The Fives Run North-South (32 page)

34

P
aul felt the car slow down. Looking out the window, he glanced at the street sign. They’d arrived. He put down his laptop and unhooked his seatbelt, checking out the house numbers until he saw the one they were looking for. A
cruddy
-
looking
ranch
-
style
home. Then his eye caught movement on the right side.

Was that Cary creeping through the bushes near the back?

Before he could answer his own question, whoever it was disappeared from view as the car rolled to a stop, pulling in front of a parked red car. Paul guessed that would be Ben’s rental. He opened the door, leaning forward before exiting.

“Stay here,” he said to the driver, who nodded.

Paul stood up. He thought he heard voices coming from the house. Or outside it. Something felt odd. He walked toward the front door.

Light crept back in. More like stabbed back in, as Ben realized he’d opened his eyes directly into the sun. He blinked.

Shot. Been…shot…

He felt slime on his chin and smelled vomit across the front of his shirt. He also felt dampness in his pants, warm. Not blood. Urine. A small voice in his head said: “Great. Heroic. Puke and piss yourself…not the most Hollywood way to react.” But that voice was mostly drowned out by the rest of his brain saying: “Yeeooww, this HURTS!”

He forced himself to breathe, though inhaling felt as if it were ripping his chest open.

Then he remembered where he was. Who had shot him. And what he’d said.

“I didn’t mean to kill your father.”

He suddenly felt a bit more alert, as a surge of adrenaline allowed him to lift his head. He saw Fred still holding the gun in front of him with a look of amazement in his eyes, as if he had no idea he was holding it.

“Fred! Ben! Oh my God!”

They both turned their heads and saw Cary as she pulled herself out of the bushes and onto the patio.

“Cary?” Fred said.

She ran over to Ben, kneeling beside him, looking at his chest. She started to panic, looking back over at Fred, then at Ben again.

“What have you done?” she screamed. Ben assumed she was asking Fred, though she was looking into his eyes.

“He’s after me,” Fred said. “Why are you here with him?”

“Call an ambulance!” she ordered.

“He says he killed my father,” Ben whispered.

Cary tilted her head, hearing him. Hearing him, but from the looks of it, not understanding him. She stood up and breathed in deeply before facing Fred.

“Fred,” she said. “First, please put down the gun.”

He shook his head spastically. “No,” he mumbled. “Why are you here?” He pointed the gun again at Ben. “With him.”

“He’s here to help me. I’m here because I’m worried about you. He needs help, Fred. Please.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We thought you were in his father’s book. That you were Adam Mann. Hiding from someone who was trying to hurt you. Randall Grosse. Or whoever. Please, we came here to help you.”

“He came here to get me,” Fred said, waving the gun held loosely in his hand. “And I just shot him. Didn’t mean to. Just like I didn’t mean to kill his father. That fucker.” Then he tilted his head as if he were trying to hear someone behind him before adding: “I’m not a victim!”

“Okay. We can work it all out,” Cary said, finding a calm in her voice. She took a step toward Fred.

“No!” he said, his whole body jumping as if he’d been shocked. “Just wait.”

“Okay, Fred. What do you need?”

“What did you do to my father?” Ben said, finding his voice. He was shaking, too, but it was because he was
so fucking cold
…Here, in of all places,
Florida
.

“I’m not a victim,” Fred said. “He thought it was so funny, putting me in his book. Making me look like an ass. I just wanted him to know what it was like to be a story. Some character. Got my feet all muddy.”

Fred Spencer pulled his car into the driveway of that empty neighboring house. He’d seen it the day before while planning this whole thing. The house was for sale. Empty. Just a short walk from Rob Keaton’s place. And there was a good field between them. Probably a good place to get these sneakers muddy. A size too big. Probably a silly precaution, but Fred was always successful because his mind captured all the details up front. Stuff most folks wouldn’t have thought about.

The idea had come to him when he’d read the latest installment of
Dented
. Keaton had really done it this time. It made Fred’s skin itch it was so bad. But at least it finally gave him a way to give that guy a taste of his own imagination. Simple, really.

He held the screwdriver tight in his gloved hands, and under the moonlight walked in the direction of Keaton’s house. He could see the lights. It was peaceful and warm out here. He remembered how much he’d liked the outdoors as a boy. Walking through fields. Amazing how long it’d been since he’d done that. He approached the house, and as he’d planned, slowly circled it. It was about two in the morning. Highly unlikely the guy was still awake. Had to be asleep for the plan to work. After about a half hour, having circled the house and grown satisfied that it was at rest, he moved in. As he’d guessed, there was a patio door out back. He’d start there. He moved slowly but looked down. As he’d hoped, the sneakers were caked with mud.

