TPG (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

With the next home start still days
away and his mind and body deteriorating at breakneck speed, he cemented his
decision. He needed to go out early. He needed a hit and there were no other
options. If he waited too long, he wasn’t even sure he’d be fit enough to go
out again. He could barely walk, had trouble keeping his thoughts together.

He left the
apartment at eleven that night, hoping a death wouldn’t be necessary this time.
Maybe he could get by with taking some, but not all.

He stepped off the
elevator and nodded at the doorman in the lobby, making sure to keep his
trembling hands in his pockets as he strained to keep his slow gait steady.

When he reached
the sidewalk—the warm humid air clinging to his skin—he slipped his
baseball cap out of his back pocket and put it on, pulling the brim down to
cover his eyes.

He didn’t trust
himself to drive, so he stepped off the curb and hailed a taxi. A deviation
from his prior excursions, but a necessary one given his condition. His
thoughts were cloudy, mind a haze, body running more on reflex than direction.
He didn’t care if he found someone young or old, clean or not, he just wanted
enough of a hit to get him steady again. But he still had enough wits about him
to make sure he kept it away from his home. Even though
they
already knew, he didn’t want to bring the rest of the world to
his doorstep, especially if things went wrong.

So he had the
driver cross through Central Park and take him to Amsterdam. There were enough
people milling around on the Upper West Side that he’d be able to find a match
easy enough. He’d just follow someone down one of the side streets, the blocks
usually empty enough at that time of night that he could slip away without too
much of a problem. It wouldn’t be the cleanest operation, but it would suffice.

He had the cab
stop at Eighty-third and Amsterdam and stepped onto the sidewalk into the
throng of stragglers outside the bars, some puffing away on cigarettes and
others just passing by. His dulled senses were immediately awakened with an array
of spikes, telling him there were plenty of matches in the area. At first it
was difficult for him to focus, his weakened body too flustered by the prospect
of getting right again and his sluggish mind finding it too difficult to
separate the loads of sensation. He took hold of a tree at the corner to steady
himself and concentrate on the focus he needed. As he stood there taking deep
breaths, a stroke of luck swept in just as he started to gain a handle on the
signals.

There was a tall
woman walking a Bichon turning west onto Eighty-third.

She was a match.

He let go of the
tree and followed her, forcing his tired and confused muscles to keep pace as
the woman and her dog strolled quickly along. The woman was older than what
he’d been used to lately, in her mid to late forties, perhaps even older. She
had a large diamond ring on her ring finger, which made him wonder why her
husband or kids weren’t walking the dog. Perhaps her husband was away, he
thought. And maybe she didn’t have children. Or maybe they were too young to
walk a dog, or too old and had already moved out. But it didn’t really matter
why. None of her personal life mattered. All that mattered was that he needed
the hit and that she was a match. He had to simply burrow away any thoughts about
who she was, about who would be losing her as a wife or a mother. Just like he
always did.

But it was tough
to keep up with her. The dog was pulling her quickly, almost forcing her into a
jog. He strained to quicken the pace and close the gap, but it wasn’t going to
work. He wasn’t going to catch her. He started to slow down, his breathing
heavy, his muscles growing even more tired.

But then his
fortunes turned.

The woman stopped.
Her dog was lifting its leg against the base of a pole three quarters up the
block.

He rushed to take
advantage. The dog looked back at him, his tiny white snout snarling and
flaring its teeth, perhaps sensing the danger his owner couldn’t.

He didn’t care,
though. It was a Bichon. How much fight could it have? The woman didn’t turn
around. Her eyes were glued to her phone as she tugged at the little dog to
hurry up and continue up the block.

He was only about
twenty feet away, his body already being reinvigorated by the energy that grew
stronger, readying to replenish his tired limbs and frayed nerves. He took a
few more steps, closing in, when someone grabbed hold of his collar from
behind. He didn’t have time to turn and see who it was before his body was
unmercifully thrown toward a stoop.

His side smacked
against the concrete steps of a brownstone, his already unsteady balance easily
felled. He looked up and saw a man standing over him, but couldn’t get a clear
view of his face.

But the two simple
words the man uttered were as clear as could be.

“Hello, Hillier.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

There was much less fanfare this
time than during the first session. There were no presentations, no initial
meetings, and the insurance company didn’t even send O’Brien. Instead, they
sent a much lower level claims rep. The groups were assigned to different rooms
the entire time, so Kyle didn’t even see Ricker or anyone from the Trotter
family all morning except for the awkward run-ins while using the restroom.

Kyle didn’t talk
much during the course of the morning. His thoughts meandered back to his
conversation with Sheila the day before. To how it seemed like he finally had
struck back, finally gotten some things off his chest. Not everything, but it
was a start. And everyone had to start somewhere.

