by Elle Gray
Fifteen
Reuben Hayes
Bainbridge Island, WA
I sit on the back deck of my home, enjoying a glass of Chateau Pontet-Canet Cabernet and another dazzling sunset. The storm passed, leaving the sky streaked with thin, wispy clouds that glow in vibrant shades of orange and red. The sun sparkles off the surface of the Sound, making it glitter like a pool of liquid fire. I take a sip and breathe in the ocean air, savoring it every bit as much as this glass of wine.
I spent a good part of the day watching the footage from Paxton’s office. I was curious to know what they had to say in the wake of my conversation with him last night. And I wasn’t disappointed. They had a lot of interesting things to say, and I enjoyed their breakdown and analysis of our little chat.
What I didn’t appreciate, though, was the woman talking him down. I want— no, I need— for Paxton to be on edge. I need him to let his inner darkness out to play. I want him to eventually understand what it is I am doing. And why I’m doing it. If there’s anybody who can grasp the scope of my work and appreciate it, it will be Paxton Arrington.
He is a mirror image of me. Whether he accepts it or not, he and I are more alike than we’re not. The more I’ve learned about Paxton, the more I’ve come to see that like me, he’s got a strong moral compass. He has a certainty about what’s right and what’s wrong. And he has an intellect far superior to most people. Just like me. And all he needs is a gentle nudge in the right direction, a little guidance, and he’ll see that what I’m doing is right. He’ll pick up my mantle.
I did not know it at first. I did not see it. I was taken by his intellect, and of course, the coincidence of sharing a passion for the Sherlock Holmes books made it seem more like serendipity. I thought I finally had somebody to challenge me. Revealing my kills and putting him on my trail is risky. It was impulsive; something I rarely ever am. I am always in such tight control of myself. I do not take risks. That is why I’ve been able to conduct my work for more than twenty years.
But over time, I must admit that my work has lost much of its flavor. The work is necessary, and I still take pride in what I do, but it’s become too easy. Too perfunctory. Maybe I’ve lost a bit of my edge, but I haven’t gotten any true enjoyment out of it in years. In Paxton, though, I thought I found somebody who would push me intellectually. Somebody who might challenge me and renew that thrill. That rush of adrenaline I used to get when I was doing my work. And that set me on fire inside in ways I haven’t felt since… well, since that October night all those years ago. It is a high I have been chasing since that night, in fact.
But the more I learn about Paxton, the more I think he’s meant to do more than just push and challenge me, although that is part of his role in my life. He’s exceptional. He reminds me of my younger self in so many ways. And it’s for that reason I believe he’s meant to become me. He’s meant to undergo a metamorphosis and emerge with his eyes open, his heart clear, and his mission firmly in mind. Like I did all those years ago. I can feel it.
The final test, of course, will be the game. I have to make certain he’s worthy of becoming me. Worthy of inheriting my mantle and continuing my work. I must ensure that he is worthy of building upon my legacy. If he survives, he’s worthy. If he dies, he wasn’t.
But that woman, FBI Special Agent Blake Wilder, is a wild card and she is standing in my way. Standing in Paxton’s way of becoming what he is meant to be. She’s going to be a problem I need to do something about. But what? What can I do about her? How should I handle her without bringing the FBI’s resources to bear on me?
She’s not a woman I can frighten or intimidate. And yet, she is not a woman I wish to kill, either. She seems to be a morally righteous woman, and though I doubt she isn’t without some skeletons in her closet, they likely wouldn’t rise to the level I require for judgment. Even I have standards and morals. But I might not have a choice if she proves to be too much of a problem for me. There are events in motion that are too important to stop now. Too important to let anybody get in the way of.
That’s when it hits me. A way to solve all of my problems at once. The thought of it brings a smile to my face as the idea starts to take shape in my mind. I still need to flesh out the finer points, of course, but I think this is workable. I think this is very workable.
And it will tell me whether or not Paxton is actually worthy to carry on my mission.
Sixteen
Paxton
Archton Media Archives Room, Downtown Seattle
“Afternoon, Mr. Arrington,” he says. “Long time, no see.”
“How are you today, Archie?”
“Can’t complain,” he grins. “Much.”
I give him a smile. Archie has been working security at the Archton Building for twenty-five years. He’s a huge, burly man who, once upon a time, was one of the best defensive linemen in all of college football. A busted-up knee kept him from making the jump to the pros, but he never let himself get bitter about it. As long as I’ve known him— which is most of my life— he’s always been amicable and always has a smile on his face.
“How’s Connie doing?”
“Still ruling with an iron fist.”
“As she should,” I reply. “Somebody has to keep you in line.”
“Your mouth to God’s ear.”
We share a laugh. His wife Connie is definitely the tough, strong one in their relationship and never lets him get away with anything. She’s a great lady, but one I would not want to be on the wrong side of.
“So what can I help you with today?” he asks.
“Just need to get into the morgue.”
“You got it.”
