by Peter Parkin
Diana looked at her dad with the hint of a smile. "I am proud of you, Dad. I really am. I just wish I had known before I kept saying no about it to all my friends. You're a hero. That's really neat. Can you come to my school and talk to my class, maybe?"
"We'll see, Diana. I don't feel too much like a hero, because I still don't feel I was in my right mind when I did what I did. It was like I was unconscious. I feel like a phony hero. Does that make sense?"
Diana walked over and threw her arms around her dad's neck. Kristy, of course, had to do the same. Mike had both of them hanging on as he rose from his chair and swung them around. They laughed, and he got the feeling all was forgiven.
Cindy was coming back from retrieving the Saturday newspaper from the front porch. Mike heard her gasp. She stood frozen in the foyer with the paper unfolded to the front page.
"What's wrong, Cindy?"
"You don't want to see this. I don't want to see this." Her face was ashen.
Mike rushed over to her and pulled the newspaper out of her hands.
A full image of him was splattered over the front page, accompanied by a smaller photo from the subway incident. The full image showed Mike, clear as day, walking through an office carrying his briefcase. The smaller subway photo caught him in full swing, briefcase striking a man in the face. The headline read: "The Briefcase Braveheart." Beneath the photos was a caption, identifying him as Michael Baxter of Rosedale, Toronto. There was a complete story as well, but Mike didn't want to read it. He just dropped the paper onto the floor and retreated to his study.
*****
Mike was driving, with not an inkling of where he was going. After reading the article in the paper he needed some space. Cindy and the girls hugged him more times than he could count, and they said all the right things. But none of it helped. The girls seemed very excited to have their dad plastered all over the front page. Cindy was horrified, and Mike was just angry.
He drove his black BMW 745i onto the 401, then veered north onto the 404. From there he exited off to the Aurora Sideroad and headed toward an enclave of expensive acreage homes, pulling into the driveway of one particularly palatial residence. He locked his car, walked up to the front door, and rang the doorbell. He knew whose house this was, but had no idea why he was here.
Amanda Upton answered the door, wearing yellow shorts and a pink halter-top. Her blonde hair had grown out quite a bit since the last time Mike had seen her. In fact, he hadn't seen her for several weeks, not since their vacation in Florida which had taken her husband's life.
For a split second she looked shocked to see him, but then broke into tears and threw her arms around him. She squeezed him so hard that he lost his balance and had to lean against the door frame.
"Mike, come in, come in. Where's Cindy?"
"She's at home. I'm just here by myself. I had to see you—it's been so long."
"It has. I haven't seen anyone since the..."
"I know...and we all understand, Amanda. I know the ladies have tried to get you out, but they know how tough it is. Just know that we're all here for you. Okay? We've been friends for a long time."
Amanda grabbed onto his arm and led him into the kitchen. "Coffee?" "Yes, that would be great. I won't stay long. I just wanted to drop in on you for a few minutes."
Amanda poured two cups of coffee, and with her free hand she wiped away the tears from her cheeks. Even tear-streaked, her face looked adorable.
They sipped their coffees and talked. Amanda seemed glad to see him, kind of comforted, and poured her heart out about how empty her life had been over the last couple of months. Mike asked about her two boys, Charlie and Sam, who were fourteen and twelve respectively. She said they'd been adjusting to life without their father, but were still in a state of shock most of the time. Amanda was spending extra time with them, trying to do the sports things that Gerry used to do, but it wasn't the same for them. She knew they were embarrassed to be seen playing ball with their mother, but were too polite to tell her. She was confident it would just take time.
Mike brought her up to date on his life, and on Cindy and the girls, but avoided saying anything about the traumas he'd been experiencing. He knew she hadn't seen the newspaper or been watching TV very much, because she made no mention at all about 'The Briefcase Braveheart' story. He was relieved; he didn't feel much like talking about it with her.
"So, how did Sam like that new bike on his birthday?"
