by David Bell
So I looked over at him. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Aaron,” I said. “You’ve been saying a lot of things, but none of them make any sense.”
“Then let me enlighten you.” Perhaps sensing whatever was building in Blake and putting the steel in his posture, Aaron took a step back from him while still holding the gun in his direction. But it no longer touched Blake’s head. “It seems that our friend here liked to talk to his girlfriend more than anyone else. Apparently he had the habit of occasionally throwing back too many drinks and then having true-confession time with Jennifer. Even though he was supposed to be quitting.” Aaron looked over at Blake. “He told her lots of stuff during the times they were together. His sexual exploits. And shames. The times he cheated on tests, the papers he plagiarized. The time in junior high he helped bully some kid who then tried to commit suicide. I guess he told her all the things he couldn’t tell Samantha. Maybe those things didn’t fit the image he wanted to project to her. Maybe those things would ruin their future prospects. Maybe he thought her family wouldn’t tolerate the embarrassing aspects of his past.”
I looked at Blake, who stared at the floor. I knew him well. He’d told me many things over the years, and, yes, he tended to get loose-tongued when drunk. And when I knew him well, he was frequently drunk. But he hadn’t told me the things Aaron had mentioned.
Was Aaron right? Had Blake spilled his guts to Jennifer because she was so far removed from his world?
From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the bat. It was out of my reach unless I dove for it.
But it was there.
Aaron’s voice drew my eyes back over to him.
“Are you listening, Ryan?”
“He quit drinking. He opens up more when he drinks, but he quit.”
“Oh, right. Well, Jennifer says he always tried to quit. But he fell off the wagon. Hard. After he saw me at the Chinese restaurant. She said it was like he’d seen a ghost. Like he was Ebenezer Scrooge or something. He showed up at her place the next night with a bottle of Jim Beam and a loose tongue. He really unburdened himself when he told her about the night of the accident. The night that changed everything for me and nothing for the two of you. Although maybe not in the way we once thought.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear but desperate to know.
“He’s lying, Ryan,” Blake said.
“Why would I lie?” Aaron asked. “Why would you lie when you were drunk? Why would Jennifer? She said she knew you had already gone back to your old girlfriend. Sam. The one with the money and the rich daddy and the job. She knew that, but she was willing to listen to you one more time because you seemed so pathetic and needed someone to talk to.”
“What did Jennifer say about the accident?” I asked.
“What do you remember about that night, Ryan?” Aaron asked. “What exactly do you recall happening when we drove off and wrecked everything? Eighteen months in jail. No degree. No way to get a job. What happened during that ride?”
My mind scanned back through the years, pinpointing that night I’d thought about so many times before. I remembered the drinking, the smell of stale beer, the wooziness and sloppiness the alcohol brought on. The music pounded as we poured shots and pushed them toward the fresh-faced kids who wanted to join Sigil and Shield. I remembered someone handing me a joint, which I might or might not have smoked. I remembered dancing with someone I might or might not have known.
And I remembered Aaron. Young. Eager. His clothes not quite right. His attempts at jokes not quite landing. And the desperation to belong oozed off of him like sweat. It covered every inch of his body. He followed Blake around like a puppy. He drank what Blake handed him. He fetched Blake beers when he needed them. At some point, a song came on, something stupid and cloying, and Blake told Aaron to dance. So Aaron danced, making a fool of himself in front of everyone. We laughed with him. But mostly at him.
And then . . .
“We went out to get the sign,” I said. “That was my idea. It used to be a tradition with Sigil and Shield. They’d done it for years, but the club got in trouble for stealing it before we started at Ferncroft, so we had to stop. But we always wanted to get it one more time before we graduated. I’d always talked about doing it with Blake, but that night, I told you to do it. And we went in my car. And you know what happened. We all do.”
“Do we?” Aaron asked. “How did you find out about the accident?”
I remembered that. Vividly.
I woke up in the emergency room. My head was pounding. My body hurt. I knew we’d been in an accident, and when Blake came into the room, I asked him if anyone had been hurt. He said Aaron had been banged up pretty good.
And he told me he just didn’t know about the other car. But he thought it was bad.
Very bad.
Deep shit, he said. We’re going to be in deep shit.
“He told me I needed to be careful about what I said and did,” I said to Aaron. “That the cops were going to ask questions, but if I played it smart, it would work out. He said he’d arranged things at the scene so it looked like you were driving and not me. And I said I didn’t like that, that I wanted to tell the truth and face whatever music I needed to face, even though the thought of it made me sick. But Blake reminded me of my mom and the money she’d borrowed for me to finish college. And he told me my life would be over, ruined, if I took the blame for the crash. And he said everyone was going to think you were driving. He told me to keep my mouth shut about my role.”
“He told you,” Aaron said. “Blake.”
“Yes, he did. I was so foggy. I was drunk, and I hit my head in the accident. . . .”
“Then you didn’t remember anything,” Aaron said. “Blake told you what you did. Blake supplied all the details and all the information. Blake planted the whole story in your head.”
