by Nolon King
“Colorless,” Monty whispered.
Frank had expected empty or lonely, but the word Monty used took his breath away. A word so apt he was surprised he had never used it himself. He looked away with a nod of understanding. “Exactly.”
“How did she pass?” Monty asked. His voice was soft and rough. All the mirth replaced by weight.
Frank kept his gaze focused on the counter. “Breast cancer. A few years now. We had planned to buy some shops here out on Alta Drive. Up above the little stores along the beach. But it looks like somebody beat us to it.” He laughed. “Well, the cancer ended our plans before that.”
Monty puffed out a breath like he was trying to blow out a candle. “We were gonna go down to Key West. A condo out by the aquarium. But she had a stroke.”
“I’m so sorry,” Frank said.
Monty nodded. Then he looked at Frank in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Frank wanted to offer the man a hug. Then he thought of how he had rejected the therapy circle. Some people didn’t want comfort. He just had to find out what Monty wanted. He sighed. “Me and Sarah used to look at blueprints. Like we were going to build something special whenever we finally decided on something to buy. Something to spend our time doing. Together. For the rest of our lives.”
He didn’t have to fake the emotion in his voice.
Monty sucked air through his teeth. “You got an address?”
Frank produced the scrap of paper on which he had scribbled the addresses of the upper floors next to Ty Kirby’s Watchtower. Monty took it and turned to an ancient computer that had aged into the color of stretched caramel. The keyboard sounded like rattling bones.
Monty looked at the paper through his lenses. At the screen over the top of the frames. He nodded to himself. “B-17,” he muttered.
“Bingo,” Frank said.
Monty chuckled as he heaved himself out of his seat. He wore suspenders and a belt. He hustled off without asking Frank to follow, but Frank rushed after him anyway.
“We’re already two years into this project,” Monty said. “The way the government spends money, you’d think they could get it done quicker. I think they just don’t know what to do with all the old stuff.”
“Like you?” Frank asked.
Monty grinned as they turned into a short hallway that led to a wide set of descending stairs. “Don’t nobody know what to do with me.”
The bottom of the stairs opened into a deep room filled with long open shelves. The walls were lined with cabinets that were nearly as tall as the ceiling. Frank estimated it was at least ten feet high.
“This is the print room,” Monty said, grunting down the last few steps. “Back to sixty-seven or so, all the way up to oh six when they started filing ‘em in CAD or some such. Digital nonsense.”
He struck Frank as the kind of guy that called it the Interwebs. Monty consulted his paper, turned down a row, waddled all the way to the end. The shelf he stopped at held wide trays full of drawings. He thumbed up through the stack, stopping next to a flag hanging out. The number 17 on it. He slid the top one out. Took a quick look. Shook his head before moving to the next one down.
“That one was drainage. Shared by neighboring buildings. That God-awful Mexican restaurant around the corner.”
After a few more, he found one that satisfied him. Carried it out into better light. “This one was from a permit request back in ninety-nine. Some electrical updates, but it shows the dimensioned structure. Will that do?”
Frank nodded. “That’ll do just fine.”
Monty grinned as he rolled the drawing into a tube. “I gotta rubber band up front.”
As Frank moved to follow, he asked, “Won’t this be missed?”
Monty threw his head back and laughed. “About as much as I will after I’m gone.”
By the time they got back to the counter in the lobby, Monty was red-faced and out of breath. “Whew,” he exclaimed as he dropped back into his chair. “Looks like I got my exercise for the day.”
Monty snapped a rubber band on the end of the tube. Rolled it down to the middle and held it out for Frank. Frank took it with his left and extended his right. “The name’s Frank, by the way.”
Idiot old man. Using his real name again.
Monty nodded as he shook hands. Then he settled back for another Oreo.
Frank pointed at the computer. “That thing wouldn’t happen to say who bought it, would it?”
