by Bill Walker
She was a mess. What little makeup she wore was streaked and smeared on her face, the tracks of her tears clearly visible.
But inside she felt worse. She still couldn’t believe what Brian had told her. It was so monstrous, so evil. That the man she’d lived with for nearly half her life, the father of her child, could have hidden this side of him from her for all these years....
It had to be a lie.
But what if it wasn’t?
Would he be so heartless and cruel as to make up a story like that after all he’d been through? And hadn’t he also confessed his love for her?
Where was the truth?
Could it have been in front of her eyes all this time?
She slammed her hand against the wheel. “No, no, NO!”
Joanna’s tears sprang anew and she used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. She needed to keep calm. She needed to get home. She needed to find the truth.
And she knew just where it lay.
The house was dark when she arrived, which meant that Erik and Zack were still at the building. She screeched to a stop in the driveway, grabbed her keys and threw open the door.
Inside, she punched in the code deactivating the alarm then raced to her husband’s office, going right to the file cabinet. It was a formidable one, made from thick powder-coated steel and designed to withstand a five thousand degree fire for nearly an hour. It had taken four men to move it into the house. All his important papers resided in it...and maybe something else.
She tried the drawers. They wouldn’t budge, not even the slightest play.
At his desk she threw open the drawers, her hands scattering the contents onto the floor.
The key! Where’s the key?
Nothing....
She started to cry again, then stopped.
The studio....
She ran back the way she’d come, passing through the kitchen into the new wing, stopping at the steel door to her studio. She fumbled the keys, her hands slick with nervous sweat. With a growl of anger, she fitted the correct key and yanked the door open. It slammed against the wall, the hollow boom echoing in the room.
Inside was a replica of the studio she’d had in Fort Point Channel, minus the living quarters and kitchen. But all the tools remained, plus some new ones. She went to the drills, selecting a large AC-powered Makita. It was heavier and bulkier than their cordless brethren and had a second handle near the chuck, in addition to the standard pistol grip. It was the only one that had a prayer of getting through that lock. With the drill in-hand, she grabbed a set of diamond-tipped bits, her safety glasses, and returned the way she’d come.
Back in Erik’s office, she uncoiled the drill’s power cord and plugged it into the outlet behind the desk. She flipped the motor direction switch to counter-clockwise, grabbed the chuck with her left hand and pulled the trigger, loosening it just enough for her to insert the half-inch bit she’d chosen. She then switched the motor direction back to clockwise and pulled the trigger again. The drill made a loud ratcheting noise when the bit locked into place.
She was ready.
She slipped on the safety glasses, placed the end of the bit onto the lock housing just above the top drawer and bared her teeth. “Let’s see what there is to see.”
She pulled the trigger and the drill whined. Smoke began pouring from the shallow depression the bit chewed into the lock’s carbide steel. In spite of the power of the drill, it looked as if it was going to be slow going. She stopped, adjusted the torque switch to its maximum, placed it back on the lock and restarted the drill, redoubling her pressure.
The bit screamed when it tore through the metal of the lock, bits of corkscrewed steel spewing from the hole and pattering against her safety glasses. The room began to reek of hot metal.
“Come on, come on!”
The drill bit sank a little further.
Yes! It was going to work!
Two minutes later, the drill pushed forward with a sudden jerk. The lock was gone.
Joanna yanked the drill free of the hole and threw it down onto her husband’s swivel chair, ripped off her safety glasses then pulled open the top drawer.
She found Brian’s file near the back. Unlike the other obsessively neat files surrounding it, the dark blue folder was thick with papers shoved in every which way, as if someone had been looking through it in a hurry. She brought it to the desk, turned on the green-shaded banker’s light and began examining its contents. There were reams of information about every aspect of Brian’s life and that of his parents, all in cold black and white type, just as he’d described them.
And there was one more thing.
Lying at the bottom of the file folder was the agreement between her husband and Brian. Three typewritten pages spelling out just how little she was valued as a person. To her husband, she was nothing more than a commodity to be bought and sold.
A cold anger built inside her. Erik had known about her and Brian all along—and never said a word—never dared to confront her. He’d just sat back and watched, watched and waited, until he could spring his scheming little trap, a trap that nearly ruined a man’s life.
And hers.
Tucking Brian’s file under her arm, Joanna went upstairs and peeled off the clothes she’d been wearing and changed into black jeans and a black silk blouse. She’d always loved wearing black, thought it complemented her white skin and red hair. It also simplified a life fraught with stress and ambition. Now, it signified something else, something more funereal.
Downstairs she lingered at the front door, wondering if she would ever return there. Could she ever sleep in her bed again knowing what she now knew about Erik? And what about Zack? Could she allow him to be influenced by such a man? Joanna felt a stab of fear. He was with Erik now. She knew he would never deliberately harm their son. She was sure of that. But what about the subtle things, the things he showed the boy by example? What was Zack learning from that?
No. She couldn’t allow that. She needed to act.
