Die Back Page 2

  Time to get to work.

  Placing the gun’s muzzle over Kwan’s heart, he fired. For a brief moment Kwan’s consciousness rose to the surface, filled with the panic of a man who had no idea of where he was, how he got there, or why a gaping hole gushed crimson blood all over him and the dash of his car. His last awareness, a consciousness not his own whispering by, as his own life sputtered to darkness.

  Café da Vinci

  Thomas' son, Addison Shaw, stood outside the office of his father's attorney, Jack Debbs. Between his father dying in a freak accident, the funeral, and now having read the will, he had the sensation of being repeatedly kicked in the stomach. Still strong, but not as athletic as he'd been when playing soccer and baseball his first two years of college, the weight of his grief and a dull ache in his leg made his twenty-two-year old body older, more world-weary. He limped away, his cane tapping the sidewalk in rhythm with his steps. He needed the cane to navigate the world, but it also never failed to remind him of Beth, the woman he loved, then killed, when he rolled the car that also crushed his knee. Everyone thinks I should be happy to be alive. Both my parents are dead and Beth won't be happy about anything—ever again.

  The cold gnawed at his knee, counteracting the numbing effect of the attorney's words. Between the money from his father's life insurance payout and the house, Addison guessed he should feel happy. But he felt more like a kid whose dad comes back from an Orlando business trip with a stinking Micky Mouse tee shirt as a present. Sure, the shirt's cool, but the kid would rather have the time with his dad.

  Crossing Market Street, he stepped toward an older woman draped with a dirty navy blue and lime green Seahawks blanket. She mumbled to each person passing by. Annie had been panhandling this corner for years, at least since Addison had been in high school. More than once he had fended off the abusive stranger or the teasing classmate. He reached into his pocket for a five-dollar bill, folding her fingers over the money with his hand. She had the sour smell of someone living on the street. “Do me a favor, Annie. Use this for a meal. Okay?”

  She gazed up to him, her brown eyes filled with the crazed terror of her drug habit. “Here today, gone tomorrow. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

  “You’re okay, Annie. You’re here.”

  Annie bared her yellowed, rotting teeth, spitting out the words. “Here today…”

  “Yes, that’s right. Here today, Annie. You take care of yourself.”

  She shifted her eyes to the pavement, the fiver in her fist, shaking her head back and forth. “Gone tomorrow. Here today, gone tomorrow. Here today, gone tomorrow…”

  A few more steps down the sidewalk and he stood at the door of Cafe da Vinci, but changed his mind. Sitting by a window, sipping a latte in a cafe, would be making today too much like past days. No, today needed to be unique. Not normal.

  Before he could move past the open door, a familiar voice called out. "Addison? That you, mon cher?"

  Nicole Babineaux, Nikki, a friend since Addison was a college freshman, stood at the front counter. They met four years ago when she interviewed his father at the house about his genealogy work for a graduate research project. To his surprise, after the interview, she invited him to the cafe for a free hot chocolate. In those days, her short cropped blond hair had a streak of purple. Her slender, elegant form reminded him of the women he'd seen on his mom's fashion magazine covers. Beautiful and beyond reach. He recalled questioning why a twenty-five-year old grad student with a hint of a French accent wanted to spend time with him. But when a girl like Nikki wants you around, what idiot says no?

  Over the years his initial crush evolved. She dated guys, but always made time for him in her day. Even after the accident, which left him hobbling around with a cane, she stuck by him. In the last two years they had grown closer, confiding in each other, laughing at each other's jokes, sharing silence over a latte. She had become like an older sister.

  Nikki motioned with a wave of her hand for Addison to come in. The funeral yesterday, and meeting the attorney today, had left him empty, alone. He needed a friend, to be connected, and at the same time he wanted solitude, to settle into a dark corner and somehow come to terms with the finality of his father's death. But Nikki insisted. She waved and smiled as Addison hobbled in, his mind all the time willing him to reverse each step.

