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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved.
PART FOUR
PRESENT DAY
IV
Sunday, November 13th
5 a.m.
Scott stared at the ceiling, watching the last of the dim moonlight slipping through between the horizontal blinds, filtering through the blue valance, making thin lines of yellow light across the gently spinning ceiling fan. He glanced at the clock for the thousandth time.
5:02.
Two minutes had passed since the last time he had looked, each of them feeling like an hour. Flopping over, he pulled the pillow over his head, grimacing against the headache that stung through his skull, resonating like a gong within his brain. A dull ache throbbed at the base of his spine, the tight muscles burning and cramping as he rolled over once again, this time into a ball.
“One week,” he said aloud, wincing as a solid ache crumpled his stomach.
He hadn’t slept a wink last night. He’d barely slept at all in the last month for that matter. The project he had started at work—meant to be his coup de grace, the peacock feather in his professional cap—seemed as though it would never be anything remotely resembling on schedule.
He had inherited his father’s construction company, Premier Construction, when he was twenty-two, fresh out of college. He had never intended to get into his father’s business, especially after securing a degree in psychology. His plan was to finish his masters, which he had only barely begun, and then follow through with a doctorate, becoming a full-fledged psychiatrist. But things changed in a hurry.
It had been Thanksgiving break, 1994. The four-day vacation had begun on Thursday. The drive down from the University of Colorado medical School in Denver had been tedious at best. The traffic had been stop and go from the time he merged onto the highway clear south to Monument; the drive which should have taken no more than an hour and fifteen minutes taking just over two. He had stopped by his mother’s house first. The plan was to catch lunch with mom and then dinner with dad, just as he had each of the prior ten years since their divorce. But when he had arrived at his mom’s house, he knew that something was wrong.
His sister’s car was nowhere to be seen, and she lived there, always parking right in front of the house beneath the overhanging branches of the lone pine that pushed up the sidewalk. He could vividly remember walking up to the door, crossing the ice-spotted walkway. He’d clambered up the steps to the front porch, the whole while cradling the warm tray of rolls he had picked up to go with the meal.
It was that awkward stage where he didn’t know whether to just open the door as he had while he had lived there four years prior, or to ring the doorbell out of respect since he no longer did. He’d paused on the porch, the snow falling lightly from the gray sky, swirling in the confines of the overhung porch. The door had opened inwards before he had resolved the debate, his stepfather, Ray, standing in the doorway, looking morose.
“Come in… son,” he had said, staring down at his feet.
Ray had only called him son a handful of times in the last decade, the first of which came at his high school graduation, the rest either when he was at the height of his game, earning the Boettcher or making the Dean’s list, or when something was wrong…
That’s where it all got foggy. He could see visions of his mother slumped over in the light blue Lazy Boy, her feet dangling over the arm as she stared out the window. Toying innocuously with the fronds of the potted fern on the end table next to her, she’d rubbed them back and forth between her fingers. She hadn’t said a single word to him that day. She hadn’t even acknowledged his presence for that matter.
The tray of rolls had slipped from his hands, falling to the floor and bursting through the aluminum foil cover, rolling across the thin, white carpet as Ray had told him about his father’s heart attack. His sister, Gina, was already at the hospital, but they had been unable to reach him since he had been stuck on the road.
Everything got fuzzy from there. He couldn’t remember the drive to the hospital, let alone how he had gotten there. There had been a chunky, red-haired receptionist at the front desk who had sent him to the Emergency Room, through a maze of long white halls. He had rounded the corner in time to see his sister fall to her knees, her face buried in her hands. A white-jacketed doctor set his hand on her shoulder briefly before whirling and heading down the hallway. Scott’s legs had been unable to run, the trembling rising from his ankles and overwhelming his thighs. The hall had seemed to grow longer and longer. His sister seemed so far away, alone on the glossy white floor. The overhead light reflected in long, straight lines as he watched his feet, checking the lines in the tiles to make sure that he was actually moving.
He had cradled his sister to his chest, feeling her shuddering as she released a series of wails. The burden of strength had fallen squarely on his shoulders. He was the oldest child, the big brother, and it was his job to take care of everyone else around him through this time. All he could remember from there was guiding his sister to her feet and walking her out of the hospital, staring up into the rapidly darkening sky and wondering why.
His grandparents had flown in from San Antonio and helped make all of the arrangements. His mother had hosted the reception, much to everyone’s surprise. The weekend had passed in a blur, and whether by conscious choice or not, he remembered very little of it. There were a few spotted memories, more like third-party pictures in his mind. There was the image of standing in front of his family and his father’s friends at the funeral, lowering the black, shining casket into the soft, brown earth, tiny flakes fluttering all around him, and then there had been the session with the lawyer.
Preston Grey, his father’s attorney, had sat them down in his office on the following Monday morning: Scott, his sister, and his mother. His father’s assets were to be equally divided between Scott and his sister, with the exception of his condo, which he left to his ex-wife to sell in order to pay off her own house. Though it had been a long time since his parents had anything even remotely nice to say about one another, they had proven in the end to be more caring than he had ever thought.
