Several minutes later, I sat on the shower floor, back against the cool wall and legs stretched over the drain. Beverly lay on her side, her face pressed against my chest, her toes wiggling against my feet.
Lifting her head, she peered into my eyes. God, those eyes. I could stare into them all day. “How come you never took me here?” she asked.
“Because I don’t come here.” I shrugged. “This is my first visit since Mom left.”
She lowered her face back to my chest. She was so close I could feel her heart beating. “It must’ve been hard living here after your dad died. What was his name again?”
“Drew. Drew Reed. I think it was short for Andrew, but I’m not sure.” I sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just thinking about Dad.”
“Oh?”
“Before he died, he started buying up old buildings in Manhattan. And then he just tore them all down in one fell swoop. There was no reason for it. It was like he decided to wage his own little war on the past. Of course, the local preservation societies went nuts. They brought in lawyers, the whole nine yards. But Dad’s lawyers were better.”
“Maybe he was planning on building something big, like a museum.”
“If the buildings were close together, I might agree with you. But they were spread all over Manhattan.” I exhaled. “The kids at school used to make fun of him. They’d say he was crazy, tearing down all those buildings. Of course, I defended him. But I got curious a few months ago and you know what I discovered? He didn’t have plans for those lots. He was just ripping down buildings for the hell of it.”
“Well, if we never got rid of the old, we’d never have anything new.”
“True. But most of those buildings stretched back to the 1800s. A few were even around during the 1700s. That’s an incredible amount of history and he destroyed it like it was nothing.”
We lay in silence for a few minutes. Then Beverly cleared her throat. “You mentioned your grandfather before. Something about how he’d deserted his family when your dad was a baby.”
“I know what you’re getting at. Maybe he went crazy, just like Dad did. Hell, maybe I’m the next Reed to take a trip on the insane train.”
“Actually, I was just thinking about how you see your dad as a villain and it makes me wonder if he saw his dad as a villain, too.”
“What’s your point?”
“Justin had secrets in his safe deposit box. Secrets that might even explain why he disappeared in the first place.”
I recalled the Capitalist Curtain papers I’d taken from the vault. At the moment, they were rolled up in my tuxedo jacket.
“And your dad never knew about them,” Beverly continued. “So, he never knew the full story behind his father. Isn’t it possible you’re no different? Isn’t it possible you don’t know the full story behind your dad either?”
Chapter 35
Why can’t I sleep?
I kicked the covers off and eased my left arm out from under Beverly’s warm, supple figure. Rubbing my eyes, I glanced at the window. A few rays of early morning sunlight pushed through the dark curtains.
I sat up, feeling my joints ache in protest. My body felt like it had gone through an industrial car wash.
We were in one of the apartment’s many extra bedrooms. It was just down the hall from my old room and stocked with memories. An antique box of carpenter pencils. A solid chest of drawers predating today’s ready-to-assemble furniture by several decades. Framed black-and-white pictures of Manhattan, depicting elevated railways along with massive webs of cables hanging high above city streets.
I cringed as my bare feet pushed down on the hard wood floor. Grabbing the rolled-up Capitalist Curtain papers from my tuxedo jacket, I shuffled out of the room, wishing I had some coffee handy.
I walked to the staircase, scaled the steps to the fifth floor, and veered down a dark corridor. At the end, I opened a door and stepped into Dad’s old office.
I flipped the light switch and crossed the crisp carpet, ignoring the slight scent of disinfectant. As a little boy, I’d spent many hours in the office, playing quietly on the floor, waiting for Dad to finish work. I could still recall every inch of the space by heart, all the way down to the slightest stain.
As I neared his desk, I noticed more memories. That old tin can, full of pens and sharpened pencils. The banker’s lamp, complete with bright green lampshade. The misshapen clay sculpture of a dragon, a product of my third grade self.
I walked to Dad’s old chair. Leather crinkled loudly as I sat down. Swinging my feet onto the desk, I began to study the Capitalist Curtain papers. They were water-logged and torn in multiple places. Plus, the handwriting was just about the worst chicken scratch I’d ever seen.
I came across a small section about the specifications for a heavily-modified dump truck. Turning pages, I saw more things. A map of a mountain abutting a sizable clearing. A notation referring to the 23rd Headquarters Special Troops. A list of names and occupations, none of which rung a bell.
My head started to hurt from reading the terrible penmanship. So, I gave my eyes a good rub. When I reopened them, I noticed something odd. Bits of brass were embedded in the ceiling. I’d never noticed them before. But why? The more I thought about it, the more I realized I’d spent most of my time playing on the carpet. So, while I knew every inch of floor space, that knowledge didn’t extend to the ceiling.
I hopped onto the desk and took a closer look. The brass bits were hinges built into one side of a nearly invisible panel.
I worked my fingernails into a tiny crack and pulled at the panel’s edge. With loud squeaks, it lowered into my hands, freeing a retractable ladder. The ladder proceeded to unfold until its feet dented the carpet. And come to think of it, I remembered playing around two little dents in that exact same area back when I was a kid. I’d never thought twice about them. But now, they made a whole lot of sense.
A hidden attic? My pulse raced.
I gripped the ladder and shook it. It was rickety, but usable. So, I swung to the side. Planted my feet on a step.
And began to climb.
Chapter 36
I had no idea what to expect from the secret attic. It could’ve held suitcases full of diamonds for all I knew, although I figured old decorations was a more likely bet.
And so I climbed the ladder with all the anticipation of a kid on Christmas morning only to have it slowly drain out of me as if I’d just opened up a bunch of presents consisting of underwear and socks.
The attic was small and devoid of its own light source. Fortunately, the lamps in Dad’s office provided plenty of illumination and so I was able to make out three metal filing cabinets, a couple of crushed boxes, and about a foot of dust. In other words, boring stuff. Completely, disappointingly boring.
I walked to the nearest filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. It contained dusty file folders, about two feet of them. I studied the tabs. They were marked with dates and addresses. The addresses matched up with some of Dad’s old buildings.
Ahh, that made sense. This was Dad’s storage area.
I leafed through some of the folders. They were organized by date and full of charts, maps, plans, and official-looking documents. None of them wowed me, so I shut the drawer and walked to the third filing cabinet. The bottom two drawers were empty, but I found some files in the top one. Skimming through the tabs, I saw a few files dedicated to those ancient buildings Dad had destroyed in the months before his death.
I got a second wind of anticipation. Reaching into the drawer, I plucked out one of the files and quickly glanced over the contents.