“Jeffrey Rutherford. A pleasure, I’m sure. We talked on the phone. I’m Jodie,” she said in a voice that had been abraded by countless cigarettes and a fair amount of hard liquor, judging by the network of ruptured veins on her nose.
“Yes. Thanks for coming. Let’s go up and take a look. I only have a few minutes, and I know your time’s valuable…” Jeffrey said.
“Time is money. Lead the way.”
Once upstairs, Jeffrey hesitated at Keith’s door, his hand betraying an almost imperceptible tremor, and then he inserted the key and pushed it open. He hadn’t been back since the single visit he’d made to clean out the files, and when he stepped inside, he was relieved to find that it was just a place, nothing more – no sense of invading his brother’s space or violating his memory as he and Jodie did a walkthrough.
“Well, it’s in nice shape. Why are you selling it?” she asked, noting the features with a practiced eye, tapping the details into her phone as she took photos of the view, the bathroom, and the kitchen.
“I…I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m going to. But I want to understand the market. If it’s the right number…” Jeffrey hadn’t told her the full story and wanted to keep his options open. He’d looked at a few places, but now that he was standing in the condo again, he realized that none of them had been as nice or as centrally located. He was surprised by the direction his thinking was headed, but he gave no indication, preferring to study the view.
“I’ll have to run some more comps, but my gut says six to six-fifty. This area’s white hot again. It’s almost completely recovered from the slump a few years back. The positives are that it’s a great building, nice neighborhood, good size, modern appliances, and it eyeballs nicely. Negatives are parking, no doorman, and only two bedrooms. A lot of buyers these days have families and are looking for three, so that narrows your pool some. If it had three bedrooms, I think it would be an easy low-sevens sale.” She peered at him suspiciously. “When are you going to make your decision? I might have several people who would be interested.”
“Soon, Jodie. In the next week or so. Listen, I really appreciate your stopping in and looking at the place. I promise that if I list it, it’ll be with you.”
“You’re starting to sound like a guy who isn’t going to sell his place, Jeffrey. Different from on the phone,” she said, calling him on what she was sensing.
“No, not at all. It’s just that I want to know where I stand. I’m really leaning towards selling it. I didn’t haul you out here to waste your time. I promise,” he said. To his ear the assurance seemed worth about as much as a gambler’s IOU.
She nodded, the exchange all part of the frog-kissing game. “I’ll keep the photos in my phone, then. A week, you say?”
“Yes. I just need to do some soul searching and confirm it’s really the right step. I inherited it, so it’s all kind of sudden.”
“I see. Did someone die in here?” she asked suspiciously.
“No. Nothing like that. No murders or suicides.”
“It would be disclosable, you know.”
“Sure. But nothing bad happened here. You have my word.”
“All right. Whatever you say. I hope you don’t think me rude, but if we’re not going to list this immediately, I’d just as soon get going…”
“Of course. I’ll be with you in a second,” he said, taking a final glance around the living room.
“No need. I can find my own way out. Call me when you reach a decision.”
The door closed behind her and Jeffrey was left to his thoughts. He wandered absently through the condo again, noting the elements he liked about it, probing like a tracking hound for any hint of his brother’s aura. Nothing. Just a collection of rooms with his brother’s stuff in it.
Back in the car, he cranked the engine over and pulled away from the curb, calculating what to do next. The reality was that the condo was fine – more than fine – and he could decide to sell it whenever he liked. If he took over the mortgage, his payment would be more than affordable, especially with his new prosperity, and the equity he would be inheriting would simply increase over time. From a logical standpoint, it solved a host of problems, and he didn’t need to make any permanent decisions – if things didn’t work out, he could move and be rid of it in no time.
Damn. He’d completely forgotten about Becky since getting caught up in his move. She still had some of Keith’s stuff, and he’d promised to call. So much for honoring his commitments.
He went through his phone book until he found her number, and listened as the phone rang and then went to voice mail. At the beep, he left a brief message.
“Becky. It’s Jeff. Jeffrey Rutherford. Listen, I’m in town, and I wanted to see if you could get together, or if I could stop by and pick up that box. Give me a call,” he said, and then left his cell number. He debated as he drove, and then placed another call. Monica answered, her voice a welcome sound.
“Hey. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be staying at the hotel much longer.”
“Congratulations! You found a place. Whereabouts is it?”
“It’s complicated, but the location is awesome.”
He told her the story as he drove, and by the time he arrived back at the office he’d made up his mind.
Jodie wouldn’t be getting the listing. At least, not yet.
The clients arrived and one of his subordinates showed them to the conference room while Jeffrey put the final touches on his proposal. He was just walking towards his office door when his cell rang, and he stopped in and scooped it up, then answered impatiently as he glanced at the time.
“Hello?” The woman’s voice was unfamiliar. Tentative.
“Yes, how may I help you?” he asked.
“You called and left a message on Becky’s phone.”
“Yeah. I’m a friend. Who is this?” he asked, hoping that she’d get to the point before the sun set.
“Her sister. She had an accident. I don’t know how well you knew her…”
Knew her?
