The intercom on Betty Halloway’s desk buzzed softly.
“Sir?” she said, pressing the small, red transmit button. It was uncommon for Mr. Reece to call for her. Typically, he would task her with things when he passed by on his way to meetings or when coming in or out of the office for the day.
“Betty, could you come in here for a minute?”
“On my way.” Three clicks of her heels later, she stood before Mr. Reece’s enormous alder wood desk.
Betty had always hated the desk personally. It seemed old-fashioned, not like Mr. Reece at all. He needed something more sleek and efficient. Of course, she’d kept her opinion to herself. They were excellent acquaintances, maybe even what some would call confidants, but definitely not venturing into the friendship realm. Succinctly put, Christmas presents were exchanged, but there were no quick pecks under the mistletoe.
“I need you to do something for me, actually two things,” he said. “Both need to be kept it in confidence.”
“Always, sir.” Her interest was now piqued. It was not uncommon for her to handle company-sensitive paperwork or financial disclosures, but she’d never been asked explicitly to keep something in confidence. She could only assume the matter was personal in nature, and that was very uncharacteristic of Mr. Reece.
“The first is to find an old friend.”
“His name, sir?”
“The …” She wasn’t sure how to ask without appearing nosey. “Yes, that’s right, the vice president’s daughter. We went to school together. See if you can find her. Get me a number, and I’ll handle it from there.”
“Yes, sir. Is it okay if I say it’s you who’s looking for her?”
He considered the question. “That will be fine.”
“I’ll get right on it. And the other thing, sir?”
Mr. Reece sat back in his chair, his thoughts somewhere far away from the office. Betty waited without interrupting. After a few moments, his eyes cleared, and he sat forward. He had a strange sense of confidence and determination that she’d rarely seen in him. He had always possessed a strong professional drive, but this was something different. This was purpose.
“About twelve years ago, a young man was killed at Harvard. It was in October and shouldn’t be too difficult to find in the papers. It was ruled a suicide by authorities. His name was Jiro Tanaka.”
“Yes, sir, Jiro Tanaka. I have it.” Betty scribbled the name down on her pad. “You would like me to bring you the newspaper clippings and police report detailing his death?” If it hadn’t been for his earlier remarks about keeping things in confidence, she would’ve assumed this was simply some initial research into a wrongful death lawsuit. But he had used the words. Betty didn’t think this was even remotely related to the law firm.
“No,” he replied softly. “No newspapers. I need you to find his family.” Betty knew better than to probe into something that obviously troubled Mr. Reece. “Yes, sir,” she said, turning to leave.
“Betty?”
She spun back around, alarmed by the sudden pain in his voice. “Sir?”
He pulled an old white scarf draped over a small bronze statue on his desk. “Take this,” he said.
Betty was confused. “What should I do with it?”
“Burn it.”
* * *
The airport was alive with activity, passengers filing past the large tinted window in an endless procession. Elliot sat on a long blue sofa in the Admiral’s Lounge, a meeting area reserved for distinguished people or those who simply traveled too much. He glanced down at a slip of paper before checking the flight information monitor once more. It hadn’t changed in the past two minutes. United Flight 1170 from Tokyo was arriving at this very moment.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” he said to the woman sitting beside him. She had thick, curly blonde hair, a slender body, and a lightly creased but otherwise beautiful face. She sat with an inflexible stiffness, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the thumbs working rapidly against each other.
“What are we going to say?” Janice Marino asked. Without waiting for a reply, she said, “I don’t know if I can go through with this.”
“I’m not sure what we’re going to say, but we have to do this.” Elliot’s tone was deliberate but also compassionate.
She nodded. They’d been through it all several times before, each time arriving at the same conclusion. It was time to right the wrong they had committed so many years before.
“I’m afraid,” she confessed. Then she reached out and grabbed his hand tightly in her own. Without warning, long streams of tears began to run down her face. “Terrified, really.”
“Hey, hey,” he said, leaning over and holding her. Elliot was surprised at how comfortable he was holding her in his arms after all this time. “It’s going to be okay. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know that? We … we killed their boy. We killed him, Elliot. Then we… we …” She couldn’t finish. “How can it ever be okay?” She was sobbing against his shoulder, clutching him closely now. “We have no right to ask for their forgiveness.”
