A Blind Eye (17 page)

In Scarlett's dream, I got shot inside the operating room. I relied on her vision to keep calm.
I'm not going to die now
, I told myself, avoiding the implications of what that meant about my future.

I merged into traffic and checked my rearview mirror in time to see them pile into their black Tahoe and squeal out of the parking lot.

The traffic light in front of me changed to red. I pulled into the right lane, ignoring all of the honking, and made a quick turn. This road would take me into quiet neighborhoods. I didn't see them behind me, but a low-traffic area didn't seem like the best way to blend in if they were following me.

I made a series of left turns until I headed in the direction of downtown. My sweaty palms slipped on the steering wheel. When I reached another red light, I wiped them on my jeans.

Why did they still want me? Scarlett was gone—thank goodness. I'd done the right thing in sending her back with Simon. My phone rang, and I knew who it was without looking.

I pushed talk and yelled, “What do you want from me?”

Deepthroat's mellow voice answered. “There's a church up ahead on the right. Turn into the parking lot and we can talk.”

I whipped my head around, searching for their car. It was there, about four cars behind me. After this was all over, I vowed I'd sign up for police academy. These guys always got the jump on me, and I was sick of it. I needed proper training.

I'm sure Scarface could've taught me a few things if I'd decided to meet him in the church parking lot. However, more lessons in pain weren't exactly what I had in mind.

“Sure, I'll be right there,” I said. The church whizzed by. How stupid did they think I was?

I risked the Rover's paint job and turned left through a stream of traffic. More honking—and I'm sure some unfriendly gestures—followed me. Judging by the second round of honking, so did the black Tahoe.

I wove my way through the busy streets of morning traffic. My phone rang again. “Leave me alone!” I yelled at top volume.

“Sor-ry,” Jay said.

“Oh, it's you.” Of course he'd be curious. But now was definitely not the time. “I can't talk right now. I'll call ya later.”

The moment my call ended, another came in.
I shouldn't answer. I should just drive my car and get away.
But a part of me hoped they'd tell me something, anything that might clue me in as to why they were still after me.

I pushed talk and said, “Oops. I guess I missed the turnoff.”

“If you want the girl to live, you'll come with us.”

“What?” Did they take her before Simon got her to the airport? No way. They were bluffing, just like when they told Detective Parker I killed the waitress. What time was it in London? Eight hours ahead, so about five o'clock in the afternoon. I hung up on them and called the number Simon had given me for Scarlett.

A car came screeching at me through an intersection, and I swerved hard to avoid it. I'd run a stop sign trying to dial my phone.

In the rearview mirror, I could see them behind me.

“Hello?” Simon said. If Simon was safe and sound in England, Scarlett had to be there too.

“Simon, it's Christian. Can I talk to Scarlett?” Another red light ahead. I turned right without stopping and merged onto the highway, joining the influx of cars headed to the city.

“Christian, I'm sorry. She just left.”

I exhaled. So she had made it to London. And with Team Death still following me, it meant they weren't on the next flight to Heathrow. “Where'd she go?”

There was a short pause. “Some friends from school came and took her out. To celebrate her safe return. They went to T.G.I. Friday's. It's her favorite.”

They had that there? “Okay, can you tell her I called?”

“Sure.” He hung up.

My phone rang again. I ignored it. No more calls until I lost the guys behind me. I wove in and out of traffic, hoping against hope that I'd get pulled over. I owed Detective Parker big-time for the neighborhood watch. Connor would have been in our house in a heartbeat if not for the cops on guard duty.

As soon as I got free from the Tunnel, I exited the highway, twisting and turning my way through downtown. I knew my way around the city pretty well, and the maze of alleys and one-way streets seemed like the best place to lose them. My tires screeched while old women and moms with strollers dove out of my way. I thought I was going to roll a few times.

