The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  Everything else that remained in the townhouse was now gratuitous; serving no purpose, so he left it all where is was—except for the box with Connie’s red heart. He could never part with that. He placed it in the BMW’s trunk next to the new carbon fiber bicycle that would provide additional exercise as he rode it throughout the city. He could dart everywhere, using alleys and one-way streets to allay anyone who might start looking for him.

  Morgan’s world was slowly becoming controlled.

  NINE

  April 2002

  In April Morgan drove the BMW to the panhandle of Texas and spent three weeks on a ranch learning everything he could about sheep and goats. The Slavic owner was delighted to have a sturdy guest who was not only willing to pay him generously but also to help from dawn till dark with the chores. In return, when Morgan told the rancher he had inherited a farm that also included pigs, the man made certain Morgan learned about them too.

  They were vile beasts, but worse were the sheep and goats, crapping wherever they walked. At every dinner the rancher’s wife served cheese from both as a side dish. Morgan had always tried to avoid the putrid muck in restaurants, and after spending days with the animals it tasted even worse, but he would never insult his hosts.

  “Delicious,” he said, raising his plate to welcome more.

  When his time at the ranch concluded, Morgan drove to Houston for several days. At every rest stop on the interstate, he’d go for a thirty-minute sprint through the sagebrush, dodging the occasional rattlesnake. Afterwards, he would wipe the sweat off with a damp towel, put on a dry T-shirt and get back in his car. He always sat on a plastic tarp with a CD playing and the cruise control on. He didn’t want to get pulled over by state troopers for speeding. That would change everything.

  Morgan checked in with his attorney from a campground payphone outside Houston.

  “Your place sold,” the lawyer said. “They don’t want the furniture.”

  “Tell the buyers I’ll take care of that by mid-week.”

  Morgan made a note.

  “So you know, when the sale finalizes, you’re total cash is going to be a little under five million.”

  “Take a fair fee,” said Morgan.

  “I’m not liking this,” said his attorney.

  “Don’t worry,” Morgan replied. “Just hold the money in your trust. After I get settled, you’ll hear from me.”

  “Do you have enough for now?” the lawyer asked.

  “Plenty,” Morgan said.

  “When again am I supposed to mail your letter to Dr. Merrimac?”

  “Late May, about five weeks.”

  “You know, Wes…this is bothering me.”

  “I’ve done nothing but simplify my life,” said Morgan. “I’m going to take a long vacation.”

  “And throw away your career in the process.”

  Morgan said, “Call it a sabbatical.”

  “I still don’t like this,” his attorney said again, referring to not only his client’s recent decisions but also his cagy behavior.

  Morgan replied, “The expression from your generation was, I think, finding yourself. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Okay,” he conceded. The attorney had never lost an oral argument until he butted heads with this surgeon. “Before you go, I’ve got one more thing.”

  “Shoot,” said Morgan.

  “Jane Bonwitt called.”

  Morgan released a loud sigh. The woman was possessed!

  “I told her to send you a letter and gave her your PO Box.”

  “Good,” said Morgan.

  “Wes…one more time, I—”

  “Don’t.” Morgan didn’t wait. “Goodbye.”

  Morgan arranged for Goodwill to remove everything in the townhouse. While he waited, he wandered in the rooms layered with dust, repressing each memory of the place that tried to distract him.

  The doorbell rang. When the four men entered, they shook their heads in disbelief.

  “Please get all this out of here,” Morgan requested, “and no receipt is necessary.”

  “Man! Positive about that?” asked the supervisor. “No help from Uncle Sam?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  Soon only his bedroom furniture remained. He watched as they dismantled the bed, and finally it was gone from his life. One man opened a bureau drawer and found a silver picture frame. Morgan stared at their photograph from the Art Institute. He had forgotten to take it with him.

  “Beautiful,” said the man. “She yours?”

  Morgan stared at Cay’s exquisite face. It was impossible to imagine she was gone. His anger surged, but he calmed himself instantly and said, “Yes…once.”

  “She loved you, Wes.” The voice was Janie’s. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  Shit!

  The woman had to have been patrolling the neighborhood and saw the truck. She gave him a big hug before studying his square physique and strange hair. After rolling it between her fingers, she touched his beard.

  He knew she would ask, so he said in a subdued voice, “I’m taking time off, nothing more.” Morgan wasn’t interested in casual conversation. “Getting my life back together.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked. Tears were imminent.

  He wouldn’t tell her, so the interrogation continued. Morgan picked up the silver-framed photograph and stuck it under his arm.

  “I’m so sorry, Wes,” sniffed Janie.

  His inert hug offered no consolation to her.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said, scanning the space that once brought him so much happiness. He handed her the key. “Lock it up when they’re done. Goodbye, Janie.”

  He went to his car and placed the box on the passenger’s seat. Confused, she followed, trying to get him to lower the window, but Morgan ignored her. He had to clear his head. As he drove away he kept looking at the picture on the seat where Cay had sat and laughed, teased him, and said she loved him. At a stoplight, he lifted the photograph to gaze at the lips he would never kiss again. His anger fell as he looked in the rearview mirror.