Joanna returned to her car, placing the file on the passenger seat. She turned the key and the engine caught. The dashboard, with its dazzling displays sprang to life, glowing like a Christmas tree. She checked the gas gauge and then the dashboard clock. It was almost 5:00. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.
You can do this. You have to do this.
For Zack....
For Brian....
And for you....
She opened her eyes and threw the car into reverse.
It was time to go take back her life.
31
IT HAD BEEN A mistake to come back.
That was the thought that wouldn’t be denied, wouldn’t be rationalized away to some innocuous comfort zone inside his mind. It kept reverberating, growing louder and louder. So, instead of finding peace and the closure he’d sought when he’d returned to Boston, all he’d done was hurt the woman he’d loved for nearly half of his life. Hurt her a second time. And he really couldn’t decide which sin was worse: the lie he’d told her all those years ago, when he’d said he’d never loved her, or telling her the unvarnished truth now?
Brian sighed and shook his head, recalling the rush of tears welling from those shattering green eyes, that look of anguish, a look he’d put there because he couldn’t keep his damned mouth shut. When they’d pulled up in the car and he’d had made his little joke about it feeling like a first date, he’d been trying to avoid thinking that moment might be the last time he would ever see Joanna. That and the thought of going on with the rest of his tour and then leaving town had overwhelmed him. And that was when she’d kissed him. Those tender lips had seared his heart, obliterating his self-control, and he’d just blurted it all out without any kind of preamble, without even trying to soften the blow.
You idiot!
It was obvious he handled the lives of his characters far better than he handled his own, and those of the people he supposedly loved and cared about. At least in the
pages of his books he had more control. At least there, he could rewrite his mistakes.
Brian shook his head in disgust and stood, the muscles of his legs aching in protest. He’d been sitting too long. Maybe he’d take a shower and get something to eat, if he could stomach it. Then he’d try and call Joanna. He had her home number, though he’d never used it before. And he didn’t give a damn if Ruby was there, either. He’d tell the bastard to shove it and put his wife on the phone. Brian smiled at the image his thought evoked, knowing it was a futile one, at best. Even if Ruby didn’t hang up on him, what made him sure Joanna wouldn’t? Damn, he’d really screwed everything up.
A knock came at the door—loud and insistent.
“Yeah, who is it?”
“Cary Mosley,” came the muffled reply.
Even though alarm bells were ringing in his head, Brian went to the door and opened it.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Weller,” Mosley said. “May I come in?”
Brian opened the door wider and stepped aside. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Mosley walked into the room and moved to the window, peering out through the curtains. He’d turned gray around the temples, and there were a few lines around the cinnamon-colored eyes, but his manner of dress had not changed a bit—still natty and expensive.
“Not much of a view for a world famous author.”
“No, but it suits me,” Brian said. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Mosley was silent for a moment, as if he hadn’t heard, then he said: “My wife, Althea, is big fan of your books. She says they’re the only ones that ring true, the only ones with honest emotion.... We were both sorry to hear about your wife.”
Brian was touched by the sincerity in the black man’s voice. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”
Mosley turned from the window, his expression troubled. “He really does love her, you know.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I think he’s on the brink of doing something rash and I don’t want to see him go down in flames.”
“Even if he deserves it?” Brian asked, moving to the desk and shutting down his laptop.
Mosley shook his head. “No. He does a lot of good with his money. He helped your father.”
“You were there, Mosley. Did I really have a choice?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“And I also imagine you’re here because of some self-interest on your part, as well?”
“Touché, Mr. Weller.”
“Well, it’s nice to know no one’s perfect.” Brian slipped the MacBook into a zippered case. “So, why are you here?”
“He wants to see you.”
“I kind of figured that, but I’ll be gone in a couple of days. Not much point, is there?”
“Mr. Ruby doesn’t see it that way.”
“And how does he ‘see it’?”
“That you’re a perennial problem in search of a solution.”
Brian laughed. “Good one, Mosley, you should be doing stand-up. I’ll bet he thinks he’s found that solution, too.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Then go back and tell your boss that you missed me, that I was out.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Is this the moment the snub-nosed thirty-eight makes its appearance?”
Mosley’s grin was wan. “I have a permit, but choose not to carry. I am a black belt, however.”
“Ah, well, I’d hate to see you muss those clothes,” Brian said, grabbing his A2 flight jacket off the bed. “Let’s go see your boss.”
The Mass Pike was a parking lot.
Cars crept forward at a pace that would have made a snail feel like Speedy Gonzalez. Brake lights flared like angry eyes and horns blared, making Joanna want to scream. She tried to keep her mind focused, tried not to let her nerves get the better of her.
She glanced at the clock. It was 5:15. Time to call Erik.
She pulled her cell phone from her handbag and punched in his number.
“Hello, Dear,” he said.
His voice was silky-smooth, as if nothing was amiss. In years past the sound of it would have made her knees weak; now, it just hardened her resolve.
