Julie had always been careful about her spending, but never more so than after her divorce ten years ago. She hadn’t seen anything from her ex since they’d split, and it wasn’t worth the time or money to track him down to try and squeeze a few nickels and dimes out of him to help raise their daughter, Sophie. Chances were, even if she could find him, he’d be out of work, or spending, in local bars, what little he made from digging ditches or putting up drywall. Even if she had to struggle to get by, she was better off without him.
Now, with Sophie in her second year at Monroe, they were cutting it pretty fine. Thank God Sophie was attending a college close enough that she could still live at home. There was no way Julie could pay to board her someplace. And God bless her, Sophie was doing everything she could to make it easier for her mom. She’d spent the summer working every night in the kitchen of an Italian restaurant, often bringing home lasagna and tortellini and salad that the manager might otherwise have pitched at the end of the day. Sophie was soaking up everything she could on how a place like that operated. Dovetailed perfectly with the culinary degree she was going after. Everything Sophie made she put toward her school year. But it wasn’t enough. Julie had to dip into her savings to make up the difference.
And then the flood hit.
One of those torrential rainstorms, the kind the weather experts called a “hundred-year storm” but which seemed in more recent times to happen annually. Those black clouds, heavy with moisture, hung over Julie’s neighborhood for hours. The storm drains on the city streets couldn’t keep up. Water rose above the curbs. And then the front lawn of Julie’s modest one-story was underwater.
The shallow, ground-level windows that allowed some light into the basement caved in, and water cascaded into the house.
The mess was unbelievable. Basement furniture floated upward until it hit the ceiling. The circuit breaker panel became submerged. Once the storm was over, the water receded, and the basement had been pumped out, the extent of the devastation could be seen. Twenty, thirty thousand in damage, the insurance company said. Too bad you’re not covered for this kind of thing. Go ahead, look at your policy. Read the fine print. Oh, you didn’t? Is that our fault?
Despite how desperate things were, today Julie went out for lunch. Because, she figured, what the hell. She was in a hole so deep she was never going to crawl out.
She couldn’t afford to fix her house. She might have to sell it, at an enormous loss, and find some cheap apartment to live in.
Sophie owed the college an installment on her tuition, and she had drained every last cent out of her own account. Julie didn’t know how she would make up the difference.
She had told Dr. Gold about her dilemma. Julie had too much pride to ask him, outright, to help her. But if he were to offer, well, that’d be different. She hoped to appeal to his better angels, that upon hearing her tale of woe, he would reach into his desk and pull out his checkbook. It didn’t have to be a gift, she’d tell him. She would pay him back. He could take it out of her pay, a small sum each week until it was totally paid off. Just something to help her get through this difficult period.
Dr. Gold had listened as she brought him up to date on her misfortunes. He had nodded sympathetically.
And he’d said, “That’s just awful, Julie. I hope you’re able to work out things with the insurance company.”
At which point he went back to reading something on his computer screen.
The weasel.
So today, Julie treated herself. At the Winslow Diner, a block from the ReproGold Clinic. She ordered an egg salad sandwich and a coffee. Seven dollars and thirty-five cents, not counting tip.
It was delicious.
But she found herself unable to enjoy it. She felt guilty. She could have brought her own lunch and been up five dollars. And somewhere around her fourth bite, Julie believed she might start crying.
Hold it together, she told herself.
She put down her sandwich, dabbed the corners of her eyes with her paper napkin, and took a sip of coffee from the chunky, ceramic mug. There were only half a dozen customers in the diner, although it could probably hold close to thirty. Julie had chosen to come shortly after eleven, before it became crowded, and when there were no appointments scheduled at the clinic. Rather than sit on a counter stool, Julie had taken a table for two and sat so that she could watch people walk past outside.
A woman entered the diner.
Fiftyish, Julie thought. A bit frumpy, plump, gray hair that she’d pulled back into a ponytail. Gave her a kind of aging-hippie look. She was wearing a jacket that was frayed at the edges and clutching a much-scuffed purse large enough to hold a sleeping bag. She had a somewhat distracted look, as though she was not quite sure why she’d come in here.
But then the woman scanned the restaurant and her gaze seemed to stop when it landed on Julie. Slowly, she worked her way through the tables until she reached Julie’s. She smiled and said, “May I join you?”
There were plenty of places to sit, Julie thought. Couldn’t she take one of the other tables? Maybe sit at the counter?
“Um,” Julie said, “I’m about to leave in a minute.”
“Okay,” the woman said, and flopped down into the seat across from her. She made it into something of a production, letting out a big sigh, adjusting her coat so it wasn’t bunched up under her, then lugging her large purse up into her lap. She glanced around, as if looking for a server.
“How’s the coffee here?” the woman asked.
“It’s … okay.”
“Looks like a good sandwich. Egg salad?”
Julie nodded. Was this woman homeless? Should she offer her the rest of her lunch?
“You’re Julie Harkin,” the woman said, smiling.
