Till the Dust Settles

by Pat Young

  ‘My PA. I’ve missed an important breakfast meeting.’

  ‘That’s my fault. No wonder she sounds annoyed.’

  ‘You could hear her?’

  ‘Not her words, but I could tell she was angry, yes.’

  He grimaced. ‘She can be a bit domineering at times. But she and I go back a long way. We’re like an old married couple. She puts up with me and I let her off with a lot because she’s the best PA in the city.’

  He sat down beside her. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

  Lucie shook her aching head then flapped her hand instead. ‘Oh, it’s not important. Anyway, you’d better scoot. Or she’ll have your blood, by the sound of things.’

  ‘Correct. But listen, you and I have unfinished business. How about dinner?’

  ‘Tonight?’ She shook her head once then groaned and placed her hands on her temples.

  ‘You have plans?’ He looked frustrated, or maybe just terribly disappointed.

  ‘I plan to sleep off this hangover. Then try to undo the damage I’ve done to my system. No fine dining for me this evening, but thank you.’ She hoped he wouldn’t think she was giving him the bum’s rush. ‘Could you maybe give me a couple of days?’ she asked.

  To her relief he said, ‘Sure. Same place?’

  ‘Where I made a complete fool of myself last night? Mmm, maybe not such a good idea.’

  He laughed. ‘You didn’t make a fool of yourself, but we can go somewhere else if you prefer.’

  They made arrangements to meet at the weekend and he kissed her, on the lips this time.

  ‘See you soon,’ he said. ‘I look forward to hearing all your secrets.’

  Lucie closed the door behind him. She made it to the bathroom just in time.

  55

  The bedroom was filled with the russet glow of sunset before Lucie felt brave enough to face the day, or what was left of it. She rose and watched from the window as light after light came on against the darkening sky. The city was like a grand lady dressing for the evening in sparkling jewels.

  A deep rumble from Lucie’s stomach reminded her that she’d lost most of last night’s dinner. She cringed at the memory. How could she let herself down so badly? Getting blind drunk on a date. Even at high school she knew better than that.

  She stayed under the shower till she felt cleansed of the previous night’s mistakes and then dressed in the baggiest, slouchiest garments she could find. Nothing in the refrigerator was tempting, other than the makings of a sandwich. She grabbed the near-full bottle of wine from the fridge door and with a vow of ‘Never again,’ sloshed it into the sink. She poured a glass of fresh orange juice and downed it in one.

  Sandwich in hand, Lucie headed for the closet and retrieved the memory card she’d hidden last night. She was intrigued. Why would a grown woman write such a thing? She had to have another look.

  Password. She shivered, as if a cold finger had touched the back of her neck.

  Lucie’s alcohol-fuelled dreams had been a crazy collage. Of being trapped in high towers. Of her legs tangling in silky ribbons as she tried to run. Of secret messages she couldn’t decipher and passwords she couldn’t recall.

  She inserted the SD card into Charlotte’s laptop.

  The letter was there.

  A quick skim was enough to satisfy her that she hadn’t dreamt the whole thing.

  The proof would be if there was anything in the safe that matched Charlotte’s description of ‘a little envelope’.

  First she had to find the safe, and the combination of numbers that would allow her to open it. Lucie looked for the second time at the number of possessions in Charlotte’s closet and her heart sank. Her hangover was wearing off but the last thing she felt like doing was moving a whole bunch of hangers and boxes in the search for Charlotte’s safe.

  She flopped on to the bed and lay staring at the ceiling. She imagined Charlotte lying there, thinking about the deal she’d made with her lover that he’d promised would seal their future together. Charlotte tossing and turning. Battling with her conscience. Then the Damascene moment that made her decide to put the safety of her employees before her own happiness.

  What did Charlotte and her lover know in advance of 9/11? What could they know?

  Lucie had to find out.

  She found the safe hidden behind stacks of shoeboxes at the back of the closet.

