Sorry to drop and run, Dennis. Called out of town on an emergency investigation, but I’m sure the attached lab reports and case notes will be enough to get Klein. Draper can take it from here. Just for fun, tell him to ask Klein how his father is doing. No charge for this one, since I can’t be here in person to roll the slime bucket and finish all that paperwork we love so much. I’ll catch ya next time around. I’m sure I’ll be back this way sooner than we think. There’s always another rock crawler to ruin, right, Big Guy? Best, Charlie.
Justin’s chemical report on my orange juice goes down the toilet. No need to prove someone was trying to kill me anymore. No need to prove anything anymore. In fact, it’s a little unnerving how few loose ends there are to tie up. Dennis and a job well done, check. Landlord, keep the deposit, check. Bank account closed, forgo complimentary pen, check. A couple suitcases full of shirts and slacks, my toothbrush, an extra roll of bandages and ointment, check. Charlie’s ready to roll, and just like that, Albert never happened. I guess some people aren’t meant to make a mark. Maybe God puts some people on earth as placeholders—we’re just here to save a spot until someone more important comes along. Watching, waiting, keeping their chair warm.
Lily would have noticed I was gone. She would have cared. She’s the only one who really noticed Albert showed up in the first place. I don’t count Howard and Gavin. To them, Albert was just something stuck to their shoe, an annoyance they desperately wanted to wipe off. Wipe out. Rub out. I was important to Lily. Even when she found out Albert was a sham, she saw me, the real me. She made me important. In order to wake up tomorrow morning, I have to believe I mattered to her. I reach into my briefcase and pull out one more piece of paper.
I stare at the blank sheet, forcing back the tears.
Lily Rudolph wore a gold locket around her neck. I don’t know what was inside that locket, maybe a tiny photograph, maybe a lock of hair, maybe nothing. She never opened it for me. But Lily opened her life to so many people. She was the human face, the beautiful human face of Michael’s research. She could open your eyes to what needed to be done. She could open your heart to understand the suffering of others. She could get you to open your wallets in order to find solutions for that suffering. When she smiled, there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do. But there was another side to Lily, a side she kept locked, a side that worried she didn’t really measure up to what everyone thought of her. You never saw that. No one saw that. But maybe because no one ever looked. How often do we simply take the word of others, accept the first impression as the whole person? It’s easier that way. But the truth isn’t easy. Reality isn’t easy. Think about yourselves. Which parts are public and which are private? Lily Rudolph the Media Portrait was beautiful and self-assured, a polished surface. I feel very lucky to have had the opportunity to see a few of the reflections within that shiny surface. They were beautiful too, but in a different way. Cloudy and a little tarnished, like a silver spoon left too long at the bottom of a drawer or a secret key you find buried in the backyard. What you see is not always what you get. What you imagine is what you receive. Lily loved Michael. She loved all of you. She loved the idea of making a difference. She hated anyone who could be purposefully cruel. I won’t just miss her. I will miss a piece of my life. A little piece I’ll keep locked away, because all of us deserve to keep a little part of ourselves to ourselves. We don’t ever have to open the locket.
I fold the eulogy and slip it into an envelope. As I look around the condo one last time, I see Lily in the chair, laughing and kicking off her shoes. Now she’s holding a mug of coffee and staring, but not at me. Not at me. Click off the lights, pull the door closed and the movie clips stop. The morning air is fresh and damp with moisture rising off the lake. I breath in its smell one last time, slam my suitcases into the trunk of Lily’s car and throw the file box and assorted envelopes on the front seat. If I hurry, I can deliver my packages like some demented Santa Claus and be gone before the ashes have fully cooled.
My old apartment is cold and silent except for the whirring of the tiny refrigerator. I drop a letter to my landlord and the keys on the kitchen counter. The next loser who rents the place can have my Tupperware and the ugly towels. Bank’s not open, so I pull out the maximum from the ATM and slide a letter into the deposit lockbox, instructing them to hold my statements until further notice. As if they care what happens to my few dollars. I’m a record number in a database somewhere. Probably India.
