Blind Luck (3 page)

“Hell, let’s make it an ice cream cake then. I’ll teach you how to celebrate before the day’s done.”

He honked the horn again and poked Dave under the armpit in his most ticklish spot. Dave tried to look angry, but within seconds he broke into a smile.

Three

Dave waited in the detective’s office for twenty minutes, and he replayed finding his dead colleagues twenty times. Instead of the soft rock on the office radio, he heard the crumpling of metal that had accompanied the destruction. An image of the eighteen-wheeler looking as out of place in the office as a fully functioning reception desk would look in the centre of the road shadowed every thought, and flashes of his colleagues’ broken, limp bodies haunted him.

A detective’s office was the last place he wanted to be, but they had questions, and he understood they needed answers. He thought of his bed, the covers pulled tight over his head; his father’s nursing home, and any bar with a thick, cold pint, when Detective Naves entered the room. Sitting across from Dave, Naves looked like the archetype of how actors chose to portray detectives on T.V. shows. He wore a forgettable suit, had a strong build and ran a finger over a moustache that would make most people think of Halloween. But it was clear he didn’t see himself that way. His forty-something eyes were proud, and everything about his manner and comfort in the environment suggested he had been doing the job for years. He looked at Dave long enough to make him feel uncomfortable before saying anything.

“Do you want another coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“Then I’m going to get started, if that’s okay with you.”

Dave nodded.

“How long did you work at Richter Accounting?”

“This is my seventh year.”

“And what is your official job title?”

“Accountant.”

“How many employees worked at the office?”

Dave thought of their broken bodies. “Art Richter owned the business, and there were four others including me.”

“Do you remember who entered the building last that day?”

“Yeah, me. A couple of minutes before nine.”

“And the accident happened at six minutes after nine?”

“Best I can tell.”

“Did anyone leave the office after you arrived?”

“Not that I know of. But if they did, it couldn’t have been for long.”

“And you were in the washroom when the truck made impact?”

“Sitting down in the washroom.”

Detective Naves paused for a moment to scratch behind his ear with the pen. “How much time passed between you going to the washroom and the incident?”

“I’m not sure, maybe two minutes.”

“Was anyone alive when you entered the main room?”

“There’s no way anyone was alive.”

Detective Naves picked up his pad of paper. “You must have an angel on your shoulder, Mr. Bolden.”

He looked at Dave for a moment the way detectives do. He absorbed every detail and worked to make connections. What he likely saw was a man who realized for the first time in his life that horrible things can happen to him.

The realization was different than the painful scares of a broken bone or setbacks like being dumped by a girlfriend or passed over for a promotion, because he had to accept the finality.

Detective Naves rose from his seat. “There’s a psychologist here who would like to speak with you.”

Dave shut his eyes. He just wanted to go home, take a shower and let everything settle in. He didn’t want to talk about how he felt; he didn’t know himself yet.

“I’ve seen a lot of tragedies in my years here, Mr. Bolden,” Detective Naves said. “And I can tell you that people who speak to someone are better off for doing so.”

Dave nodded. It was easier to agree. A part of him wanted to say,
I don’t give a fuck how many tragedies you’ve seen, you haven’t seen my friends mangled under an eighteen-wheel truck.

But that required energy, and he barely had enough to stay conscious.

A woman with short red hair, a sprinkle of freckles on both cheeks and pistachio eyes entered the room as Detective Naves left. A visitors’ pass dangled from a clip on her suit jacket: Dr. McMillan.

“I’m Mia,” she said, extending her hand. Dave was surprised to find it colder and sweatier than his. She sat down and sipped from a large styrofoam cup of coffee. “I’m a trauma councillor, Dave. I work with cases like yours, cases with incidents where there are few survivors.”

Her voice felt an inch away from his face. He wanted to drag her back to the office, back to the smell of fried wires, back to the look of crushed bodies and dare her to speak with that tone then.

“Look, I appreciate your offer, but I don’t want to talk any more. I’ve already been here for awhile, and I just want to go home.”

