Jury of Peers (11 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Interlocutor

             
The fire was in ashes that flitted about in the downdraft when he woke. 

             
Another knock.  He rose, blinking away the night, and limped toward the front door.  It was partially opened already, and he realized that he hadn’t even bothered to latch it last night.  Whit stood there, glass in hand.

             
He held it up by way of a greeting.

             
“Too early Whit,” Seth said.

             
“It’s almost noon, boy.  I started at ten, you should too.”  He stepped inside and offered the Scotch again.

             
Seth took the glass, seeing that Whit had included a child's flexible straw.

             
“Thought that it might make it easier to tie one on,” Whit said.

             
“Thanks.  But I’ve relearned.”  He took the straw out and tossed back the Scotch.             

             
"You look like hell by the way,” Whit observed as he refilled the glass.

             
“I think, Whit… I think that maybe I’m going nuts.  Insane.”

             
Whit nodded.  "Why wouldn’t you?”

             
“How can I tell?”

             
“Come,” Whit said and ambled out the front doors, leaving them open.  Seth followed.  The wind still howled, but it was kept at bay up in the treetops.  They soon walked with two empty glasses, curving downhill toward a little lake surrounded by a grove of spruce trees.  A half dozen geese took flight from the other side of the lake, leaving a wake of complaint.  Seth watched them as he and his long lost father stepped out along a sturdy dock and peered over the edge to the dark water below.   Paper–thin sheets of ice had formed here and there on the surface of the lake floating about like frozen lilies.  It was from this dock that Seth had spent his time with Whit as a little boy.  Fishing, hitting rocks with the old baseball bat that now hung above the bar, and occasionally… talking.  It seemed like so long ago.

             
“I don’t know how a person would know if they’re insane,” Whit said.  He took Seth’s glass from him, held it up against the swift grey sky, and then tossed it into the lake with an easy flick.  It disappeared, the sound covered by the wind.  “But I know how to tell if you aren’t.”

             
“How?” Seth asked as the ripples from the glass spread out, intersected with the ice and faded.

             
“Go get your glass, it’s expensive,” Whit said.  He too watched the ripples.

             
Seth shook his head.  “I’d never find it.”

             
“There you go.”

             
“Whit, I.…”

             
His father cut him off, “You’re not insane Seth, you’re mad.”

             
“Mad
means
insane, Whit.”  Seth turned and was surprised by what he saw in the old man’s face.

             
“No… it doesn’t,” his father said.  It was the most they’d spoken in years and for a moment, Seth realized that he would be perfectly content standing here on the dock until he froze to death.  And then Whit did something very much unexpected.  He smiled.  “Watch.”

             
It didn’t take much, just a little shove to his chest and Seth felt his balance give way.  He teetered on the edge of the dock, arms wind–milling.  Only shock registered on his face, everything else was gone.  He grabbed for Whit, who stepped back, but it was far too late anyway. 

             
The water didn’t feel cold.  It enveloped him, the muted rush of bubbles surging around his ears, the absence of the wind’s wailing in the trees… it took him in and held him close.  Begging him to stay.  To sink to the bottom, search out the crystal glass from the murk, and clutch it to his chest until he expired.

             
Please, stay with me.

             
Seth opened his eyes.  The grey above was filtered through an olive green, dark and eerie, but vital in a way he’d never understood.  He relaxed even as the water took an icy hold on his belly.  Above him, the surface was chaotic, and Whit was twisted and distorted as he peered down into the lake.

             
Stay.  Please stay.

             
Seth began to rise after the downward plunge, and for a moment he considered heeding the voice’s lechery.  He longed to claw his way back to the bottom and commune with whatever soothing creature this was bidding him to stay.

             
The cold penetrated his eyes.  Numbing.

             
And then he saw Emily. 

             
She swam amongst the corals and fishes in the Indian Ocean, mingling with creatures that should have shunned her.  She glided.  Twenty years old, nude and as graceful as the ocean currents that carried her–he thought that she might hold out her hand.  Touch.

             
The cold suddenly boiled away and Seth broke the surface in a rage.  He gasped for air, and then screamed until he once again dipped under the surface.  Again he came up, this time coughing, and struggling to right himself. 

             
Whit’s hand was there.

             
Seth grasped at it, slid down his forearm and connected with Whit’s watch.  The clasp popped and gave way, giving Seth one more dunk, and the timepiece a watery grave.  The next attempt was more successful.  Their combined strength, diminished somewhat by age, pain, and the cold, was still enough to haul Seth out of water.  He lay there steaming on the wooden dock and then pushed himself up to his hands and knees. 

             
“Now do you know the difference?” Whit panted.

             
Seth clutched the old man’s legs and held on as the world spun.  He wailed, pouring out his grief against his father’s strength until Whit finally helped him upright.  Together they walked back to the house where his dad stripped him like the child that once was, tossed aside his clothes, and put him into a hot shower.

