Second Thoughts

by Clarke, Kristofer

  “And the only person that could have been telling him anything about what actually happened is you. And before that, I had two officers showing up here with subpoenas charging me with insurance fraud. Now, you still haven’t said anything I need to hear. I suggest you start talking, Kenneth.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this,” Kenneth snapped. “For someone so smart, you sure are dumb. I’m almost certain those officers showing up have Omar written all over it. You should know the statute of limitation is three years in D.C. Do your damn research before you do your dirt. I’ve already told you before. Your secret was safe with me―and it still is.”

  “Apparently it’s not too much of a secret if someone like Omar is walking around with an arrow pointed straight at my back.” I paused to gather my thoughts. My heart was racing, and although beads of sweat were forming on my forehead, I tried to maintain composure.

  “Well, let me tell you something,” I warned. “Just in case you are conveniently forgetting, trust me, if I go down for this, I’m dragging you down with me.”

  “And you listen to me, Jasmine, Danielle, or whichever name your scheming-ass happens to own up to this time around. Remember, I know you better than you know yourself. You and your empty threats can go to straight to hell.”

  “Just don’t let me find out,” I said harshly.

  “No, let you. See, I know what you’ve done, and whom you’ve done what to. So be careful how you throw out your threats, ’cause I can help so many people bury your ass. I said I was going to help you conceal your past and get you out of your mess, and that’s exactly what I did. And even though I haven’t seen a dime of what you promised me, I still wouldn’t burn you like that. Now, go figure out who else you haven’t compensated for digging graves and burying your bones, and stop calling me about bullshit.”

  Kenneth’s speech left me flabbergasted. He was one of few people who didn’t fold at my bark, because his bite was much more powerful.

  “You’ve got to help me figure this out,” I declared, and I began my pacing again.

  “I’ve told you if this ever came back to haunt you, you were on your own. Nothing has changed. Do you remember telling me your back was broad and your skin was tough enough to handle anything that comes to you?” Kenneth asked, but he gave me no chance to respond. “So, here’s my advice to you,” he continued. “If you’ve fallen short, grow some balls. Face your problems like the Gotti, Scarface, or Capone you’ve pretended to be all these years.”

  I stared at the phone, concentrating on the flashing numbers across the red screen. Call ended, I thought, and made a private promise to deal with him later. I had bigger problems stirring above my head, and no time to plot against the tininess of Kenneth Marks. In the words of my grandmother, I had a bigger fish to fry. I just had to figure out who was this fish.

  I still needed some comfort, some reassurance that, no matter what was brewing against me, I was going to come out unmarked. I dialed one of the few numbers I had committed to memory―the others I had stored in the contacts of my cell phone.

  “You’re calling me before 8, on a workday?” she answered. “Something’s wrong.”

  “You’re going to have to stop reading my mind,” I responded with a hint of scared-shitless in my voice.

  “I have news for you. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, it’s not your mind I've been reading; it’s your actions. And this phone call has this-shit-will-land-my-ass-in-jail written all over it.”

  I told Haley about the conversation I’d just had with Kenneth. She agreed when I told her of his suggestion that Omar probably had everything to do with officers Perkins and Hollins’ visit. I told her about my early morning visit from Omar, and how I had been pulling out my hair trying to figure out how it is that he could have known what he does. I told her about the conversation I had with Patrick.

  “What the hell am I going to do, Haley? I can’t lose my sons. I can’t risk Patrick or Chance finding out anything. How could this be happening?”

  “Sound like you need to ask yourself who the hell you are going to do, ’cause it sounds like you’re going to need someone other than me in your corner.”

  “You’re talking as if I have plenty of those to choose from. I haven’t spoken to my mother in years. I can’t call her asking for shit, so you know I can’t call asking her for advice either. I’m already her least favorite person to walk this earth―no fault of my own― so I can already see her calling on the wrath of God to destroy me. What do I do?” I asked again, soliciting her advice.

