Sean hit the freeway, his thoughts wandering back to Greer.
Stop it, he told himself. It’s over, done with. What would a girl like that want with some rootless mercenary?
And there were other things to think about.
Get to Peru and pick up some guns. That’s the first thing. Luckily, it’s South America, and anyone can get just about anything for the right price. Scope out the local spots, the tourist offices for the guy. Could take weeks.
Sean sighed, shaking his head.
Is this really how I imagined living my life? Is this really me?
But the undeniable fact was that it was him. Sean Callahan in a nutshell. And he’d find the deadbeat and bring him in, and he’d bag him and tag him and collect on the fee. The world would be a little more orderly, a little less dangerous. One kid and his abandoned mother would get what they deserved, and so would the father.
Sean drove on, the simple notion of a family ringing in his heart and in a far corner of his head. It was altogether too easy to imagine himself coming home to a warm and welcoming house, pretty Greer in an old-fashioned apron, like somebody out of the 1950s. He could see their children, a black-haired young boy and his redheaded sister, smiling and playing happily or sitting around a dinner table, respectful and mindful and making their humble parents proud. Sean would see to it that they’d never know the kind of ugliness that he had known in his life. Preserving and protecting their safety and innocence, delivering them to adulthood and beyond would be the sole driver of his existence. His would be a family the community could be proud of, look up to. They would be stalwarts of the neighborhood, whatever neighborhood they chose.
Well, Sean consoled himself, maybe in another lifetime.
Chapter Three
Greer flew from New York to Camelback, Arizona. The little town dotted with rugged orange boulders and ragged shrubs was already bright and hot under the spring sun. Roadrunners scurried around, fast and low to the sandy ground. Cacti decorated every hotel and strip mall, and old people drove carefully down the wide, curving streets.
Greer didn’t like the feeling of being there, but she knew it wasn’t the place so much as the purpose. She’d hoped her return would be more triumphant.
She took in the brawny, sun-parched landscape and the expansive sky, welcoming and blue, and enjoyed their natural beauty. That would be the best Camelback would have to offer her on this trip, almost certain to be her last.
Her first stop was the Camelback Cemetery. It didn’t take long to drive to Spencer’s grave. She knew just where it was on those rolling foothills blanketed by a manicured lawn, sprinklers misting certain sections while other patches went dry.
With a sad twinge in the pit of her stomach, she turned to read the headstone, a tragic epitaph for such a promising life:
Spencer Bailey Lange, 1980 - 2017
Faithful Husband, Beloved Son,
Inspiration To All Who Knew Him
And it was true. Greer was unable to blot out the memory of his handsome face, blond hair and blue eyes, that distant gaze which spoke to something in her heart and soul. He was a deep soul, often quoting Spencer Keats and the other romantics. He’d captured her heart and made a slave of her body, which she loved even more.
She stood there, thinking about his books, novels of heroism in the 1800s, which he always saw as an analogy for and a warning cry to the modern era. Spencer had always said that the mistakes of the past would be repeated by those who weren’t aware of them. But his voice had been quieted, stilled by a thug for reasons still unknown, perhaps forever unknown.
It frustrated Greer to her core. She didn’t like to leave things unresolved—she never had. She held on until the end—it was just her way. That same instinctive determination had driven her investigation and led to the shooter’s eventual coming to justice and to Jesus.
“So, I … I just wanted to let you know, as if you don’t already … or maybe you don’t. You know I never understood all that afterlife nonsense. But I do think of you as … as waiting, Spencer. Waiting for me to figure this out, relying on me. I mean, who else was going to get to the bottom of all this? You would have been helpful, but of course …” A bittersweet chuckle tumbled out of her mouth. “Anyway, he’s gone now, that … that rat bastard, at least he’s gone. The rest, I … I dunno. I’m sorry, but I got the guy, and I guess that’s going to have to do. If you’re not at peace, then I hope that brings you peace.” After taking a moment to reflect, Greer added, “I hope it brings me some peace too.”
It was too easy to think about his body lying there, a withered skeleton where once there was a mighty specimen of modern manhood. Even now, the nearness of his body still made her quiver, and the memory of his touch was alive on her skin and in her heart.
But she also had to tell herself that he was not in that box, not in that hole in the ground—what was there was only a body, only a shell. Greer knew what she’d done to deliver him some kind of satisfaction or resolve. Other than that, there was nothing more for her to say or do, save for one small gesture.
“Okay, well, sleep well, Spencer.” A tear crawled down her cheek. “I … I’ll see you later.” After an awkward moment, she added, “A lot later, hopefully, right?” She chuckled a bit, nervous laughter, before turning and walking away from his grave one last time.
Martin and Margaret Lange were hardly welcoming, but they had never been. Hardcore Republicans, they’d always felt their son should have married a less progressive and forward-thinking girl. But like most parents, they seemed to have gotten used to the idea of the coupling, until things went terribly wrong.
