On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7) Page 7

  “But…?” This conversation appears to be headed down an unwelcome road.

  “But,” he continues, “the truth is, our situations are completely different, and it’s pretty hard for me to ignore that or pretend otherwise. I’ve spent almost my entire youth confined to a wheelchair. During the rough patches, I couldn’t even feed or bathe myself properly. Even my thoughts, my focus, would get crumpled up like a fistful of old homework. I depended on other people for everything. It was a helpless, humiliating, degrading experience. You lost a leg. You got a prosthetic. The things everyone else could do, you could do too. Looking at you, no one would even know both legs weren’t real.”

  “Unless I took one off and threw it?”

  He raised a brow. “Except for that unlikely circumstance, yes.”

  I wipe my fingers on an equally cheap napkin. “Well, first of all, it’s not a contest. And yes, those are good points. You’re right. I’ll never fully understand what you’ve been through. However, your story still has a terrific ending: The boy from the billionaire family gets a bunch of miracle treatments that magically erase almost all traces of his birth defect. Sure, it’s a new development in your life, but it’s still the rest of your life from now on. Every new person you meet will never imagine in a million years that you have cerebral palsy. You get to be normal.”

  His eyes drift down to the uneaten bits of pretzel. “Normal?”

  The word nudges a place deep inside I keep on lockdown. I shove it away.

  “If it makes you feel better, I live with chronic pain, and a choice. I can grin and bear it, or take enough painkillers to ruin my liver before I turn forty. I generally can’t walk more than a few steps without feeling like someone’s taking a power drill to my hip. Oh, and every time I try to date someone? I need to figure out the best time to tell them one of my legs is fake, or else they’ll get a hell of a surprise the first time we try to have sex. And guess what? There’s never a ‘best time.’ No matter when or how I tell them, they always pretend to be understanding, thank me for a lovely evening, and ghost me. So, all in all, Lincoln, I’d have to say I’d switch places with you in a heartbeat.”

  He considers this for a long moment, then nods. “Grass is always greener, huh?”

  “I suppose so. Except for your name.”

  “Hmm?”

  I smile. “Your name. ‘Lincoln.’ When it comes to that, I wouldn’t trade places with you at all. Who wants to be named after a town car my grandparents used to own?”

  His chuckle lightens the mood. “Heh. Worse, actually. I was named after the president. Me and all of my brothers…we were named after former presidents.”

  “You’re kidding!” I can’t believe my ears. “And you got stuck with Lincoln? Did your parents not remember how that story ended?”

  “Could’ve been worse.”

  “I guess so,” I admit. “They could have named you Nixon.”

  “That’s my older brother, actually,” he chortles, taking another bite of the pretzel.

  “Get out of here,” I blurt out. “Seriously?”

  “Yep.” He seems tickled by my disbelief. “Nixon, Reagan, Ford, Carter, and me.”

  “No Washington?”

  “Nope. I’m not sure, but I think my parents were still pissed about the whole ‘cherry tree’ thing.”

  “You should ask them,” I say.

  He laughs mirthlessly. “That’d be a neat trick. They’ve both passed away. My mother died giving birth to me. It’s why I’m disabled.”

  The air shifts between us, as heavy as the conversation. My fingers itch to reach for his hand, indulge in a little human connection, but I don’t. I couldn’t handle it if he rejected the contact. “Really? Your life is just one long blues medley, isn’t it?”

  He looks surprised, and it’s an expression I know only too well. It’s the look of someone who’s used to being pitied, who’s had people walk on eggshells around him his whole life, and who’s finally found someone who isn’t fazed by his tragedy.

  “Well, I still have to lose my girl and my dog before it’s really the blues,” he smirks.

  Is this a warning shot to my bow? I stare at his pristine lapels without a trace of animal hair in sight. “Do you have a girl or a dog?”

  “No,” he concedes as he glances down, suddenly more interested in processed cheese food than me. A moment of silence stretches between us, and then he adds, “The treatments weren’t exactly ‘magical’ or ‘miraculous,’ by the way. You’re making it sound like some fairy princess waved a magic wand and turned Pinocchio into a real boy or something. It was actually a series of extremely invasive surgeries on my spine, plus a mountain of experimental drugs with some horrifying side effects. I was frightened to death before each procedure.”

