Dead Man's Bridge

by Robert J. Mrazek

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I knew that Creighton hadn’t been there long enough to have a girlfriend. He was so naïve in many ways. I suspected that there was more to it, but my wife begged me not to let my anger over his loss consume me . . . and to move on with our lives. Then the Persian Gulf heated up, and I was deployed there for two years followed by the invasion of Panama. I was overseas for pretty much the next five years. Then my wife died. The years passed. Creighton became a distant and painful memory, one that I simply wanted to avoid.”

  A crack of splintering wood was followed by another building shift. I watched as the Coleman lantern slowly slid off the edge of the metal desk and rolled down the canted floor.

  “What happened to make you change your mind?”

  “Earlier this year, I received a letter from an officer who had served under me in Iraq and was now in charge of the ROTC program here at St. Andrews. He asked if I was aware that a chair was being endowed at the new nanoscience learning center in the name of Creighton Taylor. He wondered if I planned to be on hand for the inaugural lecture. I told him that no one from the school had contacted me to let me know.”

  I nodded in anticipation of his next words.

  “Considering Creighton had been a new transfer student when he died, it made no sense that he would have a chair named in his honor unless there was another reason for it.”

  “Guilt,” I said.

  He nodded back.

  It was Wheatley’s own money that caused his murder, just as his money had to be behind the blackmail threat.

  “It wasn’t easy, but I found out that this chair was one of several endowments underwritten by the Wheatley Foundation. That’s when I decided to come back here to meet him and find out what really happened to Creighton.”

  “You still had doubts?”

  He nodded and said, “Right up until Wheatley confessed just before I helped him up on the railing,” he said. “He told me it was the three of them—him, Massey, and Palmer.”

  I stared at him in sadness.

  “Grief and rage,” he said. “Two very powerful forces . . . as powerful as that hurricane out there . . . powerful enough to choke off every other human emotion. I did try to fight it. My late wife would never have countenanced this.”

  The building convulsed for another ten seconds, and then it was quiet again.

  “It was like finding out I had incurable cancer.”

  “And now you’re cured.”

  “Hardly,” he said, picking up the framed photograph from the desk and tossing it over to me.

  “Creighton was my blood,” he continued as I looked down at his son’s broad, innocent face. “The last of my family there will ever be. I wonder if you can understand that.”

  “Nobody wrote a rulebook for something like this.”

  “Like most of my ancestors, I wanted to be a warrior. It took me away from my family during most of the years Creighton was growing up. In many ways, I’ve led a wasted life.”

  “I would have liked a mulligan myself.”

  He smiled. He had a good smile.

  “I’ve got a different future planned now.”

  I knew what he meant to do. I kept wondering how I could get us both out of there alive. I didn’t want his death on my conscience to go along with the other three in Afghanistan. I handed the photograph of his son back to him. He placed it on the table next to his .45.

  “Why did you make Massey . . . ?”

  “He wanted to go out naked,” he said, already knowing where I was heading with the question. “Don’t ask me why.”

  “Guilt makes people do strange things.”

  “I’m told you were a good army officer,” said Taylor next.

  “By whom?”

  “I checked you out with friends at Fort Benning after Ben Massengale told me what happened to you in Afghanistan. The army makes mistakes.”

  “Yeah . . . I learned that,” I said.

  “You weren’t responsible for the deaths of those men. You were betrayed by a border chieftain who was supposed to be our ally.”

  “And he wasn’t punished for it,” I said bitterly. “The general in command gave him a free pass.”

  “They circled the wagons. Generals are more important than majors. I guess you learned that too.”

  “The faces of those men have haunted me ever since.”

  “They never leave you.”

  “I checked you out too, General,” I said.

  “Really.”

  “My friend told me you could have had one of the top slots in the corporation, but you didn’t take to the rarified atmosphere of the Pentagon.”

  “Or it didn’t take to me. Either way, it wasn’t a good fit.”

  His gray eyes were so luminously pale that they looked lit from inside. They followed me as I walked over to the shattered window and glanced out.

  I wondered what our chances of survival would be if we jumped from there. A big sycamore tree was waving its branches about fifty feet away. There was no way to reach it unless I could fly. Glancing back at General Taylor, it was obvious he knew exactly what I was thinking. He watched me intently as I came back toward him.

  “After telling me what they had done to my boy, do you know what Wheatley said? He said he would create a ten-million-dollar memorial scholarship in Creighton’s name here at the college . . . and he was going to pay me a substantial annuity for everything my family had suffered. He offered me money.”

  “He was just trying to make up for what they had done in the only way he knew how,” I said.

  His eyes went cold again.

  “Are you a father?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I hope you never have to find out what it’s like to lose your only child, my friend.”

  I was about to tell him that Wheatley had pancreatic cancer and would have been dead in a few weeks when the building tremors began again a moment later. I felt them first in my feet. It was as if I was standing too close to the railroad tracks and a big freight was rumbling past.

  “We have to go now, General,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

  “So go, Major.”

  “Not without you.”

  “Everybody dies.”

  “In due time.”

  “There’s no reason for both of us to end our lives here, Jake.”

