The Perfect Plan

by Bryan Reardon

  I didn’t know what to do. Or what to feel. The urge to comfort him grew stronger and stronger with each word. At the same time, some instinct deep in my gut held that in check. I felt frozen between these two opposing forces, so I stayed as still as I could.

  “It’s okay,” I said, but the words sounded empty to me.

  “No, it’s not. It’s going to be better. You’ll see. I’m not going to let him do it anymore. I love you, man. I do. But he told me I had to toughen you up. That’s why I treat you like I do. But I’ll do better. I’ll be stronger. I promise. I’m going to be stronger for you.” He laughed. “For my little brother.”

  I couldn’t speak. There wasn’t a single word I could come up with. It was like I found myself suddenly transported back to that moment so long ago, a young Drew on his haunches, my shoelaces in his hands. Every muscle in my body seemed to tighten at once. A searing cramp started in my calves and ran up my legs, into my back. But I didn’t move. I didn’t make a sound.

  In the dark, I never saw his hand. But I felt it touch the top of my head. Rub through my messy hair.

  “I promise,” he whispered one last time. “But you have to do something for me first. When you talk to that lady . . .” His hand grew heavy on the top of my head. “Don’t tell her anything.”

  Then Drew stood up. He walked out of my room and silently shut my door. As soon as he was gone, I started to shake. I couldn’t stop. Then the tears came. My chest rattled and I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was sob, alone and in the dark. But I couldn’t understand why.

  11

  I see more flashing lights. This time, they are behind us. Still far away. But I know they will catch up. My foot presses the gas pedal all the way down to the floor and my truck barely speeds up.

  “The police are in his pocket,” I say.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her turn and look at me. Her head tilts.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The only way to deal with them is to go through him first. Ever since he worked at the Department of Public Safety. You know that.”

  “So what?”

  We both hear the sirens. She spins around in her seat, looking out the back window.

  “What the fuck?”

  I say nothing. She turns on me.

  “Why are the police chasing us? Jesus, you’re—”

  “I messed up,” I say. “That’s what Drew thinks.”

  “Shitshitshit,” she says. “God damn.”

  I focus on driving as she rattles beside me.

  “We should just pull over. We’ll say it’s all a misunderstanding. It’ll be cool. Drew will—”

  “He’ll do what’s best for him. And for the campaign. You, of all people, can picture the story. His brother and his press secretary ditching a car, speeding down the highway together. Maybe we don’t go to jail. But you can kiss your job good-bye.”

  She spits out a laugh. “That’s going to happen no matter what.”

  I turn and look at her. “Not if we finish what we started. Not if we make him happy.”

  The word cuts through her like a razor blade. Her eyes widen first, but then the muscles of her face loosen.

  “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right.”

  My truck can’t outrun the police. There’s no way. But I need to stay ahead of them, just long enough. The exit I need is only a few miles up ahead. I can see the large green sign. I drift into the right lane, looking out the rearview mirror. The cruiser behind me stays in the left.

  I dare a glance at Lauren. She is staring straight ahead, her jaw set. I think she understands. I hope she’ll listen to my logic for just a little longer. But I’m not so sure.

  I merge onto Route 141. The cop is still in the left lane. Passing the exit without noticing us. My chest loosens as I realize I have a little more time.

  “Look, it’s cool. We’ll go back to the cabin and grab your bag. Then I’ll drive to the trailer. I can call Drew. Let him know that we’ll be there. He’ll be fine. He’s just—”

  “Fuck you!” she screams. I hear the return of her panic. “Let me out.”

  Her sudden aggression surprises me. In it, I see through the veneer, down to her pain. And her fear. She’s just figuring it out. She’s learned a small truth about my brother’s nature. My family’s. I feel for her, truly, but she’s not going anywhere. I can’t let her go to the police. She thinks she can play the game but she doesn’t even know the rules or the stakes.

  She keeps talking but I zone out, her words fading behind the thoughts racing through my head. I honestly did not think my brother would escalate so fast. This was his plan, and by getting the police involved at this point, he’s basically given up on it. Maybe he thinks I won’t tell Lauren what he wanted me to do to her. And why. Maybe, even if this turns south and she somehow goes back to him, he thinks it won’t matter if I did. That he can fix it with her, like he does with everyone else.

  “I won’t tell them it was you,” she says, the words tripping over each other to escape her lips. “And I’m done with Drew, if you’re worried about that. I won’t go anywhere near him.”

  “You think so,” I say, half listening and half planning my next move. It’s just a matter of changing the order around. Maybe having the police on my back isn’t an awful thing at this point. It had to happen eventually. I had already accounted for that.

  “I promise. I—”

  “Shut up.”

  I interrupt her but don’t scream. In fact, I’m not even mad. Just a little annoyed. And it’s hard to have someone talking so much when I’m trying to think. But I have it covered. I know what to do.

  She’s crying again. Maybe I was harsher than I thought. I don’t know. But I approach the intersection with Faulkland Road. To reach the cabin, I would continue north. But I decide to take the left instead. Toward more familiar ground.

  I can feel her tense up beside me.

  “Why’d you turn? Jesus, where are you going?!”

