The nurse stood outside with Swithin while he waited for his cab.  It was dark—about five o’clock in the morning—the rains had stopped and there was a chill in the air.  She stood behind him, bracing herself on the handgrips of the wheelchair, periodically glancing at her wristwatch.  He sat, looking at the ground, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. Neither one spoke until the cab arrived.

“Good luck,” the nurse said to Swithin as he settled into the back seat of the cab.

“Thanks,” Swithin replied in a flat voice.

The nurse pursed her lips and shut the door.

“Where to?”  The driver questioned.

“Head toward Studio Eleven.”

Swithin didn’t remember the name of the street he’d parked on, so he told the driver to drive five blocks past Studio Eleven—retracing in reverse the steps he’d walked the night before.  The club was dark and silent, the partygoers, promoters and staff having left the space hours before.  The area where Swithin and Gifford’s exchange occurred looked like the crime scene it was.  The spot where Gifford’s body laid was circled in white paint and the space beneath the illuminated office awning was delineated with a yellow tape that read:

Police Line Do Not Cross

Three blocks further down the street, Swithin saw the Porsche and asked the driver to park beside it.  Once parked, paid and tipped, the driver helped Swithin out of the cab and handed him his things.  As the cab left, Swithin set his things down on the roof of the car, unzipped the plastic bag stuffed with his personal belongings, and pulled out his keys.  As he reached out to unlock the car door, he saw the reflection of his face in the driver-side window.  His upper lip puffed out and hung over the bottom, his left cheek was dark purple, stretched and swollen, and his eyes were bloodshot and sad.

Swithin left his keys in the door, turned around and leaned back against the car.  Then he dropped his chin to his chest and started to cry.

A few minutes later Swithin gathered himself as best he could, opened the car door and got inside—tossing his things onto the passenger seat beside him.  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Carlton’s number.

“Where the hell have you been?” Carlton exclaimed into the phone. “I left three messages!”

“Gifford’s dead,” Swithin replied in a deadpan voice.

Carlton paused.  “Did you just say what I think you said?”

Swithin took a breath.  “He was hit by a car last night, outside Studio Eleven.”

“Who told you this?” Carlton asked suspiciously.

“Nobody… I was there when it happened.”

“You saw him get hit?”

Swithin paused.  “I can’t say…”

“Why not?”

Swithin was silent.

“Is everything cool?”

Swithin looked down at himself.  “For you?  Yeah, everything’s cool.”

Carlton sighed.  “You’re tripping me out Swithin.  Talk to me!”

“I wish I could…  I really do.  But I can’t.” 

“Then, swing by.  We’ll talk in person.”

“I can’t do that either…  In fact we shouldn’t see or speak to one another for a while.”

Carlton paused.  “Things are serious… Aren’t they?”

“Very much so,” Swithin replied in a whispered voice.

Carlton took a breath.  “Take care.”

“You too.” Swithin flipped his phone shut, started the car and headed home.

Upon arriving home Swithin parked the Porsche in the garage, slowly pulled himself and his things out of the car and made his way to the front door of the guesthouse.  On his way, he paused to soak in the morning light, smiling as it crested over the main house. 

At the front door of the guesthouse he stopped smiling. 

Taped to the door was a note that read:

Well kid, the party’s over…

 

I did my best to find new investors who’d buy out the old ones.  Investors that believed in what I wanted to do, and understood the pace I planned to do it.  But, what can I say, right now it seems, the only person who believes in me, is me.

 

On account of the fact that staying with my current investors represents failure to me, this is the end of all KitschCreations was, and all I hoped it would one day be.

 

Thank you for sticking beside me when most would have walked away.  Although our working relationship was brief, your loyalty won’t be forgotten.  One day you’re ticket will come, I’ll see to it!

 

Respectfully,

 

D. Bennett

 

P.S. Toss the cell­ (service ends tomorrow).  Leave the keys to the Porsche under the driver-side visor, and put the key to the guesthouse underneath the statue next to the rear entrance to the main house.   

 

Sorry about the short notice…  You’re moving out today.

The note angered Swithin.  He ripped it off the door and opened the guesthouse in a huff.  Inside he found three boxes, two grocery bags and his suitcase lined up a few feet from where he stood at the door—each apparently filled with the sum of his personal belongings.  His bed was made and the guesthouse looked freshly cleaned and vacuumed.

