by Morgan Blaze
“What’s wrong?” Luka half-whispered.
Syd covered the bottom of the phone. “Nothing’s wrong. I just have to get something… be right back.”
Luka stared at her as she left the kitchen through the back door. Why would Mark need to talk to Sydney? That didn’t make sense.
A few minutes later, Syd came back, slipping the phone in her pocket. “He forgot the dimensions for the archway,” she said. “You know, the one they’re building for the wedding.”
Luka frowned. “Right,” she said. “Mark losing track of numbers. That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”
“I guess I asked for a really weird size.” Syd shrugged, almost too casually.
She narrowed her eyes. “Those morons better not be planning anything to embarrass me. I swear to God, I will sacrifice your cake to get back at them. Well, three layers of it, at least.”
“They’re not. Honest.” Syd smiled and put an arm around her. “Let’s get back to the party before my mom hyperventilates.”
“All right.”
She calmed down fast. If Syd said it was nothing, then it was nothing. Right now, there was a party to enjoy—and she was damned glad for the distraction.
Chapter 11
Reese picked up three boxes of paintings at the Dawson place. As promised, Luka wasn’t there. It wouldn’t have worked if she was—but part of him was still disappointed. Just seeing her for a minute was enough to lift his spirits.
Well, he’d have to get used to the idea of not seeing her. After the episode on Sunday, he was convinced that no one was safe around him. Like father, like son.
He reached Greenway a little before seven and found MoJo Station with no problems. The two-story building stood out from its conservative neighbors—a brightly colored mural covered the entire front face, depicting a train station full of fantasy creatures and not-quite-human people. He guessed this wasn’t one of those artsy-fartsy places.
Brett had told him to park around back and he’d meet him there. He turned down the side street next to the building, and pulled into a parking lot half-filled with cars. It seemed like a good sign. If the place was this busy on a regular Monday night, hopefully there’d be a good crowd for an event.
As he got out of the Jeep, a familiar figure materialized from the shadows of the building and headed for him. He should’ve expected that Brett would be hiding in plain sight. The guy had a knack for not being seen, which had served them both well on countless missions.
“Hey, Mathers.” They embraced roughly, and Brett stepped back with a grin. “You look like hell.”
He grimaced. “Thanks. Not sleeping too well these days.”
“Tell me about it. You been up to the VA yet? They can give you some pretty good shit, help you sleep.”
“No.” He’d avoided thinking about how close he was to the VA here. His father, the ancient senile beast, was just a few blocks away.
“Well, think about it, man. It helps.” Brett nodded at the Jeep. “Nice wheels. Is the stuff in there?”
“Yeah, in the back.” He walked around and popped the hatch. “Didn’t know how many your mom wanted to show, so I brought…a lot, I guess. She can pick the ones she wants.”
Brett stood next to him and laughed. “Shit, Mom’s going to blow a fuse,” he said. “I can hear her now, having a heart attack about wrapping and padding and how fast did you drive here you’ll scratch the canvas. Who packed these?”
“That would be the artist,” Reese said. “She decided to get rid of them, apparently.”
“Damn. She’s going to be really surprised. Hope she’s not surprised enough to smack you one—artists are temperamental, you know.” Grinning, Brett reached in and grabbed a box. “Well, let’s get these in to Mom so she can have her meltdown.”
Reese took another box and followed him through a glass door into a wide, bright corridor with an open space at the far end. Handfuls of people stood or wandered slowly among displays that ranged from small pedestals to big, maze-like folding boards. He couldn’t see much of the room, but it looked busy and clean and happy—not the stuffy, low-lit atmosphere of pretension he might’ve expected. No wonder Luka liked this place.
“Okay, here we go.” Brett stopped in front of a steel door just before the main room. “Mom should be in here still.”
He opened the door, and Reese went in after him. The room was a workspace, with a row of long tables and a bunch of easels along the back wall. There was no one in here, but it looked like someone was moving around behind the frosted glass door at the back.