That got Julie’s attention. In a fraction of a second, she realized this was not a random event. This woman had sought her out.
“Yes. Have we—do I know you?”
The woman smiled. “No. My name is Heather.”
“Heather …?”
“Last name’s not important.”
Julie glanced about nervously. None of this felt right. Should she get up and walk out?
“It’s okay,” Heather said. “I’m not here to deliver bad news. I’m here to make a proposal.”
“A proposal?”
“Yes. I represent someone sympathetic to your current situation.”
“My current situation?” Julie leaned in closer. “What do you mean, you represent someone?”
“I have a client who believes you can help him. And he’s prepared to reward you for your efforts.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You make thirty-three thousand dollars a year. Your home has sustained damages that amount to more than that annual salary, and your insurance company is denying coverage. You have a daughter in college who needs financial help. Your car, a 1998 Civic, hasn’t been serviced in three years and three out of the four tires are bald. That’s not safe. You should do something about that.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Let me show you something,” Heather said. She dug down into her purse and came out with a plain, letter-sized envelope. She set it on the table, but rested her arm on top of it so it was barely visible. In the glimpse she’d had of it, Julie noticed that it was very thick, and sealed.
“This envelope contains fifty thousand dollars,” Heather said. “It’s for you.”
Julie could find no words. She wasn’t even sure this was really happening. She could not stop looking at the envelope under Heather’s arm.
“Fifty thousand dollars would go a long way to solving your current problems. You could get your house repaired, cover your daughter’s educational costs, and even have enough left over for some new tires.” Heather smiled. “I’m kind of partial to Michelins, but that’s totally up to you. I understand your daughter is interested in pursuing a career in the culinary arts. That’s wonderful. You must be very pro
ud of her.”
Julie managed to get out a sentence. “I don’t understand.”
“I want to make it very clear that there is no threat here,” Heather said. “If you do not wish to help my client, I’ll leave, and take that envelope with me. You won’t hear from me again. This will be the end of it. But if you do wish to help my client, these funds constitute a thank-you. Simple as that.”
“What does your … client want?”
“Information.”
“What … does he want to know?”
Heather spelled it out.
Eleven
New Haven, CT
Miles believed the time had come to bring his brother into the loop. He owed him that. Plus, he had a little something for him.
He wouldn’t have to go far to find Gilbert.
Gilbert was down the hall, in the accounting division of Cookson Tech. Miles had acquired this two-story industrial building five years ago. At one time, long ago, dog biscuits had been manufactured here. After that company went bankrupt, the building sat empty for nearly two decades and had fallen into disrepair. Squatters fought with rats and raccoons for territorial dominance.
Miles acquired the building, and the land it sat on, at a city auction. A steal. All he had to do was spend another $20 million to make the building usable. He’d taken a lead from other tech companies and done his best to make the workplace fun. Open spaces, pool tables, foosball, places to gather for coffee and conversation. A small theater.
Even the accounting department had pinball machines, ones that didn’t have to be fed coins to operate.
Miles found Gilbert taking a break at one of them. He was pushing the buttons furiously, making the paddles jump. He missed catching a pinball on the rebound and it dropped away back into the machine.
“Shit,” Gilbert said.
His brother had never been very good at video games, Miles mused. Back in the early nineties, Miles could whip his older brother’s ass at every Nintendo game.
“At least you didn’t have to put a quarter in,” Miles said.
“Hey,” Gilbert said. “What’s up?”
“When you finish your game.”
“One ball left,” Gilbert said. He managed to keep it in play for another minute before it slipped between the paddles and the game was finished.
“Nice,” Miles said.
Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”
“Got a minute?”
Gilbert’s face fell. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem.”
“Because I was actually going to come and see you.”
“About?”
“The invoices from Excel Point Enterprises.”
“What about them?” Miles asked.
“I don’t remember seeing that company name before.”
Miles shrugged. “Probably something to do with the ardees.” His nickname for the people in research and development. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get some air.”
They descended a set of Lucite steps and exited the building. The neighborhood had been in decline when Miles first bought the building, but Cookson Tech had revitalized the area. There were other tech buildings, coffee shops, a Thai restaurant. Parked at the curb was Miles’s Porsche.
Miles reached into his pocket for the car-shaped key fob, but for a moment had some difficulty getting his fingers to close around it. But once it was out, and in his palm, he held it out to Gilbert.
“Here,” he said.
“Seriously?” Gilbert said. “You’re actually going to let me drive your precious baby?”
“Why not. Let’s take a spin.”
Gilbert, agog, was not convinced. “I don’t believe it.”
“For Christ’s sake, get in the car.”
Gilbert’s face broke into a smile. A kid getting his first ride on a pony. Miles dropped the key into his hand.
“Not that you need it,” Miles said. “It’s keyless. As long as one of us has it, the car will start. But, you know, symbolically, you should have it in your possession if you’re behind the wheel.”
Gilbert closed his fist around the key, walked around to the driver’s door, and got in. Miles got into the passenger side.
Gilbert was searching the dash for a start button.
