Sacrifice

by James, Russell

  “Still,” Liz said. “Labor Day is the last weekend before classes start. Dr. Martins always has some last-minute project he dumps on you, and last year there was the over-enrollment problem…”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Marc said, his voice ratcheted up one frustrated notch of volume. “I told him I couldn’t make it for just those reasons.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Liz said.

  Wait for it, Marc thought. Three…two…one…

  “Because the start of the year is just the worst time,” she finished.

  She turned and left the room. Marc gave himself a sad, triumphant smile. He knew her like the back of his hand. Even when she won a confrontation, she always had to restate her victorious position just one more time, in case Marc didn’t know what it was. Just another endearing trait.

  Of course he wasn’t going to go back to Long Island. He hadn’t been back for thirty years for a reason. The same reason he guessed the rest of them hadn’t been back. Pullman, Washington was as far from Long Island as he could get in the lower forty-eight, and that wasn’t an accident. How any of the Half Dozen could have stayed there after the weeks around graduation was beyond him.

  It had taken Marc six years of therapy up through his doctoral degree to get himself straightened out. Since then he’d carved himself out a nice life on the eastern Palouse. His little ranch house wasn’t much, but cozy and close to work were big selling points given his salary limitations.

  Marc had sealed every bit of the shit that had hit the fan in 1980 into a nice, airtight container so he’d never have to deal with it again. No way was he going to open that back up again.

  Chapter Four

  “If you think the address is impressive, wait until you check out the view.”

  That was what Ken Scott told clients when they swooned over the address on his business cards. Nothing said you’d made it like having your real estate office in the Empire State Building, former hangout of King Kong and the only building in the city with a zeppelin mooring. Ken’s office was on the seventy-ninth floor, the exact spot where a B-25 bomber had plowed into the building in a heavy fog in 1945. He figured it was the safest spot in the building. What were the odds of two major accidents in the same place?

  And Ken did have a stellar southwest view, where on a clear day he could see the World Trade Center site, where a new tower was rising to replace what had once been the tallest buildings in the city. It wasn’t possible to look down on the expanse of lower Manhattan and not feel like you were on top of the world. That was one of the reasons the partners selected this expensive address. That attitude attracted the kind of clients they wanted. Rich ones.

  His office had all the expected high-end trappings; an expansive, dark mahogany desk, expensive and indecipherable artwork, overstuffed leather chairs to impress the clients who sat in them. Two computer monitors ran behind Ken’s desk, one scrolling through live streams of mortgage and financial data. Whether the client was looking for commercial, residential or undeveloped property, Ken wanted them to know he was ready to react to market changes in an instant.

  Ken sat at his desk alone and pored over several printouts of new listings. He wore a bright red tie and a tight, tapered white shirt that was crisp enough to deflect bullets. His Armani jacket hung on the back of his chair. The sun highlighted his muted red hair and gave an extra sparkle to his green eyes. Right now those eyes showed panic.

  It was here somewhere. He knew he’d read it earlier in the day. Some apartments were going condo with a shady valuation process he didn’t like. Now where the hell…

  He wasn’t used to not having information at his beck and call. But not just the misplaced paper. There was a time when he would not have even needed the paper. From an early age he had a photographic memory. With one glance, he could save and later recall nearly any information. The gift had made school a breeze. But the last several months it had failed him.

  He’d had some forgetfulness, usually names and places. But the time he forgot how to write a check was what prompted him to make the doctor’s appointment. Ken attributed it to the stress of his job and the short daily hours of sleep. He guessed a sleeping pill would make things right. But a bunch of tests later, he had a different answer.

  Early onset Alzheimer’s. How could he have that? He was just forty-eight. Of course that’s why they put the “early onset” in the title. Some single whacked chromosome from back in his family tree had delivered this bundle of joy. The cure for this relentless destruction of his mental capacities? Death. That was all that could stop it.

