by Emery Hayes
“My mother taught me never to lie.”
Benjamin shook his head, took another step. “I don’t remember you so sassy, Jordan. No, I remember you whiny and crying and filling your diaper. You were not a pleasant baby.”
He heard it again, the wet sniffling.
“What do you have with you, Jordan? A dog? Small, medium, or large? It’s better you prepare me so I don’t kill it offhand.”
“A teacup poodle,” Jordan said, and Benjamin laughed.
“Now, that snuffling sounds too deep for an animal that small. I’m guessing a Lab of some kind. Maybe a collie or German shepherd. It looks to me like your mom has done everything she can to give you an Opie kind of childhood.”
“What’s Opie?”
“Don’t you watch Nick at Nite?”
“You do?”
Benjamin smiled. He loved challenges. So long as they were entertaining and required little effort. He was thinking he might change his opinion of fatherhood. “I like reminiscing. Thinking of the old days. Nothing like yesterday’s TV to bring all that back.”
“My mother told me you hated your childhood. That there was nothing good about it.”
Benjamin felt a tic at the corner of his mouth. “That’s where TV came in. I could reinvent myself every afternoon watching other kids who got it good.”
He took another step forward. A second ticked by, two. And then his senses began to pick up movement. The air shifted, became dense and fraught with energy, and he turned because there was someone behind him. Definitely. But he was too late to do anything about it. A Louisville Slugger. Twenty-seven ounces of solid ash but, lucky for him, barreled by a pint-sized grandma. The bat connected with his upper arm. A solid blow. It knocked the flashlight from his hand, gave him a stinger, but did little else. Still, Benjamin ducked. He crouched and lurched toward the dark outline of the granny figure and caught her around the knees. She tumbled to the floor with a surprised gasp. But she didn’t waste time.
“Run, Jordan,” she commanded. “Run!”
“Stay, Jordan. If you don’t, I’ll kill her.”
Jordan stayed. Benjamin heard him move, the rustling of his clothing and the soft whimper of the dog he had with him.
“You got that dog on a leash?”
“In the house?”
“Hold on to him. I’m a good shot, Jordan. Close up I’m a hundred percent.”
“I’ve got him.” His voice warbled a little. He cared about the mutt, and the old lady too, probably. “What are you doing to Mrs. Neal?”
“She hit me with a bat,” Benjamin said. “I had to take her down.”
“Don’t hurt her.”
“Too late for that.”
“I’m fine, Jordan,” Mrs. Neal said. “Do as your mother told you.”
“Nicole? So you did talk to her.” And that made his heart sing. “What did she say? Is she scared for you, Jordan? Did she sound breathless? Worried?”
“She said you were harmless,” the boy returned.
Benjamin laughed. “Now that’s not true. Your old man’s a killer. She knows that. She’s been a real bitch about it too. Really chomping away at your dad over it.”
“And she’s on her way,” Mrs. Neal promised. “Her and about a hundred other officers.”
“Toole County doesn’t have a hundred officers,” he chided.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” And he didn’t hide the smile in his voice. “I really rattled her, didn’t I?”
“Nicole doesn’t rattle,” she informed him.
“She’s the sheriff,” Jordan said, and he was proud of it.
“So I hear.” Benjamin stood and hauled Mrs. Neal to her feet. “No sudden moves, Granny.” He tapped her with the tip of the bat he had wrestled away from her, but for extra measure, he rubbed the muzzle of the Sauer against her temple. “Double duty,” he told her. “And like I said, up close I never miss.”
He scanned the room, but the flashlight had gone out when it hit the ground. He figured they had maybe another ten minutes before Nicole and her posse made it here. They had to move fast now.
“Stand up, Jordan,” he said. “You and that mutt are going to leave the room first. I want you to walk to the front door.”
Jordan stood but kept a hand on the dog’s collar. Benjamin could tell by the outline of his stooped body. “Hall, kitchen, living room, door. Just like that,” he said.
