Upon A Pale Horse

NINE Memory Lane

“He’s in the flat,” the driver reported, listening to the feed from the condo over his ear bud.

“We’ll be there in two or three minutes,” his partner said. “Then it’s back to hurry up and wait.”

“At least he showed up, as predicted. The old man would have gone ballistic if he’d just disappeared and we’d lost him.”

“Nah. Like I said, the guy’s a civilian. He’s got no idea we’re on him.”

“Probably true. Which is nothing but good for us.”

“Roger that.”

Jeffrey twisted the knob and inched the door open, hesitant to enter his brother’s abode. Even though he knew Keith was dead, it still felt like a violation of his privacy. He drew a deep breath and peered inside the gloomy foyer, then bit the bullet and stepped across the threshold, taking care to lock the door behind him.

He glanced around, eyes roaming over the gleaming hardwood floor and contemporary furniture in the living room directly in front of him. A few pieces of Ikea art hung on the walls for color, framing the large flat screen monitor mounted above a stereo, with an adjacent cabinet containing at least two hundred CDs. Jeffrey walked over to where three guitars stood on stands in a corner and returned the Strat to its vacant stand, then slowly gazed around the room. Nothing surprising — typical Keith, a bachelor who prized music and minimalism. A few magazines sat on the coffee table in front of the inexpensive couch — a Guitar Player and a PC Weekly. Keith’s tastes obviously hadn’t changed much once in D.C., right down to steadfastly refusing to buy a car.

Jeffrey moved into the bedroom and was struck by how neat and organized everything was; then reasoned that if someone had gone into his apartment back in the Bay Area they would have walked away with the same impression. Old habits died hard.

The refrigerator contained a carton of milk that didn’t expire for another week, and Jeffrey found a glass and poured it full, more out of looking for something to do than thirst. He drank as he took a mental inventory of the condo’s contents, then when he was finished, carefully rinsed the glass and placed it in the sink, where several others sat — also rinsed, he noted.

Jeffrey ferreted under the sink and found a box of dark green garbage bags, whipped one open, and proceeded to empty out the refrigerator. He wasn’t sure when he’d be able to make it back, given his work schedule, but it could be a while. No point in letting the place turn into a science experiment in his absence.

A computer station caught his attention in the spare bedroom, which was set up as an office, and once he was done with the kitchen he walked in and slid open the file cabinet next to it. The computer was gone, which would make sense if Keith still toted a laptop everywhere, as he had as long as he’d been working. That was another habit Jeffrey and Keith shared. Of many.

Bank statements, a brokerage account, bills, mortgage payment receipts — all were neatly organized in clearly marked folders. The sense of spying on Keith again swept over Jeffrey, and he almost closed the file cabinet before shaking the feeling off and plodding forward. He looked at the mortgage — three hundred and six thousand owed. Jeffrey scanned the room again with appreciation. Keith had been an astute property buyer. He would have estimated based on the building and the neighborhood that the place was worth at least half a mil, even in the worst economy since the Great Depression. So old Keith had some equity built in, no question — the only one being, how much. That would be a subject for a real estate agent.

He opened the brokerage statements and did a quick tally. Another almost two hundred thousand in holdings as of the last summary. Jeffrey wasn’t sure how much Keith earned per year, but it couldn’t have been enough to sock away that sort of nest egg. But he recalled his brother telling him that he was doing well in the market, mostly with options on commodities like gold and silver. He just hadn’t hinted at how well, obviously. That was ten times the money Jeffrey would have guessed he’d accumulated.

Jeffrey turned on the lights as dusk arrived and continued his investigation, Papa Chubby crooning the blues from the stereo as he moved from the office and into the master bedroom closet, where there was a safe bolted to the floor. He’d need to get that opened by a locksmith, but he didn’t have the heart right then, and decided to leave it for his return. Whatever was in it could wait. It wasn’t like he didn’t have all the time in the world.

When his stomach rumbled, he checked the time and was surprised to see that it was already nine o’clock. Hours had raced by, and he’d been completely oblivious to their passage. Jeffrey sped up his inventory, and after another ten minutes returned to the living room, ready to call it a night. He powered the stereo down and did one final slow turn around the room.

His eye caught the shape of the Fender guitar his brother had pawned, and he stepped over to it before looking behind the couch — the natural place for a case to be stashed. Sure enough, a battered old rectangular case was wedged behind it along with the others. He freed the Fender’s and popped it open, sliding the guitar home, nestled safely in the orange interior. He reached over and retrieved the paperwork he’d found and placed it inside next to the instrument then closed the latches as he felt in his pants pocket for the house keys.

Jeffrey toted the garbage and the case out into the hall, then flipped off the light and locked the door, his project completed, at least for the moment. His chest was tight with grief as he walked slowly to the garbage chute and dropped the bag into the abyss, a part of his brother going down the slide with it. He knew it made no sense, but the feeling was undeniable, and his vision blurred as he made his way to the elevator that would take him back to the lobby, away from the shadows that seemed redolent with Keith, his essence in every nook, every object. It seemed sacrilegious to have gone through his things, like raiding a cursed tomb, but Jeffrey understood the necessity. The world kept on turning, even if Keith was no longer a part of it.

The thought depressed him more than he could have described, and when he exited the building, carrying his brother’s final legacy, his shoulders were hunched and he looked beaten, his steps uncertain and heavy on the cold concrete sidewalk.

The watchers exchanged glances and then the passenger got out of the car, determined not to lose him this time. He leaned forward and whispered to the driver.

“What’s he got there?”

“Guitar. His brother had a bunch of them. Probably a keepsake. We’ve already been through everything with a fine-toothed comb. It’s all clean, so it doesn’t matter.”

“All right. He’s probably going to get another cab, so stay close. I’ll call for you when he does. My money’s on him returning to the hotel and getting wasted again.”

“I won’t take that bet,” the driver said, then the door closed and he was left to the muted drone of the engine as his partner walked unhurriedly behind Jeffrey, an innocuous figure out for an evening stroll.