All Through the Night Read online

  From Julio’s other side, Foster muttered, “Who invaded us?”

  “What, you think Orlando-town is all happy songs and marching bands?” Julio pointed at a trio of low-slung apartment buildings. “Here’s good, man.”

  Wayne’s tires scrunched over glass as he pulled to the curb. He faced an apartment building streaked with old smoke and graffiti. The ground floor windows were all boarded up. Two defunct bikes hung on rusting chains from a fence. “Who lives here?”

  “My grandmother and me.” He waited while Foster climbed down, then slid from the truck. He offered Foster a fist. “It was cool hanging with you guys.”

  Foster looked uncertainly at the fist. “Last time I checked, buddies were supposed to shake.”

  “Whatever. Later, man.” Julio walked away without a backward glance.

  Foster climbed back in the truck and waited until the kid had disappeared to ask, “What did your sister tell you?”

  “Get through to him.” Wayne waited until the kid had disappeared to pull away. “Some payback, huh.”

  They didn’t actually plan that evening’s action for drama’s sake. But they didn’t do much to stop it either.

  The instant Wayne pulled into the community parking lot, he knew. The news was out, and the people were ready.

  Maybe Victoria let it slip. Or Eilene. Or maybe just the old-folks’ ESP had been working overtime. However it happened, they didn’t call a meeting, because they didn’t need to. After dinner, Wayne, Foster, and Jerry started toward the community center, the cash split three ways so none of them had to stagger. The residents took that as their cue. They streamed out front doors and off porches and down stairs. They came out of lawn chairs and abandoned their favorite sunset benches. They hobbled on canes. They clanked on walkers. They rolled in wheelchairs. But they came.

  “I feel like the Pied Piper of wrinkles,” Jerry said.

  “If anybody gets too close, swing hard,” Foster said. “They bite.”

  “No telling what germs they got stewing in those dentures,” Jerry agreed.

  Holly Reeves was there to open the front door. She stood in one corner and watched them stack the cash on the front table. Then Foster and Jerry started taking a couple of stacks at a time, reading off the slips of paper Wayne had slipped into the rubber bands. Calling out the names, walking over, handing out the cash. Wayne just stood to one side, watching the pile on the table dwindle. When the last couple had received their share, he turned to Holly and said, “The rest is yours.”

  The community director trembled in a manner that sprinkled her cheeks with tears. “How …”

  “Daughter.”

  To Wayne’s surprise, it was Victoria who interrupted. “Perhaps it would be best if we focused on gratitude and not questions.”

  ELEVEN

  The next morning was Florida perfect, a great day to kick back and pretend the world was free of bad news. Which was why Wayne left soon after dawn for a long country run. At least, it started that way.

  Running used to be this beautiful thing, a time each day when his body could exult in being young and powerful. He would run until his legs simply gave way. Run and run, further and further, no idea how to get back. Not caring, really. Most days he just ran and wished he could just keep on down the road or track or beach, until a different reality rose up and swallowed him whole.

  Then when his strength returned he’d stagger back. To a world that told him he didn’t have a hope of measuring up.

  Since leaving the army, runs had become times for the memory reel to spin out snippets of emotional junk. Technicolor spew was how he thought of it, wishing he could permanently delete the lot.

  This particular morning, his memory did none of the normal spinning. Instead, it focused down upon one particular memory. One he had not thought of in a very long while—so long it caught him totally by surprise. Today’s selection was of the day Wayne joined his father’s church.

  He’d gone forward at age eleven. Wayne had been the last in his Sunday school class to do so. He had no idea whether he believed in God. But the previous Sunday, after dunking the next-to-last kid in Wayne’s class, his dad had taken on a pressure cooker kind of frown. As in, do this or else. Wayne had been tempted to hold out, see if this might be the thing to actually unravel his father’s pastoral cool, the mask he never took off for anybody. But Wayne caved. And walked forward. Doing it for the only possible reason that would actually have drawn him up there to the front. His big sister asked him to.

  It had been one of those rare moments when Eilene’s strength had given way. Even back then, Wayne had recognized his sister to have a power all her own. In some manner she was the stronger of the two. But that morning, while he sat avoiding his father’s glare and Eilene prepared another silent breakfast, she had looked at him and mouthed one word. The hardest thing in her existence to say. Please.

  At times like that, Wayne had never been able to deny her anything.

  This morning, Wayne made a seven-mile loop around a strip mall and a defunct waterfront park, then swung back by the community’s newest neighbor. The new development was little more than raw earth and bulldozers clogging the early morning air. A huge sign proclaimed a Cloister development of championship golf course, deep harbor marina, competition pool, shopping center, and of course home lots available at preconstruction prices. Wayne stood and leaned against the fence until the earthmovers rumbled away the last of his recollections, then turned and jogged home.

  The final half mile was a long sprint through old Florida, past the community gates and the final flock of orange trees, down the line of live oaks, his footsteps soft on the old lane of crushed rock and clamshells.

  His regular crew was there to observe his sweaty return. Foster greeted him with, “You’re late.”

  Wayne eased himself down in stages. “We finished the gig, remember?”