A cold flash of perspiration spread across Swithin’s back.  “The tabs,” he whispered under his breath.  He walked over and opened the standing wardrobe, where his clothes, including the printer and laptop Mr. Bennett had given him to use, were formerly stored.  It was empty.  He carefully brought himself to his knees, opened the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, reached inside and raked its roof with the tips of his fingers. 

Moments later Swithin pulled out a white envelope with snapped tape on each of its long ends.  He brought himself to his feet with the envelope in hand and sat down on the side of the bed.  He took a breath and opened the envelope.  Tabs of acid were inside.

Swithin got up, walked into the bathroom, dumped all the tabs into the toilet and flushed.  After pausing for a moment to watch the tabs swirl down the drain, he left the bathroom and slowly started hauling his things off, one-by-one.

Thirty minutes later, the car Swithin drove in from Napa was packed and parked outside the garage.

With only one more task to perform before he could leave, Swithin walked through the pool area and toward the rear entrance of the main house with the guesthouse key in hand.  Next to the entrance he saw a ceramic lawn jockey and sat down beside it.  Bracing the statue with his slinged arm, he tilted it back, then reached around its front and stuffed the guesthouse key underneath.  He lost his grip and sent the statue crashing to its side. 

Swithin looked down at the footprint where the statue had once been and saw another key.  He picked it up.  It looked like a house key.  He stood up, wincing as he did, and looked around to see if anyone was watching.  He inserted the key into the rear door lock.  It opened.

Swithin took a breath, slid the door open, pushed past some drapes and entered the main house.

The rear entrance, Swithin soon discovered, led into a living room. 

Wood floored, the living room boasted a baby grand piano at the far right end.  A long white couch facing a wide screen television sat in the middle and a large stone fireplace boarded its far left.  Multiple paintings hung along its walls, but one painting in particular caught Swithin’s attention and drew him in—it hung over the living room's fireplace. 

Bordered by an ornate gold frame, the painting was of a couple, an unmistakably Asian couple.

Swithin walked up to the painting and noticed something more; at its base was a stamped metal tag that read:

Charles & Martha Chin

(20th Wedding Anniversary)

“What the fuck?”  Swithin huffed aloud as he looked back across the room.  He saw a note propped up on the music rest of the baby grand.  He walked over, picked up the note and read:

Charlie & Martha,

 

Thanks for letting me house sit while you were away on vacation.  I cannot express how much I appreciate your generosity.   

 

Your friend,

 

Dave

 

P.S.  I left the guesthouse key and the main house key under the lawn jockey in the back.

Swithin set the note back onto the music rest and sat down on the piano’s bench.  He raked his right fingers through his hair, pressing his hand against the back of his neck.  “You Mother Fucker… This isn’t even your house!”  He dropped his head and began to cry.  “I’m a fool, a fucking fool,” he whispered under his breath.  “What the fuck was I thinking?”  Tired, but uncomfortable sitting on the bench, he got up, walked over to the couch and sat down.  There, with tears still welling in his eyes, he rested.

A short time later, Swithin gathered himself, walked back to the rear door and split apart the drapes.  He saw two police officers running across the pool area, bent over with their pistols drawn.  He stepped back behind the drapes and paused.  Then, he looked to the left of the rear door and saw an alarm control panel for the house.  On it, an LCD display was blinking the words:

Alarm Activated

“Come out with your hands up!” One of the officers outside yelled out forcefully.

“Everything’s okay!” Swithin called back from behind the drapes.  “I’m a friend!”

“Come out with your hands up!” The officer repeated.

Swithin took a breath, pushed through the drapes and started to walk outside, his slinged arm leading the way.  As his head passed though the drapes he saw both officers squinting into the light of the morning sun with their guns drawn.

“He has a gun!” One of the officers yelled.

“It’s not a…” Swithin heard two shots fire in rapid succession; he simultaneously felt two body-cracking thumps to his chest.   His shoulders relaxed and his legs buckled.  He fell through the drapes and back into the house, his head collapsing hard onto the living room floor.

Lying on his back, Swithin gazed off at the ceiling as if he was looking at something he’d waited his whole life to see—something grand and perfect.  Something he’d feared, and resisted...until now.

Chapter 35 - Epilogue >>