Good.

He slowly moved up onto the back deck and reached for the handle on the patio door. It was locked. He started to stick the screwdriver into the latch but then he stopped. Just for kicks, he thought he’d try the garage door around the side. He moved silently off the deck and walked around the back to the side utility door by the garage. He reached for the handle and turned. It was open.

Ah
-
ha
.

The door creaked. Just a bit. But he was inside the garage. It was dark in there so he moved slowly. Last thing he needed to do was knock over a shovel or something. Keaton had to stay asleep. That was key.

He moved around the cars parked in the garage, up to the wooden steps that rose to the door into the house. He was ready with the screwdriver, but smiled as he found that door open as well. Bad habits of overconfident homeowners. As if it were meant to be. He knew he’d have found a way in, but this was easier than he’d expected.

The back door also creaked. A bit. He left it open behind him to minimize noise. And also to leave a clear path to get away if he needed to haul ass out. But he was inside. Most of the hard stuff was over. He put the screwdriver into his back pocket and reached up, pulling the bandana from his neck to cover the bottom of his face. From his other back pocket, he pulled out the black stocking cap and pulled it over his head as far as it would go so that only his eyes were uncovered.

He moved into the house. Slowly. No
wakey
-
wakey
allowed.

Then another stroke of luck. The fucker snores. Like an auditory popcorn trail. Fred moved slowly, ready for squeaky floorboards. There were a few, but he managed them fine, he thought. His heart began pounding faster as he moved closer to the sound of Keaton’s snoring. He rounded into a hallway and saw an open door at the end on the left. He was certain that was the bedroom. He looked down. Good. Nice footprints. When the guy woke up in the morning, there’d be no question
that
—
like
happened in the
book
—
someone
had stood in his bedroom watching him sleep. Someone who wasn’t supposed to be there. Who had total power over the sleeping man. Who could slit his throat. Beat him senseless before he could fully wake up. Could take what he wanted. Who had total power over the man in the bed.

Keaton would feel like the victim.

Perfect. Lesson would be learned.

“But he woke up,” Fred said to Cary.

“Who woke up?” she asked, still hoping to calm him down.

“His father.” Fred jabbed the gun in Ben’s direction. “He wakes up. So I shout at him. Scared the shit out of him. No. Scared the life out of him. His heart, I guess. Because he got bad. Real bad.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Cary whispered.

“I didn’t mean to,” Fred repeated almost at a whisper.

“Hello?” came a voice. From the front of the house. Fred didn’t seem to hear it. Cary looked down at Ben. She recognized that voice.

Ben was fading. His breathing labored. “My…father…,” he said. “Cary?”

“Hang on, Ben,” she said.

“Hey!” she heard. She turned back toward the corner of the house where she and Ben had crawled through. She saw Paul come through the same way.

“Oh,” said Fred, his voice
high
-
pitched
and cracking. “Now who the hell is this?” He waved his arms frantically. “I mean, how many fucking people did you bring with you, Cary?”

Paul surveyed the scene. “Holy shit,” he said, moving quickly to Ben. He kneeled by him. “Call 911!” Paul said.

Cary turned to Fred. “Come on, Fred.” She stepped toward him. He began to cry, shaking violently. “Oh, Cary…” he said.

She moved slowly toward him, and now the gun was aimed directly at her. “Fred,” she said as soothingly as she could. Behind her, she heard Paul on his phone. “Yes. We need an ambulance right now at…” His voice kept going but faded from her attention as she saw the look in Fred’s eyes. A look she’d never seen before in the man she’d spent all those years with. The man who was gone now. Long gone.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, tears running down his face. Then his face changed. A strange smile. Then he laughed. “And you thought I was Adam Mann. Jesus, Cary. You were always a bit behind the rest of us. I wasn’t Adam Mann,” he said.

As he turned the gun away from her.

“I was Randall fucking Grosse…”

And into his mouth. The back of his head launched in pieces into the water of the swimming pool behind him.

35

“H
ey, Ben. How are you doing?”

“I’m confused, Dad. And a bit lost.”