“Do you live with anyone, Dave?”

It took him a moment to accept that she had ignored his wishes. “No.”

“Is there anyone you can stay with for a few days?”

“I just want to go home.”

“Or maybe someone could stay with you.”

“I don’t want anyone to stay with me.”

Half frustrated by his ignorance and half-inspired by his defiance, she looked at Dave like she knew something he didn’t. She took another mouthful of coffee before continuing. “You’re going to have a lot on your mind; it’ll be best to have someone to talk to.”

“I just want to get home.”

“It’s important that you don’t blame yourself for what happened.” Dave looked at her like she was crazy, and not crazy in an intellectually-weird sense, but shit-in-your-hand, preach-on-the-subway crazy. “These type of horrors tend to be so overwhelming,” she added without pausing, “so far away from the common experience that the mind copes by ascribing meaning.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Not yet. But if you find yourself looking for a reason why this happened, or thinking in any way that you had something to do with people dying or living, I want you to call me.”

She slid a business card across the table. Dave noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Fair enough.”

“Will you do me a favour before you go?”

Dave made eye contact. Her eyes swirled with an intensity that confused him, and he wasn’t sure whether she was stimulated by her job or if she genuinely cared. He didn’t respond, but his look suggested she could go on.

“Take ten minutes and write down every detail you remember about what you saw.”

“I know what I saw; I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Today you can’t. But the odds of you distorting those memories as the days go by are very high, and the odds of you distorting those memories to fit the theories you’ll develop to explain why you lived and your coworkers died are even higher. What you write down now will protect you from yourself later.”

Shut the fuck up,
he thought.
Protect me from myself
?
I don’t need protection from myself. I need protection from eighteen-wheel trucks.
He picked up her business card before rising from his seat.

“I’m leaving now. Thank you for your…words.”

She didn’t try to stop him. In fact, nobody spoke to him as he entered the precinct lobby to wait for an elevator.

What Dave didn’t know was that Grayson Leonard was watching him from a bench, where he sipped on a white mocha. Grayson wore an Armani suit and looked at Dave with eyes that capitalized on details.

He found the tiny differences most people didn’t notice—the differences that separated the poor, middle-class and rich. He joined Dave by the elevators.

People walking past looked a moment longer at Grayson than they did anyone else in the lobby. They watched him like he might be a famous lawyer, detective or Mafia Don. Nothing about him was average or forgettable. At almost forty-five, his physique looked ten years younger. Even in a suit, it was obvious his body was strong, and his cleanly-shaved head, swarthy skin and warm eyes belonged more in a movie than the muck of the downtown core. He stepped into the elevator behind Dave, waited for the doors to close to ensure privacy, then turned towards him.

“Mr. Bolden?” Dave looked up. “My name is Grayson Leonard. I’m from SBT Global Investors. We were scheduled to meet this afternoon.”

Dave shook the extended hand as a reflex, but he didn’t get past the word “meeting”. Surely the man hadn’t tracked him down at the police station to remind him of a meeting. He didn’t know whether to ignore Grayson or punch him.

“I imagine your head’s spinning,” Grayson said.

Dave chose to ignore him.

“My heart goes out to your colleagues and their families. I tracked you down here because the owner of our company, Mr. Thorrin, wants to meet with you. He has an offer he believes can make some good of this tragedy.”

Dave made eye contact for the first time. As much as he wanted to confront Grayson, the tone of the man’s voice was disarming. Equal parts enthusiastic, honest and engaging, he reminded Dave of a politician.

“An offer that’s for you only.”

The elevator stopped, and they stepped out into a crowded lobby. Dave deliberately stayed quiet until he led them outside and into the much needed fresh air.

“This guy you’re talking about…”

“Mr. Thorrin.”

“Mr. Thorrin. He realizes what happened today, right?”

“He does, but he feels it’s in your best interest to focus on the future.” Grayson extended a card. “This has my work extension and two cell phones. Give me a call and let me know when you’d like to meet with Mr. Thorrin. Within the next twenty-four hours is best, as he’s anxious to get this process under way.”