Elliot closed his eyes and for an instant was back at that fateful night sitting with Janice in the front seat of his Gremlin. It was cold and dark. And there was still pain, yes. But there was also something else. A chance to replace the sin with something that could be lived with … sorrow.
Not quite certain if he was acting in the present or simply in a memory of the past, he leaned close to her and kissed her on the temple. She laid her head against his shoulder, grateful for the closeness.
“Someone once told me that I was carrying this with me like a shadow,” he said. “That I couldn’t escape it. I don’t think you can either, Janice.”
She looked up, the flow of tears slowing. “A shadow?” she croaked out with confusion. Long black streaks of mascara scarred her otherwise flawless complexion.
Elliot smiled before breaking into a light laugh. “That was my reaction, too. He’s a bit of a strange character.”
She smiled, her eyes coming alive. She squeezed his hand, pulled her lips together tightly and nodded.
“Come on,” Elliot said, standing. “Our guests have arrived.”
* * *
Cold rain drizzled over Randall Walker’s dark, chiseled features. His powerful lungs forced damp air in and out with the rhythm of a locomotive steam engine, his pulse throbbing with a soft cadence against the side of his neck. The gray sweatshirt he wore slowly grew darker as large patches of sweat welcomed the fresh rain.
Glancing up at the clouds, he saw a smoky mass of thick rolling thunderheads moving his way. He picked up the pace, hoping to beat the worst of the rain. It was a pace most couldn’t follow. But Randall wasn’t even beginning to run at his potential. No, he would save that for the track meet next week. This was just one of the many training runs to help keep his body limber and accustomed to the pain that only dedicated runners learn to endure.
Rural Route 17 was a desolate place. The road was riddled with patches of wildflowers and weeds poking through thick cracks in the pavement. The shoulders were overgrown with an almost impenetrable collage of briars, bushes, and ominous trees. Randall felt no discomfort at being so alone. It was the solitude that he enjoyed most. Route 17 was his place. A forgotten five-mile stretch that at one time had ended in a lover’s lookout. Now it was slowly being taken back by nature, becoming a refuge for squirrels and deer.
As Randall came around a sharp bend in the road, he was surprised to see more people than he’d ever encountered on the path before. During his many runs down the peaceful roadway, he’d seen other people only twice. The first of which had been another single runner, and on the other occasion, it had been a small group of Boy Scouts out for a day hike.
Now before him were four people and a dark sedan that looked as out of place on this forgotten road as an alien spacecraft. Randall had always suspected that with a bit of careful navigation to avoid potholes and fallen trees, the road was still physically passable. The real question was why. Why would anyone move the large rusted sign that proclaimed the road closed and bump and bang their way two miles up an old deserted route?
The group was still fifty or more yards in front of him, but he saw that there were two couples. One pair was Caucasian, looking to be in their mid-thirties. The man’s white button-up shirt and the lady’s pressed slacks and blouse marked them as at least upper middle-class. The other two were significantly older, perhaps in their sixties. Their olive skin and dark black hair announced their Asian heritage even at a distance. All stood without umbrellas, evidently willing to endure the soft drizzle.
As Randall drew nearer, the four moved away from the sedan and into the center of the road. The entire group seemed oblivious to him. The younger well-dressed man was speaking, although with the noise of light rain, Randall couldn’t quite make out the words. The man’s wife stood quietly by his side with a single hand resting lightly on his arm as if for support. The Asian couple both stared at the gentleman with great intensity. Every few seconds, the older man would bow his head slightly, acknowledging what was being said. The old woman remained stiff.
Passing just a few yards from the group, Randall heard only a single sentence that the Caucasian man spoke. The words caused him to look to the face of the Asian woman, their eyes meeting for only an instant. In her stare, he found a disturbing blend of emotions, horror … sadness … hatred. Randall knew immediately that he’d unfairly intruded on her privacy. To see such raw pain mixed with indescribable anger brought a fresh urgency to his steps.
Randall’s feet moved faster and faster, until he found himself hurling down the trail at a full run. But the pain in the old woman’s eyes chased him like a relentless Nazgul. Chased him all the way home and into his shower. Chased him even into his dreams that night. And in those dreams, he heard the man’s words played over and over.
“This is where we killed your son.”