An excerpt from The Reflection

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PROLOGUE

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From outside the study, he could see down the corridor and into the kitchen. With the exception of the grandfather clock ticking behind him, the only sound he could hear was his own breathing. His face was beading with sweat, yet his hands were cold. He looked over his shoulder again, into the living room. He knew the American still had to be in there, but he’d already looked three times and had found nothing.

There was a splotch of blood on Earl’s white shirt. He hadn’t gotten the worst of it, though. Inside the study, face down on the floor, lay Thomas Windfield. The man had blood all along his arm and a lot more pooled up around his midsection, where the knife had gone in. He was dead, and Earl knew it, but that didn’t stop him from checking. He put two fingers against the man’s neck and found no pulse.

It was the first dead body he’d seen outside of a coffin.

He returned to the living room for the fourth time, still thinking he’d find the American. But he wasn’t there. Just a bunch of furniture and that long mirror that filled the room’s inner wall. Staring in at his reflection, he wiped at the bloodstain on his shirt. All it did was smear. How did he get that on him anyway? He couldn’t remember. Everything had happened so fast. And now what was he supposed to do? What was he to tell the others? Not the truth, that was certain. Regardless of how unbelievable it seemed, he knew what he’d seen, and there wasn’t a soul alive who would believe him.

He went to the kitchen and stood at the windows that overlooked the backyard garden with its pathways lined with statues, hedges and flowers. It was beautiful out. Thomas’s wife and two children were out there with the stable boy, Berney Phelps. They were happy in their ignorance, not knowing what had taken place inside the home.

Earl rubbed a hand across both cheeks, brushing the tears away. He wasn’t a man who cried much, but watching Mrs. Windfield made him feel sick inside.

He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Heather, the daughter, was the only one who looked back toward him. He watched her stand up and touch her mother on the back of the arm, both of them now looking at him come toward them, concerned by his crying.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to tell them, but the words just came out. “He’s dead.” The words caught in his throat. “The American killed Thomas.”

CHAPTER ONE

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Dan Adams was a fat man with little hair and little patience for people who wasted his time. Most of his clients were losers. He tolerated them strictly because he made his living off them. He was in his office staring at the clock on the wall while he chewed at the end of his ballpoint pen. He’d sent his secretary home an hour and a half ago. He’d be home himself if his appointment had shown up on time. Instead he had to sit around staring at the walls, wondering if the man was going to show at all. Worse yet, he didn’t even like the man.

Adams was once a handsome man, or so his “late” wife used to say, back when he had all of his hair and weighed a hundred pounds less. He liked to refer to her as his “late” wife so everyone would assume she’d died, rather than suspect the truth, which was that she’d gotten tired of watching his body grow fat and his hair grow thin. Worse than that were the seven years he’d spent trying to get his law practice rolling while they lived on her teaching salary, which barely paid the bills.

After she left, he became a successful lawyer just to spite her.

Setting his pen on the desk, he opened a drawer and rummaged around until he found a stick of gum, which he unwrapped and stuffed in his mouth. It was a stick of gum that had gotten him in this whole situation in the first place. He’d been up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, viewing the site of a logging accident that had put one of his clients, a man named Mark Fenley, in a wheelchair for life. Adams was questioning some of the loggers, hoping to find someone who would give him a straight answer about what they’d seen. What he found was that none of the men cared much for Mr. Fenley and that no one was willing to say anything that would aid his lawsuit. One of the loggers, a young blond man with hair down over his ears, was chewing a stick of gum as Adams asked his questions and jotted down everyone’s names and phone numbers in his small notebook.

It looked to Adams as though the blond had something to say but didn’t want to say it in front of his buddies. So he handed the guy a business card and told him to call if he thought of anything he felt was relevant. The man pulled the gum from his mouth, stuck it to the business card, wadded it up and tossed it on the ground. That won a few smiles from his coworkers, but Adams didn’t much care for it. In his notebook, he put a checkmark by the man’s name so he’d remember it for future reference, in case he was ever in a position to do the man some harm. Adams liked to make lists of enemies. His grandest dream was having one of them need his help one day, just so he could turn him down.

