The Fives Run North-South (12 page)

As usual, I was one of the first to arrive. I pulled into my parking space, and we got out of the car.

“You okay?” I asked. We’d not spoken much during the drive.

“Better,” she said. “Could use a cup of coffee.”

“Best chance this time of the morning is the
K
-
Cup
machine by the sales office.”

She nodded. When we got off the elevator, she went in that direction. I was glad; I wanted to go to my office alone. I walked down the quiet hallway and started to feel the comfort of routine. I have to admit, this is my element. Where everything just fits together. That was why after turning on the light, my first move was to open the folder left behind by Kyle. I sat back in my chair
(custom
-
designed
for my body size, ergonomically perfect) and lifted the folder. I opened it, and as I read I felt the blood drain from my head.

Good God.

I sat back and tried to process what I’d just read. It was completely unexpected. Kyle was an asshole but he was good. I swung around and turned on my computer monitor to check
e
-
mails
, to see if there was anything relating to this. As I watched the new messages pop onto the screen, my eye caught one that I’d not expected.

From Viniteri.

There was a knock on my door.
Dammit. Not now.
I looked up, and saw Perry Edwards from HR. I could tell from his expression that I’d made my annoyance at his interruption obvious, so I tried to smile.

“What’s up, Perry?”

“Sorry to interrupt, boss. I guess I was just wondering…”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, did your buddy hire that PI? Curtis Viniteri? The one you were asking me about last week?”

Poker face. “I’m not sure. I think he might have, but haven’t talked in a bit. Why do you ask?”

“I got a call, since we’re on his client list, I guess. From the police.”

“Police?”

“Yeah. I think he was killed last night. They found his body out in a field. Kind of near your side of town, actually.”

I don’t really remember what I said, but Perry left. Hand shaking, I turned to my computer and saw the
e
-
mail
from Viniteri. A message from a dead guy.

Moving my mouse over, I clicked on the message.

“Seems like we might have a bit of a thing here,” had been his message.

I read his final
e
-
mail
.

Jesus Christ.

Well, at least I had a name now: Randall Grosse.

I turned away from the message, and looked at the folder left by Kyle Thomas, then back at the
e
-
mail
. The information in each was more than I could consume.

“Adam…”

Looking up, I saw Suze standing there holding a cup of coffee.

“Adam,” she said, a shake in her voice and shock on her face. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

I had no answers.

BOOK II: BEN

12

B
en Keaton rolled over and immediately brought his hand up to cover his eyes from the bright light of the rising sun. Like he did most mornings, he asked the audience in his mind why he ever bought a house where the bedroom windows faced southeast. He’d thought himself clever by asking the realtor if he could try out the shower. He’d even asked to see the home during evening rush hour to gauge the traffic noise. But he’d not considered the impact of window placement on his lifestyle. If you go to bed late at night (typically too exhausted or drunk to remember to draw the blinds) and tend to sleep well into the day, you need to make sure you’re not blinded like this upon waking every day.

Besides
, he thought,
it’s not supposed to be sunny and bright on funeral days
. But then again, for his dad, it was probably best to avoid cliché, even on the day he was to be buried. Fitting.

Ben started to get out of bed, but ran out of momentum about halfway up and fell back onto the mattress with a moan. Another question: if the body’s not done getting the rest and restoration it needs, why does it wake itself up? Because Ben was most certainly not ready to get out of bed. He brought his palms to his temples and rubbed. Felt kinda good, felt kinda bad. He squinted and looked over at his nightstand. As he’d suspected, it had been whiskey last night. He felt some measure of relief that there was still a good amount in the glass (though to be honest, that part was probably 90 percent melted ice, but he chose not to give that too much consideration). The night had been a black hole. He knew the rules: the more you drink, the less you dream. And he couldn’t recall even a sliver of a dream from last night.

You have to wear a tie all day today, mud-head
,
he thought.
Good planning.

Then he remembered the promise he’d made to himself. Today he was to take a vacation from
self
-
pity
and all the perks associated with it, and instead hang out with his father’s spirit and memories. With dry eyes. That part was important. Ben wasn’t sure why: his dad certainly didn’t hide emotion when circumstances demanded them. Though with his dad, that had been rare. He’d lost Ben’s mom when Ben was too young to really form an impression. His father’s life since had been one of good fortune, lacking in stress or hardship. So really the only emotion he ever saw from his dad was happiness. Mostly.

