Apart from his size, he didn’t stand out from any other upwardly mobile young executive getting to work early on an important trading day.
With a purpose in his gait, he walked the two blocks to Avillage headquarters, slid past security with the first wave of employees that came through the lobby and took the unsecured elevator to the 24th floor. From there, he hoofed it up the remaining 22 flights to the roof.
Knees throbbing and out of breath, he threw open the emergency exit and climbed down the small metal ladder to the rooftop, where he quickly shed the suit he’d been wearing. After putting his high tops back on, he removed the rope and marker from the duffel bag and tossed it next to the $600 heap of clothes.
He then laid the thick braided rope down in a straight line on the blacktop before turning back and mouthing the number of paces, as he concentrated on maintaining a constant stride length. When he reached 33, he marked the rope, tossed the marker aside and got busy tying knots.
Once he had securely fastened the end of the rope to the vent cap closest to the corner of the 45-story building, he backed up, slowly, methodically, toward the center of the building.
With his eyes closed, he took in a few deep breaths to clear his mind.
Then he opened his eyes.
The sun was just peeking up over 11 Wall Street to the east. To the southwest he could see Lady Liberty in the shadow of lower Manhattan surrounded by the calm water of New York Harbor, only her torch and crown illuminated.
He then reached down to one of his socks to retrieve a scrap of newspaper that he’d clipped from the back of the sports section six weeks earlier and gently pressed the picture of J’Quarius to his lips. Then he released it to the wind and watched it flitter and float away, climbing the updrafts between the buildings.
When the clipping had disappeared from sight, his expression hardened, along with his resolve. He bounded toward the edge of the building next to the roof vent. Reaching full speed just before he took flight, he let out a cathartic scream. For the athletic career cut short. For the college dream unrealized. For the son he could never know.
Dozens of faceless suits on the street far below craned their necks toward the leonine roar and then scattered, as Melvin soared 20 feet clear of the building. His rickety knees had conceded one final athletic statement.
With a striking suddenness, his scream went silent as the rope cinched around his neck, choking off his airway.
His lifeless body, adorned in a blue tank top and gym shorts, came careening back toward the top floor of the building. A full one-story spiderweb took shape in the plate glass on the top floor of Avillage headquarters as his massive corpse slammed into the window of James Prescott’s corner office. Clearly visible from inside, through the kaleidoscopic glass, was the number 11 on the back of Melvin’s Lincoln Junior High jersey. Above it were the letters JQJ.
Ticker symbol J opened with even more fervor than RTJ had, as investors leapt at the once-in-a-lifetime chance to get in on the ground floor of the next Michael Jordan or LeBron James, both of whom had reached net worths in the billions. Prescott had deliberately undervalued the listing to re-energize his market, and the idea had worked to perfection. One million shares of J opened at 5, peaked briefly at 34, and then closed at 27. AVEX was the only financial news story of the day.
Melvin Brown’s death had been lost in the hype of the opening and had barely made the news the next day. Prescott tried to convince himself that a known sex offender committing suicide outside his window couldn’t have had anything to do with him, and he didn’t bother to ask any questions.
Meanwhile at the orphanage a man giving the name of Daryl Washington dropped in, looking to pick up anything J’Quarius may have left behind.
“Just one letter that came in today’s mail,” the headmistress said, handing over the envelope.
“Thanks.” Daryl said, his eyes darting nervously for the return address. Then with a suddenly relieved smile he added, “For what it’s worth J’Quarius is really happy.”
Strolling through the parking lot back to his car “Daryl Washington” placed a call to Aaron Bradford. “You were right. I got the letter. Our source at The Times intercepted the other one earlier this morning.”
“Perfect. Bring them to me unopened,” Bradford said appreciatively. He wanted to be the one to destroy the letters personally, to know for sure it was done.
He still had a scout in Mississippi watching J’Quarius’s great-grandparents’ mailbox for a potential third letter, and he’d had Melvin Brown’s apartment thoroughly searched — before the police had even positively identified his body. A healthy paranoia pervaded all of Bradford’s actions, and it had served him well throughout his career.
A week passed and no third letter was ever delivered. As a token of his appreciation, Prescott had bequeathed the chairmanship of the board of J, along with a 5% ownership stake, to Bradford. J was his now.
CHAPTER 4
Ryan found himself standing in the pouring rain at the rear bumper of the Chevy Suburban that had forever changed his life. Knowing what was coming next, he quickly ducked and looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see his daycare teacher lunging for him.
But she was nowhere to be found.
The facility wasn’t there either.
Behind him was only a long, empty road with no clear beginning. On the other side of the tangled mess of metal and glass, the road stretched on beyond the horizon with no turns and no perceptible end.
He straightened up his posture, bit down on his lower lip and, with as much courage as he could muster, finally stepped around the back end of the Chevy Suburban. Just as he did, the rain stopped — as if a faucet had been turned off — and the storm clouds melted into a star-filled sky, unobscured by the new moon.
His parent’s Honda Civic was tilted grotesquely forward with all four wheels off the ground, effectively molded to the front of the Suburban, the front windshields of the two vehicles nearly touching. Ryan bit down a little harder on his lip and concentrated on the sound of his breathing, shallow and rapid through his nose, trying to stay composed. Nerves taut, he wrapped his fingers over the passenger-side window frame, pulled himself up onto his tiptoes and stretched his neck to try and see inside.
“Ryan?”
Any other sound would have startled him. But this soft, comforting, familiar voice was instantly soothing. Ryan immediately let go — of the car door he was holding on to, of the confidence he was trying to project, of the emotions he’d been trying to suppress, of everything. He ran to his mother, standing at the side of the road with his father, and collapsed into her open arms. Sobbing, with his head still buried in his mother’s side, he reached out an arm to embrace his father as well.
“You are our everything, Ryan. You always were — but now more than ever,” Ryan’s dad said quietly, ruffling his hair the way he had every time he’d said goodbye to Ryan.
His mom gently nudged his quivering chin upward with the side of her finger to look him in his tear-filled eyes. “Make a difference,” she said. “Love. Be loved. And be happy.” She leaned down and gave him a kiss goodbye on the forehead just like she had everyday she’d dropped him off at school.
Ryan knew he couldn’t stop them, but as the tears trickled continuously down his cheeks, one by one, he bit back down on his lip and managed to whisper, “Please, don’t go.” For the first time, he felt a twinge of real pain in his lower lip. “Don’t go,” he whispered again. He could feel himself waking, and the harder he fought it, the shallower his sleep became. “Don’t go,” he heard himself whisper aloud. He was awake.