The black Tahoe followed me. Connor made it look so easy. Gliding through the streets like he was on a leisurely drive. If it weren't for the charcoal gray Range Rover careening ahead, people wouldn't have suspected a thing.

I listened in vain for police sirens to come to my rescue. Where were the cops when you really needed them? I turned down an alley, cut through an underground parking garage, then exited onto the same street I'd just been on. I checked behind me. I didn't see them. I serpentined my way through the streets, careful not to double back and run into them. There was still no sign.

I cranked the steering wheel and pulled into another underground garage. I parked in an empty stall and killed the engine. Ducking my head low, I dialed 911, keeping my finger poised over send in case they found me.

I waited, counting the passing moments by my heart rate. I think it was around a hundred beats per second. My phone rang, and I nearly wet my pants. It was Deepthroat, of course. I switched the power off. The fact that they called me again reassured me more than anything else that I'd finally lost them.

I sat up and glanced around. My mouth fell open. Without meaning to, I'd driven into the parking lot of my dad's building. What kind of sick Freudian slip was that? I'm sure a psychiatrist would have had a great time trying to analyze it. A voice with a German accent—like Arnold Schwarzenegger—spoke in my head:
You are in trouble. Your subconscious mind wants you to turn to your father for help.

Yeah right. I choked out a laugh. More like my subconscious mind wanted my father dead, so it tried to lead the killers here.

Then Scarlett's words came back to me.
Football is a game of two halves.

Was this halftime?

Dad bailed me out of jail. He called me into his study for a . . . talk. I guess that's what you'd call it. And although the talk didn't go so well—since it ended with a threat—he did ask for police protection.

I could have driven to the police station. I could have gone to Detective Parker. He would have listened to me. But I didn't. I came here. Why?

Arnold was right. I wanted my father to help me.

He couldn't hate me any more than he already does.
“What the heck,” I said. Might as well give it a try. I stepped out of my car. “Let the second half begin.”

Christian vs. The Volcano

The prestigious law offices of Morris and Clarke occupied the entire nineteenth floor of one of the tallest buildings in downtown Portland. On the ground level, a coffee shop and other retail stores bordered the sidewalk, accessible from the main lobby or from the street. I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for my dad's floor.

A woman in a gray skirt and suit jacket called, “Hold the elevator, please.” I put my hand out and stopped the doors. She trotted awkwardly, trying to hurry in her impossibly high-heeled boots.

“Thanks,” she said, panting after her two-yard sprint.

“What floor?” I asked, letting the doors close.

“Nineteen.” She glanced at the control panel and noticed the glowing green button I'd already pressed. “Oh, same as you.” She smiled and gripped the handrail.

The moment the elevator moved, I knew I'd made a mistake in coming here. My dad would never change, not after all these years. He always put up a good front, carefully controlling his public image. No wonder he bailed me out of jail; what kind of parent wouldn't? Detective Parker expected a concerned father, so my dad did what he had to do. He played the part. But when the doors closed on the outside world, he was still the same man who wanted nothing to do with me.

I considered pushing another button and bailing out on the next floor, but I'd already said nineteen, and I didn't want to look stupid in front of the spiky-heeled lady.

She kept looking at me. I turned to her and smiled, hoping she'd look away like most people do when you catch them staring.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

I didn't know her, that was for sure. I hadn't been to my dad's offices for eight years. Mom used to bring me here sometimes, when Dad had to work late. We'd grab some takeout food and eat dinner with him in his office. I loved it. “No.”

“You're Richard Morris's son. Um . . . Christian?”

I nodded.
How did she figure that out?
I knew I'd never seen her before.

“I'm Madison. I'm clerking for the firm this year.”

That still didn't explain how she knew me. “Hi,” I said. Now I really wanted to jump ship, but the elevator steadily climbed—bringing my heart rate up with it. The vintage hard-rock song converted to new-age instrumental playing in the elevator did nothing to calm my nerves.

