Beyond the Storm (9780758276995) Page 3

  “Oh shit . . .”

  Vanessa came out of her fantastical reverie to find her windshield sheeted with rain. The skies had truly opened up at this point, a bad time not to be paying attention to the road. Wiping sudden condensation from her fogging windshield, she righted herself on the road, realizing she was gripping the wheel so fiercely her knuckles had drained of blood to reveal only intense white fingers. Thunder crackled overhead, and a bolt of jagged lightning actually crossed so near her it could have cooked the corn. She jumped, more so in her mind than body, her seat belt holding her firmly in place. She knew this senseless daydreaming had to be set aside, time to concentrate on where the hell she was going.

  “You’re almost there,” she said, nearly saying “home” instead.

  Another sharp bend in the road was coming, and Vanessa eased her right foot down on the brake, gently reducing her speed as she maneuvered the car. Tires grooved with the ridges of the road as she smoothly hugged the shoulder. Another boom of thunder sounded above, and she reacted with shock and surprise. She looked up once at the sky, as though trying to ward off the storm, then her eyes focused back on the narrow road. And that was when she saw the other car—coming directly at her.

  Turn, turn, turn . . . that was what her mind screamed.

  But the car didn’t, and neither did hers.

  She had control of her vehicle; the opposite seemed true of the other driver.

  Vanessa was momentarily blinded by headlights, her mind distracted by the very thought of an accident that seemed helplessly unavoidable.

  Another boom. Was that just thunder again, or the awful sound of metal crunching upon metal? Had they already smashed into each other? Why couldn’t she tell? She blinked, gazed back out the window, saw the lights again, headlights bearing down on her. But they did not come at her in a fierce rush of confusion and fear, rather with a serene, otherworldly effect, motion slowed for dramatic effect. She felt weirdly disoriented, as though what was happening wasn’t really unfolding in her reality. The possibility of a crash had already slipped by, the gods above sparing them.

  “Oh, thank—”

  She didn’t get a chance to finish that last sentence. She thrust her foot down on the brake, and she heard the screech of tires on wet tarmac just before she felt the impact, strong, hard, and violent. She felt a horrible, strangling tightness in her chest as she steeled herself. Then without warning the air bag exploded before her, knocking her back against her seat and headrest. Her hands were flung from their tight control of the wheel as the car spun once, twice, careening off the road, bouncing off the shoulder before plowing straight into the field of corn. It finally came to a stop with the aid of the thick, meaty stalks.

  For a moment she sat there, stunned. She couldn’t move, trapped as much by the air bag as by the shocking sensations that ripped through her system. And despite the screeching she’d endured moments ago, what now settled inside her car and all around her in the humid air was utter silence. Silence . . . except for the steady drumming of the rain dripping upon the roof.

  Vanessa started to move, pushing down at the surprisingly firm material of the air bag. She managed to extricate herself from the bag, and then unclicked her seat belt. She was free of constraints, sort of. Still inside the car, but no longer strapped down. With shaking hands, she depressed the UNLOCK button on the door and heard the doors thankfully disengage. She eased the driver’s side open and stepped out onto the squishy ground. Vanessa scanned the area, looking at her car, her location, the direction in which she’d come to a stop, all of it skewed by the steady rain that continued to fall from the sky.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. She was fine, uninjured, just rattled.

  That was when it occurred to her: What about the other car? The driver, any passengers?

  She looked again through the thick curtain of rain, seeing nothing . . . nothing but the cornfield, one that seemed to stretch for endless rows. There was no sign of the car she hit . . . the car that hit her . . . whichever way it happened, there was no sign . . .

  “Oh shit,” she said.

  She finally saw the car, or at least its tires. One of them still spun, as though it had not yet given up on fulfilling its natural existence. It was a wheel, it was round, and thus, it should turn, like life, a steadying force. Located about fifty feet away on the other side of the road, the car had cut a rough, ragged path through the dense, unpicked rows of corn. She didn’t even know which direction she faced, which way she’d come from and which way the other car had. All she knew was that the scene before her didn’t look right. It was too quiet. Not even thinking, she trudged through the mud, not even looking to see if any other cars were passing, as she made uneasy tracks for the other car.

