Epitaph (Paperback)

Chapter One

It was called a no-frills flight because that's exactly what you got—theflight. No more, no less.

Southeast Airlines Flight 201 out of a Long Island airport no one's ever heardof, departing Gate 13 at the ungodly hour of six A.M. Not that there was anyshortage of takers-William had to queue up for a good half hour, stuck betweenSophie from Mineola and Rose from Bellmore, who kept a running commentary goingon the best buffets in Boca Raton. Sophie leaning toward General Tso's SzechuanSplendor with Rose touting a seafood buffet that sounded vaguely Lithuanian.

Once William actually made it on board, his initial feeling was immediatelyconfirmed—the flight was packed solid. No matter.

You're a man on a mission, William. Remember that. William had hoped fora senior citizen rate, but the no-frills flight was the best he couldturn up, a name that kept proving itself right on the money. When he ordered adrink, he was told he'd have to pay for it, when he asked about food, he wasgiven a price list. Earphones were five dollars, and then there were only twochannels to choose from: mellow music and inspirational pep talks from America'smost famous business leaders. There were only six or so magazines to go around,and no newspapers, and the magazines were of the kind found in dentist'soffices—dog-eared, six months out of date, and completely uninteresting.

William didn't mind. For one thing, he hadn't been on a plane in years; he'dforgotten the way the ground looked, like one enormous patchwork quilt, theclouds soiled mattress fluff through which the plane kept punching holes. Hefound it... okay, exciting. Though he was just about certain he was in theminority there. Just look around. It was immediately evident why no seniorcitizen rates were offered on the no-frills flight. The airline could neverafford it. Everyone on the plane—save for one little girl, the stewardesses (orflight attendants as they were apparently called now), and—hopefully—thepilots, was a senior citizen. Everyone. It was all Sophies and Roses andyour good old uncle Leo.

They seemed to William like refugees, for they all wore a collective look ofoppression. In flight all right, and in more ways than one. Running likemad from the crime, the cold, the heat, the noise, the annoying son-in-law—take your pick. Running from the loneliness too. What had Rodriguez said?Just another old guy with nobody. Sure. Refugees, on their way to thepromised land.

And yet, he, William, senior citizen, wasn't one of them. Technically,he was one of them-his birth certificate said so. So did his body—that said sotoo. In fact, his shoulder wouldn't shut up about it. Okay, his prostate couldbe quite the blabbermouth too. But they were running; he was working. Yes hewas. And he didn't feel like one of them either, didn't feel like one ofthe herd. He felt like devouring the herd. He had his appetite back, his hungerfor all things human. What had those corny Charles Atlas ads said—Be a newman. Sure, why not. A new man.

Keep your eye on the ball, William. Stay focused. The man next to himwas called Oozo, and he owned a delicatessen in Fort Myers. Or his son did. Orthey both did. William couldn't be sure because Oozo had an odd way of talkingand William was too polite to actually interrupt him to ask.

Don't fall asleep on the job, William. But at some point in Oozo'snever-ending monologue, William, new man that he was, eyes open and vigilant,shoulder to the wheel, and man on a mission—did. Fall asleep. Soundly.

But maybe not too soundly—because he dreamt.

He was back in the funeral home. But this time with some old faces. Why, therewas Santini, and look—Jean himself, and wasn't that Mr. Klein back there? Whatdo you know? It was a reunion of sorts. Everyone getting to see everyone elseand compare notes. Only, if he didn't know any better, he'd swear they were allstaring at him.

I know, he said. I got old.

They didn't try to dispute him. They were just wondering, they said, if he couldmanage.

I'll manage fine. Man on a mission. Back in the saddle. They remindedhim about the girl. Five years old, wasn't she? About the white petticoat andthe graffiti-scarred asphalt. And all that blood.

Hot on the trail, he assured them.

Sure, they said. Okay.

I'm sniffing the clues. I've got my nose to the ground. But he wastap-dancing for time.

He knew it; they knew it. And now they were all starting to leave him, shakingtheir heads, and one at a time exiting stage left.

Man on a mission, he called after them.

But they were gone, each and every one of them, gone. And he was all alone withthe coffin.

The coffin dull brown, open, and empty.

And his.

