Upon A Pale Horse by Russell Blake Page B

the history books, but he doubted it – his contribution would be silent and unacknowledged, which was as it had to be. The world wasn’t capable of grasping what they were about to do. Better to allow events to unfold, to play the part of silent spectator than catalyst. The end would justify the means, and the outcome would be its own reward.
     

SEVEN

    Break In
    Jeffrey took his time returning to the hotel, the walk helping to clear his head only a little. Once back in the lobby, he walked to the bar, which was just opening, and sat on a stool and ordered a single malt scotch, neat. The bartender nodded and rattled off the possibilities, and Jeffrey selected Glenfiddich.
    The burn of the potent nectar seared his esophagus and then spread warmth from his stomach outward, numbing the worst of the anxiety that had been afflicting him all morning. The scene in the funeral home had been innocuous but painful, and the discussion with Becky puzzling. He frankly didn’t know what to make of her revelations. Rather than bringing closure to his brother’s death, all she had succeeded in doing was raising questions.
    He ordered a second drink and mulled over his next steps: He’d need to get into Keith’s place and look around, throw away anything perishable in the refrigerator, and see what files he had for clues about his brother’s financial affairs. But he wasn’t up to the task just yet. He felt like crap; the ceremony had sapped his energy and brought up a heaping serving of guilt large enough to bury him. And from his experience dealing with his mother’s passing, he knew that he would be spending considerable time sorting through Keith’s belongings and making arrangements to liquidate his condo and deal with his possessions. Death might have been final for the victim, but it created considerable work for those surviving, and once again, the burden would fall on him.
    The bartender returned with a raised eyebrow, silently inquiring whether Jeffrey wanted another, and Jeffrey shook his head, ordering a beer instead. He wanted to get drunk, really drunk, pie-eyed to the point where he couldn’t think, but that wasn’t a solution to anything. And the lingering ache in his head from the flight’s vodka-fest was still there, only partially banished by the amber elixir that sat atop the bar’s middle shelf, promising blessed oblivion.
    He finished his Samuel Adams and signed for the tab, a princely number that was as close to robbery you could get without brandishing a gun, and then made his unsteady way to the elevator, suddenly drained from the morning, tired in spite of the caffeine he’d ingested and wanting nothing more than to crawl under the covers and hide from the world. A few hours of napping wouldn’t hurt, he reasoned as he stepped into the elevator. His face was sallow in the conveyance’s mirrored back wall, and he selected his floor with a noisy exhalation while waiting for the doors to close.
    In his room, he debated getting online and dealing with any incoming emails but then rejected the idea. He stripped off his suit and draped it over a chair, and then padded into the bathroom for a shower. Once done, he considered ordering room service for lunch but opted instead to throw himself onto the bed, face down, his body shuddering as he sobbed into the pillow, eventually growing still before the room was filled with the drone of his snoring.

    Four hours later Jeffrey awoke, groggy and hungry. He donned his casual clothes and hefted his coat, and after a cursory glance in the mirror and a token running of a brush through his hair, he went down to the hotel restaurant and ordered a late lunch, opting for caffeinated soda rather than more booze. His head pounded like drills were boring their way through his visual cortex and into his frontal lobes, and he silently rued his decision to down the two double Scotches – a move that was unlike him, as was all his drinking in the last twenty-four hours.
    But