Dark Sky (The Misadventures of Max Bowman Book 1) (21 page)

I recalled the tomahawk display case in The Barn, the handmade instruments of primitive death carefully preserved and under glass – the way fetish items for perverted killers should be. And I wondered if any women and children were involved in those “hatchet kills.” After all, Mr. Barry Filer had proudly proclaimed that Herman and Robert had cleaned out a few villages.

I turned off the laptop and turned on the TV with the sound down, so I didn’t wake up the kid. And then I watched infomercials about juicers and genie bras until dawn, the dawn of the day when I would be ending this fiasco once and for all.

When the kid finally woke up, we drove down to the Missoula airport and returned the rental, then we grabbed the next flight to Washington D.C., where, upon arrival, I rented my seventh and final car of this hell trip and drove it down to Virginia Beach. The voice at the gate intercom was a new one, a male voice. PMA told me it was the butler. I gave my name and he buzzed me in.

As I pulled in and parked in front of the General’s mansion, I noticed a few more vehicles parked on the roundabout driveway than there were previously. One of them had a little red cross on its bumper.  Uh oh.

Before I went in to face the latest fresh hell, I took care of some unfinished business. I turned to the kid and pulled out a few thousand dollar bills from the latest envelope from Mr. Barry Filer.

“Take this. You earned it.”

“They make thousand dollar bills?” PMA looked at the bills, and then looked at me in confusion. “You sure? That’s a lot of money.”

“The only reason I took it is so I could give you some.”

That was kind of a lie. I didn’t have any qualms about taking their blood money. It was a little less that would be left in their pot and more that would be in mine. That wasn’t going to make me lose any sleep.

The kid shrugged and took the money.

We got out of the car and walked over to the mansion. PMA opened the front door like he lived there, which he did, and I was once again in the Four Seasons lobby.

I yelled, “Hello?”

A minute later, Angela came downstairs in her bathrobe, the same bathrobe she was wearing the first time I met her. I resisted the urge to return some of the slaps she had applied to my face a few days ago and instead put all the violence in my glare. She ran over and hugged her boy, then turned to me.

“Hello,” she said quietly.

“Good afternoon and you knew the whole fucking time,” I replied.

She said nothing. I noticed she looked like hell, but I’m sure I wasn’t exactly radiating good health and vitality myself.

PMA looked at Angela in horror. “You knew what? That Uncle Robbie was alive? You knew the whole time?”

“We’ll talk about this later,” she said in an almost-whisper.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, giving the kid a look that indicated he should leave it all alone.

She led us upstairs, which was a surprise. I hadn’t been up there before. We got to the top and then walked down the hallway. She opened the door at the end of the hall.

And that’s when I saw this was not going to be over today.

General Davidson was in a hospital bed, attended by a few nurses. They had installed a whole hospital room set-up, the machines, the monitors, the IV, everything. The General was out like a light and didn’t look like he was about to wake up anytime soon. He made my paleness look like a Miami suntan.

“Oh my God,” said PMA with real sadness.

“We really shouldn’t be in here,” she whispered to me, “but I knew you wouldn’t believe me if you didn’t see it for yourself. He had a massive stroke the other night and he’s been in a coma ever since.”

“Prognosis?” I asked in a little shocked voice.

“They’re not sure…” She didn’t say more. She didn’t have to.

She and I went back downstairs, leaving the kid alone with his Grandpa on his probable death bed. She stopped when we got to the front door and turned to me again.

“I’m sorry…Robbie began calling me a few years ago. I hope you understand.”

I didn’t want to.

“I’m assuming you – or someone else - will contact me when the General is able to communicate. Then I’ll finish the job.”

She nodded and opened the front door. As I took a few steps towards the outside, she said softly, “You know, I really did like you.”

I turned back.

“Did? I’m not dead yet.”

She slowly shut the door.

I arrived back at Roosevelt Island Friday afternoon and not in a good state. Hungover and defeated, I realized just what it had cost me to leave my apartment and go to meet Mr. Barry Filer in that hotel lobby almost two weeks ago. The cost was discovering what was underneath the tips of a few very ugly icebergs.

For example, the all-American persona of General Davidson that the country worshipped. The immense darkness lurking underneath that persona was a narrow belief system and an ingrained intolerance that caused Robert Davidson to deny who he was and embrace a violence that wasn’t natural to him. Would Jeremy Davidson end up doing likewise?

Then there was Dark Sky, the unseen arm of the Pentagon, attempting to win wars without anyone in the country knowing how they were really being fought. Andrew Wright built his own, personal rogue branch of the military and then created the ultimate soldier to fight for it – his own son. Herman and Robert were crown princes, royalty expected to live up to their lineage. The former didn’t have a conscience to get in the way of that, the latter, unfortunately for him, did - no matter how hard he tried to destroy it.

