Beyond the Storm (9780758276995) Read online

  Drinking the last of his second pint, Adam Blackburn said, “No offense, but I think I’d rather be dead than go back and work in that snake pit we call Wall Street.”

  “Bullshit. You just want to get laid, and you think this girl you non-dated in high school will punch your ticket.”

  “She’s not like your Susie date. Look, I don’t even know if she’s attending the reunion,” he said. “Really, Patch, it’s not about her. Not her specifically. At least . . . I don’t think so.”

  “So sure of yourself, huh?” he said sarcastically. “Want to explain that one better?”

  He leaned forward, the empty glass caught between his two hands. “Did you ever get the feeling you’d met someone before?”

  “Plenty of times, the next morning. We’d sober up and realize we’d met before, screwed each other on other occasions.”

  “Nice story, one for the grandkids no doubt,” Adam said. “No, I’m serious, what I mean is . . . this girl, she reminded me of someone, even though I don’t know who . . . or even why. Okay, Christ, even to myself I’m starting to sound crazy. Look, I’ve just got to go back to Danton Hill and see what happened to her. I’ve got to quiet this itch I feel.”

  “I know all about those kinds of itches, think I’ll give Susie a call when we’re done, see what she’s up to. With three martinis in me, I think I’m not going back to the office, if you know what I mean,” he said with a leering smirk. Adam said nothing, just stared at him. “Fine, this chick who time forgot, does she have a name?”

  “Vanessa.”

  “Oh, sexy,” Patch said, gulping down the rest of his martini.

  “Patch?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you’re drunk.”

  “Better that than sober and returning to work . . . or worse, back home to Loser Hill. Man, Adam, what the hell are you thinking—and besides, you look like hell. You want to impress a lady, get an iron, work a razor over that scruff . . . then buy a clue. You can’t nail the hot chick from high school looking like something the cat dragged in.”

  “Well, girl, look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Sorry I’m late, luv. The tube was late in coming, the platform was packed, and I nearly gave up and walked the bridge from Waterloo,” the newly arrived woman said, barely pecking her friend’s one cheek, then the other.

  “Excuse me, you who works for the wife of an ambassador, you took the . . . tube?”

  “Face it, it’s the fastest way around Central London, not to mention the cheapest . . . though that second one, not by much. Transit fees in this city are getting way out of hand. Reva, you know that better than anyone. How many times have we been stuck in traffic inside a taxi and you’ve muttered, ‘Damn if we shouldn’t have taken the bloody tube.’ And now you’re giving me a hard time about having done just that? So I wouldn’t be late in meeting you?”

  “Fine, whatever, ride among the huddled masses and wind up smelling like them. I hope you didn’t catch any germs or infections,” she said, fluffing her curly blond hair in an apparent gesture of ridding herself of any diseases Vanessa might have passed along to her with her air kisses. “Oh, and what’s with sending me that text message to meet you here, and with such utter urgency? The Phoenix Club, honey? They stopped stopping people long ago, they’ll let anyone in now as long as you’re not already drunk.” She paused. “They prefer you to get drunk on their booze.”

  “Reva, you’re such a snob.”

  “Four-letter word, hon, we all use them.”

  “God, I need a drink.”

  Located on Charing Cross Road just a block up from the Leister Square tube station, the exclusive underground club was just a short flight of steps down from the theater whose name it shared, playing to a world of actors, performers, and artists, not your usual raucous public house crowd found in nearby Piccadilly Circus. Reva and Vanessa ordered their wines, a pale pinot grigio for Vanessa, a blood-red cabernet for Reva, then settled at a round, back table away from a bunch of squealing girls who looked like they’d just finished up their first day in publishing. “God, were we ever that young?”

  “Reva, are you admitting to your age?”

