Maybe because it reflected the truth that he was utterly alone for the first time in his life. Karissa was gone, Tyson was locked away for probably life, and his brother was little better than an enemy. Maybe after finding the mastermind behind Black Fedora’s demise, he’d move to eastern Washington, build a home in the hills above Chelan, and live the life of a hermit.
He called the elevator, and it slid open immediately as if waiting for him. He stepped inside and pushed the button for the parking garage. He gave his head a shake as if he could toss off the feeling of hopelessness. But it hung on like a leech and continued to draw life out of him. Didn’t matter. He felt dead anyway.
When he determined who the mastermind was, at least Ron and he could stare down the person or people who had destroyed them. Brock wouldn’t give up till he confronted the man or woman who orchestrated the attack. It was all he had left.
The elevator opened to the gray concrete landscape of the parking garage and he slogged toward his car. The garage was empty except for a silver Astro van with a rack on top that made it look like a giant toaster.
Yes, he would dig again tomorrow like there was no tomorrow, but right now all he wanted was solitude and a movie on his big screen. A moment to forget the world, forget everything and everyone he’d lost.
The garage was still except for the echo of his shoes against the pavement and the sputter of a fluorescent light trying to hang onto its last few hours of life.
He slipped into his Lexus and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat. He fumbled on his keychain for his key, found it, and slid it into the ignition. But before he could start his car, a voice from the backseat shot a bolt of adrenaline through him.
“Don’t do that. We’re going to sit here in your car together for a few minutes, and I wouldn’t want you to waste any gas. We need to have a nice little chat before you go home.”
Brock’s pulse spiked and he started to twist toward the backseat, but his temple smacked into the cold muzzle of a gun.
“Don’t do that either.”
His gaze shot to the rearview mirror, and the voice spoke a third time as a hand shoved his head forward and down. “Nope. That’s not going to be an option for the next few minutes.”
“Tell you what.” The barrel of the gun pushed his head hard to the left, and Brock’s head struck the driver’s-side window. “You keep your eyes on the wall there to the left. You don’t even think about taking a look at me and you don’t get shot. Deal?”
Brock nodded as sweat broke out on his forehead and palms. “What do you want?”
“Cooperation. Nothing more. No idea why you’re acting like a fool, but we want to give you a little wisdom to chew on. Make sure we’re playing well together.”
When Brock glanced in the mirror he’d been able to make out nothing more than a figure dressed in a black ski mask and black coat. The voice was deep and not one Brock recognized. It was clear trying to look in the mirror again wouldn’t gain him anything except possibly getting shot, so he focused on the windshield and tried to steady his breathing.
“What kind of cooper—”
“I’ll ask, you answer, all right?”
Brock nodded again.
“What do you think you’re doing up there in the office? You’ve turned into quite the amateur private detective, digging into all kinds of files.”
“How do you know—”
The smack of the gun against his temple shot pain down his neck and into his arm. A second later a tickling sensation told him the blow had broken his skin. He reached up and his fingers found a thin trickle of blood wiggling its way down the side of his face.
“I ask. You answer. I thought I made that clear. Did I or did I not?”
The man pressed the gun against the wound. The pain made Brock grunt and push his head back against his leather headrest.
“Are we clear now?”
The man’s breath was hot on Brock’s neck. He must have eaten a bucket full of garlic for lunch. Brock tilted his head to the left and nodded.
“One easy question. Answer it, and I leave, and you go home. All right?”
Brock nodded.
“Why are you digging into the takeover?”
“It’s none of your business.”
The man snickered. “The reason I’m sitting in the back of your car is because it’s intimately my business. Now tell me why.”
“I might be on the Titanic, but before the ship goes down I’m going to look whatever iceberg destroyed us in the eye and make them tell me why they did it.”
“Are you on crack? Or simply idiotic? What, are you doing it for show? What kind of purpose could it serve?”
“I’m going to find out who is behind this. Expose them. Nail them for it.”
“You’re an idiot. Stop the charade. It won’t bring any good to anyone.” The man flicked the barrel of the gun against Brock’s chin.
“Now, I’m going to get out of the car and walk away. You’ll keep staring straight ahead for three minutes. Count it out like you’re a kid again playing hide-and-seek. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three . . . if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”
“I’m going to find you.”
“Sure you are.” The back door opened and Brock heard the man step out. “I’ve enjoyed our talk. I hope you have too. I trust we both have clarity on where we go from here.” The sound of the hammer on the gun being pulled back filled the car. “One more thing. I assume you realize that if you don’t take my advice, I’ll visit you again. But it won’t be to talk. I might even pay a visit to your ex. From what I’ve seen, you still have feelings for her.”
The rear passenger door slammed shut, and Brock risked turning to watch the man stride away. Bad move. The man lifted the gun and fired. Brock ducked just before the passenger window exploded and glass rained down on him. He rammed his key into the ignition and twisted. The car roared to life, Brock threw it into gear and gunned the engine. The squeal of his tires wasn’t loud enough to cover the sound of his rear window shattering.