  “But you went through with all of them anyway,” I point out. “Was it worth it?”

  He thinks for a minute. “To be able to sit here with you like a normal person? Absolutely.”

  I’m completely taken aback by this unexpected compliment, and I don’t know how to respond, so I steal another glance at Jon and Jamie, and my jaw drops. Not only are they gushing over each other’s photographs, they actually seem to be inching closer and leaning in with their heads together.

  “Hey, is it just me,” I begin, “or…?”

  “They seem to be getting along famously now, don’t they?” Lincoln observes with amusement. He sounds a bit relieved by the change in conversation, and I realize he probably doesn’t have many unguarded moments with people. I feel oddly honored.

  We finish the pretzel and limp over to Jon and Jamie. “Have you guys worked things out?”

  “We’ve come to a detente, at least for today,” Jon says. “We’re going to photo-bomb her together and split the points between us.”

  “But next time we meet like this, it’s no mercy,” Jamie growls playfully.

  I can’t believe my ears. Since when is Jamie so outgoing with someone she barely knows? Especially someone who seemed ready to murder her just a short while ago?

  Then I remember my first encounter with Lincoln and grin. Well, it’s a strange world sometimes, isn’t it? People always talk about first impressions, but people seem to confound them at least as often as they live up to them.

  “That sounds like a solid plan,” Lincoln agrees. “However, I foresee one minor problem. Haven’t you both come with different photo-bombing gimmicks? It seems like if you try to do both at the same time, they’ll clash.”

  I shoot Lincoln a look of utter disbelief. We just got them to make up, and already he’s trying to poke holes in the truce? Then he returns my gaze, and I see a mischievous glimmer in his eye – he’s messing with them, and me.

  Jon and Jamie look at each other, smiling.

  “Well, that’s the funny thing,” Jon says.

  “We, um, actually both came with the same gag prepared,” Jamie giggles.

  Lincoln and I exchange another look, and this time, we clearly think the same thing about inadvertently acting as matchmakers for our friends.

  “What about your mask?” Lincoln asks Jamie. “Isn’t that part of your trademark? You always wear one?”

  I look at him, surprised. It starts to seem like he knows more about Jamie than I do.

  “I convinced her not to wear it this time,” Jon says.

  Jamie grins at me. “Yeah, I, uh, guess I don’t really have anything to hide after all.”

  A short while later, Lincoln and I stand in front of the main stage at the back of the room, our cell phone cameras ready to capture the mutual photo-bombing. Janis walks onstage with no introduction or fanfare, and the crowds of people around us go wild, cheering and clapping.

  “Thank you,” she says humbly, waving and smiling as she takes up a position behind the table full of cooking implements. “You’re very kind. I’m so proud of my new line of cookware, and I’m delighted to be able to demonstrate it for you today. You know, some people ask me, ‘Janis, you’re already inv
olved in so many things…cooking, decorating, your television shows and books. Why release another set of cookware?’ And I always remind them of my motto: ‘When you’re through changing…’”

  “‘…you’re through!’” the audience finishes with her in a boisterous uproar. The sound deafens me, and it creates a perfect distraction while Jamie and Jon circle around behind the stage, preparing to make their move.

  “With all this recent photo-bombing going on,” Lincoln says, “don’t you think they’d be on the lookout for people in long coats at this point?”

  I shrug. “Maybe they think it’s flashers. Who doesn’t yearn for a pervert in a trench coat?”

  Lincoln laughs again. I’m really starting to like drawing those laughs out of him. Plenty of men who wanted to get in my pants – well, before they learn one pant leg is empty – have guffawed at my jokes, but Lincoln’s laughter is anything but fake, and whenever I hear it, I feel like I’ve successfully stolen some precious jewel from a museum.