  Then, suddenly, Lauren grabs the door handle. Before I can react, she’s pulled the latch. As we race down the road, her door swings open. She twists her body, trying to jump. Her seat belt catches, pinning her, at least for a second.

  “Let me out!”

  With one hand gripping the wheel, I reach out for her, grabbing her by the shoulder of her jacket. The nylon fabric slips between my fingers. So I dig, clawing at her, trying to get a grip.

  The seat belt hits my arm as it unclasps and swings home. Her weight shifts, moving close to the door, which swings shut but doesn’t latch. She hits it with her shoulder and it opens again. She teeters on the edge. And my grip slips.

  I feel strangely calm. My instinct is to stop her from jumping out of a moving car. At this velocity, she’d get pretty messed up if she did. At the same time, I think about how I could let her go. I could just watch her tumble to the pavement. Watch the impact tear away her expensive jacket. Peel back her skin. Pulverize the bones of her forearm as she tries to brace against the impact.

  I definitely have plans for Lauren. She has a part to play. But as I realize now, no strategy is foolproof. There will always be counters. There will always be a need for adjustments. If I let Lauren go, if I let her fall to the street, I would have to adjust. That’s all.

  But, again, I think of her. What would she think if she sat in the car with us? If I let this happen, how would she look at me? A part of me wishes I could let Lauren fall and not care about it. Drew could. If he sat where I did, he’d probably push her and laugh his ass off. He certainly wouldn’t give a care about what she thought. In fact, that very idea makes me laugh out loud.

  Lauren is almost out of the car. My laughter just seems to make her try harder. I see the entrance to a residential neighborhood to my right. There is a car waiting to pull out after I pass. It’s near the center of the
road, which doesn’t give me a lot of space to make the turn at this speed. But I think about that old ride at the church carnival when I was a kid. The one called the Scat. We stood against the wall and centrifugal force pressed us to it as the ride spun in a circle. And, still holding on to her, I flip my hand on the wheel and turn it as hard as I can. The car lurches to the right. Lauren’s body, wanting to continue forward, is thrown back into the car as I am pressed against my closed door.

  I feel the car tilting, like it might go up on two wheels. Instead, the back tires slip. The car fishtails, just a little. But it is enough for the back end to slam into the stopped car at the intersection. The impact whips my head to the side and I hit the window. It cracks. Lauren, unbuckled, seems to tumble, most of her weight striking my side. Her thigh, though, slams into the dash. And I think her head hits the steering wheel. It happens so fast, I can’t be sure. But when the truck stops moving, I hear her groan. And I see blood dripping out of her open mouth.

  “Shit,” I say.

  I can feel her shaking beside me. The truck’s engine has stalled. With a quick look out the window, I see the driver of the car I hit crawling out the passenger door, stumbling out onto the grass.

  I turn the key, and it won’t start. Lauren moves. Blood, her blood, leaves a stain on my pants. She groans, or says something I don’t understand. I turn the key again. The engine rumbles. When I get the truck moving, I hear the side panel scrape against the back tires. But we move. I drive a few yards into the neighborhood and make a three-point turn. When I am facing the other car, I see the woman sitting on the ground. Her face is bloody and she looks like she might be in shock.

  I think I hear Lauren say, “Help her.” But that’s probably in my head. I doubt she’s thinking about anyone but herself. Then, as I reach the intersection, I hear the sirens. Those are not just in my head. Those are real.

  She hears it, too. Lauren’s head whips around and she looks out the back window.

  “They’re coming,” she says.

  12

  I hit the brakes and turn the wheel, hard. The truck fishtails again, and I hear a horn blare behind me, but I don’t care. The front tires hit the grassy median I just passed. The cab lurches from the impact and the tires rise into the air. Then the back tires hit and the front slams back down. I lose control for an instant. The truck veers to the left. But I correct just enough. The tires catch and the frame screams as my pickup rumbles down the road.

  The light is red up ahead. I don’t wait for it to turn. Slowing down just enough, I inch into the intersection. More horns blare but I cut into traffic and speed up.

  “Do you see it?” I ask, weaving around a slow-moving Chrysler.

  She won’t answer me. I can’t say I mind, though. This silence is welcome after all her talking. I count on her shock from the accident to keep her from trying to jump out again, at least for a time.

  I slam the brakes again and veer across oncoming traffic, bumping over another curb and into a shopping center parking lot. We skid as I try to slow down. I head toward the fire lane that runs behind the buildings.

  “I see it,” she whispers.

  I check the mirror and she’s right. Flashing lights appear down the street.

  “Shit.”

  I make it around the back of the shops just as the cruiser passes the stoplight I ran. I speed up, passing loading docks and dumpsters. Then I see an open bay up ahead. I don’t slow down to see what’s inside. Instead, I yank the wheel to the right. We fishtail again and dart into the garage. I see car stereo equipment and a sign for an electronics shop on the wall as we jerk to a stop.

  “Jesus,” Lauren says.

  I ignore her. Throwing open my door, I jump out of the truck and sprint to the garage door. It takes me a second to find the manual release. I yank the cord and jump up to grab the edge. The wheels cry out as I pull it down. It slams to the concrete, the panels rattling like a peel of thunder.

