Robert was his name. Roberto, actually. Roberto Pavet. Mother Nicaraguan, father Cajun French. He was a smallish man, neat and concise with his movements as he led Wayne around the house and into the bathroom connected to the pool. “Can you undress yourself?”
Coming from a doctor, it felt less like an insult. “There’s something in my leg.”
He bent over. “Hold very still.”
The pain was almost cleansing. “I’m sorry about this. I had nowhere—”
“Clean yourself off and I’ll have a look at your wounds. How are your hands?”
“They hurt a lot.”
“That’s a good sign.” He shut the door.
Wayne let the shower run as hot as he could stand. The water at his feet pooled pinkish. Robert returned with a ratty towel, his doctor’s bag, and clothes. He dumped Wayne’s tattered garments into a plastic waste can.
Wayne cut off the water. “I’m going to bleed on your towel.”
“This one doesn’t matter. Slip into the shorts. No, leave the shirt off for now.”
Wayne did as he was instructed. Robert then turned and said, “You can come in now.” To Wayne, “No, stay in the shower. All right, your head first.”
Wayne gripped the shower stall and leaned forward. Patricia slipped in the door and leaned against it. She said nothing. Just watched him.
The doctor’s hands were deft, his motions swift. “What happened?”
“We are investigating a scam involving people who live on the island. It turned bad.”
Patricia asked, “Our neighbor?”
“He was one of them.”
“I’m going to need to stitch this. Do you want something—”
“I can’t. They’ve kidnapped my friends.”
Patricia asked, “That lady?”
“Yes. And three others.”
Patricia crossed her arms. Wayne winced, not at the needle in his skin, but the memory. It was so familiar, that gesture. He had watched it so often. The trigger was cocked and she was about to fire. Like so many times before.
Patricia said, “I have something I want to tell you.”
Robert glanced around, then went back to his stitching. He was a handsome man with a polished Latino edge. Standing so close only accented the difference between himself and Wayne.
Patricia took a breath. A big one. “I need to tell you how sorry I am.”
Wayne rocked back. Robert warned him with his eyes. Stay still.
“I had no business talking to you the way I did there on the bridge. But seeing you there …”
Wayne waited until Robert had snipped the dangling thread to say, “It must have been a major shock.”
She held up her hand. Not in the angry manner of before, pushing hard against the distance between them. Just asking for patience. “I’ve told myself a hundred thousand times, I needed to find you. Speak to you about, well, everything.”
The words seemed to take shape of their own accord. “It’s not just you. I should have called, told you I was coming. But I couldn’t either.”
This time she nodded agreement. “Then there you were, with a police car and those tense men and that woman. I wasn’t ready. I should have been. I’ve prayed about this for years. But all I could think was, you’re back and you’re going to destroy what I’ve built for myself and my family.”
“I don’t want that, Patricia.”
“I just wish …” She fought against the tremble that struck her chin. When she could not hold back the tears, she fumbled for the door and slipped out.
Robert sighed. A quiet professional sound. “Okay. Turn around.”
Wayne emerged from the bathroom to hear, “Daddy, why is the man wearing your clothes?”
The boy had his mother’s blond hair and a pure Florida tan. He was an impossibly beautiful child. And immensely happy.
Wayne made a process of looking over the room, keeping his gestures slow and steady. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Come sit down. You must be hungry. Roger, this is Mr. Grusza. Say hello.”
“The man wearing Daddy’s clothes?”
“He got his clothes dirty.”
“He fell down?”
“Twice,” Wayne replied. He slipped into the stool at the kitchen counter next to the young child. “At least.”
“I fall down too.”
“Finish your supper, son.”
There was a cross between the pair of sliding doors that formed the kitchen’s rear wall. The child was watching cartoons on a television tucked into an alcove at the end of the counter. The sunset splashed upon the entire setting, the water’s motion sparkling the walls and the faces with a beauty so strong it almost masked the adults’ strain. Wayne saw how the two of them would not meet his eye, and felt bulky and threatening. “Could I use your phone?”
Robert set the handset on the counter in front of Wayne without meeting his eye. Wayne dialed information and asked for Easton Grey’s residence on John’s Island.
“I’m sorry, sir. That number is restricted.”
He pressed the phone to his chest. Only one other name came to mind. He asked for the number, then when he realized he did not have anything to write with, he asked the operator to put him through.
In his weakened state, it seemed as though age had distilled the woman’s sweetness to a point where she could soothe his spirit merely by saying hello.
“It’s Wayne, Victoria. I need to contact Easton Grey and I was hoping—”
“He’s here.”
“…What?”
“He came with his family. He got word of some mess—I didn’t ask and he didn’t say. But I was there at the house and I could see he was worried. So I invited him home. He’s been trying to call you and the others but no one has answered. Where are you?”
“Easton is there?”
“I just said that. What is the matter, son?”
He tasted every different response, then finally turned away from the boy and said softly, “I’m with my ex-wife and her family.”
The two adults glanced over, then away.
Victoria said, “Your ex-wife.”
“Yes.”
He expected his father’s style of criticism. As in, stern disapproval over having let the faithful side down. Instead, he got a soft, “Life is so very complicated sometimes.”
It felt so good to smile. “You can say that again.”
“How are things, son?”
He touched the bandage on his forehead and murmured, “Difficult, but better than I deserve.”
“May I have a word with her?”
He did not hesitate. The fact that he did not understand changed nothing, given who did the asking. “Patricia.”
“Yes?”
“A friend would like to speak with you.”
She looked at her husband, then doubtfully accepted the phone and stared at him as she said, “Hello?”
She listened a moment, then said, “We are. Yes.”
Whatever she heard caused her to turn away from both men. She traced one finger around the corner of her son’s finger painting attached to the refrigerator door. She did not speak until she finally said, “All right.”
Patricia handed back the phone, her expression directed inward.
Victoria said, “We’re all praying for you, son. Here’s Easton.”
Wayne rose from his stool and moved stiffly to the rear doors. When the man came on, Wayne said, “They’ve got them. Jerry, Trace Neally, Julio, Tatyana.” The last name cost him dearly.
“They are messengering over the documents. I’m to sell my company for shares in Cloister.”
“A wholly owned subsidiary of Triton,” Wayne said. “Nothing more than a brass plaque on a wall outside a Cayman bank.”
Easton gave it a minute, then, “I want to come help you. I can’t just sit here and wait for them to steal my entire life’s work.”
Wayne knew the man was ready for any argument. Instead, he said, “Ask Victoria what she thinks.”
Another pause, then, “You want me to ask this lady’s permission.”
“If she says it’s okay, call me back here.” He heard the front bell. “I’ve got to go. The police are here.”
Wayne held back, and Patricia understood. “Go see to them, Robert.”
“They’re here about him.”
“Please.”
The doctor didn’t like leaving Wayne alone with his wife and son. But he did as Patricia asked.
Wayne handed back the phone and said, “I’m the one who has to apologize.”
Patricia looked at him. He could understand her shocked expression all too well. He never apologized. It was one of his defining traits. The tough guy whose life depended upon getting it right the first time, every time. Or so his excuse had always gone.
Not anymore.
“Everything you said, everything you ever accused me of. It was all at least partly true. I just want to say I’m sorry. I wish I could have been a better—”
“Mr. Grusza?”
Wayne recognized the detective’s voice. He finished, “I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you deserved.”