The insurance office tower is also closed up tight. Glass double doors reveal an empty front lobby, no security guard at the information desk. I never noticed how big that damn desk is. It must look smaller during the day with all the people around it. The thing is like five feet tall and at least twice that long, all twisting steel, glass and stone. It’s like the entrance to a tomb, or maybe one of those theme park adventure rides. Welcome to Business Land. Please keep your wing tips and briefcases inside the car at all times. For your own safety, do not throw up your hands during the Stock Plunge.
I unlock the doors, duck in, and lock them again behind me. A quick glance left to right for the roaming guard, some tubby guy named Herb if memory serves, and I zip across the marble floor to the main bank of elevators. Three doors open simultaneously when I push the call button and three bells chime, certainly loud enough to bring Herb running, or at least lumbering from his hiding place. I jump in the nearest car and punch the close button, once, twice, three times. Another bell as the doors finally shut. Stupid safety warnings.
It seems like I was here days ago, not hours. Just twenty-some hours ago, I woke up in Lily’s guest room. I knew then the day ahead was going to be rough, but somehow, even I couldn’t have imagined this level of death and destruction. Why couldn’t I have gotten a flat tire? That would have been perfect. Fate’s way of keeping me safe and sound in Lily’s driveway. Fate must have overslept or maybe he was busy screwing up someone else’s life, but he sure let me down.
My floor is dark, and I keep it that way as I walk to the back and dump the investigation folder, office keys and my security badge on Dennis’ desk. There’s a bit of morning light stabbing through the cracks in the blinds and I can see my smiling face on the badge. Charlie Sandors: he looks like a nice enough guy. I hear the elevator ding on the other side of the floor. Herbie, with his too-tight polyester pants, must be quicker than I remember. I exit Dennis’ office and slip around the corner to the stairwell. No bell on this door, just a silly picture of a stick man racing down the stairs, chased by a bouncing ball of flame. The knob gives a near silent click as it shuts and I copy the stick man’s form as I escape down fifteen flights to the street.
The parking lot of the main police station is full of squad cars and television vans with their satellite dishes cranked up into the sky. I stop a block away and scan for a possible drop point. I can’t walk in the front door. I imagine they usually ask questions when you stop by with a box full of evidence. All my notes, my research on Michael, Howard’s original patient reports, everything I could think of is crammed in there with the files. The top barely latches. It will be frustrating for them to search for Albert Mackey, that writer-guy from the funeral, who everyone will recall but no one will be able to quite describe or locate or really remember in any detail. The poor detective assigned to call all the medical journals to look for a technical writer named Mackey. That’ll be a fun job, like a little phone scavenger hunt. What a shame he’ll come away empty-handed. No prize for you, officer. You’re looking for air.
I watch a patrol car pull in to the lot. The driver rolls down his window and leans out to talk to another officer who's walking by. He parks next to a row of shrubs and heads across the lot for the station. His window is still down.
I get out with the box and stroll down the sidewalk. I hear the TV reporters delivering their stand-ups from various points around the parking lot. "A local tragedy . . . Still waiting for answers . . . Investigation continues . . . Back to you, Mike . . . " There’s no
one near the car with the open window. I lean against the door for a minute and then toss the box through the window onto the front seat and continue walking.
"Whoa, dude, what happened to you?"
The voice comes from my right, my bandage side. I swing around and spot a shaggy-haired kid in a red flannel shirt. He's perched on the bumper of one of the TV vans, munching a doughnut. His upper lip is covered with a light dusting of powdered sugar.
"What?"
"Your face? What happened to your face? It looks nasty."
I reach up and touch the bandage. The top part along my cheekbone is wet and squishy. There must be something gross oozing through.
"Infection," I say. "Car wreck. Glass."
Good lord, I sound like an imbecile.
"Bummer, man," the kid says, accepting my monosyllabic answers at face value. "Are you from one of the stations?"
