Just when Randi Bisno thought she had seen it all, Wally Gibbs proved her wrong.
Once she heard he was on the move, she drove directly to his house; she knew his only sanctuary was situated atop his roof, powered by a 220V outlet. To avoid being spotted by his wife, she had parked just shy of his driveway, which curved around as it approached the house. Surrounded by little bearded men in a small garden, his wife barely looked up as Wally breezed by and disappeared in the house.
The other cars arrived only moments before Wally took his fatal plunge. There was a campus police car, which Randi guessed to be Nick Pappas, plus a Pinehaven police car carrying two officers and Dean Cap Hodges. As they conferred in the driveway, Wally came down to meet them--in the gruesomest of ways.
Randi avoided getting any closer, but even from her car, through the spindly pines, she thought the whole scene looked remarkably like an avant-garde funeral procession. Wally was perched atop (or in some cases, impaled upon) the statues, with his head to the side and both cheeks skewered by the blue hat of the macabre parade's leader. The other statues, for their part, seemed oblivious to the tragedy, smiling their cast-iron smiles and staring cherubically ahead.
One doesn't usually see such cheerful pallbearers, Randi thought.
The dwarves weren't the only ones indifferent to Wally's demise. Just after Wally hit, his wife let out a small squeal from the rooftop, then disappeared from view. She emerged from the front door with a bottle of champagne, poured herself a flute and balanced the bottle on her late husband's back.
Randi toasted her silently: I'll drink to that.
Three days later, the Monday after Project Argus flamed out and took Wally with it, Randi was sitting in Cap Hodges' office. She had wanted to bolt for Chicago immediately, but the dean asked her to stick around. To keep her promise to Nick Pappas, she cooperated with the campus and local police in every way, even turning over her laptop with all its Project Argus files and data.
"I hear she's having him cremated," Cap Hodges said, in an effort to make small talk.
"I heard the same. She said it would be like the ultimate suntan."
"And that way she won't be bound to any particular cemetery. With travel-size Wally, she's free to live anywhere she pleases."
"Maybe she could put him in one of his dreadful old suitcases." Randi offered. She liked the dean. As an infrequent visitor to the campus, she hadn't had much contact with him, but their disdain for Wally was an instant bond.
"That, or something else." The dean smiled slyly.
"Like what? What do you know?"
"She's putting him in a dwarf. Grumpy, from what I hear." Cap explained that Janys was having one of her precious lawn figurines fitted with a hinged neck, so his head could be tipped back and Wally's ashes stowed inside.
"No shit," Randi said, dropping the decorum.
"She was very breezy about it all," Cap replied, leaning back. "But by the time I talked to her, most of the champagne was gone."
"Poor woman. I hope she can move on."
"I don't think that'll be a problem. She already told me she can be out of the house as soon as we find a new professor."
"New professor?" While Randi had already spent many happy moments basking in her life without Wally Gibbs, she had yet to consider what the void would do to the university.
"Naturally. The position doesn't go away, even if Professor Gibbs did. His assistant can finish out the semester, but we'll need someone for the fall." He opened a manila folder on his desk. "I hear you're on the market."
"I thought it was time for a new start," she said evasively.
"Don't snow me-I know OmniAdCom let you go. But if I were you, I'd be proud. You refused to let your standards sink to their level. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm big on principle."
"Did Wally tell you I left?"
"I've been checking up on you. And I didn't need a bicentennial ring to do it, either." He ran his finger down a sheet of paper in the folder. "Fourteen years in the business, a slew of industry awards, proven results with your campaigns. In short, smart, effective communication that delivers for your clients. That's you," he said, looking up at her.
"It sounds better when you say it."
"Of course, a lot of your success came attached to Wally Gibbs and Food Barn. I should handicap you for that, but I won't. I have a feeling I know where the real credit lies."
"Before you go any farther, let me formally apologize for ever introducing you to Wally in the first place. It didn't turn out like I imagined at all."
"I should hope not. But let's bury the past-or at least put it in a dwarf. Bottom line is: I can't go through another search right now." He leaned forward gravely and clasped his hands. "Are you willing to relocate?"
