Fifth Ave 01 - Fifth Avenue (38 page)

Although that very question had troubled Michael for weeks, he remained silent, watchful, wondering where Cain was taking this.

Cain shrugged.
 
He stepped away from the window and started pacing the room.
 
“I don’t know,” he said.
 
“Maybe you did spend it all.
 
Maybe you became so comfortable with your success, that you took all the books and all the films and all the money for granted.
 
If that’s the case, Mr. Archer, then someone should teach you a lesson in handling money.”

There was a silence.
 
Cain stopped pacing and removed from his jacket pocket a small box of matches and a pack of Gitanes cigarettes.
 
He struck a match, lit the cigarette and shook out the flame.
 
It wasn’t until he turned to look for a place to put the match that he stopped to look at the desk beside Michael’s bed.
 
On it were several empty cans of Diet Coke, innumerable magazine and newspaper clippings, a typewriter and a small stack of neatly typed pages that resembled a manuscript.

Cain tossed the match to the floor, stepped on it.
 
He picked up the stack of papers, thumbed through them and looked sideways at Michael.
 
“This your new book?”

Michael didn’t answer.
 
When he first learned what his father wanted in return for paying off Santiago, he started writing the book, knowing that if he gave his agent several chapters and a proposal, she would be able to sell it--and he himself could pay off Santiago.

Ninety pages were written.
 
Before today’s event, he planned on finishing the proposal tomorrow morning, knowing that if his agent could sell it before week’s end, he would be rid of his father forever.
 
And now this man held it in his hands--the only existing result of his hard work.
 
As Cain began reading the novel’s first chapter out loud, Michael lowered his hand to his side. The gun was inches away.

FIFTH AVENUE

A novel by:

Michael Archer

BOOK ONE

FIRST WEEK

CHAPTER ONE

July

New York City

The bombs, placed high above Fifth Avenue on the roof of The Redman International Building, would explode in five minutes.

Now, with its mirrored walls of glass reflecting Fifth Avenue’s thick, late-morning traffic, the building itself seemed alive with movement.
 

On scaffolding at the building’s middle, men and women were hanging the enormous red velvet ribbon that would soon cover sixteen of Redman International’s seventy-nine stories.
 
High above on the roof, a lighting crew was moving ten spotlights into position.
 
And inside, fifty skilled decorators were turning the lobby into a festive ballroom.

Celina Redman, who was in charge of organizing the event, stood before the building with her arms folded.
 
Streams of people were brushing past her on the sidewalk, some glancing up at the red ribbon, others stopping to glance in surprise at her.
 
She tried to ignore them, tried to focus on her work and become one with the crowd, but it was difficult.
 
Just that morning, her face and this building had been on the cover of every major paper in New York.
 

*
 
*
 
*

While Cain read, Michael glanced at the man standing in the doorway, saw that his attention was on Cain, and started to slide a hand under the mattress.

But it wouldn’t fit.
 
The weight of his body was pressing the mattress and box spring together.
 
He turned slightly, carefully, and shifted his weight onto one thigh.
 
The mattress lifted an inch and he was able to force a hand inside.
 
He could feel the cool butt of the revolver.
 
His fingertips pressed against it.
 
He looked up at Cain, saw that his concentration was still focused on the manuscript and knew that if he was going to do this, the time was now.
 
At the same moment he wrapped his fingers around the gun, Cain finished reading the first chapter.

He looked at him.
 
“What is this?” he asked.
 
“Nonfiction?”

For a moment, Michael couldn’t move or speak.
 
Cain was standing diagonally across from him, no more than ten feet away.
 
Neither he nor the man in the doorway could see where his hand was.
 
He leaned forward, using the action to pull out the gun.
 
The bed creaked.
 
Michael began to sweat.

“That’s debatable,” he said.

“It says here that it’s a novel.
 
If that’s so, then how can you use these names?
 
These events and these places?”

Michael shrugged.
 
The gun was now pressed against his thigh, hidden from sight. “That’s a problem for my lawyers to figure out.
 
If things get out of hand, maybe I’ll use a pseudonym for protection.”

