The Doll: Alternate Ending

            I had left the States and settled down in a modest apartment in Venice. The old place looked over the polluted waters where the water taxis parked when it would be out of service. I liked it, although it required me to leave almost everything I had behind. I can’t say I miss it. I rather liked the misery.

 

            The news of Crawford’s company’s collapse came almost two year later. The article tucked away in a single paragraph in the international section of the local paper. Crawford had died unexpectedly – according to the company spokesman. The cause was undisclosed in all the sources I’ve referenced. There were no mentions of the fate of the company assets. 

 

            I had a momentary urge to find Pete and perhaps have him investigate the real reason why Crawford’s company folded and what had happened to the Dolls. Then I found myself opening a beer and lighting up a cigarette and look out at the tethered water taxis swaying in the water below.

 

            There’s no point for me to know.

 

 

            The letter came four months later. The small cream-colored envelope held the same-color note card that had been folded in half. The note disclosed an address that I did not know except that it was near where Crawford’s corporate office was. 1400 was printed below. There was no return address on the envelope. The New York City postmark meant nothing to me.

 

            I left the letter on the kitchen counter for nearly a month. I would look at it and re-read the address every few days, then replacing it back on the counter. I had thoughts of looking up the address on the internet but somehow, motivations were fleeting.

 

 

 

            Winter came. Tourists still came but in thinner droves. There were more water taxis gathered in the dock below. Most of the locals had also retreated to mainland. The city was lonelier and usually, I liked it. However, I had come to realize that I didn’t want to be there then. I wanted to go home.

 

            I packed what I could into a carry-on. As I left, I snatched the envelope from the kitchen counter and shoved it into my pocket. It was probably nothing but old habits diehard. I was suddenly besieged by the curiosity to know the meaning of the letter.

 

 

 

            The address was a small sidewalk café that was across the street from the corporate building where I had received the assignment to recover Leon. But I did not go there first. I stood at the steps of the high rise and stared up at it. I walked up to read the ample directory that was made from white plastic lettering and locked in a clear cabinet. Crawford’s building had been bought out by a medical research group that I’ve never heard of. It would not be a far-fetched theory that the Dolls had somehow become part of the research. 

 

            I was still scanning the long directory listing, looking for a familiar name, when a security guard shuffled up to me and asked if I needed help. A balding old guy whose bulk was straining against the uniform that was two sizes too small.

 

            “Not been here in years,” I said. “Just looking to see what changed.”

 

            “No one from that group is here,” he said.

 

            “Do you know what did happen to the previous tenant?”

 

            He shrugged.

            "The crazy old man burnt through his money for some insane, super secret shit.  Even selling whatever was left of his company to these folks."

            "No one knew what it was he spent the money on?

  

            "Nah.  Whatever it was probably didn't even work out," he said and then he leaned in closer so he can drop his voice.  "Ate his gun in the office right upstairs."

 

            "He committed suicide," I said. 

 

            “Anyway,” he said and cleared his throat. He thumbed toward the sidewalk. “Sorry buddy, unless you have business here – you can’t be standing here.”

 

            I didn’t feel up to asserting my right to loiter so I told him to have a nice day and left. It was two-thirty three. Long past the two o’clock listed on the note card. I felt I needed to look at the café anyway. I didn’t want to come back later.

 

           

            He was sitting in one of the small tables outside. The only one that braved the cold to sip the hot coffee from a white ceramic cup and read the newspaper. I jaywalked across the four-lane highway to where he was.

 

            When I stopped short of his table, he placed the cup back onto the saucer and laid the folded New York Times down next to it. He looked up and smiled brilliantly.

 

            “You are late,” he said.

 

            “I would have come sooner if I knew….”

 

            “I think it is more important that you did come, Mr. Redfield.”

 

            “I’m sorry,” I said, those two words were the only thing I could say that conveyed all of my regrets.

 

            He took my hands into his – the warmth in them was shocking.

 

            “Today is the first day of my life,” he said. “My name is Leon Scott Kennedy. Nice to meet you again, Chris Redfield.”