The Achilles Heel (10 page)

“I know this pier!” I bellowed.

Jack and I spent our honeymoon in St. Croix in the U.S Virgin Islands and successfully
tested for our Advanced Diving Certification while on vacation. We did five dives
over a two week period; the ship wreck was Jack’s favorite, but the pier left the
biggest impression on me. We talked about our experience for months afterwards.

My heart raced.

Next, I inspected the two generic looking black books. I flipped through the first
one, and on the top line of the first page were a series of handwritten letters followed
by numbers, but they meant nothing to me. The second book appeared to be a passport
without any stamps in it, and when turning to the front page to see who it belonged
to, my heart stopped. The person I saw was me. Well, it was almost me; my face, but
someone else’s name. Andrea Bozeman from Lincoln, Nebraska smiled back at me, and
she looked like she wanted to talk, but that would be just too damn easy. In the bottom
of the box there was one last item, and it was the cherry; another small manila envelope
holding a key.

My head began spinning and surely, the centrifugal force would pop it right off my
neck. I felt like I had just taken ten shots of Rumpleminz at the Fieldhouse bar.
I quickly plopped down on the kitchen floor. Paranoia began to set in, and I needed
to be in control of
something
or the compass of reality would be lost here in my kitchen.

I hadn’t been running in four months-hadn’t done much of anything-and suddenly felt
an overwhelming need to feel the autumn air rush past my face and sting the tip of
my nose while whistling an organic tune in my ears. What I needed the most was clarity.

Running became a part of my life in my late twenties, and I’d even done a few half
marathons; a full was on my bucket list. It’s a love/hate relationship though, always
hating the first few miles, even when I’m in shape they seem to be endless, but after
working through mile three, I could go to Virginia and back. Something in the rhythm
of my feet and the sound of my breath allotted tunnel vision, and the sounds of the
city no longer existed-only clear, concise thoughts. Psychological therapy can run
upwards of two hundred dollars an hour; running will only cost you a pair of shoes.

I need to run.

I slipped on my favorite neon yellow Nike’s, walked out the front door and took off.
My high hopes of certainty were short-lived after only making it a mile and a half.
As I turned around and started to walk home, my only thoughts were of the stabbing
pains coursing through my mid-section like fire ants on a march. Peace and clarity
had eluded me once again, along with any answers to the question, “
What the hell do I do next?”

ANNIE

S
urprisingly, it only took a few weeks before I was running five miles at a time, four
days a week. Control was a tool I consistently lacked on a daily basis. Deciding to
quit or push on during a run was totally up to me; I was in control. It doesn’t seem
like much, I certainly wasn’t conquering the world, but the old saying, “If you’re
going through hell, keep on going,” seemed to embody my life, and linking the miles
together one by one were small victories for me.

I finally organized my house, although Jack’s personals were still untouched as I
continued to clean around them; his ties hanging on a coat rack, his Rolex on the
nightstand. However, I seemed to notice his things more and more, and the voice of
serenity inside my head began to speak louder when it came to boxing his belongings
and moving on with my life, but denial was still a warm blanket I liked to snuggle
with at night. An attempt was made to clean myself up, but I wasn’t ready to let go
of the drinking yet, vodka was snuggly, too. The discovery of the lockbox was kept
secret until I made some sense of the contents. The thought to call Officer Grady
for his assistance crossed my mind, but from the first moment my life was turned up-side
down almost five months ago, I was only certain about two things. Having an illegal
passport in my possession was a felony, and a plan was laid out for me; I just had
to put the pieces together.

After an overcast fall morning run, I came inside to an unfamiliar voice leaving a
message on my answering machine.

“Hello? Annie, are you home?” the voice whispered.

I tried to pick up, but am the first to admit I suck at technology, even a simple
answering machine usually has the upper hand on me.

“Hello? Hello? Damn it!” I yelled into the phone, while frantically pressing random
buttons.

After a long and annoying beep she said, “Annie, is that you? Are you there?”

“Yes, this is Annie. Who’s calling, please?” I replied.