  “I don’t age,” she said, taking a healthy drink, “and neither do you. This keeps us young. Now, what’s up, chicky? Tell me you’re still flying to Amsterdam with me this weekend. Aren’t Mrs. Slave Driver and her ambassador husband off somewhere glam and she’s given you the weekend off, right? Wait, don’t say a word, I’ve always been able to read your expressions and today’s is not making me very happy. No, not happy at all.” That last phrase seemed punctuated by periods after each successive word. “God, I think I’d rather be stuck on the tube with a smelly brute than hear you say you’re not coming.”

  “Take your pick, Tottenham Court or Piccadilly?”

  “God.”

  “You say that too much.”

  “Christ.”

  “Reva, I’m going to miss you.”

  “Color me intrigued. Spill, chicky. What’s his name, and on the hotness scale of one to ten, what’s his number?”

  “You don’t miss anything, do you? And no, it’s not about a guy . . . not really. Okay, so, I got this e-mail recently and I just ignored it. Or at least, I tried to. But lately, the past week or so, I’ve been thinking about it. I didn’t share it with you because I didn’t want to give you a daily opportunity to talk me out of it. And besides, I wasn’t even sure I was going to attend until, well, just the other day I talked myself into it. In the end . . . well, here, read for yourself. I’m going to the loo.”

  Vanessa Massey really didn’t have to pee, she just wanted a moment’s peace to herself while her friend realized the horror about to rain down on her life. Damn, but she would kill for a cigarette right now, and she was tempted to borrow one from those giggly girls too. There was something about being back in London that made her vices go into overload. Crave all the bad things in life, booze and butts and men’s butts. Like rereading a book that had the dirty parts earmarked. For now, she’d have to settle for one out of those three vices, returning with fresh drinks after her stop to freshen herself up.

  Without a word, Reva accepted the new drink in the spirit it was given: as a bribe.

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Oh honey, you thought when I read this I’d go crackers on you, try and talk you out of going? You’ve been running from this place since you hopped that flight out of the States twenty years ago and came to Paris. Who knows, maybe going back is the right thing—finally get you to let go of your past and move on with your life. It’s all connected, you realize, every decision you make, even if you won’t admit it, has to do with your past. Oh wait, what do you call them . . . oh yes, your issues. Coming to Europe, that lingering dalliance with Dominick . . . the baby . . . your whole life, chicky. Vanessa Massey, go back home if you feel you need to. But this time, make sure you free yourself of that tether so when you come back to reliable ol’ Reva, that’s the end of it. There’s still too much fun in the sun to be had. Even in rainy London.”

  Vanessa, pushing back her dark locks to reveal her catlike green eyes, tossed her friend a curious look. “Rev, we’re on a fast, downward slide toward forty. Is that what you want, to go from aging party girl to predatory cougar? And to keep taking me along on the hunt?”

  “God, cougar. Such a vulgar term, so American.”

  “Rev, we’re both American.”

  A look of absolute horror crossed her friend’s made-up, ruddy-cheeked face. She quickly gazed about the crowd to ensure no one had overheard such an offensive comment. They’d be tossed out of the Phoenix Club on their ears for sure, this time unable to rise from the ashes.

  “When do you leave?”

  “This coming Thursday.”

  “So, it’s back to Danton Hill, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think he’ll be there?”

  Vanessa visibly blanched. She recovered, though, b
ecause she needed to, realizing if she was going to bravely go back she had to work on that poker face of hers. No way could she wear her heart on her sleeve, not here, and definitely not later. “Maybe, probably, I guess so.”

  “Gee, so definitive.”

  “Okay, call it a hunch.”

  “You’re using up an awful lot of frequent flier miles on a mere hunch, dear? God, don’t you remember, you didn’t even like him . . . he was just a stand-in at the last minute, and from what I remember from your stories, he was rather . . . ordinary. What kind word did you use to describe him, ‘cute’ . . . ? Like a puppy?”

  “He was cute, in a little brother sort of way,” Vanessa said. “But that was twenty years ago. He’s grown-up and he’s more than cute. You remember?”

