The Long Road Home

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

PROLOGUE

THE DAY HAD BEGUN as so many others. An early arrival at the bank, quick signatures on urgent papers, Mrs. Baldwin presenting the day’s schedule; nothing unusual. Yet outside the Manhattan skyscraper, the weather had turned. Blue skies had grown black, and an arctic wind was blowing in an un-seasonable cold front. It was still early on Wall Street. Lights flickered through the dark morning mist like candles.

On the streets below, a drunk peed on the corner of the bank. Above, the sky did the same, releasing a pelting rain that left angry streaks against the windows and sent the people below scurrying into buildings, ducking under newspapers, or disappearing, shivering, down the pavement.

Charles Walker Blair looked out from his window at the gray sky and the gray-cloaked figures on the pavement and had the singular thought that his whole world had turned gray. It was a rare, trivial thought for the level-headed banker, owner of the Blair Bank.

From the hallway, angry shouts seeped into his office: the low drunken slurs of a man and the shrill opposition of his secretary. His mouth tightened in annoyance. Suddenly, the door flung open and the drunk lurched in.

Charles Blair turned from the window and stared at death in the eyes of Michael MacKenzie.

MacKenzie wobbled at the entry, his arms outstretched in a steadying gesture and his feet spread eighteen inches apart. He was a big man: broad shouldered, wide jawed, and ham fisted. His usually impeccable suit was soiled and had probably been slept in, his customary red tie with the corporate logo had vanished long ago, and his thick ruddy-brown hair was as unkempt as the hair on his cheeks.

“So this is where you’re hiding out, eh, Blair?”

Charles Blair rose from his polished mahogany desk and discreetly indicated for his secretary to leave. Her large frame hovered at the door, looking expectantly at the angry drunk, then she lowered her head in resignation and silently closed the door behind her. Charles knew that she would race to the phone as fast as her arthritic legs could get her there and place a call to security.

Charles eyed the weaving drunk suspiciously. The man reeked of sour booze, and MacKenzie’s sneering face made it clear he was a mean drunk. Charles casually walked around to the front of his desk and lightly tapped a green leather chair with his long fingers.

“I’m not hiding anywhere, Mike. You always know where to find me. Sit down. Let’s talk.”

“Talk!” shouted the other man. MacKenzie staggered forward and grabbed the opposite side of the high-backed chair. “You don’t want to talk to me. Last week, you wouldn’t even see me. Sicced your army of lawyers and execs out to do your dirty work, didn’t ya?”

Charles Blair leaned against his desk in a leisurely stance but kept a wary eye on the other man. MacKenzie had a reputation for being a mean mule with a hard kick. With a will of iron and the genius of a maverick, he had built his financial empire up from a single grocery unit in New Jersey. He was young. A man of action. Which made his drunken state all the more foreboding.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a liar.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t lying, yet MacKenzie was convinced. Every instinct in his body screamed alert. There was too much hatred here for mere confrontation; too much anger for reason. Michael MacKenzie wanted blood.

“Mike, sit down,” Charles tried again, speaking slowly. “It’s obvious you’re upset.”

“Upset?” Mike slapped his knee and laughed till he coughed and spit out upon the oriental carpet. He rubbed the spittle into the wool with his dirty heel.

A muscle twitched in Blair’s cheek, but he neither spoke nor moved. He watched as Mackenzie, with halting steps, paced a muddy trail across his office, eyeing the diplomas, trophies, and personal photographs on the walls.

“Well, look at you,” he slurred. “Got yourself a picture with every president since you were in diapers. Now ain’t that sweet. An’ lookee here.” Mackenzie pointed to a wall of diplomas. “Harvard… Harvard again… A Rhodes scholar? The old-boy network oughta love that.”

Suddenly the young man twisted to face him, a small pistol grasped in his fist. Blair snapped to attention.

“Give me the gun, Mike,” he said, holding out his hand. His voice was low and deliberate. He dared not even blink. “Give it to me, then sit and tell me more.”

MacKenzie waved the gun in front of Blair. The metal shone in the artificial light. MacKenzie’s lips twisted into a sinister grin.

“Why?” Charles asked, realizing the death he saw in MacKenzie’s eyes was his own.

Michael MacKenzie teetered, pointing his free hand toward the diplomas. His voice fell to a flat tone. “When did I get the chances you got, huh? I slaved in the back of a grocery store since I could walk. Chased rats as big as a cat. My dad didn’t hand over a bank. The only thing he handed out was a cuff to the ear.” He winced as though the slap had just now reached his head. “Oh, Ma.” He moaned, and his whole face contorted.

Blair’s muscles relaxed as he watched the burly man bring his hands to his face and release his death grip on the pistol. He no longer saw a dangerous, belligerent drunk. He saw a broken man. Although he did not know what had broken him, he did know that he had refused MacKenzie any loan from his bank. He’d protected his bank from a high risk. Now, for the first time, he questioned whether his prudence was worth the price.

