Chapter 1: Avarice and Greed

But the warm summer air did little to calm the storm clouds in Peter Shipley’s eyes as he followed his father from the Courthouse.

“Come on, boy,” Roger said after the hearing. “You’re riding home with me.”

“The hell I am!” the sixteen-year-old snarled. “I’m riding with Kathy and Ronnie. We’ll come home whenever we damn well—”

“You’re riding with me!” the man demanded angrily. He stepped forward with a dark expression Peter knew too well.

“Oh, you gonna hit me?” he challenged arrogantly. “Abandonment wasn’t enough after my accident ... so now you want to hit your crippled kid?”

Technically he wasn’t crippled—disabled perhaps, after being struck by a drunk driver while walking home, he lost both lower legs at the shins. He had recently gotten used to ambulating with prosthetics and looked like any ordinary teenage boy—if he wore pants to conceal the titanium posts extending his legs to the Nike court shoes on his feet.

Judith Westmore, the attorney who helped Roger gain custody of his son, placed a hand on his arm. He calmed and glanced at the unfriendly faces of those who were watching. With Peter were his sister Veronica, his Native American girlfriend Kathy, and his attorneys—Scott Bales, his father Oscar, and grandfather Liam. Nearby, strangely aloof, was his colorful and eclectic Financial Planner and mentor, Jeremiah Tobias Whitaker III, a Creole-born black man with a Southern Baptist air. Roger, with just his humble lawyer at his side, felt outnumbered. He sighed, “Pete, listen, son—we have a lot to discuss, and you can’t run from your problems forever. Just come with me. Please.”

Peter maintained his defiant air as he glanced at Kathy. The pretty, dark-skinned girl gazed back at him with anguish and fear in her eyes, clinging to his sister’s arm as they followed him out of the Courthouse.

“Fine! Dad, let’s talk!” he decided, looking back at his biological sire with a humorless smile. He shook hands with the three attorneys and Jeremiah, then hugged his sister and kissed his sad girlfriend. He smiled brightly at her to bolster her spirits, then turned to follow his father.

Roger’s beat-up ‘84 Dodge Ram had seen plenty of miles. It smelled like stale beer and old jerky as he climbed in and buckled his seat belt. After saying a few words with his representative, his father started the truck and reversed out of the parking spot and into traffic. They rode in silence for several minutes.

“How’s your mother?” the man asked.

“Dying,” Peter replied irritably. His mother, Janet, had contracted HIV by sharing needles with her (late) ex-boyfriend, Paul—who had gotten her hooked on heroin and PCP. Now, she lay in a hospital bed in isolation while her body battled a hideous byproduct of AIDS—Kaposi’s Sarcoma. It was a sinister cancer attacking virtually every organ and system in her body. Her prognosis was bleak, and the doctor gave her slim odds of surviving the next three months.

His father sighed as they merged onto Hwy18, headed west, then took the next exit. “I still care for her,” he said solemnly. “She’s a good woman and a great mother.”

“Cared enough to visit her in the hospital?” Peter replied bitterly.

“Look, Goddamnit!” Roger slapped the wheel angrily. “I didn’t want this! But I can’t, in good conscience, have you living alone with nobody to look after you.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure that’s what it’s all about.”.

“What the hell does that mean?” his father growled.

“Cut the crap, dude!” Peter retorted, “You unsealed the settlement records, and now you’re after the money.”

That caught the older man off guard, and he fumed to himself as he turned onto their street. Peter felt the tension in the cab as they parked in the driveway. Neither made any move to get out.

“So where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Cut the crap yourself, boy! The settlement money!” Roger yelled. “I took a serious hit in the wallet after that demotion—”

“For a married secretary?” Peter retorted.

“Watch...” he bit off his response and angrily squeezed the hard steering wheel. “That bitch told me she was legally separated and getting a divorce! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have touched her,” he replied evenly. “Fucking cunt’s dad is some high falootin mucky-muck with Boeing—”

“And how should I know, Dad?” Peter replied. “I’m just a kid, remember? It’s probably all gone with the way Mom partied with her boyfriend,” he lied. In truth, he’d arranged for his lawyer to put most of the $700,000 settlement into a separate account. He used it to buy stocks he was sure would make him rich and dabbled in options, nearly tripling his holdings. This led him to invest in a small orthopedic prosthetics company, eyeing robotics tech. Now, he had a portfolio worth almost $1.5 million. He did all his trading from his home-built computer, the Beast, sitting in Kathy’s Datsun parked beside them.

