Bookmaker, The (26 page)

“Well
, what about the Grotto back home, are you gonna sell it?” I asked.

“Nah, I’ll keep it, I can’t let it go. But since I‘m not selling the bar
, I need a little help buying this place, that’s where you come in. You could be a silent partner, wouldn‘t have to lift a finger, or you could be involved, whatever you‘d want to do.”

“Whose gonna run the Grotto?”

“I got Martha, she can handle it. I’ll have her manage the place.”

“But you’d be moving out here, right, to run this place?”

He grabbed Rhonda again and said, “That’s right, pal. In fact, Rhonda and I are gonna start looking at some places today. Sure, it might be jumping the gun a bit, but sometimes you gotta say, what the fuck.”

Then the words just came out of me, “What the fuck. Let’s do it.”

Jackson Trenton Dresden was born at 6:10am on May 14, 1999, a perfect bouncing baby boy. At first, it was stressful and tiring having a screaming newborn in the house. But the joy the little guy brought far outweighed any strain he caused. Delotta felt like it was her grandchild who was brought home, and Dayla was happy to let her feel that way as her help was immeasurable. Corynne and I were named godparents, and I was flattered they used my name for his middle name. And Jay was over the moon. Although he hadn’t slept in a week, he still walked around Walker Manor beaming, helping with the baby any way he could. With Corynne and I being named godparents, it inadvertently took our relationship to the next level. There was now a little life form that required us to be together in case disaster struck his parents. These outside forces pushing commitment on me would have sent me running to the hills in the past but not now, not with Corynne.

Our relationship hit another elevated phase when Corynne, while holding Jackson
, looked up at me with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Trent, I want one. I want a little Trenty running around.”

I looked for the exit. “One step at a time,” was all I said
, getting out of there fast.

Saturday
, July 17, the day of the wedding. The ceremony would take place on the grandstand on the back lawn. It would be a private ceremony with only the members of the household and Otto and Rhonda—now living together in an apartment downtown. The ceremony was planned for noon before it got too hot. The weather was perfect and so was the ceremony. The Reverend Dr. Theodore Cummings was back on the grandstand and did the honors. I stood next to Jay as best man and Corynne was the maid of honor. Otto, Rhonda, Darnell, and Erika sat in the front row. They had their hands full, passing around a squirming Tucker while Delotta, fighting back tears, held a sleeping Jackson.

The reception began right after the ceremony. The grandstand was transformed from an altar
into a party—music, drinks, food of all sorts. The festivities would be kept to a minimum as we had a plane to catch. The bride and groom, Corynne and I, Rhonda and Otto, and Darnell and Erika, were all going on the honeymoon—a quick three-day trip to Jamaica. Quick, because Dayla and Jay didn’t want to leave the baby for long and Delotta would need a break after a few days. But she didn’t complain about staying back and watching the kids, in fact, it was her wedding gift.

I was sharing a cold beer with Otto
, discussing the grand opening for our bar that was tentatively scheduled for opening kickoff in early September. We still had a lot of work to do. We were doing a complete remodel, turning the bar from a sleepy little watering hole to Oxford’s premiere sports bar, a niche that had gone surprisingly unfulfilled in the downtown area.

I was the first to see the FedEx delivery man. He somehow made his way to the back and was talking to Delotta, who then pointed to me. It was a thin package that couldn’t have held more than a couple pieces of paper. I had to sign for it. The package had no return address
, but the slip I had to sign said it came from Boston, Massachusetts, two days prior. Delotta asked what it was and I dismissed it by telling everyone it was my diploma I’d ordered through school. I claimed I had to go to the bathroom and walked the letter inside, pulled the tab, and saw two hand-typed letters:

Dear Trent,

I hope this letter finds you well. I write this to thank you for handling all the unpleasantness that surrounded our trip to Dallas. Please apologize to Corynne for me. I can only assume how she must feel about me. As far as the inheritance goes—it is all hers, it always was. I hope you can forgive me for my actions, it was out of shock that I reacted the way I did, but nevertheless, it was cowardly and merely for self-preservation. I saw no other way out and panicked, assuming the police would put all the pieces together and discover who Preston and I were and what we had done. I envisioned Walker Manor swarmed by police and FBI and what
they found there would surely put me in jail. It wasn’t jail I feared, it was not fulfilling my final promise to Preston that I feared most.