For half a mile all Brock could do was gasp each time he drew breath and keep his speedometer from blowing through the speed limit. He could call the police, yes, but what would that do? They knew about Karissa, and undoubtedly Tyson as well.
At home Brock sat at his computer, exhausted but unable to sleep. He pulled up his e-mail for a distraction and that’s when the answer came to him like a flash of lightning. There was an e-mail from his high-school reunion listing the people who had come and their contact information. At the top was Mitchell Green, and his words from the reunion came back to Brock: Hey, just saying you better do something. Or someone like me is going to swoop down, grab all that private stock, and take over your company, and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.
Time to pay his old friend a visit.
Chapter 46
JUNE 15, 2015
Hello, Mitchell.”
“Hello, Brock.” Mitchell glanced to his right and left and pulled his light coat tighter as they stood on the beach at the west end of Discovery Park. “Why did you set up this meeting? And why here?”
“I need answers. And I don’t want to get them in either of our offices with any other ears around.”
“Not sure it’s such a great idea for us to be hanging out together in any public place, no matter how private.”
“Why?”
A lone jogger ran past fifty yards from where they stood. No one else was in view.
“Don’t think I need to tell you that.” Mitchell gave a half smile.
“Yeah, I think you do. Afraid the truth will come out? That you’ll have to get honest about what’s going on with Black Fedora?” Brock shook his head slowly. “I think you’re the one who sent that thug after me yesterday.”
“Of course I did.” Mitchell scoffed. “You were acting idiotic. Like you are right now.”
“You wanted to kill me.”
“Come on, Brock. I just wanted to
shut you up. Stop you from digging. Scare you. I couldn’t kill you, although you’ve made me want to over these past days.”
“What?”
“I realize that for some reason you’re putting on a show for Ron, but the way you’re going at it, I was getting the feeling you’d go too far and tell him about me. So I wanted to put the brakes on without doing something asinine like calling you or meeting with you—as we’re stupidly doing right now.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But tell him about you? Yeah. Of course I’m going to tell Ron about you.” Brock peered out over the sound, trying to quell his anger, before turning back to Mitchell and fixing his gaze on the man. “You’re finished. I’m not going to let you do this.”
For a moment, the perpetual sneer lurking beneath the surface of Mitchell’s expression faded, and genuine confusion was splayed across his face. “Do what?”
“Take over. Destroy Black Fedora. Wipe out what Ron and I have worked for years to create. And our father before us. You’ll deny this conversation took place. I get that. But that’s not going to stop me from fighting you till I win or I’m dead.”
“This is comical.” Mitchell snorted.
“Yeah. Hilarious. Stupid for me to be fighting it now because it’s already done, right? Papers are as good as signed.”
Mitchell glanced around as if looking for hidden cameras. “You’re doing some kind of corporate-punking thing, right?”
“I’m not laughing.” Brock jabbed a finger at Mitchell. “I don’t care what it takes, you’re going down. I’m going to expose you. Everyone in your company, everyone on your board is going to see the truth. I know you have a partner, and he or she is very good at covering their tracks. But I’ll find them too.”
Mitchell didn’t respond except to frown at Brock in puzzlement and give a tiny shake of his head.
“What is your problem, Mitchell? We were never friends, but we were never enemies either. And what about Ron? You have no problem slitting the throat of a man who has never done you harm.”
Mitchell strolled over to a large weathered log and sat, his elbows resting on his knees. He started to speak twice, and stopped both times. Finally he sighed and spoke words that sent ice down Brock’s back.
“Either you have taken up acting unbeknownst to me and are giving me an Oscar-worthy performance, or you are losing it—have lost it—and need some serious help.”
No. It couldn’t be. But it was.
“What are you saying?”
“Why are you doing this, Brock? I seriously don’t get it.”
“Doing what?” Brock’s heart shuddered.
“Did someone hit you on the head? You have amnesia? Do you truly not understand who my partner is?”
At that moment Brock knew. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind. “No, it’s not. It can’t be.”
“Uh, yeah, it can. It is. You came to me. You developed the plan. You convinced me it’s what you wanted to do to Ron. Any of that coming back to you?”
Brock shuddered. “I wouldn’t do that to him.”
“Are you seriously trying to turn your back on this?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“That’s entertaining.” Mitchell snorted again. “You going to deny you’ve been the mastermind behind this?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“You know, Brock ol’ pal? I’ve made my mistakes in the world of business, but getting hamstrung by a partner with cold feet isn’t one of them.” Mitchell reached into his briefcase and pulled out a tablet. After a few seconds, he turned it around and shoved it in Brock’s face. “For your viewing pleasure.”
The video was grainy due to the low light, and the sound of the voices was low, but there wasn’t a shred of doubt it was a conversation between Mitchell and him.
“I want to take him down,” Brock heard himself saying.
“Why?”
“My reasons.” Brock rubbed his neck. “I simply want to know if you’ll help me and what cut of the action you’ll require.”
“Don’t worry, if we do this, I’ll figure out a way to be fairly compensated.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I’ll develop the time line.” Mitchell held out his hand. Brock hesitated, then took it. “But what happens to your brother?”
