The Ups and Downs of Being Dead (12 page)

She quickly stepped into the capris she was wearing when
they arrived, and absently-mindedly reached into her pocket. When she
discovered another pill, she held it in her palm, like a lump of sugar for a
dumb horse. Robbie snatched it.

Jesus, whenever Robbie struggled to the surface, this slut
pushed him down again. When was the last time his son had had a lucid thought?
Months? Years?

“That’s better. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Slinging the duffle bag of jewelry over her shoulder, Morgan
raced ahead of Robbie, down the winding staircase, and through the foyer. She
yanked open the front door and nearly ran into a police officer who looked like
he’d been about to knock.

She yelped, and the policeman jumped.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “We got a report that a silent
alarm was tripped at this address.”

Behind the cop, Robert saw a cruiser in the driveway, the
motor running, the driver’s door open. A radio crackled inside.

“A silent alarm?” Morgan said.

Robbie skidded to a stop behind her, panting from both the
trauma and the running.

“Are you talking about the house alarm?” he asked between
gasps.

“No,” the policeman said. “According to our records, there’s
a trip alarm on a wall safe.”

Robert choked out a laugh. “Good ‘ole Martin. I always said
he was a belt and suspenders kind of guy.”

The policeman slid a flashlight out of his belt and flashed
it in Morgan’s face. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Morgan flinched, turning her head to the side to avoid the
bright beam. “Yeah, fine, great.” She began to close the door. “Thanks for
stopping. Everything’s cool here.”

But the officer respectfully laid a hand on the door to keep
it open.

“May I see some I.D.?”

Blue lights from three police cars swirled through the trees
and across the manicured lawn. At intervals, the lights collided with the red
beams from an emergency vehicle parked haphazardly in the drive.

Robert stood under the portico as Robbie and Morgan were
handcuffed. He watched the familiar protecting of the head as his son was
loaded into one police car, Morgan in another. The radios in the police cars
sputtered with calls from dispatch and other officers in the area.

Through the open door, Robert heard shouting in the foyer
before an officer burst out onto the porch.

“We’ve got a live one upstairs!”

Robert had no idea how long he sat in the gray plastic chair
at gate fourteen on concourse C, waiting for a flight that would take him back
to the Cryonics Center. Around him, rolling carry-on bags burred on the
carpeted floor, passengers hustled to their gates, intercoms announced
departures, called for missing passengers, and warned those waiting not to
leave their luggage unattended.

He’d considered trying to instantly transport back, just
close his eyes and be there, but too many other disturbing visions clouded his
mind.

He heard Amanda’s name and glanced up at the television
suspended from the ceiling. Headline News reported the breaking news that
Amanda Malone, the famous Audrey girl, had been murdered. The television
network used the famous photo of Amanda reposed on the chaise in the
champagne-colored satin gown.

Then, as quickly as the image appeared, it was gone,
replaced with a segment on some skirmish in a Middle Eastern country. By the
time the news came back around in the next half hour, the network had footage
of Robbie and Morgan, handcuffed, and being led into a police station. Bright
camera lights illuminated Robbie’s doped-up expression, and Morgan’s defiant statement
that she had nothing to do with the shootings. God, Robbie didn’t even have
Martin to cover his head with a coat, to insist that his client was innocent.

News crews had been dispatched to the Buckhead house, where
cameras zoomed past the iron gates for a close-up of the house. Then an
attractive brunette reported that Martin was struggling to survive two gunshot
wounds in the ICU of Piedmont Hospital.

He was alive? An ache in Robert’s chest flared. No wonder
Martin hadn’t waited for Amanda. No doubt he would have spent eternity with her
if he could. And he never would have abandoned her during that crisis. The
realization made Robert feel like a heel.

Each half hour the story grew. Reporters had combed archives
for photos of Martin. They’d chosen the picture of Robert and Martin at the
dinner commemorating Audrey’s twenty-fifth year.

Headline News even had wedding pictures. Robert stared at
the image of him with Amanda in her Versace original. That day Robert was sure
his every dream had come true. How had it all gone so wrong?