Amanda looked up from her coffee, a look of surprise in her eyes. "He...
loved it," she said slowly. "His birthday was last month, and Gerry picked that bike out for him before he... Gerry must have told you?"
"Uh...yes...he did. Shiny red, a trail bike, right?"
"Yes, Sam's been riding it over every dirt road he can find! He's so happy with it, and he cried his little heart out when he saw it, knowing his dad bought it before..." Amanda choked up.
"Gerry would be happy. He loved his boys, and he thought the world of you, Mandy."
Amanda started to cry again, and in between her sobs, said, "You reminded me of Gerry there, just for a second. The way you said 'Mandy,' the same loving tone he used to use."
Mike walked around the table and gave his long-time friend a hug from behind. He nestled his cheek into her brilliant blonde hair and whispered in her ear, "Mandy, don't cry. Everything will be okay. I used to tell you that before our exams at U of T, remember? And you always aced them despite your fretting." Mike suddenly had the eerie feeling that he had no control over what he was saying. The words leaped out but he had no idea where they were coming from. And he couldn't stop them, almost as if he was suffering from some version of Tourette syndrome.
Amanda turned toward him with a puzzled look on her face then just shook her head as if to clear it, and quickly kissed his cheek. "I'm so glad you came by, Mike. It's been a comfort to me. But it's time for you to go, okay?" She jumped to her feet and smoothed out her hair. They walked to the front door together, Mike's long arm wrapped around her slender shoulders, Amanda with her arms by her side.
"Amanda, how's the alarm system? Is it functioning okay for you?" Again, she looked at him with surprise. "Sure, it's definitely a secure feeling when I have it on at night."
"You can probably cancel that security patrol now, though. I doubt if you'll need it anymore." Again, Mike wondered where the words were coming from.
Amanda frowned and looked at him quizzically. "Gerry told you about that too? I was just thinking today of canceling it—you must be a mind reader! Gerry insisted on that patrol about three years ago, and it's been costing us an arm and a leg. They drive around the block every night and then just park near our house and watch until dawn. I don't know what Gerry expected them to be looking for, he wouldn't confide in me and neither would the security company. But, Gerry was worried about something and the fact that he was concerned always had me on edge."
Mike just nodded and opened the front door. Suddenly Amanda grabbed his arm.
"Wait! Why did you say I can now cancel it? Because Gerry's dead? Were we in some kind of danger while he was alive? Do you know something, Mike?"
Mike didn't know what he knew. He had just blurted it out, and now wished he could take it back. He gazed into Amanda's beautiful green eyes, and felt like he was going to melt. He also felt like he wanted to cry. He kissed her on the forehead, and walked down to his car.
Something made him turn around and look back at her. They gazed into each other's eyes for several moments, then Mike said softly, "There's nothing to worry about, Mandy. Not anymore."
*****
For the next three days, the scavenger journalists were camped out on the street outside the Baxter home, irritating the hell out of their older upper crust neighbors who all probably felt that the Baxters didn't belong there anyway. Cindy drove the girls to school each day, always honking her horn several times trying to make the morons with their video cameras move out of the way as she exited their four-car garage
. Mike confronted the paparazzi only once, on the first day, and made it clear he wasn't going to make any statements to them either, other than "Fuck off, get out of my face, and off my street!"
At work, it wasn't much better. The newspaper article and subsequent news updates on the television networks, had bared his personal life to the world. Where he worked, the company that bore his name, how many children, where they went to school. The girls were thrilled with the publicity, Cindy was horrified, and Mike was trying to just take it in stride and say as little as possible. He knew, or at least hoped, that if he ignored the issue, it would gradually fade away.
Journalists tried to gain access to him at the office, but to no avail. When they realized they were getting nowhere, they managed to contact 'anonymous' employees or 'sources,' who readily gave interviews and insider information on Mike Baxter, his management style, his business success, and presumed wealth. One 'source' even gave details of the Florida lightning strike which had "claimed the life of one Baxter executive and left Mr. Baxter himself hospitalized for a period of time." This all added fodder for follow-up stories, which the press loved to do so they could drag something out for days and weeks.