  "Hey mon cher, you weren't really trying to slip by Nikki without a word were you?"

  Besides referring to him as 'mon cher', which still melted him on the spot, she always had an annoying sixth sense. Being near her now was like standing in one of those body scanners at the airport, only she screened for the darkness in his soul. He tried to look relaxed, but he'd avoided her at the funeral for this very reason.

  "You have time for this, Nikki?"

  She looked around the cafe, empty except for one would-be novelist hammering out his next manuscript.

  "I think they can spare me for a few minutes. Can I whip something up for you? A latte? It's on the house."

  The gloomy sadness of it all and the damn Seattle weather had left Addison's head and leg aching. Maybe some caffeine would help.

  "Sure. A latte'd be great."

  Nikki made his drink, and let her fellow barista know she was taking a break prior to joining Addison at a table.

  "How've you been, Addison? You ducked out of the funeral pretty fast and I haven't seen you since."

  Addison took a sip of his latte, which Nikki had crafted with an intricate Gordian Knot pattern on the creamy tan froth. "Yeah, just needed some space."

  "Yeah, copacetíc." She made her favorite word, copacetic, seem very French and exotic with an accent on the last syllable. She cocked her head, her brow furrowed with concern. "You do look like hell."

  "Thanks, Nikki. Any other encouraging words?"

  "Sorry, mon chou. Didn't mean it that way. I'm just worried about you, alone, knocking around in that big old house. You want to stay with me for a few days? My digs aren't exactly luxurious, but I've got wifi and a spare bedroom."

  "No, I'm okay." He stared off into the distance. "Have to get used to this being alone thing sooner or later."

  She reached across the table putting a hand on Addison's arm. "Sorry about Thomas. He was one of the good guys."

  "Yeah, he liked you too."

  Tears welled in her eyes. "Yes, it was…mutual." She looked away, and back to him. Addison sensed there was something beyond friendship fueling her grief for his father. Were they…together? He pushed the errant thought out of his mind.

  She sniffed, wiping a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "I wish I could have been there to keep you from going through all this."

  "There's nothing you could have done."

  "I don't know." She sighed, staring out the window in thought. "I had a feeling…"

  "A dream or something?"

  "What?" His words pulled her back. "Yeah." She laughed nervously. "If only…"

  "It's just a dream, Nikki. You couldn't have done anything."

  "Yeah, you're right." She smiled sadly. "Just a silly dream."

  “You and my dad…” What am I doing? It’s none of my business.

  “What, mon chou?”

  He hesitated, but curiosity had taken hold. “You weren't…you know…?"

  She sat up, swallowing as if keeping down some secret. "No, no. Addison…why do you ask?"

  "We're both grieving, but your sadness seems, I don't know, deeper, as if—"

  "He was special to me, of course. He was special to many." Nikki leaned back, her face etched with sadness. "How'd it go with the attorney?"

  "Fine. Dad gave me everything. Life insurance, investments, the house, even his old Citroën." He reached into a pocket pulling out a white envelope, 'Addison Shaw' written in blue ink across the back. "He left me this, too." He laid it on the table.

  She glanced at the envelope, and back at Addison. "Have you read it?"

  He traced his name with a finger. "No, not yet."

>   "If you want company…"

  He picked the letter up, putting it back in his pocket. "No, but thanks. I think maybe when I get home. You know, when I'm alone."

  "I know you want to be alone with your thoughts, but a letter like that…you need a friend."

  "I don't know, Nikki."

  "Let me be there with you. A shoulder to cry on. Promise me you'll wait until we can read it together."

  She seemed intent and he didn't have much resistance left to offer. He nodded. She looked around as if searching for words floating in the air. "Sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine." He stared into his cup. "It's just…"

  "What?"

  "He fell down the basement stairs and broke his neck."

  Nikki sipped her latte, then centered the mug on a small cocktail napkin. "I know. It's…horrible."

  "Don't you see? Dad ran marathons, skied cross-country, even did some rock climbing. How does a guy in his forties who balances on cliff faces fall down a flight of stairs? It doesn't make sense."

