Fractured Lines

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Marc let himself into the house. He'd never really enjoyed going there, but at least when Scott had been living there it had a bit of warmth and life to it. Now, it just felt like he was entering a mausoleum. It was big and ostentatious and so unlike the Scott he knew. But he also knew whose influence and money had built the flashy show-home. The hope had been that it would schmooze clients and investors. And it might have been used like that by the original owner but, as far as Marc knew, Scott had never invited anyone but him there. Not totally true. There was one other person who had probably been invited. Whether she'd gone, he wasn't sure.

His footsteps echoed loudly as he made his way down the hallway from the front door. He was tempted to kick off his shoes, but he could hear Scott telling him to leave them on. It wasn't like they would mar the marble floor. The lone step, as he made his way to the kitchen, was almost worse than the silence of the place.

Everything was pristine as always, it looked like a brand new house. Hard to believe someone had lived there for forty years or more. Although, he'd never asked when it had been built, he knew some of the history, especially that of late.

Marc dropped the box he'd been carrying onto the floor and opened the fridge. It looked like someone was just testing it to see if it worked. There was a one-liter carton of milk, two apples, an unopened jar of raspberry jam, and one yogurt cup. It reminded him of how stark his fridge had been going to University, only his had been full of beer and leftover pizza. He took out all the food and set it on the counter. Then he opened the cupboard and took out the boxed and canned food. He tossed everything in the box and walked it to the front door and set it down. It was just for looks, should anyone find him there.

He'd always felt like someone was watching him whenever he was in the house. And even though Scott was gone, that feeling had never left. With Scott there, at least he'd felt welcome. Now he just felt the cold, hard glare of his imagined watcher. Hurrying to the stairs, he quickly made his way up the carved wooden stairs.

Once upstairs, he turned right, ignoring the five large bedrooms that could have passed as apartments, and made his way to the door at the end. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside. This was a large apartment, one that Scott had created when he'd taken over the place, twenty years before. There was a living room where he spent a lot of his time, a small kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. Marc closed the door behind him, finally feeling that he was alone and not being spied on.

Leaning against the door, he could feel Scott's presence here, unlike the rest of the house. Scott's cup was sitting by his leather chair. A few magazines and books were scattered on the coffee table. A quick glance at the kitchen, off to his left, he saw the telltale dishes sitting in the drain rack. This is where Scott lived. The only place where there had been a bit of life in the opulent house.

Heading to the kitchen, Marc opened the fridge and realized he hadn't brought a box up to empty it out. It was packed with bread, leftovers, milk, juice … all that had been missing from the one downstairs. Knowing he'd have to come back, he made his way into Scott's bedroom. It looked almost as stark as the downstairs. The bed was neatly made, no clothes were lying around, nothing was out of place. He'd been taught well.

Opening the closet door, Marc stepped into a whole other room. It was massive, probably bigger than his apartment bedroom. This world was so different from the one he'd grown up in, and still lived in.

A growing, gnawing feeling settled into Marc's gut.

Meeting Scott had been the best thing that had happened in his life. He'd do anything for that man, which explained some of the craziness of what he was now doing.

Clothes lined both sides of the closet as he walked through to the far end where there was a wall of shoes. On the lower shelves were the ones he wore frequently. They were lined up, each in their specific spot. Most looked exactly the same to him, but Scott explained that, although most were black and made from leather, they were all handmade, one of a kind. A few spots were empty. But he knew why. The upper levels were full of boxes of shoes. They were the more special pairs. The ones a man would collect and only wear occasionally, if at all. And each felt different on the feet. And each probably cost more than Marc spent on all his clothes in a year. And he had to wear suits.

Marc did what he always did when he saw this collection of spit-polished shoes. He looked down at his runners. They were his go-to for everything. He chuckled at the time he'd bought Scott his first pair of runners. Marc had intended for him to wear them, but he never had. No, they'd been a gift, one that he'd proudly displayed in the corner. He looked up but the shelf where they had been displayed was empty. Scott had loved to know they were there and said whenever he needed a lift, he'd go in there to look at them.

They weren't there. Where could they have gone? Who would have taken them? Scott unfortunately didn't and probably never would have a need for them. At least, not now.

