Ronald Malfi - The Ascent

And, of course, there was John Petras. Since he’d survived the ordeal, there was no need to conduct any research, but that didn’t mean I was able to figure out his connection to Andrew nor why Andrew wanted to kill him. We phoned each other once a month just to keep tabs, and occasionally I’d pester him about it. But Petras would only sigh and say he could think of nothing.

“We’d had one stupid argument years ago in Nova Scotia,” he told me. “It was over who’d win the Super Bowl, and we were both tanked up on liquor. I called him a stupid son of a bitch, and he said I was an ignorant imbecile—hardly grounds for wanting someone dead.”

“Do you believe the dakini exist?” I asked him during our last phone call.

“What brought this up all of a sudden?”

“It’s just been on my mind since you mentioned it.”

“They’re Buddhist myths. The word translates to ‘sky dancer,’ a

female spirit who traverses through space. Some faiths say they’re vengeful. Others say they function as muses. But overall, they’re considered ‘testers’—their purpose is to put man through tests to prove his worth.” “His worth for what?”

“To enter paradise,” said Petras. “Eternal bliss.” “Eden,” I said. “Shangri-la,” Petras added.

“So I guess if you believe in the dakini , you’d have to believe in the existence of Shangri-la,” I said. “You’d have to believe in paradise.”

I could tell Petras was grinning on the other end of the phone. “You can’t have God without the devil.”

My legs pumping, my respiration as tight as a machine, I headed back down Main Street, cut across one of the darkened, narrow alleys that crisscrossed the City Dock, and emptied onto a cobblestone byway illuminated by an interval of lampposts. I burned by the Filibuster, dark and locked up for the evening.

2

EVERY HONEST STORY HRS ONE GRERT REVEAl.

For me and my life—for my story—it would be no different. Despite the proactive research into the people who’d died on Godesh Ridge at the hands of Andrew Trumbauer, my great reveal happened purely by chance nearly one year after my return from Nepal.

I was sitting on a lounge chair on my balcony reading the Sunday edition of The Capital when my gaze fell upon a curious headline.

Regatta Race Accident Victim’s Body Finally Found

The article went on to detail how, during the annual Regatta race roughly two and a half years ago, boat owner and race participant Gerald H. Figlio had been struck on the back of the head by theboom and fallen into the bay. A search commenced, but Figlio’s body was never recovered until this past weekend when the remains of a corpse washed up at Sandy Point State Park. Figlio was identified through his dental records, the article said. The cause of death was ruled accidental.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have made the connection if it wasn’t for the brief bio of Gerald H. Figlio at the end of the article where it mentioned he’d once been a professor of English at James Madison University—both Hannah’s and Andrew’s alma mater.

The following day, I went to the local library and fired up one of the computer terminals. I located the Regatta’s official Web site and searched the backlog of race registrants from the past couple of years. After finding Figlio’s name, I clicked on the PDF document that was his registration card. Among various other information, Figlio had listed his crew for the race.

Boddington, Joseph Brunelli, Michael O’Maera, Sean Trumbauer, Andrew Wesley, T.J. Wheaton, Xavier

It was just what I’d expected to find, yet it still caused an uncontrollable chill to race down my spine. And not so much because I’d come across Andrew’s name on the list but because the grand scope of all Andrew had been doing suddenly occurred to me: the trip to the Godesh Ridge had not been Andrew’s singular expression of revenge. Rather, Andrew had been seeking his revenge all over the place , presumably for years .

How many people did you kill? I thought, the monitor casting a sickly blue glow across my face. How long had you been doing this?

“Well, you’re not doing it anymore,” I said and logged off the computer.

3

WHEN I RETURNED FROM THE LIBRARY. MARTA

was sitting on the sofa with her bare feet drawn up beneath her, a melancholic look on her face. She faced the television but it was off, the whole room growing dark with the onset of night.

I tossed my keys on the credenza and took off my shoes. “What? What is it?”

“There was a phone call from some lawyer,” she said dryly. “Your friend John Petras is dead.”

4

IT WAS A FREAK ACCIDENT. DURING A PARTICULARLY

nasty storm, a felled power line landed on the roof of John Petras’s house, sparking a fire. The coroner’s report listed asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation as the cause of death.

A week after I’d received the news, a box was delivered to my apartment stamped with a Wisconsin law firm’s return address. I opened the box to discover Petras’s pearl-handled hunting knife wrapped in newspaper. There was no letter typed on letterhead, no note.

That evening I went to the Filibuster. It was the first time I’d been back since my return from Nepal. The first thing that struck me was how someone had removed all the newspaper clippings and photos of corrupt politicians from the walls. Ricky was tending bar; his eyes nearly dropped out of their sockets upon seeing me.

I grinned and offered a two-fingered salute as I entered and claimed a barstool.

“Holy crap, Tim,” Ricky said.

“Guess you’re still working here, huh, kid?”

“What’s it been?” he said. “A year?”

“At least,” I said.

“Where you been?”

“Nepal. Climbing mountains. And chasing ghosts.”

“No shit? Wow. That’s badass.” He flipped a dish towel over one shoulder. “Can I get you the usual? I still remember how you like it …”

“Actually, make it a Diet Coke.”

“Seriously?”

“And a menu. I’m hungry.”

“Man, that mountain climbing stuff must have rattled your brains around, if you don’t mind me saying.” Ricky slipped me a menu and a Diet Coke.

I glanced around the place and said, “What’s with the empty walls?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “Guess you wouldn’t know. Brom’s selling the place.”

“No shit? How come?”

“Never really came out and said. My guess is he’s getting old and doesn’t want the hassle anymore.” He jerked a thumb toward the back room. “He keeps a picture of some beach in Pensacola on his desk in his office. Been looking at it more and more whenever he’s in here. I bet he’s itching to retire while he’s still got a few good years left, maybe get a house on the beach in Florida. Just relax, you know?”

I was still staring at the barren walls. This is what it’s like for a building to get Alzheimer’s, I thought. Taking pictures off the walls and leaving those inky, dark-colored rectangles in the wood is how a building loses its memories, loses what makes it what it used to be.

“You okay, Tim?”

“Fine.” I ordered a crab cake and ate it in silence, while Ricky attended to the other patrons. Behind me, the sound of darts striking the dartboard punctuated each bite of my crab cake. At one point, I heard someone slip coins into the jukebox. An old Creedence

Clearwater Revival song came on.

Something caused me to shiver. I turned around on my stool and looked toward the rear of the bar, straight at the booth where, roughly two and a half years ago now, I’d run into Andrew Trumbauer. What I’d written off as nothing more than a serendipitous meeting was now overshadowed by everything I’d come to know about Andrew. How long had it taken him to find me? How many days had he followed me? Had he been following me straight to the Filibuster? The notion caused my hands to go numb; I set my glass of Diet Coke on the bar before I dropped it.