linda, what do I have to do to make things right?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something. Later."

I bounce my eyebrows and bow low with a sweep of my right hand. "I am your slave."

"You're darn right, and don't forget it."

At least she's smiling again.

We find Frank on the patio, rocking gently and reading a book, his customary diversion. He spends most of his time there when the weather is good. The aroma, like a hundred bouquets of roses, blankets us the moment we step onto the patio.

Linda spins toward the garden and gasps. "My goodness, would you look at that."

Frank smiles and stands with cane in hand, and I reintroduce them. She insists that he should remain seated.

"Nonsense," he says. "A gentleman always stands when a lady enters the room. Or the patio, as the case may be."

I smile and observe, curious to see how long it will take him to charm her.

He kisses her hand. "It's been a long time, young Linda. I must say, you're even lovelier than I remember."

She laughs and tilts her head appreciatively.

"And my goodness, your eyes are most remarkable, like two emeralds shimmering in the sunlight."

The bright white of her smile shines through the red of her cheeks. She rests her hand on his arm.

"Please, come sit next to an old man and allow me to enjoy your company. It's not often a lovely young lady visits. You must allow me to take advantage of the opportunity."

Yeah, that should do it. He guides her to the chair next to his.

When I slide a third chair over to face them both, he looks at me as though I let go an eye-watering fart. "Where are your manners, young man?"

I must look like an idiot for a few seconds, but I finally figure it out and recite the Willow household drink menu for Linda. She and Frank settle on his lemonade, rather famous in these parts, and I head into the kitchen.

Hmmm... it's early, but.... Screw it!

Norton put me in the mood, so I grab a Sprecher Black Bavarian, a dark beer from a small regional brewery in Milwaukee.

Yeah, sure. As if I won't have it drained long before that.

Though I was gone only a couple minutes, they're already laughing when I return.

Old Gramps could charm the truth out of a politician—a genuine charm, because Frank Willow hasn't a disingenuous bone in his body. Linda relaxes again, taken in by the old smoothie.

I may still pay for that incident at the coffee shop, but a temporary reprieve is nice.

We spend the next two hours touring the garden and catching up with Linda on the past seventeen years. As lunchtime approaches, I offer to grill some burgers to go along with the homemade potato salad Frank gets from Ethel Simmons, a seventy-six-year-old widow who lives across Cary Road on Geringer Road. As his part-time chef, she stops in three times a week to cook a fresh meal. She hasn't exactly taken Martha's place, the wife Frank lost to cancer in 1966, but he likes having Ethel around.

Just when I think it can't get any better, another old friend arrives and pokes his head over the rear gate.

"Howdy folks, I knocked out front but nobody answered. I saw the cars in the driveway and heard some laughter back here. I hope you don't mind."

I wave him forward. "You know better than that, Chief. Please come in. Have you had lunch yet? We're about to dig into some grilled burgers, and we'd love it if you joined us."

"Sure sounds better than the bologna sandwich I have back at the station, and I'd just about kill for one of Frank's lemonades."

I pour him a glass and reintroduce him to Linda, reminding him of her involvement in the Norton case back in '78. He smiles and says he remembers her quite well, and lets it go at that. No "What brings you to Algonquin?" No "Are you here because of Norton?" No "Why is the FBI back in my back yard?" Indeed, the crafty old codger shows no surprise at all.

I get the sick feeling that this morning's little ruckus is about to come back and bite me in the ass. Might as well cut right to the chase. "Let me guess—Mitchell Norton stopped in to see you."

"Damn it, Tony, what were you thinking? Hell, back in '78, I wanted to take Norton to a field somewhere and put a bullet in him myself. I have little sympathy for the bastard. If a bus turns him into roadkill tomorrow, that will be fine with me." He directs his next statement at Linda. "Sorry if that sounds coarse."

She shrugs it off.

He shakes his head and turns back to me. "You know, that sonuvabitch has the names and phone numbers of three witnesses from Starbucks, each of whom will support his claim against you."

"What's that mean, his claim against me? Has he filed an actual complaint?"

"Not yet, but he's prepared to do so, and to get a lawyer, and to issue a restraining order." He huffs in exasperation. "He said he'd hold off on that if I speak with you and issue a
stern
warning to stay away from him. I swear to Holy God, I wanted to knock the smirk right off his face."

"I didn't go looking for him, Chief. He was just there. Even then, I'd have left him alone, but he made a comment about having coffee with Linda. I understood the implication, the threat. He was pushing my buttons, and I let him."

"I understand," he says. "Nonetheless, you need to tread lightly. Damn, how could they let that sicko out of prison? At least they could have waited one more year, until I'm retired and cruising around in my RV."

"What, and miss out on all this fun?"

"Yeah, right."

"Let's relax and have some lunch." I throw in all the cheer I can muster. Three of my favorite people are here. "It's a gorgeous day."

Screw Norton! He'll get his soon enough.

Sunday arrived in near silence, and I lamented my only companions: loneliness and sorrow. The TV was off, the stereo off, the washer and dryer idle, Dad was out of the house somewhere, and....

Alex was gone forever.

