HORSE FRIENDS by Scott Mackay **** Everett’s horse friends were only ever whispered about—now they were playing hardball. **** As Lance Tedrow walked to his boss’s office through the Superior Life bull pen, he knew Opal was watching him, trying to figure out why he was going to see Patrick when Patrick customarily caught up on his e-mails after lunch. Was this it, then, he wondered? Lance peered at Patrick through the glass. Was Patrick going to end their suspense? His bald head was bowed over his work. Had Minneapolis Corporate finally given Patrick word on the promotion? Was Lance going to win out over Opal? He entered Patrick’s office. His boss looked up. “Shut the door.” “Sure.” Lance closed the door. “Have a seat.” Lance obeyed. Patrick said, “Melvin Graham dropped by about the Osteen policy while you were out at lunch.” Lance’s shoulders tightened. “And?” “He left some materials.” Patrick pushed a manila folder across his desk. “Have a look.” So. It wasn’t about the promotion after all. Lance lifted the folder and opened it. He found photographs—views of charred wreckage. “Has he come to any conclusions, then?” “Look at photo three. It’s the employee lunchroom at the Osteen Paper Plant. Or what’s left of it. See the charring in the corner? Those are accelerant patterns. Photograph four shows a half-melted gas can. Graham found it under the collapsed receiving bay next to the employee lunchroom.” The office felt suddenly warm. “So he’s ruling arson?” “Yes. And if I were you, I’d make Everett understand pretty quickly that the discretion clause in subsection three is meant to favor the company, not the client. I know that’s the first thing he’s going to try.” Lance looked at both photographs again. “I’ll schedule a meeting with him this afternoon.” Patrick nodded. “Everett’s fairly housebound these days. Coronary troubles. You’ll have to go up.” “Sure.” “Take a taxi chit. He makes people drink.” “Okay.” “Maybe I should let Opal go.” The tone in Patrick’s voice worried him. “No, it’s all right. I’ll handle it.” “I know it’s one of your own personal policies, but maybe Opal might break the news more dispassionately.” “Don’t worry, I’ll be dispassionate.” Patrick sat back, the corners of his lips tightening. He motioned at the photographs. “We have to be careful. We can’t let our clients think we’re processing this claim any differently, just because you nearly married Everett’s daughter.” “I haven’t seen Vicki in years.” Patrick’s brow rose. “You haven’t heard, then?” “Heard what?” “That she’s back in town. She and Brian split up.” Lance tried to hide the effect this news had on him, but hearing that Vicki and Brian had at last self-destructed—he’d always known Brian wasn’t the man for her—and that she was now back home proved too much. His palms grew moist. Despite his settled life, his good job, and his marriage to Miss Duluth 1995, he was made uncomfortable with the prospect of Vicki Osteen back in town. Old emotions he thought he had long since buried surfaced, even as he desperately tried to contain them. “So she’s living at the old place?” His voice edged a few tones higher. “With Everett?” “Yes. If she’s there when you go, be professional. And dispassionate.” “Have I ever let you down before?” But his throat had gone dry, his body rigid, and the air in the room had become nearly too thin to breathe. “Not yet. But there’s always a first time.” **** Once the cab had dropped him off, Lance studied the Osteen house. Paint peeled from the eaves. A second-floor window, broken, had been repaired with cardboard and duct tape. An American flag hung from a pole, tattered, the fabric so worn he could see through it. A 1975 Cadillac Seville, rusted, undriven, its left front tire flat, stood in the drive, Mrs. Osteen’s car from back when she had been alive. He walked up the drive, his boots crunching through the snow. He climbed the steps to the door, lifted the round brass knocker—one he had lifted many times before—and knocked. Vicki answered a few moments later. His heart contracted, and he had a brief flashback—waiting with his brother in a tux and purple bowtie in the corridor behind the sanctuary of the Duluth First United Methodist Church, telling his brother she would come, that the reason she was late was because she always fussed with her makeup. Today, she wore no makeup. The big red hair was gone. She was pale. Older. But still pretty. He struggled to get his emotions under control, forced himself to think of his wife, Lindsay, and to concentrate on the task ahead. “Hi, Vicki. I’m here to talk to your father about his policy.” She was drying a plate with a dish towel, inspecting him, assessing him the way she might apples or oranges in a fruit store. “You’ve gained a little.” She touched her chin. “Particularly around here.” He struggled to stay on