Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fallen

Until the lawyer and accountant met with him and informed him that the assets left behind were outweighed by debt by a ratio of twenty to one. Now it was time to pay the piper, and the son would be the one to do it.

Thus, decades ago, Baron had sold off many of the remaining family assets and negotiated as skillfully as he could in a desperate battle to keep the house. However, the estate was buried under such a large mortgage that now most of his income simply went to pay the interest. Like his predecessors, he had also sold additional land around the estate. The hundreds of acres had been whittled down to a few dozen. The outbuildings were mostly in ruins. The mansion was a shabby wreck. When he died, without wife or children, he had no doubt that the bank would swoop in, sell it off, and down it would come, with something modern and fresh to take its place, if Baronville still existed by then.

Even the family cemetery, set far away from the house and surrounded by a six-foot brick wall, might well be dug up and moved.

He looked through the window of his study at land that as a boy he had run happily roamed over. He had a lot of stamina back then, but he could never sprint far enough to outrun the grounds of his home. It had been a both comforting and humbling feeling.

He looked over his shoulder at the walls of books. He had read them all and had managed to keep far more than he thought possible. The rarest volumes had long since been sold to pay bills. There was no point in keeping books if he didn’t have a bookcase or a home in which to place them.

He rose, walked over to his desk, and sat down in the chair there. It creaked and groaned under his weight. Everything in this house creaked and groaned when touched.

I creak and groan simply by being alive.

By any measure it was a miserable existence. And one he would have to endure for the rest of his life.

He had had to come home from college to take care of affairs after his parents died. Then he had returned to school on his athletic scholarship, only to blow out his rotator. That was pretty much the death knell for a baseball pitcher. The next year his scholarship was revoked, and, having no funds to continue, he had left without a degree. Repeated attempts at starting a business had failed for want of capital. It seemed that those who had for so long lived under the boot of the Barons now thought it quite pleasing to turn off any aid whatsoever to the last of the family.

Even though other owners had run them for years, when the last mine and mill closed the ousted employees and indeed the entire town blamed only one person for their downfall. Though then only in his late twenties, John Baron had taken the full brunt of the town’s displeasure. There was even a petition circulated to change the name of the town. It had failed, probably because the citizens wanted the name to remain so they could keep blaming the Baron family for their problems.

John Baron had become a pariah. He should have moved. Just walked away from the house and the town and this miserable excuse for a life. Yet he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was stubbornness or lunacy or a potent mixture of both. Yet something in his head had prevented him from chucking it all and starting somewhere fresh. And things in your head could be very powerful, he had found.

Finally, he had sold enough property and paid down enough bills to allow himself to live here, not in any comfort, but just to exist, really. Any ambition to do more had faded along with the passage of years.

As he stared out into the nighttime he was thoroughly cognizant that he had royally screwed up what had commenced as a promising life.

And the town had faded right along with him.

Once-occupied homes and businesses sat empty. The mighty mills and mines his ancestor had erected were gone.

Baronville had come into existence as part of John Baron the First’s dream for riches. Now the dream had become a nightmare. For all of them.

From his high perch, Baron would often watch the procession of funerals driving slowly to one of the cemeteries in town. The graveyards of the myriad churches had long since been filled. He knew fatal drug overdoses occurred far too frequently. With no hope, people were turning to needles and pills for something to make them forget how desperate their lives had become.

And yet he had also watched moving vans coming in, carrying with them new families with fresh hopes. He didn’t know if they were just picking at a hollowed-out carcass. He didn’t know if the town had a reasonable shot at a do-over.

But maybe it did.

Though it was fully beyond his control, he carried the demise of his family’s creation as a personal failure. And he always would. And anyway, the town would never let him forget that he had indeed failed them.

He rose from behind his desk.

It was too early to go to bed. And he had somewhere he wanted to go. It was sort of a ritual of his, in fact.

He left the house by the kitchen door and entered the six-car garage that had held only one vehicle for the last three decades.

It was the old gardener’s pale blue 1968 Suburban. Baron had had to let go all of the few remaining household staff after his parents’ deaths, yet he had managed to hold on to the gardener, because there was a lot of property still to keep up. After the land was sold, however, that changed. The gardener, nearly ninety by then, had left his truck to Baron and gone to die in a nearby nursing home, having outlived his wife by several years.

It was fortunate that Baron had been an engineering student in college, with a mind that seemed to know intuitively how any type of mechanical apparatus worked. He had been coaxing life out of the Suburban all this time. Yet, after five decades, he wasn’t sure how much life it had left.

Or how much I have left.

He climbed into the Suburban and drove out of the garage. The overhead doors no longer functioned, so he kept them open, with the key to the truck under the visor.

He wound his way down the hill, past the neighborhoods that had sprung up from Baron land and that held the best views in the city, other than his. At least the homes that were still occupied did.

He reached the main road and sped up.

He had money in his pocket. He intended to spend it.

The Mercury Bar was really the only place in town where he felt he could get some peace.

He pulled into a parking space on the street and got out.

He left the tuxedo jacket in the truck. He knew that he was an easy enough target around town without looking too eccentric.

He was a Baron. The last one.

And if his health remained intact, he had maybe thirty more years of this crap to endure. It was no wonder he needed a scotch and soda or two or three of them.

Yet tonight the current John Baron would get more than simply a drink.

Baron closed his eyes and inwardly groaned.

He reopened his eyes and kept his hands clasped around his cocktail. It was his — well, he couldn’t remember how many he’d had. The previous ones had felt great going down, though.

This one was even better.

And then they had come along to spoil it.

“You that dude John Baron, ain’t you?”

Baron looked over at the three young men who were standing next to his seat at the bar.

The young female bartender nervously wiped out a glass and watched the confrontation.

Baron lifted the glass to his lips, took a sip, and let the smooth scotch cut by soda work its way down his throat. He set the glass down and said, “I am. Is there an issue?”

The men were dressed in dirty jeans, T-shirts, and oversized sneakers with no laces, and two of them wore Pittsburgh Steelers caps.