After the shooting, which had been just after the wedding, they’d taken a turn against Greer, blaming her in some way for the tragedy. She couldn’t escape the notion, no matter how innocent she was or how unreasonable their suspicions had been. But she knew that their discontent had been part of what had inspired her to hunt for the shooter and discover the reasons behind the shooting. She wanted to bring the aging Lange couple the same kind of inner peace she was hoping for Spencer, and for herself, which made this visit particularly painful for them all.
“Martin, Margaret, you both look well.” The two seniors with tanned faces and white hair smiled. Wearing loose-fitting clothes, even in their air-conditioned home, they sat on a plush sofa on one side of a coffee table. Greer sat in an easy chair facing them. “It’s been … over two years now.”
The Langes shared a glance then offered Greer a mutual smile. “You’re looking well, dear. But your face … is that a bruise? What happened?”
“Well, it’s a long story, but it’s what brings me.” She told them the story of tracking down their son’s murderer, of his untimely death, and of the tragedy that no more would ever likely be known about what was behind his terrible action. But the scales had been balanced, and the case seemed closed.
“Oh my,” Martin said. “I’m glad you’re all right, dear.”
“Yes, I’m … I’m fine.”
“And you’re sure this fellow is … that he’s the one who … who shot my …” Margaret asked. Martin wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to offer what little comfort he could in the face of the worst pain a mother could endure.
Greer only wished she could have lessened that pain more than the news of the man’s death would. But it was all she had, all any of them had.
“It was him. I saw him. Same scar, same face. He … he’s gone now, that’s for sure, so at least we’ve got that. I’m sorry we didn’t find out more.”
The couple shared a glance and a smile. “Oh, hon, you’ve done more than we ever expected. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
Greer cracked a sad smile. “I … I want to believe that.”
“Then believe it,” Martin said with a smile. “You … we … it was hard, losing our son, the hardest thing we’ve ever had to face, but maybe we were too hard on you.”
Margaret nodded, saying, “You have
to understand, dear, we … we never expected to lose him like that.”
“No, of course not,” Greer said. “I certainly didn’t either.”
The elderly couple smiled again and leaned forward as if to disperse the warmth from their couch to the easy chair on the other side of the coffee table. “Of course not,” Martin said. “But we’re grateful for all you’ve done.”
Margaret nodded, her hands in her husband’s. “And coming here to tell us personally was really very thoughtful.”
“The least I could do,” Greer said. “Is there anything else I can do for you, anything you need?”
They gave each other another glance, but Martin said, “No, Greer, no … in fact, maybe it’s best if we don’t keep in touch anymore. I mean, my wife, it’s hard on her.”
“Oh, I … I didn’t mean to … I was just …”
“No, it’s not your fault,” Margaret said. “It’s just … we’re trying to move on, that’s all.”
Greer nodded, knowing what they were thinking and feeling. She’d felt and thought the very same things. “The past is the past.”
They offered her one smile between them. Martin said, “You should do the same, Greer. You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Enjoy your life, your wealth.”
“You’ve done our son proud,” Margaret said, “and you’ve done us proud. You can be proud too, hon. You can be happy.”
Martin pulled himself closer to his beloved wife, saying to Greer, “Find yourself a love the way we did, Greer. Don’t spend the rest of your life mourning our son. I know he wouldn't want that.”
“Nobody would,” Margaret said, “not for somebody they truly loved … the way our Spencer loved you.”
It was sad to hear, but Greer couldn’t help but find some solace in their words, in their tone, in their presence. When she left, she knew that she’d likely never see either of them again. But she understood their pain and wanted to encourage their healing—and her own.
She just wasn’t sure how.
Chapter Four
Pretty blonde Kari Kates, wearing a Cozychic ultra lite maxi dress, a red garment that clung to her curves with refined elegance, led her cameraman around the Onyx Art Gallery in downtown Denver. The place was packed with proud artists with wide smiles, everybody in their finest evening wear. Wine filled the glasses, and trays were loaded with slices of cheddar, wedges of brie, and crackers.
Kari interviewed several of the artists and a few of the patrons before finally making her way to Greer, who stood alone in one corner of the gallery. She looked over at Greer as she approached with a hopeful nod. Greer nodded, and Kari approached, turning to the camera.
“Let’s talk to Greer Lange herself, the founder of the Lange Foundation. How are you this evening, Mrs. Lange?”
“Well, I’m fine, Kari. Glad you’re here, but … it’s the Spencer Lange Foundation, named for my late husband.”
“I didn’t mean to give the wrong impression,” Kari said, splitting her attention between Greer and the camera, clearly the true center of her world. “Your husband’s money, from his many novels, is behind the foundation?”
“Well, actually, the sales of my husband’s novels were never very good, and they plummeted before we even met. He was … he had a bit of writer’s block, was struggling for a comeback when we fell in love. But he was a great artist, I can tell you that. That’s why I named the foundation for him—I’m helping other artists and writers and musicians, like these artists here today. These are female artists, who are featured in galleries and shops about one in ten compared to men. And a lot of them are aging, which is another professional challenge.”
“Most artists improve with age,” Kari said.
“Quite so—and with attention, with support, with exposure. Without those things … the arts will die, and we’ll lose something wonderful, something that makes life better for so many people.”