  Instead, there was treatment. He swallowed a battalion of pills each day: DHEA, omega-3 fatty acids, a half-dozen vitamins and some new wonder drug that had been on the market for three months. None was a cure. These soldiers could only fight a tough rear-guard action, covering the withdrawal of Ken’s diminishing brain cells. The war would still be lost. So far the impact had been minimal, but every mental misstep spawned a ripple of panic about the disease’s advance.

  His phone startled him as it rang.

  “Robert Armstrong on line one for you,” his assistant said.

  Bob Armstrong? That was way too much of a coincidence. He’d been thinking about the old days out on the Island some after his diagnosis. How long had it been since he talked to Bob? He did a bit of math. Wow, had it been thirty years?

  “This is Ken,” he said into the phone.

  “I’m looking for a condo,” Bob said. “Central Park West with a pool. You a fancy enough Realtor to find that for me?”

  “Bob Armstrong,” Ken said. “How the hell have you been?”

  “No worse for the wear.” He coughed away from the phone. It sounded deep and painful. “Living the good life near Lake Ronkonkoma. How’s the real estate business?”

  “A little slow, but the beauty of Manhattan is that it has finite space. Eventually demand always exceeds supply.”

  “Come on home at the end of the month for Labor Day weekend,” Bob said. “Everyone’s coming by for a get-together at my place.”

  “Everyone?”

  “The whole Dirty Half Dozen will be there unless you wuss out. If you’re the only one missing, we might have to take the fucking train into the city and haul your ass out here.”

  Ken smiled. Bob’s empty bluster hadn’t diminished over the years.

  “Sounds great,” Ken said. And it really did. He’d been flashing back to those days a lot, wondering how the old gang ended up.

  “The party starts at seven p.m. Friday and goes on ‘til whenever,” Bob said. He read Ken a Selden address. Bob wheezed a little as he spoke. “I booked you all rooms at the Village Green Inn starting Friday. So, I gotta go. We’ll catch up when you get here. Bite me sideways.” Bob hung up.

  “Bite me sideways” was one of the classic responses they had in high school, interchangeable between a statement of exhilaration and one of frustration. It hadn’t occurred to Ken in years.

  Driving out Friday night to Long Island on Labor Day weekend would be a major nightmare. He’d need to duck out of here early or he’d be entombed on the motionless Long Island Expressway until Monday. His house was in Westchester, so the hotel for the weekend was a good idea.

  Ken hadn’t been back to the old stomping grounds since he left for college. He’d kept up with the real estate market there, and the place had come to define urban sprawl. It would be good to see what things looked like now, while he still had a good grip on what things looked like then.

  He also hadn’t seen any of his old friends since graduation. In a way their estrangement was hard to believe since they had been Siamese sextuplets since the sixth grade. In another way, it was easy to believe when he thought about graduation weekend.

  He’s certainly thought more about those last few weeks of high school since the doctor asked about any physical traumas he might have suffered in the past that could have precipitated his declining present. Ken left out the water tower lightning incident in his m
edical history, the same way he’d left it out of his internal personal history. Poetic justice if one dumb decision at age seventeen lit the match that set fire to his memory.

  He typed in “DHD Reunion” on his calendar page for Labor Day weekend and tagged it to remind him a week and then again one day in advance. He looked at the papers spread out on his desk. What the hell was he working on here? Oh, yeah, Horizons Condominiums. Property valuations. Damn it, Kenny, get it together.

  Chapter Five

  Dave Langdon looked deep into the brown eyes of the four-year-old boy. Fear darkened the child’s broad, almond face.

  “Jamal,” Dave said. He flashed his million-dollar smile and his blue eyes twinkled. He had his shoulder-length hair back in a ponytail. A few flecks of gray in his goatee were the only things that testified he was pushing fifty. “I’m Dave and there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here to help you.”