“Not that well. What happened? Is it serious?” Jeffrey asked, his attention now fully devoted to the call.
“About as serious as it gets. She was run down by a hit-and-run driver last week. I’m afraid she’s dead.”
SEVENTEEN
Random Chance
That evening Jeffrey and Monica ate dinner at one of her favorite restaurants and then went over to the condo to look it over. Monica declared it perfect, and it seemed like the matter was settled – he’d spend a few days putting Keith’s stuff into storage, keep most of the furniture, and then have the moving company deliver his things, leaving the bulk of his furniture to be stored with them. There were only a few items he really cared about, anyway – his clothes, his bed, his books, some personal effects. The rest could stay in storage. The condo was fully outfitted, so other than one long day boxing up everything he wanted gone, it would be painless.
Jeffrey hadn’t shared with Monica the bad news about Becky, but he seemed preoccupied, and she eventually dug it out of him on the ride back to the hotel.
“It’s just so…terrible. I mean, her whole world gets turned upside down when my brother dies, and then some drunk mows her down only a few days later. I don’t know. It just seems so…such a waste. So cruel,” he said.
“I’m so sorry, Jeffrey. Were you close?”
“No. I just saw her at the service, and had met her once before. That’s it. But she was so…so vital and immediate. So alive, even distraught over my brother. And then, just like that, she’s dead. None of it makes any sense. It’s just so random. I think that’s the part that drives me a little crazy. You cross the wrong street, or get on the wrong plane, and poof. Game over, just like that. We spend our lives thinking if we do the right things, exercise, eat right, whatever, that we have some control, but reality is that it’s all completely up to chance.”
“Yes, it is. Which is why we have to enjoy things while they last. There�
�s no telling when the ride’s over.”
“I know. It’s just that I live in a world where everything’s orderly, and chaos is…it’s like a personal insult.”
“I don’t know, Jeffrey. I mean, sometimes good things can happen out of disorder, too. Like us.”
They drove in silence for a few blocks, and then she slid her hand over his. “I’m sorry about your friend. And your brother. It completely sucks, and you have every right to be angry at the universe.”
“I’m not angry. Okay, that’s a lie. Maybe I am. Just a little.”
“If you’d hurry up and get to the hotel, I may have just what the doctor ordered to take your mind off that, mister angry man.” She squeezed his fingers, and suddenly the tension seemed to seep out of him.
“Thank God I met you. I guess I can thank serendipity for that.”
“No, you can thank the Four Seasons and Absolut vodka.” She gave him a sly smile. “Hey, doesn’t this thing go any faster?”
Jeffrey made it back to the hotel in record time.
He cleaned out the condo over that weekend, and by Sunday night his boxes had been delivered and the last of Keith’s hauled off. Jeffrey and Monica ate pizza and drank Chianti while he finished arranging his possessions to his liking, and after dinner they settled on the couch with a second bottle, the stereo playing in the background as he cuddled with her. When the CD finished, she touched one of the three guitars he kept in the living room with a bare foot and leaned her head back, kissing his neck.
“So do you play those?”
“I’ve been known to. Although not recently.”
“And you’re not going to serenade me? What kind of gyp is that?”
“You really want to hear me play? It sounds more like a cat in heat than music…”
“I don’t believe you. I bet you’re great.”
“Wow. And here I thought I was out of ways I could disappoint you.”
She swatted at him playfully. “Come on. Play something.”
He groaned, and then reached over and grabbed the Stratocaster. It was hopelessly out of tune, so he took a few moments to get it close, and then began picking a melody, the unamplified strings sounding twangy and hollow.
“That’s not as impressive as it would be if it was plugged in,” he admitted.
“Don’t you have an amplifier? Or can you hook it up through the stereo?”
“My brother had one. It’s in one of the closets. Are you feeling masochistic or something?”
“No more than usual. What – are you afraid you’ll wake the neighbors?”
“Not really. It’s just that playing an electric guitar alone, without a band or anything, is a lonely kind of thing. More for doing when nobody’s around.”
“Hogwash. Look at the White Stripes. Just a guitar and a female drummer. Hey, I can keep a beat.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I’m serious. I think guitar players are super sexy. Rowrrr.”
“Let me get the amp.”
He returned a minute later toting a small Marshall combo tube amplifier and a cord. After plugging it in and connecting the guitar, he slipped a pick from the plastic holder Keith had affixed to the top of the amp and fiddled with the guitar knobs.
“Damn. It isn’t cooperating.”
“Are you sure you know how to play it?”
“Mockery will get you nowhere, my dear,” he declared, then unplugged the Strat and set it back on the stand, and grabbed the other guitar – a Les Paul junior.
A burst of distorted static flooded the room and he quickly turned down the amp’s master volume, then repeated his tuning experiment and turned the guitar up.
“Remember. You asked for it. I play for free, but I charge big bucks to stop.”
He strummed a few chords, and then began playing, working through a few minutes of Hendrix’s “Little Wing” before turning the guitar down and setting it aside.
“Wow, you really are good. At guitar, too…” she said, and then threw her arms around him and kissed him long and hard.