Finally, there was me, dragging my own condemned past behind me like Marley’s chains, sitting in my apartment year after year avoiding any significant engagement with the human race or my own destiny, medicating the pain by sheer denial of its existence. Wright had shoved my worst failures in my face, forcing me to look at them for the first time in years - the son that was lost in Allison’s abortion and the grandson that was tossed away by my daughter. Because I had broken up a marriage that was bad to begin with and because I couldn’t find a way to heal my daughter’s heart in the aftermath, I was considered a double murderer. That was what they all believed - and that was what I was afraid was true.

I hated myself and I hated the world too much at that moment to face anyone – which was why I couldn’t call Jules when I returned to my apartment on Friday. Instead, after I took the tram over to the city and deposited my blood money into my bank account, I walked over to T-Mobile and finally got a replacement for my original iPhone. Then I texted Jules on the way home and pretended I was still out of town. I wrote that everything was okay and resolved, and to send me the information about her surgery, and that I would definitely be there to pick her up afterwards.

In the meantime, I would be incommunicado. I would explain everything later.

Instead of receiving a profanity-laced reply, I received a text containing only information – I was to pick her up at three p.m. Tuesday at her doctor’s office in Midtown, it was an outpatient procedure. She didn’t call me a dickhead without a dick, or some other charming and obscene slur in all caps. That meant she knew I was up to my neck in it and didn’t want to bother me - or she was incredibly pissed but still needed my help.

I almost cried while I wondered which one it was.

I finally got back to the island around dinner time. I was standing in the hallway, unlocking the door to my apartment, when somebody emerged from what had been Leg Sore Larry’s door. I had already noticed that all the Scarlett Johansson pictures were gone, even though you could still see where the tape had taken off some of the paint – but I had no clue somebody had actually moved in so quickly.

The new neighbor was tall and musclebound, maybe early thirties, with red close-cut hair and a scar or two on his forehead. He was wearing a tank top and sweat pants and he seemed vaguely threatening, even though he was trying his best to give me a neighborly grin.

Of course, something was wrong with this picture. Leg Sore Larry had only been dead for a week and a half – and somebody new was in the apartment? Wouldn’t it take a month of constant Lysol treatments to just make the place fit for human habitation? Now I had to wonder if Larry’s demise was perhaps engineered. Could you be too paranoid? I didn’t think so.

“The name’s Skip,” he said, offering a hand. “Skip Skipperson.”

“Skip Skipperson?”

“Real first name is Mike. ‘Skip’ is a nickname.”

“Figured.” I shook his hand. “Can’t believe they moved you in here so fast. Where you hail from?”

“Here and there. Were you on a trip?”

I looked him over. “Just a long lunch.” Then I took a glance out the hall window at a small storm that was gathering. “A real dark sky out there, huh?”

I came back and met his eyes just to find out what being too cute would get me.

“Yeah,” he said. “Very dark sky.” And his eyes never left mine.

I opened my door and said “Nice to meet you,” then I slammed it behind me and went down the flight of stairs into the apartment. I walked around opening a few windows to get some air circulating, because what was around was stale and humid.

For the next few days, I drank. It wasn’t enough for me to call it a bender, but I was mildly pickled the whole time. I had a few delivery sandwiches and not much else, while I watched baseball and the news, where I learned there was some kind of tropical depression forming in the Atlantic around Jamaica that showed signs of being something serious. I didn’t see how it could be all that serious, I knew from my couple of years in Miami that hurricane season didn’t even start for a few weeks. But television reporting was all about making everything as dramatic as possible, which is why I wasn’t about to buy their Chicken Little act this time around.

Tuesday morning.

I showered and shaved for the first time in a couple days and checked the news, because Chicken Little was screaming louder than ever. The meteorologists had a giant storm-watch hard on, the bottom line being that the former tropical depression, which had since morphed into a full-on hurricane, just might hit Jersey again the way Sandy did in November of 2012. And if it did, it would probably be tomorrow evening.

And, by the way, its name was “Mel.”

I don’t know who was in charge of naming these things, but it was going to be hard to get people to get scared of something named Mel. It was like nicknaming the Apocalypse “Cuddles.”

In any event, I headed over to Jules’ doctor’s office to pick up the patient. I had texted her earlier that I would be there as promised, so she didn’t worry. She texted back a simple, “k,” which again worried me that World War III was right around the corner. I got there a few minutes early, so, as an act of good faith, I started a few new Words with Friends games with Jules’ unattended phone and then waited.

Finally, the doctor led her out. She was wearing a simple black dress and flats and looked good. She was the first nice thing I had seen in a while.

“Are you Max?” the doc asked. I nodded. She came over and hugged me and held on for a while, and I didn’t mind at all.

“Julie’s pretty much out of the anesthetic, but maybe still a little groggy. She’s been told about a million times – but I’ll tell you too – she is to do NO talking until she comes back for her follow-up visit this coming Monday. She should drink a great deal of water – no caffeine, no alcohol.”

She made a frowny face at that last instruction. The doctor turned to her.

“Julie, you have the reflux medication? Remember, you need to take that every day.”