Archie hands me the access key for the elevator needed to get to the subterranean floors where they keep scads of information that never made it to print or on-air, in a room filled with air-gapped computers. My father reasons that since digital data is easy to store, there’s no reason to dump it, since you never know when it might be relevant to another story again. I’m suddenly glad he’s a digital hoarder like that.
“Thanks, Archie.”
“Anytime, Mr. Arrington.”
I take the elevator down to sub-level three and step out, passing through rows and rows of servers, all of them humming. I use my keycard to unlock the door to the Vault, where the computers are stored. The room is a plexiglass box, and with the fluorescent lights overhead and a pristine tile floor that gleams startlingly white. I have to cover my eyes for a moment. I pick a computer station, take off my jacket and hang it on the back of the chair, then sit down and get to work.
I call up the in-house search program and start inputting data, keywords, and anything else I can think of. I know that I’m basically looking for another needle in another haystack, but I can’t sit around waiting and hoping the answers will fall into my lap. I need to be doing something.
I start combing through all of the information I can find on the six original murders. The ones that continue to haunt Blake. I call up everything I can find on them, reading every article, watching every clip, and sifting through everything that was never used. I don’t know exactly what it is I’m searching for, but I’m hoping something clicks. Regardless, having as much background information as possible can’t be a bad thing. The more I know, the better.
“Heard you were in the building.”
I look up, surprised I hadn’t heard the door to the Vault open, then cut a quick glance at my watch, surprised to see that four hours have elapsed since I walked in. I guess I’ve been so consumed in what I’m doing, I’ve shut everything else out. I’ve consumed a ton of information, but I don’t know that any of it will be particularly relevant. Which is disappointing but not wholly unexpected.
“Hey Dad,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, son,” he replies. “Just wondering what you’re doing down here.”
“Research.”
“For what?”
“A case I’m working.”
&n
bsp; He nods. “Right. You’re still doing that private investigator thing.”
I chuckle softly. “I am.”
My father is a tall, thin man. If I were to describe him in one word, I suppose it would have to be ‘stately’. His hair is silver, his features chiseled, and his eyes are a slightly darker shade of green than mine. His frame is slight, and he’s not intimidating at all, but he has a presence and a gravitas about him that can’t be denied. He dominates any room he walks into. If Central Casting came calling for somebody to play the president, I have no doubt my father would land the role.
He sighs and sits down on the corner of the desk I’m working at, staring down at me, his eyes boring into mine. I know what he wants to say. Know what he wants me to do. I’m not like my brother, though, who my father can seemingly force to do anything with nothing but that steely-eyed gaze.
“Are you going to make me ask?” he finally says.
“No, there’s no reason for you to ask, Dad,” I say. “I’m not going to do it. I have no interest in running Archton. Zero. Zip. None.”
“Be reasonable, Paxton,” he replies. “This is where you belong. You’ve proven yourself—”
“So has George. He’s done everything you’ve ever asked him to do,” I tell him. “He’s smart. Driven. Ambitious. He has a lot of great ideas for the future of the company if you’d actually listen to him for a change.”
“I love your brother; you know that—”
“It has nothing to do with whether you love him or not. I know you do,” I say. “It has to do with him being the better man to run Archton than me. He has the desire and the ability to do it, Dad. I don’t.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes filled with sadness. I swear, the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like somebody just died. And who knows, maybe he feels that way. I know he’s wanted me to follow in his footsteps. He’s been pressuring me since I was a kid to get a good education, get good grades, to prove myself capable of leading the company into the future.
And for so long, I tried to fit that mold. I went to the best schools and got good grades. I did everything I needed to do to prove myself to my father, just like I was supposed to do. But then I met Veronica and everything changed. She opened my eyes to things and got me thinking about things in ways I never had before. Much to my father’s chagrin.
The disappointment is etched into his face. But really, he couldn’t have expected anything different. I’ve been putting him off for ten years now, telling him I have no interest in sliding into his spot when he steps down. He’s refused to hear me. But maybe now that he’s getting near the age where he’s thinking about his own future and how he wants to spend his golden years, it’s finally starting to sink in. I think for the first time, he’s finally understanding that I want to walk my own path and chart my own course through life.
My father stands and slips his hands into his pockets. I can still see the disappointment in his eyes, but his expression takes on a different look. It’s one I know well. It’s what I like to call his, ‘frustrated and angry, about to make some incomprehensible and long-winded point about nothing’, face. I’ve been seeing it since I was a kid. He makes that face every time he thinks he can bully and badger me into something.
“You know, you started to change when you met that girl—”
“Dad, don’t start. Don’t even go there,” I snap. “Don’t you dare bring her into this. You have no right.”
I grit my teeth and try to tamp down the anger that’s flaring inside of me. I’m outraged that he would dare invoke Veronica’s memory. I take a moment to focus on my breath and force myself to stay calm. Blowing up at him isn’t going to do anything but inflame this situation, and that’s the last thing I want.
He and my mother never approved of me marrying Veronica. Oh, they said all the right things, of course. The Arringtons are nothing if not socially graceful at all times. They were always nice enough to Veronica, but they never really made her feel like she was a part of the family. Not really. They never thought she was good enough for me. That I was marrying down. That I could do better and that I should be marrying somebody of means, of a proper social station.