  If anyone has been in my corner, it was Haley Pierce. I wasn’t sure why or when I started trusting her, but this is one woman who will definitely take my secrets to her grave. Haley had access to money, love, and a lover who would climb mountains and cross oceans if she’d asked him, but she was blinded by her own greed and never saw that she had everything she needed directly in front of her. Haley risked it all and lost it all, and in the process, she almost lost her life.

  “It would behoove you to get down on at least one knee, clasp those fingers, pretend you know God exists, and pray,” Haley advised.

  “There you go with one of those million dollar words. Why would you say that anyway?”

  “Cause, girl, your shit is about to hit the fan,” Haley warned in her usual cynical tone.

  I expected nothing less from Haley. She knew a thing or two about shit hitting the fan, since her shit exploded in her face. She’s had a few tricks up her sleeve, scheming and scamming until she found herself serving a five-year stint, then a halfway house, with a pronounced limp to remind her every dick wasn’t meant to be had. She’d messed with the last married man. Unbeknownst to Haley, this man came accessorized with a crazy bitch that had already declared she wasn’t sharing her man, and she damn sure wasn’t going to stand by and watch him stray to the likes of Haley Eliza Pierce.

  “This can’t be catching up to me now, can it? Not when everything has been going so good,” I said already knowing the answer.

  “You know what they say about things that are built with lies. Our tricks usually catch up to the best of us. As careful as I thought I was, look at what happened to me. I should have been your example.”

  “You were just unfortunate. You messed with the wrong bitch’s man, and she went Snapped on your ass,” I said. I wanted to laugh, but fear had already taken me over.

  “Yeah, and now you have your secrets staring you in your face, and you’re scared shitless because you don’t know if this is the beginning of your end.”

  “Look, Haley. That’s the door again. It might be Chance.”

  “Later, chick. Let me know what you come up with. If you need me, I’m here,” Haley assured.

  “Like you’ve always been,” I said, and hung up the phone. I was finally able to smile, but I quickly became tight-faced at the thought of these revelations and what I stood to lose.

  Chapter 15

  Patrick…

  Familiar Faces

  I thought I had D.C.’s traffic figured out. I thought I had it beat when I’d left early for what should have been a twenty-minute drive, with traffic, to Reagan National Airport just across the bridge in Arlington. When I entered the roundabout and turned right onto 23rd Street just a few blocks from the hotel, I drove smack into a wall of traffic. With a white passenger van in front of me, there was no way to ascertain what was causing this jam. The driver behind me, a young woman, pressed hastily on her horn as if that was the solution to an everyday occurrence in D.C. Through my rearview mirror, she frantically maneuvered the steering to the right, gassed the shiny black Acura and attempted, with failure, to pull into the next lane.

  She obviously forgot to pack the patience needed when driving in D.C. traffic. I had patience and enough time to play with since I had left more than two and half hours before my flight was scheduled to depart. I also had the conversation with my mother, Omar’s release, and my upcoming appointment with Dr. Kendrick swirling around in my
head. Being stuck in traffic was definitely the least of my concerns. The thought of my mother hiding something from me was disquieting, to say the least. I didn’t know of any lies my mother had deliberately told me, but that our whole relationship could have been built on fabrication left a sour taste in my mouth. To have to confront Omar about this possibility tasted even more acidic.

  Already, what should have been only a twenty-five minute drive in traffic was slowly ticking towards much more. After a few minutes, traffic that was moving at a little more than snail’s pace had begun to pick up. Like all the other D.C. area traffic jams I’ve found myself in, this seemed to have no definite cause.

  The rest of the drive to the airport was without incident. Security check had its usual hang-ups, including an older businessman dressed for first class who, somewhere between check-in and security, had misplaced his boarding pass and identification. After a quick check, I made it to terminal B where I sat and waited for my Delta flight to Atlanta.

