In The Absence Of Light (38 page)

“I hope whatever you broke is irreplaceable.”

“Nothing broke. I just knocked the clock off the night stand.”

“Pity.”

“Is there a reason you’re calling me at… six a.m.?”

I checked my watch. “Six fifteen a.m. and yeah, there is.”

“We had an agreement.”

“Who says I plan on breaking it?”

The relief in his sigh was tangible. If this worked, it wouldn’t last. No, Jeff would learn a new me, hell, even I would learn a new me.

“What’s going on, Grant?”

“Nothing yet, but sometime this afternoon I’m going to wind up in a little room with some FBI men who have an interest in my business log. They want me to hand over names, dates, times, you know, information that was entrusted to me in confidence.”

“No one will…”

“Save it, Jeff. I don’t have any interest in your lies or the promise of your lies.” I blew away the trails of steam curling from the surface of my coffee. “I just need you to listen and think.” I gave him a moment for his sleep-addled brain to catch up. “I don’t know why you think the information in my so-called little black book will do the FBI any good and I really don’t care, but there’s something you need to know. There are people out there equally interested in knowing more about our mutual friend Mr. Jeffery Meyers. You remember, small-time thief with a penchant for pretty baubles. The little prick who followed me around like a lost puppy begging to suck my dick. The coward, the manipulator, the sad little excuse of a human being who pissed off a lot of people the day Caruso got shot, and his brother wound up dead because he wasn’t quite as fast as I was on the trigger.”

“Are you threatening me?” His words came out on a snarl.

“No, Agent Shaldon, I would never in a million years threaten an FBI agent. I’m just making sure you get in touch with Mr. Myers so he’s well aware of the situation. He might even want to voice his opinion on whether or not my measly client list is really worth the risk. Because I’m betting he won’t agree with you. Not after he realizes I know who he is. Really is. Where he grew up, where he went to school—go Lions—how he fell off his bike when he was twelve and broke his right arm. Oh, no wait, he didn’t fall off his bike, he told the ER nurse he did, but the real truth is his old man got drunk and knocked him down the stairs.

“Mr. Myers weaved some sad tale about how his family kicked him out of the house when he turned sixteen and how he never knew the rest of his kin, when in reality his family, mother—stepfather, two sisters, niece, grandparents—who took a cruise last year and renewed their vows—heard it was a lovely reception—eight uncles, two aunts—and enough cousins to start both sides of a football team, get together every year in the month of May for a family reunion. But because they live all over the country, they take turns hosting it. This past year, it was Florida, Aunt Kelly wanted to show off her new house; next year, it will be Tennessee, near Gatlinburg.

“Mr. Myers needs to realize If I go to the FBI, there’s a very good chance those people interested in him will find everything I know, considering my other black book with all the juicy details of his life is sure to fall out of my pocket. No telling what kind of nasty son of a bitch might pick it up.” I practically got a hard-on listening to his breath shudder out. “You might want to give him a ring and let him know what could happen when the shit hits the fan. All the terrible and ugly things. You know as well as I do, the people likely to find the book wouldn’t stop at him. They wouldn’t even start with him.” I took another sip of my coffee. “Anyhow, call me if you still think we should keep wasting tax payers dollars, otherwise I’m going to head on out and enjoy this beautiful day.”

“Grant…”

There was a knock in the background.

I checked the clock. Right on time. “That’ll be for you. You know. A keepsake. Your family is very photogenic by the way, but then the beach makes for a beautiful setting.” There was movement and then silence. Was he staring at that photo at his feet, the one with him, and his nephews, aunt, and grandparents, all smiling and draped in sunlight?

Not a care in the world.

I think Jeff was about to say something because his breath hitched. Didn’t matter, whatever it was would be pointless.

I hung up.

On my way back to Morgan’s, I stopped on the side of the road and crushed the phone.

All these years I’d fought to keep my belly out of the mud. I didn’t want to be like other people who had no qualms about breaking legs, or taking a life. It sickened me to think that I was inching down the icy road and any minute I could slip, finding myself full speed toward the bottom.