There was one problem, however. Most of his father’s assets—his condo, his rental units, his construction business—had been used to secure a loan, or more accurately, a handful of loans, to finance a development that would have positioned him to be one of the top three construction companies in the city. It was a two hundred acre project: four hundred single-family homes, and three hundred duplexes. Barely a hundred houses had been built, with only fifty more begun. They had just barely broken ground on the townhouses. The commercial development, consisting of a professional office park and a strip mall were barely off of the ground. A Domino’s Pizza had already signed to anchor the strip mall at one side, and 7-11 the other, but the stores in between were nowhere near being leased.
Mr. Grey, a friend of his father’s from back in college, had already made calls to several other construction firms in the area, but none of them bid anything even close to fair market value for the remainder of the project. They knew all they had to do was wait for the loans to default, and then they could just buy up the pieces for a fraction of what it had cost his father. It was wrong and it was immoral, but based on the given situation, it was smart business.
They were left with two options.
The first was to allow the loans to default, whereupon the bank would seize all assets, burying the business, leaving failure as his father’s sole legacy. Or, they could run the business themselves. Neither was very attractive, but when it came down to it, there really was no choice. His mother was a teacher by trade, as was his stepfather. Neither of them had any experience in construction, nor did they have the time until summer. Ray had offered to help, which had been an amazingly nice gesture, but it had been just that. Gina was still in high school for crying out loud,
what could she possibly do?
Without an ounce of regret, Scott had called the university the next morning, withdrawing from all of his Master’s level courses. Of course, that meant his scholarships would be gone when he tried to go back, and as it was past the deadline for withdrawal, his grades would all go into the books as “incomplete,” rather than as “withdrawal.” He wasn’t exactly sure of the distinction, but from the tone of the registrar’s voice, there definitely was one.
He had called his father’s foreman; a surprisingly intelligent and articulate fellow named Justin Warren, and had set up a meeting. Justin had proven to be worth his weight in gold. Not only had he shown Scott the ropes, but also he had given countless hours of overtime, without the expectation of pay. He had served as a liaison with the crews, bringing them into Scott’s corner from the start.
The development had gotten back on schedule within a month. All of the lots had been sold and the commercial space leased. The bank had been paid back with interest ahead of schedule, and the business recorded record profits for every quarter of the year.
Scott had set aside close to half a million dollars for his sister, to pay for her college education and to set her up for life once she was through. He had paid off all of his mother and stepfather’s debt, and had even built himself a house in the process. For his tireless work and dedication, he had rewarded Justin, who had done more for him over the last year than anyone else had for him in his entire life, with twenty-five percent of the company and double his original salary. He was promoted from foreman to managing partner, and given enormous say in the business. It was the least that he could do.
In all, it had taken close to three years to finally finish the development, but it was beautiful. The contracts were rolling in from every different direction, and they had purchased several large plots of land to the north of town for expansion that had already more than quadrupled in value.
Scott knew that wherever he was, he had made his father proud. That was all he ever wanted.
With finances well settled, and the business beating down the door, Scott felt that it was just about time to finish what he had started. He re-enrolled at grad school.
He was going to give the business one last summer of his full attention, and then he was going to just hand the reins over to Justin, feeling completely comfortable with the decision. Sure, he was going to miss it; he could see exactly what had drawn his father into it in the first place. It was a little like playing monopoly with real money, jockeying for position with other companies, dealing with bids and wholesalers, and then standing back like a god, surveying the area that had been nothing more than a pile of dirt before he had laid his hands on it. He was going to miss it, but he had started something that he needed to finish, if only for the personal satisfaction.
It had been late July, and they had just finished renovating the lower downtown area, a city contract that had brought in millions. He and Justin were scheduled to meet one last time, to determine which of their plots to the north they were going to develop first. It was to be his farewell meeting, and then it was off to school, after a well-deserved, month long vacation.
It was a hot, dry night. Late July in Colorado was infamous for hundred degree-days and only the vague memory of anything resembling rain. They had met at the office, which had moved from a single suite on the first floor to the entire top floor of the building. They had constructed a pond, complete with live reeds and cattails in the center of the room. There was a series of benches situated around the water, flanked by bonsai trees. Scott’s office was up a series of stairs, all four walls glass, one overlooking the entire downtown skyline framed against the jagged, blue Rocky Mountains.
Justin met him there at quarter till eight in the evening in a brand new suit. Every time he saw Justin these days he was wearing a different suit. The two stood for a moment, staring out the window, the orange clouds masking the setting sun as it slipped past the rocky crags. The sky faded from deep blue to an almost black, the stars shining brightly in the cloudless sky. It had been the perfect night. He could vividly remember thinking that. He had stood like Caesar, surveying his kingdom beneath the best that nature had to offer.