Mike complained to Detective Stevens about breaking his promise to keep his name out of it. Stevens was apologetic but claimed that someone in the precinct must have sold the photo and Mike's identification to the press. He promised that he would find out who it was, and that employee would be fired as soon as he knew. Mike didn't care about that as it couldn't undo the damage.
Another follow-up story covered the arrest of two drug dealers who were the alleged subway attackers who were foiled by the 'Briefcase Braveheart.' Mike was summoned down to the precinct to confirm his description by identifying the suspects in a lineup. Indeed, they were the two slime balls who had attacked the pregnant woman. Other witnesses from the subway, including the pregnant woman, the gregarious man who had hugged him, and the bandage lady, were summoned as well. They all bumped into each other at the station, and enjoyed a brief but joyous reunion. Mike had just wanted to run, fast. His life was becoming far too complicated with this hero shit. And he felt unworthy. Because he knew it really wasn't he who had done that heroic thing. Not the conscious he anyway.
His executives and employees treated him like royalty. They had always shown him respect, but now it was ridiculous. He felt uncomfortable around them, as now they deferred to him completely. The adoration showed in their eyes, with everything he said, every step he took, every meeting he chaired. He could do no wrong in their eyes. He was hyped, he was a celebrity; but an accidental one.
Each board member had phoned him and congratulated him, commenting almost unanimously that this would bring great honor to the company to have a CEO at such a pinnacle of fame. Strangely enough, these insincere, opportunistic board members were right—Baxter stock had risen fifteen percent since Mike's face and story had been splashed all over the papers.
Following several days of fame and days of living with the nickname, 'Briefcase Braveheart,' Mike called Troy into his office. Troy was there in seconds, newspaper in hand, immediately drawing his attention to that day's editorial cartoon showing Mike's face and body adorned in animal skins, with long hair in braids, briefcase in one hand, a shield in the other. Troy bellowed with laughter; Mike managed a chuckle.
Then Troy read out loud the usually infamous 'Page Six' column, today sarcastically touting Mike as a viable candidate for leadership of the failing Liberal party.
"This is just a minor point, Troy, but wouldn't they be shocked to know that I'm a Conservative?"
Troy frowned. "I didn't even know that. For how long?"
Mike shook his head. "Never mind, not important. The reason I wanted to talk to you—have you made those flight reservations for our trip to Rio yet?"
"No, not yet. With all the publicity over the past couple of weeks, I figured you'd want to sit tight for a while."
"It's time. Book it for next week, okay? Rio first, then we'll drive from there to Angra dos Reis. Then back to Rio for a flight to Acapulco, then by car down to Huatulco." Mike had to get away and deal with something else. He needed a break from this craziness. Troy nodded, and strode to the door.
"Oh, and Troy."
Troy turned around. "Yeah?"
"Let's leave the golf clubs at home this time, agreed?"
Chapter 9
First Class was wonderful. Mike and Troy always flew this way, and it made their jobs just a little more bearable. Spending a good portion of their working lives in the air, it allowed them to arrive rested and well fed. It also made it possible to actually get some work done during those wasted hours above terra firma.
Their U. S. Airways flight left on time from Toronto, en route for their short two- hour trip to Charlotte, North Carolina. They would then have a ninety-minute wait for their connecting flight to Rio, a ten-hour marathon getting them into the cidade maravilhosa, or "marvelous city," at 9:10 a.m. Luckily, Rio was in the same time zone as Toronto so there wouldn't be a time change to worry about. They only had to worry about catching some shut-eye during the flight, which after a few scotches wouldn't be a problem. Yes, free scotch was another advantage to flying First Class.
Both of them were dressed in their worst blue jeans, and weather-worn T-shirts. Their shoes were tattered loafers, and their luggage consisted of one backpack each, stuffed to the drawstrings with as few clothes as possible. They were able to cram their backpacks into the storage bins so they wouldn't have to worry about checked bags. Mike noticed that the bins were getting mysteriously smaller every time he flew; pretty soon even his backpack wouldn't fit.