When she died, they almost seemed relieved. Again, they said and did all the right things, made all of the socially required gestures. But it wasn’t as if they were hurting. Not like I was. They weren’t hurting as if they had lost a family member. To me, they were acting as if Veronica was just a girl I’d broken up with. Not a wife who had died.
“All I’m saying is that when you met her, you changed, son,” he says. “You started to distance yourself from your family. You turned your back on us, Pax.”
“I didn’t turn my back on you, Dad,” I tell him. “I just found another path.”
“Your path should have led you here.”
“You’re the one who always told me how critical it is that I be my own man and think for myself,” I snap. “And now you’re giving me crap because I did what you always taught me to do?”
He sighs. I can see him physically trying to restrain himself. To control his frustration and his anger with me.
“The family is still important to me, Dad. It always will be. My family is everything to me,” I continue. “But I have a different way of seeing things. A different way of doing things. And rather than punish me for it, you should welcome it. You should be happy to know you raised a strong, independent man who is nobody’s puppet. I think for myself.”
He looks away from me and closes his mouth, biting back the scathing reply I know was sitting on the tip of his tongue. He finally looks at me for a long moment, his lips pursed, not saying a word. The silence is suffocating and oppressive. Part of me wants to say something simply to ease the quiet tension.
But I recognize this as just another one of my father’s tactics. It’s almost a battle of wills with him. He makes the tension so unbearable and uncomfortable that it puts you on your heels and gives him the upper hand. And then, when he has you reeling, he will badger and bully you. Eventually, you’re so frazzled that you agree just to make him stop. I’ve seen him do it countless times.
I’m not going to give into him though. Not this time. I know who I am and know where I stand on things. Where I stand on my life. This push and pull between us has been going on for a long time now, but this time there seems to be a sense of finality in it. An understanding and perhaps a grudging acceptance.
Perhaps seeing that he isn’t going to break my resolve, my father gets to his feet and walks out of the Vault without another word, leaving me alone in the silent room.
“Well, the next family dinner should be fun,” I muse to myself.
Seventeen
Outside the Emerald Rainbow Motel, Seattle, WA
“The guy is worth millions and he can’t spring for a decent hotel?” I mutter.
I’m sitting in my Navigator in a darkened parking lot across the street from the Emerald Rainbow Motel. The apparent love nest of Murray Taub, founder and CEO of the Queen City Steakhouse, and his eighteen-year-old, fresh out of high school sweetheart, who after doing some digging, I’ve learned is Tandy Sellers.
He’s a portly man who looks like he’s one or two more of his steaks away from a stroke. Tandy looks like the head cheerleader/prom queen type. She’s a tall, lean, blonde, blue-eyed, beauty. She’s a beautiful girl, and I can’t see her relationship with ol’ Murray as anything but an attempt at a cash grab.
He’s probably giving her the ‘I’m going to leave my wife and marry you’, line and she’s probably buying it, envisioning a life on Easy Street. She might be willing to trade an hour of his sweaty, porcine body on top of hers a few times a week in exchange for a maid, an Amex Black Card, and a closet full of shoes and clothes.
And if that’s the case, more power to her. I’m not going to judge the girl for that. I just think it’s incredibly naive and shows a complete lack of awareness of how the world works. It’s a shame she’s going to learn a
really hard lesson like this, but it’s apparently a lesson she’s got to learn. If the guy won’t even take her to a decent hotel, it shows what he thinks of her. At least, that’s what I think.
With everything going on, I’d put Mrs. Taub and her pending divorce filing on the back burner. I was reminded when she called me this morning to read me the riot act for not having the evidence she needs for her case. Luckily for me, Mr. Taub is still in the honeymoon phase with his prom queen and still seeing her most nights.
I’ve already gotten some pretty incriminating shots of the happy couple, but I need a few more just to put the icing on the cake and make sure Mrs. Taub is happy with her divorce settlement. But they just went into the room a few minutes ago, so it’s going to be a while yet.
I sit back in my seat and turn on the interior light, pulling open the satchel on the seat next to me, and slip the file out. I look down at the tattered and worn edges and knowing what’s inside, feel a punch to the gut every bit as hard today as I did that day two years ago. The pain and the hurt haven’t diminished one iota. Some days, I wonder if it ever will. Some days I think whoever said time heals all wounds was a liar.
Despite being able to recite the contents of every report, summary, and scrap of paper inside the file backwards and forwards, I scan through it again. I look at the photos, trying to see them from a different angle. Trying to find the one thing I know I must have missed inside those pages that will blow the lid off everything.
I don’t believe the official report of Veronica’s death. Most everybody I know has said it’s a natural mark of grief. That I’m still stuck in the denial stage. I’m not saying I won’t accept the official conclusion at some point. But that point won’t come until I’ve exhausted every avenue, reconciled every discrepancy, and accounted for every last thing that doesn’t sit right with me. Once I can’t find a single loose thread in the official theory of Veronica’s death, I’ll accept their conclusions. But not a minute before then.