The Five Times I Met Myself (32 page)

J
UNE
15, 2015

H
ello, Mitchell.”

“Hello, Brock.” Mitchell glanced to his right and left and pulled his light coat tighter as they stood on the beach at the west end of Discovery Park. “Why did you set up this meeting? And why here?”

“I need answers. And I don’t want to get them in either of our offices with any other ears around.”

“Not sure it’s such a great idea for us to be hanging out together in any public place, no matter how private.”

“Why?”

A lone jogger ran past fifty yards from where they stood. No one else was in view.

“Don’t think I need to tell you that.” Mitchell gave a half smile.

“Yeah, I think you do. Afraid the truth will come out? That you’ll have to get honest about what’s going on with Black Fedora?”
Brock shook his head slowly. “I think you’re the one who sent that thug after me yesterday.”

“Of course I did.” Mitchell scoffed. “You were acting idiotic. Like you are right now.”

“You wanted to kill me.”

“Come on, Brock. I just wanted to shut you up. Stop you from digging. Scare you. I couldn’t kill you, although you’ve made me want to over these past days.”

“What?”

“I realize that for some reason you’re putting on a show for Ron, but the way you’re going at it, I was getting the feeling you’d go too far and tell him about me. So I wanted to put the brakes on without doing something asinine like calling you or meeting with you—as we’re stupidly doing right now.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But tell him about you? Yeah. Of course I’m going to tell Ron about you.” Brock peered out over the sound, trying to quell his anger, before turning back to Mitchell and fixing his gaze on the man. “You’re finished. I’m not going to let you do this.”

For a moment, the perpetual sneer lurking beneath the surface of Mitchell’s expression faded, and genuine confusion was splayed across his face. “Do what?”

“Take over. Destroy Black Fedora. Wipe out what Ron and I have worked for years to create. And our father before us. You’ll deny this conversation took place. I get that. But that’s not going to stop me from fighting you till I win or I’m dead.”

“This is comical.” Mitchell snorted.

“Yeah. Hilarious. Stupid for me to be fighting it now because it’s already done, right? Papers are as good as signed.”

Mitchell glanced around as if looking for hidden cameras.
“You’re doing some kind of corporate-punking thing, right?”

“I’m not laughing.” Brock jabbed a finger at Mitchell. “I don’t care what it takes, you’re going down. I’m going to expose you. Everyone in your company, everyone on your board is going to see the truth. I know you have a partner, and he or she is very good at covering their tracks. But I’ll find them too.”

Mitchell didn’t respond except to frown at Brock in puzzlement and give a tiny shake of his head.

“What is your problem, Mitchell? We were never friends, but we were never enemies either. And what about Ron? You have no problem slitting the throat of a man who has never done you harm.”

Mitchell strolled over to a large weathered log and sat, his elbows resting on his knees. He started to speak twice, and stopped both times. Finally he sighed and spoke words that sent ice down Brock’s back.

“Either you have taken up acting unbeknownst to me and are giving me an Oscar-worthy performance, or you are losing it—have lost it—and need some serious help.”

No. It couldn’t be. But it was.

“What are you saying?”

“Why are you doing this, Brock? I seriously don’t get it.”

“Doing what?” Brock’s heart shuddered.

“Did someone hit you on the head? You have amnesia? Do you truly not understand who my partner is?”

At that moment Brock knew. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind. “No, it’s not. It can’t be.”

“Uh, yeah, it can. It is. You came to me. You developed the plan. You convinced me it’s what you wanted to do to Ron. Any of that coming back to you?”

Brock shuddered. “I wouldn’t do that to him.”

“Are you seriously trying to turn your back on this?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“That’s entertaining.” Mitchell snorted again. “You going to deny you’ve been the mastermind behind this?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“You know, Brock ol’ pal? I’ve made my mistakes in the world of business, but getting hamstrung by a partner with cold feet isn’t one of them.” Mitchell reached into his briefcase and pulled out a tablet. After a few seconds, he turned it around and shoved it in Brock’s face. “For your viewing pleasure.”

The video was grainy due to the low light, and the sound of the voices was low, but there wasn’t a shred of doubt it was a conversation between Mitchell and him.

“I want to take him down,” Brock heard himself saying.

“Why?”

“My reasons.” Brock rubbed his neck. “I simply want to know if you’ll help me and what cut of the action you’ll require.”

“Don’t worry, if we do this, I’ll figure out a way to be fairly compensated.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I’ll develop the time line.” Mitchell held out his hand. Brock hesitated, then took it. “But what happens to your brother?”

“He works for me. I win.”

“No love lost, eh?”

Mitchell stopped the video. “That enough? Of course this couldn’t ever be used in court, ’cause I didn’t get your permission to video our little chats, but I think showing it to Ron would be enough.”

“That wasn’t me.” But as Brock said the words, he admitted
there were moments when he would have done this to Ron. Maybe not in the material world, but he’d done it to his brother hundreds of times in this mind.

“Still not convinced?”

“If I did it, I can undo it.”

“Nah, not going happen. I have way too much skin in this game to pull out now.”

“It has to be undone.”

“You’re sounding nuts again. I’ve crawled out on the skinny branches with you on this one, and nothing is going to stop it from happening at this point. The papers are as good as signed. The company is mine, and you’re going to get your cut. You wanted to take Ron out, your wish has been granted. I’m not going to let you dance to the end of the pier, tumble into the water, and try to take me with you.”

Brock sat in his home office that night determined to find a way out of the mess, but despair lapped at his mind and grew deeper by the minute. If he found a way to stop Mitchell, Mitchell would show Ron what Brock had done, and no amount of talking to Ron would convince him otherwise. His explanation would sound ludicrous. It was ludicrous.

