Reagan's Ashes

by Jim Heskett

  “She might not have checked in under her own name.”

  She frowned. “Do you know what it was?”

  He struggled to think of what name she might use. Maybe the name of an old high school teacher or something? Movie star? There were too many possibilities.

  “She’s about medium height, thin, she would have been wearing hiking clothes. Stank real bad, probably, like she hadn’t showered in days.”

  “I only came on my shift about an hour ago, I’m sorry.”

  He gripped the edge of the counter to stave off the urge to smack it again. “Can you at least tell me how many people checked in last night?”

  She scanned again. “Just one.”

  He gritted his teeth. She could have saved a lot of time if she’d told him that first motherfucking thing. He tried to keep his voice calm. “And who was that?”

  “Tori Amos. Checked into room 27. That’s the fifth one from the—”

  “I can find it, thanks,” he said as he withdrew from the counter and headed for the door. He considered dropping a comment about her double-chin or her flabby triceps, but kept his mouth shut. No time to waste, and living her existence as that tub of lard was punishment enough.

  As he walked outside, a car pulled up next to the blue Chevy. The door opened and a vision from the past stepped out.

  Aunt Jules, Reagan’s mom. He hadn’t seen her for so long—at least five or six years—that it took him a few seconds to appreciate who he saw across the parking lot. Jules had disappeared not long before Reagan moved to Austin, and now, here she stood, only a couple hundred feet from him.

  Seeing her stirred feelings in Dalton, but mostly, it made him think of Uncle Mitch. Going over to his house for holidays as a kid, watching Broncos games on random Sundays, sometimes even tossing a baseball with him in the backyard after school.

  Mitch had always been kind to Dalton and treated him better than Tyson ever had. And that’s why Dalton felt a surge of guilt when he remembered he was the last person to see his uncle alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  On the day of his death, Mitchell Darby sat at a desk in his study, composing a letter to his daughter Reagan. Even with the door locked and the house empty, he still scribbled frantically. If Tyson or someone who worked for him came to collect what Mitch had stolen, a locked door wouldn’t stop them.

  He wrote:

  Dearest Reagan,

  I wish I had time to write everything I want to say, but I’m running out. There’s a separate letter, it’s attached to my will. I wrote that letter right after our last trip into Rocky Mountain. The letter asks you to take my ashes to Nanita, and spread them there. I had hoped that you would not have to see that letter until you were older, but I don’t think I have much time left. I made some mistakes. I was selfish. And I’m sorry that you have to be the one to clean it up. Hopefully what I’m leaving you is going to help. What I’m leaving you isn’t in the will.

  You’ll understand what the key in this envelope is for, but what the key goes to isn’t in the same place as what this key opens. Think about the trips we used to take up to the farmer’s market. You’ll understand when you get there. Your grandfather can help, but he doesn’t know anything. He has something of yours, and you’ll know that when you see it, too. I hate to be so vague, but I can’t take the chance that someone else might see this.

  When you find what you’re looking for, leave Denver and don’t come back here. You’ll be safe if you just stay away. Use it to start the life you deserve.

  I don’t know how to say I’m sorry, other than to tell you that I’m proud of you and I love you. I know that’s not good enough.

  Dad

  He wanted to write more about their backpacking trip together two years ago and how much it meant to him. How happy he was that she was steady on her medication and holding down a job. How he wished she would someday be able to go back to college and chase her dreams, whatever those were. Possibly, even tell her the truth about why her mother left six years ago. That conversation had been an object of dread haunting him ever since.

  How could he explain to his daughter that he’d stolen over two hundred thousand dollars from his own brother, for no good reason other than a compulsive need to try to turn it into more money? How could she ever forgive him for that?

  There was no time. He had to get to the post office and get this letter off in the mail.

  He folded the letter and took an envelope from the desk drawer, wrote his daughter’s Austin address on the front, and slipped the key inside. He held up the letter to his mouth and was about to lick it closed when the front door opened. Hadn’t he locked it?