  “Sort of,” she said, taking a drink from her wine, her red lipstick sticking to the rim of the glass. “Too many of these, I suppose. Then and now. But dear, he may have grown up but is he mature? Why should he be when you’re not?”

  “Reva, you’re such a bitch,” Vanessa Massey said, again pushing her hair away from her face, as though with such an action she had stopped hiding behind it. She was ready to show her confidence to the world, or at least to the corner of the world known as Danton Hill. “Now give me a damn cigarette. One last indulgence before I return to the land of the perms and sweatshirts worn off the shoulder. And may God have mercy on my soul.”

  “You’re going home. So clearly he doesn’t.”

  “Who?”

  “God,” Reva said.

  “You say that too much.”

  Reva laughed, the deep sound flavored with a lifetime of smoking and perhaps a tinge of regret. “So, you’re going back to find out if the boy you didn’t like was actually The One? And then what? You two go off into the sunset together? Chicky, I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “Reva, I’ll be back.”

  “With him in tow? Like in a movie, the music swelling as the credits roll?”

  “It’s Danton Hill,” Vanessa said wearily. “The only thing that will be swelling will be the sewers. It rains more there than it does here.”

  “Hmm, let’s hope your taste in men is better than your taste in destinations.”

  CHAPTER 3

  NOW

  He was still alive, or at least he thought he was. He couldn’t exactly say he was familiar with what death felt like, having been alive all these thirty-eight years. Still, evidence suggested he’d survived the initial crash and impact: His eyes were blinking, and even though maybe he could feel the gooey wetness of blood, he couldn’t pinpoint from where on his body it flowed. His current position of being trapped upside down in the car wasn’t really ideal for a thorough examination. All he knew right this second was how numb his body felt and that the driver’s side window had smashed, turning the once-solid glass into jagged slices, some still imbedded in the frame, other shards dangerously close to him. Rain continued to pour through the opening. He could feel neither the heat of any injuries nor the cool rainwater. As for what he could see, not too much. The world was askew, making it appear as though through the cracked windshield the towering corn was growing sideways, its husks like tentacles reaching out to him.

  “Great, I’m stuck in a cornfield, probably going to die here among the stalks.”

  For a fleeting moment he felt a bit like the wily, supposedly brainless Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. Adam too had no clue in which direction to travel or even look, and his arms were just as twisted in confusion. But he had the brains to figure his way out of his predicament surely, rattled as they were from the accident.

  Adam shook his head, trying to reduce the fuzzy haze behind his eyes. He blinked again, felt better as raindrops helped wash out any soot or specks of glass that might have slipped underneath his eyelids after the car had turned over. Darkness lessened and the overcast world came back into view, giving him a chance to review what had happened.

  Another car coming at him, while his went seemingly out of control . . . skating on a sheet of water. Impact, collision, swerving, turning, twisting, finally resting. That was a lot of violent action in a short amount of time. Still, despite the fact his car had actually flipped over—how many times he wasn’t sure—the seat belt and air bag had held him locked in position. He couldn’t imagine where and how he might have landed had he not been wearing the seat belt; might have been tossed into the cornfields and had all his stuffing knocked out of him. Second best decision he’d made when getting the rental, putting safety ahead of comfort. First thing had been agreeing to the insurance. He had a feeling the car was totaled.

  So then why wasn’t he?

  Adam shifted in his seat, wincing at the pain he felt on his side. The seat belt strap had ripped through his shirt, left him with a nasty burn. He could feel the edges of the rough cloth digging into his skin when he moved. Maybe that’s where he was bleeding from, just a slight scratch or two. Just then his eyes blurred again from more intrusive raindrops. He wiped them away, noticing one of the droplets came away as a red smear on his fingertip. He dabbed at his forehead, felt more thick wetness.

  “Great, a head injury,” he said, touching it again. Still bleeding.

