The Five Times I Met Myself (31 page)
His younger self thought God would tell him what the box was all about, that he wouldn’t need it spelled out. Uh, yeah. Nice understatement. A billboard across the sky wouldn’t have been more clear. He’d forsaken the Code. Karissa? He hadn’t set her free, he’d wrapped her in chains. Brothers till the end of time? Yeah, right.
It was time to be a true hero. Die to what he wanted and live to the Code. Time to fix what he’d done. Time to dream and set things right.
He slipped into bed that night begging God to let him dream again so he could save the people he loved. But sleep came and went without dreams and he woke after only four hours, with little hope left.
He glanced at his watch. Two a.m. He sank into the silence and closed his eyes, again asking for the chance to dream. After half an hour crawled by, Brock blew out a long sigh, sat up on the edge of the bed, and forced his body to a standing position. Pain shot down his neck where the tension of his life had taken up permanent residence. He massaged it as he rambled across the room and into the kitchen to make a snack and plan his next steps.
J
UNE
12, 2015
B
rock wandered onto his deck, settled into his chair, and wrapped himself in the blanket Karissa had given him during the early years of their marriage. Dawn wouldn’t begin to creep over the mountains to the east for another two and a half hours, and it felt like it never would. He glanced over at Beth’s place. No light on, of course. Nothing stirred at this hour except a few stray cars heading over the Aurora bridge and a few more creeping up and down I-5.
But time seemed to lose its meaning, and almost before he realized it, a thin layer of gray light grew between the horizon and the clouds. A few minutes later it turned into a streak of muted red, then hints of gold crept into the swath of color. He didn’t pray, didn’t let anything into his mind except the peace of the moment, a fragment of respite from the storm.
But he had to face the truth Young Brock had shown him. He’d forsaken the Code behind the insidious excuse that he was
providing for his family, while the whole time he’d made work his god. A god that promised validation always inches beyond his grasp. And now the deception had been exposed, and the light of truth was scorching him.
Yes, there were noble reasons for wanting Black Fedora to succeed. For Karissa and Tyson. For Ron and his family. But those reasons paled in comparison to his ignoble need for validation and identity.
The creak of a door jolted Brock out of his contemplation. He spun to find Beth standing on her deck gazing out over the water.
“Hello, Brock.”
“Perfect timing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I took a hike up a mountain.”
“Tell me about it.” She continued to look straight ahead.
So Brock did.
A smile formed on Beth’s face. “And?”
“I’m figuring out what to do next.”
“No you’re not. You know what’s next.” Beth turned her gaze toward him and her smile turned radiant. “Keep following the Code. You’ve been trying to free the girl already.”
“That’s not going so well.”
“Then what’s your next mission?”
“Brothers forever.”
L
ater that morning, Brock walked into Ron’s office and glanced around in surprise. This office was smaller than the one in the other time lines. But it made sense. In this world Brock was the majority owner.
“What are you doing here?” Ron glanced up from his laptop, then went back to studying his monitor.
Brock strode over to Ron and slid a package of papers across his desk.
“What’s this?” Ron poked at it with his good hand.
“It’s my shares in the company. All of them. And now they’re yours. Just sign the papers and you own Black Fedora. Not me, not us. Just you.”
“What is wrong with you?” Ron leaned back and put his handless arm behind his head. “Why are you doing this?”
“I want a relationship with you.”
“Oh yeah? How exciting.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Any other reason?”
Brock rested his hands on Ron’s desk. “The success of Black Fedora has been one of my gods. Another of my gods has been beating you. The third god in my trinity has been validating myself by being in the spotlight. And now, that life of serving other gods is over.”
Ron pointed at the papers again. “Are you sure about this?”
Brock nodded.
Ron leaned forward, his face softer than Brock had seen it in years.
“Interesting timing.”
“Why?”
“Because I just discovered we’ve been blindsided. Someone has been buying up shares of our private stock. All the board members deny any involvement. But it has to be one of them. And if we don’t figure it out fast, the shares you want to give me will be worthless. And we’ll end up having to sell the company for pennies, or file for bankruptcy.”
“What?”
Brock’s legs went to liquid and he stumbled. It was happening again. His business skills had not been able to stop it. Not hackers this time, but just as bad.
“It can’t be like this. I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either, but right now let’s not worry about the shares.” Ron stood and came out from behind his desk and nodded at Brock. “I appreciate the gesture. Truly, because I believe you mean it. But for the moment, we need to pour all our energy into finding out who is behind this.”
For the next twenty-four hours, Brock worked without sleep trying to uncover the people behind the attack on Black Fedora. But he found nothing.
Think!
There had to be an answer, a way to find out.
Lord?
Brock slept a few hours, then woke, headed back to the office, and dove back in. He and Black Fedora’s IT team went after every lead, trying to identify the one behind the subterfuge, but all of them were dead ends.
Finally, close to eleven that night, Brock shut his office door and shuffled down the hallway of Black Fedora’s eighth floor. Half the lights had been shut off, which made the office dim; places always lit now hid in shadow. It gave Brock an eerie feeling, as if he were the last one in the world. He’d never had a problem working by himself at the office late, but as he made his way toward the elevators, the solitary feeling threatened to smother him.
Maybe because it reflected the truth that he was utterly alone for the first time in his life. Karissa was gone, Tyson was locked away for probably life, and his brother was little better than an enemy. Maybe after finding the mastermind behind Black Fedora’s demise, he’d move to eastern Washington, build a home in the hills above Chelan, and live the life of a hermit.