  A voice came from downstairs. “Uncle Mitch? I know you’re here.”

  Dalton. No, no, no, not now.

  If Dalton found the key, he would never give it to Reagan. He and Tyson may never figure out what to do with it, but there’d be no way Reagan would ever get the money.

  Mitchell jumped to his feet, whipping his head around to scan the room. There had to be a way to get the key to Reagan, but how?

  Then his eyes landed on the urn on the bookcase. The urn he had purchased in that African shop in New York five years ago, which was supposed to hold his ashes. But he hadn’t expected to need that for many more years, when he’d be ancient and withered and bed-ridden. He had hoped that Reagan would be old enough to take her own children with her to spread his remains into Nanita, the deepest, bluest lake he’d ever seen. But his time was up.

  He raced through the prospective chain of events. It might work. She would get the letter with the will. The letter would instruct her to take the urn into Rocky Mountain National Park. She would find the key and the letter in the urn and know what to do. There were many variables, but he trusted his daughter. He had to; there wasn’t another choice, if he wanted to keep the key out of Tyson’s possession.

  Footsteps came up the stairs. “Uncle Mitch? You know why I’m here. Anne’s not here right now, it’s just you and me, so why don’t you come on out?”

  Mitchell crossed the room and snatched the urn from the shelf. He opened the top and pressed the lid, making the secret compartment cover pop open. He’d designed and created the compartment himself, to hide certain valuables. No one would think to look in an urn. He took out a crumpled mass of emergency money and the little slip of paper he’d written his computer passwords on and tossed them aside. Pushing with his thumbs, he wedged the key and the note inside, then slid the cover back into place. He turned, and as he did, the urn moved and the key rattled inside. That was no good. Anyone might hear it and open the urn to investigate.

  The idea that he was planning for events after his death sent slashing knives of panic up and down his spine, but he pushed himself forward. No time to second-guess.

  The footsteps halted in front of the study door, and Mitchell saw the shadows of feet in the thin gap between the door and the floor.

  “Open up.”

  Mitchell ran back to the desk and grabbed the duct tape from the bottom drawer. He reopened the urn, popped open the compartment and tore a strip of duct tape. Would the duct tape hold, or flake off? He had to trust it would stay in place.

  “I can hear you in there. Open this motherfucking door.”

  Mitchell applied the duct tape and slid the cover into place. Would Reagan find the secret compartment? She was a smart girl. She would find it. Every bit of hope in his life attached itself to that one supposition.

  The door rattled and splintered as Dalton threw himself against it.

  Mitchell placed the urn on the desk. He stood tall, breathing deeply, and started to feel dizzy. Prickles of light edged his vision. His head and arms felt heavy, as if coated with layers upon layers of mud.

  On the second try, the lock broke and Dalton stumbled inside, fire in his eyes. “Uncle Mitch.”

  “Dalton,” Mitchell said, gasping for air. He felt only pity for this young man, barely an adult. Dalton looked like his father ha
d at that age, with the same ambitious smirk always playing on his face. Dalton was a pawn in a game, and Mitchell felt no animosity toward him. “Yes, I know why you’re here.”

  “Tyson says today you pay back what you stole. No excuses.”

  “I don’t have the money.”

  Dalton took a paperweight from the desk and slammed it to the floor. “He told me you have it. I’m really not interested in going around and around with you, so I’m only going to ask you once. Where is the money you took?”

  “Dalton, you don’t have to do this. You can just let me leave. I’ll go away and I’ll never bother any of you again. We can forget any of this happened and I’ll walk out that door right now, hop on a plane and it’s over.”

  “What do you think he’ll do to me if I let you go?”

  Mitchell took a step toward his nephew as the spots in his vision multiplied and the world went blurry. “You don’t have to work for him. Maybe you could come with me? We can work together. Vegas, maybe. You’re a smart kid. We could make a lot of money.”