Jordan followed his orders. Benjamin kept a hand on Mrs. Neal, and they walked a few feet behind the boy and the dog, but when they reached the front of the house and felt the cool air rush in, the old woman shouted again, “Run, Jordan! Make your mom proud.”
Benjamin tightened his hold on Mrs. Neal’s arm until he heard her back teeth grind together. To Jordan he said, “I’m a man of my word, Jordan. Remember that. You could make a run for it,” he reasoned. “Save yourself and your dog, but that would kill Mrs. Neal. Can you handle that?”
“I won’t run.”
“Your word is good enough for me.” He tried to remember the layout of the house. There was a door off the living room, a closet or laundry room. Either would do. “Put the dog in the laundry room and shut the door.”
He needed a clear path to his truck, pulling a reluctant son with him. He needed to dispose of Mrs. Neal without the canine intrusion. And he needed to do it all in minutes. Nicole was on her way. And the damn Mrs. Neal was clairvoyant or astute, adding to his growing tension.
“She’s almost here already,” she said.
“Almost? No. She was on her way to the Huntington Spa. That’s on the other side of town, and then a few miles of ribbon over the mountain pass. Police scanner,” he explained, and smiled though she couldn’t see it in the dark. “Now get walking.”
She complied, but slowly, and she called to Jordan, “Bring our coats from the closet, Jordan.” Sensible. Optimistic. Thinking forward.
He nudged her, because they had already wasted time on the dog and because she irritated him. Nicole had hired well. Most women would be hysterical at this point. He supposed that was good for him—made her easier to handle. But she had an air of superiority he didn’t like. For that he pushed her again, with more force, but she didn’t complain. She didn’t put up a struggle. She slipped into her coat as she moved. He figured she was agreeable because they were walking away from Jordan and she liked that.
“You care about my son,” he said. “And I appreciate that. I don’t think I’ll kill you. I will have to return in kind for the whack you gave me with the bat, but then we’re square. Fair is fair and all.”
“You sound like a child,” she said.
“I never grew up,” he agreed. He stopped at the front door, Mrs. Neal in front of him on the porch, and turned back to Jordan. “Hurry up, son. You waste any more time back there and I’ll have to rush with Mrs. Neal. That wouldn’t be good.”
Jordan was obedient. As he drew closer, Benjamin stood back against the open door and let him pass. He kept a hold of Mrs. Neal’s elbow and tapped the bat against the brick path as they walked around the house to the backyard.
“Why are we going back here?” Jordan asked.
“We need to put Mrs. Neal somewhere,” he returned. “I told her I wouldn’t kill her, and so I won’t, but I’m not going to let her loose either.” He led them across the back patio and into the grass. They came to a doghouse built like a log cabin. Benjamin tapped it with the bat. “What do you think, Jordan? A little too tight for our Mrs. Neal?”
“You can’t put her in the doghouse,” Jordan said. His voice had risen, and Benjamin liked that he was willing to fight for Mrs. Neal.
“Why not?” Benjamin bent and peered inside the open door. There was enough light from the moon that he knew what he was looking at, enough shadow that he couldn’t read their faces, but Jordan’s offense was clear in his voice. “Looks nice in there, but maybe a little cramped.” He pulled lightly on Mrs. Neal’s arm, and they advanced. A shed stood wes
t, small at eight-by-ten feet and made of durable polyethylene. It had a chunky padlock on it. “What’s in there?”
He felt Jordan shrug. “Bikes and patio furniture.”
Benjamin nodded and looked down at Mrs. Neal. “Well, it looks like it’s the woodshed for you.” He felt resistance in her as he began walking toward the long, low trestle. It was made of sturdy plywood with a shingled roof. There were several doors that opened on swing hinges. “Your mother’s going to love this, Jordan. She plays a mean game of hide-and-seek.”
“You can’t put her in there,” Jordan protested. “It’s too cold out here. She’ll die.”
Benjamin expelled a heavy breath and looked down at Jordan.
