The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel by T. Ainsworth Page B

client’s recent decisions but also his cagy behavior.
    Morgan replied, “The expression from your generation was, I think, finding yourself . That’s what I’m doing.”
    “Okay,” he conceded. The attorney had never lost an oral argument until he butted heads with this surgeon. “Before you go, I’ve got one more thing.”
    “Shoot,” said Morgan.
    “Jane Bonwitt called.”
    Morgan released a loud sigh. The woman was possessed!
    “I told her to send you a letter and gave her your PO Box.”
    “Good,” said Morgan.
    “Wes…one more time, I—”
    “Don’t.” Morgan didn’t wait. “Goodbye.”

    Morgan arranged for Goodwill to remove everything in the townhouse. While he waited, he wandered in the rooms layered with dust, repressing each memory of the place that tried to distract him.
    The doorbell rang. When the four men entered, they shook their heads in disbelief.
    “Please get all this out of here,” Morgan requested, “and no receipt is necessary.”
    “Man! Positive about that?” asked the supervisor. “No help from Uncle Sam?”
    Morgan shook his head.
    Soon only his bedroom furniture remained. He watched as they dismantled the bed, and finally it was gone from his life. One man opened a bureau drawer and found a silver picture frame. Morgan stared at their photograph from the Art Institute. He had forgotten to take it with him.
    “Beautiful,” said the man. “She yours?”
    Morgan stared at Cay’s exquisite face. It was impossible to imagine she was gone. His anger surged, but he calmed himself instantly and said, “Yes…once.”
    “She loved you, Wes.” The voice was Janie’s. “More than you’ll ever know.”
    Shit!
    The woman had to have been patrolling the neighborhood and saw the truck. She gave him a big hug before studying his square physique and strange hair. After rolling it between her fingers, she touched his beard.
    He knew she would ask, so he said in a subdued voice, “I’m taking time off, nothing more.” Morgan wasn’t interested in casual conversation. “Getting my life back together.”
    “Where are you going?” she asked. Tears were imminent.
    He wouldn’t tell her, so the interrogation continued. Morgan picked up the silver-framed photograph and stuck it under his arm.
    “I’m so sorry, Wes,” sniffed Janie.
    His inert hug offered no consolation to her.
    “Don’t worry about me,” he said, scanning the space that once brought him so much happiness. He handed her the key. “Lock it up when they’re done. Goodbye, Janie.”
    He went to his car and placed the box on the passenger’s seat. Confused, she followed, trying to get him to lower the window, but Morgan ignored her. He had to clear his head. As he drove away he kept looking at the picture on the seat where Cay had sat and laughed, teased him, and said she loved him. At a stoplight, he lifted the photograph to gaze at the lips he would never kiss again. His anger fell as he looked in the rearview mirror.
    “Morgan,” he said, “get control. Pay attention!”
    Janie’s black Mercedes was following him. She was making no effort to conceal her intent.
    “I’m taking you to O’Hare,” he said. Driving through the airport’s huge parking garage would loose her. Finally his world would be controlled, and he could work without interruption.

TEN
    Moab, Utah June 2002
    F rom the ground the fissures looked like smooth tears in cardboard—perceptible evidence of the power that ripped apart the Wingate sandstone. Inches from his nose, however, the rock had deviations that became rungs of a ladder. Some pock marks could take just one finger or toe, while others, several digits more. Sometimes a vertical slice was wide enough for one foot or hand to jam in alone. Others swallowed Morgan’s entire body. Every hole, ledge, and gap owned a name, but to seasoned climbers they were simply called cracks and were used to lift a body higher, often one inch at a time.
    Heated by the sunlight, updrafts