Icarus

NINE

April 1, 4 p.m.

Jack and Caroline were surveying every tiny detail of the new restaurant. To Jack, every night he was at work was a little bit like being in a Broadway show. The preparation, the pre-curtain tension, the beginning of the performance, the exhaustion that came after the final bow. Today, even this early in the day in Charlottesville, it felt like an opening night on the Great White Way.

They'd taken over an old soda fountain/restaurant/general store in the Downtown Mall as well as the pizza parlor next door. The location was perfect, right next to the Piedmont Council of the Arts, the Thomas Jefferson Planning District Commission, and the Virginia Economic Development Corporation. Everyone who worked for those influential organizations had been sent invitations to the opening-night party and they, as well as all office workers within a five-block stretch of the mall, had received a voucher saying that Jack's would stock their favorite wine or brand of liquor and keep individual bottles for private use when they dined there. After knocking down walls and redesigning the space, the restaurant sat 125 inside. They had also negotiated for the use of outdoor seating on the long red-brick patio in front of the restaurant. So right outside were cast-iron tables and thirty chairs, along with clay planters overflowing with rosebushes.

The restaurant looked gorgeous. Jack didn't even bother to concern himself with that – Caroline was incapable of making a restaurant anything but wonderful-looking. It had the feel of the original Jack's but, as with each of the spinoffs, there was a vague regional atmosphere to it. Jack was never quite able to put his finger on how she managed this. Tonight, he suspected, it was the flowers and the pastel colors that somehow gave the restaurant a slightly Southern feel.

The employees were all in place, as was the complicated management structure unique to the restaurant business. They'd found the morning manager at a local bed-and-breakfast that had recently been sold. The night manager was Bella, from the Miami Jack's. A treasure. Jack had no reservations about leaving everything in her capable hands. The chef was solid. He'd been the sous chef in the Chicago Jack's and was more than ready to step up to his own kitchen. He was not intimidated by running a large staff and he seemed to be a good manager as well as a genuine talent. The assistant manager, the beverage manager, and the special-events manager were all young and relatively inexperienced but were clearly gems. Jack did not like maitre d's and he never had one in any of his restaurants. He thought of maitre d's as money-grubbing bodyguards, imperious and bribable. Instead, he had what he called anchors, and they ran the front of the restaurant – they knew how to juggle the seating, the overbooking, the walk-ins, and they knew how to deal with the extreme anxiety that came with dictating the flow of the restaurant on a nightly basis. Jack and Caroline took particular care when hiring anchors. These people had to be smart, they had to have pride, they had to be driven to make people happy. A restaurant's reputation was based on its staff's interaction with its customers. And not just at the top. That's why, for the new place, they had also hired servers and bussers who were all experienced, all happy to have stepped up in class and even happier to have an employer who provided health insurance. Watching them all prepare now – vacuuming, buffing the tables, folding the napkins, cleaning menus, testing the volume of the jazz that would be playing over the speakers throughout the evening – Jack was pleased and proud. Caroline seemed to have done an extraordinary job in this area. He ran down his usual list, tried to find anything that was missing, that wasn't being done. He couldn't come up with one thing.

5 p.m.

They had their first staff meeting.

"I just want to run over a few things," Jack began, "before Chef Dave serves the staff dinner, which I happened to take a taste of and I can assure you that it's not too shabby." That drew a few nods of approval. "We've got a few VIPs coming tonight. They will need some special service and attention but what I want to stress is that Jack's reputation is not based on the way we treat our VIPs. It's based on the way we treat our regular customers. Tonight, for instance, the tables outside will be for noninvited guests; we're nothing if not democratic. It's a gorgeous night and my guess is we'll have a huge crowd using the patio, not just for dinner but as a bar area. I want the same attention paid to those customers as you'll be paying to the mayor, the governor, and the other guys who, I promise, will be seriously under-tipping you." That got more than a few nods. It got knowing murmurs and chuckles. Jack thanked everyone for all their hard work, then Caroline said a few words. She told them that she'd just made a deal with the best local cleaner, so they shouldn't be overly concerned with stains on their uniform jackets. She discussed a minor problem they were having with space for the dry storage and one of the three cold rooms. And announced that they would all have to be trained in CPR over the next few months. They were shown how best to utilize the mirrors that were strategically placed around the room – under-the-table sex was always the most common distraction that had to be monitored – and they all knew to look for the criers, the drunks, and the yellers. They were also shown the high-profile tables, the visible ones for the VIPs who wanted to flaunt their success, and the two tables in the back for any VIPs who didn't want to be noticed.