track. “I think he’s expecting me.” “I hope the news is good.” He didn’t answer. Instead, he attempted to normalize things with small talk. “Are you keeping well?” The green eyes were the same, and they stared at him unapologetically. “You know about me and Brian?” He nodded. “Is it final?” He heard movement downstairs, Osteen emerging from his den. “Vick, is someone at the door?” “It’s Lance Tedrow, Dad. He’s come about the settlement.” “Let’s not let all the cold air in.” Osteen’s voice sounded rough, phlegmy. “Send him down.” Vicki said in a softer voice, “He’s been working himself up since your call.” “It’s really great to see you, Vicki.” Because he had to say something to make sure she understood he still remembered everything. She looked away. “You better not keep him waiting.” She moved aside. He advanced into the hall and took off his rubber boots, unzipping them with a noise that made the cat look up from the couch. Vicki shut the door behind him. He pulled off his coat, opened the closet, was about to hang it up, but she stopped him and said, “Here, I’ll take that.” He surrendered his coat. It was all so formal. Not that he had expected anything remarkable, but this seemed sad, and even tragic, that after everything they had gone through together it amounted to nothing more than Vicki taking his coat and hanging it in the closet for him as a generic courtesy. “Thanks.” He walked to the top of the stairs. Osteen, a short, rotund man with hair slicked back and a face as red as a cooked King Crab, stared at him in a studied pose of indifference. The scotch in his hand was a triple. “Lance, good of you to come. Vick, maybe you could bring snacks.” Vicki went to get snacks. Lance watched her go. Things hadn’t changed: Osteen spoke, Vicki jumped. Lance gripped the banister and went downstairs. He saw a painting of Risky Business, Osteen’s Thoroughbred, now dead these many years, on the wall. At the bottom of the stairs, Osteen took his elbow and ushered him into the den. The TV was still there, the exact same Sony Trinitron from sixteen years ago. He couldn’t count the number of late movies he’d watched on that TV with Vicki. The furniture was the same too: black leather, now scuffed, the upholstery on the recliner in particularly bad shape. “Let me get you something,” said Osteen. “Thanks,” said Lance. He sat on the edge of the couch, put his briefcase on the table, and took out the manila folder with the photographs. He struggled to collect his thoughts. He wasn’t going to let Vicki ruin his promotion, not after everything else she had ruined. He was going to stay professional. And dispassionate. Once he had his drink, they talked briefly about the weather—all the snow. Then about the Minnesota Vikings. And at last about Vicki and Brian’s split. “She finally came to her senses,” said Osteen. “I always told her the guy wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.” Lance couldn’t help fishing for information. “They’re getting a divorce?” “She hasn’t told me yet.” “And he’s still in Rochester?” “As far as I know.” Osteen motioned at the manila folder. “Is that the settlement?” Lance looked out the sliding glass door where he saw the dog, Hercules—a Rottweiler—staring back. “About the settlement.” He glanced around the room. Framed photographs of Osteen and Risky Business hung on the walls: Saratoga Springs, Churchill Downs, Hoosier Park. “There’s going to be a delay.” He opened the folder, took out photograph three, and slid it across the table to Osteen. Osteen lifted it, squinted, then put on his glasses. “What am I looking at?” “Accelerant patterns.” He offered photograph four, the gas can. “And I think this shot speaks for itself.” Osteen’s nostrils flared as he looked at photograph four. Hercules pawed the door. The snow came down harder. The dog whimpered a few times. Osteen glanced up at Lance as if Lance had personally betrayed him. “So you’re telling me it was arson?” “That’s the investigator’s preliminary ruling.” “Who would want to burn down Osteen Paper?” “That’s what he’s trying to find out.” “What about my settlement money?” “I’m sorry, Everett, but if you look at the contractual language in your policy, you’ll see that we can’t release it until the police have completed their investigation.” Osteen’s blue eyes bulged. “I thought the company had the discretion to release the money when it saw fit. It says so in subsection three.” Lance sighed. “That clause is meant to favor the company, Everett, not the client.” “Yes, but can’t you help us?” Osteen’s voice grew apprehensive. “For Christ’s sake, Lance, you nearly married Vicki.” His shoulders tightened. “Everett, I appreciate that I have some personal history with the Osteen family, but we have to set that aside right now. We’re dealing strictly with your policy.” “Yes, but I’ve got