  The code was easy now she knew where to find the four numbers. She keyed them in. The door released and swung open as if on a spring. Lucie could see nothing. She put her hand in and felt around. The safe was empty. Someone must have got here before her. The Kleer n Kleen guys, maybe? Was that why they were here? Did Charlotte’s accomplice send them in? Lucie shivered at the thought of those strangers in here going though Charlotte’s belongings. What had she got herself into?

  She lay on her stomach and reached inside, running her fingers over every surface. Just to make sure. Her fingernail caught on some Scotch tape and she peeled it off. A small envelope dropped onto the floor of the safe.

  Lucie grabbed it, rolled onto her back, and tore open the envelope. When she sat up a little silver key fell into her lap. It was unlike any key Lucie had seen before. The shaft was cut on each side in a complicated pattern. The top was engraved with a number and had a hole for a chain to go through, or a ribbon. This must be the key Charlotte had worn round her neck. The key she said she never took off. So what was it doing here?

  Lucie turned it over and over in her hand. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with it. She checked the envelope and found a small card, embossed with the name Danisticus Financial and a downtown address. It was printed, in upmarket gold ink, with Charlotte’s name and a number that matched the key.

  Charlotte had said the contents of the envelope were self-explanatory and that the rest would make sense.

  It looked like Lucie was meant to take this key to the bank named on the card. She didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified. She wished she had someone to turn to. Someone who’d go with her to open this box. Someone who’d know what to do with whatever she found inside.

  The stress was too much for Lucie’s stomach. The sandwich decided to reverse its journey through her digestive tract. This time she made it to the bathroom with a split second to spare.

  When she had recovered enough to speak, she reached for the phone.

  56

  Curtis was sitting in a flash-looking wheelchair.

  ‘How do you like my new wheels?’ he asked, when Dylan was barely through the door. ‘Specially adapted for agility and ease of movement in a restricted environment.’

  ‘You quoting the sales blurb?’

  ‘Indeed I am. And it’s all thanks to that mystery benefactor I told you about.’

  ‘You find out any more?’

  ‘Not a thing. Thought at first it had to be a hoax. Some kind of sick prank. But Carol-Anne banked the cheque for me and it cleared. One hundred thousand dollars. Kerr-ching!’

  ‘Was there no name on the letter?’

  ‘Duh! Wouldn’t be a mystery benefactor if I knew the name, would it?’

  ‘Was there no clue to who sent it?’

  ‘Three initials at the bottom of the note. SSM. That was it.’

  ‘Nothing else? No name on the cheque? A signature?’

  ‘Dunno. Who cares? I can ask Carol-Anne if you’re that interested.’

  ‘Nah, doesn’t matter. I’m pleased for you. You’re looking good, by the way.’

  Curtis did look good – fit and toned, his arms strong and muscled, putting Dylan in mind of one of those amazing wheelchair warriors you saw charging through the streets on Marathon day.

  Something else had changed, harder to identify than the improvements to his physique. Dylan listened to him talk about his plans to go back to school. He seemed determined to make something of himself, despite his situation. He sounded serious about grabbing this second chance he’d been given.

  ‘So, budd
y, there you have it. Curtis Jardine’s life plan. Version two. I may only be half the man physically, but believe me, I plan on being twice the man I was before the accident.’

  Dylan noticed how Curtis now referred to the reason for his paralysis as an accident. He seemed to accept it as the hand he’d been dealt, however unfairly.

  As if he’d been reading Dylan’s thoughts, Curtis began to recite.

  ‘Life handed him a lemon,

  As Life sometimes will do.

  His friends looked on in pity,

  Assuming he was through.

  They came upon him later,

  Reclining in the shade

  In calm contentment, drinking

  A glass of lemonade.’

  Dylan noted the quiet enthusiasm in his friend’s voice. ‘Did you write that?’ he asked.

  ‘Hell, no. It was on a poster in one of the rooms at the rehab centre. I had plenty of chance to look at it and think about what it meant. One day I realised I’d learned it off by heart, without even trying. Good, eh?’

