“And then you came straight home? Because there’s some question that maybe Corson came back, looking to finish what he started, and it would be good if we knew where you are the rest of the night.”
David John starts to say something, but Jessup cuts him off with a quick “no.”
He knew what David John was going to say. His stepfather was about to vouch for him, to say that Jessup came in about midnight, that he remembers it was midnight because it was earlier than he expected, and he looked at the clock just as Jessup came through the door, and he’d be happy to get on a stand and swear the whole truth and nothing but the truth that Jessup came straight home from the party, no chance for anything to happen. Unbidden, the image of Ricky in the alley, the security camera filming at 7.5 frames per second, herky-jerky: David John looking at the camera, reaching into the truck, Holmes’s body turned over, and then, whatever it is that happens out of sight of the camera. Nothing David John would admit to, but the cops finding a knife in Holmes’s hand, only one set of prints, like it was wiped clean.
David John looks like he’s going to try to speak again, so Jessup is even more forceful. “No.” He hesitates. He doesn’t want to bring Deanne into this, but if he doesn’t . . . He can’t ask it of David John. He can’t do that to his mother, to Jewel. Not again. “I went right to my girlfriend’s.”
Hawkins clicks the ballpoint closed, open, closed, open. Writes something on the pad.
“Name?”
“She snuck out,” Jessup says, evading the question. “I don’t want her to get in trouble. But I texted her that I was already driving . . . uh, at . . . eleven fifty.”
Seven minutes, Jessup thinks. Seven minutes from when he took the photo in the living room of Victoria Wallace’s house until he texted Deanne back. And in that seven minutes it’s like a black hole opened and swallowed his whole world. He needs to get those seven minutes back. He needs to rescue himself.
“With the snow, I was going slow, but I drove straight from the party, picked her up at”—he looks at the texts again—here—“eleven fifty-nine p.m. A minute shy of midnight.” Shows Hawkins the phone.
“And then what?”
“We parked in the woods in the parking lot by the reservoir.”
STEEL TRAP
Hawkins smirks. Clicks his pen again. Closed, open, closed, open. “Bet you weren’t up there to go swimming. I don’t suppose I have to ask what you did up there.” Jessup can feel his face gone hot. “What time did you bring her home?”
“About quarter to two,” Jessup says.
Hawkins asks him a few more questions, glances over his shoulder to the end of the lane, where Cunningham still sits in the car.
“If there’s anything you’re not telling me, it’s important that—”
Jessup starts to speak, but Hawkins shoots out his hand, pissed. “I’m talking right now, not you. If there’s anything you’re not telling me, anything that needs to be kept quiet, you keep quiet about it. Keep your fucking mouth shut.” Hawkins takes a deep breath.
“It doesn’t matter what really happened. You need to understand that this is going to play like hell. After what happened with your brother and your dad”—Jessup glances at David John, and even in this exact moment he’s got enough self-awareness to realize that for once he doesn’t want to correct the misstatement—“this has some bad optics. You’ve got a good story there. Helps that there’s the photo and the texts, and if I need to follow up beyond this, assuming your girlfriend can tell the story the same way, it’ll turn out fine for you. But the medical examiner is in right now, doing an autopsy. If there’s anything—and I mean anything at all—that looks off, we’ll be back tomorrow with a search warrant and things will get ugly for you and your family.”
He stares hard at Jessup. It’s hard for him not to look away. There’s something flat about Hawkins’s eyes. Makes him think of a shark. He wonders if Hawkins is ex-military. He’s got the look. A tour in the Middle East and then back home and wearing blue.
“I’m on your side in this, Jessup, and if you say you didn’t do anything—”
“I didn’t do anything.” It’s reflexive. Just bursts out of his mouth. He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince: Hawkins, David John, or himself.
Hawkins shrugs. “I honestly don’t care, Jessup. I’m not going to cry myself to sleep over this. But what I’m saying is that there are people in the department and around the county who think that Ricky and David John got off too light with what happened. Nobody cares about the truth. They just care how it looks and how it plays in the news. I’m telling you this as a friend: if there’s anything that looks off in the autopsy, things are going to go in a bad way for you. There will be Black Lives terrorists protesting downtown and television trucks and the mayor and every politician in the country is going to be on this. Sorry,” he says, looking at David John. “You can’t outrun the family name.”
Jessup wants to scream. It’s not even his goddamned name. He didn’t do anything wrong. He says it: “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Hawkins clicks the pen closed, tucks it with his notebook into his pocket. “You’re not listening to me. I don’t care if you had a hand in that boy’s accident or not, Jessup, but there are a lot of people around here who will, who are just looking for an excuse to go after your family, to go after the church, so if there’s something floating around that contradicts your story, something that you might not want to get looked at in a lab, you take care of that right now. Make sure it doesn’t show up later. You understand me?”
He stares at Jessup until Jessup nods.
“Now,” Hawkins says, “I’m not going to shake your hand, David John, because that isn’t going to look right—we don’t know each other, right?—but you make sure Jessup does what I say. Keep your heads down and this storm will pass over.”
“Thanks,” David John says. “I expect you won’t be coming to church tomorrow, then?”
