“Ho-lee shit.”
It was all there, just as his father had promised. Ryan had never seen two million dollars, but the neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills could easily total up to that much.
Lightly, Ryan raked his fingers over the bills. Although he’d never been driven by money, seeing and touching this much cash sent tingles down his spine. Last night, while lying in bed, he had tried to make himself fall asleep by pretending the money might actually be there and asking himself what he might do with it. In the realm of the hypothetical and highly unlikely, he had resolved to give it all away to charity. He wouldn’t want the fruits of a crime — even if, as Dad had said, the man deserved to be blackmailed. But with all this green staring him in the face, the issues weren’t so black and white. Had he not dedicated his career to a low-income community, he might easily have earned this much cash in a normal-paying medical practice. Maybe this was God’s way of making him whole for a life of good deeds.
Get over yourself, Duffy.
He closed up the suitcase and put it back in the hole, covering it with the insulation and loose planks, just the way he had found it. He slid the heavy chest back in place. Quickly, he retraced his steps to the ladder. He’d deal with the money later. After the funeral.
After one more talk with Dad.
Ryan climbed down the ladder, into the hall. His shirt was dirty and soaked with sweat. He ducked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He threw his shirt in the hamper, then started toward his room for a clean one. He stopped as he passed the stairwell. It sounded like his mother sobbing in the living room. He hurried down the stairs. She was alone on the couch, shoulders slumped, still wearing her robe and slippers.
“What is it, Mom?”
She looked up, and he knew.
He came to her side, took her in his arms. She’d always been petite, but never so frail.
Her body shook, her voice was quaking. “It was so… peaceful. His touch. His breath. His presence. It all just faded away.”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“It’s like he was ready,” she said, sniffling. “As if he’d just decided it was time.”
Ryan bristled. As if he’d rather die than face his son again.
His mother shook harder in his arms, the tears flowing freely. He held her close, rocking gently. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, almost speaking to himself. “I’ll take care of everything.”
5
Amy took Monday morning off, arriving at the office during the lunch hour. After six straight days of nonstop work, three thousand travel miles among the firm’s U.S. offices, and immeasurable abuse and aggravation from frantic attorneys, she felt entitled to a few hours with her daughter.
The Boulder office of Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz was on Walnut Street, filling the top three floors of a five- story building. Boulder was the firm’s second-largest office, though with 33 lawyers it was a distant second behind Denver, which had 140. The office prided itself on doing the same quality work and generating the same billable hours per lawyer as Denver. That was the minimum standard set by the new managing-partner-in-residence, a certified workaholic who had moved from Denver to Boulder to whip the satellite office into shape.
“Morning,” said Amy as she breezed by a coworker in the hall. She got a cup of coffee from the lounge, then headed back to her office. The thought of a week’s worth of work piled up on her desk made her dread opening the door.
Her office was small, but she was the only non-lawyer in the firm who had a window and a view. Marilyn Gaslow had pulled strings to get it for her. Marilyn was an influential partner who worked out of Denver. Her grandfather was the “Gaslow” in Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz, one of the founding partners over a century ago. She and Amy’s mother had been friends since high school — best friends until her death. It was Marilyn who had gotten Amy hired as the computer expert, and it was Marilyn who had committed the firm to pay half of Amy’s tuition if she went to law school. The only condition was that Amy had to come back to work at the firm as an associate, putting her valuable law and science background to use in the firm’s nationally recognized environmental law practice. At least, that was supposed to be the only condition. Ever since Amy had accepted the deal, the firm had treated her like slave labor.
She sat down behind her desk and switched on the computer. She had been checking her e-mail from outside the office for the past week, but she had some new messages. One was from Marilyn, just this morning. It read, “Atta girl, Amy. One hell of a job!”
Amy smiled. At least one of the firm’s two hundred lawyers knew how to say thank you for salvaging the computer system. Somehow, however, it didn’t mean quite as much coming from Marilyn, her mother’s old buddy. She scrolled down to the next virtual envelope on her screen. It was from Jason Phelps, head of the litigation department in the Boulder office. Now, kudos from him would definitely be a breakthrough. She opened it eagerly.
SEE ME! was all it said.
She looked up from her screen and nearly jumped. He was standing in the doorway, scowling. “Mr. Phelps — good morning, sir. Afternoon, I mean.”
“Yes. It is after noon. A big T-ball game for Timmy this morning, I presume?”
Her gut wrenched. It didn’t matter how many nights and weekends she worked. It didn’t matter if she was away on firm business. For a single mother, temporary unavailability always gave rise to the same negative inference.
“Her name is Taylor,” she said coolly. “And she doesn’t play T-ball. Her mother doesn’t have time to take her.”
“I need that joint defense network for the Wilson superfund litigation operable by three o’clock. No later.”
“I have to work through the MIS directors of six different law firms. You want it in two hours?”
“I wanted it yesterday. Today, I need it. I don’t care how you get it done. Just get it done.” He raised a bushy gray eyebrow, then turned and left.
Amy sank in her chair. Things were picking up right where they had left off. I’d like to play T-ball with your head, asshole.
She would have liked to say it to his face, but he would surely pull the plug on the firm’s promise to subsidize her tuition. Then she couldn’t go to law school. And then she couldn’t come back — to this.
“I need a life,” she muttered. She wondered why she put up with it, but she knew the answer. Every two or three months, her ex-husband would remind her. He’d call with another one of his empty offers to pay half of something for Taylor if Amy would pay the other half. Sometimes he was just being disruptive, like the time he told Taylor he’d send her and Amy on a Hawaiian vacation if Mommy would just pay half. Taylor had pranced around the house in a plastic lei and sunglasses for a week before that one blew over. Other times he was just taunting Amy, like his standing offer to put ten thousand dollars into a college fund for Taylor if Amy would come up with the other ten. Things like that — things for Taylor’s future — really made her wish she were in the position to call his bluff.
Maybe she was.
Her eyes lit with a devilish smile. She picked up the phone and dialed his office. His secretary answered.
“I’m sorry,” she told Amy. “He’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?”
The message was right in her head, ready to spring. Taylor’s going to Yale. Pay half of that, you blowhard. But she realized it was premature. The money wasn’t hers. Not yet.
“No message, thank you.” She hung up and came back to reality.
She checked the clock. She’d have to clone herself to meet Mr. Phelps’s three o’clock deadline. She drew a deep breath and returned to the computer, but not for Phelps’s project. A financial planning program appeared on her screen.
She smiled thinly as the computer calculated the interest on two hundred thousand dollars.