He came out of the bedroom later and shut down the amp, carried what remained of the wine into the kitchen, and turned off the lights, tired and content to be home at long last.
The next day was light, his big project put to bed except for some detail work, and he was able to get out of the office at a decent hour. Monica begged off coming over so she could do laundry, having spent every night with Jeffrey that week.
He changed into sweats and considered going to the gym he’d spied three blocks away, but managed to find some computer work to do instead, dealing with some of the remaining loose ends from his old firm. As the evening wore on, he began to get hungry, and he decided to try dinner at a small pub he’d passed one street over. The burger was passable and the draft beer convincingly semi-flat as only British pubs could serve it. After an hour watching soccer he didn’t care about, he made his way back to the condo for an early night by himself.
Once inside, his eye moved to the Strat, resting proudly on its stand in the corner, and he repeated his experiment with the amp. Nothing – none of the pickups seemed to work. He jiggled the jack, but all he got for his trouble was crackling.
Frustrated, he went to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a small tool box. Grateful to have a project to occupy his time, he carefully loosened the strings, pulled the volume and tone knobs off the pots, and then set to work on the faceplate with a Phillips head screwdriver, careful not to strip the screws as he removed them.
When the last one was free, he slowly raised the plastic cover to see what the problem was – likely a broken connection by the pickup selector switch. He peered into the tangle of wires and immediately spotted the issue: The selector switch wires had been cut.
And there was a piece of paper folded up and stuffed into the wiring.
Jeffrey pulled it from the tangle and set the guitar down, and then unfolded the note. His eyes widened when he saw his brother’s handwriting – a message from the dead. It was short and to the point, and as he read it his pulse accelerated by twenty beats per minute.
Jeffrey. If you’re reading this, it means they got me. Sorry to lay this on you, but you’re the only one I can turn to. Do not trust anyone – this is deep shit, and the people who killed me are serious. Assume your phone, computer, car are bugged, as well as your apartment and your work. Again – do not trust anyone. Your life is at risk if you do. Go see Professor Samuel Norton in Virginia – Google him, but always use a public computer. Then get to Zurich. Everything’s in a box there at Soderbergh Bank on Bahnhoffstrasse. Box 291, Acct #42-1844. You’re on the account. Password is the account number followed by our first dog’s name. Good luck, and be careful, Jeffrey. You have to stop them – it’s literally the end of the world. Burn this after you read it – don’t write anything down, or you’re a dead man. Take this seriously – I don’t know how they got me, but my death should be all the proof you need. Good luck. You’re going to need it.
EIGHTEEN
Them
In spite of it being a moderate sixty-nine degrees in the condo, Jeffrey’s forehead broke into a sweat as he reread the missive, a deep sense of dread creeping through him at the obvious – that his brother had known he might be killed, that he knew who was trying to kill him. Part of him rejected the notion that Keith had been murdered, and then his world tilted when he recalled how his brother had died – with an entire jet full of people.
If someone had really killed him, they’d blown a jetliner out of the sky.
Jeffrey closed his eyes and confirmed that the account number, bank name, and the professor’s name appeared clearly in his memory. He stood, shifting the guitar onto the cushion next to him, and headed into the kitchen. He opened a drawer and found a lighter next to some black-out candles and woodenly lit the note as instructed, then dropped the flaming paper into the sink and watched it crinkle into gray ash. After running the water and rinsing the evidence down the garbage
disposal, he returned to the guitar and spliced the wires back together with a twist of each one, not bothering to solder them, but instead reassembling the faceplate and securing it with the screws, his mind racing.
What Keith had suggested was impossible; and yet he was dead. In a time of heightened security and rampant paranoia, a plane had been incinerated as easily as Keith’s note, and nobody was the wiser. He’d followed the news on the investigation as recently as that morning at work, and the prevailing official theory was that a fuel tank had somehow received a stray electric charge and ignited, causing an instantaneous chain reaction and a massive explosion.
Except that he now had an assertion that the explanation was a farce. That the destruction was apparently deliberate, targeted, and that whoever had engineered it had seen no problem with killing hundreds in order to get one man.
His brother.
Who apparently either knew about, or had stumbled across, some kind of scheme that was so big it would change the world.
A chill ran up his spine as he processed the rest of the information – which implied that whoever had killed his brother not only had the power to mount a successful cover-up of the true cause of the plane explosion, but could apparently also mount surveillance on him – simply because he was Keith’s brother.
There weren’t too many organizations that could blow a jet to dust and get away with it, and that had the capacity to bug everything in Jeffrey’s universe. He could only think of one. The government. Which was unbelievable. The U.S. didn’t go around blowing up its citizens.
Did it?
If that speculation was correct, Jeffrey was being asked from the grave to take on the most powerful entity in the world. To stop…what, he didn’t even know. How he was expected to do it, he also didn’t know. But his brother had written the note, which meant that he’d believed it was possible – Keith was no idiot, and had been a strategic thinker in the purest sense of the word. So he’d seen some way to avert this supposed catastrophe, and had died trying. And had now passed the burden to Jeffrey.
Upon A Pale Horse (Bio-Thriller) Page 11