The meanderings
took a quick backseat once Seybert came back into the room. The man had a
different expression this time, a bit confused and puzzled.

“Trotter wants to
talk to Kyle,” he said.

Paula’s eyes
popped up from her smartphone. “Henry’s father?”

Seybert nodded.

Kyle stood up, but
Paula quickly stopped him from going any further.

“Whoa, whoa,” she
said, holding her hand out, motioning Kyle to sit back down. “What’s going on
here? He wants a private meeting with just Kyle?”

“Yes,” Seybert
said. “Just the two of them. Not me and not with any attorneys.”

Kyle was still
standing. He looked at the surprise on Paula’s face. “Is this unusual?” he
asked.

“Yes,” Paula said,
her focus still on Seybert. “It is. Why does he want to meet with him? What’s
their new demand?”

“They don’t have a
new one,” Seybert said. “And I have no idea why he wants to meet. He asked, so
I’m asking.”

“What’s the big
deal?” Kyle asked. “I’ll just meet with him and hear what he has to say.”

Paula turned, her
expression as serious as he’d ever seen it. “The big deal is that we’re dealing
with Ricker here. He hasn’t budged much from his pie-in-the-sky demand, and
knows the insurance company doesn’t want to budge either. He knows O’Brien
isn’t here today, so he understands the authorization we have to settle this
thing is capped. So he needs a new tactic to get his point across and get us to
budge, and he’s going with the bad faith claim. But he can’t talk to you
directly, so he’s trying a sneak attack. Sending in the family patriarch to do
his dirty work.”

“If I may
interject,” Seybert said. “I didn’t get that sense while I was in there.
Trotter’s request seemed to have been made on his own. In fact, Ricker was not
only surprised by it, but openly, and adamantly I might add, counseled against
it.”

“It’s an act,”
Paula dismissed the comments.

Seybert shrugged.
“Maybe it is. But it didn’t come across that way. I think it’s Trotter’s idea
alone.”

“If that’s the
case,” Paula said, “then what’s Trotter’s angle?”

“Don’t know. He’s
a pretty quiet guy. I haven’t gotten a good read on him during the process. He
doesn’t say much while I’m in the room.”

Paula remained
quiet, contemplating the situation, then asked, “Were they on the verge of a
new demand before Trotter made the request?”

“Not that I’m
aware of. We didn’t get that far.”

“But they could’ve
been talking about it internally.”

“I’m sure they
were.”

“So it could also
be they were going to cave, or come down significantly and this guy wants his
last opportunity to tell Kyle off. An opportunity to blame Kyle for his son’s
death.”

“But he could do
that anytime,” Kyle said.

“It’s not that
easy,” Paula told him. “He has the stage set now and he wants to grab the
opportunity while it’s there.” She tapped her pen against the legal pad. “Right
now he holds the cards. He knows it’s his best shot.” She looked over at
Seybert. “Tell him no deal. We won’t agree to the meeting. I’m not going to
allow Ricker the opportunity to have someone else do his dirty work, and I’m
not going to allow Trotter the opportunity to berate my client. Not going to happen.”

Seybert said he’d
tell them, but Kyle told the mediator to wait.

“I want to hear
him out.”

“There’s no need,”
Paula said. “Let’s just flush out whatever card they’re holding.”

“No, I want to
meet with him. I think I’m intelligent enough to see through Ricker’s ploy. But
I don’t think it’ll be like that. Henry talked about his father. The man isn’t
a lackey. He’s an honest, straight-shooting, hard-working type. I don’t think
he’d be the one that Ricker would use to do his dirty work.”

“You’re wrong, Kyle,”
Paula said. “For that reason alone, he’s
exactly
the one Ricker would use. And remember, this guy may be a good guy, but he’s
also suing you for millions of dollars. He thinks you caused the death of his
son. He thinks you murdered him. Nothing good can come out of meeting him like
this.”

“I don’t care. I
want to listen to what he has to say. If he needs to get something off his
chest, if that’ll help, then I’ll do it. I’ll listen.”

Paula drew closer
to him. “Trust me, Kyle,” she said, “you do
not
want to do this.”

Kyle thought back
to how he had turned his back on Liam and the young victims who were going to
pile up. Even with Bree’s life at risk and the rationalization that the police
already knew everything he did, it simply killed him to stand by and do
nothing.

Talking to Henry’s
father wasn’t going to hurt anyone. No one but him.

So he ignored
Paula’s advice. If the man wanted to dress Kyle down, so be it. If he wanted to
berate the man he thought had murdered his son, Kyle would take it. He’d give
the man that small drop of relief.