  Jamal gave him a doubting glance. He wrung his small hands together and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  This was the second call Dave had made to Jamal’s house. Back in May, Jamal’s school principal had called the Connecticut Department of Children and Families about Jamal when his teacher discovered bruises on his arms. Dave responded and the excuses were plausible and the parents were rock solid in their denials of abuse, though only marginally believable. But Dave had put the Williams family on his watch list and made sure if there was another report, he’d be the one to respond. Too many families had snowed different inspectors through multiple visits. That wouldn’t happen here.

  The house was a mess, though he’d seen much worse here in Hartford. Dimly lit through dirty windows, clothes littered most of the furniture, and empty pizza boxes cluttered the filthy kitchen. The house had that stale, heavy odor that decay exuded. But he wasn’t here for infractions that small. With Dave’s caseload, he never was. He only had time for the life or death investigations.

  “Now, Jamal,” he said. “I need to take a quick look at your leg. I won’t touch it.”

  The boy looked scared. His eyes darted around the room to make sure no one else was there. Then he turned and lifted his shorts to show Dave the top of his thigh and revealed several red, raised, concentric circles.

  Dave knew the mirror impression of a stove burner when he saw one. Jamal’s damaged right leg brought a special wave of sympathy from Dave. He snapped a few pictures with his phone. He turned Jamal back around.

  “Looks like that hurt,” he said. “What happened to your leg?”

  Jamal looked at his shoes, then gave a quick glance up through his eyebrows at Dave. His lips pursed and relaxed a few times.

  “You can tell me, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Dave said.

  “It was Daddy,” Jamal said. His eyes never left the floor. “I was bad so I had to sit on the stove.”

  Dave held his rage in check. “How were you bad?”

  “I dropped my spoon. On the floor.”

  A marginally motor-skilled four-year-old dropped something. What an offense. Dave’s blood boiled. “Stay right here.”

  Using his cane as support, Dave pivoted and headed to the kitchen. A few stray fingers of pain did the usual drumming along his right leg. He shifted some of his weight to his left side without even thinking about it.

  He hobbled into the kitchen. Jamal’s mother sat at the yellow Formica table. Her right eye was swollen shut. Tears streamed down her face, leaving trails of black mascara on her round cheeks. Her hair was wrapped in a blue kerchief, and there were drops of dried blood on her T-shirt.

  “So have your reached the bottom, Latoya?” Dave asked. “Is it time to tell the truth and get out of this hell?”

  She nodded. “Before, I couldn’t say nothing. He was standing right here. He’d kill me before the words got out of my mouth. I thought he’d change, but…”

  Dave snapped open his phone and punched speed dial number two. A police sergeant answered on the first ring.

  “You can pick up Dewayne at work,” Dave said. “I’ll have the complaint filed and a motion for a restraining order in front of a judge in an hour.”

  It was several hours later when Dave finally made it back home. His wife was out attending to several of the weekly chores that backed up and had to be attended to on the weekend. She was great at understanding when he had to pick up a Saturday call for DCF. She was a Special Ed teacher, so she shared the call to help children.

  He rolled the rubber band from his hair and shook it free. He pulled the heating pad out of the hall closet and plopped down on the living room couch. He plugged it in and wrapped his right leg.

  “Now what’s your problem today, darling?” he asked his leg. “It isn’t cold and it isn’t raining.”

  The answering machine next to the couch flashed at him. He hit the retrieve button.

  “Well, Dave, bite me sideways. This is Bob Armstrong. We’ve got a Dirty Half Dozen reunion coming up. Give a call when you get home.” His phone number followed.

  Dave’s leg delivered another twinge of pain. This time Dave knew exactly why.

  He hadn’t talked to Bob since before the ambulance whisked him to the hospital with a shattered leg three decades ago. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since that night. Or more accurately, they hadn’t spoken to him since then. Through his summer of convalescence, none of them had contacted him. Bob had a reasonable excuse, but the rest of them could have overcome their guilt and provided some encouragement during his excruciating physical therapy.