When it was over, Chef Dave and the servers brought out the food. Staff dinner was that night's special. Jack took a bite and it was delicious, but even after all the times he'd been through this, he was too nervous to eat. He did notice, with a smile, that Caroline helped herself to seconds.

5:30 p.m.

Caroline sat down with the two anchors to go over the seating for the night. There would be different pressures and problems tonight. There were no dinner walk-ins or late reservations since everyone inside was an invited guest. Still, seating was tricky. The governor and the mayor obviously had to have key tables. As did several of the local businessmen. A few politicians were coming up from Washington and Jack knew that the Washington Post restaurant critic had wangled an invitation and was going to be attending, using one of the five pseudonyms she'd been known to use and that had been circulated on the Internet to local restaurant personnel. The chef came out of the kitchen to discuss with the anchors how best to handle the critic. He agreed to make two of everything that the critic ordered as well as two of everything that anyone at the critic's table ordered, just in case something went wrong in the preparation of one of the dishes. The anchor instructed the wait staff as to exactly where the critic would be seated and the bussers were told to make sure there were no cracks or imperfections in any of the plates used for her meal. Then they went over the notation system for the lineup at the door. The lineup – the list of who was dining that night, along with the table arrangements – was used to determine who would sit where and what special attention had to be paid to whom. Caroline went over the system used at all the other Jack's around the country: when anyone called to make a reservation, his or her name was immediately placed into the computer. Any information that could be ascertained, either on the first visit or any future visits, would also be entered. Relevant data would then be put into the lineup, in the area known as the Guest Detail Sheet. Caroline ticked off the information she considered important to note for the GDS: the diner's job, if interesting or special; if the customer was a regular (here or at any of the other Jack's around the country – easy to find out because the database was cross-referenced for all the restaurants); regular dining companions; type of wine preferred; time restrictions; any personal relations with the staff. Tonight, in Charlottesville, the most interesting bit of personal service needed was that a congressman was coming down from D.C. His wife was short and she'd requested that a cushion be placed on her seat so she'd look taller. But it had to be discreet. No one was to know she was sitting on something that would add a couple of inches to her height.

The front-of-the-restaurant staff did not seem particularly rattled by Caroline's last-minute summary. When it was over, the mood was surprisingly calm and Jack felt that yet another piece of the puzzle had slipped perfectly into place.

6:20 p.m.

Jack and Caroline went to the private upstairs office, a small room with a computer and a leather couch, and a large window that overlooked the front of the brick-lined mall. While they were in town, it was theirs. When they were away, it was to be used by the two site managers. At the restaurant in New York, Jack had a closed-circuit camera installed downstairs in the dining room. The monitor was in the office. From there he could observe the entire scene, watch both customers and employees to make sure everything was going smoothly. Caroline had dissuaded him from doing that here. The place was too small, she'd said. They couldn't see anything from upstairs that they couldn't see downstairs. As he eased down onto the small love-seat-sized sofa, he missed having the monitor. He felt edgy, as if one small detail was missing. He tried to picture the downstairs in his mind, to visualize what was nagging at him…

"Shit," Jack said. "I forgot to talk to Emile about pouring the wine. Bella said that he seemed to be a little slow."

"Relax," Caroline said. "It can wait a few minutes. Talk to him when we go down. And it's not a tragedy if Emile's a little slow. People do pour their own wine."

"Not at Jack's," he told her.

"No," she said. "Not at Jack's." With an affectionate smile, she said, "Will you allow me to pour for you?"

"Yes," he said. "I think that's allowable."

She popped open a bottle of Dom Perignon that she'd put on ice several hours earlier. They clinked glasses, each took a sip.