  Jerry watched Wayne sprawl on the grass and start stretching. “Wonder what would’ve happened, I showed up for work only when we had a new crime.”

  Foster said, “You see the red rocket parked in front of the community center?”

  “Hard to miss.”

  Jerry said, “Your sister’s here too. They been in Holly’s office for almost an hour.”

  Wayne showered and dressed and emerged to find the three of them standing in his front yard. Holly, his sister, and the mystery lady. He stepped onto the porch and wanted to say something cute like, The three horsewomen of the apocalypse. The ladies looked very serious. And seriously tense.

  Jerry set aside his paperback novel and Foster stopped pretending to read the Journal. Wayne didn’t say anything, but he wanted to, because right then it felt mighty good to have some backup.

  Instead, he said to his sister, “This has got to be about the other half of my debt. As in, the debt that wasn’t yours to begin with and nobody said nothing about splitting or doubling or whatever you want to call it. My wager was with Victoria.”

  “Yeah, well, you should’ve read the fine print.”

  Which, Wayne had to admit, wasn’t a half-bad comeback for a pastor.

  Eilene said to the community leader, “You first.”

  Holly had adopted his sister’s stance, arms doing a tight body wrap and face seamed by a day that had dawned old. “We promised you a commission.”

  Foster said, “Thirty percent sounds good.”

  The community director absorbed the blow and refused to go down. “That’s absurd.”

  “So is getting back enough cash to keep this place afloat.”

  “You can’t possibly expect—”

  Foster broke in, “Of what the community received. Not the families.”

  “No,” Wayne said. “I don’t want it.”

  Foster gave him angry. “As your agent, I would advise you to keep your trap shut.”

  Wayne told the community head, “Pay me what you paid the other accountant. Let me have this house.”

  He was about to say, Tha
t’s all. Then he had a vision of two old guys smiling their way across moonlit waters and added, “And a boat.”

  “What?”

  “Not a big one. A fishing skiff. For the community. Flat-bottomed, thirty horse kicker, trolling motor. And some decent fishing poles.”

  The three women exchanged a glance. One that suggested they had come over here with a lot more on their minds than Wayne’s payday.

  His sister asked, “You done?” Only her question was not directed at her brother and his comeback, but at Holly.

  “Yes.” The community director’s voice was like the last puff of air from a busted balloon. “I suppose so.”

  Eilene glanced at the mystery lady. Who looked as fine close up as she had from an oblique distance. Maybe even better. Dark hair. Stunning features. Built. The mystery lady gave his sister a fraction of a nod. Eilene returned her sour gaze back to her brother leaning against the doorjamb. “We need to talk.”

  “What have we been doing so far?”

  “Alone, Wayne.” Turning his name into three syllables and a public scolding.

  Wayne took genuine pleasure in a simple shake of his head. “This is my crew.”

  Foster said, “We’re his background.”

  “The word,” Jerry said, “is backup.”

  “Whatever.” Foster waved it aside. “We’re like family.”

  But once they were inside, all Eilene wanted to talk about was the kid. “Julio had a great time with you.”

  From his post where he was brewing coffee, Jerry asked, “Who is Julio?”

  “Half the payback on the bet,” Foster explained.

  Holly asked, “What bet?”

  “Never mind,” Eilene said. She went on to Wayne, “The kid has nothing and no one. Then this guy shows up, a walking talking army man, and takes him for a drive, buys him pizza, asks him questions, treats him like he’s somebody.”

  Jerry emerged from the kitchenette, his expression saying he didn’t like being ignored. “Did Victoria okay this payment on her bet?”

  Eilene rounded on him. “Hey. I’m talking here.”

  Jerry retreated into the kitchen. “I guess my questions can wait.”

  Eilene said to her brother, “You think maybe …”

  “No,” Wayne said. “No.”

  She sighed. Clearly wanted to argue. Instead she turned to the mystery lady and said, “He’s all yours.”

  But before the lady could speak, Foster said, “I think introductions are in order here.”

  Eilene was still too worked up over being turned down. She gave Foster the sort of huff she normally reserved for her brother.

  Wayne said, “Allow me. I’m—”

  “I know who you are.”

  The voice was all burr and rough music, the words slanted at the edges like her eyes. Wayne thought it was silly getting a tingle in his gut, just hearing this woman finally speak. He saw in her gaze the message he had come to know all too well. The one that said, I’m not going to give you anything like what you want. Not now, not ever.

  But there was nothing to be gained by letting her know he knew. So he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and asked coolly, “And you are?”

  “My name is my own. I will tell you only if you agree to help. Otherwise, I will leave here today and you will never see me again.”

  The longer she spoke, the more distinctive her accent became. A slight rolling of the r’s, a musical inflection to some vowels. Try as she might to give him nothing but serious chill, the woman tasted each word in a most exotic fashion.

  She made a mistake then. That is, if she intended on holding this little gathering to a totally professional level. Nerves or a simple desire to dominate caused her to rise from her chair and begin to pace.

  Jerry emerged from the kitchen. Foster settled back in his chair, deeply involved in the show. The woman transformed the bare boards into a catwalk rimmed with lights and cameras.