  There wasn’t much he could do about the wound right now, first he had to free himself before he could attend to any cuts and bruises. But was that really the smartest thing to do, trying to free himself from the confines of the twisted car? What if he had damaged his spine or had a concussion? Any sudden movement could worsen his potential injuries, leave him paralyzed or with lingering headaches.

  “Geez, Blackburn, you sound ridiculous. You’re fine. Get out of the damned car before the damn thing blows.”

  He supposed his rental car exploding into a huge orange fireball was a more realistic piece of paranoia than a spinal injury, a leak in the gas tank catching a stray spark. Or worse, lightning striking the stationary car and frying him to a crisp. Closed casket for him. Deep-fried corn on the cob for the guests. He laughed despite his situation, gallows humor indeed.

  Adam looked up through the window. Jagged pieces of glass still clung to its edges. He didn’t relish risking further injury by exiting through the window, even supposing his body could slip through the tight space. Instead, he reached up and tried the handle, hoping the door hadn’t suffered too much damage when the car overturned. He pushed at it with strong, determined hands and a staining face streaked with rivulets of blood. Nothing, no give.

  “Crap,” he said.

  He’d have to wait for someone to rescue him.

  He wiped away the blood again, smeared it on his jeans.

  That’s when it occurred to him to wonder about what had happened to the other car. Was the driver okay? He’d caught a faint glimpse of a woman behind the wheel of the car, but no passenger. Though he supposed there could have been a child, a kid in a car seat in the back, someone you wouldn’t see sitting beneath the dashboard. A mix of fear and worry for the other car punched his gut. He had to get out and assess the damage, call for help . . . where the hell was his cell phone? Not in his pocket and not clasped to his leather belt, because he was driving and the law said only hands-free devices were allowed. So where was it? In his weekend bag, in the backseat? No, he remembered taking it out at the last Thruway rest stop, placing it on the front passenger seat. Great, with the car rolling and rolling in the mud and field, that cell phone could be anywhere. And he wasn’t exactly expecting anyone to call, so he wouldn’t hear it ring even had a friend decided to find out what was up. Patch had wished him well, call me when you’re back. Otherwise, radio silence. And for what’s up, Me, he answered. Upside down.

  No, he had only one choice. Get the hell out of the car.

  Adam struggled against the fleshy material of the air bag, his hands finding the release of the seat belt buckle. He felt the pressure against his chest ease, a certain amount of flexibility returning to his body. Wiggling his way upward, he again winced from the pain in his side. Still, pushing th
rough the searing pain, he managed to get a better grip on the door. A rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, Adam pushed, pushed harder, grunted for extra effort like a tennis player returning an angry serve, and finally he felt the first give of the door. A scrunch of metal sounded against the quiet backdrop.

  “Come on, come on, move, dammit . . . why won’t you let me out?” he yelled, his voice echoing out beyond the confines of the car, the sound caught by wind.

  Apparently the wind knew how to answer.

  “Hello?” he heard.

  Adam stopped pushing, going silent again. Had he heard something? Someone? Did he just answer himself back, or was there actually someone outside his car? Was it the driver of the other car? Perhaps another car whose driver witnessed the accident? Or maybe a paramedic, already come to his rescue? How long had he been out, unconscious from the car flipping over? He didn’t recall losing consciousness; hadn’t only a minute or so passed since the car had come to a crunchy rest within the stalks? With one hand still pushing against the door, he stole a look at his watch hand. Just what time was it? He wasn’t going to get an answer because the face of his expensive, prized Rolex was cracked, the time stopped on 4:08 in the afternoon. Shit, as far as Adam’s world was concerned, time had come to a standstill.

  Or maybe it hadn’t. There came that voice again.

  “Is anybody in there, can you answer me?”

  Okay, Adam heard that clear enough, a woman’s voice calling through the storm, and it was near. Perhaps she was just outside the car, attempting to gain access to the upturned vehicle. Figuring out how to assist the person trapped inside.

  “Yeah, hello, I’m in here, kind of trapped,” he called out. “Alone . . . it’s just me. I need help with the door . . .”