  “Now, let’s start by taking a look at our steaming basket.” Janis picks up the perforated silicone bowl and shows it off like a trophy. “Metal rusts, plastic breaks, and bamboo can collect all kinds of nasty bacteria after just a few uses. But silicone is tough, it can go right in the dishwasher when you’re done using it without sustaining any wear and tear, and best of all…”

  Suddenly, Jon and Jamie run out onstage behind Janis wearing orange prison jumpsuits. The audience gasps, and Lincoln and I both snap pictures at the perfect moment – when they turn around, the black lettering on their backs displaying the letters of their alma mater. Photobombadiers.com.

  Chapter Eight

  Lincoln

  Rolling over, I ignore the obnoxious knock on my penthouse door and drift back to sleep.

  In my dream, I use what little mobility I have in my palsied hand to flip the joystick on my wheelchair, hearing the horrible whine of its motor as it carries me to the door.

  Another knock, and this time I do wake up. Before another thought enters my foggy head, I shake my legs to prove to myself that they’re fully operational.

  I have these dreams constantly, and when I awake from them, I always take a few seconds to allow myself a total awareness of my own body – every limb, every muscle, every nerve, and impulse. I flex my fingers, bend my knees, and turn my head in both directions. All to convince myself of my new reality and the resounding success of my recovery.

  I rise from the couch and slowly make my way to the door. I know I’m supposed to sleep in my bed – it was specially made for me, with lots of ergonomic humps and streamlined edges to keep my muscles and joints operating smoothly. But then, I’m not supposed to fall asleep in my clothes either, and it certainly looks like that’s what happened.

  Why was I so tired when I got home? I review the events of the previous day and realize that was the most energetic I’ve felt, the most fun I’ve had, in…

  Well, I can’t remember.

  I reach the door, my hand hovering over the button to unlock it. After I escaped from the wheelchair, I considered replacing it with actual deadbolts and chain locks like normal people have. But some nervous part of me still lived in constant fear of suddenly losing everything I’ve gained – of one day, without warning, being trapped in my own home, unable to force my warped hand to unlock the damn door.

  I take a deep breath and hit the button.

  Since I expect to see Nix standing outside the door, I’m surprised when I see Hawk, the genius computer programmer who helped to develop the sophisticated SkyEye security system for Nixon’s casinos. We’re not close, but we’ve met enough times that I felt comfortable calling him about the mystery I’ve been wrestling with for the past few days, and he was gracious enough to agree to help.

  “Hey, Linc. Did I wake you?” he asks, looking over my wrinkled clothes.

  “No, it’s fine. Come on in.” I throw my hand out in an inviting gesture, wondering why I felt like I had to lie about that. I guess some part of me feels like those nightmares I have are guilty little secrets to be protected.

  “Thanks again for agreeing to do this.” I click the door shut behind him. “I know your new company probably keeps you pretty busy these days.”

  “Nah, Waverly’s got everything under control, so these side projects aren’t much of a bother.” Waverly is the other coder who helped create SkyEye, shortly before she and Hawk were married. I know their three kids keep them busy since they’re all in high school now.

  “Can I get you anything?” I offer. “Coffee? Soda?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve been on a coding jag for the past thirty-six hours straight, so a few more volts of caffeine is the last thing I need right now.”

  “So, what did you find out?” I sit down on the couch. I’ve long since learned not to bother inviting Hawk to take a seat – he spends so much time in his desk chair that whenever he’s away from it, he’s a lot more comfortable pacing. It’s probably how he stays so thin when his work is so sedentary, and his entire diet consists of junk food and sugar.

  “Right. The ‘Dante’s Acres’ conundrum. Well, you weren’t wrong…he’s into some extremely shady shit.”

  “Big surprise there,” I grumble.

  “You’re telling me? The last time I saw the dude up close and personal, he had a gun pressed against my face. Eighteen years have passed, and I can still feel how cold that barrel was.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I did a lot of digging in county records and peeked behind a lot of firewalls to go through confidential legal and financial documents. The kind of stuff most hackers wouldn’t even know they didn’t know how to access.”

  I let him have his build-up. Hawk’s a good guy, but humility isn’t his strong suit. Whenever he undertakes a project like this, he has to let everyone know just how well he executed it, despite the dramatic odds stacked against him. Computer people. Go figure.