bills. I’ve got debts.” He heard Vicki come down the half flight of stairs to the den.” Osteen quickly collected the two photos and handed them back to Lance. How could he forget? Vicki was Osteen’s angel. Osteen tried to shelter Vicki from the big bad world any way he could. He reluctantly took the photographs, put them in the manila folder, then his briefcase, sullenly cooperating with Osteen’s attempt to hide the truth from his daughter. Vicki entered with a plate of crackers, cheese, and pickles. Lance glanced furtively, wondering about her and Brian. She looked tired, worried. She placed the food on the table. Osteen stared straight ahead. Vicki peered at Lance. “Is everything all right?” Lance smiled tightly. “Sure. Fine.” She scanned the backyard, where snow drifted down steadily. “Maybe we should let Hercules in.” She walked to the door, pressed the latch, and slid it open. Hercules came in, tail wagging, and went to Lance. The dog sniffed his hands, then looked at Osteen, pausing. The Rottweiler finally glanced at Vicki, maybe thinking she might explain why everybody was being so quiet. Vicki became animated with stilted cheerfulness. “You two let me know if you need anything.” She picked up a newspaper that had slipped to the floor. “Come on, Hercules. Let’s leave them alone.” She left the den. Hercules followed, his claws clicking against the linoleum in the hall. When Vicki and the dog were upstairs, Osteen took a deep breath, shook his head, and motioned at the briefcase. “Does the investigator have any idea when he’s going to finish all this?” “No.” The old man grew still. “Because if there’s any way you can speed things along, Lance ... any way at all. I have bills.” “I’ll do my best, Everett. But I’m afraid I can’t treat you any better than any other Superior Life client just because I nearly married Vicki.” “That’s not my main concern. Just don’t treat me any worse.” **** Lance was at work the next day when Carol buzzed him and told him Vicki’s estranged husband, Brian Baum, was waiting for him in the reception area. At first he was puzzled. Not that he hated Brian—the man hadn’t willfully taken Vicki away from him. But why did Brian think Lance wanted to talk to him? Or even be in the same room with him? In his mid forties, Brian wore his hair long and had a small silver stud in his left ear. His hair, dyed black, looked unnatural on a man who had so many middle-aged wrinkles. He was pale, thin, smelled of cigarettes. Brian extended his hand. Lance found he couldn’t shake it. Brian glanced at Carol, then let his hand sink. “You got a coffee break or something?” The secretary was doing her best to ignore them, but Lance knew she was listening to every word—not good because Carol was friends with Opal. Lance grabbed his coat from the coat tree, slipped on his rubber overshoes, and followed Brian into the corridor. He inspected Brian’s footwear, battered old cross trainers, unlaced. He couldn’t figure it out. What did Vicki see in the guy? He remembered Brian from high school. Hadn’t been good at sports. Hadn’t had any friends. Grew marijuana in his parents’ backyard. What the hell did Vicki see in him? Before they reached the elevators, Brian pushed the fire door open. Lance hesitated. “Where are you going?” “Down here.” “Why?” “I have to talk to you. In private.” “Brian, I’ve got a busy day. You should have made an appointment.” “Be cool, Lance. Just be cool for a change.” Brian headed down the stairs. Lance reluctantly followed. Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. They went down two flights. Brian stopped on the third-floor landing, opened the door, and looked along the corridor. Lance looked as well. The corridor was empty. Brian, remaining inside the stairwell, let the fire door swing shut. He walked to the banister, peered up, then down, and satisfied they were alone, said to Lance in a low voice, “Everett’s in a bad fix right now. He borrowed some money. From old horse friends. And he made a few disastrous bets.” Horse friends. Lance had to pause. He vaguely remembered how Everett’s horse friends were only ever whispered about in the Osteen household. “He mentioned he had bills.” “Oh, these are more than just bills. His old horse friends are playing hardball.” “Did Everett send you here?” “No. But I’ve read the policy. This discretion clause gives you leeway.” Lance sighed and shook his head. “Leeway for the company, Brian, not the client. I’ve already explained that to Everett. And I’m really not at liberty to discuss any of this with you.” “It would mean a lot to Everett if you released the money now.” “I’m sorry, Brian, but we have certain procedures we have to follow.” Brian’s lips tightened. “Vicki said you might be like this.” “She’s the one who sent you?” “Let’s just say I’m an interested party.” Lance’s tone became