He wasn’t going to be turning anyone down this evening, but at least he was going to get the opportunity to teach the man some respect. When the door to his office opened, Adams stared at his watch to emphasize the lateness of the hour and said, “Funny, I could have sworn we set this appointment for five o’clock.”

It’d been two months since the incident with the business card, but Adams recognized the man on sight. He was cleaner this time, but still had the long hair and that smug look on his face. By the looks of him, he’d just showered and put on a fresh change of clothes.

“You are Bren Stevens, I presume,” said Adams, standing up behind the desk.

The man nodded as he closed the door and came into the office.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Adams referred to this as his deflation technique. Never let the enemies know that you remember them. It was his way of letting the air out of their egos, get them thinking that they hadn’t made much of an impression.

“Yeah, I met you up in the mountains. You were asking about Mark Fenley’s accident.” Bren Stevens sat on a wooden chair in front of the desk as he watched the fat man, waiting for him to recall the incident. “You gave me one of your business cards,” he prompted, but Adams just furrowed his brow and nodded, looking like he was trying to remember but couldn’t. It took all the fun out of it. Everyone up on the mountain had talked about it for days afterward, and here the fat lawyer couldn’t even remember it. What a disappointment.

“I understand Mark Fenley is asking for five million.”

“We’re still negotiating the price.” Adam retook his seat and gathered some papers that he had spread across the desk. “Personally, I think five million isn’t enough.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“And what do you think? You think five million dollars is worth your ability to walk?”

“No, but that’s not really the point here.”

“No?” Adams feigned an expression of confusion. “We’ve got a young man with a crushed spine who’s sitting at home right now in a wheelchair, and that’s where he’s going to be spending most of his life. What other point is there?”

“What you seem to be forgetting,” said Bren, “is that Fenley brought this upon himself. Everybody knew that tree was coming down, including Fenley. He’s one of those guys who think none of the rules apply to him. This time it got him hurt. Now he wants somebody else to pay for it.”

Adams bobbed his head and rubbed his chin, looking like he was giving Bren’s advice some thought. “Do they have that phrase carved on a tree up there on the mountain somewhere? ‘Cause all your friends gave me that exact speech, almost verbatim.”

Bren liked Adams less now than he did when he first met him two months ago. His fancy suit and piggish face made him look a bit like a caricature of Winston Churchill. The man had money; there was no question about that. Just a glance around at the wooden furniture in his office revealed a lot about his bank account. But all that money didn’t make him any less deplorable.

“I didn’t have to come here, you know?” said Bren.

“Is that right?” Adams had a look that he’d practiced, one he used whenever he wanted someone to feel like they’d just said something stupid. He could see it working its magic now, making Bren turn red in the face.

“I can see we’re done here.” Bren got to his feet. “It’s been a real pleasure, but I’ve got someplace else I have to be.” He started for the door and felt the heat rising in his cheeks.

“You mean you didn’t get all dolled up just to come talk to me?” That won the lawyer a nasty glance and a frown, which gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Getting under people’s skin was what he liked best about his job. He let the blond get all the way to the door before adding, “Why do you think I asked you here, Bren?”

“I really don’t know, because there’s nothing I can tell you that you haven’t already heard a dozen times from my coworkers.”

“You’re right about that.” The lawyer was on his feet now, moving around to the side of his desk. “And I sure didn’t ask you down here just to waste my time and see how much of a smartass you can be.”

“No?” Bren feigned surprised. “That’s too bad, ‘cause that’s the only reason I came.”

It came out sounding like sarcasm, but Adams figured there was more truth in it than Bren wanted to admit. “Why don’t you take a seat and let me tell you why you’re here?”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Your birthday party can wait.” Adams watched Bren take his hand from the doorknob and look back with mild surprise. “I’m a lawyer. I get paid to know things. Now have a seat.”

“You like telling people what to do, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. That’s why I became a lawyer. Now have a seat. Please. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

“I can only stay a minute.”