“He works for me. I win.”
“No love lost, eh?”
Mitchell stopped the video. “That enough? Of course this couldn’t ever be used in court, ’cause I didn’t get your permission to video our little chats, but I think showing it to Ron would be enough.”
“That wasn’t me.” But as Brock said the words, he admitted there were moments when he would have done this to Ron. Maybe not in the material world, but he’d done it to his brother hundreds of times in this mind.
“Still not convinced?”
“If I did it, I can undo it.”
“Nah, not going happen. I have way too much skin in this game to pull out now.”
“It has to be undone.”
“You’re sounding nuts again. I’ve crawled out on the skinny branches with you on this one, and nothing is going to stop it from happening at this point. The papers are as good as signed. The company is mine, and you’re going to get your cut. You wanted to take Ron out, your wish has been granted. I’m not going to let you dance to the end of the pier, tumble into the water, and try to take me with you.”
Brock sat in his home office that night determined to find a way out of the mess, but despair lapped at his mind and grew deeper by the minute. If he found a way to stop Mitchell, Mitchell would show Ron what Brock had done, and no amount of talking to Ron would convince him otherwise. His explanation would sound ludicrous. It was ludicrous.
But even though his brainstorming continued to hit the proverbial brick wall, Brock drilled down even harder. There had to be a way. Just before three a.m., the utter futility of the exercise struck him like a gong, and he was the bell. Brock slammed his laptop shut and shoved himself away from the desk. He leaned back and moaned as the papers filled with his scrawls filled his vision.
Brock went outside, sat on the edge of his walkway and slid his legs over the edge where his feet dangled just above the water, and began to pray.
Lord, I give it up. All of it. Full surrender. Black Fedora. Karissa, Tyson. My competition with Ron. All my idols. Only you. Only you. For my validation, it’s you. For my worth, it’s you. For my hopes, dreams, future and past. It’s you. And if this is the life I’m destined to live, I accept it. Only you . . . only you.
He sat back, and a peace and a Presence he hadn’t known this deep for years overwhelmed him. He soaked it in for an age in the stillness of the early morning. As the sky began to turn gray, he wandered back inside to fix himself breakfast. No point in sleeping. He wouldn’t dream, and he needed to get in early to work. God willing, he’d still find a way to save the world. Well, at least save his brother. And Black Fedora.
Brock massaged the back of his neck as he got out the eggs and once again scoured his mind for the reason he couldn’t dream. Maybe it didn’t matter at this point, but he still wanted to know the answer. It made no sense. He’d been able to slip into lucid dreams almost at will. Maybe not every time he tried, but close to it. But his ability had crash-landed without his doing anything differently. Nothing different . . . except.
He spun and stared at his coffeepot. No way. It couldn’t be that stupid and that simple. But he had no doubt it was. Everything, all of it, continued to be tied back to Black Fedora. Brock put on a pot of coffee. Strong coffee. The caffeine wouldn’t touch him. But it would in some crazy way let him reach into the world of dreams.
When the pot gurgled to its conclusion, Brock rose and slowly poured a full cup of coffee. He smiled down at the dark liquid then raised it to his lips and took his first sip. Minutes after finishing his second cup, and seconds after sliding into the embracing folds of sleep, Brock began to dream. And he kn
ew it. A lucid dream. Hope rose inside like a fountain finally released after years of waiting, because he knew what was coming: his final chance to make things right.
Chapter 47
OCTOBER 22, 1989
Brock expected to find himself standing outside Java Spot, or inside the coffee shop, or sitting at his usual table about to start another conversation with his younger self, but he wasn’t in either place. He was inside a stadium—a deafening roar from the crowd told him it was a big one. The Seahawk coats, hats, and jerseys told him it was Seattle’s.
Brock tried to move, but his feet felt stuck. He stared at them in surprise and fear. He wasn’t in control. So if this dream wasn’t under his direction, but he still knew it was a dream, who was running it this time? His subconscious? Or something else?
“Can I help you?”
Brock looked up. A gentleman he guessed to be in his late sixties with wispy white hair sticking out from under his Seahawks hat smiled at him. The usher name tag pinned to his dark-blue shirt read Sarge.
“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”
“I know how you feel.” Sarge chuckled. “When we grew up the stadiums were a little smaller. You could navigate them a bit easier.”
“We?”
“Well, I’m guessing I’m a few years further down the trail than you, but not more than ten or fifteen, I’m thinking.”
“I’m fifty-three.”
“Yep, gotcha by fourteen.” Sarge smiled. “So you don’t know where you need to go.”
“I mean I’m not in control this time—” Brock stopped himself. Nothing he said to the man would make sense.
Sarge took two steps toward him. “Do you mind if I take a quick look at your ticket?”
“What ticket?”
“The one in your hand.”
Brock gazed at his hand as if it were someone else’s. Clutched between his thumb and forefinger was a Seahawks ticket. He raised it slowly, but before he could get a good look at it, Sarge slid it from Brock’s grasp.
The Five Times I Met Myself Page 24