  I sat in the waiting area browsing through a Newsweek magazine with a picture of a would-be 50-year-old Princess Diana and newly crowned Princess Katherine. I tried to avert the haunting thoughts that were fighting for position in my head, but nothing I did alleviated this mental strife. I guess if I got nothing else from my mother, the ability to keep secrets came directly from her. Realizing I still hadn’t heard from Chance since dinner, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed his number, even though I’d decided I had given up on trying to reach out to him.

  Damn! Voicemail, I thought. I hung up without leaving a message. Frustration was beginning to set in. I could only imagine the questions he was battling with, but it seemed he wasn’t looking for any answers from me. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt the one man I’ve tried to keep from harm, and now it was obvious I had done exactly that. I had so much I needed to talk to Dr. Kendrick about, and my Wednesday afternoon appointment couldn’t come soon enough.

  “Passenger Zeller, if you are in the waiting area?”

  The announcer woke me from my reverie. The voice was indistinguishable from a man’s or a woman’s.

  “Passenger Khoury Zeller, if you are in the gate area, please report to the gate 6 counter,” the voice repeated.

  I looked around to see from which direction the requested Zeller would come. She had been sitting to my left in a row of chairs whose backs were positioned against floor to ceiling glass windows. She stood to reveal legs that mimicked a giraffe’s—skinny from the ankle to just above the knee, wide approaching the hips. Her sunglasses sat atop her head. Earlier her hands had exchanged possession between her Ipad and her pink Iphone. As she walked to the counter, her red Louis Vuittons glided across the carpet as if camera flashes and a spotlight followed her every step. The straps of her red bag rested in the fold of her right arm, and she held a matching carry-on in her left. As she passed in front of me, I recognized the smell of her perfume, a mixture of vanilla and Jasmine. Her facial structure had a familiarity to it, but I hadn’t figured it out in that instant.

  When she walked back a few moments later with that same calculated glide, our eyes met. Then it hit me. She was the same woman who had honked her horn irritably in traffic neither she nor I could control.

  “Ryland Garcia?!” I asked in a whisper, loud enough to stop her in her promenade.

  “Excuse me!” She made no effort to move. “Certainly, we haven’t met.” She extended her hand.

  “But we have,” I assured.

  Regardless of her disguise, I knew I didn’t have a forgettable face.

  “I’m Patrick McKay.”

  I introduced myself to appease her. She stood looking at me with a void in her eyes.

  “It’s Khoury Zeller,” she said confidently.

  “Okay, but since when?”

  I stood looking at her, bemused by what I was hearing. Either Khoury Zeller was an extremely popular name, or I was staring into the face of the woman Chance had been parading around as his flavor of the year.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That face,” I said, pointing directly at her. “That face is Ryland Garcia.”

  “I don’t think I know you,” she declared.

  I was surprised she had said that with a serious face. She began her walk back to where she sat, leaving my question to fizzle in the air. I stood, contemplating if I should keep my thoughts to myself, but I quickly decided I needed to share.

  “Does Chance know?”

  I didn’t want to have a confrontation in the middle of Reagan National Airport, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me leave this situation alone.

  She stood in a momentary freeze as if pondering a response. I hadn’t asked a hard question, but apparently, she must have thought different. She turned on the ball of her shoes and began her walk back towards me.

  “That’s a very good question,” she said.

  She kept her eyes fixed on me. She stood directly in front of me holding her bag in her right hand and her left hand firmly on her hip.

  “I’ll answer that question if you do the same.”

  She managed not to blink as she spoke.

  “Then I’m sure you have a very good answer. And I hope your answer begins with yes.”

  “I’ve told Chance all he needs to know.”

  As soon as she spoke those words, my mother’s voice rung in my head. She had used those same words earlier.

  “Besides,” Khoury continued, “whatever I’ve told Chance isn’t any of your business.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard that sorry-ass line today. Let’s get one thing clear,” I gritted back, “everything about my brother is my business. Now, you and I both know you weren’t born Khoury Zeller, or with those breasts. You just make sure Chance knows that, too, or else.”

  “Or else what, Patrick?”

  “I think you know what.”

