The Sorrows, page 2
“In a few months they’ll be closer than you and Joshua ever were.”
And now, oh Christ, the tears were close. He wanted more than anything to muster some rage, enough heat to equal Jenny’s, but the feeling that his life was slipping away—that Joshua was slipping away—was nudging him toward panic.
“He’s a pilot,” she said. “He took us flying yesterday.”
The thought of his baby boy in an airplane without him did it, stripped him of what composure remained. He turned and stared with blurring eyes down the empty street. He could feel Jenny’s malice sweeping him away like a gale.
And he’d thought the nightmare couldn’t grow worse.
Her eyes narrowed in mock appraisal. “You and Eddie bagged any starlets lately?”
He blew out air, shook his head, and noticed something he hadn’t previously, two vehicles at the top of the driveway.
“Is that Kayla’s Jeep?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Jenny said. “She moved back in.”
“Why—”
“Because you’re gone and Ryan doesn’t lecture her the way you did.”
More pain, the old regret at the stillborn relationship assailing him. The product of Jenny’s teenaged pregnancy, born twelve years before Ben and her mother had even met, Kayla had made up her mind to hate Ben before they’d ever spoken. He hadn’t been a perfect stepfather, but dammit, he’d never stopped trying either.
He said, “I’ll come back Friday.”
“We won’t be here.”
“What?”
“We’re going to Europe for the summer. We leave tomorrow.”
He swallowed. “You have to clear it with the court.”
“File a complaint,” she said. “By the time the judge gets around to it, we’ll be back in New York.”
Ben thought of Joshua in the city, the sweet little boy who loved to find worms and toads and hold them as they wriggled in his hands. Before Jenny could get the satisfaction of watching him break down completely, he turned and walked away.
He’d gotten halfway to the car when he heard a small voice say, “Why is Daddy here?”
Joshua stood beside his mother. The boy wore a red shirt and a sagging diaper. It was only noon, too early for his nap, which meant he was either wearing the same one he wore to bed the night before or he had regressed in his potty training. Kids, Ben remembered reading, often did that during times of trauma.
“Hey buddy,” he said as he approached his son.
Joshua’s large brown eyes flitted from his mother to Ben and back again.
Ben knelt and hugged the boy, but his little body felt wooden. He noted with something approaching despair how Joshua’s hands remained on the tops of his shoulders rather than encircling his neck the way they used to when he came home from work.
He kissed the boy on the cheek and crouched before him. “How are you, pal?”
Instead of answering, Joshua glanced at his mom. Is it okay to answer?
Ben forced a smile. “Did you have fun in the airplane yesterday?”
Joshua frowned. “It’s not a airplane, it’s a sampiper.”
“Sandpiper,” Jenny corrected.
Ben tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “I bet that was fun.”
“Ryan let me fly.”
As if cued by an unseen director, Ryan the Pilot appeared on the porch. The guy looked young but was probably Ben’s age and simply in far better shape. Outlined clearly by the tight T-shirt, Ben could see the muscled torso, the tight midsection. Above that, the dimpled cheeks and stylish black hair gave Ryan the look of a fashion model. He watched Ben with the haughty demeanor of a cop preparing to hassle a homeless person.
“Ryan let me hold the wheel,” Joshua said.
“That’s good,” Ben answered and did his best to pretend the man sleeping with his ex-wife wasn’t smirking at him from the porch. He caressed Joshua’s shoulder. “That’s real fun, buddy.”
“Ryan’s going to live with us after we move.”
The tears came then and Ben hugged the boy so he wouldn’t see. He knew he was holding his son too roughly, but he no longer felt capable of bearing his own weight. A slight breeze wafted the scent of lilacs over them, and Ben was reminded of the time he’d planted the bushes as Joshua, not even a year old, watched him from the Pack ’n Play. Throat aching, he gripped his son tighter.
“Daddy?” Joshua asked.
