Old Heart. Peter Ferry

      Unbridled Books

      Copyright © 2015 by Peter Ferry

      All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,

      may not be reproduced in any form

      without permission.

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Ferry, Peter.

      Old heart / by Peter Ferry.

      pages ; cm

      ISBN 978-1-60953-117-1

      I. Title.

      PS3606E777O43 2015

      813’.6--dc23

      2015003685

      1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

      Book Design by SH • CV

      First Printing

      Part One

      Frenchman’s Lake, July 6, 2007

      Dad’s gone,” Brooks said into the telephone.

      “What do you mean? He’s dead?” said Christine.

      “No, no. He’s just gone. He’s not here.”

      “Oh, my God, you scared me. ’Course he’s not there. He told us he was going fishing with Mike and Irma, remember?” And there was at least the tone of remonstrance in that last word, as <if she were reminding him that he’d been drinking that day. “They probably aren’t back yet.”

      “Yeah, except I stopped in True Value on my way over here, and there was Mike McIntyre, so I said, ‘Hey, how was the fishing?’ and he didn’t know anything about it.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “I’m not.”

      “Well, could we have misunderstood?”

      “No,” said Brooks as if saying, ‘I hadn’t had that much to drink.’ “Besides, his big suitcase is gone and half his clothes including winter ones and all his pills and toilet stuff. Cleaned out. And his keys were on the kitchen counter. He never leaves those keys.”

      “What in the world?”

      “I’m telling you, I think the old fucker pulled a fast one on us. I think he’s taken off.”

      “How could this have happened? This is your fault. Damn you, Brooks! If you hadn’t pushed him so hard …”

      “Christine,” Brooks said very slowly, “he’s had a stroke.”

      “You don’t know that. You do not know that!”

      “Like hell I don’t.”

      “Roger Daugherty gave him a clean bill of health.”

      “Right. You really think Dad went to see him?”

      “Why would he lie, Brooks? He’s never lied about anything.”

      “That’s just the point. He’s never done any of this weird stuff before. They’re behavior changes. Go on line; look it up. Google TIAs. He may have had a bunch of them.”

      “Okay, okay,” said Christine. “Maybe you’re right, but Jesus, it’s all beside the point. The point is he’s not there. He’s gone somewhere. So what do we do now?”

      “We find him. We go get him. We bring him back.”

      That’s what they said then. That’s what they told me later. That’s how the great chase began.

      Lake County, July 5, 2007

      Tom Johnson looked at the broken front seat of the big taxi through the open door.

      “Goddamn this piece of … crap,” said the big driver. Tom read his name from the license on the dashboard: Daniel Pecora. “Pardon my French, sir.”

      “No problem.”

      “Sometimes the elderly don’t like cursing.”

      “Doesn’t bother me,” said Tom.

      “So what are we going to do now? I guess I could have them dispatch another cab for you, but it might take a while.”

      “Why not?” Tom was about to say; he’d allowed for plenty of time. But there was something a little pathetic in the tone of the other man’s voice that gave him pause. “Well,” he said, “can you drive it?”

      “This? Well, I don’t know. Let’s see.” He got in and eased the car forward, then turned into the street. He sped up a bit, then braked. He did it again. He backed up to where Tom was standing. “I don’t think the seat’s like, loose, you know, unanchored. It’s just broke.”

      “Then let’s go to the airport.”

      “Well, I’m game if you are, sir.”

      “I’m game, Daniel.” Tom got in the back, closed the door, caught a last glimpse of the lake as they turned onto the road, and looked at the town one final time as they passed through it. I’m game all right. He imagined Brooks and Christine trying to piece things together after the accident. Where was he going? Why Paris? What in the world was he thinking? Then his cell phone rang and he asked Daniel to turn the radio off for a moment. “Morning, Christine. Yes, lovely party, dear. Best ever. Best pig ever, too. Thank you for everything. It was a perfect day. Me? Halfway to Devil’s Lake already. No reception up there, so don’t worry. I’ll be home on Friday. Call you then. Okay, sweetie. Me, too. Me, too. I will be.”

      Tom turned the phone off. He pushed the back with his thumbs until it slid away, picked the SIM card out with his fingernail, replaced the back, rolled the window down, and flipped the phone out like a tiny Frisbee. He watched it skip once on the shoulder and disappear down the bank. Then he saw that Daniel Pecora was watching in the rearview mirror and had a surprised look on his face. Tom smiled.

      “None of my darn business,” said Daniel.

      “Our little secret,” said Tom. It was already the third one they had shared.

      He had spent the three hours prior to the arrival of the taxi crossing every t and dotting every i, packing and repacking his suitcase, writing the letter, reading it, rereading it, addressing it, putting the stamp on it, going over and over his lists until each item had several check marks beside it, making sure that nothing could go wrong. And then the very first thing had gone wrong. Daniel Pecora was gigantic, a man so wide that Tom didn’t ask him to carry his bags as he had planned to but lugged them into the garage by himself. “Back her up,” he told the cabbie. “Back her right in here four or five feet.” This so the neighbors would not see him leaving with luggage. “Pop the trunk,” he said.

      “Can’t,” said Daniel, hoisting himself with great effort out of the seat and the car. “Thing’s broke. Gotta use the key.” It was while getting back in that the big man broke the seat, and it was in examining it that Daniel unintentionally tilted it back and Tom saw what lay beneath it: a rodent’s nest of crumbs, crusts, peels, shredded food packages, bottle caps, and cans.

      It wasn’t anything, really, until Daniel Pecora said, “You weren’t supposed to see that,” and then it became a dark, awful fat-man secret.

      “That’s all right,” said Tom. “If it makes any difference, I’m wearing diapers.”

      “Diapers?”

      “You know, Daniel, Depends.”