by Peter Parkin
Hank decided he’d better slow down—he’d have more steering control if he was going slower, and he was now on the downward slope of the highway leading to the bridge up ahead. The telltale red brake lights told him there was the usual congestion on the bridge.
He took a deep breath and applied the brakes.
His foot went right to the floor.
He lifted his foot and pumped again.
Nothing!
Frantic now, he pumped the brake several more times.
No response.
The Caddy was now picking up speed fast as it descended the hill towards the bridge. Hank steered around the jerk in front of him and just managed to avoid hitting another car heading north.
He was racing down the middle line of the highway now, missing cars in both lanes by mere inches.
He leaned on his horn and didn’t let up. Drivers up ahead either heard the horn or saw the ominous sight of the oncoming Caddy in their rear and side-view mirrors. They all began moving over to the soft shoulder.
Hank kept pumping the brake, to no avail. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his fingers had turned white. Sweat was now dripping into his eyes, the salty sting causing his vision to blur.
He slammed his foot down on the emergency brake pedal, but that too had no tension.
He considered his options. There weren’t many.
In fact, there was only one.
The worst thing imaginable to him would be to take out a family. But, he had to stop this thing, and the only way to do that would be to slam into the back of another vehicle. But, it had to be a large vehicle, larger than his.
The airbags would hopefully save him.
He found his target. A transport trailer up ahead. No passengers that would be imperiled by his decision. He would just aim for it and brace himself.
He glanced down at his speedometer. The car was racing along now at 130 miles per hour, and with the way everything was whizzing by his side vision he was surprised that he wasn’t going faster than that. He thought of turning off the ignition, but was afraid that he’d completely lose whatever power steering ability he still had left.
He careened around a pickup truck, and it seemed as if the Caddy had done it on two wheels.
Hank set his sights on the back of the transport trailer, only about 100 yards ahead of him now.
He turned the steering wheel just enough to aim the SUV directly into the middle of the rear end of the truck.
The Caddy didn’t respond.
Hank turned the wheel again, but the damn thing just spun in his hand.
The Caddy was totally out of control now. No brakes, no steering.
He held on tight to the wheel while shoving the back of his head against the padded head restraint.
All he could do now was wait. The Caddy had a life of its own.
It missed the section of the truck that Hank had tried to aim for. Instead, it clipped the side, causing the Caddy to spin.
Then it rolled.
Over and over again. For some strange reason Hank tried to count how many times the car flipped, but he lost his train of thought once his head banged against the side window.
The air bags deployed as soon as he’d clipped the back of the truck, but they deflated almost as quickly as they had inflated. Hank wondered why.
It didn’t matter.
The Caddy was still rolling, and out of the corner of his eye Hank could see the guardrail looming during one of the rolls.
The SUV smashed into the rail, then up and over.
Suddenly the rolling of the Caddy was more graceful.
Silent.
It spun slowly in the air, and Hank could see the blue waters of Lake Union quickly approaching.
But it seemed so peaceful now. No more jarring and grating of metal against asphalt, or metal against metal.
It was just blue sky and blue water with each full revolution of the Cadillac.
Then a hard smack as the car crashed into the lake. Hank banged his head once more and this time it almost knocked him senseless.
He gasped in shock as the car nestled itself into the frigid waters of Lake Union. Water was somehow finding its way inside, even though the windows were all closed.
He shifted the handle upwards and rammed his shoulder against the door. But the water pressure outside prevented it from budging even an inch.
While hopelessly pressing down on the now impotent power window buttons, he cursed himself for forgetting to open them before the impact with the truck.
That impact seemed so long ago now.
The car shifted front down and began its dramatic death dive.
As Hank Price sucked in what he knew was going to be his last breath, he was vaguely aware of a fading tune on the radio.
A familiar and soothing male voice, crooning about chestnuts roasting somewhere.
16
It was only the first week of January, but Christmas and the celebratory turn of the New Year were already a distant memory. To Sandy, those dates didn’t even exist anymore. He always avoided the malls and shops in the days and weeks leading up to that painful time of the year; a time that was now erased from his mental calendar.
This had been the third holiday season without his family, and he knew now first hand that it was true what everyone said—that Christmas for some people was the saddest time of the year.
He wasn’t a Scrooge about it, though. He still wished people Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, but those refrains were empty to him now. And when he saw decorated Christmas trees and happy families out for walks, he didn’t begrudge them their joy. But, he couldn’t help wiping tears from his eyes.
The tears just came so easily for him whenever he saw scenes that reminded him of his own Christmases past.
He would never have those days back.
All he had were his memories, but the saddest part of all was that he didn’t even want those memories lurking in the recesses of his mind. Memories were supposed to be the supreme treasures of life, but for him they were like torture.
He knew that it was a paradox. Even though the festive time of the year hurt him to his core, he still lived in the same house with the same things that were around when his family was alive. He didn’t really understand why that was, but the house with all its memories gave him some semblance of comfort, whereas Christmas scenes being enjoyed by other families caused him pain.