             
Seth leaned into the spray, bracing himself with both hands and wept again even before Whit had gone.  He saw Emily dying, saw his little girl’s beautiful face dashed in an instant, he saw himself on his knees, saw the glee in the white kid’s face.  He crumpled again in the tub as he recognized the sense of relief he felt at being alive.

Relief.  If he was alive, he could do what needed to be done.  Don't piss away the chance to do….

He watched drops of his blood fall, dilute and wash away, and then remembered the taste.  He sucked hard on his lip, screamed once more into his cupped hands, and then Seth Meek rose to his feet.

He washed himself methodically, climbed out and decided to brush his teeth while he dripped on the floor.  He wanted to feel the clean mint of his previous life again be overwhelmed by the dirty penny taste of blood.  He looked into the mirror and understood what he would do and how he would do it.  The haunting designs came together as one, but were no less terrifying for the revelation.

              A welcome fire once again filled the hearth when he emerged from the bathroom.  Blue jeans and white button down shirt had been hung there for him.  He found Whit sitting at the smaller of the two tables in the living room reading a newspaper and surrounded by untouched plates of food.

Near the door stood a steward of some sort, not the same kid from last night, but in the same casual getup that made them all look like imposters.  Like Secret Service agents trying to blend into a crowd, these guys were all far too fit, too bulky to be just domestic servants. 

              “Eat,” Whit said as he flipped through the Post.

             
There was a stack of steaks and Seth pulled one unto his plate.  “Thanks for all of this, Whit.

             
“Quit saying thank you,” came from behind the paper.  “And go get my watch.   It’s expensive.”

             
Seth felt himself smile before he could stop.  There was a little cavity inside of him that had been cleared away, a tiny foothold, an Alamo for his former self to retreat back into… and from there, to hold off the world while he decided exactly how he would act. 

             
“How much?” he asked.

             
“I dunno, it was a gift,” Whit said.

             
“From who?”

             
“Ronald Reagan,” the paper rattled and came down.

             
Seth squinted trying to divine the truth.  "Serious?”

             
“As 1929.”

             
“Oh shit Whit, I’m sorry.”

             
“I pushed you, I can’t complain too much.”  His father grinned.

             
The hot food settled well, building both his confidence and desire to… begin.  They watched one another for a bit, both remembering happier times.  Whit always seemed to know what to do at any given moment.  It was an enviable talent, the reading of people, but even more so when you linked that empathy with the ability to push a man right up to the brink of getting an ass kicking, only to hand him a bit of wisdom free of charge.  It was a risky, ballsy way to live life and Seth found himself wishing that he’d had more time around Whit to learn it.

             
Whit read his stare and, uncharacteristically, misunderstood.  “Don’t worry about it, it’s just a watch.” 

             
“Did we have any fun when I was a kid?” Seth asked.  It felt impulsive, and in this context, correct.

             
“I think we were too busy wishing our lives were different.”

             
“I just wanted an Atari,” Seth said.

             
“I just wanted you to shut up and play it.   Hell I don’t know Seth.  I wasn’t built to be much of a father.  For that matter, I wasn’t built to be much of a husband, either.  But…” Whit went on as he folded the paper, “it would appear that you turned out alright.”

             
Seth looked at the fire for a moment and glanced at the man by the door.

             
Whit turned, “That’ll be all for now Ken, thanks.  We’ll clean up.”  The linebacker steward nodded and left the room.

             
“I think I need to do some things that could test your theory on how I turned out.”

             
“I wondered if you might.”

             
“Some of it will boarder on unacceptable with the police,” Seth said.  He massaged his temples, his head was clear and as pain–free as it had been in days, but the gesture helped him think.

             
Whit grunted again, "What isn’t?”

             
“I’ve never killed anyone before,” Seth said suddenly.

             
“Me either.”

             
“I think I need to.”

             
Whit looked at him hard; he didn’t blink.  “You sure?”

             
“No. But I know how I want to do it.  I know how
to
do it and make it count.”

             
“How’s that?” Whit asked.

             
“You’ll see I guess... if it works.  First I need to get some things, and,” he hesitated, “I need to ask a couple more favors.”  He added, “Without getting you in trouble.”

             
“I’ve been in trouble before.  What do you need?”

             
“I need a place in the city.”

             
“Like what?”

             
“Just an office.  Easy to get into and in a quiet place.  With a basement and a garage.  And Internet.  Landline and wireless net.  A big fat line.”

             
“When?” Whit asked.

             
“Tomorrow.”

             
“Alright.  What else?”  Whit didn’t flinch, but then why would he?  The guy had built a career out of making deals in the dark.  He was jotting notes on a single sheet of paper that he’d torn off of its pad so there would be no imprint left on the papers below–old habits died hard.  Seth knew that Whit had ended up working for a president. That his job entailed oversight of the Intelligence community just to make sure things didn’t get out of hand.  He even had a hand in some of Reagan’s decisions regarding the Soviet Union, but Seth also knew he’d started from the ground up.  Whit was a civilian, a wealthy one, and he’d traveled all over the world.  What he’d done to garner the attention and respect of a president, however, would probably always remain a mystery.