"It's not fair, you know," Jack said.

"What?" she asked.

"There's something on your mind."

"What's unfair about that?"

"You always know what I'm thinking and I have no idea what's going on inside that head of yours."

That drew a real smile. "Finally, I'm a woman of mystery," she said. "That's always been my goal in life."

"So tell me, woman of mystery. What would be the first thing you'd buy if we were very, very, very rich?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just curious. Let's say we sold the restaurants and made a killing. You could go anywhere, you could buy just about anything. Come on, you never thought about something like this?"

"Okay," she admitted. "I do know. I'd buy something incredibly beautiful."

"New house?"

"God forbid, I never want to leave our apartment. No, I'd buy something… permanent. Something that I could look at all the time and know it was home waiting for me. Something that I'd know would last forever and never change." He raised his eyebrows, waiting for the revelation. "I'd buy a Hopper," she said. "If I could. One of his early cityscapes. I'd put it right over the fireplace and I'd know how I was changing by how I reacted to it over time. I'd know I was happy if I only saw the beauty. Or I'd know something was wrong if what I felt most was the despair or the loneliness."

"Art as emotional compass?"

"You asked," she said. "You asked and that's what I'd buy. Now how about you?"

"That's easy," he told her.

"Minority share in the Knicks?"

He shook his head. "I'd buy something incredibly beautiful, too."

"Chateau in France?"

"This."

He reached into his pocket, brought out a thin, black box and pressed it into her hand.

"What is it?"

"Open it."

She did and he was pleased – he'd never heard her gasp before.

"Oh, my God, Jack, it's… it's…"

"Spectacular?"

"Yes. It is very spectacular. Are you nuts? It must have cost a fortune."

"It did," he agreed. "Happy opening."

She pulled a necklace out of the box, held it up, let it dangle from her fingers as she stared at it in awe. It was a choker, a perfect circle of diamonds that sparkled magnificently even in the dull overhead light of the office.

"Like it?" he asked.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful. I really can't believe it. Jack, you shouldn't have."

"Does it make up for forgetting the goddamn rifle?"

"I still can't believe you forgot it. I reminded you again right before you left…"

"Does this make up for it?"

"Yes. It makes up for it." She smiled a lustrous smile. "But just barely."

"Put it on."

She slipped the necklace around her throat, reached behind her to fasten the clasp. Then she turned to face him.

"It's a good match," he said.

They both leaned forward and their lips met. It was supposed to be a quick kiss, a seal on the upcoming evening, except Jack raised his eyes, saw something in hers, not sure quite what, but it made him lean in closer and the kiss lingered. Their lips parted, their tongues met, and suddenly one of her hands was behind his neck and both his arms were around her and they were clutching each other, merging their bodies as if trying to become one. When they finally broke apart, the kiss ended first, their mouths very gently separating; then they slowly released each other, their bodies gradually moving backward, first their heads, then their chests, and finally their hips and legs.

"When this night is over, I think we might have to make some serious love," Jack said.

"You just might be on to something," she agreed. "If the night's ever over."

And then it was time to get ready. The necklace stayed around her neck but her boots came off, then her jeans and work shirt. In only a few moments, it seemed, she was glorious in a simple, short black Krizia dress and he looked the perfect host in his Armani tux.

She tied his tie, something he had never managed to master, looping the black silk into a graceful bow. He stood back, admired himself briefly in the mirror, turned, and gave her one last kiss, this one light and quick.

"Let's go rock and roll," he said.

7:32 p.m.

"Governor, it's so nice to see you."

"Caroline, you look even more beautiful than usual. How is that possible?"

"Governor, I'd like to introduce you to the woman you really need to flatter. This is Wendy and she's the one who'll get you your table in the future."

"Ah. Then let me turn my attention to the real power."

The anchor laughed and blushed just slightly. "Here's my card, Governor. Please call me directly whenever you need anything."

A delighted smile in Caroline's direction. "I like her already, Caroline."

"We aim to please, Governor. We aim to please."

7:38 p.m.

It was time. No more Before. Now it was During.