Randi was flooded with anticipation. She was done with advertising, but teaching it was another matter. In its academic form, it was still pure, noble and untainted. Not like the bloated, gaseous whore she had left in Chicago.
Before she could respond, the dean held up a cautionary finger. "On one condition, that is."
She bit her lip. "What?"
"Stay out of the jewelry business."
After sealing her future with a handshake, Randi joined Archer back at the motel. He was sprawled on on the king size bed, halfway through a seven-dollar Toblerone.
"I talked to Pappas," she said, hopping on the bed and straddling his waist. "Between Wally literally taking the fall for Project Argus and the Army wanting to downplay the fact that a civilian geek like you could pirate their satellite frequency, you are off the ol' hookeroo."
"What about you?"
Pappas said she might get by with paying a token fine, or at the most a suspended sentence, but those discussions had yet to occur. Much of what Project Argus consisted of danced outside the parameters of any existing laws. "Unwitting accomplice. I'll give them whatever they ask for and they'll go easy on me. Pappas says it'll be looked at as a victimless crime. Except for Wally, of course."
"And Andy Hansen," Archer added.
"And Sara Richards," she sighed.
Randi related her job offer to Archer and asked how he'd feel about her leaving Chicago. At this point, he was the only thing keeping her there. His reply surprised her.
"Think there's anything for me down here? Those long winters are starting to get old."
They spent the rest of the afternoon lying side-by-side, polishing off the mini-bar and speculating on their new lives in the south. They agreed to stay in Pinehaven until the next day, so they could attend the jeweler's funeral. A review of the unclaimed rings' footage revealed that Wally was indeed in the shop at the time of George's death, though he didn't appear to be directly responsible. A crime of omission, as Wally might have said.
Randi thought back on poor George, whom she'd never known, and Andy Hansen and Sara Richards and Wally. But was Project Argus really to blame? Then again, the warped vision of one man had done far more damage in the past. Maybe the real blessing was that so few people had been lost. She remembered her first creative director, a rotund, magenta-faced alcoholic about the age she was now. It was her first week on the job, fresh out of college, when he staggered by her cubicle one morning, slouched in her doorway and took a mighty swig through a straw from a tall, capped foam cup everyone in the office knew to be one part orange juice, two parts vodka.
"Get out of this business while there's still time," he said, by way of a lighthearted introduction. "It'll kill ya."
•••
Wally Gibbs' memorial service and George Scoma's funeral were scheduled for exactly the same time on Monday morning. For Zak and Anjali, the conflict had been easily resolved.
Zak spotted more than a few bicentennial rings, now harmlessly deactivated, among the pews at George's funeral. But after an hour, it was Anjali who suggested they duck out and head for a beer.
"I've had enough death for one morning," she said, and blew her nose.
They slid into a round booth at the nearest bar and Zak checked his watch: it was not yet noon. "Did you want to have lunch or something?" he asked tentatively. Without answering, she went over to the bar and returned with a pitcher.
"I hope you like hefeweizen," she said, putting the cloudy wheat beer down between them. "It's too early for anything heavy."
"Works for me," Zak said. He poured a couple of glasses; Anjali downed half her beer in one swig.
"He was a bad man...wasn't he?" she asked, as if searching for validation.
"Gibbs? I didn't know him as well as you did. Although I did spend some time in his colon."
"I want to feel bad, but it's as if a big weight has been lifted off me. Does that make me a terrible person?"
"Not at all-he turned you into a criminal and stole your research. Me? I'd've put a knife in the bastard a long time ago."
Anjali flinched at the mention of the episode. In truth, she had only meant to scare Gibbs, though she had been prepared to lay him out cold in self-defense.
"The dean cancelled Dr. Gibbs' classes for the rest of the week," she said, to change the subject. "He wants me to take them over-with pay-through the end of the semester."
"You can quit calling him 'doctor' now."
"I just got used to it." Another sip. "Anyway, I told him yes."
"Sweet-same workload, only not for free."
"He also wants me to apply for a faculty spot once I finish my thesis."
Zak paused at this. If she became an actual teacher, that put the kibosh on any extracurricular action. T.A.'s, however, were fair game.
They sat there staring at their glasses. Anjali fiddled with her braid.