  “Hello . . . anybody, are you okay . . . ?” she called out through the sheeting rain, announcing her presence so as not to further spook the other victim, perhaps more than one. They could still be rattled by the loud crash, especially having tumbled and swerved as they had. She listened carefully for a response. None came.

  Suddenly Vanessa stopped short at the fearful sight of the smashed wreckage before her. The car was turned on its side, passenger side facing down. A bloodied, masculine hand was dangling out the driver’s side window, a man’s watch evident on its wrist. The other thing she could tell, even from this distance? That hand wasn’t moving. She wondered who this man was, what he’d been doing out on this rain-soaked road, and whether he was alive. Where had he come from, and what forces had brought him crashing, literally, into her world?

  CHAPTER 2

  THEN

  He showed up for lunch just after one o’clock looking like a successful bum. Dark scruff coated his cheeks and a pair of designer sunglasses hid his eyes. Worn jeans with a rip at the knees that may or may not have been done deliberately hung off his trim waist, and a wrinkled button-down shirt that seemed to have broken up, or at least had a bad argument, with its iron flapped open over a V-neck T-shirt. Despite his stylized look of the downtrodden, he arrived at the tavern wearing a big shit-eating grin as he plunked down beside his friend Patch.

  “Adam, you look like shit.”

  “No, I don’t, and you know it.”

  “What would the boys on the thirtieth floor say?”

  “They’d probably be jealous that I’m not wearing a tie and want the life I have.”

  “Yeah, until payday comes. Then they’d miss out on fattening their wallets.”

  Adam shrugged. “You make do. In this economy, you have to.”

  Patch, in his pin-striped suit and blue rep tie pinching his thickening neck, signaled to the hovering, blond waitress. “Can I get a refill on my drink, and oh, can you find my real friend? I don’t know who this slacker is.”

  “I’ll have a Foster’s. Pint,” Adam told the waitress.

  “Foster’s?” Patch asked. “What happened to Johnny Black?”

  “Beer is cheaper. And Foster’s is Australian for beer, mate.”

  “Too much time on your hands, what are you doing, staring at the television all day?”

  “Did you realize General Hospital has been on the air for, like, fifty years? That guy who plays Luke . . . what’s his name . . .”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, whatever. He’s aged, but man, that’s what I call job security.”

  Patch Grimes, intrepid trader at the investment firm of Koch, Franklin, and Cohn, which had employed him steadily for over a decade, was Adam’s best friend and former co-worker and only watched sports whenever the job afforded him a break. He still had his job; Adam didn’t. Patch greedily knocked back the rest of his vodka martini, chewed an olive with the contempt of a snooty banker, and eagerly awaited his refill. It was, after all, lunchtime, and while for some people the day of the double martini lunch had gone the way of bonuses and expense accounts, Patch liked to think of himself as a student of the old school. He wore fancy suits and blue shirts with w
hite collars and cuff links, even on casual Fridays.

  Adam’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Every day was Friday for him, or better yet—Saturday. His mode of dress was certainly more suited to the low-rent surroundings of the Blue Room bar found at Second Avenue and Sixtieth Street, not far from where Adam lived and about half an island away from the prying eyes of Wall Street.

  “So,” Adam said, after the beer had been placed before him and he’d taken the first sip of the day. “You called this meeting, Chairman. What’s up?”

  Patch slid an e-mail he’d printed out from work. Adam noticed that his name appeared in bold near the subject line, causing his blue-flecked eyes to gaze up with surprise. Patch raised an eyebrow with more than a hint of mischief. “Interested?”

  “What’s this?” Adam asked.

  “Did you forget how to read?”

  “Patch, I’m not working . . . which means I don’t want to work at anything.”

