The Sentinel Ch. 01

Thinking he might be distracted, you yelled, "It's a rape in Chicago at 1326 East Elm apartment 6, penthouse. Break the door down! Quick!"

Then the unthinkable happened, didn't it, Jackie boy? You saw the barrel, shiny, stainless steel, as it slipped into her mouth, pushing back far enough she gagged on it. Your reaction was immediate as you grabbed the phone and started babbling. The sound of the gunshot was so loud you later discovered one of your computer speakers had blown. You cried out, didn't you, Jack? A primal, animal cry as your instincts took over, and you jumped off the bed to grab your robe. You had to do something, didn't you, Jack? You had sat there like an idiot all that time, and now, you had to do something. Anger led to instinct which left you confused when you heard the sirens outside your own building. You thought they had arrived, hadn't you, Jack? You still thought you could save her. Running to your door, you flung it open and bolted.

Jack, you've got to admit buddy, you looked guilty as hell running down the hall with nothing on but a robe and a savage look on your face. Who could blame that cop, Jack? He was brand-new, right out of the academy, and got sent to his first real call - a rape in progress at the address traced to your phone number. Then, when he's running up the stairs, his radio crackles with, "Shots fired. Use extreme caution."

Well, Jack, I guess he did, didn't he? When he came around the corner, running to save her life, and saw you fifteen feet away with something black in your hands, he got about as cautious as he could and dropped you. Thinking the black phone was a handgun that had already been fired once, he didn't even think about yelling, "Stop right there, Police!" The shot was clean and quick as he dropped to one knee and took aim. Right at your belly button, Jack. It gave him a target big enough to hopefully drop you without killing you. Lucky for you, he was off a little - just to the right where it went through your intestines and lodged beside your spine.

Pushing back in the wheelchair, Jack jumped with a start when the phone rang, jerking him back to reality. His shirt was soaked in sweat, and his hands shook as he reached to answer. "Hello?"

"Jack. How ya doin', Jack?" Juan's voice was a welcome escape from Jack's personal nightmare.

"You know, Juan, mas de la misma."

"Pinché cabron, when you gonna get the hell out of that fortress you've built over there?"

"Ah, Juan, you know me...dug in and hunkered down."

Juan and his assistant Michelle were the only two left that knew how and where to find him. It had taken a couple of hours for the police to work out exactly what had taken place, and by then, he was well into twelve hours of surgery. The doctors had been amazed by the outcome and been assuring him for six months that he could walk as soon as he decided to.

He had missed her funeral as he lay in the hospital recovering. When he finally made it to her apartment, it had been cleaned and scrubbed with the furniture all in its place and her laptop sitting on the small desk she used in her bedroom. Wheeling up to it, his fingers shook as he opened the lid. No, he couldn't do it. Instead he had called Michelle from the living room. "Bring it with you," he'd told her. "I'll look at it later."

But Lisa was gone. He could find no part of her between the empty walls. The smell of carpet cleaner had wiped out the smell of her perfume. Her clothes had been taken away - some by forensics but most to Goodwill. The jewelry box he'd given her last Christmas was nowhere to be found, and lonely nails waited on the walls for someone to return their memories for public viewing.

Everything else was gone. It was as if his own being had been packed up and put away with them, sold at a garage sale for fifty cents or dropped in a garbage bag for quick disposal.

He had rebuffed Juan's invitation to get that shiny new van that could practically drive itself out of the garage and take it for a spin. It had been sitting in the basement for over a year. Washed daily and serviced every six months, it still had less than three hundred miles on it. Dinner and some quiet talk over drinks actually sounded nice, but it still didn't seem like the right thing to do.

"Come on, Jack. You're never going to use your legs again if you don't stretch your horizons beyond the four walls of that luxury prison you've built yourself."

The silence had been long, and finally, Juan had done what he'd called for - what he knew deep down inside would happen anyway - he confirmed a meeting tomorrow with Jack at his place around two in the afternoon. "And get out the tequila, cabron; we actually have something to celebrate."