unpleasant. “Maybe you should have stayed in Rochester.” “Just release the money and I’ll be on my way.” Lance shook his head again. “Brian, you realize you coming here to talk to me like this just makes things worse.” Brian seemed surprised. “Why?” “Because you’re telling me Everett owes money to old horse friends. Now his company burns down, and you’re pressuring me for the payout.” Lance sighed and shook his head. “You see the way that looks, don’t you?” No, definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer. “Go back to Rochester. I’ll pretend we didn’t have this conversation. For Everett’s sake.” “But you have the final say, don’t you? Vicki was telling me it was one of your own independent policies from before the consolidation.” “That might be true, but I still have to wait until the investigation is over. How much money does Everett owe?” “You know Everett. He’s always done things in a big way.” Brian shook his head. “Even if he remortgaged his house, he wouldn’t have enough.” Brian gave him the figure. “Which is why it’s so important you sign off on the policy now, Lance. These guys are serious. They don’t penalize with interest rates. They’re old school. They’re going to hurt Everett.” “Yes, but now it seems as if Everett intentionally burned down Osteen Paper to raise the money. And coincidentally, the settlement would about cover the figure you just gave me. Have they actually threatened him yet?” Brian glanced up the stairwell, his lips going slack, then in a lower voice, he said. “Two men came from Chicago last night.” “Really?” “They had golf clubs.” Lance’s eyes widened. “Golf clubs?” “Yes. And who in Duluth plays golf in the middle of winter?” **** At the end of the day, just as Lance was getting ready to leave, Melvin Graham, the arson investigator, came to visit him. Graham was a tall man with a large square head, lambchop sideburns, and a handlebar mustache the color of smoke. He put a file folder on Lance’s desk, opened it, and tapped it with his thick square finger. “These are the test results from the lab. They came back positive for accelerant, just like we thought.” As much as Lance knew he should tell Graham about his conversation with Brian Baum, he found he couldn’t. “Have you developed any solid leads yet, then?” “We’re following up the gas can from photo four.” “The gas can?” That a gas can could be followed up surprised him. “Make, model, and so forth.” “Really.” “It’s a five-gallon Falcon-1 safety can. You can’t actually buy them in Duluth, but you can get them in Minneapolis and Rochester. We’re fortunate that the lot number wasn’t burned off.” Lance felt a nervous pang at the mention of Rochester. “What about the interviews?” “The interviews with Osteen employees failed to yield anything useful. Osteen Paper doesn’t seem to have any enemies, and an examination of the books reveals the firm is at least modestly solvent. Money doesn’t seem to be a factor. Their profit margins are small but viable.” Lance’s shoulders tightened. “So you have no definite suspects?” “We have a few persons of interest, but no real suspects.” “Can I assume the investigation is stalled, then?” He couldn’t help thinking of Osteen’s horse friends and their golf clubs. “Because if it’s stalled, the company might consider releasing the settlement money now.” Graham raised his hands. “Hold off on that for the time being. Let me look into the gas can first. It’s bound to turn up something.” **** Lance was sitting with Lindsay and their two children in their kitchen on Friday night eating Lindsay’s macaroni and wiener casserole when over the sound of the dishwasher he heard a car pull up. He thought someone might be using the drive to turn around, but then the engine stopped, a car door opened and closed, and a few seconds later, he heard someone coming up the walk. The doorbell rang. Lindsay raised her eyebrows. Lance put his fork down, wiped his lips with a paper napkin, rose, and went to answer it. He found a distressed Vicki Osteen-Baum on the doorstep. His heart did back flips, not only because of their old history together, but because he was anxious about the gas can, insurance fraud, criminal misdoing, everything. Her cheeks were satiny with tears. “They killed Hercules.” Her voice was shaky, high, half whispered. “They came this afternoon and clubbed him to death. While I was at the SuperValu. They put him on top of Mom’s old Cadillac. There was blood everywhere. Dad hid upstairs. He was in terrible shape when I got back.” Her eyes glistened. “Lance, you have to help us. Dad told me everything. They’re going to kill us. You have to release the money.” He couldn’t understand how his predictable suburban life, his hard-earned reputation, and his likely promotion could so easily be jeopardized this way. “Vicki, take a deep breath.” Lindsay came