"No, I, uh, I live around the corner," I say, gesturing behind me in the general direction of my car. "I was just wondering what all the commotion was."
"That big lab project blew up during the night," the kid says, waving his arms in the air, little bits of doughnut flying. "Big ass explosion, I guess. Sounds like there were people inside."
"That’s awful."
"Brings out us news ghouls though, doesn’t it? Nothing like a little death and destruction to boost ratings." He chuckles and reaches into a grease-stained bag at his feet to pull out a doughnut and holds it out to me. "Want a doughnut? I got a whole bag."
I realize with a rush of saliva that I haven’t eaten anything in a very long time. I accept the doughnut and the kid smiles.
"Must be kind of a drag living so close to a police station," he says, finishing the last couple bites of his doughnut and reaching into the bag for another. "Sirens all night long."
"It’s not so bad," I say. Little puffs of powdered sugar punctuating my consonants. "You get used to it."
"Guess so. Does it hurt?"
He’s looking at me. I think he’s looking at me—his hair is so long it falls almost down to his nose. He must see me, and the rest of the world, through a perpetual hair curtain. Better than rose-colored glasses, I suppose.
"The noise?"
"No," he whines. "Your face, does it still hurt?"
"A little."
"You’re going to have a hellacious scar, man."
I swallow the last bite of doughnut and lick the sugar off my fingers.
"Probably. Always wear your seatbelt. That’s the moral to this story."
"Trevor!" A woman’s voice shouts from around the front of the van.
"Gotta go," says the kid. "That’s Amanda, our star reporter. She gets nervous when the camera’s off for too long."
"Thanks for the doughnut."
"Sure thing. Nice talkin’ to ya."
He disappears around the side of the van and I make a run for the sidewalk. Activity’s picking up everywhere. I gotta get out of Dodge.
My last stop is Mary Anderson’s house. There’s a light on in the kitchen and the morning newspaper lies rolled up in the middle of the lawn. The grass is damp as I cross to pick up the paper. No fire headline here. I bet newspaper people hate it when big stuff happens after the printing deadline. I slip Lily’s eulogy under the rubber band where I know Mary will see it right away and lean the paper against the screen door. She’ll know what to do. She'll help me say goodbye, because I didn't get to do that.
It’s 7:45 when I hit the freeway and blend into rush hour traffic. The lab explosion is all over the radio news.
"Fire investigators are still combing through what’s left of the Nesler lab site. We’ve received word they have located human remains, but the bodies are badly burned and positive identification is not yet available. However, the latest report we received, just about an hour ago from fire investigators, is that one man, Gavin VanMorten, an employee of Nesler Pharmaceuticals, was pulled out alive. His condition is extremely grave. We’re told he is comatose with second and third-degree burns over 90% of his body. We don’t know his current condition, but we do know the police are holding out hope he might regain some ability to communicate. I have Police Commissioner Holgate here with me for just a few minutes. Chief Holgate, what is happening right now with the investigation?"
"It’s still very early, Carol, we’re just starting to put all the pieces together."
"We’ve heard both Lily Rudolph, whose foundation owns the lab, and Howard Stanich, CEO of Nesler, are missing. Is that true?"
"We’ve been unable to contact either Mrs. Rudolph or Mr. Stanich. The fact that Mr. VanMorten, an employee of Nesler, was pulled out indicates other Nesler people might have been inside the building when it exploded. We also know Mrs. Rudolph’s car is missing, but friends and family have no ideas where or why she would be gone."
"So are you saying you think the remains you’ve found are Lily Rudolph and Howard Stanich?"
"I can’t confirm that, but it is certainly a very real possibility at this point."
"Thank you for your time, Chief Holgate. As many of our listeners know, Michael Rudolph, Lily’s husband, was recently killed in a tragic plane crash. The Rudolph Foundation was underwriting the lab construction and the assumption being heard out here is that Lily was meeting with VanMorten and Stanich on some sort of lab business when the explosion occurred. No one is sure why the meeting was taking place at such a late hour, but there are so many unanswered questions this morning. It will be days before we fully understand the true story behind this tragedy."
