John Avery: Three Days To Die

The elevator opened onto a spacious rooftop garden and a long, brick walkway canopied by a yachting-blue awning hung on heavy, polished-brass arches. The walkway was flanked by stone benches and large pots full of fresh flowers and lead to an exquisite pair of huge, hand-tooled copper doors.

Aaron stopped to check them out. The doors depicted a magnificent horse.

"That's Leonardo Da Vinci's Gran Cavallo," Michael explained, "the magnificent, twenty-four foot high clay equestrian model he completed in 1492. I found the doors in Milan and had them shipped back here by boat."

"I can't believe I've never heard of that," Aaron said, running his fingers over the highly detailed copper relief. He had read many accounts of Da Vinci's life, but none had mentioned this.

"It's an amazing story," Michael said. "The Gran Cavallo was one of Da Vinci's greatest and most unknown masterpieces. Seventy tons of bronze were set aside for the casting of that horse, but before De Vinci could use it, the precious bronze was sent off and used to make cannons. Then, in 1499, during France's invasion of Italy, French archers used Leonardo's beautiful clay model for target practice, dashing Da Vinci's hope of ever having it cast in bronze, and breaking his heart in the process."

He keyed in the entry alarm code and invited Aaron into his loft with a chivalrous bow and wave of his arm.

"That's an unbelievable story," Aaron said as he stepped through the doors. "To have something that is such a huge part of your life destroyed like that. It's sad."

Michael could relate. "It's very sad," he agreed.

Aaron's eyes went wide; never in his wildest dreams had he imagined living anywhere as cool as Michael's outrageous loft apartment. He stood in the entry area craning up at the high ceilings and admiring the eclectic blend of fine original artwork mixed with movie and exotic-car posters.

Next to him, from high in the rafters, a broad sheet of clear water flowed down the face of a polished travertine wall before disappearing into the floor. He poked his finger into the silvery fluid, creating a tiny arcing wave.

The loft was heated to a comfortable temperature. Michael carefully lifted his jacket from Aaron's shoulders and laid it over a chair.

"Take a look around," he said. "The hardwood floors and ceilings are original to the building, but the rest is mine. Oh, and if you need to use the restroom, there are three to choose from." He indicated the doors, each in a separate corner of the loft, then walked over to the kitchen to start a kettle of water.

Aaron didn't know where to begin. In one corner of the enormous space was a classic arcade with pinball machines, console video games, a bowling machine, a dartboard, a chessboard, candy and drink vending machines, and in honor of 21st century technology, a replica 1950s era jukebox with 10 °CD capacity, iPod jack, and surround-sound speakers.

Another area was outfitted as a gym, with a basketball hoop (with regulation key), a full-size trampoline, a weight machine, a treadmill, a stationary-bike, and a weight-bench surrounded by free-weights.

In a far corner, Michael had set up a music studio equipped with a dozen vintage guitars and amps, a pro drum kit, and an array of keyboards. The digital recording console had an immense, automated mixing board and was fitted with a pair of the biggest display monitors Aaron had ever seen.

"Your loft… it's incredible!" he said.

Michael smiled and nodded — he was proud of his success.

He washed and dried his hands then removed a first aid kit from a drawer, opened it, and laid a few items out on the large granite island. "Come on over and sit down for a second," he said. "But wash your hands first."

As Aaron washed up, he found scratches on the backs of his hands that he hadn't noticed under all of the grime. Damn dog, he thought, as a brief, frightening image of the manic animal jumped in and out of his mind. Then he took a seat on a stool by the island.

Michael cleaned Aaron's cuts and abrasions and applied antiseptic, gauze and tape. "That should do the trick," he said.

Aaron stood, feeling renewed. He smiled at Michael, grateful for the man's kindness.

– While Michael straightened up his mess, Aaron walked across the loft to a wall of glass that provided a spectacular view of the city. He could see Creek Side Park and the post lanterns sparkling off the icy water flowing in the stream. In the distance he could see the Community Plaza Bank building and the lights in his middle-school parking lot.

Michael walked over to a cozy sitting area carrying a tray with two cups of hot chocolate. "Have a seat and help yourself," he said, gesturing toward the sofa. He set the tray on the large ottoman and returned to the kitchen.

Aaron sank into the glove-soft leather, then laid his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. The day's disturbing events simmered in his skull like beef stew over an open fire, blending together into a thick broth, no single event standing out from the rest. He opened his eyes and leaned forward to hook his finger into a cup of chocolate, then took a cautious sip of the steaming beverage.

Michael returned with some brownies and napkins and sat down in an overstuffed chair. "I'm sorry to hear about your father," he said.

Aaron nodded politely. "I was nine when he died," he said. "He was killed while serving in Afghanistan." He couldn't help but recall that dreadful night four years earlier when the doorbell rang: It was around midnight, and he and his mother had both been asleep. He'd been too young to understand why she held his hand so tightly as they walked down the stairs to answer the door. He remembered the look on her face when she saw the notifying officer and the medic. The despair in her eyes. The loneliness. The terror. She had known why they had come.

"I'm very sorry," Michael said.

Aaron took a bite of brownie and grinned, revealing a row of chocolate teeth. "These brownies are amazing," he mumbled.

"You can thank the bakery counter," Michael said.

Aaron chuckled and took another bite.

"Are you ready to shoot some eight-ball?" Michael asked. He stood and walked over to his custom-made, tournament-size table. "I always say, if you want to feel normal, do something normal."

"Okay," Aaron said, wiping his mouth and hands with a napkin. "What's eight-ball?"

"Don't tell me you've never played pool before," Michael said as he filled the rack with balls.

Aaron didn't say anything.

"Well, it's time you learned," Michael said.

Aaron came over and picked up the glossy cue ball, then rolled it across the table's smooth blood-red baize. It careened off three cushions and came to rest inches from his hand. He marveled at the mysterious physics at work and thought of the pioneering mathematicians who wrote the first theorems defining it.

Suddenly a different image popped into Aaron's head.

"Shit," he said — a word meant for himself, but accidentally spoken out loud.

"Pardon?" Michael said.

"Oh, sorry," Aaron said. "I just remembered something important I forgot to do." He searched his pockets for his phone, but it was missing. He figured he must have dropped it back at the cannery.

"Uh… Michael?" he said. "May I use your phone?"

Michael nodded. "It's in my jacket, there on the chair."

Aaron found the phone and walked over to the kitchen to make a call.

– Willy lay on his bed at home, trying to read. His phone rang with an unfamiliar ringtone, but he picked up anyway.

"Willy, it's Aaron."

Willy instantly sat up, dropping his book. "Where the bleeding hell are you?" he said. "I've been looking all over creation for you. Whose number is this?"