Marc felt a pressure over his heart. He pressed his palm over his chest. Today was not the time to allow his emotions loose. Too much was happening. There would be time later to mourn.

Approaching the rows of boxes of shoes, he could never remember which one hid the code to the safe. After pulling out nearly all of them, he found the one that had a big M1 on it. He lifted out the black pair of shoes. He gently rolled the tongue of the right shoe back and looked at the number printed there. Anyone seeing it would think it was an identification code for the shoes. But it wasn't. He reached behind where the box had been and slid back a barely discernible plate, of which there were several on the wall. It was made to look like it was to protect the wall, in case someone was putting away the shoes a bit too harshly. That always made Marc smile. He'd never seen Scott be harsh with anything.

It was all a ruse.

As was what he was doing. But it was necessary.

On the panel behind, he punched in Scott's birthday. There were a few clicks and then the full wall slid sideways. Even though he'd seen it a hundred times, it still amazed him to see the whole wall move. It opened into another room, which was about one-fourth the size of Scott's but probably bigger than Marc's. To his left was a wall of safety deposit boxes. How could someone have so much stuff that they needed that many?

He looked for box 87. He didn't know the significance of that number, but Scott's face had softened and he'd smiled a gentle smile full of happy memories. It had been something he'd wanted to ask him about but couldn't break that trust. And now it just wasn't right.

Holding up the shoe, he entered the ten-digit number. His heart started beating like it was reaching the finish line of a marathon. His mind was suddenly overwhelmed with what he was doing, the part he was playing in this game. He would have done anything for Scott and had frequently, but nothing like this. Nothing underhanded or potentially illegal. Marc had no clue as to the depth of what he was doing and hadn't wanted to ask. What he knew was that the problems that Scott had were so far from his reality and something he often thought was ridiculous. If you had money, pay someone off to get rid of them. If you had money, sue the ass off someone bothering you. If you had money, move, hide, change your identity … but, as Scott had told him many times, that only worked if the person you were trying to get away from could be intimidated and didn't have almost as much money as Hathaway.

The shoe box size panel slid back. Marc reached into his pocket and pulled out the key he'd been given. He slid it into the lock and turned one-quarter turn to the right. Then counted to five and then another one-quarter turn. He continued every five seconds until the key had turned 360 degrees. The door popped open. All the security measures seemed a bit much, but Marc wasn't about to argue. He knew that Scott was fighting for his life, although most thought he'd already lost that battle. Now wasn't the time to screw up and let people know it wasn't true.

Grabbing the brown envelope inside, Marc quickly tucked it into the back of his pants. He pulled his shirt and jacket down over it. He closed everything and made sure all that he had moved was where it had been. All except for the suit jacket that Scott disliked. Marc took it from the front entrance closet; Scott always said he hated it but just couldn't seem to part with it. Marc tossed it onto the box of food. He picked up the box, took a deep breath, and tried to act like he was doing something normal. He wasn't sure entering a very rich man's house, who had supposedly died and whose house was under constant surveillance, counted. And whose house he was now leaving with some particularly important stuff. Opening the door, he looked down at Scott's jacket. More because he wasn't ready to meet the eyes of the men he knew would be meeting him and because they would probably be armed. He stepped out quickly shut the door behind him.

"Stop!"

Marc snapped his head up in surprise and turned slowly.

"What are you doing here, Marc?"

"Hello, Go—" Marc coughed to hide his almost blunder. It wouldn't have been good to call the man Scott's nickname for him—Godzilla. Scott had said he already thought of himself as God; Scott was just adding in a little better description. He'd only said it once to Marc, but it had always stuck. It had been fitting. "Mr. Gorman. I'm sorry for your loss. Scott was a good man."

The man continued to stare at him as though he was prey.

"I'm just getting a few things that Scott asked me to do before he passed away. He wanted the fridge emptied."

Mr. Gorman nodded at one of the two huge bodyguards. He moved up to Marc and yanked the box out of his arms. The man quickly dug through it, then dropped it. He turned and patted the sides of Marc's body. Marc jerked back, offended. He leaned back against the front door.

"Hey, you've got to take me out for a pizza and a beer before you get that friendly."

One of the bodyguards grunted and took a step toward Marc before Gorman waved him off.

"It's just food and a jacket."

"Leave him the food but take the jacket."