I turn down the radio. I can make it to Chicago in three hours. At some point they’ll discover Lily’s car in the train-station parking lot. By then, I’ll be gone. The true story will be gone. The TV kid was right: death and destruction rarely brings out the best in people.
TWENTY SEVEN
The locals in the small coffee shop are complaining about the weather. Coldest spring on record, according to the man in the wool shirt and red suspenders. He tells the pretty blond waitress he’d bet his left nut there’ll be another snowstorm before the week’s out. That sounds like an awfully serious gamble and makes me glad I’m wearing a hat.
I turn the page of my newspaper and continue searching. Years of big butts have worn permanent indentations in the booth’s brown plastic bench and I have to keep shifting my position to keep from rolling into one. After three weeks, it’s getting difficult to find much information about Park Hills in the Chicago paper. But there’s not a hell of a lot of news options here and I feel pretty lucky to have snagged a Tribune. I’m in a tiny town by the name of Vicksburg, Vermont. It’s what the tourist brochures describe as "quaint," which means there aren’t a lot of extras. You got your coffee shop, gas station/grocery/deli, antique store, couple of churches, a school, and the Tall Timber Motor Lodge where I’ve been staying. That pretty much covers the bases I guess; anything more would be frivolous.
There it is, finally, on page twenty-three. Coverage has been slinking from the front page, every day a little farther, backing away from the spotlight, soon it should be able to turn and run out of sight altogether.
Witness Death Halts Nesler Trial. Death? I scan the article. The earlier reports had been much more action-packed. The initial story about the lab explosion had made the front page all over Illinois, even got a hit on CNN and Fox News. The story stayed hot for days as they broke open the whole conspiracy behind the Nesler testing. I especially liked it when they found the notes and the files, from an anonymous source, and began identifying all the original patients. There were interviews with medical specialists, even a picture of Mary Anderson and her father. I must admit I was a little upset there hadn’t been more coverage of the anonymous source. It was as if he’d never existed. As if.
I hadn’t been able to find any mention of Lily’s funeral, but I have a picture of it in my mind. There are huge stands of flowers: roses, ivy and lily of the valley. All the beautiful people are there again in the pews. Mary delivers my eulogy herself, even thou
gh she’s scared. She cries at the end. The beautiful people wait in silence until she finishes crying and then look down at their empty laps.
It was easy to disappear. Ridiculously easy, really. But evaporating is one thing, forgetting is another. Forgetting is ridiculous to the point of absurd. Kurt Vonnegut absurd. A parking place in front of a trendy restaurant absurd. When I close my eyes, I see Lily fly up through the flames. When I open my eyes, I see her in Michael’s study, framed in the window, hair falling forward. There’s really no break. Awake, asleep, staring into a cup of coffee, I can always see. The most forgetting will allow you is to open a compartment in your brain where you can deposit the images for short periods of time. But the compartment is small and the latch is weak and before long, the images sneak out again and settle in behind your eyes.
Witness Death Halts Nesler Trial. Gavin finally gave out. Never spoke another word. I’m the only one who knows the last thing he said was, "Stay where you are." Sorry, Gavin. No one stays in one place for long. I guess it’s hard to have a trial without someone to prosecute. Really no use sending a dead guy to jail; he’d just take up space. The article says his remains will be shipped back to his family. Touching.
I have to make one call. Not really returning to the scene of the crime. I prefer to tell myself I was the one who helped stop the boulder from crushing more victims, not the one who pushed it off the cliff in the first place. But I needed to know more than what the newspapers were telling me. What is it the therapists call it? Closure? I needed closure.
Mary answers the phone on third ring.
"Hello."
"Mary? It’s Charlie."
Silence.
"Charlie Sandors," I explain.
"Where did you go?"
Her voice is thin and hoarse.
"I had to leave, Mary."
"Where are you?"
"It doesn’t matter. How are you? How’s Jake?"
I picture Mary sitting at her kitchen table, her glasses sliding down her nose.
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