Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

He tried to fight off the music in his head while he waited. Melancholy chords and words. Loudon Wainwright.

There's a heaven and he knows it's true.

But he's back on earth just missing you.

And it's hell on earth just missing you…

Enough, he said to himself. Enough sadness and enough of the past. No matter what happens when the door opens, you've got to stay in the present. He glanced back at the car. If they're going to survive, you've got to stay in the present.

He waited maybe a minute, then heard footsteps. What amazed him was that he recognized the steps; he knew immediately to whom they belonged. So he wasn't surprised when his mother opened the door. He was surprised at her appearance, though. She had aged. Somehow gotten smaller. When he'd seen her last she'd been sixty-six years old, trim and athletic looking, attractive and vital. At the door she looked old. Haggard. Worn down by time and loneliness. When she saw him she started to react, lifted her arms to grab him, but immediately dropped them and held herself in check. Years of restraining her emotions dictated her behavior, but in her eyes he could see the gleam. Her eyes instantly looked young again.

"It's all right if you hug me, Mother," he said. "I won't mind."

She took one step closer, then another. Slowly her hands raised again and she reached for him. Her arms around his neck, she pulled him close and held him tight. He could feel the soft, lined skin of her cheek resting against his. And he felt her breath surge all the way through her body.

Lizbeth Westwood released her son. She looked over his shoulder, saw the two figures in the car, turned back questioningly to the son she hadn't seen in so many years.

"No," he said, knowing the question in her mind. "She's a friend. And her daughter."

"Shall we invite them in?"

"In a minute. We need some help, and before they come in I'd like to know if we're going to get it."

"I…I saw the paper," she said. "And your father saw the news on television."

"Is he home?"

She nodded. "He comes home for lunch."

"Some things never change," Justin said.

"If only that were true of everything," his mother said. His father was seated at the long, eighteenth-century Spanish dining table when Justin stepped into the room. He had just dug his fork into his grilled filet of sole and was lifting a piece of the soft, white fish up to his mouth when he looked up and saw his son. Jonathan Westwood finishing bringing the fork to his lips, ate the delicious, lightly seasoned sole, slowly put his fork down, and took a sip of very cold Corton Charlemagne from his wineglass.

"You've gained weight," he said, setting the glass down on the highly polished table.

"Well, you haven't. You look exactly the same. Maybe a little grayer."

"I believe in consistency," Jonathan Westwood said. "Always have."

"Yes," Justin said. "You have always been pretty consistent when it comes to consistency."

"You're in trouble."

"That's an understatement. I'm in big trouble."

"Is it true, what they're saying?"

"Do you think it's true, Father?"

The older Westwood shook his head slowly. "You always did what you wanted to do. Never listened to anyone. You always had a certain arrogance. But you were also always scrupulously honest. You were never the sort of boy to get yourself in trouble."

"That's not true. I was in serious trouble once. When my daughter was killed. And my wife died. I needed help then and you turned your back on me."

"Is that why you came back here, Justin? To accuse me? We might have grown apart over the years, but surely you remember that the one thing I never allow myself is regret."

"No." Justin gently shook his head from side to side. "That's not why I came back."

"Then why?"

"To see if you'll help me now," Justin said. "To give you a second chance."

Jonathan Westwood ate one more bite of fish, took one more sip of wine. Then he picked up the linen napkin from his lap, dabbed at his lips and his nearly all-white mustache. He put the napkin down on the table, signaling that he was through with his meal.

"Thank God," he said to his son. "Thank God and thank you."

They didn't get invited up to the Westwood house very often. No one did. So they were all slightly confused, but none of them could deny that they were also intrigued. Each of them, as they drove through the gate, was anticipating something, although none had the vaguest idea what that thing might be.

When they saw the other guests, their sense of anticipation rose. So did their bewilderment.

The first person to arrive was the one who had come the farthest, Wanda Chinkle. Wanda was forty-four years old, an attractive woman in a slightly hardened way. She was short-only five foot two-and she didn't have a discernible ounce of fat on her body. Her hair was dark, cut close to her scalp, not fashionably; it looked like she'd done it just to be practical. Wanda was practical when it came to most things. She was also the special agent in charge of the Boston bureau of the FBI, had been for nearly seven years now. The Boston office had jurisdiction in Maine, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island, so anything happening in Providence directly involved her. Wanda agreed to make the drive this afternoon because she had just begun her job-working her way up from field agent-when Justin had been winding up his investigation of Louie Denbo. She'd been working closely with Justin when he'd been shot, and she still felt guilty that she had not anticipated the retaliation and had not given the family Bureau protection. She had not heard from Jonathan Westwood in all the intervening years, but when he called earlier that afternoon, said it was urgent and that he needed her, not anyone else but her, she decided she could indulge him. The news about Justin had crossed her desk first thing that morning. She suspected that the elder Westwood was looking for some strings to be pulled. She didn't think she'd be willing to pull them, but she certainly was willing to hear him out. She owed the family that much.

She waited in the spacious downstairs den for ten minutes before the next guest arrived. Wanda didn't know him. He sauntered into the den, obviously as curious and clueless as she was, and introduced himself. His name was Roger Mallone, and he was young, maybe thirty, with a ruddy complexion. He was solid looking, a tennis player, she'd bet, although already starting to go a little soft around the middle. He said he worked for Westwood. He was one of the bank's chief financial advisers. When she told him what her job was, his jaw actually dropped and his face turned even redder than it had been.

It took only three more minutes before the final guest came in. They both knew Billy DiPezio, the Providence chief of police. After spending an hour with Billy, if one was asked to guess what he did for a living, a reasonable stab would be that he was a convict. As a backup choice, stand-up comic would not have been out of line. But he'd been the chief for eighteen years and, while he was constantly being attacked in the press and always in the midst of some kind of controversy, he was a damn good cop. Maybe not the most honest one in the world-he'd been known to favor the rich a time or two too many-but his morals were the bendable kind. As far as anyone knew, they had never broken completely.

Billy strode into the den, his usual whirlwind self, shook hands all around, looked for the most comfortable chair. Before he'd even gotten seated, Jonathan Westwood came in.

"You got a funny look on your face, Johnny," Billy DiPezio said. "He's in a funny situation," Justin Westwood said, following behind his father. He had a gun in his hand and he waved it back and forth between Billy and Wanda. "Don't do anything stupid," he said. "Please." He stepped aside and Deena was right behind him. Justin pointed the gun at Billy now, and said, "You first." He told Deena to pat Billy down and look for his weapon. "It's probably in a shoulder holster, but even when you find that one, keep going. Billy's a sneaky little devil and might have a spare."