Perhaps it was just the sight of people alive and happy that caused him angst, whereas his home was still his safe place, even with all its inert memories. Life itself, with all its real-time happiness on display, was the problem for him, he guessed.
Sandy shook his head and snapped out of his daydream. Driving along the network of interstates wasn’t the smartest time to be off in a trance. He squinted his eyes and focused on the road ahead.
He’d left Boston almost four hours ago. Decided to take Interstate 95 instead of the coastal secondary roads. Even though it was unusually dry and mild for January, he didn’t want to take a chance on the smaller highways despite the fact that the scenery would have been better.
He took the I-295 turnoff and continued along until veering off onto I-278, which took him across the RFK Bridge. He was now in the Queens borough of New York City, which was southeast of the Bronx. He knew that John Nichols had lived in the Bronx, just a short drive away from his wife and daughter in Queens. He winced as he thought of John’s death and how sad his last few years must have been, ostracized by his own family. They had lived so close to him—yet, so far.
Judy knew he was coming. He’d set the date with her the previous week, and he could tell by her voice over the phone that she was excited to be seeing him again.
Sandy was excited too, but also apprehensive.
The last time he’d seen J
udy had been at her wedding, which must have been about twenty years ago, give or take. Normally, seeing an old friend wouldn’t be stressful for him, but with the history they’d had together during their college days, this was a wee bit different. And, how Lincoln Berwick had lied and schemed to break them up just so he could swoop in and take his place.
She lived in the Astoria neighborhood in northwest Queens, a nice middle-class area with easy access to mass transit. Judy had told him over the phone that she was a teacher at a local high school—science and physical education.
She was also the coach of the gymnastics team, which didn’t surprise Sandy in the least considering the star athlete she’d been back in her days at Barnard College. He was surprised she’d never tried out for the U.S. Olympic team, since she’d already won medals at the international level, but she told him that she had never wanted to be that competitive an athlete. She preferred teaching instead, inspiring young people to achieve beyond their expectations and just to enjoy the sport. That didn’t surprise Sandy either—she’d always been a humble person and just a special kind of sweetheart.
His first love.
Sandy steered his sleek Lexus coupe down a couple of side streets into the center of Astoria, then made his final turn onto Crescent Street. He pulled up in front of number 207 and parked his car along the curb. There was no driveway or garage, but he couldn’t help but admire the character of Judy’s two-storey Georgian home. Glancing up and down the street, he decided in an instant that her house was the nicest on the block. Just another thing that didn’t surprise him.
He walked slowly up the cobblestone pathway onto the front porch. Took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
The door opened after the first ring, and Sandy’s heart skipped a beat.
Judy stood in the doorway—well, really only his memory of Judy stood there. This was a young replica of the girl he used to love. He knew that her name was Cynthia and that she was fifteen years old, but she looked more like college age. Virtually identical to the vision of the girl he first saw standing across the dance floor, beckoning him to come over to her. He chuckled to himself—glad she’d inherited her mom’s looks and not the ugly mug of his old friend, John.
Sandy held out his hand. “You must be Cynthia. I’m Sandy.”
She rejected his hand. Instead, Cynthia threw her arms around him and gave him a big hug. Then she pulled back and smiled coyly at him. “Here in Queens we give hugs, Professor. Mom has told me all about you, particularly the part where you were her first love!”
Sandy felt himself blushing as she led him into the foyer.
“You look just like your mother did, Cynthia, when she was only a wee bit older than you. It’s uncanny how much you look alike.”
She took his jacket and hung it in the hall closet. “I love your car, Professor. Will you take me for a spin later? Pretty please?”
Sandy laughed, more at how precocious and outgoing she was, than at her question.
“Of course I will, if it’s okay with your mom. And quit calling me Professor.”
“It’ll be okay with mom. She’ll want to go with us, but only if you open the sunroof.”
“It’s January, Cynthia. Hardly sunroof weather.”
She shook her head, long hair swooping across her face. “No, it’s perfect sunroof weather. I insist!”
“Okay, we’ll be a little wild and crazy then. Deal.”
She twirled several strands of hair in her right hand. Then cocked her head. “So, if I can’t call you Professor, what should I call you? I know you have a PhD, so should I call you Doctor, then?”
“Absolutely not. You’re a young lady now, so I want you to call me, Sandy. Okay?”
She squealed with delight. “I’d love that. Makes me feel so mature.”
Sandy glanced into the front living room. He noticed it was adorned with several beautiful antique tables along with a line of plush chairs and couches. Easy on the eyes. He always knew that Judy had good taste, so this was the way he would have pictured her abode to look.
Cynthia’s warm welcome and friendly banter had chased his butterflies away. His mouth was no longer dry, and his breathing was much more relaxed. He was anxious to see Judy now, no longer apprehensive.
