The Fives Run North-South (11 page)

“Run off the road?” I asked the policewoman.

That’s when she said it. And it took every ounce of effort to keep my face locked in.

“Someone in a red SUV,” she said, looking down at her small notepad.

I thought back to Viniteri’s message: “a bit of a thing here.” Slowly I felt the anger rumble up from my gut, seeing Suze’s terrorized face in my mind, imagining that he was looking back, seeing the same thing. And enjoying it.

I nearly spilled it all out right there. Wavering between outcomes, I bit the inside of my cheek. But all the same arguments resurfaced. The same reasons I’d not called in the cops after finding the beer can still held true. No, it was clear that the best course of action was to huddle with Viniteri quickly. Enjoy the benefit of his experience. Maybe gain the opportunity to get a little homegrown payback. Looking back at Suze, I felt the tightness as my fist clenched.

“Sir,” said one of the first responders behind me. “We’re ready to take her in.” The other lowered the back of the stretcher down. I looked down at her car again, probably for the final time as to the west I saw a tow truck making its way down the breakdown lane. Behind it the sun was lowering as the end of the day approached. I exhaled, feeling a wave of exhaustion flow down from the top of my heavy head. I felt the shadows of what was coming, the list of things I needed to address before I could rest and simply turned to the policewoman.

“Can you give me a ride back to my car?”

She nodded.

The drive to the hospital was slow in the rush hour traffic. To keep from banging my head on my steering wheel, I checked my voice messages. There were two.

The first was from Kyle. “Sorry you had to leave, Adam. We certainly understand,” (said like he was granting some sort of papal pardon…for Christ’s sake). “We left a file on your desk. It’s pretty
self
-
explanatory
. We’ll be interested to hear your take.”

Okay…?

The second message: “Adam, this is Chester. Chester McCaughlin.”

Pause.

“Look, Adam. I didn’t know. Really, I didn’t. Call me. Maybe there’s another way.”

11

I
t was eleven thirty when I pulled in to our driveway. Suze was in the passenger seat, her head tilted back against the headrest, angled away from me. I was holding her hand. Neither of us had any energy left; it had all been sucked out by the redundant,
never
-
ending
lack of activity that makes up the typical hospital experience.

“Next time, I’m going to write my allergies on my forehead with lipstick,” she’d said after being asked the thirteenth time by the tenth person.

I understand the need for caution. Internal bleeding. Concussion. A test here, a test there. But as it became evident that their caution was more to insulate them from liability than actually caring for Suze, I’d grown increasingly testy and impatient to get us the hell out of that maze of floor tile, fluorescent lighting, and misery.

“I’m thinking there’s going to be more damage from repeated
blood
-
pressure
cuffs than the accident,” I’d said to one nurse who didn’t even have the decency to politely chuckle.

As we sat for hours in a couple exam rooms (they moved us from one to the other for some unexplained reason, as there was no apparent difference in equipment or atmosphere), we were mostly alone. If one were to do a pie chart of activity for the
five
-
plus
hours of our stay, there would be a huge chunk of “us alone waiting.” Time in front of an actual doctor would be so slim a slice it would hardly be visible. Nurses doing busywork, administrators getting their forms filled in…two
good
-
sized
slices on the chart. I’d even give a good chunk to that odd time span between when the last doctor said: “We’re set to let you go home” and the moment in which we actually got to go home.

And don’t get me started on the nurse with the squeaky left shoe and the attitude. Or the apparent fact that I’m convinced Suze and I seemed to be the only patients in the building with an education that exceeded junior high.

It was behind us now. Or would be after a good shower. I pulled into the garage. After turning off the engine, I realized I’d pulled in on the far left, needlessly leaving room for her car, now in some junkyard awaiting complete demolition. We both sat back and exhaled.

“One good night’s sleep and you’ll be back to normal. Ready to shop for a new car.”

She smiled weakly, gave my hand a final squeeze, and opened her door to get out.

“Hang on,” I said. “Let me come around and give you a hand.”

“I’m fine.”

“How ’bout we pretend you’re not.”

I hopped out and circled around, putting my arm around her and doing my best to offset some of her weight. She grunted quietly while moving. As I reached for the door to our house, I had a flash of the beer can and felt my arm start to tingle. I sent up a prayer that all would be normal. Not sure either of us could take another event. I had a sharp, sudden certainty that turning the doorknob would open up another needless surprise.

As we’d sat for hours in the hospital, I’d struggled with the possibility of telling Suze all about the red SUV incidents. She certainly deserved to know, and pending what Viniteri had to tell me, she certainly would soon. Part of me wanted to spare her the grief, at least before we had some sort of resolution planned. But mostly, I didn’t want to face the inevitable: she’d lump more than my share of blame in my lap. “You must have done something,” would be the accusation, implied or directly verbalized. I simply wasn’t prepared to stare down that path. Not today.

“Come on,” she said behind me. I realized I’d been hesitating, lost in thought with my hand hovering by the doorknob.

“Sorry,” I said.

I opened the door to a dark house, and quickly hit the light for the mud room. I heard nothing but the stillness of a silent house and felt a sense of emptiness with relief.

“Can you get me a glass of water? I’m going to take advantage of those pain meds,” said Suze, moving toward the bedroom and already beginning to unbutton her shirt.

I walked into the kitchen (no beer can), got her water, and joined her in our bedroom. She was nearly finished undressing when I got there. “I assume you’re going to work tomorrow,” she said.

“Do you need me to stay home with you?” I asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll let you off the hook.”