When he woke, catapulting himself out of dreamland like a man whose bed is onfire, the plane was halfway into its descent, the jet-black runway of MiamiAirport rushing up to meet them.

His clothes stuck to him; there was a sour, acrid odor in the plane. He would'vecomplained to the stewardess, whoops... flight attendant, about it, but he wasjust about sure it was coming from him. Besides, complaining might be extra onthe no-frills flight; it might be listed as a frill.

This was good. Joking was good. He breathed in. He breathed out. Good.

He'd dreamt about death. He'd dreamt about dying and he'd been frightened by it.Imagine that. It seemed to him that this was very important, being frightened.That it might be the price you pay for being back in the real world. You decideto join the living, you get back your fear of death. Call it the price ofadmission.

When the plane landed, bumping twice along the run-way before settling down, thepassengers began clapping, all the old people whooping it up, as if they feltsafe now. Safe at home. Safe at last.

Well, why not.

He bought two maps of Miami in the airport lobby. Then he went down the row ofrent-a-car booths looking for the most disreputable one he could find. Williamhad this minor problem. He hadn't driven a car in more than a decade; hislicense was older than that.

At the very end of the rent-a-car lane, two information booths removed from therest, was Discount Rent-A-Car, a Cuban woman reading the Star behind thecounter. "Who Broke Up My Marriage?" the banner headline, though Williamcouldn't exactly see whose marriage it was. These days, probably everybody's.

"I'd like a car," William said.

The woman looked up at him and, without putting down the paper, slid a pricelist across the counter.

There was Luxury, Deluxe, and Comfortable.

"What's the difference?" William asked.

"Huh?" She peered at him quizzically.

"Between Luxury, Deluxe, and Comfortable?"

"Luxury and Deluxe have air-conditioning," she said.

"Comfortable doesn't have air-conditioning."

"So Comfortable isn't."

"Huh?"

"Comfortable."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. I'll take Deluxe," he said, compromising. She pulled out a formfrom under the desk.

"I need your license."

"Sure." William took out his wallet and after twenty seconds or so of leisurelyrummaging, he pulled it out and slid it across the counter.

William A. Riskin— it said. Never Billy, Bill, or Willy, just William,thank you very much. Date of issue— never mind.

She barely looked at it. Instead, she started filling out the form, quickly andwith no hesitation whatsoever. She had this rental thing down, William thought.As if her arms were moving on their own, her body set on automatic. Good, hethought, good; he was almost home.

But then he wasn't. Almost home.

"This license is expired," she said.

"Really?" William sounded surprised. "I could have sworn..."

"It expired ten years ago." She read him the expiration date. "That'sten years ago."

"Are you sure that's what it says?"

"That's what it says."

Silence. They'd reached a Mexican standoff. William made no move to retrieve hislicense; she made no move to give it back.

Then she said, "I've already filled out the form. You should have told me yourlicense expired."

"Yes," William said.

"I've already filled out the form. See, it's all filled out." Yes, he saw. Itwas all filled out all right.

"Shit," she said, "shit."

Then she said, "Don't run any red lights." And William had his car.

He booked himself into the National Inn by the airport, and was given a roomthat faced directly onto the runways.

"Don't worry," the bellboy said to him after he'd dropped his borrowed suitcaseonto the bed. "You turn up the AC, you won't hear a thing."

Which turned out to be only half true. The air conditioner drowned out theplanes, but its wheezing rotors drowned out everything else too, including histhoughts, which weren't much, but were, nevertheless, sorely needed.

Okay, William, get to work.

He turned off the AC, then spread both maps across the bed, where he went atthem with a blue Magic Marker that he'd picked up in the hotel lobby.

Follow the list, William. Samuels to Shankin to Timinsky. Follow thelist.

It took him over an hour to fix each of the names to the maps, after which,sweating but good, he fit one into his pocket and the other into his bag, thatone for in case. This sort of fastidiousness had been more Jean's way than his,but that was the way he was going. He had Jean's list, so he'd go the way Jeanwould have. Copy the habits, he used to say. When you're looking forsomeone, copy the habits. So okay, that's what he'd do.

Then he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, as if it held the answers hedesperately needed to hear.

Continues...

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Excerpted from Epitaphby James Siegel Copyright © 2003 by James Siegel. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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