Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (45 page)

“So, you morons are saying if a citizen
cheats on his tax statements he gets investigated, and if he
doesn’t cheat he gets investigated. Sounds like a bunch of idiots
are minding the store. Now leave or I’ll call my lawyer and have a
lawsuit filed against you for harassment. And when you talk to
Mangiurea, tell him he can have the IRS, the CIA, the CPU and the
XYZ all check me because I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Coleman stood and reached for the door knob,
“Lets go, we’re wasting our time here.” Warren gave Clay a hard,
harsh stare before following silently. Clearly the older detective
had no interest in Clay and was just following orders to harass
him. Tony had likely told him to back off, but he didn’t just work
for Tony alone. Warren on the other hand would be a pain in the ass
if and when he advanced to take the lead in any investigation.
Warren had been approached about being an informant and had tried
to bring charges against the messenger.

Clay had promised Margaret he would visit her
for lunch, so he picked up a quart of vanilla ice cream and a can
of chocolate syrup; her favorite desert.

Throughout lunch Margaret had been pensive,
almost sullen at times. While Clay was scooping ice cream into
clear glass, tulip shaped ice cream dishes she began to talk to him
in a faint monotone voice. “I know what you’ve been up to when you
leave town on those trips you take.”

“Sure you do, I’ve told you about the
antiques I buy and where they come from.”

“No, I mean the other part of your trips. I’m
talking about every time you go away a sensational murder is
committed somewhere in the country before you get back.”

Clay stiffened and slowly turned, “Mom, what
the hell are you talking about? Do you realize what you’re accusing
me of?”

“Oh, yes! I realize fully what I am saying.
And I want you to know the thought of it makes me sick to my
stomach every time it enters my mind. It made me sick to my stomach
again this morning when those two policemen came in and questioned
me about your involvement with Tony Giliano.”

“They were here again? I’ll have my lawyer
make then stay away!”

“They aren’t the problem; you are. Clayton,
what have you turned into? I don’t know you anymore.”

“I’m the same person I always have been. Now,
what’s this nonsense about me being a killer?”

“I thought back to when Jimmy Giliano died.
You took time off from your job and the man who killed Jimmy was
killed in a horrible manner just before you went back to work. And
when Tony was shot and you moved into his home, and several weeks
later a large number of people were murdered in cold blood, just
before you came back here again.”

“Mom...”

“Be quiet! I’m not finished. Later when you
were gone for several weeks on one of what you call antique trips,
a man in New York City was shot dead and an entire building was
blown up. And there are other instances since then. You can’t…”

“Mom, stop it. I go on at least fifteen
buying trips a year. Are you saying people are being killed every
time I’m away, and you think I’m doing it?”

“No, not every time you’re gone, but some
times.” Margaret spoke softly, and as if she wasn’t entirely as
sure of her position.

“Well are people ever killed somewhere else
while I’m here?” Clay asked, and moved to stand close to her.

“Yes, but…”

“There are no buts about it Mom. You’re
adding one and one and getting six. I buy and sell antiques and
make lots of money. I don’t need to go around killing people.”

“But, when I read in the newspaper or see
those things on TV it makes sense because you're gone when those
people are dying.”

“You need to start watching for bad things
happening in other places when I’m home, then you’ll see they occur
regardless of where I’m at, and I have nothing to do with
them.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know. I get so
confused and afraid. Sometimes I get so terrified I can’t function;
I just huddle in a corner or get in my bed and cry.”

“Then stop paying attention to the bad junk
and concentrate on the good things in life.”

“I’m sorry Clayton; I really don’t want to
believe you are capable of those things; but I’ve always been
afraid of what would happen to you since you’ve hung around with
Tony.”

As he pulled his mother close to give her a
hug, and a kiss on the forehead, Clay was wondering if anyone else
could have detected a pattern in his trips and might have connected
them to his contracts. As for Margaret, he would make it a point to
speak with her psychiatrist and learn more about her condition.
Maybe medication would help her to deal with her fears. And perhaps
it was time for a live in care provider to assist her and keep her
company.