“How much did they spend?” Roger demanded.

“How should I know?” Peter said, throwing up his hands. “Ask Mom! Oh wait, she’s too sick even to recognize us! Maybe ask Paul ... but he’s fucking DEAD!” He shouted and slumped back on the bench. He was still haunted by the drug-crazed man who broke in and attacked him in bed, demanding money. Apparently, he owed dealers for heroin bought from an undercover agent. Jeremiah guessed it was over a kilo of uncut China white, worth over $300,000. Paul was so desperate for money from Peter or his mom that the police had to shoot him in Peter’s room.

“There’s no way they blew through three-quarters of a million bucks!” Roger replied adamantly. “I need some of that to pay off the Westmore woman.”

“Then talk to the bank,” Peter replied innocently. “I can’t tell you how much they spent in Vegas or on drugs and dates—but I know the Trans Am cost over $40,000, and he had to use a lot of it to buy that kilo of smack off the feds.” He pretended to think hard as he scrunched his face and chewed his lip. “We bought the BMW for around $35K.”

Roger nodded and restarted the truck. “Fine, we’ll go to the bank.” He pulled out and turned back down the street, passing Ronnie and Kathy, who gazed back astonished from his sister’s red Beetle. Peter held up his hands and gave them a bewildered expression as they drove on.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the young brunette woman told them from her side of the Teller window. “But I’m not showing you as a primary or alternate member on this account, so I cannot release any information.” She appeared genuinely apologetic.

“Look, Goddammit!” Roger replied angrily. “I just came from the courthouse where I got full custody of my boy,” he waved his hand in Peter’s face. She turned to glance at him, and the boy subtly shook his head.

“I’m truly sorry, Mr. Shipley,” she replied again. “Would you like to speak with the Branch manager?”

“Yeah!” he grunted. “You bet your ass I would.”

The answer he got from the surly man in the corner office was even firmer. Unless he could provide a copy of the court order granting him explicit privileges to the account in question—he would not be allowed access to any information or the account.

“What a bunch of bullshit!” Roger griped as they drove back. “Now I have to call that Westmore bitch again, and she’s gonna charge me more to fix this.” He rummaged in his glove box. “God, I hope I still have her card.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, Pops,” Peter replied neutrally while laughing inside. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up about what you’ll find when you get the bank account straightened out.” He knew exactly how much was there, to the penny, but kept his thoughts to himself as he smiled inwardly during the trip home.

Kathy and Peter lay quietly on his bed, holding each other as they listened to the commotion through the walls. His dad could be heard trudging up and down the stairs and setting the floorboards creaking in his parents’ bedroom. Occasionally, they’d hear him arguing with his sister over something, and the bitter exchanges always set the man off.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered worriedly in his ear as she pressed her warm body against his. They were fully clothed, and the notion of sex was absent for a change.

“I won’t give him an inch voluntarily,” Peter replied grimly. He kept his voice low to avoid attention.

A moment later, there was a gentle knock on his door, and Ronnie entered, using her butt to press the bidirectional handicap-friendly paddle latch. She backed into the dimly lit room and turned, holding a small platter with three steaming coffee mugs. The rich aroma perked the lovers up, and they slowly untangled and sat up on the bed’s edge. His sister set the plate on the table and handed each a cup—prepared precisely how they preferred it. Kat enjoyed a splash of coffee with her cream and sugar, while Peter preferred just enough cream to lighten the color. After a sip, they felt their minds relaxing, and the oppressive disappointment of the day faded a little.

“Thanks, babes,” Kathy said warmly, holding her cup with both hands. She loved Veronica like the sister she never had.

Ronnie sat in a chair by the table facing them. “I take it things didn’t go as planned at the bank,” she murmured as she sipped her cup.