  He banked the fires his resentment stoked. After all, they were all seventeen back then. They had been through hell, and who was prepared for that at that age? There were more years to their friendship than that one night. However it all ended, he’d still never been closer for longer to anyone than he had been to those five friends from Sagebrook.

  He’d long since reconciled himself with the direction his life had taken since that fateful night. Why not relive a few of the better memories with the Dirty Half Dozen?

  He picked up the phone and dialed Bob’s number.

  Chapter Six

  Paul Hampton had to make the call. Bob’s invitation for the reunion was two weeks ago, and Labor Day weekend was next weekend. He couldn’t let it turn out this way.

  The retired New York City police sergeant had upgraded to working private security, but somehow the hours hadn’t gotten any better. He’d spent all night covering the transfer of a traveling exhibit into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He wasn’t even sure what the art looked like since it was all crated into enormous boxes. The truck rolled in at midnight and rolled out by five a.m. One of these nights used to be a lay down, but recent heists in Boston and Europe put an end to anyone’s complacency about art theft. With pre- and post-delivery sweeps, it had stretched into an eight-hour day, or night. So finally home at nine a.m., he was wiped. But he still had to make the call.

  “Paul?” his wife Hallie asked. “Why aren’t you asleep by now?”

  Hallie stood at the kitchen door, looking down at Paul as he sat at the table, cell phone in his hand. Hallie was petite with jet-black, shoulder-length hair and bangs. She was fifteen years younger than Paul, a point his other retired cop friends kidded him about mercilessly. But he knew it was jealousy that sharpened their barbs. He’d landed a hot one in his second marriage attempt. He’d waited until he’d left the force to even consider marriage after the way the police lifestyle eviscerated his first attempt. Hallie was worth the wait.

  “No, Doll,” Paul said. “Got a call to make before I turn in.” He reached back and gave her stomach a caress. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m only six weeks pregnant,” she said and gave his hand a playful slap. “I’m fine, and there’s nothing for you to feel down there yet.”

  Paul had to admit he was terrified when Hallie had told him she was pregnant. Quick math said he’d be pulling Social Security when his kid hit high school, and memories of his high school years made him wonder
how he’d survive the event. Plus, he’d never been a father. His experience with his own ended at age eleven when his father, Paul Sr., died on the job responding to a B&E. Parenthood was a rough sea to sail with an old creaky boat.

  But Hallie’s enthusiasm had carried the day. She was thrilled, and told Paul he’d be a wonderful father. Her extended family was five minutes away, and they were ecstatic and ready to help. By now Paul was fully onboard.

  “So, I’m going out for milk,” Hallie said. “What do you need?”

  “Nothing, Doll.”

  “You’d better be asleep when I get back,” she said. ”We’re bowling tonight and you’d better not be tired.” She kissed him on the bald spot on the back of his head and went out the door.

  Paul carried his cell phone out to the back deck. It was a classic Long Island August day, already thick with humidity by sunrise. The forecasters had promised a mid-nineties scorcher. The sun felt good on his face. He sat in one of the old, vinyl, ribbed beach chairs on the deck. His stomach rolled over his belt and into his lap. He cursed himself for getting so out of shape. Too many crappy meals and too many hours in Crown Victorias had really taken a toll on his former football-player physique.

  This tiny subdivision backyard was the only one he had ever known. This was the house he grew up in with his two younger siblings. The swings were long gone, and the grass had grown back where a succession of plastic wading pools had killed it. After his mother died, he’d moved back in. The price of decent real estate on the Island had ballooned to the point where his cop salary minus alimony couldn’t swing a mortgage, so the old homestead was a viable option. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he had a comfort level here, a retreat from the non-stop scumbags in the city.

  He punched the eleven digits into his phone. Yeah, it would be six a.m. in Washington state. Too bad.

  “Hello?” Marc Brady’s voice was scratchy and confused answering the phone so early.

  “Marc Brady?”

  “That’s me.”