Dave looked at him like he was crazy. There had to be a catch to this, but Dave felt too exhausted to figure it out. Maybe the man was crazy, or maybe he was actually a journalist working hard to get a story no one else had, or an insurance shark looking to angle his way into details about the crash. Grayson’s extended hand held position in front of Dave for a moment before he noticed.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bolden.”

They shook hands, but when Dave pulled away, Grayson held on. It wasn’t the type of hold that had any sexual connotation, but a firm grasp that waited to see what might happen if he held it a little longer. Dave finally freed his hand, and they exchanged a long look before heading in opposite directions. Grayson didn’t wash his hand for the rest of the day.

Four

When Dave was nine, his father left him overnight at a stranger’s house. Only, he hadn’t planned to, especially not when he woke his son up that morning.

“Let’s go. We’ve got a big day ahead of us,” he said, pulling on Dave’s feet.

Dave opened his eyes to see his father hovering over him and almost screamed until he noticed the index finger shushing him to be quiet.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Is Mom coming?”

“No, we’re going to let her sleep.” Two day’s stubble ran thick on Jack’s face. Purple bags shaded his eyes a sickly colour, but he was smiling. “Let’s go have some fun.”

Bob Dylan played loudly on the car’s speakers while Jack’s lips mouthed the words. Dave didn’t say anything until the car pulled into Bubba’s Burgers.

“You ready for a burger?” Jack asked.

“For breakfast?”

“I’m starving, but you can have whatever you want; it’s going to be that kind of day.”

Dave thought of the week before, when he’d asked for French fries after Saturday morning baseball practice.
No way you put that garbage in you this early.
Dave seized the moment, ordered a burger, fries and onion rings, and finished off with a strawberry sundae.

Jack wrote on a small notepad as he ate behind the wheel. He put the burger on one thigh and the notepad on the other. Dave couldn’t see what he was writing, and between the burger, rings and ice cream, he really didn’t care either. All he knew was that his dad hadn’t stopped smiling since the day started.

“Okay,” Jack said, gathering up the wrappers. “Now we can get down to business. Any guesses where we’re going?”

Dave shook his head.

“We’re going to buy action figures. Plural. Not
a
G.I. Joe. G.I.
Joes.
As many as you can fit in your arms.”

Dave visualized it. He figured he could hold at least seven, eight if he held one between his teeth; maybe even nine if he hopped with one between his knees. The thoughts set off a wave of excitement that combined with the sugar breakfast to make him bounce-in-his-seat hyper. Dave was watching his dad get out of the car to throw out the garbage when a man approached with his hat held out for change. Even at his young age, Dave could tell that a different man lived somewhere beneath the bushy beard, skin distorted by veins too close to the surface, and eyes glazed with unrest. Jack did better than change, he stuffed a twenty in the man’s cup.

They’d pulled into the toy store parking lot when Jack’s pager started to buzz. Before he could reach it, the vibrations sent it across the dashboard until it fell into Dave’s lap. He passed it to his dad.

“The vultures always come to the prey, buddy.”

Dave was used to his dad uttering bizarre phrases, metaphors or cliches insinuating something at least a step away from his nine-year-old mind.

Jack had misled Dave when he said he could have as many action figures as he could carry. He ended up buying more. Dave inched his way to the cash with a figure between his legs and one pinched in each armpit while Jack sauntered behind him with five more. The total cashed out at $155. Jack paid the high schooler behind the counter $170 and met her return of the change with hand palm up.

“No, no, no. That’s for you.”

They weren’t out of the parking lot before Dave pulled an action figure from the bag.

“Can I open one now?”

“Of course you can. In fact, you owe it to the guy. Think how long he’s been waiting to get out of there.”

Dave thought of toymakers, soldiers and what it would be like to be trapped in plastic. His father looked over at him at the next stop light.

“You know we can’t tell Mom about this, right?”

“Why?”

“Well…she doesn’t believe in spoiling you.”

“Why’s she so mean?”