The magic invitation had been used. It had worked. Of course it had worked. It was magic.

Everything was working.

Tonight, everything was magic.

The restaurant was already getting crowded and the sidewalk in front was jammed with people. Some of the key guests had arrived. Limos were parking at the east end of the mall. It was like a giant party. People were drinking, laughing, talking a mile a minute. It was happening. It was definitely time.

As long as they did what they were supposed to, as long as they stuck to the schedule. But they would. They had to. And now it was time to move. It was essential to move. Now.

It was not difficult to maneuver through the drinkers. There was no reason to think anyone would notice. There was absolutely no reason to notice a thing.

The guy at the front of the restaurant was so damn nice. The bathroom? Of course. Right through there, behind the bar and to the left. Right next to the stairway.

The stairway to the office.

Head down, don't make eye contact with anyone now. Don't bump into anyone. Don't knock over a drink. Don't draw attention. There she is. Right there, over by the bar. Just as she's supposed to be. I can practically touch her. No, don't raise your head. Don't do it. No attention now. None. Leave her be. Leave her be for now.

Go through the right door. No one inside. Perfect. Nice bathroom. Very nice. So clean. What was this stone? Marble? Yeah, maybe. Must have been expensive. Everything must have been expensive in this place.

Oh, it's just the way you planned it, isn't it? Exactly the way you imagined it in your head.

You are very, very smart. You are very, very, very smart.

Go into the stall now. It's part of the Plan. Close the door. Now just wait.

It's going to happen soon. Very soon. They wouldn't dare let you down. So just wait. All you have to do is wait.

No, no, what are you thinking? That's not all you have to do.

You have to check the gun.

Good. Fully loaded. Same as it was the other ten times you checked it. All ready.

Now all you have to do is wait. Wait.

Wait…

8:14 p.m.

"Let's go, people, stop the gabbing. We're falling behind schedule."

"Sorry, Chef."

"Don't be sorry. Just hold the talk till after dinner. We're way behind on the side dishes for the meat station."

A waiter careened through the swinging door to the kitchen. "I can't believe it. Everyone's ordering at exactly the same goddamn time."

"What did you expect? They all sat at the same goddamn time."

"Christ, it's hot in here. What happened to the ventilation?"

"All right, all right, what's the pecking order, people?"

"You have some leeway with table thirty-two. A couple of lovebirds. They're practically fucking at the table – they won't care how long they wait for food."

"Table twelve's the mayor. He's gabbing like he'll never stop and everyone else around him's drinking like a fish so they don't kill themselves. We can hold off on them, too."

"Okay, people, look at the shrimp. It's getting cold! Cover it, cover it! Do you hear me, Fish, cover the fucking shrimp! Jesus!"

8:19 p.m.

Eleven minutes to go.

Four people in and out of the bathroom so far. Not one even noticed there was anyone else already in there.

Still eleven minutes… wait a second! Oh, shit… Christ, goddamnit, the watch, it isn't working! It isn't fucking working!

Oh, no, it's okay… it's okay. It's fine. The second hand's moving. Everything's okay. It was just my imagination. See? That'll show the One. He always says I don't have an imagination. Well, let's see him say that now. Let's see him try to say it.

Why is everything so slow? It's like everything here is all in slow motion. But the second hand is definitely moving. Things are going forward. It's all going to happen just the way I imagined it. All I have to do is keep waiting.

Just keep waiting…

8:28 p.m.

Jack stared over at the table in the far corner of the restaurant. Table 54. He pulled the server from that station over to the side.

"Watch those two guys, will you?"

"Yes, sir." The server turned. He saw two men, both fairly broad. One was quite tall with blond hair, the other shorter and darker. "What's the problem?"

"Probably nothing. They just look angry. They're arguing.

"They've both had a lot to drink. Bourbon and beer."

"I don't want anything to happen so keep your eyes on them."

"Okay."

The kid looked so concerned. Jack patted him on the back. "Relax. I'm sure I'm just oversensitive tonight. They'll calm down."

