Richard Cox - House of the Rising Sun

“No worries. Just don’t leave me in the dust. I’m doing my best to keep up.”

As they walked toward his car, Thomas looked down at his phone and found the message again.

…I want you to pay off this bookie. His name is Jimmy Jameson. His contact info is below. It’s a lot of money for me but it’s nothing for a rich Hollywood guy like you. Consider it payment for fucking my wife.

Here’s another thing: You should probably come here and take care of Natalie and my boys. They’re gonna need help after I’m gone. Why not get married? You can be one big happy family! Move Nat to L.A. so she can be a celebrity. It’s what she’s always wanted. I could never satisfy her champagyne taste.

You must know where we live but in case you don’t have the address I put it below too.

Have a nice fucking life. I’m ending mine now.

All at once Thomas couldn’t feel his hands. The phone slipped from his grasp and clattered to the concrete floor of the garage. When he picked it up, he saw the screen had shattered, glass forking into jagged shapes as if split by lightning.

“Shit.”

“Oh, no,” said Skylar. “Don’t tell me your phone went to meet its maker.”

They reached his car, a ’68 Ford Mustang Shelby convertible, cherry red, painstakingly restored. He’d brought it to impress Skylar. He felt like an idiot.

“It’s not the phone,” Thomas muttered, and tossed her bags into the rear seat. When he opened the passenger door and scooted Sky inside, she’d finally had enough.

“Thomas!”

A few seconds later he was behind the wheel. The engine roared like a jet.

“We have to go. I need to think. Fuck.”

He backed out of the parking spot and steered quickly for the exit.

“Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Natalie’s husband just sent me an email. Sounds like he’s going to kill himself.”

Compared to the low ceiling of the parking garage, the sky looked enormous, blue and empty except for the rising sun. While Thomas squinted through a spider web of cracks to find Natalie’s number, Skylar fidgeted in the seat next to him.

“Who’s Natalie?”

“This woman I know from high school.”

“And you think her husband is going to kill himself.”

“That’s what he said in an email he just sent.”

“He emailed that? To you?”

Finally, Thomas had Natalie’s name in front of him. He put the call through and waited for the phone to ring. By now he was on the airport access road, six lanes wide, built like a freeway. Traffic was steady but not bumper-to-bumper. He wished he hadn’t left the top down, because wind noise overpowered the phone speaker.

Voice mail answered.

“Natalie. You need to call your husband. Like right now. He just sent me an email. It sounded like a suicide note. Someone needs to check on him right away. It’s ten o’clock on Friday morning.”

All at once Natalie’s problems came into clearer focus. If what Seth said was true, his extended time away from home and any missing money was not related to a mistress named JJ but a gambling problem and a bookie named Jimmy Jameson. Seth was overwhelmed by debt and not thinking clearly. Thomas hoped Natalie was already on the phone with him.

Sky was waiting to hear more, but since Thomas wasn’t sure where to begin he looked back at Seth’s email again. He noticed there was an auto signature at the bottom. There was a cell number in the signature.

“Dude,” Sky finally said. “I don’t want to butt into your personal business, but if some guy is threatening suicide, you need to call the police. Like 9-1-1. Voice mail isn’t enough.”

“What if I call the guy directly?”

“You have his number?”

“It’s at the bottom of this email.”

“Then, yes! Call him now!”

The telephone number was a hyperlink, but if Thomas were honest with himself, he was hoping no one would answer. He wanted Seth to have already thought better of his plan and aborted.

The phone rang. Then rang again. And again. And again. And— “Hello?” asked a raspy, broken voice. “Who is this?”

“Seth?”

“Whoever you are, your timing is improbable.”

“Seth, it’s Thomas.

A long stretch of silence passed while Thomas piloted the car and glanced at Skylar, whose aqua eyes were wide and concerned. He had never imagined his encounter with her would begin like this.

“Dude,” Seth said in a weak voice, “I told you everything you need to know. Can’t you just let me be done with it?”

“Don’t do it!” shouted Thomas, surprised at the sudden empathy he felt for this man he’d never met. “I can help you. You don’t need to do this.”

“Help me with what?”

“With money! With whatever you need.”

“If this is about money,” Skylar offered loudly, “I’ll help, too.”

“Who is that?” grunted Seth. He sounded lethargic, like he’d woken from a deep sleep.

“We just want to help you. You don’t need insurance. You don’t—”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if you paid every last dime of my debt, I still have to live with what I’ve done. And I can’t. I won’t. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late, Seth. Let me help you.”

“Just come here when it’s over. Please.”

“Seth.”

“Promise me, man. Promise me you’ll come here and take care of my family. Please.”

Seth was crying. His voice was hoarse, and he coughed as if his lungs were failing him.

“Please, man. Promise me.”

“I promise, Seth. Just stop and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Now there was no answer.

“Seth?”

Thomas pressed the phone to his ear, trying to dampen the sound of the wind, but it was no use. Eventually he looked at the display again and saw it was dark. He swiped and tapped the screen, but nothing happened. “Thomas, look out!”

He glanced up and saw he was about to rear-end a white Ford sedan that was either slowing down or stopped. He quickly checked his mirrors and veered into an adjacent lane. Jammed his hand on the horn.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled involuntarily. “This is a highway!”

“Thomas, again!”

He looked back at the road and saw they were rapidly gaining on a black pickup truck rolling on four enormous tires. Thomas changed lanes, sliding just past the truck and the noise of its monster tread.

“What the hell is going on?” he yelled.

“I don’t know, but something is weird. All the cars are slowing down. Look over there. It’s the same thing on both sides of the road.”

Skylar was right. Everyone was slowing down, but no one seemed to be using their brakes. Well, wait. In the far-right lane, about fifty yards ahead of them, a small car came to a screeching stop and Thomas heard the dull thunk of bumper-to-bumper contact.

“He totally hit that truck!” Sky yelled. “Why is everyone stopping?”

Thomas had slowed down and was switching lanes almost continuously as vehicles around him came to rest. When he looked briefly at Skylar, he saw something in the sky above her, something so odd and unexpected that he could hardly make sense of it.

People were beginning to climb out of their vehicles. Others stood in the road, gawking at the sky. Thomas moved toward the inner shoulder, trying to divine a clear path, but other drivers were having the same idea. Ahead, a woman stood beside a giant Lexus SUV and gestured to him.

“Skylar,” he said. “Look in the sky on your right.”

Thomas was rapidly approaching the woman on the shoulder. She was tall and thin, wearing a yellow sundress and flip flops. Maybe thirty-five years old.

“What is that?” Sky asked.