“Are you here to see your dad?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Mr. Morris says you're a model student.” She looked on me benevolently.

I worked on producing some sort of smile.

The bell dinged, and the doors opened. “Keep up the good work.” She stepped out and disappeared into the mahogany depths of the offices.

How did she know anything about me and my grades? Did she hack into the school's computer? Maybe they kept tabs on the kids of all the important employees. No one wants a bad apple to spoil the reputation of the whole firm. It was the
Mr. Morris says
part that had me confused. The doors started closing again, and I jumped off the elevator.

The reception area was amazing. They'd made improvements since my last visit. Comfortable chairs clustered around coffee tables took up the center space, and a large saltwater fish tank lined one wall. From the huge windows, you could see the northwestern side of Portland, including Forest Park—the big bank of woodland that fingered its way down and separated downtown from the suburbs. That's where our house was. And my mother's grave.

“Can I help you?” a middle-aged lady behind the counter asked. Above her head, standing out against the dark wood paneling in big 3-D block letters, were the words
Morris and Clarke, Attorneys at Law
.

Unless he'd changed rooms, I knew how to find his office. But my courage was rapidly failing. Why had this seemed like a good idea? I cursed Freud
and
Schwarzenegger. I put my hands in my pockets and approached the counter.

“Christian Morris?” she asked, removing the silver half-glasses that perched on the end of her nose.

How did everyone know me? Was there no such thing as privacy anymore? Connor and Deepthroat knew my every move. Jay figured out I wasn't giving him the real story about my weekend. And now this? Strangers I'd never seen before recognizing me out of the blue.

“Are you here to see your father?”

I nodded. Somehow, she knew that too.

“I believe he's with a client, but I'll tell him you're here.” She picked up the phone and pushed some buttons.

With a client. I was saved. I wouldn't have to see him after all. I wiped my brow. It would be a little awkward at home, with him knowing I'd come here, but what was one more drop in the sea of awkwardness we swam in every day? I retreated back toward the elevators.

“He says you can go in,” she called to me. “Congratulations on making the tennis team.”

I spun on my heels and stared, unsure what freaked me out more—that he would see me over a client or that she knew about the tennis team. Dad didn't even know that. “Thanks.” My feet were super-glued to the floor. I wished I'd thought this through better before I'd gotten out of my car.

“It's just down the hall and to your left.”

“Right. Thanks.” I strode off in the direction she'd pointed. When she was out of sight, I slowed to a slug's pace. A man in a dark suit carrying a briefcase nodded at me as he passed. He came from the direction of my dad's office—his dismissed client. My hands shook, and something was wrong with my circulatory system. No matter how my heart pounded, not enough blood reached my brain. My vision blurred, and I shook my head to clear it.

Visiting a father at work should not be this hard. I leaned against the wall to steady myself. Why did I fear him so much? I hated that I stood outside his office having a nervous breakdown. It wasn't fair. Dads should not be the cause of acute anxiety attacks. Or suicide attempts.

It's not me, it's him.
It's not me, it's him.

I reached up and rubbed my temples, drilling my hands into the soft tissue until a spark of white flashed across my eyes. I couldn't live like this anymore—all the brutal silence between us. Pretending I didn't care. Waiting endlessly for him to finally look up and see me. Why was I torturing myself? I was a fool to think he would ever be my father. I was betting everything I had on a lottery I could never win.

It wasn't halftime—it was game over. Time for me to grow up and move on. If I didn't get away from him, I knew I'd be back on the bathroom floor. He had let go of me a long time ago, and now I had to let go of him.

I straightened myself, gathering my resolve. Even if he cut me off from his funds, this was the end. I'd go in there and say good-bye and leave him and Dr. Wyden and Connor and everyone else who had messed up my life behind.

I covered the last few feet in one stride and threw open his office door. He stood behind his desk. It looked like he'd been pacing. He seemed surprised that I'd come bursting in. I guess he thought I would knock.