Chapter 8 - The Clearing of the Garden
The eviction of Pamela and Douglas Calloway from their rented luxury townhouse in Midlothian did not require my presence, but I drove out to the subdivision anyway.
Not out of vengeance.
An engineer always inspects the site after the demolition charges have been blown. You must verify that the rubble has fallen inward, that no utility lines are sparking, and that the surrounding structures are secure.
The rain had finally stopped, replaced by that crisp, knife-edged Virginia sunlight that turns the autumn woods into fire and bronze.
The Chesterfield County Sheriff's van was parked on the curb outside the three-story brick townhouse.
The townhouse had been leased under Reid’s name three years ago, with the security deposit and monthly rent auto-drafted from my corporate auxiliary account. When I terminated the cards on Friday night, the November rent check had bounced with a resounding, administrative thud.
The landlord, a retired naval commander who had zero tolerance for deadbeat tenants, had filed an immediate notice of default under the lease's expedited thirty-day non-payment acceleration clause.
On the manicured lawn sat eighteen cardboard boxes, four garment racks of Pamela’s designer dresses, three sets of golf clubs, and Douglas’s leather wingback chair.
Pamela was sitting on the tailgate of Tyler’s beat-up Ford Ranger, her face hidden behind oversized black sunglasses, wearing an old trench coat that looked twenty years out of style. She was smoking a long, slim cigarette with hands that shook so violently the ash fell across her lap.
Douglas was leaning against a mailbox, arguing with a young deputy who was politely, but firmly, tapping the clipboard in his hands.
Down the driveway walked Reid.
He had not shaved in four days. The cashmere sweater was gone, replaced by a cheap fleece jacket he must have bought at a gas station. His eyes were hollow, ringed with the dark, bruised circles of absolute exhaustion.
When he saw my F-250 idling across the street, he stopped.
He walked across the asphalt, his steps slow, dragging his boots as if he were walking through three feet of wet snow.
I rolled the window down two inches.
"Audrey," he said. His voice was hoarse, ruined. "We have nothing. Do you understand that? The bank froze my personal accounts this morning because of the fraud flag. Hastings has initiated a partnership buyout at book value—they're valuing my shares at four cents on the dollar because of the liability."
"The book value of a firm with an active fraud investigation is zero, Reid," I said. "You should be grateful Hastings is giving you four cents."
"My mother is seventy-two years old," he pleaded, gesturing back toward the lawn where Pamela was stubbing out her cigarette against the truck’s bumper. "Where is she supposed to go?"
"Tyler has an unfinished basement in Goochland," I replied, my voice steady as an iron beam. "It has a rough concrete slab. It has a boiler. You can put an army cot down there by the water filter. It's warm enough if you put down a piece of old carpet. Reid... she can even have a transistor radio with some Scotch tape on the battery door."
He flinched as if I had struck him with a pipe.
"You're a monster," he whispered. "You don't have a heart inside you, Audrey. You never did. You're just a machine made of ice and numbers."
"No, Reid," I said, looking him dead in the eyes, letting him see the total, tranquil absence of fear or pity. "A machine doesn't care about anything. I cared about my mother. I cared enough to spend nine months in fifty-below weather so she would never have to worry about an orthopedic bill again. You thought I was a machine you could leave running in the dark while you skimmed the grease off the bearings."
I put the truck into drive.
"The criminal summons will be served at Tyler’s house tomorrow morning," I added. "I suggest you hire a public defender. Julianne Vance withdrew as your legal representative two hours ago."
I tapped the accelerator.
May you like
The heavy diesel engine surged forward, leaving him standing in the middle of the suburban street, surrounded by his mother’s cardboard boxes and the cold, indifferent Virginia sunshine.
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