He called the elevator, and it slid open immediately as if waiting for him. He stepped inside and pushed the button for the parking garage. He gave his head a shake as if he could toss off the feeling of hopelessness. But it hung on like a leech and continued to draw life out of him. Didn’t matter. He felt dead anyway.
When he determined who the mastermind was, at least Ron and he could stare down the person or people who had destroyed them. Brock wouldn’t give up till he confronted the man or woman who orchestrated the attack. It was all he had left.
The elevator opened to the gray concrete landscape of the parking garage and he slogged toward his car. The garage was empty except for a silver Astro van with a rack on top that made it look like a giant toaster.
Yes, he would dig again tomorrow like there was no tomorrow, but right now all he wanted was solitude and a movie on his big screen. A moment to forget the world, forget everything and everyone he’d lost.
The garage was still except for the echo of his shoes against the pavement and the sputter of a fluorescent light trying to hang onto its last few hours of life.
He slipped into his Lexus and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat. He fumbled on his keychain for his key, found it, and slid it into the ignition. But before he could start his car, a voice from the backseat shot a bolt of adrenaline through him.
“Don’t do that. We’re going to sit here in your car together for a few minutes, and I wouldn’t want you to waste any gas. We need to have a nice little chat before you go home.”
Brock’s pulse spiked and he started to twist toward the backseat, but his temple smacked into the cold muzzle of a gun.
“Don’t do that either.”
His gaze shot to the rearview mirror, and the voice spoke a third time as a hand shoved his head forward and down. “Nope. That’s not going to be an option for the next few minutes.”
“Tell you what.” The barrel of the gun pushed his head hard to the left, and Brock’s head struck the driver’s-side window. “You keep your eyes on the wall there to the left. You don’t even think about taking a look at me and you don’t get shot. Deal?”
Brock nodded as sweat broke out on his forehead and palms. “What do you want?”
“Cooperation. Nothing more. No idea why you’re acting like a fool, but we want to give you a little wisdom to chew on. Make sure we’re playing well together.”
When Brock glanced in the mirror he’d been able to make out nothing more than a figure dressed in a black ski mask and black coat. The voice was deep and not one Brock recognized. It was clear trying to look in the mirror again wouldn’t gain him anything except possibly getting shot, so he focused on the windshield and tried to steady his breathing.
“What kind of cooper—”
“I’ll ask, you answer, all right?”
Brock nodded again.
“What do you think you’re doing up there in the office? You’ve turned into quite the amateur private detective, digging into all kinds of files.”
“How do you know—”
The smack of the gun against his temple shot pain down his neck and into his arm. A second later a tickling sensation told him the blow had broken his skin. He reached up and his fingers found a thin trickle of blood wiggling its way down the side of his face.
“I ask. You answer. I thought I made that clear. Did I or did I not?”
The man pressed the gun against the wound. The pain made Brock grunt and push his head back against his leather headrest.
“Are we clear now?”
The man’s breath was hot on Brock’s neck. He must have eaten a bucket full of garlic for lunch. Brock tilted his head to the left and nodded.
“One easy question. Answer it, and I leave, and you go home. All right?”
Brock nodded.
“Why are you digging into the takeover?”
“It’s none of your business.”
The man snickered. “The reason I’m sitting in the back of your car is because it’s intimately my business. Now tell me why.”
“I might be on the
Titanic
, but before the ship goes down I’m going to look whatever iceberg destroyed us in the eye and make them tell me why they did it.”
“Are you on crack? Or simply idiotic? What, are you doing it for show? What kind of purpose could it serve?”
“I’m going to find out who is behind this. Expose them. Nail them for it.”
“You’re an idiot. Stop the charade. It won’t bring any good to anyone.” The man flicked the barrel of the gun against Brock’s chin.
“Now, I’m going to get out of the car and walk away. You’ll keep staring straight ahead for three minutes. Count it out like you’re a kid again playing hide-and-seek. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three . . . if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”
“I’m going to find you.”
“Sure you are.” The back door opened and Brock heard the man step out. “I’ve enjoyed our talk. I hope you have too. I trust we both have clarity on where we go from here.” The sound of the hammer on the gun being pulled back filled the car. “One more thing. I assume you realize that if you don’t take my advice, I’ll visit you again. But it won’t be to talk. I might even pay a visit to your ex. From what I’ve seen, you still have feelings for her.”
The rear passenger door slammed shut, and Brock risked turning to watch the man stride away. Bad move. The man lifted the gun and fired. Brock ducked just before the passenger window
exploded and glass rained down on him. He rammed his key into the ignition and twisted. The car roared to life, Brock threw it into gear and gunned the engine. The squeal of his tires wasn’t loud enough to cover the sound of his rear window shattering.
For half a mile all Brock could do was gasp each time he drew breath and keep his speedometer from blowing through the speed limit. He could call the police, yes, but what would that do? They knew about Karissa, and undoubtedly Tyson as well.
At home Brock sat at his computer, exhausted but unable to sleep. He pulled up his e-mail for a distraction and that’s when the answer came to him like a flash of lightning. There was an e-mail from his high-school reunion listing the people who had come and their contact information. At the top was Mitchell Green, and his words from the reunion came back to Brock:
Hey, just saying you better do something. Or someone like me is going to swoop down, grab all that private stock, and take over your company, and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.
Time to pay his old friend a visit.