“You just described the human condition, son. That’s what makes for so many good stories. Think about it. How many stories have been written about two people struggling to be in love? Even if you peel off the crappy ones, you still have thousands left over. All manage to keep us entranced, sometimes even on repeat tellings. That’s why we storytellers have the greatest calling ever.”

“I’d rather be the writer than the main character, Dad. Especially if you’re involved.”

“Ha. Good one.”

“So what happened, Dad?”

“My story leaked into my life. You know my rule about mixing the two. You break the rules, you tickle the gods.”

“He said he killed you.”

“Well, so did those last few cheeseburgers. Can’t be mad at everything that plays a part in my demise.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re cheeseburgers.”

“No, Dad. Why did he kill you?”

“Bad things happen, Ben. Makes for good stories, but that’s not a comfort, even to you, is it?”

“No.”

“Then take comfort in this: roots are ugly, trees are beautiful.”

“Like I said before, I’m confused. Your little Confucius impersonation doesn’t help.”

“The story’s not over, Ben. Wake up.”

Eyes open.

“Okay…where am I?”

At least that’s what the question was when it germinated in Ben’s mind. What came out of his mouth was more of a “Oyayhekkmiyo?” (followed by a small cough that really, really hurt. Everywhere). Everything was white. He was lying down. Mostly. His upper body was raised as if he were in…

A hospital bed.

“Hi,” Cary said, leaning over him. With that smile. The kind of smile one gives a small child or a sick person. Ben frowned as more layers of the world opened up to him. It was a hospital.

“About time.” Ben turned his head. It was Paul, sitting on the other side of the room with a laptop open in front of him. Despite the attempt at casual, he had a trace of that silly smile on his face, too.

Then Ben remembered. Fred Spencer’s house. The gun.

“You just came out of surgery,” Cary said. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Yin, Florida?” Ben managed.

“Yes,” Paul said. “We’re still in the land of sun and sweat. You know there’s a topless donut shop just a few blocks from here? It’s like the bizzaro Reese’s peanut butter cup: two great things that definitely don’t go great together.”

“I was shot?”

“Yes.”

“By a gun.”

“Let’s not go into shock again. It wasn’t that attractive the first time you did it,” Paul said.

“He didn’t hit anything critical,” Cary said, giving Paul a look as she put her hand on Ben’s forehead. “The bullet went in below your shoulder.”

Ben looked at his arm, locked in with an oversized cast that went to the top of his shoulder. “Holy…” he said. He was feeling tired. “How bad?” he asked.

“The doctor says you’ll have it almost fully functional again,” Cary said. “After a while.”

Ben nodded. Slightly, because as he started, he realized it hurt. Then his eyes focused on Cary as he remembered. “Your husband…”

She looked away and then back. “He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have left well enough alone…I…”

Paul stood and moved slowly over to the window, as if he were trying to slip out of their presence. He stood stiffly by it, looking outside as if studying the scene.

“Not what you expected, hey?” Ben said.

“He said he killed your father, and then he shot you and killed himself,” Cary said. “That’s…that’s unimaginable…and believe me, not what I’d ever considered…” She started tearing up.

“Let’s talk about it later. After a while,” Ben said.

She nodded.

“I’m getting sleepy,” Ben said.

“That’s good,” she said. “Rest.”

He slipped away, and after a few minutes the frown on his face softened.

“He’ll have more questions,” Paul said.

“I know.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have to, Paul. And I feel even more guilty leaving like this…but…”

Outside the room, Cary’s sister sat with relative patience. Paul could see her sitting with legs crossed, the top leg bouncing as if in an attempt to coerce the rest of her into moving, too. She looked at her watch with disturbing regularity. She had driven across the state last night and was going to bring Cary to her house in Tampa for a while.

“Look,” Paul said. “I understand. And Ben will understand. Go be with your sister. Take time to get right. He was your husband…”

“Ex
-
husband
. And it’s important that
you
—
and
he
–
know
that. We were in love once. And I suppose that never goes away entirely. But that man who shot Ben…I didn’t love that man.” She was crying again. “Shit!” she said. “I don’t know. I don’t know, so I have to get going with my sister. But you have to convince Ben that I’ll be back.”

“I will,” Paul said.

“And even if he doesn’t want to see me…”

“He will.”

“You don’t know…”

“He will.”

Her face mixed a doubting smile and some pain. She looked over at her sister (now standing rather than sitting…the bouncy leg tapping the floor) and back at Paul.

