J. Black - The Shop

So he gave up and drove to the Aspen house.

He didn’t expect to see a realtor’s sign outside. And he really didn’t expect to see the “SOLD” panel hanging from two short chains underneath.

The house looked like something out of a magazine—the stacked stone entrance and solid pine construction, the mowed lawn, the flowers nodding in their beds. Under the peaked roof, the massive expanse of glass was dark, reflecting only a couple of clouds in the deep blue sky.

He knew nobody lived here—at least not yet. And the house looked empty.

What he’d really like to do was get in and look around. Photograph it for his book. See if there were any traces of the mass murder. Of course there wouldn’t be—not if the place was already sold. The heavy-duty cleaners would have come in and hosed the place down and replaced what needed replacing. They’d make it sterile and generic again. As if they could wipe out the house’s psychic history.

He wondered who had bought it so quickly. There were always the nuts out there who wanted to live in a murder house, people who got off on it. Like those women who wrote to Charlie Manson or the Night Stalker.

The smell of cut grass took the edge off his nerves, reminding him of baseball games when he was a kid. Through the trees he could see Castle Creek, gold in the shallows, dark under the trees and undergrowth. A couple of hundred yards downstream, a fly fisherman cast his line backwards and forwards like a coach whip before settling it on the water in a bright line.

Hands in his pockets, looking more casual than he felt, Nick walked down the driveway to the empty garage.

He saw right away how the guy had stashed him there. The garage was a sub-story, cut into the hill. A flagstone walkway ran down the hill alongside. It would have been easy for Mars to roll him down the walkway and push him over the lip of the retaining wall into the garage. There was a three-foot drop to the plastic garbage and recycle containers, which would have broken his fall. From there it would be a simple thing to shove him under Brienne’s black Escalade.

What he didn’t understand, though, was why. Why me ?

He stood in the coolness, staring down at the immaculate concrete. Not one oil spot marred the garage floor.

Why was I spared?

Nothing came to him.

Finally, Nick walked back up the walkway to the deck above. The deck cantilevered out over the rushing water. He remembered drinking beer that night—quite a lot of it—and the incredible feeling of well-being it generated. A warm, rosy feeling.

“Hey there.”

He looked around. A man climbed the steps from the creek below, the fisherman he’d seen earlier. Tan vest and waders, aviator sunglasses, fly rod, and an old-fashioned wicker creel with a trout tail sticking out. He couldn’t say for sure, but everything looked top-of-the-line—even the trout.

Abruptly, Nick felt foolish. The guy must live here. He’d been wrong that the house was still empty. He put on his best smile. Inclusive, winning, the way he greeted people on tour. Stepped forward and held out a hand, even though the man had his hands full.

As he framed his welcoming sentence, the man said, “You’re Nick Holloway.”

He found himself grinning foolishly. Had the guy read his book?

“You’re the survivor. I saw you on the news.” The man set his creel down. “I can’t believe it. The sole survivor.”

“Guilty,” Nick said. “This your place now?”

“Name’s Cyril,” the man said. “Just closed on it a week ago yesterday, as a matter of fact. Thought I’d kick things off with a fish supper. So how did you get so lucky?”

“I have no idea.”

“You must have friends in high places, that’s for sure.”

“Wish I knew who they were. I’d hit them up for a loan.”

“No idea? That seems strange.”

Nick shrugged. Nick had made the decision to keep whatever he learned about Mars to himself. It was his story, his exclusive, and you never knew who might try to capitalize on his hard work. He’d been the one shoved under the Escalade, and he was going to be the one to write the story.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” The man pushed his baseball cap back. The cap was tan, too, like the rest of his clothing. The words Chernobyl Ant were written across the front.

“Chernobyl Ant? What’s that?”

“A fishing fly—a terrestrial.” The man told Nick that he tied his own flies, went on to explain what a terrestrial was, and then gave him a list of the places he’d caught fish with the fly. Went into too much detail for Nick’s taste. Then he nodded toward the garage. “That’s where they found you, right? Hey, if you’ve got time, I’d like to hear your story. I’ve got Rolling Rock in the house, and I can cook up this trout. Care to join me?”

Nick realized he was famished. It was the mountain air. Guy seemed a little anal-retentive, but what the hell. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon. This was his opportunity to get into the house again. If the fisherman wanted to hear the story about his brush with death, if he wanted a vicarious thrill—fine with him. “A beer would be nice,” he said.

They stayed out on the deck. The water rushed underneath. The sunshine at this high altitude felt good but was probably deadly. Nick wished he had sunscreen, but he put it out of his mind.

The conversation turned—as it always did—to Brienne Cross. Nick was bored with Brienne Cross, but he understood the interest. She was a big star.

“What was she really like?”

“To be honest? She was boring.”

“Boring?” Cyril straightened. “I would have never guessed that.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t quite do her justice. Let’s see…she was also shallow, vapid, and dull. But incredibly good-looking.”

Cyril stood up. “You want a margarita? I made a pitcher earlier today.”

They went into the house. Cyril suggested Nick dice some tomatoes, avocado, and scallions for guacamole.

The kitchen was the same as Nick remembered. Cyril said he’d bought the place lock, stock, and barrel. Nick looked into the big living area. The same furnishings he remembered, maybe a couple of them conspicuous by their absence. Brienne Cross was found lying on the couch. That was gone. The other furniture was sheathed in opaque plastic. It gave the place an otherworldly feel, as if it was not quite there. He had escaped . The gratitude he felt was overwhelming; it sang through him like a tuning fork, reverberations running through his soul.

He was alive . They were dead, the people from this room, but he was still here. Still here to walk along the Aspen Mall lined with trendy shops, still here to appreciate the aspens and the sunshine and the good food and his chance encounter with the know-it-all fly fisherman.

He wanted to photograph the big room. He liked the idea of the indifferent plastic, the understated quality to a place where four people had been murdered. Patience, he reminded himself.

He started cutting vegetables while Cyril grilled him about the show, Soul Mate. So he went into it: How Brienne would sneak her boyfriend in, even though there was a rule against that. How reality shows were really scripted, which was why there was so much narrative tension and outright fights among the players.

He talked about the little field trips to Nobu’s, to J-Bar, to Caribou. Picking out jewelry, clothes, dining out, clubbing, all of those kids trying to prove they were most like Brienne. That they could be her soul mate. All the hoops the young people jumped through to be Brienne’s best friend.

Nick felt a twinge of regret. He realized he’d been uncharitable. Brienne was just muddling through life like anybody else, even if the cross she had to bear was gold-plated. Conscience made him say, “She was nice enough, don’t get me wrong. But the business turned her into a shark.”