He wasn’t going to
hide. Not from this.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Kyle followed Seybert a few turns
down the corridor to another conference room. Inside was Jim Trotter, Henry’s
father. Alone. Seybert gave Kyle one more glance, making sure he was okay with
the arrangement. Kyle nodded, and Seybert told them to let him know when they
were done talking, then left.

Jim Trotter was in
his mid-sixties. He was a retired UPS truck driver who had moved down to
Boynton Beach, Florida about five years ago. Not too far from Kyle’s own
parents, actually. During their lone session together, Henry had told Kyle the
man was the model father growing up, the perfect husband. And even though Henry
had wildly surpassed the man in salary, making more in one year than Jim
Trotter earned in ten, Henry felt he hadn’t lived up to his father’s
expectations. He never became the man his father was. If Henry hadn’t died a
few days after their first session, it was a subject Kyle knew would have become
the topic of many future sessions.

Jim Trotter was
already standing when the door shut. He was wearing a suit, even though
everyone else at the mediation, including Kyle, had taken Seybert up on his
advice that, given the summer heat, they dress casually at the next session.
Trotter wore wire-rimmed glasses and had thick, white neatly coiffed hair and
an equally white moustache. He was a slender man, a bit on the short side, but
had a rigid strength that helped convey a larger frame.

He shook Kyle’s
hand with a firm grip, then took a seat. Kyle did the same, sitting across from
him at the conference room table.

“They didn’t want
me in here with you,” Jim Trotter started off the conversation. “Just wanted
you to know that.”

“Seybert told me.”

“But I felt it was
necessary.”

“I understand.”

Trotter leaned
back, relaxing tense muscles. “Things get lost in a setting like this,” he
said. “You hear the stories of people’s lives, but it’s all for dollars. It’s
not about who they really were, it’s about what’s going to convince you to pay
more money. It isn’t bullshit, but it’s not real either.”

Kyle nodded, but
stayed quiet. He was pretty certain this wasn’t going to be a Ricker ploy to
get more money. It was going to be Jim Trotter venting his anger. And Kyle was
prepared to sit and take it.

“You’re a smart
man,” Trotter said, “so I’m sure you figured all of that out already.” His eyes
narrowed. “This is about something else. This is about holding someone
accountable for the death of my son.”

Kyle hadn’t
realized how difficult it would be to hear Trotter utter those words. He hadn’t
known what it would feel like to stare into the smoldering eyes of a father who
believed him to be the cause of his son’s death
—
but he did then, feeling the man’s intense pain cling to
his every fiber, burning its way into his core.

“I’m not a
litigious man, Mr. Vine. Never have been. Not saying there isn’t a need for it,
but I understand how it’s been abused. I understand the real motive of people
like Ricker. They’re like politicians. They take their natural born gift of
persuasion and use it to satisfy their own selfish needs. They’re not driven by
morals, they’re driven by ego and greed. Not saying they aren’t right some of
the time, or even most of the time, I’m just saying I’m not a fool. I
understand how things work. I can see past the bullshit.” Trotter paused as he
took a sip from the coffee cup in front of him. “If the D.A. had decided to
prosecute you, we wouldn’t be here. Like I said, we didn’t want the money. We
don’t need it and it isn’t going to bring my son back. But they didn’t
prosecute.”

“I understand,”
Kyle succinctly said, letting Trotter vent and say his piece.

“Maybe you do,
maybe you don’t. If we settle for six figures, your insurance company writes a
check and you never go on trial. And if we don’t lower our demand, you either
get out on some technicalities or we go to trial because there’s no way you’ll
settle. That’s the way it’s been described to us.” Trotter paused, looking at
the door, as if someone were behind it listening. “Ricker, for all his bluster
and greed, thinks we should take six figures. He thinks you’ve got a good shot
at walking.”

The realization
struck Kyle that he and Jim Trotter had been on the same path. He wanted what
Kyle had initially wanted—their peers to determine whether Kyle had
caused Henry’s death. But Kyle had moved on from that, realizing what a handful
of randomly selected strangers thought based on the performance of his attorney
wasn’t going to change things. Their decision wasn’t going to matter. He was
the judge and jury of his own morality, and the decision wouldn’t be made in a
few hours, or even a few days. It would be a decision he’d continue to make
every day for the rest of his life.

“So it’s up to us
now. We either end this today, or we take this thing as far as we can take it
and let your actions be tried before a jury,” Trotter said. He let the last few
words linger before continuing. “But before we let you know our decision, I
want to hear from you, Mr. Vine. I want to know why you wrote that letter to
the Board. Why did you ask them to investigate your actions?”

Paula warned him
to be careful about saying anything at the mediation. She said even though
anything said was confidential and couldn’t be used at trial, attorneys often
found ways to get the information in through other means. But Kyle ignored the
advice and didn’t hold back simply because of legalities. He gave the man what
he wanted to hear and answered the question as honestly as he possibly could.
“Because I thought maybe I should’ve questioned your son more about Ms.
Basking’s state of mind.”