  “Hey!” someone yells behind me.

  I turn to see a young guy, maybe twenty. He’s wearing black pants and a black collared shirt with a logo that matches the sign on the wall—Electric Shack. He has sparse facial hair and gauges in his ears.

  “Get out,” he says, taking a step toward me.

  For a second, I find it funny. The guy’s half my size. I could barely fit my arms into his skinny jeans. I could handle him. It would take a minute. And make noise. Loud enough for anyone inside the store to hear. So I pull the pistol from behind my back instead. I take a step toward him, the barrel pointing in the direction of his forehead. I put a finger to my lips.

  “Shhhh.”

  The kid looks like he’s about to run. He could probably make it if he did. Even if I wanted to shoot him, I couldn’t with the police right behind me.

  “You go back inside,” I say. “You’ll have to deal with my friends who are robbing the place. And they’re some dangerous guys.”

  The kid freezes. He looks utterly confused. As what I said slowly dawns on him, he checks the door leading back into the store. Then looks at me.

  “Come here, but stay quiet. I don’t want to hurt you. We just want to steal shit and get out. Easy as that.”

  I know the stereo equipment filling the garage and the store means nothing to this kid. I doubt the job does. So I lower the gun, tucking it back into my waistband. Smiling, I wave the kid over.

  He’s still not fully convinced, but then he takes the first step in my direction. That’s when I know I have him. The kid puts his hands up like he’s in some kind of movie.

  “It’s cool,” he says.

  Then a flash of blue light shines across the far wall. It turns red. The kid sees it. I see his thoughts in the sudden sharpness of his eyes.

  “No,” I hiss, pulling the gun out again.

  I move this time, taking long strides toward him. His eyes widen. He turns toward the door, but I catch the back of his shirt. I yank him back and he loses his balance. As he falls to the ground, I go down with him. My knee strikes him square in the chest and I lean down, my face close to his. I don’t say anything. I lower the gun until the tip presses into the crinkle of skin between his eyes.

  The lights grow brighter as the cruiser nears. I press down on the kid, hard. Then the passenger-side door opens. Lauren steps out of the truck. She stands, looking from me to the bay door and back, the look in her eyes matching the kid’s almost exactly.

  “No,” I say again.

  And she takes a step toward the garage door.

  13

  Lauren Branch takes a second step away from me, toward the closed garage door. The kid under me makes a noise and I realize the gun is still digging into his face. Her eyes meet mine. We stare at each other as the cruiser moves slowly closer outside.

  When I first thought to do this, when I laid out those first few steps of the plan, I never imagined a simple truth that I have learned since: I suck at controlling people. For a second, I just look at Lauren. I imagine her throwing open the bay door, flagging down the police. It would be over then. In fact, I would have made my brother’s job easy. He’d be thrilled to learn that the police found me in some stupid electronics store, threatening a pimply teenager with a pistol. Lauren would play the victim. Drew would play the distraught brother and substitute father figure for his screwup sibling. And maybe he’d end up winning his election. He’d get everything he ever wanted. And I’d go away, forever.

  I can’t control her. I know that. My brother probably could. He’d find a way to convince her to turn away from the door, get back in the truck, all the while making her think it was her idea in the first place. But that’s not me. He’s always been the brain. I’ve always been the muscle. Whether I wanted to be or not. All I’ve ever had is violence.

  So I keep it simple.

  “You take another step and I’ll kill this kid,” I say.

&nbs
p; Lauren freezes. She turns and looks at me, her eyes suddenly focused by fear. She searches for the bluff in my words. But I’ll do it if I have to. That’s what she sees instead. And that’s why she doesn’t go to the police.

  * * *

  —

  I OPEN THE bay door as slowly as I can, leaning out to see if the police are gone. The fire lane is clear, so I throw it the rest of the way up and head to the truck. We don’t have much time. Someone from inside the store could come out at any moment.

  When I turn, I see the kid. He’s still on the floor by the back of the garage.

  “We weren’t here,” I say to him.

  He might run inside, tell his boss. Or he might call the police. He might not, though. I think it’s more likely he’ll just disappear. Never show up again. But honestly, I just don’t care. We’ll be gone. And the police will find me eventually. So I back the truck out of the bay and we drive away.

  The neighborhood isn’t far. I pull out of the parking lot and don’t see any police yet. So I speed up. But as I do, the back wheel drags against the dented panel. I figure it might blow at any second.

  Lauren’s hand covers her mouth. She mumbles something. I glance over and it looks like the bleeding has stopped. But when her hand moves, I see her lip has already started to swell.

  “Buckle your belt,” I say.

  “You’re crazy!” she says.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I look out the windshield and I’m a little kid again. Instead of my truck, I sit in a dingy yellow school bus that smells like sour milk. Instead of Lauren beside me, it is my brother, but a kid again, staring out the window just as she does. Pretending I don’t exist, just like she does.

  Up ahead, I see the sign. It reads Woodside Acres in a flowing but faded script. It is a sign that is as much a part of my childhood as all the memories that come crashing back at the sight of it. We are home again, Drew and I. Like our stories are on a timeless loop.