Brett put his box down on the first table. Flashing a grin, he strode across the room and tapped on the glass door. It opened almost immediately, and a woman’s voice said, “Is your friend here?”
“Yep.”
“Fabulous! Be right out.” The door shut.
Reese set the box he held next to the first one. “Fabulous?” he murmured.
“She’s very enthusiastic.” Brett walked back and leaned on the table. “And she likes big words. She was a professor before she opened this place.”
“A professor of what?”
“Studio and fine arts.”
“Oh.” His nerves twinged hard. She’d only seen photos of the paintings so far. What if she didn’t like them up close? He knew next to nothing about art, but he was pretty sure the technical stuff was important. Brush strokes and composition and color palettes. Or something like that.
Before he could get too worked up, the glass door opened and a petite woman in black pants and a white sweater bustled out. She made a beeline for them, and her intense gaze focused on the boxes. “Good Lord in heaven! They’re not wrapped or padded at all. They’re just…in a box? Young man, I hope you didn’t drive too fast on the way here. You might have scratched the canvases.”
Brett burst out laughing. “Did I call it or what?” he said. “Mom, this is Reese Mathers. Reese, Mom.”
“Johanna Townsend.” She held a hand out. “Call me Jo.”
Reese shook carefully. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“That’s funny.” She smiled and cocked her head a little. “I think you might’ve pronounced Jo wrong. Most people get it right the first time. It’s pretty easy, as names go.”
“Sorry, ma’am—I mean, Jo.” He managed to smile back. “It’s kind of a habit.”
“What a shame my son didn’t pick that one up. He came back salty as an old sailor.”
“Come on, Mom. I was pretty salty before I left.”
“All part of your rustic charm, dear.” She sent a fond look at him, and then turned to the boxes with a dramatic sigh. “I do hope they’re not damaged,” she said. “Well, let’s have a look. I have a small restoration lab, so if it’s needed I should be able to get some of my students on these before Wednesday.”
Brett smirked. “You worry too much,” he said. “I think they’re fine. Let’s find out.” He grabbed a painting from the nearest box and started pulling it out.
Jo’s eyes widened. “Be careful with that!”
“Sorry.” He inched the painting higher with exaggerated slowness. “How’s this? Should I put some gloves on first?”
“You’re such a troglodyte sometimes.”
“Only on special occasions.” With a wink, he extracted the canvas and laid it on the table. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Who’d want to paint that sour mug?”
Reese glanced down and stifled a groan. Out of all the paintings, Brett had managed to grab the one of him.
Jo stared at the canvas for a long time. Her motionless, utter silence unnerved him, and panic blossomed in his gut. What would he do if she hated it? He couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing Luka, even if she had no idea it happened.
Finally, she looked up…with tears in her eyes. “This is magnificent,” she breathed. “Absolutely astonishing.”
“Oh, it’s on now,” Brett grinned. “She’s breaking out the big words.”
“Flawless an
atomy. And the rain…I’ve never seen a technique like this. Where did she study?”
With relief flooding his senses, Reese almost missed the question. He stirred and blinked at her. “Study?” he echoed. “Er. She’s got a bunch of art books.”
“You mean she hasn’t had a formal education?”
The shock that colored her tone came close to making him laugh. “No, ma’am. I mean Jo. Luka works at the beauty salon in town. Hair and nails.”
“Unbelievable. A hairdresser painted…this.” She cast a reverent gaze on the painting, and then smiled at Reese. “Well, she won’t be a hairdresser for long. Not if I have any say in the matter. This girl is an artist, and I insist that you bring her to me so we can unlock her potential.”
“He will, Mom,” Brett said. “Wednesday night. It’s a surprise, remember?”
“It certainly will be. Now, you two go on and leave me. I want to bask in the glory of my discovery.”
Brett shook his head. “All right. Come on, man. I’ll walk you out.”