To the man staring at me from the rearview mirror, I said, “Proud of yourself?”

At least my reflection had enough of a conscience to look ashamed.

********

I didn’t expect Morgan to still be in bed, but just in case, I tried to be as quiet as possible. His room was empty, so was the kitchen. I found him on the back porch working with red glass.

The bottles had been a beautiful crimson shade. Somehow the color was even more stunning after the fragments had been melted down into disks.

Sunlight broke over the trees and cut a path through the back porch. Fragments of color danced over everything. The glowing sections of light painted Morgan in a mottled rainbow, turning him into some kind of rare creature belonging to fairy tales.

The tics, which forced him to wear a long-sleeve shirt when he cooked, weren’t present while he carefully twisted copper wire into the shape he needed to hold the glass.

I leaned against the door reluctant to disturb the beautiful sight in front of me. The stunning man who perched himself on a stool, wearing only boxers, and bedhead.

He flicked one of the extensions on the sculpture. The arm swung around, throwing a collage of geometric shapes.

Morgan huffed a breath and sat back. “It’s still not right.” It was no surprise he knew I was there.

“What’s wrong?”

“The rhythm is off.” He didn’t look at the wall where the kaleidoscope shifted in a series of golds, reds, and oranges, when he said, “See the break?” He pointed to the rotating arm lined with carefully arranged disks of glass.

“I don’t, sorry.”

Morgan nodded. “I can’t figure out why it doesn’t work.”

“If I knew the answer, I’d tell you.”

“It’s right there.” He stopped the arm and tipped his head. “It’s right there, Grant, but I can’t get it to play.” Only then did he look back at the wall. The starbursts of color had stopped. Without the movement, it became a disjointed series of colored shapes.

Morgan held up a hand and wiggled his fingers through the rays of colored light. His gaze softened as it shifted from here to wherever it was he went.

“Are you hungry? I picked up some biscuits.”

He danced his fingers.

“I got egg and cheese, bacon egg and cheese, sausage egg and cheese, and a ham egg and cheese. I figured one of them should hit the spot.”

Morgan tipped his head the other way.

I’d be a liar if I said that blissful expression he wore didn’t disturb me as much as it intrigued me.

Then he returned. “Where else did you go, besides the biscuit shack? It’s only a half-mile inside the county line, it would have only taken you forty-five minutes if it was busy, but you were gone for almost two hours. You went farther out, but not far enough you couldn’t come back and stop to get the biscuits.” Morgan fluttered his hand next to his temple. “If you don’t want to tell me, I understand.”

“C’mon, let’s go sit down.”

He got the plates. There was already a pot of hot water with a teabag of coffee grounds on the counter. I poured me a cup, and Morgan got a glass of orange juice. We met at the table.

He took two biscuits and sat. I did the same.

While Morgan dissected his food, I said, “I made some phone calls.”

“More than one? So someone other than Agent Shaldon.”

“A friend.”

“Friends are good to have. Is he going to help you?”

“It was more about making sure he had a heads-up to help himself.”

Morgan combined all the meat and eggs onto one biscuit. “But you did call Agent Shaldon.” He ate and drank his juice.

“Yeah. I did.”

“You’re going to tell him, aren’t you?”  Morgan put down his food.

“Only if he decides it’s worth the risk.”

“Napkins. I forgot them. Do you want one?”

Before I could answer, he was gone. A cabinet door opened and shut. There was a long pause. I was about to get up and go check on Morgan when he returned.

“Here.” He held out a paper towel.

I took one.

He folded his own into a neat triangle. “What’s the risk? To him? I mean it has to be a risk to him because he wouldn’t care about a risk to you. If he did care, he wouldn’t have asked you to give him the information.”

It was more like Jeff didn’t care what happened to Morgan, but I didn’t bother to point it out. I’m not even sure I needed to. There was no way Morgan hadn’t caught on, so either it bothered him too much to say it aloud, or he was hoping I hadn’t come to the same conclusion.

Considering I’d stood in a grocery store with my finger in the air for a good ten minutes, it wasn’t an out of the realm deduction on his part. After that little stunt, I’m sure it surprised him I knew how to find my way out of a wet paper bag.