  “Morgan,” he said, “get control. Pay attention!”

  Janie’s black Mercedes was following him. She was making no effort to conceal her intent.

  “I’m taking you to O’Hare,” he said. Driving through the airport’s huge parking garage would loose her. Finally his world would be controlled, and he could work without interruption.

  TEN

  Moab, Utah June 2002

  From the ground the fissures looked like smooth tears in cardboard—perceptible evidence of the power that ripped apart the Wingate sandstone. Inches from his nose, however, the rock had deviations that became rungs of a ladder. Some pock marks could take just one finger or toe, while others, several digits more. Sometimes a vertical slice was wide enough for one foot or hand to jam in alone. Others swallowed Morgan’s entire body. Every hole, ledge, and gap owned a name, but to seasoned climbers they were simply called cracks and were used to lift a body higher, often one inch at a time.

  Heated by the sunlight, updrafts enveloped his face as wind gusts whistled through the gashes, creating shrill howls.

  “Man…if those were organ pipes…” The endorphins caused his mind to drift. “They’d need tuning…”

  Morgan looked at his left index fingertip. It was bleeding again.

  In the beginning he had taped his fingers, but eventually he ignored the red ooze, letting the lacerations callus to mittens—lone protection for what once passed delicate suture through tiny hearts.

  “Fuck it,” he said.

  He was honed, leading the route to the top.

  The maws of the monolith swallowed another chock, and the cam clicked open. He clipped a roped carabineer to it and tugged. The metal hook would hold if he lost contact, restraining six thousand pounds of tension in a hundred-foot fall. The problem was he was over a hundred sixty feet up. If his climbing instructor didn’t belay him quickly enough, his accelerating body
would break the rope. Earlier in the week, after a sudden sneeze, Morgan got an abrupt taste of what would happen. His foot lost a jam and he blew out fifteen feet of rope plus stretch before he was belayed. Over the seconds banging against the stone, he laughed at the distant ground until the swinging slowed.

  “Dude,” the man yelled directly to his face. “That’ll learn you! Hold that shit in!”

  “No kidding…Really?” Morgan said as he smiled back, clawed hands and toes into the nearest cracks, and began again. But he hurt like hell that night.

  On a narrow ledge, Morgan paused before his final push to the rim. Barely two inches wide, it still offered welcome relief from gravity.

  He looked at his BMW far below then studied the Utah horizon.

  “Incredible…” he said.

  How things had changed! He marveled at his ability to adapt. Altitude now bored him, and climbing was just vertical walking—only frustratingly slow. The endorphins surged again when the polyethylene rope tickled his calf.

  “Cay…you’d be proud of me,” he said to the vastness. He remembered how she laughed the cold Saturday they went to her health club and she watched him slip off every foothold on the rock-climbing wall.

  But Caroline wasn’t there to praise him. She wasn’t there at all. Ten months had passed since he talked to her, and kissed her, and they’d made love. Not a second lapsed when he didn’t long to hold her. He would never forget. How could he? Her memory floated on the deep water of his conviction.

  “You motherfucker.” He closed his eyes to let his anger escape.

  Restraint took focus and discipline, but complete subjugation still eluded him. That couldn’t happen much longer. His survival depended on absolute control. Any mistake would be lethal.

  “Damn you!” his instructor shouted.

  “Sorry, Tony,” Morgan answered back. “Enjoying the view.”

  “You’re going to pump out!” Tony was irritated, reminding him of the danger. Muscle fatigue happened quickly late in a climb.

  Move your ass!

  Morgan’s internal command was severe—plus he had to piss. Some climbers just let it drip, but his bladder would hold. The end was minutes above, and the grip strength in his arms was dwindling.

  The steep rock face separated, and the large crack flattened into a groove. Swinging his legs over the rim, Morgan stood up, dropped his harness, and gave a grim smile while he looked at the void. His assault of Coyne Crack at Indian Creek ended his climbing instruction.

  There was no time for fanfare. Already impatient, Morgan wanted to get off the top and leave. He needed to. The hours seemed to shrink as the demands between his physical training competed with his studying, until the only thing he could sacrifice was sleep. That didn’t bother him. Ritalin ordered from Canada with his medical license allowed him compact his activities into a tightly organized schedule. Day or night he could be outdoors exercising, doing research at home or the library, or working with language tutors. A gym in Wicker Park had boxing lessons at midnight. The men who trained there were tough. Morgan always returned home bruised, but he got used to it. He never tired.

  Study and train.

  Study and pain.

  His instructor joined him at the top.

  “You beat up those rocks good.” The trident tattoo on the man’s arm twisted as they shook hands. “So, Bill, what you think of it?” he asked.

  When Morgan didn’t respond, the man said again, “Bill, ya hear me?”

  “Sorry,” Morgan answered. It wasn’t the first time he didn’t immediately respond to his fictitious name. “Tame, I guess,” Morgan said.

  Together they stared at the distant red rock towers.

  “Want to grab a beer when we get down? I know a great country bar about five miles from the base,” said Tony.

  “I’m not a very social person,” replied Morgan.

  “It’s something more than that, I can tell,” said Tony. “You’re dialed into some serious shit.”

