Thinking about Ashanti Davis and her ignominious end reminded Michael of his own success at having defied the odds. Here he was, about to finish medical school and head up to a medical residency in the lofty Ivy League while most of his childhood acquaintances were either already dead or in prison, or with severely compromised futures, like Ashanti. About a week earlier, as a way to chill out after the anxiety of the residency matching program, he had hidden in his room and social-surfed himself to near brain death, looking up as many of his old friends as he could, using multiple sources. It had been a depressing pastime, and it made him really question how he had been so lucky.
Mostly Michael gave credit to his mother and the way she ragged on him about education and reading skills. But he also gave himself some credit for not falling prey to the culture in which he had found himself immersed. Things could have worked out very differently, and he very well could have ended up a hashtag in Beaufort, South Carolina’s, homicide statistics. As a young, skinny teenager he had dealt drugs for a while, as it was an easy way to help support the family. He was also good in sports, and both activities pushed him to the head of the pack. But being at the head also meant trouble, and protecting his honor required quick response to threats. At first going to blows with fisticuffs was adequate, but by the eighth grade it meant having to pack.
For Michael, the meld of pistols and passion was what changed the game. He was judicious enough to understand that packing heat was a no-win situation, especially after his cousin had been shot dead by a supposed friend and fellow hoopster who had mistakenly become enamored with the flighty Ashanti. From that moment Michael had no more truck with drugs, would-be gangstas, guns, or hot spots. He was no longer interested in running wild. He avoided all situations that could lead to confrontation, like messing with any girls who dated gang members, or even trash-talking opponents on the b-ball court, or gloating over accomplishments of any sort.
As if waking up from the trance that his reverie had spawned, Michael found himself sprawled out on one of the many park benches that lined the quadrangle’s walkways, still transfixed by the Shapiro Institute. He was taken aback by what his thinking about Ashanti had engendered. And as he reflected some more, he found himself wondering if it had been his mother’s words or his own inclinations that had kept him from being killed or killing someone who he might have felt had somehow slighted him. He didn’t know the answers. But it all certainly raised the question in his mind of how his life might have been different had he not learned to speed-read or if he had a father, and if he had, whether it would have helped or hindered. One way or the other, Michael felt he was one lucky dude.
10
Monday, April 6, 2:20 P.M.
After applying her bike brakes, Lynn turned into the brick driveway that ran alongside Carl’s house and led to the carriage house in the back. She had not come to the house directly as she had originally planned. As she had ridden south, she’d come to question whether going to Carl’s was appropriate. So instead she had biked down to the base of East Battery Street and spent some time sitting on the seawall to try to come to terms with her roiling thoughts and emotions. From that vantage point, looking out over Charleston Harbor, she could just make out Fort Sumter in the distance at the easternmost end of James Island. It was a comforting place, as she’d gone there often with Carl. She knew it was his favorite place in the city.
Something had occurred to her that shocked her as she had cycled. She had tried to put it out of her mind but couldn’t. Unwelcome, it kept coming back to torment her and demand her attention like the mental equivalent of a toothache. It was the idea of her sudden freedom stemming from the realization that if Carl ended up as she feared, being shut away in the Shapiro Institute, the whole reason she had decided to abandon an academic career and stay at the Mason-Dixon Medical Center for her residency training was moot. And even if he wasn’t shut away but needed around-the-clock care, was she cut out for such a role? Hell, she thought, they weren’t even engaged, and she truly didn’t know if it had been in the cards. Whenever she’d brought up the issue of the future, Carl always changed the subject, which had made her plans for her residency extremely difficult.
These were disturbing thoughts and made her wonder if she was a selfish and bad person to be thinking such things, and so soon. Yet as she sat at the Battery, the peaceful scene and its association with Carl ultimately convinced her it would be good to be around all the things that helped define Carl as the person he was before that morning’s events. It also convinced her that it would be far worse emotionally for her to return to her dorm room knowing that a comatose Carl was nearby, suffering from recent brain damage for which she felt she bore some responsibility. Had Carl gone to Roper Hospital, he’d probably be watching TV now and itching to be discharged.
Lynn had garage and house keys on a key ring along with her dorm key. She put her bike inside the garage next to Carl’s red Jeep Cherokee. Then she headed for the house.
By far Carl’s favorite arena of law was real estate, and the real estate scene in Charlestown was booming. A large number of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century homes had been renovated, and those that had yet to be redone were in high demand. Carl had participated in many of the sales, and his intimate knowledge of the market and personal acquaintance with a number of the owners had given him the opportunity to buy one of the most coveted properties. The house was on Church Street, a particularly scenic lane. The style was called a single house. Because Charleston property taxes in the early days were determined by footage on the street, the original Charleston inhabitants built their houses with the long axis perpendicular to the street and only a single room wide. Along one side of the house, long verandas called piazzas were built on each floor. Before air-conditioning, Charlestonians lived as much outdoors as they did indoors during the long, muggy summers.
What made Carl’s house so desirable were two things. Although it needed modern renovation, its period detail had not been lost over the years as its infrastructure had been slowly improved. And second, its original owners had acquired the neighboring lot and turned it into a large, formal garden, complete with a lily pond, a gazebo, shade trees, and various types of palms. Although the garden had not been tended for nearly a half century, it was an invaluable asset of which Carl had schemed to take full advantage.
After walking back around to the front of the house, Lynn keyed open what, for all intents and purposes, looked like the front door. Yet the only location the locked door led to was an open veranda, which, according to its design, a visitor could access as easily by climbing over the balustrade. It was another curious characteristic of a Charlestonian single house. She had to walk along the ground-floor piazza to the true front door located in the middle of the lengthwise porch. To her left was the tangled, overgrown garden, which sounded like an aviary, as it was a haven for a good portion of the local bird population.
Once inside, Lynn closed the second door and stood for a moment, listening to the silence of the house and smelling its familiar aroma. In contrast to herself, Carl was a meticulous housekeeper and had the place cleaned twice a week. Because of the tall shade trees, little sun managed to get inside, which was a distinct benefit during the hot months, but as a consequence it was quite dark. Lynn had to wait to allow her eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. Slowly the details of the interior emerged from the relative gloom of the high-ceilinged room. Suddenly she jumped and let out a small scream. Something had brushed up against her leg.