Suddenly, he heard Rachel’s voice. “
I don’t know any more than you do. I just want to get back to Atlanta
.”

Robert glanced up at the television monitor to see his
daughter trapped in a huddle of reporters, microphones with call letters waving
in her face. She excused herself and attempted to push past the swarm.

As usual, she was dressed in an Audrey’s fashion, taupe
gabardine slacks with a teal blue silk blouse. When she became the head buyer
of the corporation, she began dressing exclusively in company merchandise, even
her shoes. Robert had teased her about her loyalty to the store. And Amanda was
absolutely incensed.

One time, she cornered Rachel. “Why are you wearing that
cheap knock-off when you could be wearing real Donna Karan?”

Rachel had smiled sweetly and patted her mother’s cheek. “I
wear Audrey’s so
you
can buy DKNY.”

And with those long legs and tiny waist, anything Rachel
wore looked fabulous.

A news reporter blocked Rachel’s retreat. “Who told you
about your mother’s murder?”

Another asked, “When is the last time you saw your brother?”

“What do you know about Morgan Hastings?” came a shout from
the back.

Rachel raised her hands. “I understand your curiosity, but
I’m sure the police can tell you much more than I can. Now if you’ll please
excuse me, I have a flight to catch.”

Such control. Rachel was a master of diplomacy. If Robbie
had been a disappointment, Rachel had been Robert’s shining legacy. She’d been
born with an uncanny sense of style. When other little girls were merely
playing with Barbies, Rachel was designing fashions for her dolls. She’d mix
the vest from a casual outfit with the satin skirt of an evening gown. She was
dressing Barbie in boots and leggings long before it became a craze.

All Rachel had needed was the business skills to go with her
talent. And Robert made sure she was groomed. He’d gotten her involved in the
Audrey’s empire when she was only fourteen. Even if neither Amanda nor Martin
took Rachel’s emancipation probe seriously, Robert had. He took on the
responsibility of her education and career from that point forward.

Rachel didn’t just follow daddy around, expecting the
workers to respect her because she was the boss’s daughter. She insisted on
visiting manufacturing plants that contracted with Audrey’s. She talked to the
designers, the buyers, even the shoppers at different locations. The few times
she made suggestions they were right on the mark.

By the time she graduated from high school, she was pals
with two of his top buyers. They were calling Rachel, asking her opinion,
sending her photos of new lines. When she wasn’t working at his corporate
headquarters in Atlanta, she was attending Georgia State’s school of business.

Where Robbie had hated the constraints of school, Rachel
loved the structure. She always studied. She’d wanted to be the smartest in her
class. Like a sponge, she soaked up everything she heard, read and saw.

Robert flashed on the night he’d poked his head in her room
to tell her lights out. He’d assumed she was studying, but her bed was piled
with back issues of
Glamour, Mademoiselle
,
and
Vogue
. Shreds from cutout pages
littered her covers. On the far wall of her room, she’d taped a mix-matched
collage of fashion.

“No homework?”

“Done,” she said without looking up from the page she was
cutting.

“Don’t report cards come out soon?”

“Two weeks ago, Daddy.” Her lazy-eyed glance accused him of
a parental blunder.

He ignored it. “And?”

“I told you I was getting all ‘A’s the last time you asked.”

He’d beamed. “Better watch it. You’ll be driving all the
boys away if you keep that up.”

“Good. Boys are stupid.”

“Ah, but we’re lovable.” He’d taken another moment to check
out her world. The pink canopy was gone, and he’d actually wondered if it now
hung in her closet as a skirt. Most of the frou-frou Amanda had chosen was
either gone or altered. The porcelain dolls from around the world had
painted-on cat whiskers or handlebar moustaches. A dozen pair of shoes – black
patent Mary Janes, silver slippers, pastel sandals – hung from a mobile in a
corner.

Amanda was determined to make Rachel into the pretty little
girl she’d seen once at the Fox Theatre during a performance of The Nutcracker.
The young girl was adorable in her green velvet dress with white lace collar, a
matching green velvet ribbon tying back her long golden hair. The child had
nearly brought tears to Amanda’s eyes as she crooned over the lace-cuffed socks
and black patent shoes.