“It’s a shame,” Cain said.
 
“I bet this would have been a good read.”

Michael tightened his grip on the gun.
 
Would have been?

“And I bet you would have made a bundle--probably even enough money to pay off Santiago.”
 
He looked at Michael.
 
“Isn’t that what this is for?
 
These chapters, this letter of proposal?
 
A last ditch effort to pay off Santiago?
 
I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Archer.
 
I can see right through you.
 
The fear in your eyes is only slightly masked by your hatred of me.
 
But I can understand that.
 
I hold in my hand hours upon hours of your hard work. If I destroyed this, and if you were unable to pay off Santiago, he would rehire me and I would come back in a week to finish a job that I should have been allowed to finish today.”

He looked thoughtfully at the manuscript.

“Actually, I could use the extra money.
 
There’s a little villa in Nice that I’d love to spend my winters at.”

Motionless, Michael watched Cain hold the manuscript over the metal waste basket at his feet.
 
And then the man dropped the pages into the basket.
 
The sound they made was like the rapid beating of wings.

Before Michael could react, Cain reached into his jacket pocket, removed the box of matches, struck one against the side of the box and dropped it into the can. There was a moment when Michael thought the match had gone out, but then a flickering yellow flower began to bloom.

And he knew it was time.

He leapt to his feet, revealed the gun and aimed it at a surprised Ethan Cain.
 
He glanced over at the man standing at the door and saw that his gun was drawn and pointed directly at him.
 
“You shoot, and so do I,” Michael said.
 
He turned back to Cain.
 
“Put out the fire.
 
Now.”

Cain backed away from the basket, his hands at his sides, the fire reflected in the glass of his spectacles.
 
“No,” he said.

“Do it!” Michael shouted.

“No.”

The fire grew in intensity.
 
He didn’t have much time.
 
He kicked the metal basket in an attempt to tip it over and knock out the fire, but the basket spun across the hardwood floor like a fiery comet, stopping with a metallic clank beneath the open window, where the curtains moved in the air.

There was a sudden burst of orange as the curtains ignited.
 
With fresh air coming into the room, the fire had its fuel and it used it to roar and churn.
 
It tasted the dry, cheap fabric and it twisted with surprising speed toward the stained ceiling, not stopping until that, too, was alight with fire.

And still the fire grew, creeping along the walls and ceiling, destroying everything it touched.
 
Michael turned to Cain, who was staring at him, his gaze unwavering, daring.
 
There was a bitter smile on his lips.
 
Bits of fire and sparks were falling all around him from the ceiling.
 
The heat and smoke were becoming unbearable.
 

Michael lifted the gun to the man’s head, cocked the trigger and heard a similar sound from across the room.
 
He knew that if he pulled the trigger, his life also would end.
 
After all he had been through, he wondered if that was such a bad thing.

“You don’t have the guts to do it, do you?” Cain said.

Michael’s eyes began to water.
 
He wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke filling the room, or from the fact that he was facing certain death.
 
He wondered if his father ever really loved him.
 
And then he realized it didn’t matter.

He pulled the trigger.
 

There were two explosions.
 

Cain’s face erupted in a cloud of blood and he went down like a tenpin.
 
Michael collapsed to his knees and fell to one side.
 
As he lay there, his breathing slowing, the heat from the fire warming his already paling face, he knew he was dying.
 
As bright as the room was, Michael was losing sight of it.
 

Breathing wasn’t an option.
 

He choked on his last few breaths and swore his father to hell.
 

He was floating now, lifting, no longer a part of his body.
 
He saw his mother’s face but couldn’t hear her voice.

And then there was a flash of bright light and a sudden, terrible darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“There’s this little party tonight,” Celina said, steeling herself while she leaned through the doorway of Jack Douglas’ office at Redman International.
 
“It’s in honor of two events--the work Countess Castellani has done for HIV research, and the recent discovery of twelve Monet paintings in the attic of a famous Parisian brothel.
 
Now, look. I know you dislike these types of events, but it’s being held on Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht, which is the largest private yacht in the world, so that alone should be interesting.
 
I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”