The next day Clay called his lawyer and
explained the circumstances of him and his family being harassed
because of his friendship with Tony. The attorney felt it would be
a simple matter to convince the district attorney to rein the
police in; or face a lawsuit against the city for harassment.

In October Clay visited Tony before leaving
town for a week. A private investigator had located an
ex-accountant who was scheduled to testify against people in New
Jersey in a tax case. The man had been intimidated into testifying
about money being transferred to offshore accounts before taxes
were paid. The FBI witness protection program had relocated him to
Alabama and put him up in a small town near the swamps where he
could fish and golf all he wanted. A detailed account of his
routine made the job simple; two shots to the back of the head from
a silenced .32 caliber automatic while he was walking his dog in
the evening. While the dying body was in the throes of its death
dance another shot quieted the surprised dog when it started
barking and jumping up and down. Two more bullets made mush of the
turn coat’s brain and insured his death. The job was routine, but
since the FBI was involved the clients wanted to be certain the
hitter was capable of not leaving evidence behind. Seven days after
leaving Chicago he was back home with a truck load of antiques; and
more money to invest. The shop now had enough cash flow to absorb
the extra money and even his accountant didn’t have a clue as long
as he filtered it in slowly.

Two days after his return Clay stopped at the
bar to visit Tony and let him know the job had gone as planned.
But, Tony had his own news to share.

“I’m a pa pa! Adrianna had a baby boy last
week. She says he takes after her old man already; weighed eleven
pounds, nine ounces; twenty two inches long, and won’t let go of a
tit once he gets a hold on it.”

Clay had known about the pregnancy and tried
to grin while replying. “Congratulations, you old grandpa. Do you
feel any different?”

“I feel a hell of a lot older. Me, a grandpa,
can you imagine? Anthony Marshall Worthington they named him; after
me and his daddy. Hope he calls me Pawpaw. Anna’s out there now and
I’m flying out this weekend.”

“Say Hi to everyone for me,” was all Clay
could manage to say before waving and making his way out the back
entrance. He sat in his car in the parking lot thinking about
Adrianna and the baby before starting it. He had last slept with
her in January, shortly after Walter’s funeral. There was a strong
probability the child could be his; his and Adrianna’s son. He
could well be the father, not Marshall Worthington. She had
confided in him how Marshall wouldn’t touch her in bed until he had
a rubber in place; once he had spent ten minutes trying to find one
while she lay there alone until she got disgusted with him and
left. Clay was twenty nine years old and might finally have a
child. He had paid for two abortions in the last three years, not
knowing if the pregnancies were his or not; and not caring. Now he
was almost certain the child he did want was his, and he couldn’t
be a father to it.

The following weekend Clay had a family party
planned at his house. All of the invitees had been asked to show up
at two in the afternoon; two hours ahead of the time he had invited
his mother over.

A professional clown took Tom and Maria’s
children outside in the cool fall afternoon to entertain them in a
tent set up in the back yard. With the adult family members
gathered around he announced his proposal to hire a live in aide
for their mother; some one who could spend time with her everyday,
be there at night when she became frightened, keep the house clean
and see to her dietary needs. “I’ve spoken to her physiatrist and
she says Mom has serious depression and paranoia. She isn’t
responding to treatment at all. She thinks if Mom is left on her
own the paranoia will get more severe and she might become
suicidal. It’s either help at home or put her in a facility where
she gets around the clock care. I’ll hire a live in assistant if
the rest of you will provide some other things she’s going to
need.”

Walter Jr. was the first to speak up. “I
think Mom is just lonely since Dad died. Maybe if we each took
turns taking her in for a month or so she would be O.K.”

Lizzy jumped out of her chair, agreeing with
Clay, “No, we aren’t going to drag her around from one setting to
another monthly. Don’t you see Walter, Clay is gone for weeks at a
time, Maria lives up in Wisconsin, and she’ll do better in her own
home with her own possessions.”

“I think Clay has made a very generous
offer,” Maria chimed in, “but I think he shouldn’t have to shoulder
all of the cost. The rest of us can each afford to pay our fair
share.” Tom was sitting next to her and stated his agreement.