“It’s Gail Adams, Annie. Listen, I know our last conversation ended terribly,” she
started.

“Gail, I can barely understand you. Why are you whispering?” I asked.

“Just listen! Something is going on in the Whitman Capital Funds office. Jamie has
been in there for the last hour completely trashing the place, and I don’t know if
I should call the cops or what, but I have some information that concerns you.” she
said, still whispering.

With Jamie’s increasing shadiness and reluctance towards me, I knew confronting him
in the office would turn out to be a poor decision on my part, but I was positive
Gail should get the hell out of there.

“Don’t call the police; I don’t want any trouble from him. Can you meet me somewhere?”
I asked.

“Yes, of course. I was hoping you’d ask!” she exclaimed.

“Okay, meet me at Willie’s downtown, Fifteenth and Grand, in thirty minutes. Gail,
get out of that building, and don’t let Jamie know you were there!” I begged her.

“I’ll be there,” she whispered, and then hung up.

I ran to the bathroom for a quick shower, long enough to rinse the sweat off, then
put on my most comfortable skinny jeans, an oversized cashmere sweater, my favorite
Frye boots, circa 1999, and headed out the door.

Willie’s is a classic Kansas City sports bar with exposed brick walls, neon lights
emitting an emerald hue, amazing hot wings and plasma screen televisions hanging on
every inch of available wall space. It’s my favorite pub downtown and usually so crowded
that no one would ever give us a second look. Ten years ago Kansas City made a contracted
effort to rebuild downtown. A private company bought a slew of buildings, renovated
them-restaurants and boutiques on the bottom floor, condos and loft’s on top; they
named it The Power and Light District. To make the area stand out from Westport and
the Plaza, they added some great design features-like old school lanterns, cobblestone
streets, string lights that crisscrossed the street from one side to the other, and
beautifully arched windows. When walking through the district, you truly feel as if
you are in another country with a nineteenth century twist. Jack and I often met our
friends at Willie’s to watch Mizzou football games on Saturday and Chiefs’ games on
Sunday but I hadn’t been back there in a while, and it felt strange going without
him.

Arriving first, I picked a tall table in the corner under a buzzing neon sign and
ordered a beer. I didn’t really want one, but knew the waitress wasn’t working for
fun, and didn’t want to piss her off by taking up a table without spending any money.
My days of waitressing were still crystalline. The only thing worse than someone who
didn’t buy anything, was someone who paid their tab with a wad of cash, and then didn’t
leave a tip. Once you work on the employee end of food service, it makes you a humble
customer for life.

Gail walked through the heavy wooden doors a hot mess. I waved her over. Her mass
of red hair looked like an angry wasp nest, she completely missed outlining her lips
with the lipstick, and her hands were shaking so much she could hardly hang her purse
over the back of her chair. She sat down with a thud, closed her eyes and stuck her
hand straight up in the air.

“What are you doing with your hand?” I asked, somewhat confused.

“I need a drink, and if I hold my hand up long enough, the waitress will come over,”
she explained.

“Fair enough,” I said, as the waitress immediately stopped at our table, her arms
filled with beer bottles, as she took down Gail’s dirty martini order.

Gail gulped her martini down in two swallows, quite impressive actually, and then
stuck her hand right back up in the air as if she was back in high school with yet
another question for the teacher. The waitress just nodded, and when Gail was satisfied
another drink was on the way, she focused her attention on me.

“Annie, let me tell you about my morning. I’ve gone into work on Saturday mornings
since my agency started; I’m always the only one in my office and usually the only
one in the entire building. The quiet keeps me focused, and I usually bang out twice
the work in half the time of a regular work day,” she said as she took a sip of her
second drink.