In my time away
, I have been solely obsessed with carrying out my final promise to Preston. And after an exhaustive effort, an opportunity has arrived that I cannot pass up. There is a family wedding that will take place on Martha’s Vineyard on Saturday, July 17. On Friday evening, July 16, a small plane will be leaving Logan Airport and I intend be on it. I will bring no luggage save a ten-pound rubber hammer that I should have no problem getting past security. You either already know or soon will know what I have done. I tell you of my plans so you can tell the family what has become of me and also so you can have the proper finish to your book. Forgive my final actions, I did it for Preston because he wasn’t able to do it for himself.

Goodbye and give all my love to the family.

Mattheus Orslavsky (Matador)

The second letter was shorter.

Trent, this letter is for your eyes only. It is in your best interest not to show this to anyone, especially Corynne. This letter is merely a clearing of my overburdened conscience.

It wasn’t our wonderful fields I was worried about the police finding, no, there is something far more sinister out in the woods behind Walker Manor. I give you this information, what you choose to do with it is yours alone. You can keep it to yourself or provide a sense of closure for those who are seeking it.

Out past the Walker family plot—which I’m sure is where Preston is now—about fifty yards to the right, in between a group of thick oaks that form a semi-circle and underneath the tallest and oldest tree, you’ll find a ring of rocks around it’s base. On the north side of that tree is a grave. Inside the grave is a young man who angered Preston. I don’t know the specifics and didn’t want to know, all I do know is the young man found some information on Preston and he planned to go public with it, and Preston wouldn’t stand for it. I didn’t take part in the act, but I did cover
it up and I did bury him out in the woods. He was a good kid and would never have left Corynne and Tucker as everyone assumes, he deserves a lot better than what he got. I burden you with this because my conscience won’t allow me not to. And, by the time you get this letter, it won’t matter if anything comes back to me because I’ll be dead.

Matador

I rushed and turned on the news, and there it was on every channel—the missing plane and all three lost at sea, presumed dead. The reporters gave no assumptions, let alone facts of why the plane went down. I began to weep.

He did it,
goddammit, he did it. Not for the sacred vengeance he’d been coached to believe, but for the sick continuation of a crazy man’s reaction to a false past. Another senseless killing; this time the truly innocent, the son of the wrongly condemned, now meeting the same fate along with those beautiful sisters.

I pulled myself together and returned to the party, determined not tell anyone about the letter or what was happening on the news. I was hoping we could get out of town without anyone finding out. I didn‘t want the day to be ruined by what
had happened. And, as impossible as it sounds, we left an hour later for the airport without anyone hearing the news.

Corynne spent the flight sleeping comfortably in our first-class seats. I spent the time writing. By the time we had landed in Kingston, they all knew of the lost plane but not the reasons behind it. I hoped they would just chalk it up to another senseless tragedy. We decided to try and enjoy the honeymoon regardless of what was happening in the outside world. Maybe they could, but I knew, and I couldn’t help but feel the despair of being brought back into Preston’s world of revenge and death. I had to put it past me somehow. There was nothing I could do about it now; the only solace I took was I knew there wouldn’t be anymore. It was over.

On the morning of our second day in Jamaica, after we made love amid the cool ocean breezes coming from our open windows, I decided I would go through with one of the things I came there to do. I pulled out my complete manuscript and handed it to Corynne—she would be the first and possibly only person to read it. She greedily took it from my hands, gave me a quick kiss, and started devouring it. She spent the morning reading the first half on our patio overlooking the ocean and then she took it down to the beach and read it as we sunbathed until late afternoon. She was rapt in her reading and silent—not a word, not an emotion from her. I tried to pretend I wasn’t on pins and needles waiting for a reaction. She was close to finished when I told her we had to go in and get cleaned up for a lobster dinner with the other couples. She got ready first and looked great in her red sundress, sipping wine on our patio.