Trotter studied
him, taking in the bold declaration. “And what do you think now?”

“My opinion hasn’t
changed.”

“Do you think
you’re the reason my son is dead?” Trotter swallowed back his emotions as he
asked the question.

“Do I think I’m
the reason?” Kyle repeated. “That’s something I ask myself every day. And I
don’t know if me asking that question would have changed things. I don’t know
if my advice would have been much different, and I don’t know how much your son
would have revealed. I also don’t know what was inside Ms. Basking’s head. I
don’t know what she was thinking. All I know is I wish I
had
asked the question because there’s a chance things would have
turned out differently if I had. But I honestly have no idea if it would’ve
made a difference or not. So,” Kyle said, slowly, “to go back to your initial
question—do I think I’m the
reason
your son is dead?” He straightened his focus and cleared his throat so the next
words would come out clearly and crisply. “No, sir, I do not.”

Trotter removed
his glasses and wiped a tear away from his eye. “I didn’t know about his
affairs, you know. Henry never told me.” He placed his glasses back on. “He
told a few friends, but not many. And none of them knew about Ms. Basking’s
prior suicide attempts. The attorney found all of that out. But
I
should’ve known that stuff. I’m his
father.” He looked into Kyle’s eyes, his focus latching on. “I saw signs. He
wasn’t happy in his marriage. I knew that. A person can tell these things. You
pick up on little comments. But I never asked. I didn’t think it was my place.”
Trotter looked away, shaking his head. “I’m his damn father, yet I didn’t think
it was my place.” He turned back to Kyle, his face red. “What kind of bullshit
excuse is that? That’s
exactly
my
place. I should’ve been the one to ask, I should’ve been the one there for him,
helping him. But I didn’t. I let him struggle on his own, only giving advice
when asked.”

“It’s a tough
balancing act. It’s not easy to know when to pry into your child’s personal
life. He was a grown man.”

“I’m his
father
, for Christ’s sake,” Trotter
said, his calm façade melting as he raised his voice, his eyes red and watery.
“It
was
my place. It was my job to not
just stick my head in the sand and not offer advice, but to be there for him to
talk to, good or bad.”

Kyle was sure
Ricker would not be pleased with what Jim Trotter was telling him.

“You know,”
Trotter said as he rubbed his misty eyes and cleared his throat, fighting to
compose himself. “My granddaughter showed me a rambling email my son sent her
about a week or so before he went to see you. He didn’t say what he’d been
doing, or even why he was sending the email. He just said that he wasn’t
perfect, and he didn’t expect her to be either. Or the little ones. But he did
expect them to always try and do the right thing, even if he didn’t.”

“He was trying to
turn his life around.”

Trotter nodded.
“He was. But he still had to live with the mistakes he made. And that’s what
cost him his life,” Trotter said, standing up. “His mistakes. And I think Henry
would agree with that if he were here today. I think he was beginning to
realize he had to start owning up to his actions, and I think that’s exactly
why he went to see you.” He wiped away another tear and narrowed his eyes. “But
I don’t think you’re any more at fault here than I am. He came to you because
he wanted to make a bunch of bad decisions right. But you can’t do that
overnight. It takes time. But you,” he cleared his throat, “you did what was
needed. You told him to make it right. You started him on the right path, the
path he wanted to be on. I can’t condemn a man for that. I agree with you, Mr.
Vine. You are not the reason my son is dead.”

Kyle gazed at the
man, feeling the paternal instinct naturally flowing from him, understanding
fully now what Henry had told him about his father and why he thought he could
never live up to the man.

“We’re going to
settle this thing, Mr. Vine,” Trotter said, his eyes once again hardening, no
longer watery. “And you go back to living your life.” He then stood up and
extended his hand.

Kyle accepted it,
and wanted to tell Jim Trotter he wasn’t at fault either. Tragedies happened.
Life happened. But Jim Trotter was a step ahead as his steely eyes bore into
Kyle while shaking his hand.

“We all can do
better, Mr. Vine,” Trotter said. “It’s what makes us human. But you didn’t do
anything wrong here, son. And don’t you forget that.”

The weight of the
words resonated with Kyle unlike any before. No matter how many times he’d
heard the same thing from others, hearing it from Henry Trotter’s father was
different.

The man who was
seeking peace of mind had provided it to another.

As Jim Trotter
left Kyle alone in the conference room, an electronic tune began to crackle
through the air. Kyle slipped out his phone.

It was Sheila.

Before he could
even say hello, his frantic ex-wife brought his worst fears to life in two
simple words.

“She’s gone.”