“I got there about 8:30 a.m. and started on my usual routine; nothing out of the ordinary.
I worked my standard four hours and began to pack up when I heard loud banging; it
sounded like a filing cabinet being opened then slammed shut over and over again.
I was glad to be leaving because it was extremely annoying, but then the walls rattled
when a powerful
boom
went off, made me jump up right out of my chair. Now it gets strange. Jamie was clearly
having a heated discussion with someone on the phone. I knew it was him because our
offices sit next to each other and are connected by the same air vent. I’ve heard
him talking before, and Jack has given me a tour of their office space, so I’m familiar
with the layout.” She paused for another sip and took out a sheet of scratch paper.
“This is exactly what he said; I wrote it down so there were no mistakes.”

“No, it’s not here! I’ve looked everywhere; tore the whole fucking office apart and
made it look like a break-in. Don’t worry, she doesn’t know anything. I keep tabs
on her through my wife, and she would have mentioned a large sum of money. Please,
I need more time to finish the job! Yes, I know what I have to do. Once again, Jack
really fucked things up, and Annie’s going to have to pay his debt.”

“After I finished writing,” Gail continued, “I grabbed my bag and took off. I hid
in front of the brick column, peeked in the glass double doors of his office and saw
the disaster; a real shit storm. Papers all over the floor, every door and desk drawer
open, a filing cabinet laying on its side, and Jamie standing in the middle of it
all.”

I’m all too familiar with the repulsive feeling that began to swirl inside of me;
a fake passport with my picture on it buried in my basement, a doctor telling me I
have a dead baby, a cop telling me I have a dead husband and a friend telling me I
might be next. I just sat there and stared at Gail. I couldn’t begin to form words,
because I had none.

Gail broke the silence. “I can’t begin to understand how you’re feeling right now,
but it sounds like you’re in trouble. You need a plan, Annie. Do you think it’s safe
to go back to your house tonight?”

Butchering my words and trying to form a sentence, “I don’t know,” was all that came
out.

“Why don’t you come home with me tonight? I have a comfortable guest room; you’ll
be somewhere safe. We can stop by your house to get whatever you might need. Come
on, I’ll drive,” she offered.

ANNIE

W
e pulled into the driveway of a modest home in a lovely neighborhood, and I was really
very grateful to Gail for taking such an interest in my well-being, especially since
the last time we met, I’d caused a public scene and fired her in a crowd of people.
When we stopped at my house for some over-night personals, I decided to take a chance
and grab the metal box. Gail’s an astute woman, who passed along some very valuable
information concerning me, and she’s far removed from the gossiping ladies of the
south-side; solid motives in trusting her.

“Let me give you some space to put your things away, and please, make yourself at
home. I’ll brew some coffee in case you’re interested in a cup,” she said.

“You’re a busy woman; I don’t want to be a bother or intrude into your life too much,
and yes, I would love a cup,” I said, thanking her and grabbing my bag to move into
the guest room.

“Oh please, today’s events were the most excitement I’ve experienced in a long time,”
she said as she led me down the narrow hallway. “It’s been years since I had a sleepover.
Besides, I work too hard and don’t get enough girl time. Believe me, you’re the one
doing me a favor,” she assured me.

I returned to find Gail’s kitchen transformed into a tiny Starbucks as she busied
herself with brewing espresso, steaming milk and making the prettiest cup of homemade
coffee I’d ever seen.

“It’s a gift; I was blessed with barista’s hands,” she said with a smile as she stretched
out on the couch and covered her toes with a blanket.

“I’d like to explain this situation to you, and I’m open to any advice you might have
for me,” I said.

“I’m all ears; I love a good mystery,” she answered.

Starting from the beginning, when Officer Grady knocked at my door on that god-awful
day, I recited every detail‌—‌each moment still blisteringly raw.

“Hold on,” she interrupted, as she ran into her home office and came back with two
large dry erase boards, one in each hand. She propped them up against the living room
wall and started a list on one board and boxes on the other; the box on top had Jack’s
name on it and underneath was my box.

“Okay, ready,” she said.

I told my story to the best of my recollection; everything up until tonight, and as
I talked, she scribbled short hand abbreviations on one board, names with boxes on
the other. It all looked very official, and I can’t believe I hadn’t thought to do
the same thing.