The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (11 page)

“Whatever’s left goes to her nursing home,” Morgan reminded him.

“Will do,” the man said. “I’ll send your thank-you note when the time comes.”

Morgan said his final goodbye and went outside to stand in the bright January sun. He put on his sunglasses and waited for the bank clock across the street to display the temperature.

-9
°
F.

Morgan looked high in the crystal sky.

“Mom…” he said quietly, “I hope I don’t…disappoint you.” His teeth rubbed over his lips. “Say hi to Cay. Tell her I love her very much and…I’m sorry.”

He made another phone call and went to his car. They’d be waiting for him at the DuPage County airport in an hour.

The air was smooth when the plane leveled off at nine thousand feet. Morgan was oblivious, lost in his thoughts.

With mom gone, I can move on it now…

His jump instructor opened the fuselage door. Morgan didn’t hear or feel the rushing air.

Tapping her fingers on his helmet, his jump instructor shouted, “Hey…you in there?”

“Sorry. Thinking about things.”

“Start thinking about this, okay? First solo isn’t child’s play!”

Counting his heartbeats, he was amazed. Each time he jumped, the rate decreased more.

“Get ready!”

The cold wind was fierce.

“Really want to do this?” she yelled. “Wind chill’s makes it thirty below out there!”

“Spring weather!” Morgan shouted. He made certain his face mask covered his nose then gave a thumbs-up.

“Now remember…pulling earlier is better than later!” his instructor shouted back. “But never forget three thousand feet is a hard floor! Don’t wait a second…”

Morgan jumped. He’d pull when he was ready.

March 2002

“W
ill they ever stop bothering me?” Morgan grunted, cradling the bar in the weight bench uprights. Glistening in sweat after finishing his third set of ten reps, he grabbed a towel to wipe his face.

“I’m coming!” he shouted when the doorbell rang another time.

Ross Merrimac invited himself in when Morgan opened the door.

“Wes, time to talk,” he said.

Morgan wiped his face with the same towel he had used for weeks.

“What do you want?”

No pleasant banalities were exchanged.

“You know what it’s about.”

“I said I’d see the shrink,” Morgan said. “I’ve been busy.”

“For three months?” asked Merrimac.

“So?”

“You’re running out of time! Plan on abandoning your career?” Merrimac’s voice rose.

Morgan was silent.

Merrimac looked around the room. There were now barbells and weights scattered everywhere. The bookshelves were still empty—that hadn’t changed.

“Are you trying out for the Olympics?” Merrimac asked.

“I’m able to press over two twenty-five now.”

“I don’t care! You’re supposed to be in therapy! Is this”—Merrimac’s arm swept over the living room—“the prescribed treatment?”

“Ross, I don’t need you bitching me out. I’ve got things going on I need to take care of.”

“Like what, pray tell? Is this going to be your new normal? What are you planning on doing…coming back to work looking like a buffed Hippocrates?”

“Enough!” Morgan said.

Merrimac could tell by looking at his friend’s face that his attempt to be humorous backfired.

“I told you I’d see the psychiatrist, and I will.”

Both men were losing their patience.

“Look, Wes,” said Merrimac, “I know Caroline’s death…this whole thing’s pissed you off. It’s pissed me off. In fact, it’s pissed everybody off. It’s going take time.”

He put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. The muscles were thick from some serious physical training. “Will you do it for your friend…please? If you need longer, take it! You can teach when you come back. But please get help.”

“Fine.”

“You know what I’ve said before about that…”

“Ross! It’s time to go! I said I’d take care of it. I can look out for myself.”

Merrimac debated saying more but held back. There was nothing he could do. The demise of a successful physician’s career was a terrible thing to watch. Merrimac wanted to Baker Act him, lock him up in the psych ward and get his brain fixed, but Morgan didn’t sound suicidal. He was acting weird but not crazy. Merrimac would have to wait. That would be difficult. Wes was his friend.

“Can I check in with you maybe in a week?”