An aroma drew me to the kitchen counter, where a pot of coffee cooked thicker by the minute. I poured a tall cup in hopes it would help clear my head. The label on the can read "Good to the last drop." Sure. I sipped the burnt coffee and struggled to reconcile the dichotomy of yesterday: two distinct days, two distinct worlds.

World 1: One of the worst days of my life, we'd buried Alex, the Hoopster, my Shadow, ranking right up there with the day we lost Mom.

World 2: Against all odds, I'd experienced the best night of my life with Diana.

She'd persisted in my mind deep into the night, until I awoke and wrote in my diary:
Even when we're apart, Diana fuels my desire, the instinctive fire, the roar of primeval yearning. Sleep will not come easy, yet more than the usual thoughts—sex, sex and, oh yeah, sex—distract me. Something greater stirs me: the certainty that we'll be together forever, that we'll marry, have children and grow old together. This is our future.

Yet how could I make that happen? If I departed for college and left her behind, our separation might tear us apart. Marriage was out of the question, with her having a year of high school remaining, and me just getting out—no advanced education, no training, no prospects. I could postpone Duke and go to a local school for a year, after which we could go to school together, perhaps at Duke, if they accepted her and allowed me to defer for a year. If not, we'd go somewhere else.

So much for my plans for the future.

I had nothing on the agenda today beyond mowing the lawn, which I hadn't finished yesterday for obvious reasons. That would take me only a couple hours, and then I must do something—
anything
—to get out of the house.

Diana and I hadn't talked about it last night because she'd passed out. I'd have to tease her about flipping that particular cliché on its head—the man always wanted to sleep afterwards, and the woman wanted to talk. After last night's performance, I was surprised I
hadn't
passed out. Would we ever have another night like it?

God, I hoped so.

I jumped when the phone rang, hoping Diana had made the psychic link she liked to think we possessed. I snatched the phone from the cradle and answered.

"Hi." The deep voice at the other end hesitated. "Is this Tony?"

Recognition spun my brain into a three-alarm warning. "Yes it is."

"This is Mr. Gregario."

His tone conjured visions of a long whip, and I steeled myself against the lashing.

"Is Diana with you?"

Whew, this isn't about last night.
"Uh... no, Mr. Gregario, she isn't here."

"She's not? When did you last see her?"

"Last night, when I dropped her off at home." Almost the truth.

"That's odd. We assumed she got up early and went off with you, and forgot to leave us a note."

"Maybe she's with other friends."

"I suppose, but she must have left early. We thought she was sleeping late, and when we went in to rouse her, she was already gone. She must have headed out by eight o'clock, pretty unusual for a Sunday."

I'll say, especially after last night,
I couldn't add.

"She didn't leave a note, hasn't called—no word at all. Ah! I'll call around to her friends. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning."

"No problem, Mr. G. I was wondering, can you have her call me when you track her down?"

"I don't know. Looks like we'll miss church because of her irresponsibility. She'll probably be grounded, meaning no phone privileges."

Shit, this might be worth a week.

After a few seconds' hesitation, he said, "I suppose one quick call will be okay, but just a quick one."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

She'd probably gone to see Cindi Bronte, her best friend and confidante, to tell her about last night. Why must girls share all the personal details of their lives with friends? Cindi probably knew everything about me, right down to the size and shape of my.... I didn't like it much. If I'd wanted Cindi to know of my prowess as a lover, I'd have had sex with her.

Hmmm, she is hot. A threesome would be.... Sure, as if Diana would ever agree to that! Get it together, Tony.

***

It felt good to push the mower around the yard. I needed the exercise to unwind, especially since I'd missed my usual Friday afternoon session with Master Komura.

We studied many different martial arts, including aikido, jujitsu, karate and ninjutsu. We also spent considerable time training with swords, as demanded by Ben Komura's family history, deeply ensconced in the samurai tradition. My mentor, amazing for his martial arts expertise, to be sure, but also because of his extraordinary calm and mental discipline, was the man I most hoped to emulate. Of course, I'd have tossed in a healthy dose of Frank's country charm and tender heart.

I hadn't mowed the lawn by myself for two years, not without help from my Shadow. I thought of Alex and let the memories flood me for some time, until the pain and depression resurfaced. I pushed it away and concentrated instead on Diana, specifically on how we could stay together during the coming school year.

I should postpone Duke for a year.

Shit! Am I ready to take that leap?

At some deep, subconscious level, I'd probably decided that the instant it popped into my head, but I felt better for having considered it rationally and intellectually, separated from my emotions.

Yeah, like that's possible.

After finishing in the yard, I showered, dressed, and prepared for lunch. I failed to convince Dad to come in from the garage, where he puttered around with whatever he could get his hands on, trying to stay busy. He barely acknowledged me, insisting he had too much to do.

His Jack Daniel's sat on the workbench—no glass, just the three-quarters-full bottle.

He
had
buried a son yesterday. My choice would have been different, perhaps a kick-ass workout, but twenty-five years from now I might have developed a different attitude. He'd come out of it soon. He had to.

I called Diana again but got a busy signal. I desperately needed to get of the house, to do something, to talk to someone.

I returned to the garage to roll my bicycle out, and glanced over my shoulder at Dad. He ignored me and took another gulp of his drink.

I hopped on my bike and sped toward Frank's place.