“Listen,” Paul said. “I’ve known Ben for a decade. He’s become my best friend. I’ve seen him around a few women. One or two might,
might
be what one could consider to fall under the classification of girlfriend. But none, not a single one, seemed to get his attention as much as you have. So I’d say that after you’ve had time to heal up a bit, he’ll welcome you back with open arms. Well, open arm. Depending on where he’s at with his physical therapy.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you came down after us.”

“You have to go.”

She looked at her sister. “She’ll wait.” Cary looked down at the floor. “Paul?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to tell him the rest?”

Paul nodded.

“When?” she asked.

“Soon. When he’s mobile again. Ready to go back up north. Otherwise, he’d not focus and do the things he needs to do to get up and around. You heard the doctor. He’s almost going to have to learn to use that arm again from scratch.”

“What’s it going to do to him?”

Paul shrugged. “He’s tougher than he thinks. And he’s an odd one.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s got an unexplainable continued belief in the happy ending.”

“How you doing this morning?” Paul asked.

“Day three. The nurses and the
Jell
-
O
are starting to look the same,” Ben said. “And my butt itches.”

“Okay, you’ve ruined
Jell
-
O
for me.”

Ben looked toward the window. “I wish I could have let her know I don’t blame her.”

“Not even just a little?”

“Can the jokes, Paul. I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“It’s not her fault.”

“I didn’t say that. Still…”

Ben sat silently for a while. “I hope she’s all right.”

“It might take some time, but I’m putting my money on her. She’s tough.”

Ben didn’t respond. They both looked at the television. There was a game show on.

“I can’t get it out of my mind,” Ben said after a while.

“What?”

“The image of that guy, Fred. Standing in my father’s bedroom. Doing nothing but watching as Dad…”

“I know.”

“I mean. Fuck. The last thing my dad sees or thinks is…”

“Don’t do that,” Paul said. “Don’t get hung up on what you think might have happened, or what you think he experienced. What good is that?”

“I’m hung up on more than just that…”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“It’s in your nature,” Ben said, allowing a smile.

“Focus on getting yourself a bit better and out of this bed before you tackle the larger questions. Cary’s doing what she needs to get herself right. How ’bout you do the same thing?”

“Easy to say…”

“I know. He was your father, but he was more than just a client to me. I can’t say I know how you feel. It’s trite and untrue. But I have a pretty good feeling.”

Ben nodded. “You’re right,” he said.

They both turned their attention to the television. It was commercials now, which were clearly aimed at a different audience, considering the time of day.

“Can I be the first to sign your cast?” Paul asked.

“Okay, as long as you don’t add a happy face.”

Paul stood. “I have to get back to the office.”

“I know. Lucky dog.”

“I’ll be back. And we’ll get you up north as soon as we can.”

“I’d appreciate that. All this sunshine makes me nervous.”

“Can I talk shop for a second?”

“I suppose.”

“Got the paperwork in on another printing of
Flier
.
I’ll be depositing a nice advance in your account in a few days. Might make a small dent in the bill you’ll be getting from this
five
-
star
,
funny
-
smelling
hotel.”

“I do need income.”

“And we also need to work on how this gets out to the public.”

“What do you mean?”

“You might not be a celebrity…yet. But you’re the son of one. And you were just shot in Florida.”

“Lots of people get shot in Florida.”

“Uh
-
huh
. And
plenty
—
even
the ones who aren’t
famous
—
get
media coverage when they do. I can handle this, but you have to let me break the news.”

“What are you going to say? And are you dragging Cary into this?”

“I can handle it,” Paul said.

“But…”

“I can handle it.” Paul looked at his watch. “Man, I’m running late. Gotta bolt. You know, sometimes I think if I’d been born ten minutes earlier, it would have been better.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, I’m about ten minutes late every time I go somewhere. Born ten minutes earlier, I’d have earned a reputation as a prompt person.”

“Before you go, can you do me one favor?”

“Sure,” said Paul.

“Get my laptop down here. I need to figure out how to type so I can keep you from going to the
Esquire
principal’s office.”

Paul smiled. “I knew you’d decide that.”

“You were praying I’d decide that.”

“Well, either way, I’ll do better than getting you the laptop.”

“Oh?”

“You bet. I have
Walter
-
Paddy
on the company plane,” Paul said. He looked down at his watch. “In fact, he’ll be here in about
forty
-
five
minutes. He is all set to take your dictation from now until you’re done. You talk, he types.”