Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) (172 page)

He opened the door for me and we stepped inside Dante’s. Lots of bricks and lots of bottles.

A waitress came over and smiled.

“The bar or would you like a table?”

“Table, I think,” he said, looking at me.

I nodded.

She sat us by the window with the river in the distance.

A couple walked by, holding hands.

“I sure do love it here,” Ben said. “I’ve missed it. Boston is home, but this, this place is special.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back,” I said. “And I’m glad you’re back with Kate.”

He smiled. I looked over the menu, which didn’t take long. They didn’t have much of a selection. I was fine with that because I needed to go light. I had been on somewhat of an eating binge since the Jesse dream, and needed to scale back. I ordered hummus and an iced tea. Ben got a burger and a double bourbon, neat.

We small talked some. He told me about a new study on asthma that he was involved with, and about working again in the ER. He came to life, his excitement growing when he talked about helping patients and making a difference. He asked about school, and I told him about some of my classes last year, in particular the French cuisine class and some of the dishes I had learned how to make.

The waitress came with our food.

“Could I get another?” he said, pointing to his glass.

The hummus was surprisingly good, but it wasn’t a burger and I started having regrets. Ben pushed his plate over to me and offered some fries. I smiled and fought off the urge, shaking my head.

“Oh, I wanted to ask you,” I said. “Did you stop by last night? I thought I saw you out in front of the house, but then the car pulled away.”

He put down his burger, wiped his lips with a napkin, and looked at me.

“Last night?” he said. “Must have been a different Ben Mortimer. I was working all night. Besides, I would have stopped and said hello.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. It must have just looked like you.”

The waitress brought his drink. He put it to his lips and finished half of it in one gulp.

“By the way, I just found out that Thomas Richardson is being transferred tomorrow afternoon to a facility in California. I thought you might want to say goodbye.”

“I will. Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “How do you think his progress is coming along?”

“Well, his motor skills and his memory are still affected, but I think he will eventually make a full recovery. The human body’s capacity for healing is truly amazing. As you know, he was practically dead when he came in.”

I nodded.

“You sure have a lot of interesting dreams,” he said.

“Sounds like you’ve been reading the paper.”

He smiled and held up his hands.

“Guilty. But it really was a fascinating story. I found myself riveted.”

“Well, I’m still trying to get used to the idea, but I guess the reporter did an okay job.”

“He had an excellent subject to work with.”

Ben raised his glass.

“So what happened to your charity?” I said.

“I’m no longer involved in it,” he said, swirling his glass in a circle before downing the last finger. “After that horrific afternoon at the hospital last year, I gave it all up.”

“One more for the road?” the waitress asked, reappearing almost as if on cue.

He nodded.

“It seemed like important work,” I said. “You just shut it down?”

“No, no, it wasn’t like that. A colleague took it over. He’s doing a much better job than I could have. You know, in light of everything. I’ve spent the last year trying to sort through my life and coming to terms with… with all of it.”

His drink came.

 “But you know,” he said. “After all those months of wallowing, I came to the conclusion that there was no way to make sense of any of it. I had to face the things I’d done and, somehow, try to make amends. That’s why I came back to medicine. It’s the only place where I feel like I’m doing some good.”

He grabbed his glass and forced a smile. It was hard not to feel sorry for him.

“Most days, anyway,” he said, almost in a whisper.

I let the silence sit, not sure what to say. None of it surprised me. Benjamin Mortimer was a moral man. He would have to feel this way. He would have to go down this road of guilt and regret.

Anger swelled up inside me and began to push away the sadness I felt for him. Anger toward Nathaniel. I thought about all the death and destruction he left in his wake. Ben did what he did to save others from his evil brother, and yet, in doing so he became just another one of his victims. I hoped he could get past it, but looking at him now, I wasn’t so sure if he ever would.

I wondered if Kate saw how much he had changed since the last time they had been a couple, how much sadder and darker he was.

“Hey, how about dessert?” he said, slowly standing up.

He grinned and swayed for a moment. I was relieved his house was just down the path. That way I wouldn’t have to fight him for his car keys.

“No, I better no—”

“Oh, c’mon,” he said. “You barely ate anything. How about we share a slice of cheesecake?”

“Okay. I’ll have a bite.”

He started walking away and then stopped, turning back.

“Can you order?”

I nodded.

Dessert came and Ben still wasn’t back. When he finally returned, he walked slowly, stumbling a little on the approach before falling hard into his chair.

“Oops,” he said and giggled, his eyes half closed.

I took a couple of bites. He didn’t have any. Maybe the whiskey had soured his appetite.

When the check arrived, he fumbled with his wallet before finally pulling out a credit card, which he promptly dropped on the floor.

“Thanks for dinner, Ben,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.” He tried to stand and then lowered his voice. “I’m afraid it’s all gone to my head…”

“It’s okay,” I said, offering my hand and pulling him up. “I’ll make sure you get home. We’ll just take it one step at a time.”

CHAPTER 57

We walked along the path that skirted the river in small, measured steps. Ben mumbled from time to time, but I couldn’t understand most of what he was trying to say. The little I picked up led me to believe he was playing tour guide, pointing out landmarks along the way. It was strange that I was walking him home in this state and not David Norton, but I thought about what he had said. I hoped he was getting back on his feet, but he wasn’t there yet.

We passed through the short tunnel with the murals and he stopped and stared at the art, and then started humming a song that sounded familiar, although I couldn’t place it. As we got to the row of houses, he smiled.

“Ah,” he said. “Back on the water again, back where I belong.”

I guided him up the steps to the front door.

“You have your keys?”

He pulled a set from his pocket and tried a few until one of them fit in the lock. He staggered inside and I started following him when he suddenly turned around and pushed the door closed, leaving me on the porch.

