"It's a Great Life, If You Don't Weaken." That's one of the things David's father would often say to him. His father said such things for no apparent reason, at least none that David could discern. It was like his father was trying to raise him to adulthood by passing him secret messages.
David Jutts was sitting at his desk in the top floor of the three story building where he worked as a claims manager for an insurance company. He'd just finished reading an adjuster's report of damage to a roof from a falling tree. It had occurred two days ago during a thunderstorm/tornado in a town 25 miles from here and it was very similar to four other reports that had arisen from the same storm. "Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall."
These people were lucky, most of the damage was over the garage and their car wasn't involved, so they hadn't had much damage to their living space and belongings. The company would pay off on the costs, after the deductible, of course, but everyone had gotten off lightly on this one. "A Miss is as Good as a Mile."
He turned his head to release some tension in his neck and sat back against the chair. His eyes skittered over the family picture and past the large monitor on the desk and landed on a postcard that was thumbtacked to the coarse brown fabric cover of the cubical wall.
It showed an old man, he guessed an Italian or Spaniard, standing, balanced atop an ancient bicycle, leaning up against the brick wall of an old southern European building. The old man was perched precariously atop the bicycle's seat, leaning his elbows on a window sill and kissing an old woman who was leaning out of the open window. A caption read, "Where there's a will, there's a way." His wife had given him the card for their 25th wedding anniversary a couple years before. It was a cute card. He must have looked at it a hundred times over the past couple years and each time he would consider it in a new light.
Right now, as he looked at it, his attention was drawn to the caption and to its possible double meaning. Probably just emotional overspray from his job. He imagined the old woman coming up with a scheme to do away with her paramour for his fortune. The old man certainly didn't look rich though. Maybe she suspected that her window wasn't the only one that the old man was climbing up to reach. In that case, his "will" wouldn't matter. What possible motive could she have to entice the old man to risk his life like that? If she really loved him, wouldn't she discourage him from climbing atop a bicycle that way? Why was he thinking about this simple sentiment in such a jaded and uncharitable way? What was wrong with him?
"A Liar Trusts No One," his father would have said. Was David really dishonest and conniving to gain from another's tragedy? He wasn't cheating on his wife. It was like Jimmy Carter had said, real cheating was in your heart and David’s heart was not unfaithful to his wife. He didn't steal from work, not even a pen. Well, maybe a pen, but “stealing” implied you were never going to give things back. No, dishonesty, real dishonesty resided in the heart. He needed to stop trying to justify things. Why was he even thinking like this? He certainly wasn't feeling guilty, was he? He hadn't gotten up and moved around for hours. He was getting a little stiff mentally, that's all. Get up, walk around, stretch! Good idea.
He stood and leaned back, arching and stretching. He put both his arms in the air, spreading his fingers. Yeah, that felt good.
As he felt his body relaxing and his circulation improving, he looked across the tops of the surrounding cubicle walls, all the way to the reception area, 25 feet away. He saw two uniformed police talking with his boss, Anne. They were all looking directly at him and Anne had her arm raised, pointing right at David.
"You Can Run, But You Can't Hide."
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