Monty leaned forward. Pulled his glasses down out of the way to see the screen. “Huh,” he said in surprise. “That Ty Kirby guy. Cora used to watch his show on the LiveLyfe. The one about monsters or some such.”
“I heard he died,” Frank said.
“It happens.”
Frank paused before saying goodbye. “Why don’t you go on down there?”
“Down where?”
“To Key West. Lock the doors and just go. Don’t spend it alone, Monty. Go where there’s life. Where there’s color.”
Monty nodded as he looked away. “I just might do that, Frank. I just might.”
Frank saluted with the blueprint tube. Turned and left in silence. He knew Monty wasn’t a just do it kind of guy.
Chapter Six
Most of Sunday was spent on the beach in front of the Watchtower. Frank hooked his Chromebook up to the wifi signal of his cellphone, and it only took him three tries. It had been easier when Stan was around to handle that kind of thing. It only cost Frank a few minutes of being made fun of for being an out-of-touch old man. With a little practice, he could now do both. The technical stuff and calling himself old.
His gut tightened with loneliness. He drowned it with a beer warming in the sun.
He started with a simple real estate search of the address. Found several listings aggregated over many different sites. Pieced together the building’s history from some of the older descriptions. Coupled with the blueprints, he was able to get a decent picture of the interior.
It had been separate units at one time. Each one directly over one of the units on the lower floor. Sometime in the eighties, it had been purchased by an investment firm from Texas. They had built a new unit on the end that had started life as a pet store. The lease changed hands over the next decades, but the top floors never went anywhere.
They had been converted into one single unit of five rooms connected by a single hallway that connected them all. The front entry of what would eventually become the Watchtower led to a common reception area upstairs. The hallway ran parallel with the storefront to end at an alcove that shared a wall with the building on the corner. A metal door emptied into a fire escape that was in serious need of some maintenance. Dumped into the alley behind that was lined with a chain link laced with brown vines and plastic strips as a wind break.
The logistics of renewing such a space were probably beyond the courage of many investors, and thus the place had stayed vacant for years. Frank speculated about how and why it had finally been sold.
Perhaps Ty Kirby had come into some real money. A contract with some bad people to keep his mouth shut. Easier to pay than to silence.
Had he bought it as a place where Pedophile Junction could resume? His offering to the group in exchange for his membership? Or maybe the cops had pressured him into surrendering. Or maybe they had fronted the money as long as he put his name on the papers.
None of that was enough to lead him directly to Owens, but it opened a couple doors. He just had to decide which one to walk through first.
He rotated around in the sand to look up at the building over the roof of his van. Five high windows spaced evenly apart but shifted toward the corner to line up with the entry doors of the shops on the bottom floor. That meant they weren’t directly in front of the interior doors.
Even if he had a vantage point, he wouldn’t be able to see inside any of the rooms. He would have to get a little closer.
Frank closed his Chromebook. Finished another beer he didn’t remember opening. Gathered up everyt
hing he had scattered around his little spot of claimed beach territory. Almost forgot his flip flops.
Dumped it all in the van. Slipped his multi-tool and lockpick set into his cargo pocket. He jogged across the street. To the patio next to the Watchtower. The colorful umbrellas on the picnic tables were no longer a mystery. The most recent business to occupy this space was an Inside Scoop, and if there was ever another reason to hate Ty Kirby, Frank had found it.
The memory of the ice cream parlor he had taken Jenny to every week flashed through his mind. Then he remembered punching Patrick Dahl in the face over a bowl. Both great memories in their own way. Both ruined by the association with Ty Kirby.
He walked without looking around. Kept his shoulders as straight as he could. Held his head up. Made sure his smile was slight, and not nervous or eager. He didn’t want to look like somebody creeping along, trying not to be noticed.
Frank was just a guy cutting through the alley. Nothing to see here.
He continued down to where the line of shops met the large corner building. To a rectangle of shadow next to a yellow metal door. The rear at this end was shielded by the chain link barrier. A long shadow cast by the fence met the black at the recess.