But even though his brainstorming continued to hit the proverbial brick wall, Brock drilled down even harder. There had to be a way. Just before three a.m., the utter futility of the exercise struck him like a gong, and he was the bell. Brock slammed his laptop shut and shoved himself away from the desk. He leaned back and moaned as the papers filled with his scrawls filled his vision.

Brock went outside, sat on the edge of his walkway and slid his legs over the edge where his feet dangled just above the water, and began to pray.

Lord, I give it up. All of it. Full surrender. Black Fedora. Karissa, Tyson. My competition with Ron. All my idols. Only you. Only you. For my validation, it’s you. For my worth, it’s you. For my hopes, dreams, future and past. It’s you. And if this is the life I’m destined to live, I accept it. Only you . . . only you.

He sat back, and a peace and a Presence he hadn’t known this deep for years overwhelmed him. He soaked it in for an age in the stillness of the early morning. As the sky began to turn gray, he wandered back inside to fix himself breakfast. No point in sleeping. He wouldn’t dream, and he needed to get in early to work. God willing, he’d still find a way to save the world. Well, at least save his brother. And Black Fedora.

Brock massaged the back of his neck as he got out the eggs and once again scoured his mind for the reason he couldn’t dream. Maybe it didn’t matter at this point, but he still wanted to know the answer. It made no sense. He’d been able to slip into lucid dreams almost at will. Maybe not every time he tried, but close to it. But his ability had crash-landed without his doing anything differently. Nothing different . . . except.

He spun and stared at his coffeepot. No way. It couldn’t be that stupid and that simple. But he had no doubt it was. Everything, all of it, continued to be tied back to Black Fedora. Brock put on a pot of coffee. Strong coffee. The caffeine wouldn’t touch him. But it would in some crazy way let him reach into the world of dreams.

When the pot gurgled to its conclusion, Brock rose and slowly poured a full cup of coffee. He smiled down at the dark liquid then raised it to his lips and took his first sip. Minutes after finishing
his second cup, and seconds after sliding into the embracing folds of sleep, Brock began to dream. And he knew it. A lucid dream. Hope rose inside like a fountain finally released after years of waiting, because he knew what was coming: his final chance to make things right.

Chapter 47

O
CTOBER
22, 1989

B
rock expected to find himself standing outside Java Spot, or inside the coffee shop, or sitting at his usual table about to start another conversation with his younger self, but he wasn’t in either place. He was inside a stadium—a deafening roar from the crowd told him it was a big one. The Seahawk coats, hats, and jerseys told him it was Seattle’s.

Brock tried to move, but his feet felt stuck. He stared at them in surprise and fear. He wasn’t in control. So if this dream wasn’t under his direction, but he still knew it was a dream, who was running it this time? His subconscious? Or something else?

“Can I help you?”

Brock looked up. A gentleman he guessed to be in his late sixties with wispy white hair sticking out from under his Seahawks hat smiled at him. The usher name tag pinned to his dark-blue shirt read Sarge.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

“I know how you feel.” Sarge chuckled. “When we grew up the stadiums were a little smaller. You could navigate them a bit easier.”

“We?”

“Well, I’m guessing I’m a few years further down the trail than you, but not more than ten or fifteen, I’m thinking.”

“I’m fifty-three.”

“Yep, gotcha by fourteen.” Sarge smiled. “So you don’t know where you need to go.”

“I mean I’m not in control this time—” Brock stopped himself. Nothing he said to the man would make sense.

Sarge took two steps toward him. “Do you mind if I take a quick look at your ticket?”

“What ticket?”

“The one in your hand.”

Brock gazed at his hand as if it were someone else’s. Clutched between his thumb and forefinger was a Seahawks ticket. He raised it slowly, but before he could get a good look at it, Sarge slid it from Brock’s grasp.

“Okay, let’s take a look.” The usher peered at the ticket for a moment. “Righty O, you’re almost there. Just head down to your right another three tunnels, head through ’er, and your seat will be on the left, seven rows up.”

Brock glanced again at Sarge, who gave him a crooked grin. “You need me to take you up there?”

“No. I’m good.” He gave Sarge a quick salute, which made the older man laugh.

Brock lifted his foot—no problem now—and took a few steps down the concourse. He tried to wake himself as he moved, but it didn’t work. So what now? Might as well get to the seat and try to
enjoy the game until his body or mind or both decided to release him back to the waking world.

As he stepped through the end of the third tunnel, the crowd roared so loudly the stadium rumbled under this feet. Brock gazed at the big screen. Seahawks touchdown. Wait. The stadium didn’t look like CenturyLink Field. And there was no sky overhead. As he stared at the ceiling of the stadium, he realized he had to be in the Kingdome, demolished in March of 2000. So this dream had taken Brock to a place in time at least fifteen years back, long before Paul Allen’s Microsoft money would build a state-of-the-art stadium for the Hawks.

Brock trudged up the stairs till he reached row seventy-eight. He glanced at his ticket, then at the empty chair five seats in. That would be his. The man on the far side of the empty chair was turned, his attention downfield, so the back of his head was the only part of him Brock could see. Still, something about him seemed familiar. The action on the field died down, and the man turned and sat down, his face now in profile. Brock gasped.

It was Brock’s father.

He turned and his eyes locked onto Brock’s, but only for an instant. There was no recognition of who Brock was, but why would there be? Brock swallowed and rubbed his head hard. Wow. Regret and pain and longing all surged up from the deep part of his soul. The chance to talk to his dad again. This was a gift, orchestrated by God. Had to be.

Brock shuffled past the four people in the seats between him and his father, then sat down next to the man he’d longed to sit down with one more time. Brock’s father nodded at him, then turned his attention back to the game. But a second later he turned back with a puzzled look on his face. “Do we know each other?”