  “Fine, I’ll translate business speak for you. Geez, it’s been what, six months . . .”

  “Eight months, three weeks, two days, a few minutes. Oh, and one more beer. Not that I’m counting anything, days or drinks,” Adam said, taking a big, satisfying, post-noontime gulp of his cold brew. He signaled over to the waitress for another; by the time she arrived with it he’d be ready. “Look, Patch, if the subject of that e-mail is what I think it is, you can forget it. I’m not going back to work, certainly not now. I’m enjoying myself way too much. I kind of forgot who Adam Blackburn was, and it’s taken me this long to really get a feel for how to do nothing.”

  “Regis is in the morning, Oprah is in the afternoon, a six-pack for lunch?”

  “Cynic. Besides, both of them left their shows and are trying something else.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Gotta do something while you drink those beers.”

  “Seriously, who are you? Now, just read the damn e-mail.” He pushed the piece of paper back at Adam, who this time had no choice but to accept. Raising his fresh glass in salute, his eyes wandered over the e-mail exchange between Patch and a guy named Topher Anderson.

  “Topher? Seriously?”

  “He and I go back to prep school.”

  “Of course you do, with names like yours.”

  “Adam?”

  “Yeah, man?”

  “Just keep reading.”

  He gave in and began to absorb its contents. From the business speak on obvious display in this message, Patch was pounding the pavement pretty hard, but not at all for himself. After the financial meltdown at the investment firm that insiders called KFC, Patch was one of the few execs who had done amazingly well. Promotion to senior vice president, corner office, two assistants and a secretary, the freedom to come and go and enjoy two-martini lunches, there was little reason for him to seek other employment. Only one thing he hadn’t been able to do at the firm was save Adam’s neck and butt, trying but unable to convince the partners to offer him a position on Patch’s team. At KFC, the only thing fried was Adam’s career.

  “So this guy, uh, Topher, he wants to meet with me? Why, is he trying to commit career suicide—or worse?”

  “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “Tell that to KFC. Whatever. Moving on.”

  “Hey, Adam, everyone knows it’s a tough world out there. All of our reputations took a big hit after the scandal. People still hate banks, bankers, the lot of us. What they don’t dislike, though, is money, and we’ve got it. Look, the industry is trying to bounce back, and it needs smart people who always put company before the individual.”

  “That’s my reputation? God, now I want to commit suicide. Ugh.”

  “Adam, that’s not a very good interview word.”

  “Which, suicide? Or ugh?”

  “You’re in a mood.”

  Adam raised his glass, drank. “Good thing I’m not on a job interview,” he said.

  He saw Patch’s expression falter before he could cover it with his martini glass. Was that an effort to hide what he was thinking, or was he just needing the sharp hit of booze?

  “Uh, Patch, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Not that I was looking, but I’ve received an offer, a good one . . . no, wait, make that a fucking fabulous one from Topher’s investment firm. Offices around the world, London, Paris, Hong Kong, hell, Sydney—all the Foster’s you want. Topher says I can write my own ticket—which includes handpicking my staff. You’re my number-one man.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Adam, high six figures, bonuses, hot chicks at the bars . . .”

  “Been there, done them.”

  “You’re going to turn down the job?”

  “I don’t know anything about it, and truth of the matter is, I really don’t want to. The corporate life left me behind, and I’m happy to keep it that way. So you can tell, uh, this Topher buddy thanks but no thanks.”

  “You got some grand moneymaking scheme I don’t know about? You win the lottery last night?”

  “It’s not about money right now. I saved, I’m fine. I’ll sell the weekend house.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Adam shook his head, his eyes growing distant in the dim lighting of the bar. “Patch, have you ever wanted to just live the quiet life in some stupid little town that time forgot, maybe in a farmhouse somewhere?” He took a healthy swig of his beer while pouring over the menu.

  “Now I know you’re crazy. Drunk, too.”

  “Nope, I’m just me.”

  “Me. That’s so existential.”

  “There are other planes than just the one we live on.”