“Look, Mike,” he began. His voice was conciliatory and he took a step forward. His mistake was to reveal pity.

“Get your goddamn filthy hands offa me!” shouted MacKenzie as he swung his shoulder away from Blair’s reach. Blood-red anger rushed to MacKenzie’s face and his eyes bulged, making him look like a bull on the charge. Suddenly he swung around and with amazing speed slammed the pistol against Charles’s face.

Charles saw the blow coming, but not soon enough. He heard the crack of metal against bone, heard a rush of air expel from his own lips, and felt a blackening pain that sent him catapulting against his desk. Blood flowed from his nose and he knew that it was broken.

The force of his swing threw MacKenzie off balance and sent him reeling into a crumpled heap in the corner.

The room was silent except for the muffled, drunken moans from the corner. Charles drew himself up, one hand leaning against his desk, the other holding his nose with a handkerchief. The stale smell of whiskey singed Blair’s raw olfactory nerves, but it was his own bile that made his stomach churn. Staring at the defeated man, the only pain he felt was shame. How many businesses had he crushed, he asked himself? So many he had lost count. They had all been figures in a ledger, pawns on a chessboard. Until now. The human predicament had never figured in his calculations. Until now. And now, the rules of the game had changed.

He was about to tell MacKenzie that he’d get his loan. He was about to reach out a hand to a fellow man. But he was too late.

The world seemed to slow down in those tragic few moments. Blair saw the pistol rise again, but this time it pointed not at his head, but the other man’s. MacKenzie’s eyes rolled up to meet his, red and goggling—like the desperate eyes of a fish on a hook. Blair reached out and lunged forward, his mouth open in a silent scream.

A roar sounded in his ears. Blood spattered across his face, blurring his vision of Mackenzie’s body jerking its lifeblood across the priceless oriental. The red staining the gold silk-papered walls, blotching the gilt-framed portrait, splattering the green leather chairs, and tainting forever the soul of Charles Walker Blair.

1

NORA MACKENZIE SLIPPED a complacent smile on her face. It was a look that she had mastered over the past year. A mask she donned to protect herself from the horde of lawyers, accountants, and other corporate hit men who had invaded her life since Mike’s death. Most of them were here now, assembled around the massive oak conference table in Mike’s office, shuffling papers, murmuring, jotting notes. Their work was done. Like jurors, they were poised to deliver a verdict.

She sat alone at the far end of the table, one against so many. Nora felt the bulk of her dark wool suit, the high blouse collar like a cinch around her neck. She had chosen the respectable outfit deliberately. Despite the gossip, she would show them that Michael MacKenzie’s widow was a lady.

There was a chill in the morning air. No one had offered her coffee. Clasping her hands tight in her lap, Nora peered from behind her mask to study the men and women who would decide her fate. A few had the air of pompous boredom that she long ago discovered hid incompetence. She recognized those that had played the role of her supporter and those that had taken the attack. There were more of them. A few she had talked to daily for almost a year. Today, however, she was universally ignored. Dismissal was clear in their eyes.

Ralph Bellows sat across the length of polished wood, his gray hair flowing from his broad forehead like a periwig. Nora knew he would act as judge. Bellows relished the role. A clearing of his throat served as a gavel, and he called his court to order with a firm “Shall we begin?”

Nora’s shoulders tensed. She had no doubt Mike would be found guilty in the eyes of his peers. He had committed the worst of crimes: bungled his finances, destroyed his businesses, and left them without a profit. Yet the one to serve the sentence would be her.

Straightening in the stiff leather chair, Nora appeared calm and dignified. She offered Bellows a gracious nod.

“Mrs. MacKenzie…well, we are not strangers in this room. We have endured together a long, arduous year. May I address you as Nora?”

His smile revealed teeth the color of ripe bananas. Nora nodded again. They’d endured? Nora clenched her hands in bitterness. She had endured. They’d conducted business as usual. No matter how disastrous her estate, they would be assured their pay before creditors got a dime.

“The untangling of Mike’s business dealings has been more complicated than we originally envisioned,” Bellows began gravely. “Our work is not yet completed.”

A short gasp escaped from Nora’s lips. It had been a year since Mike’s suicide. What more could they need to accomplish before settling the estate?

Reading her frustration, Bellows continued in a conciliatory tone. “No one realizes the futility of further delays more than I. However, to put it bluntly, Michael MacKenzie left behind a mess. No one, least of all family, understood the extent of his holdings. We are doing our best to put together the pieces of his myriad dealings, but some critical bits of information are still missing.”

From under his bushy brows, Bellows’s pale eyes searched hers intently. Nora felt like the prey of an owl. She paled, yet steadfastly returned his gaze with the wide eyes of innocence.