Peter chuckled, brightening the atmosphere. “Oh, it went perfectly!” he grinned. “He has no idea I can access Mom’s account, and I want to keep it that way for a couple more days until we can come up with a plan.”

Despite his rise to upper management with a large forestry corporation, Roger Shipley wasn’t that bright. He was a ‘Yes Man’ who flattered the right people and rose to power on others’ coattails. Peter intended to capitalize on his ignorance.

“What ‘plan’?” his sister asked. She had never seen this cunning in her brother before. She knew he had changed after the accident but couldn’t place it. He seemed older—mature and wise. She couldn’t explain it but found herself looking up to him.

“To get rid of him,” Peter replied calmly. “He has to go. He’s a parasite and can ruin everything over the next year I have to put up with him.”

Peter’s attorneys planned to petition for his emancipation, citing examples of teens granted autonomy at 16. But none faced his post-accident debilitation, nor were they as smart or independent. The plan fell apart when Roger Shipley learned of the fortune awarded to his ex-family after abandoning them during Peter’s hospital stay. Roger was proud of Peter’s athletic achievements but unwilling to care for him post-accident. Peter was still in a coma when his father left his mother.

“Do you have a plan for this?” Ronnie asked intently, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not yet,” Peter admitted. “Gimme time, I’ll think of something.”

They sat silently, listening to the man upstairs angrily speaking into the phone. He was in a heated discussion with his lawyer and didn’t appreciate her answers. Eventually, he slammed the phone down and stomped down the stairs. They could envision him approaching Peter’s door. Kathy silently slipped over the far side of his bed and crouched out of sight.

Bang! Bang! Bang! “Pete!” he yelled from the other side.

“I’m handicapped, not deaf!” Peter shot back irritably.

The door swung open, and Roger stood in the doorway, surprised to find Ronnie at his table. “I’m heading out for a bit.” He stepped inside and looked around the sparsely furnished room. Glancing at the desk, he asked, “Where is your schoolwork?”

“I’m done with school,” the boy replied calmly.

“Maybe for the year—but you can start getting ahead during the Summer,” his father retorted. “You don’t have anything better to do.”

“He means he’s ‘done’ with school, Dad. He graduated this Spring,” Ronnie interjected. “He’s enrolled at Green River College, which doesn’t start for three weeks.” Her tone suggested he’d know this if he cared about his family.

Their father grunted noncommittally and shuffled out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. His truck rumbled to life a moment later, and he pulled out of the driveway.

Kathy reappeared and climbed back onto the bed. “Will he kick me out?” she asked worriedly.

“If he tries, I’ll invite you back to stay in my room,” Ronnie grumbled.

Kathy rolled over her boyfriend and jumped, setting her empty cup on the table. “That is sweet of you, Ronnie-kins ... but what happens when you return to Pullman?”

“If he’s still here in three weeks ... we’re seriously screwed,” Peter replied grimly.

They were asleep that evening when a very drunk and loud Roger returned. He nearly broke the front door trying to get in and dropped a half-empty case of Rainier onto the kitchen table before stumbling upstairs to pass out.

The next morning, Peter stood by the kitchen counter, drinking his coffee and scowling at the table, when Ronnie quietly came down the stairs to join him. She poured and fixed her cup, then joined him to gaze at the beer cans spilling out of the case.

“Fucking great,” she muttered, setting her cup down and collecting all the cans beside the fridge. “We’ve gone from one addiction to another.”

“Mmhmm,” her brother agreed as he sipped his cup.

“Is Kittykat still sleeping?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You guys were quiet for a change last night,” she smirked.

He turned and regarded her with narrowed eyes, “What do you mean?”

“You usually go at it like feral wildebeests,” she giggled.

“We do not!”

She nodded decisively. “Oh yessiree. I felt the foundation moving the other night.”

He snorted and turned to the front door when he heard the papers thudding on the porch. She beat him to the door and fetched them, smiling brightly as she separated the Times from the Business Daily and handed him the latter.

“Whatever,” he griped as he sat at the table across from her. “You’re probably just as bad at your dorm with ... whatever her name is.” He shook the paper open and laid it down in front of him. He didn’t notice his sister’s startled expression until her awkward silence made him look back up. “What?”