“If I don’t have your attention within a minute, feel free to get up and walk out.” Adams waited for Bren to retake a seat in front of the desk before sitting down himself. He put on a pair of wire-framed glasses and removed a white envelope from his center drawer. “Right now you don’t like me much, but when I’m finished with you, you’re going to be loving this fat man.” His puffy lips contorted into a little smile, but got nothing but a stone expression from the blond man. “This meeting has nothing to do with Fenley. I suppose I should have had my secretary tell you that on the phone when she scheduled this appointment, but after you used my business card as your personal garbage disposal I felt no obligation to do you any favors.”

“Then you do remember me?”

“Of course I remember you. I’m not a stupid man.” He sat back in his chair and took off his glasses before continuing. “Your being here has nothing to do with Mark Fenley. That’s strictly a coincidence.” He gave Bren a long stare. “As a lawyer, sometimes it’s fortunate to be blessed with the last name Adams, strictly so I can be listed first in the phone directory. A lawyer in England contacted me a few weeks ago, needing someone here in New Hampshire to get a hold of you. I offered my services, despite your bad manners up on the mountain.” He paused for an apology but didn’t get one. “I’m afraid, Bren, that I’ve been elected the bearer of bad news. Good and bad actually.”

He could see that he had Bren’s full attention.

“I’ve received word from England that Thomas Windfield has died.” He paused again, this time for impact, not sure now if Bren was aware of the death. “I’ve been asked to take care of things on this end. If it’s okay with you, I’ll be acting as your lawyer in this matter.” He still wasn’t getting much more than a blank stare from the blond man seated across the desk from him, so he clarified himself by adding, “I’m asking if you’d like me to represent you.”
“I caught that part.” Bren nodded and leaned forward on his chair. “But in what? I mean, who’s this Thomas Windfield guy, and what does he have to do with me?”

Dan Adams felt the color go out of his face. This was a man who made his living by always having the right words to say, but he couldn’t think of anything brilliant at the moment. Instead, he sat back in his chair, took his gum out of his mouth and dropped it in a trashcan that stood next to the desk.

“You don’t know Thomas Windfield?”

“Should I?”

“I would think so.” Adams watched Bren give him a shrug. “You ever been to England?”

“No.”

“You have British ancestry?”

“Perhaps. Somewhere along the line. Why?”

Adams was slowly shaking his head, uncertain about what to make of what he was hearing. “Well, perhaps you didn’t know Thomas Windfield, but he certainly knew you.” He slid the envelope in front of Bren and watched him pick it up and turn it over in his hands. “It’s a little gift from Thomas Windfield . . . to you.”

“You already opened it,” said Bren.

“It came that way,” Adams lied. The British lawyer had sent everything in a cardboard box. There were two envelopes inside, one addressed to Dan Adams, the other to Bren Stevens. Adams had read his personal letter but wasn’t satisfied with that. In the back office he had a coffee pot, which he’d used to steam open the second envelope. He’d known what he’d find inside but wanted to see it first hand.

Now, staring across the desk, he watched Bren withdraw the sheet of paper, unfold it and scan the paragraphs, with a glazed looked of confusion.

“Consider it a birthday present,” said Adams. “I received it nearly two weeks ago from the lawyer in England, who requested that it not be given to you until your twenty-fifth birthday. Today.”

“This is a will,” said Bren.

“I’m aware of that. I’ve read it. It’s a fairly large estate: a house, a good deal of property, and one million pounds, all of which he’s giving to you.” Adams raised his eyebrows. “Quite a healthy sum from someone you don’t know, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you sure you’ve got the right person here?” Bren looked again at the will. The paper bore his name, address and the day’s date: June 11, 1994. “Why me?”