She pulled it out of her purse and showed it to the MD like she was his star student.

“Okay, if there’s any severe pain or discomfort, you let Max know, Max, you call me and get her back in here. All clear?”

She nodded. I nodded. We got the hell out of there.

I didn’t want to subject her to the subway in her condition, besides, it was too far a walk to the F train, so I grabbed us a cab and told the driver to take us to 2
nd
and 60
th
, where the tram station was. Inside the cab, she put her head on my shoulder. She was still a little sleepy. At one point, she made a little heart symbol with her two thumbs and forefingers and gave me a questioning look. I gave her the finger, and she knew everything was okay. She put her head on my shoulder again.

As we got off the tram, we caught the little red bus that traveled the length of the island and back again. I had been avoiding the thing for years, but, again, I didn’t want to make Jules walk. I caught her looking at me, studying me as if she knew something bad had happened to me. I wanted to save it all until we got back to the apartment.

However, as I helped her off the bus in front of my building, I saw, sitting on the bench inside the small glass-encased area that was between the entry door and the inner security door, someone who was going to delay our catching up with each other.

PMA.

With the new carry-on I had bought him on the ground next to him.

Jules saw my reaction and looked back and forth between PMA behind the glass wall and my face with a look of pure WTF. I opened the entrance door.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. I should have been happy to see the kid, but I wasn’t happy to be reminded of anything that had happened while I was with him.

“Sorry, Max…I…is this Julie?” he asked.

She nodded in a big cartoonish way.

“She just had the surgery,” I explained. “She can’t talk for a few days.” I turned to Jules. “This is Jeremy, but I call him ‘PMA.”

“Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand and she shook it.

I looked around to make sure Skip Skipperson or anyone else questionable wasn’t watching us, then I unlocked the security door and got everybody to the elevator. We were the only ones in there, so PMA told me how he lit into Angela about lying to him, not to mention me. She claimed she didn’t know about any of this Dark Sky business, just that Robbie was working for some private military organization and wanted her to make sure the General didn’t find out he was still alive. According to her, Robert just needed to talk to somebody, he thought he was losing his mind being so isolated and confined to that Montana base. For her part, she was worried about him staying there, but more worried about what would happen if he got out.

Jules had a hard time following the conversation.

We got back to my apartment. I got Jules a glass of ice water and put her in my bedroom with the TV tuned to HGTV. I had a hunch she’d be asleep in about three minutes. Then I came back out to the living room to talk to the kid.

The General wasn’t improving, he said. But he couldn’t stay in that house anymore, not with everything he knew, not with a mother who was complicit in this whole deception. He was wondering if he could crash with me for a few days. I told him he was welcome to use the queen bed in my office – but he should know I was being watched. I told him about Skip Skipperson and he knew enough to be as paranoid as me.

“Max, it’s like I said, we need to fucking do something about all this,” PMA said.

“Why don’t you write a letter to the Times?” I asked, shutting down the discussion.

A little later, as the kid and I were watching the bombastic hysteria over the approach of Hurricane Mel, Jules came out wearing my bathrobe and texting with her phone. My phone buzzed and I read her message as she pointed to PMA.

HE’S CUTE – CAN WE KEEP HIM?

“I still haven’t agreed to the dog,” I answered. She sat down next to me on the couch and kept the text talk going.

             
WHO IS HE

“He’s the grandson of General Donald Davidson.”

Her eyes went wide open.

“Yes, THE General Donald Davidson. His uncle, who’s supposed to be dead, is actually alive in Montana with half a face. It’s pretty fucked up.”

PMA turned to Jules. “Max is a good guy,” the kid said, warming the cockles of my heart. “He got us through a lot. You’re lucky you have a guy like this.”

             
NOW WE FUCKING HAVE TO KEEP HIM

I shook my head. She texted again.

MAX CAN YOU FUCK ME NOW IT’S BEEN DRY DOWN THERE FOR TOO GODDAM LONG

That message wasn’t for the family, so I didn’t read it out loud. I just got up, excused myself and escorted Jules to the master bedroom. After she did that thing she did with her vagina and I laid there enjoying the memory, she motioned excitedly to my ancient clock-radio and I didn’t know why.

“What, it’s ten after seven, that why you’re pointing? What, you want to get some dinner in here?”

She shook her head and grabbed her purse from the chair next to her side of the bed. And she pulled out a CD with no label.

“You want me to play that?” I asked. Then I remembered – oh yeah, that ancient clock-radio had a CD player built into the top. I put the disc in and waited to see if the thing still worked.

A beautiful voice began singing
Moonlight in Vermont.
I listened for a minute or two.

Then I looked at her questioningly.

She nodded and pointed to herself.

I couldn’t believe it. “That’s you? Holy shit, really?”

She nodded vigorously. I was starting to think I had just fucked Marcel Marceau, because she was becoming a very talented mime.

“I didn’t even know you had a CD of yourself. How come you never played it for me before?”

She shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. Julie Nelson, shy? A new one.