  Dylan wasn’t sure if his friend meant the poem or his recitation of it. Didn’t matter really. The answer was the same. ‘Great.’

  ‘Well, I plan not only to drink lemonade, or even open a lemonade stand. I plan to run a chain of lemonade stands.’

  As they laughed like old times, Dylan was glad he’d not given up on Curtis.

  ‘Curtis, it’s good to see you positive about the future.’

  ‘Thanks, buddy. You know, crazy as this sounds, I feel like I’ve got something to look forward to.’ He patted his thighs. ‘Even with these useless mothers.’ His wide, optimistic smile faded. ‘You know what, Dylan? One of the things I’ve learned? We can’t turn back the clock and if you think like that, you’ll end up crazy.’

  He touched the tip of his finger to the corner of his eye, as if he’d got some dust in it. ‘Man,’ he said, ‘I can’t tell you how much I wish Lucie didn’t have to die that day. She’d have left me, anyway. I know that. Who could blame her, after the way I treated her? But what I’d give to see her walk through that door right now.’

  If Dylan came clean about Lucie, he could lighten Curtis’s burden, but his loyalty to Lucie was too strong.

  ‘Wanna know the best thing to come out of all this?’ asked Curtis.

  Dylan shrugged.

  ‘Meeting Carol-Anne when I was in hospital.’

  ‘She good?’

  ‘She’s amazing. Looks after me better than I ever looked after myself. And you know what’s really great about her?’

  ‘Apart from the fact she’s young, cute and blonde?’

  ‘None of that matters, man. What matters is that she’s always there for me, good days and bad. And don’t get me wrong, I still have plenty bad days too, but it seems like she cares. Lucie didn’t care.’

  ‘How can you say that? Lucie worshipped the ground you walked on.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe at first, but not at the end.’

  ‘And whose fault was that?’

  Curtis hung his head. Dylan didn’t enjoy seeing him look guilty and embarrassed, but he couldn’t let his friend rewrite history and learn nothing from the past. ‘You gonna control that temper of yours with Carol-Anne?’

  ‘Sure. Been working on the temper thing.’

  ‘Man, it’s about time.’

  ‘Listen, Dylan, nobody knows better than me what an asshole I’ve been all my life. I’m sorry for the way I treated Lucie. And you.’

  ‘She deserved better.’

  ‘You both did. Seriously, I’m very sorry. I wish Lucie were alive today, so I could tell her. But that’s never gonna happen. Like I said, you can’t turn back time.’

  How would Curtis react if Dylan told him it could happen?

  ‘Maybe it was Lucie’s destiny all along, to die that day. I’ll tell you, she did me a big favour dying where she did.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I could have as much as half a million dollars coming to me from the 9/11 victim compensation fund that’s been set up. I’ll never need to worry about money.’

  ‘But I thought you already got enough money to set you up? From the mystery man? You’ve got a nice place here, you can afford to go to school and pay Carol-Anne to help you.’

  ‘Sure. That rich bastard, whoever he is, helped me out some. And I’m grateful.’

  ‘Then why would you take money from a 9/11 victim compensation fund?’

  Curtis looked at him as if he’d gone crazy. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘You’re not a victim.’

  Curtis flushed, his cheeks turning bright. The warning sign was all too familiar to Dylan. ‘I don’t look like a victim to you? Of course I’m a fuckin’ victim.’

  ‘And what about Lucie?’

  ‘What about Lucie? Lucie’s dead, man. You told me so yourself. She died on 9/11. That makes me eligible for compensation.’

  Dylan heard a door open behind him. A gentle voice said, ‘Everything okay in here?’

  Curtis growled, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Need me to do anything?’

  Curtis breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, his mouth puffing out like a blowfish. When he’d completed three of the long breaths, he said calmly, ‘Thanks, Carol-Anne, but I’m fine. We’re fine.’ He looked at Dylan, a challenge in his eyes, and said, ‘We fine, buddy?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dylan, and turned to look at Carol-Anne. For such a young, slight person, she seemed to exude a confidence that was reassuring. She beamed a broad smile, whether for Dylan or for Curtis, it was hard to tell.