It was my turn to take a step back. A shakiness started in my hands and felt like it passed through my entire body.
“That’s not possible,” I said. “I was there. It was my car. I did—”
Then Blake spoke up. His voice rose above mine.
“You didn’t, Ryan,” he said. “You didn’t do any of it. I know because I did it.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Blake said. “I was driving that night. I was the one behind the wheel when the accident happened.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
After Blake spoke, he exhaled what had been a deeply held breath. His posture, which had become rigid and stiff, relaxed some, and he even lowered his hands from behind his head, where they’d been clenched as long as I’d been in the basement.
“You don’t have to say that, Blake,” I said. “It’s not necessary.”
“It is,” he said. “I told Jen the truth that night when I fell off the wagon. He’s right.” He jerked his head to his left, indicating Aaron. “He knows the truth and so did Jen. And now you do too. You weren’t driving the car that night. I was. That’s what I put in the letters to her. The letters exposed me, not you. That’s why I needed you to get them out of the house. I asked her to give them back, and she refused.” He looked up at Aaron. “You can let Ryan go now. Let him go back to his family and his life. I’m the one you want, okay? Is that what you wanted me to admit? That I did it? Well, okay, I admit it. I drove that night and then I staged the accident to make it look like it was you.”
I took a step toward Blake. “Don’t say that. Don’t say those kinds of things if they’re not true.”
“They are true. You started driving, but you clearly weren’t able. So we pulled over and switched. You got in the backseat, and Aaron was the passenger.”
“Why?” I asked Blake, taking another step closer. “Why would you do that to me? To your closest friend? Why?”
Blake used his tongue to moisten his
lips. “Just go, Ryan. Get out of here and go.”
“No. Why?”
Blake’s eyes flashed. “Because.” The one word cut through the space, freezing all of us in place. When he went on, he spoke in a lower, more controlled voice. “Because I got tired of always being the fuckup. I got tired of being the joke. Everywhere we went, I stood in your shadow. You were the winner. I was the clown. And let’s face it. I deserved that reputation. I’m not saying I didn’t. But damn, it gets old, having everybody see me that way.”
“I didn’t see you that way,” I said. “We were friends. You were my best friend. You’re the reason I finished school, the reason I survived my dad dying.”
“Everybody else saw it that way. And when that accident happened, and you didn’t know if you were driving or not, I saw an opportunity to level the playing field a little. To bring me closer in line to you.”
“That’s nuts,” I said. “Blake, that’s truly nuts.”
“But look what happened. . . . You graduated and went on your merry. And when you moved here and married Amanda, nobody knew about the accident. Nobody knew what really happened. It was just a blip that occurred in the past at a small college. Everybody knew about Aaron. He did the time, while the rest of us moved on.”
“I didn’t. I’ve been living with that guilt over what I did.”
“Oh, I know. You beat yourself up. But you never talked about it, not with anybody else. No one saw it. No one knew the truth. Everyone only saw what you wanted them to see. You never told anyone you’d fucked up that bad.”
“Apparently I hadn’t.”
“And I thought many, many times about telling you. I really did. But the longer it went on, the longer the years stretched, it was harder and harder to do. And then this thing with Jen and the letters . . .”
“So you used it against me one more time.”
“I didn’t want it to end that way. I didn’t want any of this to happen. You have to know that.”
I took two more steps, until I stood over Blake. Years of guilt, years of hot wires of recrimination searing my insides.
Years of stuffing it away from Amanda . . . when I didn’t need to.
My fist came back and forward with as much force as I could muster and cracked him across the jaw. The feel of my knuckles against his flesh satisfied me more than I could have imagined, and the jolt of pain that shot up my arm seemed like a small price to pay for knocking Blake off his knees and onto the floor. I stepped in for more, hoping to hit him again, but Aaron took hold of my arm and pulled me back, spinning me across the room so that I stumbled and landed on the floor.
“Enough,” he said. He waved the gun back and forth between the two of us. “Am I the only sane one here? You two are a couple of prizes, aren’t you? Liars and home wreckers and frauds. I don’t care who did what now. All I wanted was for the two of you to see how worthless you both are. It’s time to tie up all the loose ends. Hell, they’ll find you in this basement in about twenty years when someone finally shows up to finish these town houses.”
“Aaron, just leave my family out of this—”
“No chance. It’s a going-out-of-business sale. Everything must go. Everything and everyone.” He pointed the gun at me. I stared down the menacing hole at the end of its barrel. “You first, so I can better enjoy killing him.”
“Aaron, don’t. . . . If you and Dawn want something . . .”
My full bladder nearly burst. Images of Amanda and Henry flashed before me. Smiling. Laughing.
I’ll never grow old, I thought. I’ll never have another child. Never have a grandchild. I’ll never see Henry do anything. . . .
From out of the darkness across the room, Blake lunged toward Aaron, grabbing him around the legs and taking him to the floor as a shot fired in the quiet space.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
I spent a moment in a state of disbelief.
A shot had been fired somewhere. At me? Near me?