He couldn’t answer, could only hold on and wish he never had to let go.
“It hurts, Daddy.”
Ben nodded, kissed his son on the side of the head. As he did, he breathed in the smell of the boy’s hair. Sweat and oil. Three or more days without a bath.
“Ben,” she said, a hand on his shoulder, looking for all the world like a prison guard breaking up an inmate’s visit.
“Okay,” he said, relaxing his grip on the boy. “Okay.”
He sniffed, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, and rose.
Joshua stared up at him wide-eyed. It wasn’t fear exactly in the boy’s eyes. A kind of awestruck fascination, perhaps. The sense that here was something new and terrible, something momentous—Daddy was bawling.
Ben cleared his throat. “I love you, buddy. I’ll see you soon.”
He went to the Civic and climbed in. Keying the engine, he stole one final glance at his baby boy. Ben raised a hand in goodbye, but his ex-wife was already ushering Joshua back to the house.
Ryan stood gazing from the porch, his feet wide, his arms folded. Without taking his eyes off Ben, the pilot reached out and ruffled Joshua’s hair as he passed. Jenny patted Ryan’s flat stomach. Ben’s son and ex-wife disappeared into the house, but Ryan went on watching him, daring him to say something.
But he didn’t. He drove away.
When he reached the coast road, his cell phone sounded. After several rings, he picked it up, looked at it.
Eddie.
“Yeah?” Ben said.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Ben told him what happened.
Eddie was silent a moment. Then, “I’m sorry, man.”
Ben stopped at a red light, a fresh spate of tears coming on. His eyes blurred as the light turned green.
Eddie said, “I know this isn’t the best time, but primary shooting ends tomorrow.”
“I know that.”
“The music is due two months after they wrap.”
Ben waited. He heard Eddie sigh, working up to something.
“Man…I know this is the last thing on your mind right now, but it’s important. You weren’t real enthusiastic about the island before, but now…”
“But what?”
“I mean…does this change anything? What you found out today about Jenny and…”
“Joshua,” Ben finished.
“Right.”
Ben pulled over and stared out at the ocean. The Pacific had taken on the hue of gunmetal; above that, the dreary, gray sky. Ben decided he would drink tonight. Drink until some of the pain faded.
“I tell you what,” Ben said. “If you can get the island for a month and you’re willing to pay for it…I’ll go.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Ben answered. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Chapter Three
Fucking Lakers.
Beat hell out of the Spurs and Celtics, then turn around and lose to the Clippers?
Chris squeezed the remote and resisted an urge to chuck it at the television.
Kobe caught the ball on the left wing.
“Shoot it,” Chris said.
Kobe faked a shot and fed Bynum in the post. The center dribbled it off his foot.
Chris kicked the ottoman. Thirty-seven points Wednesday, forty-five on Friday, but the night Chris puts fifty grand on the Lakers to cover the spread, Kobe pulls a disappearing act.
Tied at ninety with thirty seconds left.
Chris seized his whiskey and Coke and downed it in one furious swallow. He scrunched his nose at the watery taste of it. To use up some of his nervous energy, he rose and crossed to the bar, where he poured himself a double-shot of whiskey, to hell with the Coke. Drink in hand, he crouched, preparing to celebrate as Kobe finally disregarded the goddamned offense and took it to the hole. The ball rattled in as the whistle blew.
Charging.
“Bullshit!” Chris roared and shattered his glass against the wall.
The announcers were saying it was bad news for the Lakers because—oh hell no—the foul was Kobe’s sixth.
He grabbed the bottle and drank, the seriousness of the moment finally taking hold. Fifty grand added to what, four hundred? Four-fifty?
Chris bowed his head and said a prayer to no one in particular. Please let the Clippers miss. Please let it go into overtime.
He jumped as the phone rang.
He exhaled a trembling breath. Probably the composer again. What was his name, Blades?
Blaze. Eddie Blaze.
Chris rolled his eyes thinking of the guy.
