This was one of the reasons Ethan didn’t watch much news anymore. Stories that had happy endings came last, and that particular coverage was rare. Death, destruction, chaos: these accounts were highlighted all the way to the living rooms of citizens across the nation. The implementation of twenty-four hour news coverage a few years ago resulted in negative headlines receiving days of exposure so that all kinds of scandalous stories were rehashed incessantly. The consequence of such coverage was a disgusting bastardization of the press.
Pushing the rest of his way through the gathering of people, Ethan saw the Parkers, Tobias’s closest neighbors. Percy Parker stood with his wife and a young man of at least seventeen. Then it dawned on Ethan that the young man was their son. Had it really been that long since he’d seen them? The last he remembered, young Stephen was just a kid dribbling a basketball down the street.
Time passes too quickly. A surge of anguish hit him like a blow to the gut. He didn’t bother heading in the Parker’s direction; they were busy listening to the reporters deliver the news of Tobias Keane’s death to the world.
Ethan dropped the nice family from his thoughts and separated himself from the throng, his body language a clear deterrent against any reporter who might have wanted to follow him with more queries. He rounded the corner, undisturbed.
Finally alone, Ethan stood on the sidewalk, head bent down as if studying the cracks in the concrete. He remained that way for a long time as the endless questions without answers conquered his mind.
Almost five hours later, the last of the police were leaving. Ethan was still outside, now standing just beyond the property gate and looking at the house he’d called home for three years of his life.
He squinted up at the night sky. It had been such a bright and glorious day, but ruined by such tragic news. He felt like praying for rain so that others could share his grief, but that would have been selfish.
The storm clouds are only over me tonight.
Dismissed was the reality that countless others did fill his shoes today and every day. How many wives had just become widows? How many women died during labor, giving birth to motherless children? Who had just lost a parent to the ravages of time? None of that crossed Ethan’s mind; he was lost in his own moment of sorrow.
At the opposite curb sat a squad car, no doubt positioned there by Jacob Fredericks, Ethan’s captain, to serve as a lookout. It wasn’t every day that a member of high society was found dead; Fredericks would probably have units trade off watching the house to ward off looters.
The camera crews and reporters that had been hovering for hours must have finally gotten their fill of the bad news because their crowd was thinning out as the remnants wrapped it up for the night.
Weary from the news the day had brought him, Ethan stepped from the curb and walked across Yorkshire Way to his Mustang.
Just the sight of the vehicle flooded him with memories. Tobias and he had spent a year and most of a summer rebuilding it after the fateful accident that took his parents away all those years ago. The car was now one of his prized possessions, despite its sad history.
Ethan opened the door and slid into the bucket seat. He spared another glance at his uncle’s house, and a swell of emotion hit him again. He sucked in a ragged breath, resting his head against the steering wheel, fighting back the grief.
After a few moments, he sat back and angrily brushed a hand over moist eyes. He felt the need to head home and kill the pain before it overwhelmed him. Ethan cranked the car and pulled away from the curb, waving lazily to the on watch patrol unit as he drove off.
04
Whiskey Business
Ethan headed back into the city, detached from his surroundings. He was so oblivious that he failed to regard the vehicles around him, the speed limit, and he idled the car at more than four green lights. He eventually made it home to The Elysium Terrace, pulled into the underground garage of the upscale building, and parked in his space without incident.
Normally he took the elevator to his floor, but this time Ethan opted for the stairs to release his built up tension from the day.
He went to the main lobby to grab his mail and saw Donald Yeats, the lobby receptionist, tucked behind the front desk reading a book. Don was an interesting man; he dressed like a Bee Gee and brimmed with constant energy, as if the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever was on perpetual replay in his brain. The man seemed clueless that the 70s had passed by several years ago.
Ethan usually enjoyed his daily chit-chats with Disco Donnie, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood. He made a hurried escape to the staircase and took the seven flight trip up two steps at a time.
Upon opening the door to his condo, Ethan discarded his mail and newspapers on a table by the entrance, and went straight for his liquor cabinet in the kitchen. He pulled down a bottle of Maker’s Mark, and got a glass from the cupboard. He pushed on the ice cube dispenser for what felt like forever before he resigned himself to the fact that waiting another ten seconds would cause thirty cubes to drop all at once.
Irritated, he opened the freezer door and battled with an armful of backlogged cubes before they fell out. Cursing, he pushed back on the door again, banging it against the counter as it over extended on its hinges. He snatched a few loose cubes from the ice box and dropped them into his glass. After twisting off the waxed cap, he upended the bottle and splashed out three fingers of the strong liquor. He decided on an extra finger for good measure.
As Ethan turned away from the liquor cabinet, his shoe bumped into a piece of ice. It skittered along the floor and under the stove. He looked down, saw the scattering of cubes, and left the kitchen. Screw it. The mess could wait until tomorrow.
Ethan pulled his firearm from its holster, his badge from his belt, and placed them in a wooden serving dish atop the table. He walked across the living room and sat down in his reading chair, staring out at the cityscape. It was normally a breathtaking view, but tonight he looked at it with dead eyes. The sound of muffled gunshots floated up from the streets below. He frowned and looked down into the rolling current of his whiskey and the ice cubes floating like large buoys. As his day was coming to an end, other officers and detectives would be beginning theirs.
His gaze swept over the room. What was it all worth in the end? What was the meaning to life? It seemed like no matter how hard he tried to help end the violence, it would just spring up elsewhere. He thought of Art, just over thirty years on the force, and the stories he told from his time in service before joining up with Ethan. It didn’t seem like things had been any better, even back then. How could you keep your soul fighting against such odds?
He looked away from the possessions he’d accumulated over the years and began to think about how he got here. Despite Ethan’s posh address, he couldn’t have been able to afford a place like this on his own. Uncle Tobias had purchased it for him after he left the Army. Now he’d never get a chance to repay the debt, like they’d agreed.
The blinking light on his answering machine by the bookshelf caught Ethan’s eye. He craned his neck to read the display. There were two unheard messages. He didn’t feel like listening to any sympathy calls now. In fact, he didn’t give two shits about anything at the moment. He just wanted time to himself so he could forget this day. After two or three more drinks he’d call it a night and hope tomorrow carried better news to his front door.