Jack patted him on the back again. He saw Caroline across the room. She was frowning, staring across the room to the table in the corner. He heard the young server say to the two men there, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Would you mind keeping your voices down, please? You're getting a little loud." He heard one of the men say, "Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry."

Jack smiled at Caroline. He thought about making love to her later that night and waved.

She waved back and he was sure she was thinking about the exact same thing.

8:29 p.m.

Okay. Get ready. Got the stocking? Right, like I'd forget it.

Then get it out. Get it ready.

It felt funny, felt so tight, tighter than in the practice sessions in front of the mirror.

It was a little hard to breathe.

No, no, it was fine. Take a deep breath. Take another. And one more. See, it's fine. Everything's just right.

The second hand is moving.

The waiting's almost over…

8:30 p.m.

"Fuck you!"

"Don't say that to me."

"Why not? Fuck you!"

"I'm not kidding, goddamnit! Say it to me again, I'll break your fucking head!"

The server didn't seem to actually run, but he made it to the table in record time. "Gentlemen, please. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The taller man looked up. "Leave?"

"You're disturbing the other guests."

"Oh, yeah?" That was from the shorter one.

"Please. Otherwise I'll have to call the police."

It was the tall one's turn. "Oh. Well, we wouldn't want you to do that." He started to stand, then turned to the server. "I just have one more thing to say." Now he turned to the other man at the table and screamed, "Fuck you!" And then: "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

And then all hell broke loose.

8:31 p.m.

Okay, move. Go, go, go!

Out of the stall, no one in the bathroom. Out the door, no one even in the hallway.

The bar: No one's looking. They're all watching the fight. Or moving far away to help. And she's there. Still right by the bar. Right where she's supposed to be. Right where she said she'd be.

It's working. It's working, it's working, it's working!

Quick, show her the gun. Don't wave it. Not too much. Just make sure she sees it.

Oh, yeah. She sees it. And she's cool. Very cool. She's not showing much, is she? She's not showing anything. But those eyes. Look in her eyes. There, you can see it. Oh, is it terror? Please, please, please, let her he terrified.

No. No, it isn't terror. Amazing.

It's anger.

Okay, gotta move. Make her move. Fast!

Yes! She's moving.

No more waiting. Ever again.

Even if she's not terrified, it's working.

Oh, God, it's fucking working.

8:32 p.m.

Customers had been trying not to pay attention to the harsh words. But at the sound of the crash, everyone turned.

When the tall man at table 54 screamed his last "Fuck you!" the smaller man picked up his water glass and threw it. The tall man ducked and the glass exploded against the wall behind him. The woman at the next table screamed as glass shards rebounded and cascaded through the air, one of them imbedding itself in her bare shoulder. By the time Jack was halfway across the room, he could see blood streaming onto her dress and the tablecloth.

People scrambled out of the way as the tall man upended his table, sending the shorter man and the server flying. The tall man then dove onto the floor, swinging his fists. The two men were rolling on the floor now, trying to kill each other. They were spewing obscenities and kicking wildly. Now they were on their feet, stumbling into another table.

Another woman screamed.

Three waiters and three customers were trying to pull them apart.

The anchor was on the phone with the police.

The mayor and governor were heading toward the front door.

The two men were in a brutal rage. Three servers were bleeding, one profusely, his nose clearly broken. Several tables were overturned now. Food and silverware had spilled onto the floor. The violence seemed to have frozen everyone in the restaurant.

Jack was about to reach the fight, about to join the melee and try to break it up, when he turned. An instinct. A protective instinct. And as he turned he saw Caroline, just the back of her dress and her right leg, disappearing up the stairs. Right behind her was someone dressed in black. That person, too, disappeared. But there was something odd about the person's face. What was it? It seemed hidden, strangely faded, like there was something pulled over his head, a kind of gauze. And there was something in his hand. Jack definitely caught a glimpse of something in his hand.

Something metallic.

Jack turned from the fight on the floor and sprinted through the dining room.

He reached the stairs, no one even noticing his mad dash because the fight had escalated, had turned into two raging animals engaged in battle.

Jack ran up the stairs, two at a time. He reached the door to the office, grabbed the doorknob, threw it open…

8:36 p.m.