“I’ll be on it by then.”

“Good. I’ll call you.”

Morgan locked the door.

“One week. Shit…”

No more procrastination! He got his cell phone and called his attorney.

“Sell the townhouse,” Morgan told him. “Take the best offer you get within sixty days. I’ll send you the papers this afternoon.”

The man couldn’t talk him out of it.

“I’m also going to be sending you a cashier’s check in a few days. Please hold it in your trust account.”

“Wes…why are you doing this? Want to come in and talk for a while? Maybe have dinner and drinks?”

“I’m okay. Just simplifying. Life’s short. Got things I need to do.”

“I’ll call you when the town—”

“No,
I’ll
call you,” Morgan replied. “Don’t fret. If you need to get me, best to drop me a note.” He gave him a PO Box number and address.

“Wes…I know you’re not crazy.”

“No, I’m not…just pissed.”

Morgan waited in line at the post office to mail the documents. When the clerk called for the next customer, he didn’t realize quickly enough she was speaking to him and a voice behind said loudly, “Move, goatfuck.”

Morgan smiled. The insult was trivial, but a milestone nonetheless. His appearance was becoming more convincing.

His watch beeped and he glanced at it, thankful for the reminder. Pausing five times a day took effort, but eventually it would be ingrained in his head, as would everything else. Finishing with the clerk, he put his earbuds in, walked back to his car, and drove home.

He ran north that afternoon to Rogers Park. As he came back along the lake, he kept his eyes trained on the distant black silhouette of Lake Point Towers. He stopped once, staring east for several minutes, then continued running, his pace quickening until it was a near sprint. He wasn’t tired, wasn’t out of breath. He just kept going and thinking until he got to Diversey Harbor. He veered off the lakefront trail and went under the bridge, where he made his last cell phone call.

“I’ll take the apartment. See you tomorrow at nine.”

He dropped the cell phone into the dark water. The possibility of being tracked through it eliminated, he’d use a prepaid phone card to contact others, and only when necessary.

The next morning Morgan signed a contract for a tired third-floor studio in a Rogers Park walkup. He paid cash, adding a hefty security deposit that would make the building manager forget about him. Utilities were included, isolating him more. The L trains rattled the sash windows incessantly, but drapes bought from Goodwill would buffer some of the noise. A canvas cot went in a corner, while a metal chair and two long folding tables took up most of the room. Several cheap lamps would add light, and an old television would give him the news he needed while he ate microwaved food. His weights arrived next, then he brought the boxes of CDs, books, maps, and some clothes from his car.

Everything else that remained in the townhouse was now gratuitous; serving no purpose, so he left it all where is was—except for the box with Connie’s red heart. He could never part with that. He placed it in the BMW’s trunk next to the new carbon fiber bicycle that would provide additional exercise as he rode it throughout the city. He could dart everywhere, using alleys and one-way streets to allay anyone who might start looking for him.

Morgan’s world was slowly becoming controlled.

April 2002

I
n April Morgan drove the BMW to the panhandle of Texas and spent three weeks on a ranch learning everything he could about sheep and goats. The Slavic owner was delighted to have a sturdy guest who was not only willing to pay him generously but also to help from dawn till dark with the chores. In return, when Morgan told the rancher he had inherited a farm that also included pigs, the man made certain Morgan learned about them too.

They were vile beasts, but worse were the sheep and goats, crapping wherever they walked. At every dinner the rancher’s wife served cheese from both as a side dish. Morgan had always tried to avoid the putrid muck in restaurants, and after spending days with the animals it tasted even worse, but he would never insult his hosts.

“Delicious,” he said, raising his plate to welcome more.

When his time at the ranch concluded, Morgan drove to Houston for several days. At every rest stop on the interstate, he’d go for a thirty-minute sprint through the sagebrush, dodging the occasional rattlesnake. Afterwards, he would wipe the sweat off with a damp towel, put on a dry T-shirt and get back in his car. He always sat on a plastic tarp with a CD playing and the cruise control on. He didn’t want to get pulled over by state troopers for speeding. That would change everything.