  “I’m not leaving without you, General,” I said, taking a step toward him.

  “You apparently need further encouragement,” he said, as if I were an obstinate pupil. Sweeping the .45 up from the desk, he thumbed back the hammer. I stopped short. He paused again to look down at his son’s face.

  Grabbing the framed photograph of his son, he hugged it to his chest with his left hand, swung the .45 away from me, pointed it at his heart, and pulled the trigger.

  28

  I staggered through the dark attic back to the narrow enclosed staircase by the chimney. My first thought was to try to get to the third floor. From there, I could jump from one of the windows and probably survive.

  I was a few yards from the head of the staircase when the chimney suddenly disintegrated and the stairs collapsed. The only way out of the fifth-floor attic now was through the shattered window in the general’s room.

  It sounded like a wrecking ball was hammering the remaining building supports as I retraced my path. The floor joists were shaking like they were about to come apart, and the front of the building started to angle upward before taking its final plunge.

  The general’s body was sliding down the canted floor when I reached the doorway to his room. Through the window, I could see that the upper floors were already well out over the precipice, a good ten feet beyond the edge. Two hundred feet below, rain-swollen black water raced down the chasm.

  On the far side of the gorge, a small cluster of people had gathered on the cliff trail, waiting to witness the final act. One of them must have seen me in the window because she began excitedly pointing me ou
t to the others.

  I decided to take my chances from the window. About fifty feet below me, I saw a shale ledge extending out about five feet from the rest of the gorge. There was a chance I could swing from the edge of the window frame far enough back toward the face to reach it when I fell. Then I would just have to avoid the building falling on top of me. It seemed like the best of my limited options.

  I was about to swing my right leg out the window when there was a loud rending screech, and the section of roof above my head ripped free from the wall joists and hurtled away into the gorge.

  Crouching down against the force of the wind, my left hand brushed the transceiver in my side pocket. You stupid asshole, I thought. I had turned the radio off before approaching the general’s lair and had forgotten about it. Turning it on, I immediately heard Janet Morgo’s voice.

  “. . . to the front side of the building,” came her voice, calmly and clearly. “If you can hear me, Jake, come to the front side of the attic.”

  She kept repeating the same words as I began making my way back along the tilting hallway. The attic floor was crammed with shifting junk, and it was slow going as I climbed over each obstruction. With a great tearing sound, another section of the roof ripped away, and I could see the murky gray sky directly above me.

  I had waited too long. This was the end of the line.

  There was a final rending screech, and what remained of the building began sliding over the edge of the precipice. I wrapped my arms around a wall joist as an upright piano slid past me into the void.

  I could hear the drunken revelers in the parking lot deliver another cheer as the last section of the building teetered over the edge. Glancing up at the sky for the last time, I saw something painted orange hovering about twenty feet above me. At first, the image didn’t register clearly in my exhausted brain.

  Then I saw it was the top end of a large crane, and I remembered the fire truck I had seen parked in the road next to the building. A man in some kind of harness was dangling below it.

  He was descending in my direction when the front and side walls caved in and the building lost all form and shape. I watched him detach a coil of line from his tool belt and hurl it toward me. The end of the line reached my outstretched hands, and I gripped it with all my remaining strength.

  The world went dark again for a moment as the walls came together. Then I found myself jerked upward through the wooden timbers. Head down, I saw the last of the Fall Creek Tavern disappear over the precipice in a long, tormented scream.

  Thirty seconds later, my rescuer deposited me gently in the street next to the fire truck. As I touched ground, Kelly broke through the Groton police cordon and locked me in a tight embrace. Another loud cheer went up from the revelers.

  “Baby,” she cried, “how did you get way up there?”

  29

  The fireman who saved my life came lumbering toward me in his shiny orange outfit. As he got closer, I saw that it was a form-fitting suit made of fire-retardant fabric. The belt and pockets were studded with hooks and loops that contained his rescue gear. The brawny young man had a wild tangle of blond hair and a full beard to go with it.

  “I owe you my life. Thanks,” I said.

  “When they told me it was Tank Cantrell, I asked to go up,” he said, giving me a bear-toothed smile. “My father took me to see you play when I was twelve years old. I loved the way you ran over those linebackers. You weren’t afraid of shit.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I’ll buy you a barrel of beer one of these days.”

  “I’ll drink it,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “Your eyes, honey,” Kelly said, staring at me with genuine concern. “They have dried blood all around them. Let me nurse you, baby.”

  I could see Lauren Kenniston staring at us from next to the fire truck, and for some reason I felt embarrassed.

  “I still have work to do,” I said, gently breaking the clinch.

  Captain Morgo was still talking into her radio when I limped around the side of the fire truck. Her police cruiser was parked right behind it. She signed off as I came up to her. Lauren joined us there.

  “Welcome home,” said Janet.

  “He was up there . . . General Taylor,” I said. “He shot himself when I tried to take him out with me. They’ll find him in the wreckage at the bottom of the gorge.”

  “I sent Ken out to your cabin, Jake. Your dog is still alive.”

  “Thanks.”