Marc shook his head in disgust, although he'd known this was what would happen. The jacket had been a gift to Scott, ten years before from Gorman Sr. Taking in a steadying breath, he pushed away from the house. "I'm sorry, sir, but I must ask you to leave. You are trespassing."

Gorman stepped toward him. "Where the hell do you get—"

"I'm in charge of Scott's estate. And I live here, now. So, I have every right. You and your … friends do not. Please leave." Marc pulled out his phone and punched in a number while he held the old man's gaze.

"You think you're something now? Why, because Scott paid for you to be a lawyer? You're an opportunist. One who will steal from anyone who has money."

"And one who took a bullet meant for your miserable ass, who then fired him for saving his life. I'm sure I have my ethics and morals sorted out. Too bad you can't say the same." Marc was tempted to rub his shoulder where the bullet had grazed him. Gorman had told him it was his own fault. It hadn't mattered that it had probably saved his life. Marc had been cutting the lawn like he'd been hired to do. The man who'd shot him had been another employee who'd been clean for two years. That day he had just snapped. Being that close to that much money, and the arrogance and waste of how it was spent, had been too much. He'd gotten drunk on Gorman's good whiskey, had walked out waving a gun. Marc had seen him and ran. He dove in front of Mr. Gorman and had gotten shot for his heroics. And then fired from his job. The old man had lost it as well. Said he was tired of 'freeloaders.'

Scott was the reason he'd had that job. He'd told his dad to hire Marc, which he'd reluctantly done. But Gorman had used that shooting as an opportunity to get rid of Marc. He had enough bleeding hearts around him, without having his son add more to the list. Besides, he needed someone to blame besides the shooter, who was an i***t and had gone to jail for his misdeed.

Marc looked at the man that he had, at one time, feared. Now he felt pity. Mostly, because he was missing out on getting to know the best man Marc had ever met, his son.

The two bodyguards grabbed him. Marc wrestled in their grip, trying to loosen it. Mr. Gorman finally raised his hand. They released him but didn't move away.

"You'll pay for this. And don't forget Cal owns half of this property. We'll see who ends up with his morals and ethics, and who ends up with Scott's assets."

"Mr. Gorman, have Cal contact me and we'll talk about his half of this property that he has never set foot on or in." Marc wasn't about to tell him that Cal had signed over all rights years before for a nice bit of pocket change that could have bought the whole property and then some.

Mr. Gorman glared at him before he walked back to his golf cart which, although it was the right size, really couldn't be called that. It wasn't like anything Marc had ever seen before. It looked more like a Batmobile. It had a molded front and two fins, or wings, at the back and it was black with what he was sure was pure gold trimming. The man had been using the thing for transportation around his property, which wasn't his anymore, for a couple of years. It made Marc wonder how healthy he really was. At 78, he should have some health issues, not that he'd ever own up to any weakness like that.

Gorman spun the cart around and drove away. The two goons jogged behind the cart. Marc watched, a bit disappointed. He'd been hoping for it to speed off in a cloud of dust, impossible on the paved path Gorman had insisted be put in. Or at least that he'd take off with a big roar. But it just moved off, silently but quickly. No big exit.

Once they were out of sight, Marc sank back, forgetting he'd moved away from the house. He stumbled backward and ended up sitting down with a hard whomp.

Even though it was him sitting on his butt on the ground, it might not have been pretty or all that exciting, but he'd take it. Round one to him.

~~~~

Glad he had parked elsewhere and walked through the trees to do some sleuthing, he watched Charles and Marc argue and then the grand exit. The old man was not looking good. On one hand, he knew he should feel bad, but he couldn't dredge up that kind of sympathy for the miserable old bastard. A man who had always taken what he wanted and didn't care who he'd had to mow down in the process. He had destroyed so many, some intentionally, some as by-products. He'd been both.

The younger man looked like he'd held his own, at least until the old guy was out of sight. He didn't blame him not showing his weakness. Gorman would have exploited that. And probably still would try to find a way.

Standing in the shadow of the trees, he realized how much this place meant to him. How much he'd missed it.

Making his way back through the bush, he was surprised the trail was still there. He'd spent many hours roaming these woods. He knew them well. And soon they would be his again, now that Scott was gone.