into the hall from the kitchen and saw Vicki standing there. Having never met before, the two women knew each other only from photographs. The corners of his wife’s lips tightened. Lance smiled with frantic effort. “Lindsay, this is Vicki Osteen. Vicki, this is Lindsay.” Lindsay raised her chin. “Hi.” Vicki continued to stare. Lindsay—Miss Duluth 1995—was having the same effect she had on everybody. Could anybody be so curvaceous? “Hi,” said Vicki. “Vicki and I have a few things to discuss regarding her father’s policy. Just put the Jell-O on without me.” Lindsay nodded, then retreated, her hourglass figure a rebuff to Vicki’s understated contours. When she was gone, Vicki said, “Wow.” Lance’s lower lip stiffened. “You weren’t the only fish in the sea, Vicki.” He guided Vicki to his den. He couldn’t help noting she was wearing only one driving glove. As she entered, she looked around at the insurance industry certificates, the rubber plant on top of his coffee table, and finally the easy-boy recliner in the corner. He made her sit in the recliner and got her some brandy from the liquor cabinet. She took the snifter. “Why would they do that, Lance? Why would they kill Hercules? Hercules didn’t do anything.” “Is the dog still there? On the car?” She shook her head. “No. I looked after him. He’s in the lake.” “The lake?” “Where else was I going to put him? The ground’s frozen. Superior’s always open somewhere.” “And did you call the police?” She shook her head. “I was too scared to call the police.” She took a nervous sip. “I never liked my dad’s horse friends. Neither did Mom. I knew they were trouble the minute I first met them. I wish you could do something about them. I wish you would help us. What about this discretion clause Dad was telling me about?” But he was too upset about the dog to think about the discretion clause. He couldn’t believe there were actually people who went around clubbing dogs to death with nine irons. It wasn’t possible. Especially in Duluth. It left him in a state of momentary panic, and he didn’t get a grip on himself until Vicki prodded him again about the discretion clause. “It’s in subsection three,” she said. “Have you read it?” He nodded. “I already talked to your father about the discretion clause. If you’ve read the language carefully, you’ll see that it’s designed to favor the company.” “Yes, but you’re our old friend, Lance. My old friend.” “We have procedures we have to follow.” Her face quivered. “So your procedures are more important than we are? After all we’ve been through together?” This was unfair, and he tried to ignore it. “Your father’s policy is confidential, Vicki. If he wants to talk, have him call me.” “I have a letter of authorization from him. He says I can talk to you about it. He’s too ill to leave the house. And too scared.” She pulled the letter from her purse. He raised his hands. “I don’t want to see it.” She paused. “What do I have to do, Lance?” In a softer voice, he said, “Call the police.” She sighed. “I guess you don’t remember Maine, then?” He lifted his chin, the specter of his heartbreak coming back. “Of course I remember Maine.” “You remember our trailer?” He looked away. “Yes.” “You remember what went on in that trailer?” He hesitated. “It happened a long time ago, Vicki.” “You were a different Lance Tedrow back then.” His jaw tensed. “People change.” “I guess you don’t remember that small boy either.” His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “What small boy?” “The one outside Eau Claire.” The memory came back to him, the little boy wandering around the campsite, Lance finally taking charge, Are you lost, let’s go find your mom and dad, then going from trailer to trailer, asking the other campers if they knew him, at last taking him all the way into Eau Claire and inquiring there, finally finding a grateful mother looking for him all over the town’s residential streets. “Yes, but that’s not the only thing I remember from that trip,” he reminded her. “I think I asked you to marry me on that trip.” She lifted her hand and brushed a stray lock of red hair from her freckled face. Her hand was shaking. “What I’m getting at—and what I’m trying to get you to remember—is how that boy would have been lost forever if you hadn’t stepped in. You should step in now.