  It was the best news I could have heard at that moment. Behind me, I could hear an ambulance racing up the steep grade from town. Its siren died to a groan as it pulled up next to her cruiser.

  “Get in,” ordered Captain Morgo.

  I shook my head.

  “There’s one more thing I have to do. Will you drive me back to my pickup?”

  “You’re impossible,” she growled before opening the passenger door for me.

  “Can I talk to you later?” asked Lauren.

  “Sure. I promised you an exclusive. Just leave me out of it.”

  “That won’t be so easy,” she said with a grin.

  “Do your best.”

  Janet and I were on our way back to the campus security building when I asked, “What made you change your mind about me? It can’t be just because I was right about Wheatley.”

  She glanced across the front seat.

  “All I knew about your past was what Jim Dickey told me . . . that you had caused the deaths of your own men through negligence and cowardice. Jordan Langford told me the truth yesterday afternoon when I asked him about it . . . I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner, Jake.”

  “Life is pretty crazy,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “and tomorrow I’ll be the bitch boss again.”

  I laughed.

  “Get some rest,” she called out to me as I got in the pickup.

  The chance to close my eyes and know that someone wasn’t trying to kill me. I was ready. And I wouldn’t screw it up with bad dreams. But first I needed to see Jordan. I checked my watch. It was twenty minutes to five, the deadline he had set for himself to resign unless the blackmailer was stopped.

  Wheatley’s money, I kept thinking. It was what had led to his own murder when he decided to try to make amends for a fraternity prank gone wrong. Now his major financial gift to Jordan had led to blackmail.

  Driving over to his house, I could feel the storm finally moving away on its path to the northeast. The wind was still gusting hard, but the sky was growing lighter by the minute.

  Jordan’s home overlooked the railroad tracks that cut through the poorest neighborhood in Groton. After being chosen as president of St. Andrews, he had informed his board of trustees that he didn’t want to live in the president’s house. He had told me it was Blair’s idea. “I refuse to live in a mausoleum,” she had said.

  The house was modest, even by Groton standards, a 1940s colonial covered with asbestos shingles. A well-kept garden flanked the driveway onto the property, its flowers and plantings now crushed by the rain and wind. At the end of the driveway, I was surprised to see a red Ferrari parked behind Jordan’s green Volvo. It had probably cost three times more than the house.

  When I knocked on the kitchen door, it was opened by a short, plump man wearing a double-breasted gray worsted suit. He had thick pomaded hair, close-set eyes, and a broad face that broke into an ingratiating smile when he saw who it was.

  I wasn’t ingratiated. Even in my diminished mental state, it wasn’t too hard to recognize him. His and his brother’s faces graced the back cover of several hundred thousand telephone books in upstate New York. I wondered what Brian Razzano was doing there.

  When he reached out to shake my hand, a Rolex Oyster emerged like a small turtle from within his white silk shirt sleeve. I ignored his hand, and he dropped it awkwardly to his side.

  “I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you alone, Jake,” he said. “Before you see Jordan, I mean.”

  When I pushed pas
t him, he followed me down the hallway into their kitchen.

  “Since you called me this morning, I’ve learned that it’s remotely possible Bob Devane was potentially engaged in blackmailing some of my clients. If it’s true, I want you to know that I knew nothing about it. I swear to you, Jake.”

  I stopped and turned around. He was gazing up at me as if receiving my personal blessing was his only goal in life.

  “So you just used Devane to spy on behalf of your legitimate clients, is that it?”

  “Every good criminal lawyer needs a reputable investigative firm. I was shocked to learn that Bob might possibly have abused my trust. Of course the jury is still out.”

  His gambler’s eyes were waiting to see if I actually believed him. I had no way of knowing whether he was telling the truth or not. At that point, I was too exhausted to care.

  “Where’s Jordan?” I asked.

  “He’s in his study. Blair’s waiting in the living room and was hoping she might see you first.”

  “You have it all choreographed, don’t you? Where’s the study?”

  “Through there,” he said, pointing to a door next to the kitchen.

  It led down to the basement. Jordan’s study turned out to be a cubicle along the back wall. To get to it, I had to duck under iron water pipes and metal ductwork, then squeeze past the oil burner and the hot water heater.

  The back of the basement had been outfitted as an office for him and Blair, with two computer desks, two computer stations, and a double file cabinet. A black-and-white poster of Mohandas Gandhi was taped to the cheap paneling above the desks.

  Jordan was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt as he typed on his keyboard and stared into the computer screen. From the back, he looked the way he did when we were students and he would hammer out a term paper on his portable Olivetti.

  “Now I know where all your money goes,” I said.

  He turned to look up at me, his haggard face flashing a rueful grin.

  “The truth is, we spend most of it as soon as my paycheck comes in.”

  “On what?” I asked. It certainly wasn’t the current surroundings.

  “On causes. We support a lot of causes . . . AIDS babies in Botswana, Habitat for Humanity, water projects in Bangladesh, inner-city schools—you name the cause, man, Blair is there with our checkbook to support it. I think she’s trying to prove to Jesus that well-off people can fit through the eye of the needle.”