Ben felt his eyes start to sting. He wasn’t sure if it was the sun, his exhaustion, or his own emotional reaction.
Better known as crying, Ben
,
he thought. He turned to the window.
No. Definitely the sun.

Once again, he tried to sit up, this time having a bit more success before falling back onto the pillow. No dreams last night. But there’d been some strange ones lately. Cue the Boston song…

Dream of a girl I used to know…I closed my eyes and she slipped away…

Lisa Wilcox. Ben found it strange that after all this time she shows up in dreamland. She’d been a minor girlfriend; not one of the majors. Probably entirely forgettable if not for the tragedy. Even still, it’d been a couple decades. Buried way in the past. But perhaps it was the death of his dad that sent a trigger, because really, Ben hadn’t been to too many funerals. Odd, considering his age. Nearly four decades and he could count all the funerals on one hand. With a few fingers to spare.

Though he’d not gone to Lisa’s.

They’d dated in high school. Ben had been a senior, Lisa a junior. Ben had been a few levels down from Lisa’s social stratum, but somehow he’d achieved boyfriend status. It had probably lasted about three months, which was a whole bunch of time back then, particularly for Ben (still was). He had graduated and hopped off to college. She’d died in an auto accident.

About six years after the crash, her parents sent Ben back his own senior photo. He didn’t recall, but he must have given it to her. They attached a little note describing how they’d been emptying one of her chests and had come upon it. Ben hardly knew them, but remembered she’d been their only daughter. He imagined how they’d kept that chest, always knowing they’d have to do something about it someday; dreading it, but needing to get through it. He wondered if waiting six years had helped or hurt. He could see no way it had helped. Their note said that they thought he might want it back. He didn’t know why anyone would want their own
eight
-
by
-
ten
high
-
school
picture back. Especially his. He’d been leaning against a fake tree with fake foliage draped behind him. His arms were crossed. Amazing how few wrinkles.

So it happened like this: Lisa was in the passenger seat. Chad Oakes was driving. Chad was a friend of Lisa’s (just a friend); he’d never been a friend of Ben’s. He was a basketball phenom, something valuable at their high school. Ben’s had been one of the top schools in the state, having won the state title a time or two. Chad had been a starter on the varsity team right from his freshman year. Despite how much Ben disliked him, he had been beautiful to watch on the court. He was always pol
ite to Ben. Mostly. Particularly when no one was watching. But he was also the kind of guy who offset the beauty of his play by the ugliness of jock arrogance. Once he came up behind a kid sitting in the locker room and plopped his dick on the guy’s shoulder for the entertainment of all the other guys in the locker room. He was that kind of guy. Laugh a minute. He never took anything seriously. Including, for some strange reason, any opportunity to continue his basketball career in college. All he’d had to do was nod yes and he’d have had a full ride at the college of his choice. But something tripped in his mind, and he’d suddenly landed in a place where scoring a few drugs and continuing to bask in his local fame seemed the better option. So there he was, a few months after graduating driving down Route 70 with Lisa in the passenger seat.

Chad was high. The car swerved and went off the road. She died. Seemed simple. Chad survived, but ended up behind bars.

Ben had found out on a call with his dad a few weeks later. He dropped an: “Oh, that’s too bad.” Perhaps he’d meant it. But at
twenty
-
one
, life is all moving in one direction and doesn’t really appreciate pulling over to look back.

Then, a few years later when home visiting his father, he ran into an old classmate at the pub. The guy worked at the prison; he saw Chad a bunch. Ben got the details of the crash as Chad remembered it. Maybe Chad had been falling asleep, maybe he’d simply lost focus. The car had started to veer, but Chad swears he was in control and would have simply corrected the course. Lisa, noticing the direction of the car, had panicked. She’d reached over to grab the steering wheel. He was convinced that while he’d been off track, it had been her grab for control that actually threw the car. And who knows? Chad’s mind had certainly not been that clear. Then he’d told Ben’s classmate something that he’d never told anyone else before. Chad had come close to breaking down completely as he said that he thinks he remembers lying beneath her in the wreck of the upside down car. They’d been stuck. Chest to chest. All had been quiet, as if time had stopped and the world had shut down. He’d called out her name, but there had been no response and she wasn’t moving. Except.