  “Oh yeah, corporate jets too.”

  “You’re not listening to me. I said no. It doesn’t feel . . . right.”

  “Okay, now you’re scaring me. Tell me more, Guru Blackburn.”

  Scuffling to dig something out of his jeans pocket, Adam eventually pulled out a piece of paper, unfolding it, smoothing it down. An e-mail of his own, his own surprise to spring on his friend. It was his turn to slide the paper forward. With a scowl on his face but not another word, Patch scooped it up and began to peruse the words, Adam watching as his friend’s face grew wide with absolute horror. He thought he detected a new facial tic, a twitch of his eyelid. Finally Patch looked up, and despite his rule about two martinis and no more, he waved his hand high, ordered a third, and didn’t say a word until it arrived and he’d taken a sip. Adam suspected his friend wouldn’t mind being that olive right now, wanting to dunk himself inside the high-stemmed glass and drown himself.

  “Where the hell is Danton Hill, anyway?”

  “Upstate somewhere.”

  “Like Westchester?”

  “No, Patch, really upstate. Lake Ontario.”

  “That’s Canada.”

  “Sort of. Look, Patch, I don’t know why I’m intrigued, but I am, and so I’m going.”

  “To your twentieth high school reunion? Upstate New York . . . in August?”

  “Hey, not my decision, that’s when the class decided to hold it. We were even polled on our class Web site for the best available month, and August received the most votes. June had too many graduations, July too many vacations. September . . . everyone busy getting on with their lives.” Adam paused, shrugged. “So, August. I’m going. Back home.”

  “You can’t go home again, isn’t that what they always say?”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s not an answer. Unless you’re five years old.”

  Adam, about to open his mouth, hesitated, wondering how much of his motive he should reveal to his cynical friend. And then he thought, what the hell, Patch already thought he’d gone bonkers, why not carry it through? So he explained about his home of Danton Hill, the tiny lakeshore town he’d grown up in, and how he hadn’t back in years. His family no longer lived there, his parents having moved down to Clearwater right after he’d graduated from high school. “But isn’t there always this desire to go
back home, see whether it’s the town that’s changed or simply your perspective on the world? In Danton Park, just before you hit the beach, there’s this grassy hill that rises above the town, and there’s a story that long ago it was used as a lookout point. Like a hundred years ago, when the original Danton family lived there. Seems one of its sons left for some adventure, or trip, or futile war, whatever, and he never returned. It still didn’t stop his mother from journeying daily to the hill to keep watch until he came back. There are all sorts of stories from years ago. Danton Hill was a seafaring place, they lost several people to the elements. Speaking of . . .”

  Patch interrupted him. “Gee, Adam, that’s real touching about those soggy old tales, you thinking of jumping into the lake and creating your own legend? Or are you just content to play the prodigal son? Is that wistful mother still waiting on the shores of the great lake?”

  “Patch, where’s your romantic side?”

  “I banged Susie Cooper last night, does that count?”

  Adam shook his head sadly. “I said romance, not sex.”

  “Are you kidding with me with this? Oh wait, let me guess . . .”

  Adam blushed, unable to hide it. “Well, yes, there was this girl . . .”

  “Ah, geez, isn’t there always,” Patch said. “Adam, do you really want to show up at your high school reunion a current and future failure, looking like a reject from The Bachelorette ? No rose for you. That’s surely the way to impress your old high school sweetheart.”

  “Oh, the woman in question wasn’t my girlfriend,” he said, a bit wistful, that faraway look once again glossing over his eyes. “I just did her a favor one night, she did me one, too, and . . . well, the way it ended is not the way our story should have ended. There’s unfinished business between us.”

  “Twenty years, you still think you can bag her? She’s probably forgotten all about you. And if she has any sense—unlike you—she’ll have the smarts to stay far away from Loser Hill. Something you would be considering too, had you not already lost your mind. Come on, Adam, forgot this nonsense, come work for me. Get back in the game.”