That is, until his cell phone rang…
The phone had fallen from his hand, clattering to the floor, the antenna breaking off. He could remember staring at Justin, whose face faded from an enormous mile, to a silent nod as he stared down at the floor.
He had sped to the hospital, oblivious to anything going on around him. Car horns filled his ears, but the significance never registered within his mind as he just pinned the gas to the floor, the whole time wondering, over and over, how this could have happened again. It seemed as though he had just done this.
He had arrived before anyone else, leaving his car parked in the emergency lane in front of the hospital.
The doctor had greeted him after only a few moments waiting in the plush, forest green chairs in the waiting area, and had led him to the back of the emergency room. There were several large rooms with doors on all sides, leading from one into the next. They stopped first at room 113; he could remember that number as though it was his own birthdate.
Two nurses, clad in powder blue scrubs, stood next to the lone bed in the center, organizing the blood drenched trays to either side of the bed. They wore latex gloves covered in rapidly drying blood. Both had looked up at him when he had walked in, and then immediately down at the floor. Metal arms extended from the side of the bed, halide lights mounted atop their flexible arms. A crimson-soaked sheet covered the raised bed, long tufts of blonde hair protruding from the top portion.
The nurses had continued organizing the stained utensils, and throwing the drenched clothing the doctors had shed into the hamper. The doctor beside him had raised the sheet covering the long lump on the bed, revealing his mother’s lifeless corpse. Her face was pale, splatters of blood dried on her cheeks. Her blue forehead was damp, her bangs matted backward. The tubes that had been used to open her airways still lay next to her head on the table. One of the nurses had quickly shuffled off with the saw that had been used to open her chest, and the device used to spread her ribs as soon as he had laid eyes upon them.
Scott had closed his eyes, identifying her with a curt nod. The doctor had spoken of an accident and a drunk driver who had also not made it off of the table as he had led Scott into the adjoining room where his stepfather lay beneath a similarly stained sheet. The nurses in his room had vanished as soon as Scott had walked in at the request of the doctor, who once again raised the top of the sheet for him to identify the body.
The rest of the night had passed in a blur, a thick fog convalescing within his mind. He had wandered back to the room where his mother lay, sitting on a stool on the corner of the room with his face buried in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look at her body, trying desperately to remember her as she was, and to shake the image of her dead body, her jaw hanging slack as her tongue began to swell within. Time had passed slowly, yet he had sat there, peering between the tear-soaked gaps in his fingers for more than an hour before one of the nurses finally led him from the room.
She had guided him to the chairs in the waiting area, offering to allow him to speak with a counselor or the chaplain, but he had refused. He just sat there; staring blankly at the television as a baby wailed to his right, the man next to him cradling his blood drenched arm and grinding his teeth.
Rising, he pressed his way through the group of people standing around the crying infant and shuffled to the pay phone on the wall. Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he produced his calling card and dialed the numbers into the phone. After an endless series of numbers, he was granted permission to dial his sister’s number at school. She was living off campus at the University of Colorado in Boulder, her address changing as frequently as her major, but he had at least had the foresight to buy her a cell phone.
She answered on the first ring, stifling a giggle. From the tone of his voi
ce, she could tell that something was wrong as he fumbled to formulate his thoughts into words that he hoped would shield her from some of the immediate pain and shock, but all he could muster was: “Mom and Ray died in a car accident.”
The following week had been chaotic, but he had it under control. He had just done the same thing far too recently. He had handled all of the arrangements without help, his sister only coming down for a couple of days as she was working an internship at IBM and didn’t want to ask for that much time off. It was obvious that she was overwhelmed by the situation, but she distanced herself from him, and he didn’t really know how to bridge the gap so that he could help her. They had barely spoken over those few days, and just as infrequently since. He kept tabs on her, but it was almost as if he lost his sister and his parents in the same week.
Perhaps it was the sense of belonging, or more realistically, it was that it was his comfort zone, but he had gone back to work in construction the following week. After canceling his registration at school, he had delved into work with a ferocity. His social life consisted of a beer on the couch over SportsCenter on the way to bed, morning coming before the dawn. Ambition had become the best medicine. Rather than deciding on which of their properties to begin first, they had begun two at the same time, spreading their labor so thin that it was a miracle it held together at all.
Ulcers arose from nowhere; the roll of Rolaids in his pocket his best friend. Even Justin had been forced to distance himself as Scott had become far too driven to talk to on a normal level. His primary, and singular, focus was on work. He had left no room for anything else. There hadn’t been a date in months, nor was there even the prospect. But both projects stayed right on pace, and finished under budget. They made a fortune, but it was all for naught, as the completion of the work left Scott with an empty, aching wound deep within his soul that only another project could help to fill.
Justin had chosen an early retirement, selling his quarter of the business back to Scott for enough money to live a lifetime abroad. His foremen feared him, his workers loathed him. He was completely alone in the business, and the stress had begun to take its toll.
The Bloodspawn Page 11