  Morgan grew concerned. Did this man know more about him then he thought? Hanging out with Tony for a while was probably a good idea.

  Tony was intrigued when Morgan ordered a Coke, but he said nothing.

  “So you think climbing that rock was…you said…tame?” Tony asked. “That’s one of the toughest stones out there.”

  “Heights don’t bother me,” Morgan shrugged.

  “Me neither. I jumped a lot in the navy,” said Tony. “Once you HALO through a thousand feet a couple of times before pulling, you don’t much think about heights anymore.”

  “I know,” said Morgan. “Did it my first solo.”

  “Shit…A thousand feet? Problem with your primary chute?”

  “No,” said Morgan, “I just waited.”

  “Really.” The guy had balls—especially because it was intentional. “If anything fucks up that low…man…you splat! And there’s a mess to clean up. I’ve seen it.” He scratched his bald scalp, trying not to amplify his curiosity. “So why’d you do that?”

  “To see if I was afraid,” said Morgan.

  “Were you?”

  Tony’s ongoing assessment already told him the answer.

  “I wasn’t.”

  Tony looked at Morgan. He’d been his strongest student, enthusiastic in a calculating way, climbing hard and fast every day to the point of almost terminal fatigue. His persistent confrontation with death had a purpose, but what that was Tony didn’t know.

  The waitress returned, placing two frosty glasses on the table and stooping over in the process, revealing to Morgan even more cleavage. He glanced only briefly.

  “Hot-looking babe,” Tony said. “I believe she’s sending you an invite.”

  “Flattered,” replied Morgan, draining half the Coke. “Not interested.”

  “Got a woman?”

  “Did,” answered Morgan.

  Tony cracked open another shell, ate the peanut, and tossed the hull to the floor. “I’ve held your life in my hands for two weeks, so want to talk about it?”

  “My own personal hell.”

  “We’ve all been there,” said Tony, gaining a little more insight into Morgan’s despondency. “Have a picture?”

  Morgan pulled one from his wallet. Every time he saw Cay’s face his stomach churned.

  Tony whistled. “God…she’s gorgeous! Gonna marry her?”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Tell me what happened. She’s just too fuckin’ beautiful to run away from. Another man?”

  “No,” Morgan said. “She’s dead.”

  “What the fuck! How?”

  “9/11…”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Tony shouted. “You’re fucking kidding me!”

  “No. North Tower…I was on the street…Watched it all.”

  “Oh, you sorry bastard!” Tony moved closer to Morgan and put his arm around his shoulder. “My friend…I’m so fucking sorry! Ought to nuke a bunch of those fuckers!”

  Morgan took the rubber band out of his hair and shook his head. His shoulder-length strands were stringy from the dust. He felt the pit inside grow larger.

  “You got every right to feel fucked over,” said Tony.

  Morgan nodded dolefully. “I was in love with her.”

  Tony caught the waitress’s attention. Wanting to hear more, he ordered a pizza.

  “No sausage on my half please,” Morgan added.

  When she left, Tony said, “So…Bill…by climbing rocks and jumping out of airplanes…you think that brings you closer to your woman?”

  “No. I’m learning to control…my fear…of everything.”

  “Hmm,” said Tony. “You know, I was a SEAL. The training was brutal…more like terrifying…but I got immune.” He grinned. “After that I realized…I can do anything.”

  “That’s the plan,” said Morgan.

  “When I met you, your face looked beaten up, like you’d been fighting, maybe trying to learn how anyway.”

  “Yeah…boxing
.”

  “What else you been doing these last couple of months?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not believing that.” Tony shook his head and tipped back in his chair. “So far your menu’s only seems full of some God-fearing shit.”

  “Something to do.”

  “Bill, Navy SEALs are a family,” Tony began. “Brothers who’d rather take a bullet for a buddy than live without him. Know what I mean? We don’t talk about it, but there’s absolute trust among us. You can’t imagine the secrets I neither could nor ever would share.”

  The pizza arrived. Morgan took a piece and started chewing as his watch beeped.

  “Odd time to note,” Tony observed, looking out the window at the sun before taking his own slice of piece. “My gut tells me deep inside you’re principled. Clearly, you’ve got fuckin’ discipline.” His eyebrows rose. “You’re angry as hell…but it’s not focused enough.”

  Morgan looked at Tony dead in the eyes. “I want you to know…my name’s not Bill,” he said.

  “Kind of guessed that,” Tony grinned, taking a bite.

  “Wes,” Morgan said.

  “Probably Wesley,” replied Tony. “I can see why you shortened it.”

  “Easier to spell too.”

  “So…Wes…this is fun. Like I’m having a meal with two people, maybe more.” He grinned. “What sort of work do you do?”

  “I’m an architect,” replied Morgan.

  “I don’t think so.” Tony’s scraggy fingertips pill-rolled. “Hands don’t lie,” he confided. “The way you plug them into nubbins and the like…Too dexterous. They’re ambitious, like you are—but not cocky. There’s another thing.”

  “I know you’re going to tell me,” said Morgan.

  “Architects your age don’t have your money. But doctors do…surgeons in particular. I’m still pondering what kind.”