Except through his shirt he felt her heart beating. The pace was slowing. Softly slowing, until it slowed to a stop.

In Ben’s dream, it’d been him
chest
-
to
-
chest
with Lisa. Except her heart had been strong, as had her embrace. They were fully grown, and she was providing him comfort. He’d felt a peace that was strangely familiar, yet altogether rare in his waking life. A life in which singlehood had prevailed. More like it had kicked his ass. Not that he’d minded.

He sat up again, scolding himself for again drifting away from thoughts of his dad.
Theme of the day, stud
,
he reminded himself.

After a shower, he dug his dark suit out from the closet. He started sweating within seconds of fastening the final button on his dress shirt. He pulled out his dress belt and slipped it through the loops. He whispered curses as he tried to buckle it. One hole made the belt too tight, and the next one down made it hang too loose. Those were his choices today. Seemed to him that most men had more than one dress belt. It had always seemed a bit of a waste of money considering his lifestyle. It’s not as if he really struggled for money, particularly had he accepted more from his dad, who would have willingly given him any amount. Ben had refused (mostly). Now it would all (mostly) go to him. Odd how pride meant one thing while his father was alive, but would be thrown out the window at inheritance time.

Before putting on his tie, Ben went to the kitchen to survey the fridge. Assuming there was something worthy of breakfast there (a huge assumption), best to tackle it before dropping bits on his only tie appropriate for the day’s events. As he sipped a glass of orange juice, it occurred to him that he should have taken the same precaution with his only dress shirt. The sudden thought didn’t lead to a spill, but did trigger a windpipe swallow. He let out a grunt and thumped his sternum, cursing again.

Probably not honorable to start his father’s funeral day with a string of cussing, he thought. He promised himself he’d do better. Then he did an
arm
-
spaz
while brushing his teeth and gouged the gum on his lower left side. He had been looking over his face in the mirror while brushing and had seen one of those mystery ear hairs. It was too long to have simply appeared overnight, but at that length it seemed impossible to him that he’d not noticed it before. As he left his house, already sweating under his suit, he resigned himself to the day ahead. It would be one of those days where the air felt like molasses, where he’d have to go to the bathroom only when none were around, and where he’d have to find a way to hold himself together while his father was buried.

At least the car started.

Ben drove north out of the city. The funeral would be up in Portsmouth, his dad’s adopted town in New Hampshire. Ben didn’t have the energy to engage in the typical
Boston
-
area
roadway rodeo. He let all the other laniacs swerve in and out in front of him as they tried their best to gain each
thirty
-
second
edge in their journey. Ben was usually more than game to play along, but despite the bumps and bruises of getting ready that morning, he had managed to leave his house about thirty minutes before he had to. Of course, thirty minutes can evaporate instantly with only the simplest of traffic incidents, but it was late enough in the morning that Ben doubted he’d hit any major congestion. He relaxed, put on some classical music (way out of character, but you had to do something), and tried to fulfill his promise to spend some
gray
-
matter
time with his dad.

And frankly, he wanted to test his emotional balance. He wanted to see if he had any emotional responses to get out of the way while alone in the car. If asked, Ben would say there’s nothing wrong with a man crying at his father’s funeral. He’d think no less of any man he saw doing it; and he had no one attending today from whom he’d want to hide any tears. Either way, he would just feel better if he could get it all over with in the car.

Okay
,
he thought.
Let’s begin
.

Rob Keaton. Born in Boston. Only son. Irish. Grandparents came over on the boat. Lost his parents at a young age. Married. Lost his wife shortly after she gave birth to their only son. Ben. That was his family. Just the two boys. Rob and Ben. Shoulder to shoulder.

That was what Rob said, ever since Ben could remember. Back then, Rob had to bend down, putting his arm around his young son and squeezing him close, but keeping them both facing forward. That was important to Rob. Don’t look back. Look forward, but…

Shoulder to shoulder.

Ben slowed the car down.
Yeah
,
he thought as he fought to see through the tears,
that didn’t take long
.