I left Gibson’s in a fog. The irony of bumping into Mickey Spann wasn’t lost on me. Here I was about to take my own life, and the insurance policy that I had purchased from Mickey was what I was relying on to take care of my family. It was a three-million-dollar policy with no exclusion for suicide after the expiration of five years. I had bought it seven years earlier, not thinking that I might one day try to take advantage of any loopholes. But a few months ago, after receiving another demand letter from the hospital and then having my first consultation with a bankruptcy attorney, I reviewed the policy with a fine-toothed comb and even suffered through a lunch with Mickey to “better understand what I had.” I had innocently asked about the exclusions that were still applicable, and Mickey had confirmed that “not even suicide was excluded anymore.”
Mary Alice will be able to pay off Graham’s medical expenses and still have more than enough to live on.
I pulled onto Memorial Parkway. I passed the turn for downtown, which would have taken me to my office. I felt my heart rate speed up as my decision solidified. Darby Hays was dead, and I planned to join him in just under an hour. I turned left onto Highway 72 and squeezed tight to the wheel, fighting off the doubts the dream had caused.
You do have a life, Randy.
“No, I don’t,” I said out loud, beating the wheel with my fist. What would my death do to Davis? Would she be able to handle it? Davis and I had been as close as a father and daughter could be before Graham’s death, but nothing had been the same since. Now that she was driving a car, we hardly ever spent any time together.
I’ve got no money socked away for her college. I spent every dime on Graham’s medical care. Davis is a good student and a talented golfer, but getting an academic or athletic scholarship is a long shot. College will be too unless . . .
“. . . unless I jump,” I said, my voice firm as I nodded at the windshield. When I did the math and analyzed my options, I always came up with the same conclusion. This is the only way I can help my daughter. She’ll have money for college. Her future will be ahead of her.
Up ahead, the traffic was beginning to slow. What now? As the traffic came to a stop I pulled onto the shoulder and continued driving, anxious to follow through on my plan. A hundred yards up, I saw an orange detour sign. Beyond the sign, I saw what had stopped traffic. There had been a wreck in the intersection of Highway 72 and Jeff Road. A storage truck had T-boned what looked like a Cadillac sedan. When I reached the detour sign, I turned right onto Jeff Road. There was another sign ahead and, without thinking about it any further, I followed. Why isn’t anyone else taking the detour?
I scratched my head and felt my heart starting to pound. What the . . .
The end of the detour was a parking lot with a mobile home that sat where asphalt met grass. Adjacent to the trailer were a number of golf carts lined up. Why would there be a detour to the old Monrovia Golf Course? I wondered, easing the car to a stop. When I did, I saw a woman emerge from the trailer. She had long blond hair and wore green shorts and a yellow golf shirt. She smiled as she approached, and I rolled down the window.
“There are some balls on the range for you to warm up with, Mr. Clark.”
Balls? Range? As far as I could remember, the old Monrovia Golf Course didn’t have a driving range. The course was a municipal track that was home to the cheapest golf in town.
“There must be some mistake,” I managed, squinting up into her bluish-green eyes. “I’m not playing golf today. I don’t even have my clubs.”
“No mistake, Mr. Clark. We got a call about fifteen minutes ago from your friend, Mr. Hays, that you would be arriving at eight thirty a.m.”
I felt my heart constrict. Mr. Hays . . .
“That’s impossible,” I said.
“Not at all,” the woman said, walking behind my vehicle to the trunk. She opened it, and sure enough, there was my golf bag.
Gooseflesh now covered every square inch of my body. I glanced at my arms, and I was no longer wearing a button-down shirt. Instead, I had on a blue sweater. I didn’t have to check my collar to know that I was now wearing a golf shirt.
“Want to change into your spikes here or in the locker room?”
I gazed past her to the trailer. Locker room? “Here,” I managed.
“Okay, suit yourself,” she said, throwing my golf bag over her shoulder. “I’ll put these on the range. Your playing partner is already here.”
“My playing . . . partner?” I asked, opening the door to the Crown Vic and stepping out of it on shaking legs.
She flung her hair back and peered at me over her shoulder. “Yes. Mr. Bob.”
My eyes widened, but I didn’t say anything else. I walked around to my trunk and took my time slipping my golf shoes on. Then, taking in a deep breath, I ambled toward the trailer. As I walked, I noticed there were no other cars in the lot and, looking past the trailer, no golfers on the course. I didn’t see a driving range anywhere.
Darb, what have you gotten me into? I whispered, as I grabbed the knob. Then, too bewildered to think about it any longer, I opened the door and stepped inside.