Kari nodded, eyes bright and smile wide. “Some people say your money would be better put to other things, like homelessness and medical care, rather than struggling artists and writers.”
“They do?” Greer asked, and Kari nodded, eagerly waiting for an answer. “Well, I do give a good deal to other causes. And those things do need public attention. But each of us can only do so much. And homelessness and medical care, those involve pressure groups, politicking, bureaucracy, big pharma, and a lot of corruption. This is a way I’ve found to help people without inclement legal and practical complications. But those people do make a good point. I hope they do what they can to help in ways that I cannot.”
Kari maintained her smile, teeth white, breath fresh. “And your money, it comes from your dating app, Whereyouat? How’s that going?”
“It’s … it’s fine. A lot of people using it. Downloads are up and down.”
“Do you have any new apps in development?”
“No, I … that was just a one-off, really. I got lucky—things worked out. But I’m not expecting lightning to strike twice. That’s fine, though. The world doesn’t need another dating app.”
Kari shrugged. “There are apps for other things.”
Greer looked around and shrugged. “And there are things other than apps.”
Kari nodded and looked into the camera. “For Fox 31 Denver, this is Kari Kates reporting.” She stepped away, and another familiar face approached, this one vastly different in every way. The smile was more sincere, but the face was a lot less pretty. Not that Roni didn’t have a special way of carrying herself, but hours at a makeup table couldn’t do what a future operation might. But Roni wasn’t ready, and she’d grown accustomed to the overall effect of her appearance—six feet tall, broad-shouldered, a man’s physique in every particular. She was little more than a man in a dress, but she was Greer’s friend, a good-spirited person and a good friend, and always there for a reliable opinion.
“How’s the wine?” Greer asked.
She rolled her eyes and waved Greer off. “Terrible.” She sucked down the half-glass she was holding and looked around the room. “Where’s that cute boy with the chardonnay?”
“Red, then white? Mixing?”
Roni looked herself up and down and then shrugged at Greer. “Well, that’s kinda my thing!” They shared a little chuckle and looked around. “Looks like another big hit.”
“I hope so,” she said with a sigh. “Do somebody some good.”
After a little pause, Roni asked, “How about you do yourself some good for a change?”
Greer smiled and rested her hand on Roni’s arm. “I’m fine. It’s just … it’s weird since I came back from New York, but … it’s fine. It’s for the best.”
Roni nodded. “It really is, dear. Time to move on. Your Spencer wouldn’t want you living like this.”
“No, Roni, I’m not. I … I get my licks in.”
“I’ll bet you do!” Roni laughed, a bit too loud, but Greer was glad to see she was having a good time. “And speaking of that …” Roni looked over, and Greer followed her line sight across the gallery to another familiar face approaching. Roni said, “I’ll leave you two alone,” before turning to fade back into the crowd, in so much as such a thing was possible.
Carl Merrick approached, his long brown hair falling over his big, soulful brown eyes. “Greer, hi.” He looked around and added, “Congratulations on another success.”
“We’ll see,” Greer said as the light moment grew heavier. “How are things at the restaurant?”
“Good,” Carl said with a nod, “good. Maybe you’d like to have one of your functions there?” Greer smiled but said nothing, knowing nothing needed to be said. “Greer, I … I just wanted to say that, well … I was looking forward to seeing you tonight. I miss you, that’s all.”
“Carl—”
“No, I want to say this. We had a good time, I thought. We were a good couple.”
“I thought so too, Carl, but being in one good couple at a time wasn’t enough for you, was it?” Car
l dipped his head, silent shame overtaking his handsome face. “I imagine you’d be a lot more faithful now?”
“It’s got nothing to do with your … your success. Or your husband, Lord knows.”
Greer gave it some thought, unsure of what to make of the reference, especially in light of certain developments. But she brushed it off as part of her obsession. “Well, nothing ever stays the same, does it?”
Carl nodded, seeming to take the hint. He smiled in an awkward fashion, nodded, and said, “See you ’round,” before turning and slipping back into the crowd.
Greer gave it some thought. He’d been sweet and charming and a good lover, but she’d laid down rules—and he’d broken them. She thought of herself as a modern woman, but some things didn’t change, and sleeping with a man-slut just wasn’t her style. Never had been and never would be.
But Greer wondered, If he’s changed his ways, learned his lesson, then … maybe? I mean, his restaurant does well enough. He doesn’t need my money. And the past is the past, isn’t it? Maybe it’s time to let things go.
Greer finished off the plastic cup of wine she realized she was still holding. It was bracing and dry, reminding her that there had always been something about Carl that left a bad taste in her mouth, something she was never able to put her finger on, though he’d be happy for her to put her finger on everything else.
Still, the past was the past, and Greer had to move on. The only question was, in which direction?
Chapter Five
It was Sean’s first time in Lima, Peru, a strange amalgam of ancient ruins, Spanish colonial palaces and plazas, and modern skyscrapers in the financial district. The sidewalks were crowded with all manner of tourists and locals of every social strata and age group, from old women huddled on the corners to suit-slick young men with briefcases in one hand, smartphones in the other.
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