“Don’t be like that…”

“Like what?”

I placed the glass of water on her nightstand. “We’ll see how you are in the morning. No need to make any decisions about tomorrow tonight.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.” She began to climb into bed, the bottle of pills in her hand.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I said.

“Okay. Long day.”

When I got out of the shower, she was already asleep. I wondered how many pills she’d taken. Knowing her, it was at least double dose. Her theory had been that prescribed dosages were never enough. They did it on purpose, though I’d yet to gather what she considered their motive (or even, for that matter, who “they” were. Doctors? Pharmacists?). I walked barefoot with a towel wrapped around my waist to the kitchen and poured a generous glass of scotch. Grabbing a magazine, I went back to our bedroom. Though tired, I knew I’d need time and a dose of alcohol to get sleepy.

It took a while and a refill. I sat in the bed, trying to let my mind focus on the content of the magazine. It was a battle, as my thoughts tried to stray down the various paths that pulled like cognitive magnets. Kyle. Chester. Red SUV. Even Peter. Beside me, Suze began to snore lightly. Rare for her. But a good sign that she was down for the night. Slowly, I felt my eyes begin to burn as fog rolled in, covering up the stray troubling thoughts. As I switched out the light, I felt the weight of the scotch and felt reasonably certain I’d make it straight through to the alarm.

I did. And could have gone longer.

The night had flashed by in an instant. I’ve heard that if your first thought upon waking was looking forward to returning to bed that night, you’re
sleep
-
deprived
. Not a huge leap of logic, but it was something I rarely felt. Typically upon waking, the void in my mind was filled with a checklist of things I expected to tackle in the day ahead.

Not today. Maybe the extra scotch floating around in my system. Maybe how late I finally fell asleep. More likely the course of action ahead of me today was not one I felt eager to undertake. It was all ugly, hateful, and counterproductive. As I came around, I rubbed my forehead and thought back. It seemed much longer, but only a few weeks ago life was moving through the grooves with little turbulence. Now the pinball machine was stuck at tilt, and I saw no clear timetable for stability. It seemed unfair, and while I’m hesitant to play
victim
—
not
my nature; in fact a huge character weakness I saw too often in
others
—
I
did wonder how I had suddenly become the center of the universe of random shitstorms.

I felt Suze stir beside me, so I carefully got out of bed and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. As I walked, my head began to clear and I started my list. First thing: call Viniteri. On the way to work? No. Why not now? Dive in.

After filling the coffee machine and switching it on, I walked over to my cell phone. I swiped over to Viniteri’s number and hit Call. No surprise, it went to his voice mail. I put the phone down and went back to the kitchen to grab a couple of mugs.

I saw the beer can just an instant after hearing Suze scream from the bedroom.

I dropped the mugs on the counter, setting one too close to the edge and I heard it topple over and smash on the floor as I ran into our bedroom. On the way, I looked for something to grab in case I needed a weapon. Short on swords, baseball bats, or golf clubs, I grabbed a vase. To my relief, I didn’t see anyone in the room, just Suze on the bed pointing to the floor. She had turned on the light just moments ago, and what she was pointing at was something I’d have not seen in the dark. But now it was clear, and it tightened my stomach so quickly I barely held back a spray of vomit. I swallowed hard, and had the acidic taste burning in the back of my throat.

Muddy footprints. Still somewhat wet, so obviously only a few hours old. They were clearly showing that someone had been in our room that night, as we’d both been heavily asleep (aided a bit by alcohol and medicine). He’d been standing at the foot of our bed. Doing what? How long? Why? I saw the questions in Suze’s eyes, and while I might have some answers, God help me, I was grasping desperately for some string of logic that could help me move forward on stable ground.

“We need to call the police, Adam!”

“Calm down.”

“I will when you call the police!”

“Let me think.”

A sharp intake of breath. “You know something. You’re not telling me. What?”

“Panic won’t solve anything.”

“Panic? Go to hell, Adam. Some man was standing by my bed while I slept, doing God knows what…Jesus!”

“I know, but…”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Of course not.”

“Does it have anything to do with the brick in our window?”

“I doubt it.”

“Doubt it? So you don’t know.”

“I told you I don’t know who it is.”

“But it could be the same person.”

I needed space. Turning away from her I walked out of our bedroom.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Knew I’d get that. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t hold my face steady in front of her any longer. I walked toward the kitchen.

“Adam,” she continued, following me out…

To the kitchen…

Shit
.

I remembered the beer can just as she saw it and let out another scream.

Not really sure how I calmed Suze down, but part of it was by offering to get her out of the house, to come with me to the office. In times of crisis, activity is a great antidote. And I think for both of us, getting out of the
house
—
and
the feeling of violation now soaking into
it
—
was
a relief in itself.

“Listen,” I’d said. “There are some answers at the office. We won’t be long.”

She’d nodded. I think in her mind she suspected that our intruder was someone who’d been associated with me at FMP. She knows I’ve had to cut down a few bad eggs, and that I usually did that without empathy. It made logical sense to her that a disgruntled employee was behind it, so going in to the office was the first step in making it all good again. I let her think that, trying to figure out how to best explain the unexplainable. So I formulated a plan: try to reach Viniteri (I’d already tried a couple more times and would try again during the drive). I also was curious to see the file that Kyle had left on my desk. I can understand how Suze wouldn’t find that as important as this other matter, but ultimately it probably was more important.

I did try Viniteri again during the drive. Twice actually. He didn’t pick up. Damn him. We’d certainly discuss this when his invoice came in.