They headed back to the parking lot. Reese felt better than he had in a long time—like just maybe, this would work out for the best. If Johanna Townsend, gallery owner and professor of fine arts, thought this highly of Luka’s painting, she had to be able to do something with it. At least give her some confidence in her work.
“Shit, there’s still another box in there,” Brett said when they reached the Jeep. “Guess I’ll have to interrupt Mom’s basking. I don’t think she’ll mind, though.”
Reese smiled. “Thanks for doing this, man.”
“Hey, thank you. Mom hasn’t been this excited since she got to show a Monet for a week in some traveling culture thing.” He opened the hatch and pulled out the last box. “See you Wednesday. Oh—and wear your blues. Mom’s making me, and I don’t want to be the only idiot in a uniform.”
“All right. See you then.”
Reese closed the back door and climbed into the driver’s seat. He was feeling so good, he thought maybe he’d swing by the VA after all. That way he could tell his mother he’d seen the bastard, and not have to do it again until he was laid out in a pine box, where he could never hurt anyone again.
He drove out and swung right, toward the hospital. Might as well get it over with.
Just like old times.
* * * *
Reese approached the hospital desk slowly, like it was a landmine waiting to go off. He’d been fine out there in the rest of the world with only the idea of confronting his father. But in here, the idea was an impending reality.
When he finally reached it, the woman behind the desk looked up and smiled. “Can I help you?”
He swallowed and made himself calm down. “I’m looking for James Mathers,” he said.
“Are you a relative?”
“Yes.” Unfortunately.
“Great. Relatives can visit any time of the day.” She turned to the computer beside her and keyed in a few things. “I’ll just need to see your ID, and then I’ll give you the room number and a visitor’s pass.”
“All right.” He got his driver’s license from his wallet and handed it over.
She fed the license into a small machine that printed out a sticker badge with his picture on it, then typed more on the computer. “Here you go,” she said, handing him the ID and sticker. “Mr. Mathers is in room 428—the fourth floor. Just stick that pass somewhere visible, and you can return it to me on your way out.”
He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Are you a vet, too?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, your father must be proud. Thank you for your service.”
He managed not to snap at her. “Any time, ma’am,” he said, and headed for the elevators.
The fourth floor was quiet and dimly lit. There was no one at the nurse’s station, and just one patient in a glass-walled television room, staring in the general direction of a wall-mounted screen. Reese headed for the rooms, following the signs to 428.
The door was closed, but it opened before he could knock. An older man in a white coat, presumably a doctor, stepped out and almost collided with him. “Whoops! Sorry,” the doctor said, and looked at him intently for a moment. “Are you here to see Mr. Mathers?”
It was almost funny, the way the doctor’s tone suggested that no one in his right mind would be here to see this particular patient. Reese had to silently agree. “Yes,” he said. “He’s…my father.”
“You’re Reese?”
He nodded.
“Dr. Emerson.” The man held a hand out, and Reese shook. “I’m your father’s primary doctor. Well, I’ve got everybody on the third and fourth floor, actually.” He smiled and said, “If I’m not mistaken, you’re also a veteran.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Recently discharged?”
“Yes. Last month.”
“Have you stopped by the enrollment office yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, think about it. You could drop in downstairs on your way out.” Dr. Emerson frowned a bit. “Are you aware of your father’s…current state? I mean, you haven’t been here before now.”
Reese shrugged. “First chance I’ve had to stop by,” he said. “I know he’s sick. That’s about it.”
“All right. Do you have a few minutes? I could give you a brief rundown.”
“Sure.” Anything to stall the happy reunion worked for him.
“Let’s sit down.” The doctor gestured to a row of four chairs across the hallway, and they both took seats. Dr. Emerson flipped aimlessly through the papers on his clipboard for a few minutes, then looked up and sighed. “To put it bluntly, Mr. Mathers is in the advanced stages of liver cancer,” he said. “He’s also showing early signs of Alzheimer’s, but honestly, we don’t expect him to last long enough to experience a full-blown case.”