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry about your dad’s dog.” She remained still for a few seconds, then put her fingers on his wrist. “Dad’s not well.” He hesitated. “Vicki, I would like to help you. But go to the police. That’s what you have to do.” She lifted her hand and sat back. “That would make matters worse. They’re not nice, these people. They would kill him for that. But you can stop them. Dad says his policy is one of your own independent ones, from before Superior Life consolidated with the head office in Minneapolis. He says you have sole authority over it, and that you can sign off on it whenever you want.” Lance leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and stared at the Barbie doll his youngest daughter had left on the floor. “Until the investigation is over, I can’t do anything, Vicki.” Vicki lifted her fingers away. “Then you’ll have murder on your hands, Lance. Is that what you want?” She paused, and in a more urgent tone said, “I know we have some bad history together. I’m sorry I did what I did. I was young. I regret leaving you there at the church like that. But I’ve grown up a lot since then. I’ve come to appreciate the difference between right and wrong. And I know saving my dad is the right thing to do” “Breaking the law isn’t right, Vicki. And I think that’s what you’re asking me to do here. Also, I could lose my job. And would that be fair to my family?” “I’m just asking you to sign off on a policy that he’s loyally paid his premiums on for the last forty years.” “Yes, but don’t you see the way it looks? Your father borrows money, he loses money, he needs money, and Osteen Paper burns down. The whole place burns down just as your dad needs money most. Brian comes over and pressures me for the settlement, and that means he might be involved. Now the fire is under investigation. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.” She reached over and put her fingers on his wrist again. “I have no idea what my father did, or what he arranged to have done, or whether Brian is involved, or if Dad got someone else to do it. I really don’t care.” Her tears came back. “All I know is that you’re the only one who can save him. I’m begging you, please.” She shook her head. “I’ll get down on my knees if I have to. Please save him. For my sake. For the sake of everything you and I used to mean to each other. You don’t want murder on your hands, Lance, you really don’t. You’ll only end up regretting it. And take it from one who knows, regret’s not an easy thing after a while.” **** On Saturday, his neighbors put up Christmas lights. He made a show of doing the same, got the ladder out, untangled the various strings, and climbed to the roof to mount new wire supports for the plywood Santa. But when he realized he was putting up Santa for his kids, yet at the same time considering taking the risk and signing off on the settlement for Vicki—something that would ultimately harm his kids—he lost heart and put the ladder away. It wasn’t because he still loved Vicki, though their old history certainly put some emotional confusion into the mix. And he would never harm his family. It was just that a man’s life was at stake. And he could save it. Wasn’t a man’s life worth more than the financial hardship his family might face if he signed off on the policy? The next day, Sunday, a blizzard blew in from Ontario. He got quietly drunk in his den and watched the Vikings game. Vicki’s words kept preying on his mind. You’ll have murder on your hands. He took a sip of scotch. He looked out the window, where the snow came down in thick squalls, then at the TV, then out the window again, and finally shook his head. He stood up. He glanced at the phone. Even though it was his own independent policy from preconsolidation days, he would feel a lot better if he got Patrick’s okay to sign off on it. A sudden gust howled around the house. The lights momentarily flickered, then came back on. He walked to the phone and dialed Patrick’s home number. Patrick’s wife, Vivian, answered. “He’s gone to the office, Lance. He had some extra work to catch up on.” Lance called Patrick at the office, but his boss wouldn’t pick up. Even after several tries, the line kept defaulting to Carol’s voicemail. He pulled the receiver away from his ear and looked at it. He then gently placed it in its cradle. He went to the kitchen and told Lindsay he had to drive downtown to see Patrick. “But it’s a blizzard outside.” “I know. But something’s come up.” “And you’ve been drinking. You shouldn’t drive.” “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” **** In the reception area at work, only half the lights were on, the ceiling checkered with fluorescent panels, one bright, one dark. He shook the snow from his coat, hung it on the coat tree, and pulled off his rubber overshoes. He went into the main office where, far at the back, he saw Patrick working at his computer. When his boss saw him coming, the old man’s face changed, not much, but enough to tell Lance that maybe Patrick knew more than he thought. As Lance reached his door, Patrick said, “Another Superior Life warrior, braving Duluth’s worst.” “Patrick, I’m going to release the Osteen money.” Patrick grew still. He stared at Lance through his wire-rim glasses. He pulled at the collar of his V-neck, his eyes traveling first