  “What I found,” Hawk continues, “is that our man Dante built his little paradise on top of what used to be – are you ready for this? – a damn landfill. A trash heap for a garbageman.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Okay, I expected something crooked from Dante, but building mansions on a toxic waste sight? I never saw that one coming.

  “How did he manage that?” I sputter. “It’s impossible. No one would let him do that.”

  Hawk scoffs at me. “I’d think your brothers would’ve taught you by now, Lincoln. Money unlocks a lot of doors.”

  I sigh an exhale of frustration and something more. Something I loathe. Helplessness. A horrible and yet devastatingly real word. “Not doors with irradiated chemicals behind them.”

  “Yeah, those too. See, a lot of landfills are government-owned, but a lot of them aren’t. In fact, a decent number are owned by private sanitation companies, which are often used as legitimate fronts for…”

  “The Mafia,” I groan.

  “Ding. Ding. Ding. Vanna, show the man what he’s won. So first, Dante uses his connections to acquire the landfill with the best view of the mountains and shut it down, which is easy enough. Then he covers it with sod and cement, has some landscaping done, and abracadabra, instant billion-dollar housing development.”

  “Bullshit. He couldn’t build on it without a hundred different city and county health inspectors deeming it unsafe. The tainted soil, the chemicals seeping into the groundwater…” I shake my head, a nightmare of possibilities pounding through my mind.

  Hawk smiles, but it’s tinged with disgust and sadness. “That was the easy part. He already had the inspectors in his pocket – the ones he couldn’t buy, he threatened. Of course, they still couldn’t own up to the fact that the property they inspected was on top of a town dump, because no one would believe that. Even in Vegas, people aren’t that gullible. So that’s where the computer wizardry came in, and you’re going to love this part, Linc. He actually had his hackers change the legal address and reference coordinates on record for the property.”

  “You’re pu
lling my leg,” I insist. “You have to be.”

  “I’d never do that to a disabled person,” Hawk says with a smile. This is one of the reasons I’ve always liked him – he’s someone else who’s never tiptoed around my birth defect. “Seriously, this is the ballsiest, most ridiculous shell game I’ve ever seen someone try to pull off in my life. What he does, okay, is he buys up all the land around the landfill too. Then, when the addresses are re-jiggered, no one much notices. I mean, it’s not like anyone lived around that area, or spent enough time hanging around the dump to notice. And anyone who does happen to see what he’s doing out there…”

  I scrub a hand down my face in annoyance. “Was bought. Or threatened.”

  “You’re on a roll today, Lincoln. So now he’s got all this primo real estate to build his gated community over and charge his millions. And, predictably, he’s cutting all kinds of construction costs too, in order to slap these mini-mansions up and sell them off as quickly as possible.”

  My mouth drops open. “So you’re telling me the houses are death traps, and what’s coming out of the faucets will probably give people cancer. This seems like a great plan for him in the short term, but what about after that, when people start croaking? He’s never been very good at picking up the pieces.”

  “I doubt he’s too worried about that,” Hawk says. “Dante’s got dual citizenship here and in Italy. This part’s just a guess, but I figure he’s going to scoop up as much cash from the real estate as possible, and then haul ass out of the country for good. Leave his goons behind to run the Mona Lisa. As plans go, it makes sense. Old guys start to get nostalgic for home. After everything Nixon and the other guys have put him through, he’s probably getting a little nervous about saving for his retirement. Collectively, we’ve managed to snatch a lot of potential profit from his beak.”

  I nod to myself, starting to see the sense of this. “Okay. So now we know what he’s up to. Good. All we have to do is show all of this evidence to the cops and the Feds.”

  Hawk shakes his head. “Not an option, for a few reasons. First, like I said, this information was heavily protected. Just viewing it and logging out before getting caught was tricky enough, but this isn’t the movies – it’s not like I can download it all to an external drive or print it out. Accessing it doesn’t work that way. And even if it did, just by coming forward, I’d be confessing to a series of fairly hefty crimes by admitting I’d hacked into government databases and financial institutions.”