“Understood.”
After a pause, the doctor said, “You seem to be taking this well.”
“Am I?” He met the doctor’s gaze. “My father is a difficult man, Dr. Emerson. I’m sure you’ve noticed, since he’s been here for quite a while. Whatever mental disorders he has—”
“Mental disorders?”
“From his service,” Reese said. “Or genetics. Whatever. PTSD, bipolar, I’m not sure what it is. Between that and the illnesses, he’s probably been a terror the whole time. I’m sorry for that. You people are saints to put up with him.”
Dr. Emerson looked at him strangely. “Reese…do you mind if I’m straightforward with you?”
“Go for it.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m sure you know a lot of vets suffer from post-traumatic stress—PTSD. It can make them angry, or confused, or withdrawn. Sometimes all of those things and more. But PTSD is manageable. Do you understand what I mean?”
Reese frowned. “You’re saying my father could’ve managed it, but he didn’t.”
“No. I’m saying your father doesn’t have PTSD.”
“What?”
Concern filled the doctor’s face. “You’re afraid that you’re like him,” he said. “I can see that, hear it in the way you talk about your father. And maybe—probably, you are suffering from PTSD. But that isn’t going to turn you into him.” He paused and folded his hands on the clipboard. “What you’re going through is unfortunately normal for combat veterans. Your father is a different case. He doesn’t have PTSD, or bipolar, or manic depression, or even garden-variety depression.”
His throat tightened, and he wasn’t sure he could speak. “Why?” he said. “I mean, if it’s not some disorder…”
“If you’ll pardon my bluntness again, James Mathers is your classic example of a mean, miserable son of a bitch. A schoolyard bully who wore a uniform once.” Dr. Emerson smirked. “And as far as medical science and case evidence knows, that’s not hereditary.”
Reese blinked at him. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“Technically, I’m an MD and a clinical psycho
logist, specializing in stress-related disorders. I also happen to be a Marine Corps vet. I served in Vietnam.”
He couldn’t help grinning. “Semper Fi, man.”
“Oorah.” The doctor held up a fist, and Reese bumped it. “So don’t go thinking you’re beyond help, son,” he said. “And get yourself to enrollment on the way out. We’ve got your back.”
“I will.”
They stood and shook again. Dr. Emerson left, and Reese drew a deep breath before he opened the door and entered room 428.
His father lay on the bed closest to the door—slightly propped up, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest. For one breathless moment, Reese thought he was dead. Then he noticed the slight rise and fall that said he was still breathing.
Other than that, he looked horrible.
He’d lost weight. His hair, which had been a salt-and-pepper buzz cut when Reese left, was yellow, patchy and stringy. His face had a sunken look, and his eyes bulged slightly. One side of his mouth seemed to be fixed in a permanent sneer.
A surprising sense of pity washed through him at the sight of the wasted figure. Despite all the terrible, unforgiveable things he’d done, the man was his father. And a Marine.
James Mathers opened his eyes. If he did have early Alzheimer’s, he wasn’t experiencing any symptoms right now. His gaze locked on Reese and filled with recognition—and fury. “Well, isn’t this special,” he drawled in a broken old man’s voice. “You finally bothered to drag your ass out here. Think I don’t know how long you’ve been back?”
“I’m sure you do, sir,” Reese said through clenched teeth. “I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to visit your father.”
“Actually, yes.”
The man’s eyes widened briefly. “I see they gave you a spine in the Corps,” he said. “But did you get the balls to match?”
Reese glared at him. “Do you really want to find out?”
A rusty laugh crawled from the man in the bed. “Think I just did,” he said. “I knew the Corps would be good for you, boy. You were always so weak.” He leaned back with a grin. “Now you know what it’s like to crush someone. To be the most powerful man in the room. That’s what they teach you in the Marines—you’re the strongest, and you know it.”