I have to admit, once I thought about it, I did wonder how I managed to survive this long.

I told Morgan what I said to Jeff. He ate, giving all the appearance of a person who had absolutely no interest in what I was saying. Between bites, he would turn his glass, sometimes trace the distorted bend of light it reflected onto the table, or simply stare at nothing.

When I was done, he stayed quiet until he finished his biscuit and drank the rest of his OJ.  “That was a very dumb thing to do.” Morgan looked at me then. His intense gaze softened with a smile. “And also very clever.”

“I think it’s more along the lines of desperate.”

“If you were desperate, you would have left.”

He was right. A desperate man would have fled. And I wasn’t desperate, I was in love.

“I did fall for the toothpick trick.”

Morgan laughed. “Everyone falls for the toothpick trick. And the more intelligent a person is, the harder they fall.”

“Wow, I never thought being stupid could make me feel so smart.”

He looked at me again. This time his expression was more than just soft, but grateful. Morgan held me in his gaze, and all the things waiting to be said were there. Spoken in silence. Conveyed between space-time.

Forget feeling intelligent. It was nothing compared to what it was like to be the center of someone’s world.

Chapter Six

I had just finished ripping out the old aluminum wiring in the kitchen and replaced it with copper when my cell phone rang.

I answered it.

“It’s Harriet.”

“Why do I have a feeling if you’re calling me, it’s not good?”

“Nothing of the sort. Well, at least not completely.”

“I knew it.” I pulled out a chair. With all the possible negative scenarios, I needed to sit down.  “Okay, let’s have it.”

“You sound like you’re getting a finger lopped off.”

I laughed. “You tell me. Am I?”

“No.”

“That’s refreshing.”

“I scheduled a meeting with Roger Amber, Mr. Michael Day’s attorney, for him to meet with Morgan.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “He can’t leave Durstrand.”

“I know. Which is why Morgan is picking the meeting place and I’m sending a colleague of mine. She’s local, she knows the territory, and she’s mean as a rattlesnake.”

“The good ones always are.” A plus when you needed one, not so great if you were on the wrong side. I’d been lucky not to have that problem. Thanks to Harriet.

“Her name is Abigail Reynolds. Give her office a call so you can tell them where you want to meet. If Morgan has any questions, that would be a good time to ask.” There was a shuffling sound, then Harriet’s voice lost some of its sharpness. “Is Morgan sure this is what he wants? That’s a lot of money to give up.”

“Yeah.”

“Once it’s done, there is no turning back.”

“I don’t think he cares.”

“Well, I made it a point to arrange for him to at least keep what’s in his account.”

“He’ll never touch it.” Only man in the world who’d turn down free money. Except for maybe Buddhist monks.

“Well, it can stay there, draw interest, maybe one day he’ll change his mind. Then if for some reason he needs it, at least it will be there waiting on him.”

“I’ll let him know.”

“Good.”

I started to stand up, but decided it was safer to keep my ass in the chair. You know, just in case.  “Is that it?” I knew it wasn’t.

“Has Morgan talked to you about Dillon?”

I propped my elbows on the table. Across from me, copper wire hung from a hole, waiting to be hooked up to the new plug on the counter. “Some.”

“Did he tell you what happened?"

I told him what I saw.
“Not really.”

“If you decide you want to know, I’ll make arrangements to get you the notes I have on his case.”

“I could always look up the police records.”

“I’m not talking about the police records. I’m talking about his psych evaluation.”

“Why did they have a shrink talk to him?”

“Because when they arrested Dillon, he was displaying signs of extreme psychosis. They weren’t sure he was competent to stand trial and needed proof he wasn’t legally insane at the time of the attack.”

“What was he on?”

“They never found out. Dillon admitted to using drugs so they said it was probably a flashback of some kind and figured that’s why he attacked Morgan. Either way, it’s ammunition to keep him jail.”

“If it can keep him in jail, then why did he only get seven years?”

“Dillon pled out. There was no need for the DA to use the evaluation.”

“And now there is?”