He looked around the First Class cabin, and saw half a dozen others dressed as shabbily as he and Troy. The others, in suits and fancy dresses, looked quite shocked that they had to share space with what appeared to be a bunch of bums. Mike smiled to himself and hoped that these preppies and prom queens, if they were connecting on to South America, wouldn't have to face the harsh reality of Brazilian life. He and Troy knew the score, as did probably the other six passengers who had wisely dressed like them. Kidnapping was a national sport in Brazil, second only to soccer in popularity. Like any other responsible company doing business in Mexico, Central, and South America, Baxter Development Corp. had arranged insurance for Kidnap and Ransom. It covered up to ten million for any one kidnapping and protected any of their employees or executives while they were traveling on business. It also provided the built-in advantage of an international security company at their fingertips to deal with the negotiations and safe retrieval. Luckily, they had never had to call on the policy yet. The policy didn't cover family members though, so it was rare for Baxter employees to take their spouses or kids along.
*****
The captain was speaking over the intercom, announcing their approach to Rio de Janeiro. Mike jerked awake at the sound of the voice and for a moment couldn't remember where he was. Then it came back to him. The coffees at the Charlotte airport waiting for their connecting flight, three scotches and a meal early on in the Rio flight, then dreamland. He looked over at Troy who was still asleep and nudged him not too gently.
"We're approaching Rio, Troy. Thought you might like to catch a glimpse of the city from the air." Mike had been to Rio about a decade ago, but for Troy this was his first time. And morning had already broken, perfect for the eye candy that was Rio de Janeiro.
Troy grunted himself awake, and immediately turned his head to the window. Mike hoped Troy would remember that he'd been gracious enough to allow him the window seat and not waste the visual opportunity.
Most people were still under the impression that Rio was the capital of Brazil. However that had changed in 1960 when the city of Brasilia took over the role. Even though Rio lost the prestige of being the capital city, it retained its status as being the one and only true symbol of Brazil, the city that people envisioned immediately whenever they thought of the country. Sights such as Sugar Loaf Mountain,
beaches like the Copacabana, and the breathtaking image of the Cristo Redentor statue—otherwise known to Anglos as "Christ The Redeemer"—were images that had captivated travelers for generations. And if those weren't enough for any tourist's appetite, there is the world-famous Carnaval, an annual festival that absolutely defines the concept of "Let's party!"
Most people who visit are also unaware that the Rio harbor area is one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. Or that Rio will be hosting the 2016 Summer Olympics after bidding for them four previous times over the past seventy-five years. It will be the first South American city to ever host an Olympics. And the citizens of Rio were excited to show the world their beautiful city; it was indeed one of the most stunning settings on the planet. While the citizens were busy getting excited, Olympic organizers fretted over security issues that were inherent to one of the most corrupt and crime-ridden cities imaginable. The paradox of Rio de Janeiro was undeniable.
Slums, known as favelas, existed throughout the city, mixed with middle-class housing on the picturesque mountain slopes. Favelas were the dens of drug lords and crime bosses, and the wealthier citizens of Rio accepted them as just a fact of life. These eyesores created the need for new housing, as the demand was high. The people who actually paid taxes wanted out, and desired neighbors who were more like them. This was the opportunity that Baxter Development Corp. wanted to capitalize on with its planned subdivision just outside the city.
The Olympics was one of the reasons the company had bought the two properties: land for housing on the outskirts of Rio, and beachfront property for a resort about one- hundred and seventy kilometers away in Angra dos Reis along Juruba Beach. Both projects could be completed well in advance of the Olympics. The timing was perfect, and Mike was excited about the prospects.
The plane landed softly on the runway and Mike could see that Troy was still being held spellbound by the sights he had seen on the approach. "Penny for your thoughts, Troy?"