“Oh, Robert,” she’d sighed. “I want to have a little girl
just like that.”

But Rachel just wasn’t into frills. Amanda would buy ruffled
blouses, and Rachel would pull the ruffles off and wear them wrapped around her
neck like a scarf. If Amanda bought a matching sweater and slacks, Rachel wore
the sweater with blue jeans, or the slacks with a camouflage jacket. As a teen,
she’d always dressed one step ahead of the trend.

The television camera panned back to show the Dallas-Fort
Worth airport. So Rachel was in Texas, and coming home. Robert dragged himself
up from his seat. The sun was up, glinting off a sleek silver jet parked at the
gate.

After checking the arrivals board, he shuffled his way to
gate fourteen, glancing at passengers along the way. Some wore haggard faces,
like they weren’t sure how much longer they could take the travel. Others had that
cocky defiance as they chattered on their Bluetooths, like they were setting
off to break another record, acquire another victory.

That’s how Robert had felt. He’d always wanted to set the
world on fire. So did Rachel. Standing at the wall of windows, he stared out at
the empty tarmac and waited for Rachel’s flight to arrive.

CNN was still hammering away at the story. They’d dug up
lots of dirt on Morgan Hastings – alias Marie Harding. She’d been suspected of
shooting her mother’s lover when she was twelve year old. There was speculation
that the boyfriend had abused little Marie, and when pornographic photos of her
had been found, the charges were dropped. She’d been arrested for soliciting
sex twice, once in Miami, once in New York.

Only Robbie could get hooked up with someone that sleazy.
The way he and Morgan had talked, she was turning tricks when they met.

By now, an assistant DA in Atlanta had been interviewed.
Some young hot-shot fresh out of Harvard assured the public that Robbie and
Morgan would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Would Rachel even make contact with Robbie? Surely, there
was no love lost between the two of them. Rachel must have resented all the
attention Amanda had given him. All the broken toys, the crashed computers, the
lost cell phones – replaced without so much as a reprimand. And the cars!

Rachel’s first car was a VW Beetle. Robbie’s was a BMW. And
when he totaled it within the first month, Amanda had turned right around and
bought him a Mercedes. The next time he wrecked, he also got a DUI and a
suspended license. Robert finally put his foot down, forbade Amanda to buy
Robbie another car. That’s when he started driving her Jag.

* * *

The boarding door at gate fourteen swung open and Rachel was
among the first passengers to exit the gangway. Robert was amazed once more by
his daughter’s stunning beauty. She wore her blonde hair combed straight back
and clasped at the nape of her neck, accentuating the sleek cheekbones, the
radiant skin.

She carried the prerequisite briefcase, but refused to wear
a Bluetooth. Said it made her look like a Gap employee. As she walked toward
the escalators, passengers scurrying to their flights stepped aside to let her
pass. A flight attendant slowed to take in Rachel, then smiled. More than one
businessman stumbled or bumped into another passenger. Robert regretted not
trying harder to persuade Rachel to model.

The first time he’d thought about it, she was only sixteen.
He’d invited her on a business trip to New York. Their suite at the Marquis had
a sitting room, and Rachel was perched on the sofa, her legs crossed, sketching
on a pad. He’d come out of his bedroom to urge her to get some sleep, and she’d
held up the pad. “What do you think?”

She’d been working on a pants suit with a calf-length
jacket. The long, sure strokes of her pencil, the clean lines of the outfit,
showed amazing talent.

Even with no make-up, her face glowed, her slight smile
assuring him the design was good without being told. She had that teasing tilt
of the head that cameras loved. He was embarrassed to notice how she’d filled
out. Suddenly she was not his little girl anymore. It was the last time he
shared a suite with her.

* * *

Rachel flipped open her cell and hit speed dial. With all
the background noise, Robert could not hear who she was talking to, but her
face softened immediately. “Hi. I just got in.”

Her head tilted down, nestling against the small phone as
she discussed her flight. Then her head popped up.