I looked down at my body in the dim light. I saw no injuries. No blood, no torn clothing. And I felt no pain.
But next to me, a struggle raged. Blake had landed on top of Aaron, and the two men grappled for control of the gun. Aaron’s arm was extended toward the ceiling, his hand gripping the weapon. And Blake reached for it, trying to stop his movement and keep another shot from being fired.
But Aaron proved to be stronger. He managed to work the gun around so that it pointed toward Blake. Blake’s efforts momentarily kept him from firing, but it was only a matter of time.
I scrambled across the floor and reached for the bat. I wrapped my hand around the handle and drew it to my body. If I thought I’d had more time, I would have stood up, measured the distance, and swung the bat in an efficient, focused manner.
But I didn’t have time.
With one hand I swung, aiming—I hoped—at Aaron’s hand. The one that held the gun.
I missed my target but managed to bring the bat down against Aaron’s forearm. He held on to the gun, despite my efforts, and worked his finger free. He squeezed the trigger, causing another loud boom in the hollow space. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete wall across from us.
I swung again. This time the bat connected with the back of Aaron’s hand, but on my follow-through, the bat hit the concrete floor and came out of my hand and rolled away.
Blake repositioned his body. He raised his fist and swung it at Aaron’s face. Once. Twice. He did it again, scoring direct hits that landed with sickening thuds. Aaron grunted the first two times. Then the third time, he made a low groaning noise.
His hand loosened its grip. I pried his fingers off the gun one at a time until I could take it away. I held the strangely heavy, unfamiliar object. It was like I’d picked up a bizarre, unrecognizable sea creature off the beach. I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Blake delivered one more blow to Aaron’s face, and that time Aaron made no noise at all.
“Stop it, Blake,” I said.
He reared back again.
“Just stop it.” I grabbed his fist with my free hand and looked down at Aaron, who wasn’t moving. “He’s had it. Just stop.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“He tried to kill both of us. And he did kill Jennifer. But let someone else sort that out.” I took the gun across the room and placed it on top of the water heater. Then I took out my phone and called 911. “I’m calling the police now. They can cuff him and take him where he needs to go.”
I told them where we were and what the situation was. I mentioned Jennifer’s name, and they promised to send help immediately. When I was off the phone, I went back over to where Blake stood over Aaron.
“Is he okay?” I asked.
Blake looked at me. “Why do you care?”
“Because he’s a human being.” I looked down. Aaron’s chest rose and fell steadily. His eyes were half open and glassy. I hoped for the best. He’d been battered, but I thought he would make it without any real damage. “Haven’t we done enough to him? Or should I say, haven’t you done enough to him? Six years ago and today.”
“Whatever.” Blake made a dismissive wave with his hand. “He tried to kill us. He tried to hurt your wife. That should be enough. You should want to pound him. Instead you hit me.”
“You’re lucky that’s all I did to you. After you gaslit me for six years.”
Blake again waved, this time with both hands. “We don’t have time for that,” he said. “We need to get our stories straight before the cops get here. I know they’re on their way.”
He seemed to be speaking a foreign language. “Get our stories straight? What is there to get straight? I’m telling them the truth. I’m telling them exactly what happened here.”
“Right.” He nodded with enthusiasm, as though we’d finally agreed to resolve a long-simmering dispute. “We had a beef from co
llege, and he tried to kill us. And he killed Jen to get back at both of us. Right?”
“Right. Sure.”
He nodded his head, a look of satisfaction on his face. But I sensed we weren’t completely on the same page.
“I’m telling them everything, Blake. Everything. About Jennifer’s house and the phone and all of it. I’m coming clean.”
He cocked his head, and his mouth fell open. Then he threw his hands up in the air in disgust. “What are you talking about? You can’t tell them that.”
“I can, and I will. This is over, Blake. And the only way for it to truly be over is to tell the cops everything. They need that information from Jennifer’s phone. They need to know all of it.” I looked around the basement. “Where’s my computer?”
He took a long time to answer a simple question. “I have it.”
“Where?”
“It’s safe.”
“What did you need off of there?” I asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said. He took a step forward until we were uncomfortably close. Before he spoke, we both heard it. Sirens. The police were in the neighborhood and coming down the street, heading for this unit. They knew we were in the basement. “You need to think about this. Fast.”
“What?”
“That computer. The story. I threw the phone away, but there’s stuff on the computer.” He placed his hand on my chest, letting it rest there. He patted me and then squeezed the material of my shirt. “People can get hurt by those things on there. People who don’t need to get hurt.”
“You mean Sam? Doesn’t she know about Jennifer?”
He scrambled to find the right words. “It’s . . . People can get hurt. That’s all I’m saying. Think about whether you want all of that to happen.”
The door opened above us. Footsteps moved across the floor above us.
“Rossingville Police.”
“I want the truth to come out,” I said. “All of it.”
I saw the veins in his forehead, the pores on his cheeks. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Ryan. Just be careful about what you say. A lot of people can still be hurt here.”