  “I represent a very important businessman. He holds considerable power in central Florida. He …”

  It was the woman’s turn to take a two-armed grip upon herself. She wore a skirt of linen smoke and a matching jacket tight enough to make self-hugging a strain. But she did it anyway. She held on and she paced.

  “You might as well tell him,” Eilene said. “It won’t get any easier.”

  The woman said, “He believes he has been visited by an angel.”

  She made two more circuits of Wayne’s tiny front room before Jerry said, “Run that last bit by us again.”

  “You heard her,” Eilene said.

  “I heard the words, but I’m not putting them together well.”

  “An angel,” the woman repeated.

  “As in, guardian angel?”

  “He doesn’t believe in them.”

  Eilene said, “Guardian angel is a Catholic term. Or earlier. A lot of pagan sects hold to the concept. There’s nothing in the Bible to suggest humans have individual …” She stopped because of the look her brother gave her. “What?”

  Wayne said, “Skip the history lesson and get to the now.”

  The woman stopped by the rear window. She said to the outside world, “He believes he has been visited by an angel.”

  “God’s holy messenger,” Eilene said.

  Jerry asked, “This guy, he’s a religious nutcase as well as rich?”

  The woman just stared out the window.

  “I’ve known him for fifteen years,” Eilene said. “He’s a friend. Yes, he lives for his faith. And no, he’s not insane.”

  “Delusional, then.”

  The woman said, “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  Wayne asked, “Why me?”

  The woman touched the glass by her face. As though wanting to assure herself of reality.

  Eilene said, “Something the angel told him.”

  The woman corrected, “If it was an angel.”

  “Of course,” Eilene said.

  Wayne asked his sister, “You were there?”

  “No.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it from her.”

  The woman said, “I was not there either.”

  “But this guy, he described it to you, right? So tell me what he said.”

  The woman’s accent grew decidedly stronger. “The angel told this gentleman that he was in grave danger and must hide himself away—his life and the lives of his family depended on it. The angel also told him to find himself a warrior. Someone he can trust to act as his arms and legs. This warrior must be one who gives his strength to the weak. One who cares little for gold.”

  She was Russian, Wayne decided. Or one of the break-off states with stan at the end of its name. It went with the slanted eyes and the haughty demeanor. “I don’t have anything against money.”

  “You refused your commission,” Holly pointed out.

  Foster asked, “That’s what you three were doing in your office before you come marching over here. Talking about how you were going to set our buddy up, see if he’d go for the money?”

  Eilene said, “We had to know.”

  “He’s your brother.”

  “That’s right. And this is a friend in a crisis situation.” Eilene vented a trace of steam with her words. “Since the incident, her boss has refused to leave his estate. He’s turned his entire empire over to associates. Some of whom she does not trust.”

  Wayne said, “So you think one of his people used this guy’s religion against him—”

  “His faith,” Eilene corrected. “This has nothing to do with religion.”

  Wayne waited until he was sure she was done, then continued, “Used it against him so they could take control of his company?”

  The woman did not respond.

  Jerry said, “Man, that is cold.”

  “Tell me,” Eilene said.

  Wayne said, “So you want me to investigate this situation and discover who’s behind the scam.”

  “No.” The woman
turned around and gave him a look of feline fear. “I want you to keep my friend alive.”

  TWELVE

  Wayne found his sister seated by the dovecote. A stand of old pear trees formed a living canopy between the domed enclosure and the water. Eilene kept her gaze upon the birds as Wayne carried over an old plastic chair and seated himself. His sister was wrapped in a band of tension that just begged for a reason to spring.

  He struggled to find a way to ask the obvious, which was, Is this for real?

  Then Eilene said, “Mom dreamed about us sitting in a place just like this. Surrounded by a huge cage of birds. In the sunlight. As grown-ups. That was how she said it. Her two babies all grown up and sitting together while the birds flitted and sang. It made her so happy.”

  The surprise was great enough to push his own questions to the back. Eilene rarely spoke about their mother. “When was this?”

  “In the hospital. One of the last times I saw her alone.”

  Eilene had been twelve when their mom died of cancer, Wayne ten. Two little kids surrounded by people who thought the world of their father. “You never thought about mentioning this before now?”

  He expected lip. If Eilene was tense and sad enough to be talking about their mother, Wayne figured she was a grenade with the pin in the dust. Instead, what he got was, “I totally forgot. You know how things were after she …”

  “I know.” Their father had refused to mourn. He was, after all, a pastor who dealt constantly with funerals and loss and a congregation’s earthly woes. He had locked himself up tight and vented his despair in tight wisps of disapproval. Most of them directed at Wayne.

  Eilene went on, “I sit here for a while almost every time I come. And I’ve never thought of that time with Mom until just now, when you walked over. I was standing by her bed. She stroked my cheek. She told me everything was going to be all right. God had given her a sign. She had dreamed of her two babies all grown up, sitting by a cage of birds as big as a house, and we were talking about her.”

  Eilene stopped then. Took a ragged breath. Put her hands together on the table in front of her and clenched them down upon the wood. Breathed again. “She was so happy.”