Morgan checked in with his attorney from a campground payphone outside Houston.

“Your place sold,” the lawyer said. “They don’t want the furniture.”

“Tell the buyers I’ll take care of that by mid-week.”

Morgan made a note.

“So you know, when the sale finalizes, you’re total cash is going to be a little under five million.”

“Take a fair fee,” said Morgan.

“I’m not liking this,” said his attorney.

“Don’t worry,” Morgan replied. “Just hold the money in your trust. After I get settled, you’ll hear from me.”

“Do
you
have enough for now?” the lawyer asked.

“Plenty,” Morgan said.

“
When
again am I supposed to mail your letter to Dr. Merrimac?”

“Late May, about five weeks.”

“You know, Wes…this is bothering me.”

“I’ve done nothing but simplify my life,” said Morgan. “I’m going to take a long vacation.”

“And throw away your career in the process.”

Morgan said, “Call it a sabbatical.”

“I still don’t like this,” his attorney said again, referring to not only his client’s recent decisions but also his cagy behavior.

Morgan replied, “The expression from your generation was, I think,
finding yourself
. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” he conceded. The attorney had never lost an oral argument until he butted heads with this surgeon. “Before you go, I’ve got one more thing.”

“Shoot,” said Morgan.

“Jane Bonwitt called.”

Morgan released a loud sigh. The woman was possessed!

“I told her to send you a letter and gave her your PO Box.”

“Good,” said Morgan.

“Wes…one more time, I—”

“Don’t.” Morgan didn’t wait. “Goodbye.”

Morgan arranged for Goodwill to remove everything in the townhouse. While he waited, he wandered in the rooms layered with dust, repressing each memory of the place that tried to distract him.

The doorbell rang. When the four men entered, they shook their heads in disbelief.

“Please get all this out of here,” Morgan requested, “and no receipt is necessary.”

“Man! Positive about that?” asked the supervisor. “No help from Uncle Sam?”

Morgan shook his head.

Soon only his bedroom furniture remained. He watched as they dismantled the bed, and finally it was gone from his life. One man opened a bureau drawer and found a silver picture frame. Morgan stared at their photograph from the Art Institute. He had forgotten to take it with him.

“Beautiful,” said the man. “She yours?”

Morgan stared at Cay’s exquisite face. It was impossible to imagine she was gone. His anger surged, but he calmed himself instantly and said, “Yes…once.”

“She loved you, Wes.” The voice was Janie’s. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Shit!

The woman had to have been patrolling the neighborhood and saw the truck. She gave him a big hug before studying his square physique and strange hair. After rolling it between her fingers, she touched his beard.

He knew she would ask, so he said in a subdued voice, “I’m taking time off, nothing more.” Morgan wasn’t interested in casual conversation. “Getting my life back together.”

“Where are you going?” she asked. Tears were imminent.

He wouldn’t tell her, so the interrogation continued. Morgan picked up the silver-framed photograph and stuck it under his arm.

“I’m so sorry, Wes,” sniffed Janie.

His inert hug offered no consolation to her.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, scanning the space that once brought him so much happiness. He handed her the key. “Lock it up when they’re done. Goodbye, Janie.”

He went to his car and placed the box on the passenger’s seat. Confused, she followed, trying to get him to lower the window, but Morgan ignored her. He had to clear his head. As he drove away he kept looking at the picture on the seat where Cay had sat and laughed, teased him, and said she loved him. At a stoplight, he lifted the photograph to gaze at the lips he would never kiss again. His anger fell as he looked in the rearview mirror.

“Morgan,” he said, “get control. Pay attention!”

Janie’s black Mercedes was following him. She was making no effort to conceal her intent.

“I’m taking you to O’Hare,” he said. Driving through the airport’s huge parking garage would loose her. Finally his world would be controlled, and he could work without interruption.