Yes, yes, it was going to work.

No one had seen them. No one had noticed. And she was scared now. Oh, yes, she was. She'd do anything. Anything at all that needed to be done.

The gun waved and she moved into the corner. Now everything was for the taking.

But what? What to take?

What was that noise? Running. Yes. Someone running upstairs. Don't worry. It won't matter. You're in control. It will be easy. This will be easy.

The other thing will be easy, too. No need to think too hard over what to take. Not really. It was very easy.

There was only one thing to be taken.

8:37 p.m.

Jack threw himself through the door and the first thing he saw was Caroline. She was standing in the corner and she looked shrunken, devastated, as if someone had yanked her entire life away from her. Then he saw the figure at the desk, but only for a second. He saw the gun. And he saw the mask. A stocking, not gauze. A stocking pulled tightly over the face. The features were a blur. And then the whole world was a blur. Before Jack could turn, before he could react, the gun slammed down over his head. The blow was extraordinarily strong and he stumbled back, fell onto the love seat. He tried to get up, to offer some kind of attack, but he was overwhelmed by a spasm of nausea. He tried again to raise himself, knew he had to do something, couldn't just stand there, not again, then the room spun around him, faster and faster now, and the pain made him fall forward onto the floor.

"We don't keep any money up here."

That sounded like Caroline. Yes, it had to be Caroline. But everything was so fuzzy. Even the sound was distorted. The voice sounded like a record played at the wrong, slow speed.

"This kind of restaurant, we don't keep very much cash."

Still Caroline. That should still be Caroline talking. Then a jumble of words, some came fast, some seemed so slow.

"The bar… cash register… only place we have money."

Then he thought he heard, still Caroline: "…get it… two, three thousand… get it for you…"

And then a roar washed over the room. Was this Caroline? No, it was deeper. Angrier, He heard this word: More. And again, deeper and angrier: More. Ruin. Why.

And these words: Bitch. Whore.

Cunt.

Jack tried to get up. He turned his head and the movement was excruciating. More words spewed out now. But they were nonsense. Nonsense from a madman.

Tear down the wool.

What did that mean?

Wooly here… the will is strong… wool candy broken…

What did it mean! Why couldn't he understand?

Wooly… candy… forever…

He saw the person in the mask move toward Caroline. Saw him reach for her. Saw him grab the necklace, the beautiful diamond necklace, rip it from Caroline's neck. Saw his hand flash forward again, heard the noise as his fist cracked against Caroline's face. Heard her scream. And Jack threw himself upward now. He had to move. He had to. The pain sliced through him. It rocked his head back and he saw a flash of light. He knew there was no light like that, not in this room, it had to be pain that was blinding him, but he could fight the pain, he had to fight the pain, so he kept going and his arms found flesh, he knocked the robber back, he was sure he did that. And then there was an explosion. Loud. Right inside his head. And there was more pain. A new pain. It frightened him. Then there was another explosion. This one quieter. And a third, immediately after. Quieter still.

And then his fear was gone because suddenly there was no pain. Just a softness. Like some sort of pleasant dream. And no more blinding light. Instead, a gentle white cloud. He heard Caroline again. Why was she screaming? It was over now, wasn't it? There was nothing to be frightened about. There was no more pain.

He reached for her, to show her that it was all right. To show her that she was safe. But he couldn't seem to grab hold of her. She seemed to melt away from him.

Now he felt something strange. It was as if something was seeping out of him. He couldn't tell what it was. It felt good, though, that's what was so strange. He knew it was bad but it felt so very, very good.

And suddenly he knew what it was that was escaping from inside of him. What it was that was leaving, rushing away in a flood now, never to return.

It was his life itself that was deserting him.

He heard one last thing as he slid limply onto the floor. One final explosion. This one didn't frighten him at all. It was too distant. Too quiet. So he figured he had to be wrong. It wasn't an explosion. It was just a dream.

Just a nice, quiet, painless dream.

In his dream Jack reached again for Caroline. But she was gone. Jack closed his eyes.

And the dream took him into a deep, still, never-ending darkness.