Assurances that he would drink Juan's sorry Mexican ass under the table seemed to placate for the moment, and after asking about and listening in great detail to the state of Juan's parents, his wife Mary, and his three sisters, Jack clicked the phone off and sat for a minute.

Laying the phone beside a keyboard, Jack sighed and stood. Stretching to get the stiffness out of his limbs, he walked to the sliding glass door and stepped out into the night air, leaving the wheelchair behind. No one knew yet; he was sure of that. Not even Juan and Michelle. A glance out over the water at the glitter of Manhattan, and he turned to his left to open another sliding glass door that entered the main living area of his apartment. It was a large comfortable room with furniture hardly used, paintings never gazed upon, and a television he wasn't even sure he could turn on without digging out the instruction manuals.

To his left, about fifteen feet away was a low divider of shelves that contained books that had not been touched since their placement on the shelves. Beyond the divider, was a slightly bigger space with a dining room table that seated twenty - the only piece of furniture he had kept from his past - the board room meeting table he had played under at his father's feet. At the far end of the dinning area was a fireplace of rough-cut sandstone that provided a warm feeling even when no logs were burning in it. The stone of the fireplace continued around on his left, covering the inside wall to his computer room, into which the only entrance was through the open porch area he had just come through. He really didn't want to chance someone wandering around his house and accidentally finding themselves staring at his computer screens.

Walking past the table, he stepped through heavy oak double doors to the right of the fireplace that lead to his bedroom, an area as big as the main living area. A fireplace of black obsidian reflected the fireplace in the dining room, and a polished black marble hearth ran the width of the room, ten feet out from the wall. Centered in front of the fireplace was his bed, built low on a solid base to allow easy entry and exit for someone that was supposedly more dependent on his arms than his legs. To his left, a wall of triple pane thermal windows looked out on the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance, and to his right, another wall of glass, slightly frosted, looked into his personal workout area and bathroom.

Beyond the bathroom were his dressing room and closet, all drawers and hangers lower than in most houses, and at the back of the closet, another door that would take him to the stairwell beyond - a fire escape of little use to a man in a wheelchair. Finding what he'd come for, he walked back out to the dining area and turned left into the kitchen which was separated from the dining room by a counter that could easily seat ten. Beyond that was a "nook" with seating for twelve around an oval of thick glass perched on a solid obsidian base and polished to a high sheen. He'd lost himself several times in the depths of that blackness, searching for signs of her.

To the left, there was another door to the fire escape; to the front, more floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out across the treetops beyond; and to his right, was his personal study. Walking to his desk, he suddenly felt a little more relaxed as he glanced around the room. There were no windows here - just dark mahogany paneling and bookshelves on two sides, another fireplace made of rough cut soap stone Juan had sent up from Mexico with two leather wingbacks on each side of the hearth, and a small half-couch, facing a coffee table at the edge of the hearth. There was no chair at the desk because he wasn't expected to use one. The space was left open for the wheelchair he'd abandoned six months ago.

On the unoccupied wall hung one picture, a solitary shrine to a love shared and lost in the cruelest of fashions. It was a casual snapshot with no real artistic value - something you could find in any number of envelopes, at any number of film development places, on any number of days in the year - a 6x4 landscape shot framed between two pieces of glass so the photo itself appeared to be part of the wall covering beneath. It was Jack, kicked back in a hammock somewhere in southern Mexico with a week's growth of beard and a goofy-looking straw hat pulled down over his eyes with Lisa curled in beside him, both sound asleep. It had been taken by Juan, who had journeyed with them on that trip along with a lady-friend he called his 'sometimes lover'. Jack thought it the most fitting way to remember he and Lisa as a couple - not a care in the world and sound asleep, waiting to awaken from the nightmare that engulfed them both.