  “Whatever happens next, you caused all of this. All you had to do was return what you stole.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “You don’t understand. He wouldn’t have forgotten about it. Pay it back or not, I’m a dead man either way.”

  Dalton drew a pistol from his back belt loop. At the sight of the gun, Mitchell felt a tightening in his chest, as if a vice grip had squeezed his midsection. The room started to spin, and his lunch bubbled up from his stomach, threatening to eject onto the floor.

  He toppled, grabbing the edge of his desk for support. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and his slippery hand couldn’t hold on to the desk. He slid forward. When he collapsed, he found himself looking up at the ceiling of his study room, his life escaping. This was the last day he was going to be alive on this earth. The knowledge came to him swiftly and sent panic needling every inch of his body.

  Dalton entered the corner of his vision, towering over him. “You stupid dipshit. We’re going to find the money eventually, you know.”

  And Mitchell knew Dalton was right. They would hurt or kill Anne—and probably even Reagan too—if they thought it would lead to the money. In that instant, Mitchell knew he had likely doomed his wife and daughter, and he could do nothing about it.

  All of this chaos was his fault.

  “Help me,” Mitchell said, wheezing. No matter how hard his lungs worked, he couldn’t seem to draw a breath. “Please. Call someone. I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  Dalton shook his head. “Where’s the money, Uncle Mitch? This is the last time I’m going to ask you.”

  Mitchell closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  7:20 am

  Reagan recognized the Seroquel hangover the instant she pried open her eyes and the sun touched her through a slit in the motel room curtains. Spoon had persuaded her to take a double dose so she could sleep, and it hadn’t taken long. Give a guy the internet, suddenly he’s a medical expert.

  When she lifted her head from the pillow, she still felt the tingling of mania, but the sharpened edges of the last thirty-six hours had dulled into something less ferocious. The manic phase had only been in its baby stages, but enduring two days off meds after two years of taking them… being on meds was the right thing to do. The world made sense again, in the muddled and ambiguous way it had always made sense.

  The day was pink and sexy. Her body felt good. Tired, but good.

  The memory of her revelation reading Dad’s letter the day before formed in her brain. They needed to leave soon, before Dalton caught up with them. Eventually, he would, and there was going to be a reckoning. He would not be too happy that she’d sliced his hand with a dull Swiss Army knife. Crazy to think that she’d actually cut him. The prospect of doing that seemed so odd now, yet so rational and necessary when she’d been manic and faced with no other option.

  Spoon shifted in his sleep, and she remembered the rest of last night. Coupling the medication with the marriage proposal had been a clever trick. Overcome with joy, she’d downed her meds and showered kisses all over his bruised and battered face.

  A yawning pang tore through her stomach as she pulled the sheets up to her neck. She hadn’t eaten in two days, and Seroquel always gave her the munchies.

  He turned over in bed and opened his eyes. “Hey, beautiful.”

  She smiled. “You can call me Mrs. Witherspoon.”

  “Not yet, I reckon. We have to let the judge do his bit first.” He traced a finger in a circle around her stomach. “We should get you to a doc to look at that bruise.”

  “I’m okay. Doesn’t hurt as much this morning as it did before.”

  “If you’re sure,” he said.

  “Tell me again about the crabs and the little sand balls they make when they dig.”

  A knock on the door interrupted the stillness and isolation of the moment. They both went wide-eyed.

  “Who is that?” he whispered. “Does someone know we’re here?”

  She shook her head.

  From outside the door, muffled: “Reagan? Honey?”

  That voice, unmistakable even after six years. Mom.

  Reagan sat up. Spoon had told her yesterday about meeting her mom, but then it seemed just one more piece of information in the flood. That her mother was fifteen feet away after six years of absenteeism sent ice cubes all over Reagan’s exposed skin. Mom. Here.