Walter frowned in resignation, “Well, I guess
this means I’m over ruled on the whole matter, but I’m not sure
we’ll be able to contribute. I’ve had some investments go bad
recently and business has fallen off. I’ll kick in what I can from
time to time, but we’ll have to see how much this person charges to
determine what we can afford to put up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clay cut in dryly.
“My offer still stands. I’ll take care of the salary for the lady
if the rest of you will see to it Mom gets surprise gifts and
visits from time to time, just to impress on her how much she means
to all of us.”

“OK, it’s a done deal,” cut in Lizzy. “If you
want help interviewing people Irish and I will be glad to
help.”

“Here comes the hard part. Mom isn’t going to
want to accept having a stranger living in her house,” said
Clay.

“Now,” Maria said while looking straight at
Walter, “is the time we all need to stick together to convince her
it’s the right thing, and we’re not backing down. And Walter don’t
you dare give her any support to continue living alone! And I don’t
believe your crap about your investments and your business being
bad; you’re just a tight wad and don’t want to pay your fair share
to provide for your own mother!”

It took three weeks to find a woman who was
acceptable to Clay, Lizzy, Irish and most important of all, to
Margaret. She finally agreed to the live in help when her
physiatrist demanded she listen to her children for her own good,
since she wasn’t showing signs of improvement.

Maria had the whole family at her and Tom’s
house for Thanksgiving, where Margaret commented she and her live
in, Rachel McCormick were becoming close friends. Clay was relieved
and began looking forward to Christmas with real joy. Everything
was right in his world.

A
t two in the
afternoon Tony and four of his friends were studying their cards,
and each other. Each player was trying to discern from the facial
expressions of the men around the table how strong a hand the
opponents might have. Three observers of the game sat in wooden
chairs against the back wall, watching the game or reading the
morning newspaper. Five men and one woman were tucked up against
the bar; a typical slow winter weekday afternoon. Most had placed
their coats on the rack mounted on the Gerson Street wall a short
time after they had come in out of the fresh three inch layer of
snow. Old snow had been on the ground for a week, since two days
before Thanksgiving Day. A lone man sat in a booth with his back
toward the main entrance door, staring intently in the direction of
the card game. He had entered shortly after noon and was on his
fifth glass of beer. A newspaper lay scattered on top of the table
and in the seat across from him, but he made no move to read it.
The old brown short leather jacket he wore had become too warm and
he had unzipped it, but kept it on.

Mickey had sat down across from the stranger
when he delivered the third beer and tried to strike up a
conversation. The man seemed depressed and let the bartender’s
attempt at conversation fall flat. He made no verbal replies,
merely shook his head yes or no, or shrugged as if to say he really
didn’t care one way or the other. Mickey was enough of an amateur
sociologist to know the man was hurting inside and needed help to
deal with what ever was bothering him. But the man obviously wasn’t
ready to open up to a stranger in a bar to discuss his problem.

Two of the men at the bar motioned for
refills of their whiskey, and when Mickey turned back around after
replacing the bottle, he noticed the booth was empty. The short,
thin, quiet man had moved to the end wall, standing alone, watching
the card game. Mickey served the drinks and got involved in a
discussion about lake fishing and occasionally glanced at the group
at the round table. Something wasn’t right! Excusing himself from
the fish stories Mickey moved to the middle of the bar to draw
three drafts. From the corner of his left eye he saw movement;
un-natural movement, fast, exaggerated and out of place. Then he
heard gasps from the table crowd as he turned fully to look in
their direction. His first glance focused on the man in the brown
leather coat. Then, he saw the pistols, one in each hand. Muzzle
blast erupted as both guns were being fired, loud sharp blast
interspersed with even louder large caliber shots. As quick as he
could respond Mickey took two steps to his left to reach under the
bar for the .45 caliber semi-automatic. Raising the gun, he saw
bodies falling out of chairs around the table, other men scrambling
away, going outside his field of vision; and then he felt the
recoil from his own gun. Once, twice, before he felt a hammer blow
to his chest as the assailant fired a single shot at him. The last
thing Mickey saw was Tony lying with his back on the floor with his
legs sliding off the frame of the overturned chair he had been
sitting in; and then Mickey crumpled in a dying heap behind the
bar.