Hawkins grins, and now Jessup is sure that he’s reminded of a shark. Dark waters hiding things.
“Expect not,” Hawkins says. “As it is, risky for an officer of the law to come to services. Think I’ll lay low for a while.”
TELL ME
The cops pull out of the driveway. Jessup starts to head inside, but David John grabs his wrist.
“Tell me,” he says. “All of it. Whatever happened, I need to know. If you want me to help you, I need to know everything. Tell me exactly what happened.”
So Jessup does. He leaves nothing out.
BIBLE STUDY
He turns the water as hot as he can stand it. He’s got a deep bruise on his side, the crown of a helmet leaving its mark, another bruise already turned yellow on his right biceps, a scab on his forearm. He doesn’t remember any of them.
The water comes off cloudy at first, deer blood, dirt, the morning in the woods disappearing down the drain. He scrubs at his skin as if there might be more blood hiding there, thinks about the angle of Corson’s neck, the dent in his skull.
He’s huffing now, can’t get air in, as if instead of standing in a shower he is underwater, drowning. The weight of the ocean above him, pushing him down. He places his palms hard against the plastic of the shower stall, willing himself to stay quiet, shaking, sobbing without sound, the running water covering what the thin walls of the trailer can’t. It comes on him like a tidal wave, dragging him under, but he fights against it, swims up to the falling water again, says, whispers, prays, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”
He says the Lord’s Prayer once, twice, ten times, twenty, thirty, working the soap like it’s sandpaper, forgive us our trespasses, scouring his flesh, digging his short fingernails into the bar, forgive us our trespasses, turning the water hotter, the steam rising up like an offering, forgive us our trespasses, punching himself over and over in the thigh, forgive us our trespasses.
BAGMAN
Jewel is making grilled cheese sandwiches. The smell of melted butter fills the trailer.
Jessup hesitates as he hands David John the keys to his truck. “Do we have to?”
“Yes,” David John says. They’ve already argued about getting rid of the truck. Jessup knows that David John is right, that it’s the one thing that can tie him concretely to Corson’s death, but it’s hard for him to let go of the keys.
He’s holding a garbage bag in his other hand, and he passes that over as well. His stepfather opens up the bag, looks inside.
“This all of it?” Jessup nods, and David John ties the bag. “Keys for the van are on the hook. Give me ten minutes.” Walks out of the trailer, already holding his phone, dialing his brother.
Jewel is oblivious, but Jessup’s mom is sitting on the couch, holding a book. Something from the library. Inspirational. She’s not reading. Just watching. Doesn’t say anything. Jessup wants to tell her not to worry, but he doesn’t say anything either.
He’s wearing wool socks and his sneakers, jeans, a Cortaca High School Football long-sleeved T-shirt: school logo with the word “Football” underneath, on the left breast, “One Team, One Family” on the back. His jacket is in the trash bag, along with his boots. He doesn’t have another jacket, so he’s got a hoodie. Cortaca Football, too, heavy and zip-up, black, warm enough until he can get to the thrift store for a new coat. He slips the sweatshirt on, zips it up.
“You got your shirt for work?”
His mom’s eyes are bright. She pays attention. She’s no dummy. At the stove, Jewel is humming something to herself. Happy. Her dad is home. All is right in the world. She slides the spatula under one of the sandwiches and puts it on a paper towel, hands it to Jessup.
“One grilled cheese sandwich, to go. Careful,” she says. “It’s hot.”
“It’s supposed to be,” he says. He takes a bite.
Jewel pokes him in the stomach with the handle end of the spatula. “I think you mean ‘Thank you, oh favorite sister of mine.’”
“You’re my only sister,” he says. They’re both smiling, and he lifts the grilled cheese up, an acknowledgment of thanks, a salute, a signal that he loves her.
She’s grown in the last year. She still looks like a little kid to him, but she belongs in middle school, in sixth grade. He knows that’s going to change, though, sees what the other kids look like when he drops her off or picks her up, girls turning into young women as they move from sixth to seventh to eighth, knows that before he can stand it she’ll be in high school, college, married, kids of her own. And he’ll be off somewhere, too, university, a job, a life away from here.
He can’t bear the thought that it might not work out that way. He’ll do anything to make sure she breaks free. The both of them.
“Jessup?” his mom asks again. “Do you have your shirt for work?”
“Shoot. No. Thanks,” he says. “Sorry.” He walks back to his bedroom, eating the sandwich, pulls his collared Regal Cinemas shirt off a hanger, and walks back.
“You’re off in your own world today,” she says. Her voice is quiet. Let Jewel stay in her own private world, her voice says, hasn’t it been hard enough for her with Ricky, with her dad? Not you, too, Jessup, not you. “You sure everything’s going to be okay? I don’t like any of this.”
“I’m sure,” he says.
When he and David John came inside, they sent Jewel to her room to listen to music while they told Jessup’s mom what was going on. Most of it. Didn’t tell her what he and David John talked about after the cops left. The soda-can crumple of Corson’s body against the truck. The dead weight of getting him into the Mercedes. David John looking at the dent on his truck. Didn’t tell his mother why he filled a garbage bag with his boots and coat, gloves, T-shirt and jeans, why David John has taken Jessup’s truck to the compound.