"I think I might need some time away," she finally said. She explained that since she'd been at CU, she'd lost one fiancé and two professors. "Any man who gets near me ends up dead or...engaged to someone else. I don't think I'm meant to be with a man-on any level."
Zak considered his odds. "So what's the plan, then?"
As it turned out, India. Dean Hodges had been so impressed by Gibbs' plagiarized presentation, that when he discovered it was Anjali's work, he invited her to his office. He told her there was an advertising executive from Mumbai on the school's board of visitors who said she could name her price. The more she considered it, the more excited she got.
"What do you think?" she said. She was scheduled to graduate in December, so her plan still left her with more than nine months on campus. Plenty of time to explore some possibilities.
"I think it sounds great," he said honestly and squeezed her hand. He filled her in on his own upcoming plans. Randi Bisno had given him the number of a friend of hers in a mid-sized agency in Atlanta. She virtually assured him of an internship; he knew it was probably motivated by guilt, but so what? He was confident his work would speak for itself, but there was nothing wrong with a foot in the door.
"Atlanta," she mused, splitting the remains of the pitcher between them. "I hear the traffic there is murder."
"Yeah, nothing like that one-horse town called Mumbai."
They clinked glasses and drank in silence.
Once they drained the pitcher, Zak nodded toward the door. They walked shoulder to shoulder to the bus stop. He paid both fares and they rode hip-to-hip.
As the bus idled in front of her apartment, the door folded open. "So, I'll see you in class?" he said.
"Eight o'clock Tuesday. And I don't suffer unexcused absences lightly," she teased.
"Thanks for the beer," he added.
"Thanks for being on my side. I wish I found out before it was too late."
"It might not be," he said with a gentle smile.
The driver shattered the tenderness. "Is anyone getting off here? I got a perfect on-time record to uphold."
Anjali stood on her tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek. He gave her a clumsy hug, getting a mouthful of braid in the process. As the bus pulled away, she gave him a wistful smile and a wave.
The bus deposited him at his dorm. He walked into the lobby, full of regular students coming and going who would never know what he had been through or how it had changed him.
He flopped down on his bed and stared at the stucco ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the email icon on his laptop screen bobbing up and down. He stripped off his tie and sat down at the computer.
It was from Eleni.
Dear Zak,
How are you? I am fine. You will not guess what my father said. He will let me go to America to university! Sifnocite brought you to me and now it brings me to you. I will attend Fisher University in Atlanta. It is in the Georgia state. Is this far from North Carolina? Do you have a car? My classes begin in August, but I will go in June for a special class they have only for the summer. My father hopes me to bring back great education and turn Sifnos into the next Monte Carlo:) Please greet your friend Nick for me. Are his feet still purple?
I miss you,
Eleni
This was the first he'd heard from her since his return. He assumed ol' Panayioti had been screening every letter, phone call and email his daughter sent. She had his address, but he had never gotten hers, so he was at her mercy.
His desire to secure that internship intensified. He would begin revising his portfolio that weekend. There were worse places to be than Atlanta in the summer with a F.W.P. somewhere in town.
An IM alert drew his attention back to the screen.
KeralaBabe: This isn't working.
His fingers flew over the keys. For the first time, he was grateful his mother had strongarmed him into that typing class.
DrawSon: And what would that be?
KeralaBabe: Self-imposed exile.
DrawSon: So parole yourself for good behavior.
KeralaBabe: What if I don't want to be good?
Goosebumps rocketed up Zak's forearms.
DrawSon: I'm open to suggestions.
KeralaBabe: Meet me in Raskin Gym in 30. I'm up for a swim.
DrawSon: Make sure you bring your top. This ain't Sifnos.
There was a slight delay in her response.
KeralaBabe: I'll bring it, but you can't make me wear it.
Zak's fingers hovered over the keys, unsure how to respond. Only a fool would spurn this kind of overture, but he felt obligated to answer Eleni right away. He looked at the clock. It was nearly nightfall in Greece. She waited two weeks to write to him; he could wait a few hours to write back.
He was still inclined to live in the moment, but at least now he was willing to acknowledge the consequences. Zak knew real life was looming menacingly closer, but today, on this Monday afternoon in April, he was still in college. And despite the white noise to the contrary, college was still one big keg waiting to be drained. Albeit with an espresso chaser.