to the right of his computer, then flicking to Lance’s face. He leaned back in his chair and hoisted a wary smile to his lips. He gestured at the chair opposite. “Have a seat.” Lance studied his boss, then pulled out the chair and sat. “I think we’ve made Everett wait long enough. We’ll accomplish nothing by making him wait longer.” His boss glanced out the window. The old man’s wary smile faded, and creases of perplexity formed at the corners of his eyes. “Lance, the investigation isn’t over yet. Why not hold off?” “Everett’s been a loyal customer for forty years, first of yours, now of mine. Why put him through this torture?” His boss paused, then said, “It’s not going to be that much longer. Graham’s made a breakthrough. I spoke to him last night. He’s traced the gas can to a lot number in Rochester. I find that promising. He’s saying the investigation could be over in as little as a week. So Everett’s not going to have to wait that much longer.” He stared at his boss. His boss stared back. The silence between them lengthened. “Can I release the money now?” Then, in a more aggrieved tone, added, “At least without jeopardizing my promotion? It’s a preconsolidation policy. I don’t know why I can’t sign off on it.” Patrick took off his glasses, leaned back, and ran his liver-spotted hand through his thinning gray hair. “Why can’t you be on the up-and-up with me about what’s going on with this whole Osteen thing, Lance? If you think I don’t know about Brian Baum coming here last week, I do. Carol told me. And I know Vicki visited you at home on Friday night as well. Lindsay talked to Vivian, and Vivian talked to me. You should thank God Lindsay’s looking out for you. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” Lance glanced out the window where the winter night thickened like an oil spill. Patrick withdrew a bottle of White Label and poured hefty doses into coffee mugs. He handed a mug to Lance. Lance contemplated the contents, then downed the double shot in one go. “Lindsay shouldn’t spy on me.” Patrick smiled, but it was an odd smile. “Let me ask you something, Lance. If you were in a burning building, and you had to choose between saving Miss America or the president, who would you save?” Lance’s answer was disgruntled. “Probably the president.” “And if you were in that same burning building, and you had to choose between the woman who left you standing at the altar sixteen years ago, or the man who’s fed and clothed your family for the last decade-and-a-half, who would it be? Because I’ll tell you one thing, if you sign off on the Osteen policy, corporate’s not going to look too kindly upon me, even though it is your own personal policy. It will be me in that burning building.” “It’s not as simple as you think, Patrick.” Lance stared at his boss and made another try. “Can we just sign off on it? That way, no one gets hurt.” “So someone’s going to get hurt?” He prevaricated. “If we sign off on it, I’ll take the blame. Underline for corporate that it was my own independent policy. Tell them I was managing it long before consolidation. Tell them I don’t care about the promotion.” “Yes, but Lance, we work as a team. The profits are measured together, regardless of whether it’s a post- or preconsolidation policy. Corporate couldn’t care less about your solo policies.” Lance looked away, the booze starting to sour his stomach. “I’m going to sign off on it.” Patrick pressured him. “Lance, come on. You really want to think about that.” “They killed his dog.” Dead silence. It was as though there had been an explosion in another part of the office, and all the air had been sucked out of the room. Then Patrick said in a voice that had all the brittleness of fresh harbor ice, “Who killed whose dog?” Lance felt he was standing on top of a tall building, was scared to jump, yet at the same time felt compelled to jump. “Horse guys from Chicago. They killed Everett’s dog. He borrowed money from them and made a few crappy bets. Big ones. And lost. Now he owes them. They’re up from Chicago to collect. With golf clubs.” Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “Golf clubs?” Lance shook his head. “The dog went first. The old man’s next. That’s why we should sign off on the policy.” The snow ticked against the window. “Why doesn’t Everett call the police?” “Because they’ll murder him if he does. Do you want murder on your hands, Patrick?” Even as he spoke, he knew it was a despicable tactic, shifting blame, and more despicable, to parrot Vicki’s exact words. “For a policy he’s loyally paid his premiums on for the last forty years? Let’s do the moral thing. Let’s sign off on it.” Patrick’s features settled, and he shook his head. “There’s been a lot going on behind your back while you’ve been stewing yourself up about all this, Lance. If you want to know the