“Switch is to the left of the wheel,” Miles said.
Gilbert found it, put his foot on the brake, and turned it. The car rumbled to life.
“Wow,” he said, looking more than a little intimidated. He ran his hands around the wheel, getting used to the feel of it. “Where are we going?”
“Anywhere you want,” Miles said. “Maybe take it out onto the highway.”
Gilbert put his hand on the shifter. “I was expecting a stick.”
Miles shook his head. “Pretty much all the Porsches are coming with the PDK.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. Let’s just go.”
Gilbert put the car in Drive and pulled out into the street. “It feels so tight,” he said. He feathered the gas and the car leapt forward. “Christ, it doesn’t take much.”
Miles nodded. “Yeah, a light touch is recommended until you get the hang of it.”
“Yeah, well, a spin may not make me an expert.” He glanced over at his brother. “So how’d I manage this privilege? Getting behind the wheel of your baby?”
“Think of it as a test drive.”
“What?”
“Nobody gets a new car without taking it out for a test drive.”
Gilbert shot him another look. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s yours.”
Gilbert looked dumbfounded. “What do you mean, ‘it’s yours’? What are you talking about?”
“It means that when we get out, you keep that key in your pocket. The car is yours. I’m giving it to you. I don’t need it anymore.”
Gilbert blinked. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’ll sign it over to you. I want you to have it. There’s a few speeding tickets in the glove box. Actually, more than a few. I’ll take care of those.”
“This is … I don’t know what to say.” Gilbert forced a laugh. “I don’t get it. You’re either getting something even faster, or you’re dying.”
“Yeah, one of those,” Miles said.
Gilbert’s face turned serious. “Tell me it’s the first one.”
Miles shook his head slowly, then pointed forward, encouraging Gilbert to keep his eyes on the road.
“Talk to me,” Gilbert said quietly.
“So, yeah, I’m dying. Not right away. At least, probably not right away. It may take a few years. But it’s coming. I’m giving up driving. I could probably keep doing it for a while longer, but if I’m going to have to give it up, I might as well do it now. I’m having some … muscle control issues. Surely you’ve noticed.”
“Not … really.”
“My awkward limb movements at times. My head rolling around on top of my shoulders.”
“I thought you were just stretching … or something. Okay, I’ve noticed. But I didn’t really think it was anything, and it was none of my business, anyway.” He shook his head. “I can’t drive and have this talk. I have to pull over.”
“Sure.”
Gilbert saw a wide shoulder up ahead, put on the blinker, steered the car over onto the gravel, put the car in Park, and killed the engine. “Okay,” he said. “From the beginning.”
Miles told him. The problems he’d been having trying to focus. Unable to remember things that had just happened. Increasingly irritable, prone to outbursts.
“Those, you probably didn’t notice so much,” Miles said, “given that I’ve always been kind of an asshole.”
What really got him worried, Miles said, was the clumsiness. Dropping things. Tripping over his own feet.
“I knew something was wrong, so I went to see Alexandra. She ordered a bunch of tests.”
“Parkinson’s?” Gilbert asked.
Miles shook his head. �
��That would have been good news.” He took a breath. “Huntington’s.”
Gilbert stared at him blankly, as though shell-shocked.
“God, Miles, I’m so sorry.”
And then Miles could see something happening behind Gilbert’s eyes, and he knew what he had to be thinking.
“It’s okay,” Miles said.
“What’s okay?”
“You probably already know the odds, so let me put your mind at ease. You’re thinking if I’ve got this, maybe you’ve got it, too. And if you’ve got it, will Samantha get it?”
Gilbert said nothing, but looked at his brother as though awaiting news of his death sentence.
“You’re fine,” Miles said. “You don’t have it.”
“How can you possibly know whether—”
Miles raised a hand. “Don’t go apeshit on me, but I had your DNA sampled.”
“When did you—”
“Dorian took your Coke can. When I broke the news to you about myself, I didn’t want you to have to wait to find out what your own situation was. You’re in the clear.”
Gilbert looked as though he might begin to weep. “I feel a little overwhelmed.”
“Sure.”
And then Gilbert did something Miles wasn’t expecting. He leaned over, as best he could in the cramped cabin of the Porsche, and put his arms around his brother, burying his face in his neck.
“I’m so sorry,” Gilbert said. “This is so goddamn fucking unfair.”
He held on to Miles for nearly fifteen seconds. “It’s okay,” Miles said, starting to disentangle himself from Gilbert. “It’s okay.”
Gilbert settled himself back into position behind the wheel, slowly shaking his head as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Whatever you need, if there’s anything I can do, all you have to do is ask.”
Miles smiled and tapped the dash. “Take care of my baby.”
Gilbert sighed. “I don’t give a shit about the car.”
“Well, if you don’t want it, then—”
“I didn’t say that.”
Which prompted them both to laugh to the point that they both had tears running down their faces.
“I haven’t laughed like that since I got the news,” Miles said.
“Oh, jeez,” Gilbert said, wiping his tears.
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