  The door closed quietly again and the two of them were left alone. Dylan didn’t know what to say next.

  ‘You trying to say I shouldn’t take that money?’ demanded Curtis, his voice quieter but still full of aggression.

  Dylan considered his next words carefully. Curtis may have learned to manage his anger, but it was hard for Dylan to break a lifetime’s habit of diplomacy.

  ‘I guess I’m wondering if there might be folks out there who need the money more than you do. Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought that cheque you got was enough.’

  ‘How much is enough?’

  ‘I don’t know, Curtis.’

  ‘No, that’s right, man. You don’t know. You have no idea what it’s like to know you’ll never walk again. So don’t you dare walk in here with your perfect legs and tell me I’m not a fuckin’ victim!’

  Against his better judgement, Dylan persisted, although he wasn’t sure why. ‘That’s not how it works, Curtis. The fund’s not there to compensate you for your injuries. That’s not what it’s for. The 9/11 fund is supposed to compensate the bereaved, to make up for the loss of their loved ones.’

  ‘I lost a loved one!’

  ‘You lost a wife that you beat senseless. You’re the reason she was in Manhattan that morning.’

  Curtis stared at him. He was nothing, if not smart. ‘Hell you know all this?’

  Had he said too much? Blown Lucie’s secret after all these weeks?

  He’d learned from his friend how effective it can be to go on the attack when your instinct is to be defensive. He took a step towards Curtis and loomed over him.

  ‘You really think no one knew what was going on? Sure, Lucie did her best to cover up the bruises or hide them under her clothes. But who wears long sleeves when it’s eighty degrees outside? You’ve been beating up on her for years. I should have done something about it long ago.’

  Despite the wheelchair, Curtis did not look cowed. He stuck his face defiantly upwards and said, ‘Yeah, but you didn’t, did you, Dylan? Too much of a pussy. Same old, same old.’

  Dylan stepped back, defeated and deflated. He wasn’t here to fight with this man he’d known for twenty-five years. ‘Lucie went to Manhattan to look for a job. She was trying to find a way out.’

  ‘Out of what?’

  ‘Her life.’

  ‘Hell was wrong with her life?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Curtis! Not fi
ve minutes ago, you said, “She’d have left me. Who could blame her,” you said, “after the way I treated her.” You treated her no better than a slave.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, she’s free now. Free at last, and I’m gonna take the money. Money I’m entitled to because, on September eleventh, thanks to those terrorists, my wife died.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Watch me, buddy.’

  ‘But Lucie’s …’ Dylan’s brain caught the traitorous words before they could tumble disloyally out of his mouth.

  Curtis was on it like a snake. ‘Lucie’s what, Dylan?’

  Dylan’s phone rang, startling both of them.

  Curtis recovered first. ‘Gonna get that?’ he demanded.

  Dylan patted himself down like a self-frisking cop. He fished his phone out of his back pocket just as the ringtone stopped jangling. In the silence he checked the little screen then switched the phone off. He’d call her later. This was more important.

  ‘Don’t take the money, Curtis, It’s wrong.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong, man. That money’s mine, by rights, and I’m gonna make sure I get every penny that’s due me. Might even screw a bit more than I’m due, if I play the poor crippled widower.’ Curtis laughed like a cartoon villain. He sounded so convincing Dylan wasn’t sure how much of it was an act.

  ‘You haven’t changed at all, have you, Curtis?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve changed all right. Got shit for legs, but that’s not the only change. I’m never gonna be poor again and if there’s money in any fund I can get my hands on, then I’m sure as hell taking it. You got a problem with that?’

  Dylan looked his friend in the eye and nodded. ‘I’ve got a problem with you, Curtis. Full stop.’

  57

  Lucie woke a hundred times in the night. Each time she hoped it was morning and when the alarm dashed her hopes, she flopped back down onto her pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt like a child on Christmas Eve, willing the hours to pass until she could rise and find out what surprises the day had in store.