“What should I do then, Jordan? Kill her now?” He felt anger bunch in his muscles and exerted pressure on the woman’s elbow, pushing his fingers between the bones at the joint, and was rewarded with her sharp gasp and the loosening of her knees. “But I promised her I wouldn’t.” He eased her down and looked over her head. “Take three giant steps back,” he said, and watched Jordan shuffle his feet and put inches between them. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could see that Jordan’s face was pensive. He chewed his lip. “Don’t worry, Jordan. Your mom will find her. She’s good at this kind of thing.”
35
Joaquin rocked back on his heels, fists pushed into the front pockets of his jeans. Air, so cold he choked on a deep breath, stole under his parka and chilled his skin. But he kept his place. He watched the big guy—Etienne—push the Bobcat out of the garage. He started it and let it idle and then stood back and waited for Joaquin’s father to climb aboard. His father pulled on the helmet and adjusted the goggles over his eyes. His father enjoyed skiing. Downhill or cross-country. He’d been on a snowmobile before, but so few times and so long ago that Joaquin doubted he remembered how to work one. The equipment guy seemed to have the same concerns. As his father approached the Bobcat, the guy—built like a mountain—stepped forward.
“Let’s go over a few things,” he said, and then he pointed to the throttle and explained it. He took hold of the handgrips and showed how fast they responded to direction—like riding a bike. He bent over and pointed out the cut switch.
“And if I need to start it again?”
“No key,” Etienne said. “You just push here”—a red button on the steering column—“and turn the throttle.” He did it and the engine gunned.
His father straddled the snowmobile, and Etienne stepped back. “Machine must be back by eight o’clock.”
Joaquin pushed back the sleeve of his parka and looked at the lighted dial of his watch. It was 7:10. He looked at the landscape. The trees were a darker shade of night against the sky. A sliver of moon cast a stronger glow than expected for its smallness, and a handful of stars were well out of reach. Clear skies finally. No chance of snow. His father would have an easy ride if he kept on the trail.
“What happens if it’s not?” his father asked. “Do you send a search party?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but his voice was tight and Etienne took him seriously.
“We call your room. We look around the property. That’s usually enough.”
His father nodded. “I’ll try to be on time.”
His father’s words were an assurance but also subtly dismissive. Etienne didn’t move. He stood a few feet away from the Bobcat but still managed to tower over Joaquin’s father. And he was troubled. Joaquin noticed the tension in Etienne’s shoulders, the frown growing deeper on his face.
“Beatrice is gone,” he said.
“Yes.”
“She was my friend.”
“I know.” His father sat back on the padded seat and pushed his goggles up. He gave Etienne his full attention. “And you were a good friend to her.”
“You didn’t like that.”
“I was wrong.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry.”
Etienne looked at his father’s hand but didn’t take it. He seemed confused by the action or by Dr. Esparza’s words as his face clouded and his voice became agitated.
“I miss her.”
“Me too.”
“But she’s not coming back.” Etienne wanted that to be a possibility, and maybe he wanted it so badly that he thought he could make it happen. Like some wishes did come true. Joaquin could tell by his tone, which was mostly wistful but torn in places by grief.
“Beatrice is dead, Etienne,” his father said, and his voice was soft, steady. His father had had to say similar words before, lots of times, probably. Joaquin heard the ache in them.
He nodded. “The police told me that. I didn’t believe them.”
“They spoke to you?”
He nodded. “They found Beatrice on the lake. I told them she was on her way to a party and she looked like a princess.” Etienne smiled with the memory, and Joaquin could tell it was pure. Etienne had thought Beatrice was beautiful. He had seen her heart and been drawn to it. That had happened a lot with his sister. He felt his lips tremble as he realized how much the world would be missing with Beatrice gone.
“Thank you, Etienne. You made her smile,” his father said.
Etienne looked over Dr. Esparza’s head at Joaquin. “You need a helmet and goggles. I’ll get them.”
“I’m not riding.” And then Joaquin did something he never would have done but Beatrice would have. It was second nature to her. He reached out to Etienne. He walked around the Bobcat his father was straddling and came to stand next to Etienne. “My father wanted to shake your hand, to say he was sorry he’d misjudged you. I’d like to shake it for the same reason.”