Sitting in front of the desk in a visitor's chair, he pulled the thick scrapbook towards him and opened it about halfway through to a spot where the pages were empty. Opening the newspaper he'd brought from his bedroom, he found the two articles of interest and carefully cut them out before positioning them on the page on the right and writing underneath the name of the newspaper they came from and date published. Glancing back through a few of the pages, he lingered just a little on articles of interest before pushing the scrapbook shut and sliding it back to its place on the owner's side of the desk where his wheelchair should be. The charade would be over soon, and he could finally put a chair back there. Not yet, but soon.

* * * * *

It was always good to get a visit from Juan. He was one of the links with his past life that didn't hurt, and Jack sat patiently by his private elevator awaiting his announced visitor's arrival. Shaved and combed with a blanket tucked around his legs, he watched the numbers slowly go up until the doors opened and out stepped Jack's past.

"Jack, you asshole, you're slipping. They only searched me once today. Maybe you should fire someone quick." Of course, they never searched Juan or Michelle. They were both well-known and were the only two people in the world that had keys to his private elevator. The guards would smile, wave, and make another entry in the computerized visitors' log, noting the time, day of the visit, and who had stopped by. Juan was making fun of Jack's own obsession with security more than anything, and it had become a part of their ritual - something intended to distract Jack while Juan gave him the once over to see how his buddy was getting along.

"Hey, Juan, they just let you up here 'cause I'm having the place painted, and they think you're the hired help."

Leaning down, Juan placed his head beside Jack's and reached around to slap him on the shoulder. Standing back, he looked Jack right in the eye and paused before asking in the intimate tone of family, "How are you, Jack?"

The routine never changed and never failed to bring a slight welling to Jack's eyes. Juan brought the feeling of comfort and family to him on every visit as if it were a special toy that Jack could get out and play with before it got packed up again at the elevator when Juan would linger to say goodbye.

"Things are good, Juan," as they always were.

With Juan leading the way, Jack followed to take up his place across the coffee table opposite Juan on the couch. Tequila and small hornita glasses, the only way to drink tequila, were set out in the middle of the coffee table.

"So, Juan, have you driven my company into the ground yet?"

"Right, Jack, and let you come back and take credit for saving it? Olvídelo carbón." Taking the bottle, Juan poured two tequilas and shoved one across the table in front of Jack before continuing. "Que te vías mucho a la chingada péndejo. Salud."

Taking his own hornita of tequila and raising it to Juan, Jack continued with, "To the only family I have...and isn't that a sorry state of affairs, pinché idiota?" With a tilt of the head, four ounces of tequila disappeared, and they both settled in and relaxed some.

Breaking the silence, Juan started by laying a report in front of Jack before proceeding to explain year-end projections. It had been a banner year for Pond Enterprise with news of a possible bidding war from the two transport giants to buy Jack's company out. It seemed Jack had some warehouse space and operation permits in more than a few countries that the competition couldn't get into. There was nothing in writing yet, but Juan expected news the first of next week. What did Jack want him to do about it?

Leaning down to pick up the bottle of tequila, Jack poured the next round, taking his glass up to lean back in his wheelchair and ponder the situation. Juan followed suit and sat quietly as he reflected on his close friend. No words were spoken; Juan knew that this was Jack's call. His current position as CEO for Pond Transport was as much a favor to Jack as for a fat paycheck. Hell, the place practically ran itself, and the Pond name opened doors where no door seemed to be.

Downing his tequila, Jack wheeled away from the coffee table to the floor-to-ceiling window behind where he sat and thought about the years, time, and money his father had put into the company: the employee weddings; visits to the hospital to pinch the cheek of a newborn where he would discreetly slide a thick envelope to the mother; and Jack's own experience of standing behind the podium in his father's place and hearing the room go quiet, not because he'd asked them to, but because they wanted to hear what he had to say.

He could hear Juan pouring another round and turned to see a fresh hornita set up and waiting. Wheeling back, he surprised Juan with his question, quiet and sober, in spite of the spirits consumed, "You like your job, Juan?"

