The Christmas List (19 page)

Kier woke the next morning with Sara's words echoing in his memory. “You left me when I needed you the most. It's too late; it's too late.”

Throughout his life Kier had always been good at fixing things. When he was thirteen the gas-powered lawn mower broke halfway through a cutting. While his father called Sears to yell at the clerk who sold them the machine, Kier tore apart the Briggs & Stratton engine. He dissected the block, pulled out the valves, and scraped the ash from the piston. When he put it all back together it ran.

Relationships were something else. Long ago, in college, he thought he was good with people, but not anymore. Too many variables. Too many nuances. Too much unpredictability. He once told Brey, “The more I know people the better I like my car.”

He had no idea how to fix things with Sara, or even if
it were possible. He was like a doctor frantically administering CPR to a patient that wouldn't respond.
When do you call it? When do you just pull up the sheet and pronounce time of death?

In his state of despair Kier found himself focusing on mundane details. He didn't know where his current path led (from experience, he was thinking nowhere good), he just knew it was somewhere he could put his feet, one step at a time. For now the list was his path. And the path had one more stop.

Most of him longed to quit. He was three for three; technically he had already struck out, but something about what Linda had said about his next visit propelled as well as frightened him.
It would probably be best for you to find out for yourself
. Find out what? He rubbed a hand across his unshaven cheek, then tugged at the lone bandage across the bridge of his nose and pulled it off. His nose was still tender. He hoped Rossi's expected assault would be a verbal one.

It had been more than six years since Kier had met Rossi at a downtown chamber of commerce luncheon. What started with a good meal ended bitterly two years later. Rossi was a victim of the kind of financial maneuvering Kier had once been proud of.

Rossi had come to Kier with an idea for a restaurant, bringing with him a collection of Tuscan family recipes, a
roomful of Italian antiques, and a nest egg of $9,000 that he had accumulated over a lifetime of working in other chefs' kitchens. The money was just a fraction of what he'd need to open a restaurant. The two of them quickly reached an agreement: Rossi would provide the ideas, sweat, time, and expertise while Kier provided the bulk of the capital and oversaw the business end of things. The restaurant was called Rossi's, and like most of Kier's ventures, it proved a wild success. Within just a few months of their grand opening they were one of the most talked about restaurants in the city.

A month after toasting their first year in business, Kier decided that he no longer needed Rossi and set about making him redundant. First, Kier persuaded Rossi to hire an ambitious young sous-chef who could run the kitchen so he could “enjoy the fruits of their success.” Rossi, dedicated to ensuring the restaurant's success, had worked twelve-to-fourteen-hour days, seven days a week for so long that he heartily thanked Kier for his kindness, never suspecting that he was simply maneuvering him out of the way. Rossi personally trained the new chef and gratefully, took a much needed vacation. Two days after he left, Kier changed the locks on the doors and sent Rossi an e-mail to let him know he was fired and need not return. Not surprisingly, Rossi returned immediately.

Kier offered the desperate Rossi $10,000 for his stock in the restaurant, only a thousand more than Rossi had personally invested and less than 10 percent of the restaurant's monthly profits. Rossi refused. Kier was prepared. He countered with a threat to declare a million-dollar profit without
paying out a penny in dividends, putting Rossi in a considerable tax bind.

“You can't use my name,” he said.

Kier patted the contract. “I
own
your name.”

Flustered, Rossi replied, “Then I'll sell my stock to someone else.”

Kier smiled smugly. “That won't be possible.” Hidden in the sixty-two-page contract was a clause forbidding Rossi to sell his stock to anyone without the majority stockholder's approval—Kier's approval. In the end it was a choice between taking the deal or personal bankruptcy. He left Kier's office a broken man. As he walked out, Rossi's last words were, “You're a miserable excuse for a human being, Kier. You're a bad man.”

“No, I'm just clever. There is no good or bad in business,” Kier said, “just smart and . . . you.”

Of Kier's many business partings this had been one of the most bitter. Rossi had not only trusted, but admired him. He had even asked Kier to be the godfather to their newborn son; Kier had declined. Fallen heroes hit the ground hardest. Kier hadn't seen or heard from Rossi since that last meeting and wasn't looking forward to this one.

Kier drove to the address Linda had typed on the list. The home was forty minutes away in Magna, Utah, a former copper mining town at the base of the Oquirrh Mountains. Even though the Kennecott Copper mine was still in operation, the town had been in decline for nearly a half century and was now sometimes used by Hollywood directors shooting fifties-era productions.