“I spoke with Dillon’s psychiatrist.  He agreed to go before the parole board and testify Dillon is an extreme risk to Morgan’s well-being.  He’s going to suggest they move Dillon to a high security mental hospital where he can get treatment. He said Dillon never belonged in prison, but a hospital.”

“As long as it keeps him locked up, I don’t care where he is.”

“If the doctor wins his petition, it’s highly unlikely Dillon will ever get out.”

“Jesus Christ, what the hell was in the report?”

“Nothing you want to read if you plan on eating in the next twenty-four hours. Did you know when the police went to the apartment, they called the scene in as a homicide?”

“They thought Morgan was dead?”

“Yeah. If you saw the crime scene photos, you would understand why. It wasn’t until the coroner got there that they realized Morgan was still breathing. The DA documented Morgan’s injuries. He had to have three surgeries to correct the damage to his jaw and orbital socket. His collarbone was broken in multiple places, his hips shattered. The kind of damage that happens in car wrecks, not when someone gets beat up.”

It wasn’t until spots danced in front of my eyes I realized I was holding my breath.

Papers shuffled in the background. “Tell Morgan not to worry. I have a few more people to talk to, but considering the circumstances, I can guarantee you Mr. Barnes will not be getting paroled. Not without an act of congress.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Now, here’s Abigail’s number.”

“Hang on.” I searched for a pen and paper and of course couldn’t find one. I wound up writing it in pencil on a two by four propped up against the wall. Harriet also gave me the date and time we’d be meeting with Mr. Amber.

Great. “I appreciate all this.”

“You’re welcome. And tell Morgan I said good luck.” Hopefully he wouldn’t need it.

“I’ll do that.”

********

Abigail Reynolds told Morgan to pick a public place he was comfortable with. Somewhere he felt the most at ease and had the most support.

He chose Toolies.

We were going to take up a booth in the corner, but when Jessie caught wind of what was happening, he insisted we meet in the back. Morgan was going to be under enough stress and the last thing he needed to worry about was a crowd of people trying to listen in, or the constant distractions created by business as usual.

The meeting was at six. We were there by a quarter till. I knew immediately the short squat woman in the business suit was Abigail. Not because of the way she was dressed, but the aura she gave off. If she’d been introduced to me as a potential client, I might have worried she would’ve killed me if I declined her business.

She extended a hand to Morgan. “Pleased to finally meet you. I’m Abigail. You can call me Babs for short.”

Morgan shook her hand. His shoulder jerked, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

“You must be Grant.”

Her grip was as firm as any businessman I’d ever met. This was definitely a lady to respect. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

To Morgan, she said, “Do you want Grant to join us?”

“Yes.” Morgan tossed thoughts. His shoulder jerked again and a small whine ticked from his throat.

“You have nothing to worry about Morgan,” Abigail said. “And if at any time, you feel uncomfortable, we’ll call it off.”

“I just want to get this over with.”

“I know. But if this becomes an inconvenience to you, we’ll end it, and they can make the three hour drive another day.”

Yup, I definitely liked her.

We went inside, and Jessie came from around the corner. A few people looked our way, but their gazes didn’t linger. He ushered us through the kitchen and into the office. Extra chairs had been brought in, and shelves taken out to make enough room for everyone to sit.

“You need me to bring you anything to drink?” Jessie said.

“Water.” Morgan tapped off his fingers on the palm of his hand. “In a bottle, in case I knock it over.”

“Water sounds fine.” I nodded at Abigail.

She said, “Same for me.”

Jessie left, and Abigail put her briefcase on the desk.  I sat on the same side with Morgan between us.

“Are you sure you want to sign off on everything?” She laid out a folder and pens.

“Yes.” Morgan tried to corral his wayward hand. It wound up in a fist next to his temple. The tendons in his wrist stuck out in white lines. “I never wanted her money.”

“But she wanted you to have it.”

“Please. Just…” Morgan tilted his head enough for me to catch a glimpse of his eyes. The message was clear.

“He doesn’t want the money,” I said. “Let’s just sign whatever needs to be signed so we can go home.”