Fifty thousand for one month on the island, Blaze had said.
My father makes that in ten minutes, Chris had told him.
Take it or leave it, Blaze had answered.
Chris had left it.
Four seconds left. The Lakers were setting their defense. The ref handed a Clipper forward the ball. A rookie caught the inbounds pass, took a couple of dribbles, then drove hard toward the free-throw line. He pulled up and shot as the buzzer sounded.
Nothing but net.
This time Chris did aim for the TV. The bottle exploded and the screen went black.
For the first time that evening Chris allowed himself to think of Marvin. Was one of his men on the way over even now?
Marvin Irvin. Jesus, with a name like that you’d think he’d have a sense of humor. A year ago, when they’d met at a Vegas casino, Marvin had treated him like a Persian prince, his Very Special Guest. Lost a thousand at roulette? No problem, Mr. Blackwood. It’s on the house. Want an escort to the show later? She’ll come to your room in an hour. You can attend the show or stay in, depending on your mood. Put away your wallet, Mr. Blackwood. It’s on us.
Then last month when they’d crossed paths at the Staples Center.
Haven’t heard from you in a while, Mr. Blackwood.
Sorry about that, Marvin. I’ve been busy.
That’s what I hear.
A beat, the little bookie watching him with hooded eyes. Spectators were milling around them, but they might as well have been the only people in the arena.
Oh yeah, Chris said, careful to keep his expression casual. About that, Marvin.
Please call me Mr. Irvin.
Chris’s throat went dry. Right. About the money, Mr. Irvin. You know I’m good for it.
You’re good for it, huh.
Chris’s face flushing hot. Of course I’m good for it. My family’s worth a billion dollars, for chrissakes.
Your family, Marvin said.
That’s right.
Your family’s your family. What about you?
I’m good for it.
I don’t see any sign of that. All I see is you joining the high-interest club.
A knock on the door jolted Chris back to the present. He stared at the door, his chest throbbing. There was no way Marvin’s men could have gotten here already. Not unless they’d been down the road listening to the game on the radio.
Actually, he wouldn’t put it past them.
He’d heard stories.
On feet he couldn’t feel, he walked slowly to the door. Something crunched under his slippers. Broken glass. One shard, sickle-shaped and razor sharp, lay on its side. Should he use it to defend himself in case Marvin and his thugs got tough?
He rejected the idea. A piece of glass would be no match for a gun. Or a blowtorch.
He’d heard stories.
Suddenly sure he was going to puke, Chris opened the door and saw the man standing in the shadows.
Granderson.
Thank Christ.
Chris crumpled to his knees, no longer caring how he looked. He’d go to his father tomorrow, tell him the whole thing. The old man would be angry as hell, and Chris figured he’d say no at first. But after a few hours and a few drinks, Stephen Blackwood would come to his senses, realize his son’s life was worth a few hundred grand. Then Chris’s leash would be a good deal tighter, his bank account drastically limited. But after a time it would all blow over, the way it always did. Like when he totaled the Ferrari. Or flunked out of Pepperdine. Or got that waitress pregnant.
Yes, Stephen would be pissed. Royally pissed. But he’d come through in the end.
He had to.
“I assume you watched the game.”
Granderson’s cool British accent grated on his already frazzled nerves.
“Just give me a minute.”
“How much are you in the hole now?”
Chris pictured Granderson’s iron jaw curved in a pitiless grin.
“Half a million?” Granderson asked.
“Not that much,” Chris lied.
“Maybe more, I suspect.”
When Chris rose, he saw Granderson fixing himself a vodka tonic, the man’s close-cropped blond hair glinting in the overhead light.
“I’ll take one of those,” Chris said.
“From the look of this room, I’d say you’ve had enough.”
“Jesus, I’ll get it myself.”
Drink in hand, Granderson passed him on the way to the door. “Will you be needing me tonight?”
Chris poured the vodka, but his hand shook. “I was thinking you could stay in the guest room.”