He arrived at the house shortly after noon, a small bungalow with aluminum siding and green asphalt shingles. There was a mailbox out front with ROSSI spelled out in gold decals.

He climbed out of his car, then walked up to the front porch and knocked on the crimson door.

The door opened; the woman who stood in front of him bore a distinct resemblance to Rossi. Her black hair was streaked with gray and pulled back tightly in a bun. She wore a thick knit sweater accented with a silver crucifix nearly six inches long. Kier had met Rossi's wife and, from what he remembered, was sure this wasn't her. The woman stared at him with disgust, her expression more clear than words could ever be.

“I'm James Kier,” he said, pretty sure she already knew.

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

“I'm here to see Gary.”

“Gary's not here.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” she said curtly.

“You are . . . ? ”

“I'm Gary's sister.”

“It's nice to meet you,” Kier said, regretting the words even as he spoke them.

She stared at him with an expression that was anything but
nice
. Kier rephrased his earlier question. “Do you know when Gary will be back?”

“The morning of the resurrection.”

“Excuse me?”

“Gary's dead.” She spoke the words with a certain amount of satisfaction.

Kier blanched. “I'm sorry.”

She shook her head, her thin lips pursed tightly together. “So you didn't know. All these years I wondered whether or not you lost sleep over what happened and you didn't even know.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Gary went through a real bad time after you swindled him out of his restaurant. He started drinking, lost a half dozen jobs, and then he just went off the deep end. His wife took the kids and left him. I can't say that I fault her, but for Gary it was the last straw. One afternoon he just ended it. Really, I'm surprised you didn't know. Your name was all over his suicide note. In fact, you should read it.”

Before he could object she walked away, and came back holding a wrinkled piece of paper. “His last words. Most of them meant for you.” She pushed the note into Kier's hands.

Kier tried to hand it back to her. “I really don't want to see this.”

“I'm sure you don't, you coward.”

Finally, Kier dropped the paper on the ground. Rossi's sister shook her head, stooped and picked it up. “I thought as much. But you're not getting off that easy. If you won't read it, I'll tell you what it said. Gary wrote that he was mixed up in his thoughts of the afterworld, because if there were a God, he wouldn't allow people like you to prosper. But then again, you're the greatest evidence that there is a devil.” She
read from the note. ‘If there be blame, I'll share it with the architect of my destruction, James Kier, may his soul burn for eternity.' ”

Kier lowered his head.

“You know, Mr. Kier, I hated you for a long time, a long time. But hate doesn't take you anywhere but down, so I had to let it go. I've even had to accept that Gary's death wasn't your fault. Make no mistake, you're an awful, hell-bound man—but no matter. Gary had a choice to make. He chose to give up.

“I've wondered what I would do if I ever saw you again. I thought I might spit in your face or slap you or heaven knows what. I never imagined you would show up at my own door. But seeing you here, I don't want to do anything but pity you. You are a sad, cankered man. One of the devil's own.”

Kier made no effort to defend himself. “You're right.”

His humility surprised her. “So you do have a conscience. I can only imagine what brought you around now. Are you dying?”

“I just wanted to talk to him.”

“Why? Got another venture?” she mocked.

“I wanted to apologize. I wanted to see if I could make things right.”

“You're a little late for that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.” She lifted the note again, taunting him with it. “You're afraid of this, aren't you?” She stepped back and slammed the door. Kier stood there a moment, then turned and walked back to his car.

Linda loved the snow even though it often made her feel melancholy. Tonight, as she drove away from the office, the snow was falling heavily, painting the world around her with its cold indifference. No, her sadness was more than the weather. She was thinking about her boss. She realized, for the first time, how much their relationship had changed in the past few weeks. She truly cared about him, and she was worried about how his final meeting had gone. She wondered if she had done the right thing in not warning him about Rossi's suicide.

She had worked late making preparations for the company's first Christmas party; it was past six o'clock when she arrived at Kier's home. The day had already surrendered to evening, the moonlight reflecting off the front yard's snow.

She rapped on the door then let herself in. The house was dark. “Mr. Kier?” There was no response. She walked to the living room. Kier was there, a shadow in a chair.

“There you are. I brought the Arcadia documents, and Mike had some tax forms you need to sign.” She took the papers from her leather portfolio. “He said to tell you, and I quote, ‘Not to worry, he's just shifting the tax load to this
year.' ” She arranged the documents on the glass coffee table and looked up. Kier was looking ahead as if he hadn't heard her. “Mr. Kier?”