He held out his hand, and Etienne looked at it, then extended his own. It was an awkward gesture, and Joaquin realized that a handshake was a foreign thing to him, so he closed the gap and took the big hand and pumped it twice, then let go.
“That’s how it’s done,” Joaquin said. “A handshake is important, Etienne. It means you’re equal. The other guy’s no better than you. You’re no worse than he is.”
“Equal is good.”
Joaquin nodded. “It’s the best.”
The big guy nodded and turned back to Joaquin’s father. “You need anything else?”
“Is there a GPS on this thing?”
“No. The trails are marked. Stay on them,” he advised.
Etienne walked away then, his boots falling heavily on the snowpack. Joaquin waited until he was inside the garage and lowering the automatic door before he turned back to his father. He laid a hand on the steering column to get his attention over the purr of the Bobcat and the metallic crunching of the equipment door. His father looked up. His face was pensive but his eyes were lit with question.
“That was a good thing you did, Joaquin.”
“Beatrice would have done it.”
Dr. Esparza nodded. “We can all learn from her,” he said. “We can make changes, even small ones, and that would be carrying Beatrice with us. That would give her life where there is none.”
Joaquin wanted to remember those words. He wanted to sift through them and make sure he understood what his father was saying, but right now wasn’t the time to do it. In forty-five minutes the resort would be looking for the Bobcat. In fifteen minutes his father had a meeting with Callon Pharmaceuticals.
“She’ll be waiting for you,” Joaquin said. “Sanders.”
But his father shook his head. “It will be someone else. Someone she hired. Someone who will try to intimidate me. She doesn’t know it’s not necessary.”
“You’ll go with him?”
“Yes. Freely. I want to see Sanders. I want to watch her face when I tell her it’s too late for her and for Callon. When she realizes life as she knows it is over.”
“She never cared about Beatrice. Telling her won’t change that.”
“That’s not why I’m doing it. She killed my girl, and I want her to know that she has lost everything too.”
But Joaquin wasn’t convinced it was a good idea. �
�It won’t change who she is.”
“But I will go anyway,” his father returned. “Beatrice will hear my words, and she will know that I’ve changed.”
Joaquin nodded. His father was set on a course. He was going to do this thing—meet with the Big Six winner, show her that he’d betrayed them all by going public with his discovery, make things right with Beatrice. He couldn’t live with himself otherwise. He could die, though, knowing he’d done right by her.
Beatrice should have lived. His father’s discovery was a success and his sister had been living proof of it. His father had thought the world would embrace Nueva Vida. He had not looked beyond his own greed, beyond his own rise to fame, and had been blindsided by the reaction of the pharmaceutical companies. Their game was to sustain life and to do it in the least cost-effective way possible for the patient. Sustain, not cure, and keep the cash cow fed.
“Are you ready?” he asked Joaquin.
“That’s my line,” he said.
His father smiled. “You are filling my shoes already.”
But Joaquin shook his head. “I’ll never do that. If I have to, if things work out that way, then I’ll do what I can, but it will never be enough.”
“You’re wrong. You are more than enough.”
36
Nicole knew the house would be dark. Benjamin had cut the electricity. That much Jordan had told her before he’d tucked his cell phone into his pocket, the connection open but words and movement muffled from that point on. She believed Benjamin had marched Jordan and Mrs. Neal outside and locked the woman in the woodshed. Her son was soft-spoken, but she’d heard his protest, Benjamin’s response, and his flash of anger. But after that, very little.
She turned onto the state route and followed its soft curves. Her house, on its knoll, rose into view. She slowed the SUV, took the gravel drive faster than usual. If Benjamin was still here, then he knew she’d arrived. Maybe that would keep him in check. At least distract him with a new issue to handle. But her headlights swept over the silent house, the detached garage and the empty driveway. Jordan had described Benjamin’s SUV—a Dodge Durango, black or dark blue. He’d come alone, as far as he and Mrs. Neal could tell.