It was shaping up to be an interesting summer.
•••
Later that month, at the insistence of Captain Comar, Nick took a two-week paid vacation as a show of gratitude for his role in exposing Gibbs' embezzlement. It was no cash bonus, but in some ways it was better.
It was Susan's idea to use one of the weeks at the beach. Nick had actually toyed with the idea of dusting off his woodworking equipment and taking a crack at a taverna chair design, but she convinced him they all needed a little time away first. She found them an adorable (her term) little house in Holden Beach, two rows back from the ocean. It was shaped like an isosceles triangle and appropriately named "Escape Moore."
Nick had taken the boys on a run in the jogging stroller and fared better than he'd hoped, probably due to the flat terrain. The April sun was invitingly warm and the whole family had charged the beach just after breakfast.
The water was too cold for swimming-cold enough to chill beer, Nick thought--but refreshing on the feet and recovered ankles. Susan said it was just as well, so the boys wouldn't be tempted to go out too far. Still, they were strapped into their inflatable toddler life jackets, running around looking like little umpires.
Nick hadn't had a beer since his return from Greece. With his most recent batch ruined by too much corn sugar, he was forced to start from scratch. After a few nights of mild cravings, he discovered he had more energy, his head was clearer and he was generally in a better mood. Susan offered to buy him a case when they got to the beach, but he balked. Though she didn't say anything, he could tell she was relieved.
"Oh, no," Susan said, touching her chest. "I accidentally wore my cameo. You said it can't get wet--I'll just run it back to the house."
"Actually, it's just pool water you have to worry about, but go ahead."
As an odd postscript, a student with a Bicentennial ring had gone to George's shop seeking a refund. A small sign on the door referred her to campus police headquarters, where Nick took down her complaint. Cap Hodges had quietly offered to reimburse any students wanting a refund with funds from the Stohlman endowment, though it was perilously low. The girl told Nick that after soaking in a hot tub, the stone in the ring had started rotting away. Indeed, it looked corroded, as if eaten away by acid, though he noticed the camera was still stubbornly embedded.
The ring found its way to the chemistry department for analysis. The reaction was one of chlorine to carbon and calcium. Sifnocite had turned out to be a unique organic compound, similar to a pearl in its layered construction, consisting primarily of oyster feces (plentiful throughout the Aegean) and ouzo dregs (found only in the cave beneath the Chrissiopigi). It was remarkably hardy otherwise, but heavy concentrations of chlorine broke down its chemical bond. Randi sent out a mass email to all Bicentennial ring owners (the last use of the database before it was destroyed) to remove their rings before swimming lest they void the warranty.
Susan kissed him on the top of his head and he playfully splashed her legs. She squealed at the cold and jogged back over the dunes to the house. He lingered in appreciation at how she filled her bathing suit, a flattering black tank set that exposed the tiniest amount of midriff. She could get away with a lot more, he thought, and looked critically down at his own paunch. Another reason to lay off the beer.
"Michael, David-come here a second." He pulled a bottle of sunscreen out of their beach bag and slathered them in white, then applied a liberal coat to his own pallid skin. He had nothing against a little color, but hanging around Gibbs had made him more paranoid. Among other things, Gibbs' autopsy had revealed budding emphysema and a stage three carcinoma on his left buttock. Even before his death-by-dwarves, Wally Gibbs was doing his best to leave the planet.
"Catch us, daddy!" said David, cruising by with his arms extended like an airplane. Nick sprang to his feet and bolted after him, with Michael on his heels. He snared David around the waist and charged into the breakers, holding him over his head. He spun around, threatening to pitch him headlong into the surf. David's cries took on a note of genuine terror and Nick realized his kids thought he was serious. He cradled him in his arms and returned to the sand. Michael was waiting there breathlessly.
"Daddy was only pretending," Nick said gently. David's eyes were still wide, but his face softened and the panic melted away. It dawned on him that his sons had only known him as a distant, brooding figure; he was going to have to ease them into the idea that he was now a dad who actually gave a damn.
"Can we make sand castles?" asked David quietly.
