The Ascent(91)

I was sitting on a lounge chair on my balcony reading the Sunday edition of The Capital when my gaze fell upon a curious headline.

Regatta Race Accident Victim’s Body Finally Found

The article went on to detail how, during the annual Regatta race roughly two and a half years ago, boat owner and race participant Gerald H. Figlio had been struck on the back of the head by theboom and fallen into the bay. A search commenced, but Figlio’s body was never recovered until this past weekend when the remains of a corpse washed up at Sandy Point State Park. Figlio was identified through his dental records, the article said. The cause of death was ruled accidental.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have made the connection if it wasn’t for the brief bio of Gerald H. Figlio at the end of the article where it mentioned he’d once been a professor of English at James Madison University—both Hannah’s and Andrew’s alma mater.

The following day, I went to the local library and fired up one of the computer terminals. I located the Regatta’s official Web site and searched the backlog of race registrants from the past couple of years. After finding Figlio’s name, I clicked on the PDF document that was his registration card. Among various other information, Figlio had listed his crew for the race.

Boddington, Joseph Brunelli, Michael O’Maera, Sean Trumbauer, Andrew Wesley, T.J. Wheaton, Xavier

It was just what I’d expected to find, yet it still caused an uncontrollable chill to race down my spine. And not so much because I’d come across Andrew’s name on the list but because the grand scope of all Andrew had been doing suddenly occurred to me: the trip to the Godesh Ridge had not been Andrew’s singular expression of revenge. Rather, Andrew had been seeking his revenge all over the place, presumably for years.

How many people did you kill? I thought, the monitor casting a sickly blue glow across my face. How long had you been doing this?

“Well, you’re not doing it anymore,” I said and logged off the computer.

3



WHEN I RETURNED FROM THE LIBRARY. MARTA

was sitting on the sofa with her bare feet drawn up beneath her, a melancholic look on her face. She faced the television but it was off, the whole room growing dark with the onset of night.

I tossed my keys on the credenza and took off my shoes. “What? What is it?”

“There was a phone call from some lawyer,” she said dryly. “Your friend John Petras is dead.”

4



IT WAS A FREAK ACCIDENT. DURING A PARTICULARLY

nasty storm, a felled power line landed on the roof of John Petras’s house, sparking a fire. The coroner’s report listed asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation as the cause of death.

A week after I’d received the news, a box was delivered to my apartment stamped with a Wisconsin law firm’s return address. I opened the box to discover Petras’s pearl-handled hunting knife wrapped in newspaper. There was no letter typed on letterhead, no note.

That evening I went to the Filibuster. It was the first time I’d been back since my return from Nepal. The first thing that struck me was how someone had removed all the newspaper clippings and photos of corrupt politicians from the walls. Ricky was tending bar; his eyes nearly dropped out of their sockets upon seeing me.

I grinned and offered a two-fingered salute as I entered and claimed a barstool.

“Holy crap, Tim,” Ricky said.

“Guess you’re still working here, huh, kid?”

“What’s it been?” he said. “A year?”

“At least,” I said.

“Where you been?”

“Nepal. Climbing mountains. And chasing ghosts.”

“No shit? Wow. That’s badass.” He flipped a dish towel over one shoulder. “Can I get you the usual? I still remember how you like it …”

“Actually, make it a Diet Coke.”

“Seriously?”

“And a menu. I’m hungry.”

“Man, that mountain climbing stuff must have rattled your brains around, if you don’t mind me saying.” Ricky slipped me a menu and a Diet Coke.

I glanced around the place and said, “What’s with the empty walls?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “Guess you wouldn’t know. Brom’s selling the place.”

“No shit? How come?”

“Never really came out and said. My guess is he’s getting old and doesn’t want the hassle anymore.” He jerked a thumb toward the back room. “He keeps a picture of some beach in Pensacola on his desk in his office. Been looking at it more and more whenever he’s in here. I bet he’s itching to retire while he’s still got a few good years left, maybe get a house on the beach in Florida. Just relax, you know?”

I was still staring at the barren walls. This is what it’s like for a building to get Alzheimer’s, I thought. Taking pictures off the walls and leaving those inky, dark-colored rectangles in the wood is how a building loses its memories, loses what makes it what it used to be.

“You okay, Tim?”

“Fine.” I ordered a crab cake and ate it in silence, while Ricky attended to the other patrons. Behind me, the sound of darts striking the dartboard punctuated each bite of my crab cake. At one point, I heard someone slip coins into the jukebox. An old Creedence

Clearwater Revival song came on.