Frank ducked into it and put his back against the wall.
Glanced back the way he had come to make sure he hadn’t been noticed.
Not a soul. Just the sound of the music from the shops. Activity from the beach. Passing cars.
The old metal stairs hung from bolts barely holding in the brick. A ladder descended at an angle from the bottom landing. He reached up and tested his weight on it. A sagging vibration, but it held as he climbed. Through to the bottom landing, then onto the stairs. Staying on the inside of each step until he reached the top.
The door at the top was a featureless metal slab. A thumb latch under a keyed lock. It was out of sight of the front sidewalks and parking spaces. Blocked by a facade that extended up like the face of a Hollywood set.
For a few moments, Frank would be in clear view of traffic at the edge of the building at the other end down from the corner. People on the beach at the very edge of the water.
But how many passersby would even know he wasn’t supposed to be there? It only took one … the wrong one. Like one of the cops coming by for a visit. Or Ty Kirby himself.
He tried the pitted handle, but it held solid. He fished out the lockpick and hoped for the best. He had never been very good at picking locks. Stan was a whiz. Frank was the tortoise to Stan’s hare. He was soon sweating. It dripped from the end of his nose to make ringing splats against the metal grating under his feet.
Finally, he felt it tumble over. Resisted the urge to look around with wide eyes to reassure himself he was still unobserved. He put the set back in his pocket. Pushed the handle while holding the door closed. Breathed a sigh of relief when it depressed with a rusty pop. He released the handle. Made sure the door remained shut. There was no way he was going to enter. He knew nothing about the existence or status of alarms. Hadn’t been watching closely enough to know if anybody was inside.
He just wanted to see if the door stayed unlocked. He couldn’t imagine Ty Kirby — or any of his rapist buddies — leaving by the fire escape unless there was a raid. Or an actual fire. He would check back in a week when he retrieved his recorder.
He crept back down to the alley where the air felt cooler. Easier to breathe. He wiped the sweat off his face. Thought about the dinner and drinks he was going to treat himself with. He had to celebrate these little victories. He was lost in patting himself on the back when he stepped around the corner of the Watchtower. Out of the shadow of the alley and into the sun of the patio. Right into Ty Kirby’s view.
He looked up from where he sat at the table. Right into Frank’s eyes. Blew smoke up into a cloud that hung inside the umbrella.
Frank stumbled to a halt. If there was anyone that knew his face, it was Ty Kirby. He had transmitted photos of him for years while trying to frame him for multiple rapes and murders on his disgusting show.
But there was no recognition. Ty only shook his head. Lifted his shoulders in a question as he took another drag from his cigarette and pulled his phone away from his ear. “Can I help you?”
He didn’t sound very helpful.
Frank shook his head numbly. Then took a step. Bit down on the rage boiling up in his chest. Filling him so it was hard to breathe. Then he pointed at Kirby’s heart. Forced himself to smile instead of snarl. “Can I get one of those?”
Kirby’s face became pained annoyance. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” He hung the cigarette from the corner of his mouth. Reached around to the table behind him. Pulled the pack up and shook one loose. “I’m on fucking hold,” he growled.
Frank barely kept himself from lunging over and choking the bastard. Instead taking the cigarette between shaking fingers. When Kirby struck his lighter, Frank almost bent to put his mustache in the flame. He’d never smoked before, but he had seen it enough to get the gist of how it worked. Puffed until the flame blossomed on the end, then stood up to take a delicate puff.
It tasted the way a sinus infection felt.
He blew smoke up into the air, then he pointed the cigarette at Kirby’s face. “Hey, aren’t you that guy? That Ty Kirby guy?”
Kirby grinned. Sat a little straighter. “That’s right. You a fan of the show?”
Frank flapped the cigarette at him before pretending to take another puff. “Nah. Rush Limbaugh is way better.”