Setting his full hornita back on the table, Juan decided this was going to be a serious talk, not a Jack Pond blow-off with a second verse of "Make the World Go Away" as he usually got on these visits. This sounded like someone Juan used to know, and he leaned forward on the couch to answer. "Sure, Jack, I do. I'm good at it and have taken what you and your father built and made it even bigger." Pausing a beat to gauge Jack's reaction, he forged on. "But it's not my job, Jack; it's yours. It's where you belong, Jack. I can't walk across a warehouse floor anywhere in the world that I don't get stopped at least three times to be asked how you are and more importantly, when you'll be back. I may be the manager, Jack, but you're their leader. It's time you faced up to that, Jack, and got down from this rock you're hiding on."

Jack didn't have to consider the sobering words; he knew it was all true. And if his guess was right, he was about to embark on a journey that would give him closure. What would he do then? He would put his grief away and be left with a great emptiness that would need filling. Would it be fair to his parents to just fade away and forget about living? They had had that option taken away as had Lisa. Would it be fair to her? Would that mean the killer had really won? Even if Jack tracked him down and killed him, would the killer win the war after loosing the battle?

Coming back, he found Juan sitting patiently, waiting for his response; Jack picked up his tequila and raised it to Juan. Downing it with gusto, he started, "Here's what we're going to do, Juan. No. Pond is not for sale. I own sixty percent; you should own ten percent by now, especially if we end this year like you say we will. The employees own ten percent, and the rest is in a charity trust controlled by all of us. No one's taking over Pond Enterprise. Here's what I want you to do, and I want it to be your deal. Talk to the big guys and tell them, thanks, but no thanks. But, tell them we'll lease them space and provide the Pond infrastructure to move their merchandise for them. We want three things from them. We want money, so they better get their checkbooks out; access to any of the ports of entry we're not already in; and - this will be the tough one but if we don't get this, no deal - we want branding. We want our name to be included with theirs - on their trucks, on their packaging, and on their planes. I want to look up, see their names, and find Pond Enterprises there, too. Of course, we'll reciprocate. We'll settle for fifteen percent of their brand size, below and to the right. They can call us associates, business partners, strategic alliance buddies. Hell, they can call us assholes if they want. We'll do it with either one of them or both of them; it's really up to them." Pausing, Jack waited to see if Juan had any comments, only to be answered by contemplative silence.

"You hungry, Juan? I bet we can get a pizza or something sent up to this joint if we try hard enough." Juan just laughed as he stood to take his coat and tie off. This was going to be a long evening and maybe one of the best since Lisa's death. He wanted to dig in and get comfortable.

"Pizza! That's what's wrong with you gringos - no idea how to eat. Is your refrigerator as empty as your head?"

With that, they headed off for the kitchen, and Dad's old boardroom table became a strategic meeting platform once again.

* * * * *

Juan had left at four in the morning, claiming employee abuse, but the grin on his face told another story completely. His old friend seemed to be back or at least, under conditional surrender. The conditions Jack had put forth were easily accepted. Juan would not breathe or hint a word of Jack's future, imminent return to anyone, including Michelle. Business was to go as usual, and Jack would be in his old office January 2^nd. Juan was also expected to keep a heads-up from now until New Year's for any 'unusual' company communications that might need his attention. Upon receiving such a communication, he should act as he saw fit. Last condition. Jack was going on a trip and would be out of touch. The explanation would be time alone and away to find closure, and Juan would please accept any unusual expenses that might show up on Jack's business cards - no questions asked.

Jack laid awake the rest of the morning talking quietly to Lisa. They worked together to put away his anger and prepare him for what he was about to do. For some reason, Lisa didn't seem to be in agreement with his plan, but she finally gave in. As the sun came up, and Jack finally drifted off to sleep, he seemed to recall that Lisa always gave in to him in the end. Did I take advantage of you, Lisa? Of us? Jack drifted off to a dreamless sleep, and still, no one, but Lisa knew he could walk.