Grave Intent by Deborah LeBlanc Page B

relocked his desk and stood. “I don’t have time for
this,” he said, and stormed toward the door.
    “What?” Wilson reached for Michael’s arm as
he passed by, but Michael pulled away. “Well I’ll be damned,”
Wilson exclaimed.
    Michael whirled around. “For once you’ve got
something right.”
    Wilson chuckled. “Yeah, maybe, but that’s not
what I meant. Now hold up, hold up.” He stepped in front of the
door before Michael could open it. “I’m surprised, that’s all.”
    “Move.”
    “You were worried about me, weren’t you?”
Wilson asked. “And that pissed you off.”
    “Get out of my way.”
    “You don’t have to admit it, but I can tell.
Saw it in your eyes when I first walked in.”
    “That’s a load of crap.”
    “No it’s not.” Wilson reached out to touch
Michael’s arm again, but pulled his hand back before they
connected. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I went to see
your Aunt Dora in Metairie this morning. Left early but I got
caught on the Pontchartrain coming back. Some delivery truck caught
fire. Shut down both lanes for hours.”
    It took Michael a moment to recollect the
face of his father’s only sister. The last time he’d seen Aunt Dora
was twelve years ago, at his mother’s funeral. The polite thing
would’ve been to ask about her welfare, but Michael’s anger
bypassed the courtesy.
    “So what’d you do? Swipe her Social Security
check?”
    Wilson’s face clouded. “No, Michael. She has
cancer. Thought I’d get in one more visit while she was still
around.”
    Michael looked away and shoved his hands in
his pockets because he didn’t know what else to do with them. He
suddenly felt like a jerk. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t
know.”
    “Yeah, well—” Wilson cleared his throat, then
jerked a thumb toward the door. “Sure looks like those people are
getting their money’s worth, huh?” When Michael didn’t respond, he
shifted from one foot to the other. “Talking about money . . . have
you . . . uh . . . have you decided about—”
    “I can’t do anything about money,” Michael
said.
    “But—”
    “If you’re really in some kind of danger,
I’ll go with you to the police. That’s all.”
    Something sparked in Wilson’s eyes, and he
pounded fist to palm. “The police can’t take care of shit, Michael.
I’ve already told you, these people aren’t playing around!”
    “Neither am I.”
    “So that’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?
You just want me out of the way, don’t you? You want me dead.”
    “Stop being melodramatic. It won’t work.”
    Wilson turned away sharply and scratched the
back of his neck. When he faced Michael again, tears pooled against
his lower lids. “Look, there’s got to be something I can do
to—”
    “Yes, there is something you can do,” Michael
said, opening the door. As familiar as he was with his father’s
antics, he felt his resistance slip. He couldn’t get used to the
tears. “I’ve got a building full of people, and we’re short
staffed. You need to help.”
    “Sure, sure, but wait,” Wilson pleaded. “You
can’t just leave. Give me another chance, son. That’s all I’m
asking for. With that money I can set things right again. Pick up
the pieces and make things different with this family. Look, see
here?” He pointed to the picture of Ellie on the windowsill. “I’ve
got a granddaughter I don’t even know. Help me out. Give me a
chance to get to know her. We could be a family, Michael. A real
family.”
    At that moment, the frame that held Ellie’s
picture toppled from the sill to the floor and shattered.
    Michael glanced at the web of glass slivers,
only mildly curious as to how the fall occurred, since his father
hadn’t touched the frame, or how a tumble onto carpet could have
caused so much damage. He was more interested in the irony of what
he saw. Sharp broken pieces, worth nothing more than pain to the
one who handled them. A mosaic of his