“I thought you’d know that,” said Adams. “Lenard Berke, the English lawyer, called about a month ago wanting to know if I’d be willing to do a little research for him. I was prepared to tell him no, until he mentioned your name. He had your address, wanted to know if I’d go over to your place and find out if you actually existed. I told him that wouldn’t be necessary, that I already knew you existed.” Adams grinned. “I still remembered you from the mountain. So he asked if I’d pass the will along to you. I told him I would.” He pointed to the paper in Bren’s hand. “That’s not a complete will you have there. It’s only one page out of several. It’s not even dated.”

“Where’s the rest?”

“In England, I suppose. I tried to call Lenard Berke back after I read the will, see what more I could find out, but he wasn’t in. I left a message for him to call me. I’m still waiting. I can give you Berke’s address and phone number if you’d like.”

“I would.”

On the desk sat a small green filing box filled with names and addresses. Adams removed a card from it and started copying the English lawyer’s information down on a post-it note.

“You get the house and some of the money now. But as you’ll read in, I believe it’s paragraph three, the majority of the money can’t be withdrawn for another year.”

Bren scanned down to the third paragraph, which read: While living in the house for the first year, the beneficiary is entitled to withdraw ten thousand pounds a month for living expenses and to facilitate in any needed restorations to the home. After the beneficiary has abided in the home for one full year, the remaining balance of the account will then be made available in full.

“So what do you think of the fat man now?” asked Adams as he handed Bren the note containing the information for Lenard Berke.

“You’re getting better by the minute,” said Bren. “But don’t go telling any of my friends I said that.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t let it out that you were in here acting like a human being.” Adams winked, then bent over, lifted a briefcase from the floor and placed it on the desk. “This is also yours.” He pushed the worn case over to Bren. Its once black leather had now faded to a dusty gray. Cracks split the leather, and two tarnished locks held the lid tightly into place. “There wasn’t a key,” explained Adams. “And I have no idea what’s inside.”

He’d spent half an hour one day looking the thing over, wondering how he could get those locks open so he could take a peek inside. In truth, getting them open wasn’t the real problem; it was getting them closed again without leaving traces that they’d been forced open that presented the real challenge. So it remained closed.

Adams pulled open the center drawer of the desk and pulled out a screwdriver that he’d put there a few hours earlier, just for this occasion. He handed it across the desk and was disappointed when Bren didn’t reach for it.

“I think I’ll do this at home, if you don’t mind.”

Adams looked like a man who had just swallowed a mouthful of sour milk. He nodded, thinking it’d be best not to let on how disappointed he was. Then he thought better of it and said, “You’re not honestly going to cheat me out of this moment, are you?”

Bren picked up the case and rattled it. It was lighter than he’d expected. Looking across the desk at the fat man, he could see that the lawyer was serious about wanting to see inside the case, but rather than respond Bren stood and put his hand out.

“You know why I took this assignment?” asked Adams, sitting back in his chair, away from Bren’s outstretched hand. “It surely wasn’t for the money. The English lawyer offered me a few hundred dollars to see that the will and briefcase got to you. It’s hardly worth my time. But I was curious. Now I find out you don’t even know this dead man. Well, that makes me more curious. Some Englishman you don’t even know put you in his will and sent you a briefcase. I’d like to know what’s inside.”

“I’m late for my own birthday party.” Bren tucked the briefcase up under his arm and reached out to take a business card from a small tray that Adams had on his desk. But before he could snatch one up, the fat lawyer pulled the tray away.

“Your business card is lying in the dirt up there in the mountains and has a wad of gum stuck to it. You want it, go up and get it.”

“What if I need to get in touch with you?”

“I’m in the phone book.” The fat man offered a half-smile. It wasn’t much, just a simple business card, but it was nice being able to say no to the blond man after all. For forty-two, Dan Adams had the spiteful heart of a nine-year-old, and he knew it. Not that this knowledge ever prompted him to change. The fact was he enjoyed getting the best of the argument. It was one of those simple pleasures of life that he never grew tired of—like putting too much hot fudge on his ice cream or watching the defendant leave the courtroom in tears after the jury returned a verdict of guilty. Satisfaction was satisfaction no matter where it came from.

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Learn more about this novel at http://www.joebrightbooks.com

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