Abigail pursed her lips. “Very well.” She closed her briefcase.

Jessie walked back into the room with bottles of water tucked in the fold of his arm. “I think they’re here.” He handed out the bottles. “Do you need me to keep them out front for a few more minutes?”

“No,” Morgan said. “Just send them in. I’ll sign whatever it is they want me to sign.”

I wondered if I wore the same defeated expression as Abigail. Jessie nodded and was gone again. I held out my hand to Morgan and he took it. The tics assaulting his body slowed.

Muffled voices came from the other side of the door, it opened, and two men and a woman walked in.

They were dressed so stiff I wasn’t sure who the lawyers were until the man with salt and pepper hair and the woman spoke.

“Mr. Kade.” The woman looked at me when she said it.

“Kessler.”

Her gaze slid to Morgan, and her smile dimmed. She glanced at the tall blond dressed in a dark blue suit. He had Morgan’s beautiful face, only his features were hardened by age. There was no kindness in his eyes, and I couldn’t decide what burned brighter shame or revulsion.

“Yes, I can understand you.” Morgan snapped his fingers.  “I can even read, believe it or not.”

“Yes. Well.” She fumbled with her briefcase. “My name is Lucy West; this is my associate, Greg Smithson, and our client Mr. Day.”

They each took up a chair across from us.

“I thought we would be meeting with Mr. Amber this morning,” Abigail said.

“He had an emergency court appearance come up.” It was Morgan’s father who answered. And he said emergency as if it had been a planned personal insult.

“So you must be the two new partners in Mr. Amber’s law firm.” Abigail gave both lawyers a warm smile. “Congratulations.”

I think they were about to thank her, but Mr. Day jerked out a chair and sat between them, sending the chill in the air to artic proportions.

Greg cleared his throat while he set up his briefcase. “I suppose your lawyer has explained why we’re here?”

“No.” Morgan tossed thoughts. “I told my lawyer why I wanted to meet with you. She agreed to arrange it for me.”

Mr. Day continued to stare at Morgan.

Greg extracted a ream of paperwork from his briefcase. Lucy added a file and passed it to Abigail who handed it Morgan. He laid it on the table.

“These are the copies of the contracts we sent to you,” Greg said to Abigail. “I take it you’ve gone over the details with your client?”

Morgan answered. “Yeah.”

“Good.” The man smiled, but it was strained. “Then I’m sure you can appreciate Mr. Day’s generosity in his decision not to pursue any legal action. He’s also been so kind as to make allowances for Mr. Kade to keep the money in his account at Mountain Trust Bank.”

Morgan pushed the contract across the table. “No.”

To Abigail, Lucy said, “I thought you were going to discuss our terms with your client?”

Morgan snapped his fingers at Lucy. “I’m right here.” His wayward hand returned to his temple. A tic jerked his shoulder hard enough to make the lawyers and Mr. Day jump.

I squeezed Morgan’s hand. He took a breath and the tension in his body eased with his exhale.

“There is nothing to discuss,” Morgan said. “I don’t want any terms. I don’t want the money. Any of it. The account and whatever else Mrs. Day left me. I never asked for it, and I never wanted it.”

“Here’s Morgan’s contract.” Abigail pulled out a different set of papers. There might have been five sheets at the most. She handed it to Lucy who scanned it, then Greg.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Greg turned the page.

“No joke. It’s just plain and simple. My client doesn’t want Mr. Day’s money. He simply wants to be left alone and wants a guarantee Mr. Day will not create any new campaigns using the authorities to harass him. The apology was my idea.”

“What kind of game are you playing here, Abigail?” Greg continued to turn the pages.

“No game. It is what it is. Your client leaves my client alone and goes back to pretending he doesn’t exist just like he has for the past twenty-odd years.”

Mr. Day held out his hand to Greg. He gave the man the contract. The crackle of turning pages was divided by a significant length of silence. Halfway through, he closed the contract.

To Morgan, he said, “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Morgan said.

“You can’t possibly think you’re capable of running the company.”

“I don’t want your company.”

“And the board would never approve of granting you a position as shareholder.”

“I don’t want shares either.”