  Nikki took a deep breath, and exhaled. "Can't imagine what you're going through here, but I've got your back."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "I mean it. I'm here for you, mon cher. Okay?"

  "Yeah. I guess you're the only person left who really knows me." Addison pushed away from the table. "I better get going. See ya around, Nikki."

  He stood, hooking his cane under the table leg. Losing his balance, his shoulder slammed into a wall mirror hanging next to the table. The framed mirror dropped with a crash, followed by an explosion of glass across the floor.

  "Dammit!"

  Nikki rose, grabbing Addison's arm to steady him. "Whoa, there. You okay?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about the mirror. I'll pay for it." He leaned over to pick up some of the larger shards.

  "I've got this. And your money's no good here."

  "I think a grad school barista has about as much money as an unemployed college dropout. I may have just given myself seven years of bad luck, but I guess I now have an inheritance to pay for damages."

  She put a hand on Addison's shoulders. "No worries, mon chou. Employee discount and all that. Now, get out of here." Letting go of Addison, she swept glass fragments into a loose pile with her foot. "Don't let this get in your head."

  "About breaking mirrors?"

  "Yeah. It's just glass. People like us, we make our own luck."

  Addison watched his friend clean up another of his messes.

  Nikki paused from her sweeping. "Attaching luck to a broken mirror's a lame superstition anyway. Take care of yourself, Addison."

  He opened the cafe door, giving Nikki a half-hearted smile. "Right." Addison nodded to the shattered glass. "I suppose things can only get better."

  Nikki mumbled something about "seven years" as the door closed behind him.

  Bequeathed

  Returning home, Addison limped into the study. Leaning his cane against the wall, he eased himself into a chair. Being an only child he had inherited the house, its contents, even his father's old car. Owning the house meant he didn't have to move, but with his bum leg and the car's stiff clutch, he knew the Citroën wouldn't be leaving the driveway anytime soon.

  His father's absence seemed oddly normal, like one of his many business trips. Only this time, Addison knew he'd never come home. He kept seeing him pass by—a man driving a car, or the back of a head in a crowd, thinking it was him, wanting to call out, before remembering. Dad's gone. Forever. A part of him expected his father to walk through the door at any moment. But he knew he'd never hear the baritone voice, feel the warmth of his embrace, smell the scent of spice that followed his father around.

  He reached into the outside pocket of his jacket for the crinkled envelope the lawyer had given him during the reading of the will. Smoothing it on the desk, he stared at what he knew contained his father's last words to him. He had promised Nikki he'd wait, but his curiosity pulled him forward. Slipping an index finger through the fold, he forced the envelope open. A small brass key fell out, clattering across the desk. Unfolding the letter, he recognized the sweep of his father's handwriting, scribed in blue ink with a fountain pen.

  My Dear Addison,

  If you are reading this letter, then I am dead and you are called to a great task. I have guarded a secret with my life, and in my death, I must pass this sacred duty on to you. The details of our charge cannot be shared in this letter, but a colleague of mine will be in touch at the appropriate time to explain everything. The enclosed key unlocks the crypt where Chronos lies beneath what is valued most—a treasure beyond your imaginings. I love you son,

  Thomas Shaw

  He put the letter down, pondering his father's mysterious words. What does he mean, a sacred duty? And a hidden crypt? He looked back over his father's familiar handwriting, the energetic sweep of his signature. Whatever he's talking about, I'd give it all away to have him back. According to the letter, someone would be in contact, but who? A treasure beyond your imaginings?

  The only line in the letter he understood involved Chronos. He knew exactly where to look. Going into the kitchen he found a toolbox in the pantry used for small jobs around the house. With a claw hammer in one hand, his cane under his arm and his other hand clasping the railing, he climbed the stairs to a landing. Opening the attic door, he took three more stairs to enter a dark room, floorboards creaking under his feet. In the blackness something brushed across his face. What the… He jumped, his heart pounding.