  “Look, sweetie,” Khoury snarled, “unless you plan on disclosing your secret life to your brother, I don’t think you want to go pulling skeletons out of closets, Patrick. Khoury Zeller might be a stranger to you, but Ryland Garcia knows every ass your dick has been in. So, if you want to go walking around like your shit doesn’t stink, try me. I’ll peel back every layer off you and leave your ass exposed to the wind.”

  “Flight number 1537 to Atlanta now boarding.”

  The announcement broke the contention between us. I don’t think she took a breath during her speech. When she finished, a look of satisfaction overcame her. She sidestepped and started towards the gate. Surprisingly, we were on the same flight. I stood unable to move.

  “Oh, Patrick,” she said, turning around.

  I turned around to acknowledge her but remained silent.

  “Don’t assume everyone is like you. We’re not all running away from our secrets, hoping they don’t catch up to us.”

  She winked before turning back and walking towards the ticket agent. I picked up my bag and walked at a slower pace a few feet behind her. I took my time to process our exchange. I had just added one more topic to discuss with the good Dr. Kendrick.

  Chapter 16

  Patrick…

  In My Mind

  The drive from the Courtyard Marriot in the Buckhead section of Atlanta to Dr. Aiden Kendrick’s office didn’t take as long as I thought it would. I’d left a little early just in case I found myself sitting in the Atlanta traffic. I also wanted to be early for my appointment with Dr. Kendrick. After all, she had adjusted her schedule to fit me in when she didn’t have to. Wednesday morning’s forecast had promised afternoon and evening thundershowers, but it was expected to be another hot summer day. The Atlanta sun sat almost in the middle of an ocean blue sky, its rays burning the skin on my forearm through the windshield and side window.

  Dr. Kendrick’s office was located on Seminole Ave in Northeast Atlanta, a few blocks from Freedom Park. I’d pulled into the underground parking garage, relieved I didn’t have to worry about finding parking on the street. It was a quiet ride
up from the second parking level to Dr. Kendrick’s office on the fifth floor, even though I wasn’t occupying the elevator by myself. I did exchange the usual morning pleasantries with some of the other occupants, but that was the extent of any conversations between us. Looking at these individuals, I wouldn’t have passed them on the streets and assumed they had issues. Their plastic smiles and borrowed confidence hid the disorders that existed inside them. But they were probably saying the same thing about me. We rode in unexplained awkward silence, keeping our eyes focused either on the floor or up at the highlighted floor numbers, anticipating the beep that granted us our anticipated release from our momentary internment.

  I’d stood in the rotunda-like waiting area, with its shades of red chairs. The receptionists sat behind a half round desk. Its aluminum laminate front panels displayed my reflection as I approached. Dr. Kendrick shared her office space with one other psychologist, her husband, Dr. Benjamin Shipley. Over my visits, I’d learned a lot more about Dr. Kendrick. Dr. Aiden Kendrick was a native Georgian. Dr. Shipley was transplanted from Chicago, after his first two years at the University of Chicago. They were married the summer between undergraduate and graduate school, and had a thirteen-year-old son, Spencer, at Woodward Academy in College Park. Dr. Kendrick and Dr. Shipley had been providing services in psychotherapy for more than 10 years. I don’t know much else about Dr. Kendrick, but as far as I was concerned, this was more than enough.

  “Mr. Brent Goens,” I announced to the receptionist, providing the alias I had been using since I started my sessions with Dr. Kendrick.

  It wasn’t until I was actually sitting on her couch on my first visit that I gave her my government name.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Kendrick,” I continued after getting the receptionist’s attention.

  She picked up the phone to dial in to the doctor’s office.

  “Mr. Goens,” Dr. Kendrick spoke as the door to her office swung open. Her office sat directly across from the receptionist’s desk. She’d used the name she had agreed she would unless we were in her office. I was a well-known agent. I didn’t want my clients, current and prospects, question my emotional stability. I’d even agreed to pay for my sessions in cash.