I got ready and made a scotch to settle my nerves. The news was on the TV and there was only one story—they found the bodies. I was waiting for them to mention a mysterious fourth body, but nothing yet. Perhaps they didn’t find it because they weren’t looking for it. I turned it off and met her outside. I was getting anxious.

“Look at you.” she said with a surprised smile. “What are you all dressed up for?”

I looked down at my dress shirt and black slacks. “Can’t a guy get dressed up for a night out with his lady?”

“I like it. I almost want to tear you out of those clothes right now.”

For once I was more concerned with something other than sex. “How’s the book coming along?” I asked
, nervous of her reaction.

“It’s amazing…and sad. Papa was pretty messed up
, huh?” she asked with a tone that told me she was ashamed of her family’s true nature.

“Yeah, I guess,” was all I could add. “You done reading it yet?”

“Almost, a few pages left,” she said, now eager to finish.

I reached for her hand and said, “How about we walk down to the beach and you can finish reading it while watching the sun set.”

We found an isolated spot under a palm and sat on some loosely organized beach wood put there by lovers before us. I watched her eyes flicker as she read, she’d occasionally look up at me and smile; she knew I was watching her. The sun began its descent behind some low-lying mountains on the horizon.

She put the papers down and looked up a little disappointed. “I’m done, but there’s not really an ending.”

“I know,” I said, “I have the ending right here. But first you need to read this letter; it’s from an old friend.”

She read Matador’s letter intently, when she got to the last paragraph, she put her hand over her mouth in shock. “Oh no, not again! It was Matador who did that? That poor family, why does it have to be this way?”

“I’m so sorry. There was nothing we could do, but at least we know it’s over, right?”

“I suppose, just promise me you’ll never judge me for my family.”

I let out a small laugh. “How could I judge you? Preston himself said I was a member of the family. I’m one of you. I’m a Walker; your legacy is my legacy.”

“Well I guess you have your ending, did you write it yet?” I pulled out the pages and we sat close and read together.

* * * * *

From
Legacy of Brutality
by Trent Oster (pp. 250-252)

The turbulence was getting stronger. Either the pilot was inexperienced or the weather was getting worse. The old man
had noticed the skies turn an ashen grey before he had snuck aboard the plane and hid himself amongst the baggage. After a rough take off, he figured he’d wait about twenty minutes until they got to a nice altitude. But he couldn’t wait too long, it was a short flight. His hiding place would have been unbearably uncomfortable to anyone crammed in his position, but for a man in his seventies, it was excruciating. He would act now. Kicking bags and loose equipment out of his way, he stood himself up and dusted off his suit, his best suit, Armani.

He eyed the two sisters
, they were beautiful in completely different ways—a swan-like blonde and a stunning brunette. He bent down to enter the small seating area behind the open cockpit. “Greetings, fellow travelers, they call me Matador. I hope you don’t mind that I came along for the ride.”

The startled women let out twin screams. The man at the controls, hearing the commotion
, felt compelled to confront the intruder but didn’t want to leave the flight unmanned.

The intruder, still very calm
, said, "We’re going to make all this look like an accident, so your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

The sledge hammer was heavy in his hand but swinging
it took little effort. The pilot, who’d just watched his wife and sister-in-law take crushing hammer blows to the head, finally left the controls, and pleaded, “Stop! Please stop! I’ll give you anything! Do you know who I am?”

Matador swung the hammer, connecting viciously with the pilot’s right temple—he was dead before he hit the ground.

“I know exactly who you are. You were the last one, and now it’s over.”

Matador dropped the bloody hammer, sat between the two dead women and smiled as the plane went into a steep dive toward the Atlantic.