She’s not stupid, though.
“I’ve got to go. We’ll meet you at the Creamery, okay?”
His mother nods. Goes back to pretending to read her book.
Ricky’s not coming home anytime soon, David John back for less than twenty-four hours. She looks at Jessup, but she doesn’t ask any other questions. Afraid of the answers.
He finishes his grilled cheese, chucks the paper towel in the trash, stops by the kitchen table, where Jewel is sitting. She’s got a dog-eared book propped up in front of her plate. She’s near the end of the book. She drops her sandwich on her plate, wipes her hand on her pants, gulps at her milk, and turns the page.
“Here,” Jessup says, tearing off a clean paper towel and handing it to her. “Don’t wipe your hands on your pants.”
She rolls her eyes, but she takes the paper towel.
He puts his hand on her shoulder. “You reading that for school?”
“Yeah. Extra credit.”
“What is it?” She sticks her finger in to mark her page and closes it so he can see. The Penderwicks. He doesn’t recognize it. “What’s it about?”
“This family goes on vacation,” she says.
“And?”
“And a bunch of stuff happens. It’s really good. It’s funny and . . . I don’t know. I like the family. I’m going to get the next one out of the library on Monday. You should read it. You’d like it,” she says.
He kisses her on the top of her head. “See you soon,” he says, but she’s already back in her book.
BETWEEN THE GATE AND THE ROAD
It’s warmed up enough that with the snowplows and the salt, the roads are clear, asphalt unmarred by the winter white. Straight shot from their house, ten minutes to Brooktown and the entrance to the compound.
The church doesn’t have a sign. The driveway bends into the trees, hiding the fixed-up barn where they have services, the social hall, the preschool building, the garage, Earl’s house, the other outbuildings, behind that, paths cut through the woods, a swimming pond, a firing range, a campsite, but nothing you can see from the road. The only thing you can see from the road is the heavy steel gate. Enough room between that and the asphalt for Jessup to pull the van in. David John is already there, leaning on the gate, holding a football. The game ball, Jessup realizes. He’d left it in the truck. David John is not alone. He’s talking to his brother.
Earl saunters over, knocks on the glass. Jessup rolls down the window.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Earl says. “We’ll take care of it.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Earl’s eyes are like a hawk circling, a mouse scurrying in an open meadow, sharp talons, a missile headed to earth. They’ve got red-tailed hawks, osprey, peregrine falcons, kestrels, goshawks and others in upstate New York, more than a dozen different kinds of raptors. Golden eagles, bald eagles if you’re lucky, turkey vultures. Jessup read somewhere that a peregrine falcon can hit 150 miles an hour as it plummets to the ground, its prey never standing a chance. That’s what Earl looks like. He’s not missing anything.
Earl knocks on the door of the van with his knuckles. Knock, knock. Who’s there? The Big Bad Wolf. Let me in.
Jessup says it again. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Earl knocks again, says, “Exactly. Like I said, we’ll take care of it.” With his other hand, he holds something up for Jessup to see. The keys to Jessup’s pickup truck. Then they are gone, stuffed into Earl’s pocket. Disappeared.
Earl looks at David John. “And what does Hawkins know?”
“Doesn’t know about Jessup hitting Corson with the truck. None of that stuff. Knows about before and after, but not what actually happened.”
Earl nods. “Okay. Let’s keep it that way. But I’m going to need to tell Brandon.”
“What?” Jessup is alarmed. “No.”
Earl gives him a cold, even look. “He’s got money and he can get New York City lawyers involved in this. If he’d been aro
und when your brother and David John had their mix-up, things might have been different.” His cold look turns into something warmer, a laugh. “He’s smart, I’ll give you that. He’ll get us some good Jew lawyers. They’ll do anything if they get paid, and they’re the best money can buy. Now, you two go off and enjoy your day while I figure out how to take care of things.” Teeth, lips curled. “Trust me, Jessup.”
MOTION
David John holds the football on his lap. He’s quiet for the first mile. Jessup is quiet, too. Processing. He’s driving the van, but he feels like he isn’t going anywhere.
Finally, David John speaks. “He’s my brother. I had to tell him.”
Jessup feels like he’s supposed to answer, but David John didn’t ask him a question. Wants to tell his stepfather what it was like having Earl in the house while David John was gone. The same flat, dead eyes on his mother. Never said anything, did anything that Jessup could put his finger on. But still. His mother didn’t have a problem with her brother-in-law, and Jewel was always happy to see Uncle Earl, but there was something about the man that set Jessup on edge.
“You can use the van today and tomorrow.”
“I still think this was a bad idea. Getting rid of it just calls attention to things,” Jessup says.
“If anybody asks, tell them your truck broke down.” Which isn’t much of a stretch. It’s not much of an answer, either. “We’ll figure out the week later,” David John says, “see what happens with the cops.”
Jessup keeps the van steady. White lines cutting the blacktop, leading them into town.
“Hell, Jessup, why did you have to . . .” His voice is the voice of somebody who hasn’t slept in years, and it trails off into nothing, the tires thrumming against the road.
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