35. Ordeal
Frank Armstrong did not leave his office the entire day, remaining at his desk long after everyone else, even the loyal Phyllis, had gone home. He’d taken no appointments, seen no one except for John Hogan. He tried to busy himself with paperwork trivia – anything to take his mind off the terrible photographs he’d received like a lightning bolt out of an already roiling sky.
Thank God Hogan had been available! The hour he’d spent waiting for him to arrive had been the worst in Frank’s life. Without Blackjack’s calm reassurances, he could have lost his mind already. He hoped fervently, prayed fervently, that Hogan was right – that the pictures were just a malicious scam ...
Hogan could be wrong, though, anyone could be. Nobody hit the nail on the head one hundred percent of the time. The world simply didn’t work that way.
But this ... If Hogan was off base, then life would have lost its meaning. Frank looked morosely out the window behind his desk. What would a headlong charge through the glass be like, he wondered? It wasn’t like he didn’t have experience with such things, and the distance to the pavement would surely be sufficient to end his misery.
Where was his “sweet thing” when he needed it? A bullet through the temple would settle everything PDQ.
For a brief period, he actually gained control of his turbulent emotions, convinced himself that everything might be well, after all. He’d phoned Henry then, hoping for some sort of rational discussion, maybe even a little father-son camaraderie. What he got was worse than a slap in the face!
Dusk was setting in when he left his bleak, deserted office building and headed for the restaurant across the street. It was an upscale place with a fine menu and beautiful young women servers – a lot like Three Musketeers used to be ...
He sat at his table, hardly tasting the food, watching glumly as the sexy, uniformed women scuttled past. The interested glances they threw his way only increased his loneliness and depression. He badly wanted a drink, but Dr. Keating had cautioned him against mixing alcohol with his pain medication – and he wanted the medication even more than the booze. He had to content himself with nurturing cups of coffee.
Finally, he called for a driver and went home.
He disliked the idea of entering the front door for some reason. It seemed too direct and sudden. He wanted a more circuitous route into the house. He wanted to avoid confronting his wife for as long as possible. He directed his steps to the rear of the house and along the path to the back door.
A thin mist chilled the air at ground level, but the sky was clear, admitting bright moonlight to the world below. The lawn chairs on the patio cast harsh shadows, like those of tombstones. The heavy scent of roses hung in the air, drifting on a rank breeze from the flower garden. He hated the smell of those death flowers.
He entered the house and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible. The house was dim, sepulchral; he did not turn on any lights. He moved across the broad expanse of the ground floor toward the staircase lurking in the gloom. The staircase seemed wider and longer than he’d remembered – like something out of that Gone with the Wind movie he disliked so much.
He was back in his dream of the night before! Only this was real – wasn’t it? He gripped the banister hard, felt its solidity – no snake-like texture to it this time. He mounted the stairs toward the dim glow at its top.
He was standing hesitantly in the second floor hallway now. He walked to the open door of Laila’s room and peered in. She was reclining on her little sofa, eyes shut, in a pose of classical beauty.
It’s not true, is it, my love?
Frank wanted to rush inside, take her precious face in his hands and cover it with kisses. He wanted to pour out his heart, take back every hurtful thing he’d ever said to her, let her know how much he cared. But he couldn’t do that – not yet. He couldn’t speak to her while he was so full of turmoil. He didn’t want her to see the fear and doubt on his face.
John Hogan suddenly arose in his consciousness as a mighty, almost god-like being who had the power to end his suffering, or to make it absolute. Let it all end, one way or the other! Frank turned his shuffling steps toward the bathroom. He felt very old.
He stood for many minutes in the shower, his injured arm extended outside the stream, allowing the water to caress his neck and back. His muscles relaxed for a while under the hot spray, but soon tensed up again when he shut off the water.
He dried himself and donned his bathrobe. He headed for the door through the steamy mist. If only he could open it into a world where all was well!
But nothing had changed. Laila still dozed on her couch like a delicate china figurine, unaware of his agonies. He did not disturb her. He moved to the master bedroom, took a heavy dose of pain medication, and climbed into bed. A troubled sleep soon descended on him.