  Spoon slid out of bed and put his clothes back on, and Reagan followed suit. The dirty shirt and hiking pants felt heavy sliding over her clean skin, but that hardly seemed important now. Jules Darby, here in Colorado. Or would her last name even still be Darby? Maybe she’d married and changed her name. Anything was possible. As Reagan crossed the motel room, she tried to breathe deeply to keep her heart rate at a reasonable level. A million options of what to say to her mother sprinted through her head.

  But when she opened the door and saw her mom smiling back at her across the threshold, pure elation overcame her.

  “Mom!”

  Jules leaped forward and wrapped her arms around Reagan. “My sweet baby girl. I’ve missed you so much.”

  Those arms around her, like nothing she’d experienced in years. But Reagan pulled back, looking her mother square in the eyes. Part of her wanted to scream then where the hell have you been the last six years? Instead, she smiled as tears welled in her eyes.

  Jules looked at Spoon. “Hello again.”

  Spoon tipped an imaginary cap toward her. “How are you going, Jules?”

  “I’m well, thank you. If you don’t mind, do you think you could give us a minute or two alone?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll hop in the shower if you’re okay here.”

  Reagan nodded, so he left them alone. Reagan pointed at the bed and they sat together, joined by the hand.

  The shock had passed. Reagan wanted some answers. “Where have you been, Mom?”

  Jules’ lip quivered. She rested a hand behind her to recline on the bed and fingered a cross hanging from a chain around her neck. “It’s complicated. Your father, you see…”

  Irritated orange started to blur the edges of Reagan’s vision. “Why weren’t you at his memorial service? You couldn’t even come out of hiding for that?”

  Jules dropped her hands into her lap, rubbing her thumbs against each other. Her breath hitched in little hiccups. “I have so much to tell you, and I don’t know where to start. Things were difficult between your father and me for a long time, and there’s a lot of reasons for that, and when you were leaving for college, everything came to a head. But it had nothing to do with you.”

  “I’m not a little kid, Mom. You don’t have to convince me the divorce wasn’t my fault. You and dad fought, you wanted out… I understand wanting to leave something that makes you unhappy. But six years with no contact at all? Do you know what I went through in the last six years, not being able to talk to you about everything?”

&nb
sp; Jules took a tissue from her purse and dabbed the corner of her eyes, smearing her mascara. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  “I was in the hospital because I tried to overdose on pills in a crappy little Austin apartment. I needed you and you weren’t there. Dad visited me. Even Anne visited me. The state wanted to send me away forever to one of those dungeons, and I needed you to be there to fight for me.”

  Jules reached out and stroked Reagan’s face. “My sister, your Aunt Sue… you used to ask questions about her and I never wanted to… she was bipolar too. I’m sorry that I never would admit it before, but I feel like I always knew it about you. I saw the signs and I used to worry and pray all the time, but what could I do?”

  “Did you even know I was in the hospital?”

  Jules nodded. “Tyson sent me updates. Anne, too.”

  Reagan’s jaw clenched and her heart ached. This was something that she hadn’t even considered, that Dad or her stepmom knew where her mom was, or at least how to get in touch with her. “Anne? You talked to her?”

  “Sometimes, yes. When we needed to discuss important things. Your father would never tell me anything, and I think she felt sorry about that… I wanted to come back for you, Reagan, I truly did.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  Jules took a deep and unsteady breath. “Your father wouldn’t let me. When he kicked me out…”

  The blood drained from Reagan’s face. Lightheadedness followed as the room started to sway back and forth, waving a few inches in each direction. “He kicked you out?” This went completely counter to everything Dad had told her. While he’d never badmouthed her mom, he hadn’t stuck up for her either. He always maintained that she left for her own reasons.

  “That’s not what Dad told me,” Reagan said.

  Jules leaned across the divide between them and placed a hand on Reagan’s knee. “Your dad probably told you a lot of things that weren’t true.”