  Light cord. Damn.

  He pulled the cord, the room filling with a harsh light. Boxes, crates, and trunks were stacked in piles on unfinished floor boards, now gray and warped with time. Shadows danced in silence to the rhythm of the swinging light bulb. Overhead, branches scraped against the roof. He hadn't been here since middle school, but he knew by heart the location of his secret stash of comics. He walked north, counting three rafters from the far north end. Where the rafter met the floorboard, he counted five boards, one held in place with shiny new nails. With some effort, he slipped the claw between the last two boards, rocking back and forth, as the nails laid down only recently released their grip. Pulling up the floorboards a green clad Chronos, a DC villain/hero, stood defiant on the cover of the number one issue, along with issues of Spiderman and Batman. He lifted the stack of comics, uncovering a brown leather box the size of a thick telephone book. Holding it to the light revealed a symbol tooled into the leather— a quill centered within an oddly shaped hexagram—almost like two intersecting arrowheads. Is this some kind of Masonic thing? He inserted the small key from his father's letter into the lock. Turning, the key initially met resistance until tumblers released.

  …within lies a treasure beyond your imaginings.

  Lifting the lid, a glint of something blue caught his eye. He swung the lid completely open, laying bare the box's contents. Time stopped as he connected his father's words to what appeared to be a small wand made of polished silver, amber and brass.

  A treasure beyond my imaginings. Right. A magic wand.

  One of his father's inspired jokes. A last tweak for his son. A mournful laugh rose from his chest, realizing his father, as he had done throughout Addison's childhood, had managed to draw him into one last adventure, even from the grave. Laughter possessed his body, wave after wave rolling over him like great tsunamis, shifting to darkness, as each wave rushed back out to sea, leaving emptiness behind, exposing what had been lost, what no longer existed, until he sat before the box in tears.

  Wiping his eyes, he reached into the box, lifting the cylindrical object from its nest of black velvet. On closer inspection, the wand was a writing instrument—a pen. It sat heavily in his hand, belying a greater mass than met the eye. Symbols covered the solid brass cap. Four triangles, two pointing up, two down, and one of each bisected by a horizontal line. A word, Φοινιξ had been engraved in an ornate script along one side of the pen's barrel. Greek? And on the other side, in Latin, renasce
ntia. The remainder of the barrel consisted of a silver filigree over brass inlaid with translucent amber, the silver flowing between and among the amber like a mountain stream flowing through stones.

  He removed the cap. The pen's gold nib appeared worn though usable, the symbol of a quill pen centered within a circle engraved on its face. Addison had no idea what he held, but the instrument had to be a rare antique, something his father prized.

  A treasure beyond your imaginings.

  Under the pen he found a small, yellowed note.

  Welcome to the League. You, my son, are an Inker by calling, the rightful possessor of a powerful and dangerous instrument passed down through generations. I am sorry I could not give you this charge in my lifetime, but we will talk again soon. Until then, keep the box hidden and its contents safe. I know you will be faithful to this task, but you must also know that if you falter, hell will break loose and destroy us all. You are up to the challenge, so I won't wish you good luck. Rather, I hope along with success, you will also find peace in the midst of chaos.

  He pondered the note's mysterious words. The treasure must be the antique pen, but what's the League? What does he mean, 'we will talk again'? Some kind of séance with the dead? And what's this about 'an Inker by calling'? He wants me to be a tattoo artist? The pen must be worth a fortune if his father equated losing it with hell breaking loose. Dad isn't one for melodrama, so what does he mean? Addison had hoped finding the box would clarify the mystery, but instead, he had more questions than answers.

  After returning the comics to their hiding place, he carried the pen and its box to the study where he placed it to one side of the desk. He collapsed into the chair, spent with grief, but relieved to have a diversion. His cell phone broke the silence, ringing with an unknown number. Usually he let unlisted numbers go to voicemail, but tapped his phone without thinking.

  "Addison?" A woman's voice. "Addison Shaw?"