I shook my head and knocked.

“Ben, it’s Abby. Can you let me in? You were going to give me a tour of your house, remember?”

I didn’t care about seeing the inside of his house, but I wanted to make sure he was okay before I left.

“A tour?” he said after opening the door a couple of inches. “Sorry, not tonight. I’ve got too much to do. Another time.”

“Sure,” I said, scratching my head. “Okay, then, goodnight. And thanks again for dinner.”

“Always a pleasure, Abigail. Goodnight.”

“Ben, are you sure you’re all ri—” I said just before he closed the door.

CHAPTER 58

After my shift at Meg’s, I headed to the hospital to see Thomas Richardson. As I walked down the hall I saw a nurse come out of his room and close the door behind her.

When she noticed where I was heading, she barred the way with an outstretched arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You can’t go in there right now.”

“I just wanted to say goodbye. I heard he was being discharged.”

I stole a glance over her shoulder and peeked through the small window in the door. My heart sank when I saw the curtain pulled around his bed.

“Are you family?”

“No. I’m Abby Craig. The one who—”

“I see.” She looked at me for a long moment. “Well, I’m sorry but you’re going to have to wait. There’s a lounge at the end of the hall. I’ll have someone let you know.”

As I walked away I wondered,
Let me know what?

Had Thomas Richardson had a relapse? Had he fallen back into a coma? Or was it something worse?

I sat down and waited, my stomach twisting like a pretzel.

CHAPTER 59

I watched a bald man in a plaid robe shuffle up and down the corridor, pushing at a shiny pole. A woman wearing gloves came into the waiting room and emptied the trashcan. Dr. Oz talked about the horrors of carbs on the television above my head. I muted him. I tried to play with my phone but it was dead.

After a while I considered going back down to Thomas Richardson’s room and trying to see him again, but then thought better of it. There must be a good reason why they weren’t letting people in. I shuffled through the magazines.

Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.

Someone walked in and I looked up.

It was Bob Willis.

CHAPTER 60

His face was stiff, eyebrows furrowed, and a fast, gray energy swarmed around him.

“Hello, Abby.”

“Lieutenant,” I said. “What are you…”

“There have been some developments,” he said, sitting across from me, the bright sun streaming through the window and hitting him in the face.

I stared at him as he took a deep breath.

“There’s been a change of plans. Thomas Richardson is not being discharged today. We’re keeping him here until he’s well enough to be transferred to one of our facilities.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Abby, Thomas Richardson is being charged with murder.”

I squinted at him, sure I had heard wrong.

“What?” I said after he didn’t elaborate.

“We’ve been able to gather enough evidence, compelling evidence, which suggests he was responsible for Bradley Peterson’s death. It was no accident.”

I sat there, trying to make sense of what Bob Willis was saying. But the words just did somersaults in my mind and I couldn’t make any sense of them.
No accident. Compelling evidence.

“What kind of evidence?”

He rubbed at his mustache with his fingers.

“First off, I need you to promise that all this stays between us. I shouldn’t even be sharing this with you, but I feel that you deserve to know.”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course. But what’s going on?”

“Well, let’s start at the beginning. Remember when I measured the distance between where Peterson’s body landed and the rock wall?”

“Yeah, but you said that part of it made sense. That it was where Thomas Richardson was found that you were confused by.”

“Yes, that’s correct. And this is where the evidence has to do with numbers and physics. I had the numbers run through a computer simulator, and the only way Peterson would have landed there in that spot is if he had been pushed off that cliff. Scientifically, there’s no way that he just lost his balance and fell. It’s impossible. If that had been the case, his body would have been closer to the base of the wall. Much closer. No, he was sent flying off that cliff.”

I was quiet, trying to process what he was saying.

“He couldn’t have hit something on the way down?”

“Not in this case I’m afraid. Given the sheer nature of the rock wall that would be impossible.”

I still couldn’t believe it. It seemed like an incredible stretch, charging someone with murder based on a computer analysis.

“But murder? That doesn’t seem like it’s enough to…”

“There’s more,” he said, squinting in the sun.

He got up and pulled down the blinds.

“That day we went out there I found both men’s footprints up at the top.” He sat down again. “They were well preserved because of all the ash and the rain, sort of a Pompeii effect. It shows the victim standing at the edge, facing outward. And then there is the other set of prints, belonging to Richardson. His steps are far apart, like he was running or lunging forward. And then they suddenly stop when they meet the victim’s prints.

“I had Janeway make a cast and photograph all of it. We compared the casts to both men’s shoes and it all lines up. A perfect match. Richardson’s our man, Abby. I’m sorry.”

“This is crazy,” I said. “I don’t doubt what you’re saying, but it’s just—”

“Believe me, I felt the same way at first. But the evidence is just too persuasive.”

I let out a long breath.

Bob Willis wasn’t finished.

“The last piece of evidence was the hardest one to figure out, because it didn’t involve math or physics or observation.” He shook his head. “Do you remember that stone I picked up and bagged out there near Peterson’s impression?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it turns out it has Thomas Richardson’s blood and hair on it.”

“Thomas Richardson’s blood?”

“Yes, and that’s not all.” He paused. “One of the boys in the lab, using some new forensic breakthrough, found Peterson’s fingerprints on it.”

“Wait, what, how could that be?”

“The only explanation as far as I can figure is that he got one last shot in before he died. It might have gone down something like this. Peterson lies broken and dying in that meadow, knowing his best friend has just killed him. Then he hears Richardson coming to finish the job and, with his last surge of rage and adrenaline, he grabs the nearest thing he can find. That rock. And hits him in the head. Richardson stumbles away toward the cliff wall and collapses.”

It was all so hard to believe and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Thomas Richardson had killed his friend? And then his friend’s ghost had led me out there? Why?