He turned towards Cynthia. “So, where’s your mom? Is she hiding from me?”
“No! In fact, don’t tell her I said this, but she’s been busy making herself pretty for you. She’ll be down in a few minutes, don’t worry.”
Suddenly a voice from the top of the center hall stairway. “I heard you, dear daughter. Thanks for embarrassing me.”
Cynthia squealed again, and exclaimed, “Oops!” Then she ran toward the back of the house, leaving Sandy all alone, gaping at the vision of loveliness sashaying down the majestic Georgian staircase.
Judy smiled as she got closer. “I really didn’t plan this grand entrance, Sandy. You’re a bit early. Now, you’d better promise that you’ll catch me if my nervousness causes a misstep.”
He extended his arms out wide. “I’m ready for you.”
Judy swooped into his arms. They hugged for what seemed like several minutes, but was in reality only a few seconds.
Then they pulled back and gave each other the once-over.
She was still the beautiful girl he remembered. A few worry lines on her forehead, and her eyes were a bit bloodshot, but he figured she’d probably had a few sleepless nights lately knowing he was coming. She still wore her auburn hair long just like when she was in college, and the green color of her eyes was as alluring as ever.
“You’re still the handsome stud you were in college, Sandy. My gosh, you’ve hardly aged at all. Your hair is still blonde, and your eyes are as blue as ever.” She then looked him up and down. “And, no fat!”
“I was just thinking the same about you—you haven’t changed much either. Despite the tough times we’ve both had, I guess we can be glad that life hasn’t taken too much of a toll on us yet.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for coming. So, what do you think of Cynthia?”
“She’s a ball of fire, and a mini-you. When she answered the door, it took me back in time.”
Judy took his hand and led him towards the back of the house, into the spacious and elegant kitchen. There was a bottle of Bordeaux on the table, along with two glasses.
“Yes, she is a handful, and full of spirit. I need to keep a close eye on that girl.”
“She’ll be a heartbreaker one day, Judy.”
She looked up at him, and then quickly lowered her eyes. “Kinda like me, huh?”
Sandy realized that he’d struck a sensitive chord—and so early in their reunion, too.
“A slip of the tongue. You know I didn’t mean it that way. But, if we’re being accurate, your heart was broken first.”
“True. Not by anything you did, but by what that psychopath Lincoln framed you for.”
Sandy sat down at the table and picked up the wine bottle. “Can I pour you a glass?”
“Yes, indeed. Let’s catch up a bit and try to avoid talking about Senator Lincoln Berwick.”
Sandy grimaced. “I’d like that, but I have the funny feeling that he’s going to creep into the conversation somewhere along the way.”
They spent the next three hours, and two bottles of wine, talking about all that had happened in their lives since the last time they’d seen each other. And, a lot had happened.
To Sandy, chatting with Judy seemed like they’d never been apart. After all these years, it was as if they’d been away from each other for just a week or two. It was nice.
And nice that he was able to talk about the tragedy that he’d endured. There weren’t many people he could talk to about that, but with Judy it was easy. She’d suffered tough times as well, and Sandy could tell that she’d still loved John right
up until the day he died. She just couldn’t allow herself or her daughter to be near him anymore. He was toxic and self-destructive.
She didn’t know why he became that way, but Sandy knew. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that part of the story yet, but he knew he would summon the courage eventually. He felt that she deserved to know, because it was clear that she blamed herself for John’s depression. She thought that there was something about their relationship together that drove him down into the depths of doom.
To the point, eventually, of suicide.
And Sandy wasn’t yet convinced that it was suicide. The note and the cassette tape would open the door for him, he was sure. He suspected that John had been dabbling in blackmail, which had put his life in peril.
Sandy took a long sip of his wine. “Are you ready to let me see the note and hear the tape?”
She nodded.
Judy walked over to a built-in desk on the other side of the kitchen. Came back with a padded envelope in one hand, and an old cassette player in the other.
“Here. The note and tape are inside.”
Sandy opened the envelope and took out a single piece of paper. Right away he recognized John’s distinctive handwriting. As Judy had told him over the phone, the note said that he would soon have a substantial amount of money to give to her and Cynthia. But that she wasn’t to listen to the tape—that, instead, she should keep it safe and sound in case something were to happen to him. If something did, the note instructed her to make sure the tape was given to Sandford Beech as soon as possible.
Which was what had brought Sandy and Judy together right now, at her kitchen table, drinking wine.
Sandy reached into the envelope again and took out the cassette tape. He then plugged in the player and inserted the tape. He had a good suspicion as to what this tape was about, although he’d never known that there was a tape. John never told him about it, probably to protect him.
Sandy had spoken on his behalf to the dean, without identifying him, and told the entire sordid story about the rape and death of the fourteen-year-old girl. But, he’d had no idea there was a tape about the incident. He couldn’t imagine this tape being about anything else, knowing that the guilt and horror of that incident was what had driven John to self-destruction during his short life.