Kirby pulled the phone from his ear as his face went from obsequious charm to offended in an eyeblink. “Well fuck you, buddy!”
Frank stepped toward the street. Threw his hands out. “Hey man, relax.”
Kirby stood from the table. “No, you fucking relax!”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
Kirby sent a distracted look at his phone. Pulled it up to his ear. “What? No, I’m here. Just some asshole outside the studio.”
Frank drew in a deep breath. “Asshole? Well, fuck you, buddy!” Then he laughed at the scandalized look on Kirby’s face. He could tell the man wanted to charge him. Was torn between petty revenge and the phone call.
As Stan had often told him, there was often an appropriate time for inappropriate language. Out of all the times Frank had forced himself to use it, this had been the most satisfying.
He walked back to the beach without going past his van. He didn’t want Kirby seeing what he drove.
Chapter Seven
A nice heavy meal of Sloppy’s on the way home, and Frank found himself regretting every bite as he worked each one off at Mound Park Monday morning.
That’s also when GG came rushing to the forefront of his mind. Demanding and distracting.
It was cooler than usual. Clouds across the sky. A stiff breeze making the American flag snap on the pole.
Frank took his small cooler all the way to the top of the bleachers. Three tiers high that felt like a mountaintop.
He opened the cooler to fish out three cold bottles of Corona, the little seven-and-a-half-ounce ones he usually tipped upside down into a margarita. Then he set an opener next to them before taking his time back down to the bottom.
Three rounds of five would give him the fifteen that GG had prescribed. One beer during each rest. A small reward to keep himself going.
He took his time warming up and getting loose. He didn’t care about injury sidelining his fitness efforts — if the word fitness still applied to what he was doing. Using beer as an incentive for bleacher sprints. He was worried about injury knocking him off the track of his investigation — if investigation was the right word.
Revenge was probably better. He’d even take spite.
Either way, Frank had to make sure he was ready for the effort. Forty-five minutes of warmup for five minutes of furious effort. Not counting the drinking part.
Frank was sweating once he was finally ready. Heart rate already climbing. He stood at the bottom to look up in nea
r despair. It seemed so far to the top. He imagined GG giving him the start signal, and he hit it. Feet clanging off the aluminum bleachers as he put in a pretty respectable performance. All the way to the fifth rep, to finally collapse at the top.
That little beer was so cold in his hands, if he’d had the breath, he would have gasped in pleasure. He opened it, then drank every drop with his heartbeat pounding in his neck.
It was hard getting back to the bottom. Every step felt like the impact raced straight up his spine. He’d barely caught his breath before the round-two alarm went off on his phone.
The second beer felt colder than the first, even though it had been out of the cooler for longer. His head throbbed. A stitch in his side.
His foot hit the clay track right as the third alarm rang out. With GG yelling at him in his mind to push. His final sprint was more of a desperate hobbling climb.
He had to carry the last beer down before opening it. Sit next to his bag and towel with his head hanging. Elbows on his thighs with the beer dangling between his knees. For a few minutes, he thought GG was going to get what he wanted, but the desire to throw up passed, and he was finally able to enjoy his third bottle.
He dropped the empty in the cooler next to the others. Thought about how much that had hurt. How difficult it had been. Then he thought about GG’s pain. Thought about his daughter shouting for help. Screaming in agony.
Rory Day dying in the mud.
Freya looking up to see her father, entering her bedroom in the dead of night.
Frank’s broken face couldn’t compare. His suffering while running up and down the bleachers. Even the pain of losing his wife and daughter wasn’t the same as what those little girls had endured.
So much pain in all the world. How could he have ever hoped to do anything about it?
Frank sighed as he pulled out his towel and journal. Noted his metrics in the columns knowing GG would check. His estimate to set the timer had been spot on. GG would probably narrow it for next time. Or add another set of five. Frank had some catching up to do if he was going to get a whole gallon of water in, but the beer had to settle first.