truth, Graham’s taking a real close look at Brian Baum. That’s the breakthrough I was telling you about. Graham’s linked Brian to the gas can. So it’s looking bad for Everett, and if you sign off on things now, you’re going to make a lot of trouble for yourself and your family. And do you really want that?” That’s when Lance began to see there was nothing he could do, that karma, as payback for the way Vicki had left him stranded at the church, was going to have its revenge against her, first by killing her father, then incarcerating her husband, whether he wanted it to or not. Oddly, he felt a sick thrill from the notion, and an unexpected catharsis that left him weak with a bitter joyfulness. “How did Graham specifically link Brian to the gas can?” “By the lot number in Rochester, and with a gas station security tape showing Brian filling a can similar to the one in photo four.” Patrick sighed. “Lance, if Everett and Brian are playing us for the settlement—and Graham’s convinced they are—there’s no point in trying to protect them now. If you sign off on the policy now, your credibility as an insurance agent would nose-dive. You’d never work in the industry again. You’d put your family through hell. And do you really want that? Do you really want Vicki to wreck your life a second time after she wrecked it a first time sixteen years ago? Because I know that’s who you’d be signing off on it for.” He looked out the window where he saw snow coming down harder. “No, I guess not.” And knew he would have to get used to having murder on his hands. **** The news of Everett Osteen’s brutal slaying came a few days later. Lance and his family were at Wendy’s having burgers and fries. Melvin Graham called him on his cell phone and gave him the details. “They drove him to Arrowhead Road, beat him to death, and left him in the trunk of his car. A state trooper found him. Oh, and by the way, I have Brian Baum in custody for the arson.” Karma. Revenge was his. Whether he wanted it or not. He couldn’t help picturing Osteen, dead in the trunk of his car, a shrunken old senior, the man who would have been his father-in-law if things had turned out differently, beaten to death with a nine iron. And he couldn’t help thinking of Brian in an orange corrections jumpsuit. And of how Vicki was now all alone. On Monday, as if irony were a necessary component to karma, Patrick gave him the promotion. Over the coming week, he looked for a funeral notice, but the paper didn’t print one. He learned from Melvin Graham that the homicide detectives were holding the body indefinitely, pending a conclusion to their investigation. “A bit like the arson thing. We had to keep it open a while. These things take time.” As there was no funeral scheduled in the foreseeable future, Lance drove to the Osteen place two days before Christmas to offer his condolences to Vicki, only to discover that there was a for sale sign in the front yard. He knocked on the door. An armed security guard answered. He was relieved. At least Vicki had had the good sense to hire some protection. The guard patted him down, then went to get Vicki. When she finally came, she looked drawn and thin. Her eyes were puffy, shell shocked—like the eyes he had seen in his own face when, purple bowtie hanging around his neck, he had finally realized she wasn’t coming to their wedding. “What are you doing here?” She showed no trace of human feeling. Everything that had ever happened between them seemed forgotten. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” His words caught like an old car starting on a subzero Minnesota morning. “No, you’re not. You’re happy. I can see it in your eyes.” This stung, partly because it was half true. “I see a for sale sign on the lawn.” “I’m moving back to Rochester.” She glanced past his shoulder to his car. “Are you happy now?” He didn’t like the way she could so easily dismiss him, just as she had dismissed him sixteen years ago. Karma got the better of him, and he said something mean. “Merry Christmas, Vicki.” She said nothing. A moment later, she quietly closed the door. He left her to her devastation, just as she had left him to his. He got in his car and drove away. Snowflakes drifted from the sky, large ones that thudded into his windshield and disintegrated on impact. He glanced in his rearview mirror at the Osteen place. He would never come out here again. He turned his attention to the road ahead where, in the harbor below, he saw the Aerial Bridge, blurred by the blizzard, its girders faint in the thickening weather. He tried to concentrate on his wife and kids and the Christmas they would share in two days, but it didn’t seem real. He remembered what Vicki had said about regret, and about murder on his hands. And he had to wonder if she hadn’t, after all, ruined his life a second time.