He tousled his son's hair. "Sure. Why don't you grab the shovels?" He handed them each a bucket and they scampered away to gather their tools.
Nick knelt down on the wet sand when Susan appeared on the dunes again. She looked worried and was holding his cell phone. She walked toward him with her lips pressed together.
"It's Captain Comar," she said.
He took the phone trying to read her face, but she just shrugged.
"You can't take away my vacation now, Ed-I just got here."
"Hey, here, Nick. I hate like hell to bother you, but there's a kid here who drove all the way from Maryland to see you. Says it's a matter of life and death. I told him he shoulda called first."
Nick felt a lump rising in his throat. "Put him on," he said hoarsely.
"You don't know me, sir," said a quavering voice. "My name is Jeff Ball. I watched your father die."
Nick sank back on the sand. Susan put her hand on his shoulder and he clasped it with his free hand. "Did you...do it?" Nick asked, barely able to get the words out.
"No, sir! It was during pledge week, and a bunch of the brothers were driving the pledges around on a scavenger hunt. My task was to ask a stranger for a dollar. One of the other guys had to score a used condom, so it could've been worse. We saw your father walking up to the ATM and figured he was getting out some money."
"Did you talk to him? What did he say?" Nick tightened his grip on Susan's hand. Whatever the kid told him would be his father's last words.
"He laughed and said there were easier ways to make a buck, but he said he had a son and could go along with a college prank. Then he told us to get home, it was past our curfew." Nick laughed through the tears that were welling up. His father: ever the authority figure.
"He was getting out his wallet," the kid continued, "when he got a real scared look on his face. He put his hands on his chest and fell down on the sidewalk. We all freaked out. Nobody knew CPR, so we dialed 911 on his cell phone and raced back to the house."
The coroner had told Nick that his father's death was most likely instantaneous, so the kid had been powerless to help him, whether he knew it or not.
"Why?" Nick blurted out.
"Why what?"
"Why now? After all this time? If it wasn't your fault, why even tell me?"
The kid cleared his throat. "Now that I'm in recovery, I'm finally able to deal with it."
"Recovery?"
"While they were busy turning me into a Tri-Sig, they also turned me into a drug addict. By my junior year I couldn't go to class unless I was e-balling. I finally broke off from the fraternity to get help. And here I am in Step Nine."
"Out of twelve?" Nick guessed.
"Yeah. Forgiveness. I finally went to the restaurant last week to make amends and cleanse my soul, but the woman there told me you were the one I really needed to see."
Good ol' Mom. He hoped she had gotten some closure out of this as well.
"You know you can still be charged, don't you? It might even be a felony."
"But I didn't do anything!"
"Right. It's what you didn't do, and kept not doing for almost two years: coming clean with the cops."
"What could they do to me?" The kid's voice was cracking again.
Before Nick answered, he looked at his boys picking up shells and dropping them into their buckets. He knew they wouldn't stay that naïve and innocent forever. But they deserved a chance to try. And this kid deserved a fresh start of his own. Who was Nick to pull the rug out from under him with only three steps to go?
"Nothing," Nick said flatly. "Nothing--if they don't know."
"But you said-"
"Forget it. They don't need to know. But I did. So thanks for that."
"They told us that both parties would experience healing," the kid said, his tone more optimistic. Nick could hear the wonder in his voice, the amazement that something a "grownup" told him turned out to be true after all.
"How 'bout that," Nick said, laughing. "Consider me healed."
He thanked Jeff Ball again, wished him the best of luck and hung up. Susan asked if he was okay.
"For the first time in a long time," he said, "I feel whole again."
He felt a sudden urge to be close to her, so he threw her over his shoulder and trotted out into the water. She yowled in protest, beating her fists lightly on his back. Nick spun her around and lowered her into his arms, the way he had carried her across the threshold. Michael and David were plodding through the shallow surf to defend their mother's honor. Each wrapped himself around a respective leg, throwing Nick's balance off. The whole family toppled back into the chilly water, laughing and shrieking.
As second chances go, thought Nick, this is as good a place as any to start. He could never recover what he had lost, but suddenly that seemed acceptable. What he could do was treasure the memories and make sure what lie ahead didn't slip through his fingers.
And with only eight left, he would have to try that much harder.