“Hi. Is Zack with you?”
“Yes, and we’ve been having a nice father-son experience. Can’t say I was happy that he came here on his own, however.”
A flash of guilt shot through Joanna. She fought it. “My friend needed a ride.”
There was a brief silence. “So I heard.”
“I’m coming to pick Zack up. We need to talk.”
“You’re right about that. We do....”
She didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.
“Let me speak to Zack.”
She heard Erik say something she couldn’t make out and then Zack came on the line.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Sweetie. You okay?”
“Sure. Dad’s been showing me all around. Everything’s so huge, you know? We’re going up on the roof next.”
“You be careful and stay away from the edge.”
“Ah, Mom, I’m not an idiot.”
She smiled. “Of course, you’re not. But I’m sure it’s windy up there. Just be careful, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, pausing. “Thanks for taking me today. It was really cool meeting Mr. Weller.”
Joanna smiled. “I’m glad. He really thinks you’re on your way.”
“Yeah,” her son replied. She could tell from the sound of his voice that he was still trying to get used to that idea.
“He’s more than just an old friend, isn’t he?”
Joanna nearly fumbled the phone. Where on earth was this coming from? “I’m not sure how to answer that, Sweetheart. It’s complicated.”
“It’s okay, Mom, Dad’s out of the room. I saw the way you and Mr. Weller look at each other. Like I said, I’m not an idiot.”
Joanna felt herself losing control again, tears stinging her eyes. “Honey, we shouldn’t be talking about this. Not now.”
“I—I just want you to be happy, Mom. You haven’t been for a long time.”
Tears clouded her eyes, making it hard to see the road, which now looked like a smear of red light through the windshield. She wiped her eyes and steadied herself.
“That doesn’t matter, Zack. All your father and I want is what’s best for you.”
The boy was silent for a moment. What he said next pulled the rug out from under her. “I’d rather you and Dad live apart than have you slowly killing each other’s spirits, like you have been.”
Oh, God, what had she done to deserve such a wonderful, insightful boy? Any other kid his age would have made the same observations about her and Brian and hated them both for it. And she wasn’t sure this wasn’t worse in some way. He was much too young to be so mature.
“Zack, I—”
“He’s coming back. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too, Baby.”
The phone went dead and Joanna tossed it back into her handbag. She gripped the wheel and cursed both her husband and the traffic.
Mosley’s cell phone rang five minutes after they pulled away from the hotel in the black man’s silver F430. Mosley pulled a sleek ultra-thin model from inside his jacket, glanced at the number on the display then brought it to his ear.
“Yes, sir. We’re on our way.... Okay.”
The black man handed the phone over to Brian and shifted gears, the Ferrari’s eight-cylinder engine responding with a throaty rumble.
“Yes?” Brian said.
“Well, it looks as if it’s going to be old home week. My boy is here and I just got off the phone with Joanna. Seems she’s real anxious to see me, too.”
“Zack is there? Ruby, are you out of your mind?”
“I’ve never been more sane, Mr. Weller. It’s time my son learned how things really work, not how they do in books.”
Ruby hung up and Brian h
anded the cell phone back to Mosley.
“He’s got Zack there with him?” Mosley asked.
Brian nodded. “And apparently Joanna’s on her way there, as well.”
The black man let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Sometimes I wonder about this job.”
Brian gave him a look, but said nothing.
Ruby’s new fifty-story monstrosity of steel and glass occupied a full block of State Street real estate in downtown Boston. Brian managed a glimpse of the top right before Mosley piloted the Ferrari into the basement parking area. Round and round they went, descending level after empty level, until they came to the private parking area. An articulated metal grate blocked their way. Mosley reached up to a remote and pushed the button. The grate began to ascend, rattling in its frame as it rose. When it was high enough to let the Ferrari slip through, Mosley gunned the engine and the car rocketed forward, coming to a stop in front of a bank of six elevators. Only one other car occupied a space.
Ruby’s Jaguar.
Brian was the first to exit the car. He pushed the elevator button and waited; Mosley joined him. A moment later, one of the elevators opened and the two of them entered. The interior was spacious, like those used in hospitals, but lacked the second set of doors.
“I assume you know where we’re going,” Brian said.
Mosley nodded and punched the button for the fiftieth floor. The elevator accelerated upward, floor indicators snapping on and off in rapid succession, synchronized with the toll of an electronic bell. It slowed when it passed the fortieth floor, but not enough to prevent Brian from feeling as if his stomach was rising up his throat.
Easing to a stop, the elevator doors hissed open. Mosley strode out and Brian followed. The floor was only partially completed, with steel studs, wiring conduits, and plumbing still visible in places not yet covered by drywall. Buzzing fluorescent fixtures hung askew from chains and silver foil ductwork crisscrossed overhead. The air reeked of paint, adhesives, and the chalky odor of the plasterboard. The only sounds were their feet crinkling the thick plastic tarps, which covered the pristine charcoal gray carpeting.