Granderson smirked at him over his glass. “Anything wrong with my own quarters?”
Only that the guesthouse is an acre away.
Chris shrugged. “You never know with this kind of thing.”
“You mean organized crime?”
Goose bumps rippled his arms. “I don’t know I’d go that far.” He cleared his throat. “It isn’t like Marvin’s some kind of killer.”
Granderson watched him impassively. “If you say so.”
Granderson turned to go.
Chris took an involuntary step forward. “You’ll stay then?”
Granderson paused at the door. Without looking up, he said, “I forgot to tell you. The composer called again. He doubled his offer.”
“A hundred thousand?”
Granderson waited.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I disapproved.”
Chris took a breath. “Will you call him back and accept?”
Granderson’s hand paused on the knob, his sinewy forearm tensed. “You do know what would happen if your father found out, don’t you?”
“He won’t find out.”
Granderson disappeared through the doorway.
Chris called after him, “When will you be back?”
A few moments later, he heard a door bang shut below.
He’d been sleeping he had no idea how long when he awoke, conscious of a furtive rustling somewhere in the bedroom. Chris remained absolutely motionless. He thought of his cell phone on the nightstand, yet he couldn’t make his arm work, so quickly and completely had the fear paralysis gripped him. It was amazing, really, how the night and his imagination washed away the protective veneer of years and reduced him to the child who’d been afraid of the dark for as long as he could remember, especially after what’d happened on his fourteenth birthday, the time his parents took him to Castle Blackwood.
The memory of that terrible night brought him fully awake.
The only other person who knew the security code was Granderson, and if it was he in the bedroom, he was there for Chris’s protection. Why else was his father paying the man?
Something was wrong in the house. He was certain of it. An astringent taste roiled in the back of his throat, reminding him of hung-over mornings during which he’d crunched aspirin to make it work faster.
Chris rolled onto his back and his breath caught. Beside the bed, framed in moonlight, stood a large figure.
“Granderson?” Chris whispered. When the figure didn’t answer, he said, “Jim?” as though to humanize the man by invoking his first name.
The shadow shifted slightly, a slithery sound accompanying the movement, and Chris watched the figure—definitely not Granderson—peeling off a pair of gloves. The bare hands looked very large in the meager light filtering through the blinds. Rather than reaching for him, the hands went to the pocket of a Windbreaker. Something thin and silvery dangled at the figure’s side.
“Sit up,” a voice said.
The sound of it chilled him. Low. Raspy.
“Sit up,” the voice commanded, and before he could obey, a viselike hand seized him by the throat. The silver object flashed, and Chris’s hand exploded in an icy burst of pain. He cried out, already frantic for air, and grabbed the man’s hand with both of his. Desperately, Chris shot out a knee and caught the intruder in the ribs. The throttling hand left his throat, but before he could relish the freedom of an unrestricted airway, a huge fist smashed down at his face. He turned but the blow caught him flush anyway, one side of his jaw a screaming web of agony.
The man mounted him, straddled his chest, and used his knees to pin Chris’s arms. The man weighed a ton, and a cloud of aftershave made breathing even harder. Chris bucked to throw the man off, but the voice came again, its eerie calm making the threat infinitely more ominous. “Stop moving.”
“Can’t…breathe,” he managed to say.
“Relax,” the raspy voice said. “Relax.”
He stared abjectly up at the man. He could make out features, but only vaguely. Short dark hair. A wide, pockmarked face. Deep-set eyes.
Where the hell was Granderson?
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.
“I can pay you in—” Chris began, but the silver object silenced him.
He identified it and then, as he had done many times since that first awful night when he’d dropped a hundred grand on the Super Bowl, he wished this were all a bad dream from which he’d soon awaken.
The scalpel pressed into the soft flesh under his eye.
“Do you know who I am?” the man repeated.
Chris drew in a labored breath. “I know who sent you.”
