Too Far

by Jason Starr

  Then I had a thought that actually made me shudder. What if Lawrence Ward hadn’t killed his wife or Anthony? What if evidence at Anthony’s apartment implicated someone else. Then I’d just killed an innocent man.

  One positive about panic – it helps time pass. A southbound train had appeared in the distance, and a couple of minutes later, it arrived at the station.

  I boarded the nearly empty car and had three seats to myself. As the train pulled away, I stared out of the blotchy window, at the bleak industrial landscape, my thoughts swirling, thinking everything that had happened since meeting Rob for lunch that day, to going on Discreet Hookups, to meeting Sophie, to becoming a murder suspect, to possibly becoming a murder suspect again.

  ‘It’s insanity,’ I said.

  At least I was aware I was talking out loud, which meant I wasn’t insane.

  Or did it?

  At many times in my life I’d felt insane. Those times were usually associated with drinking, but could I blame everything on alcohol? Everyone in recovery knows that alcohol is just the symptom.

  I’d killed Lawrence Ward, so maybe I’d killed Anthony and Sophie, too, and had just blocked it out. Maybe discovering two bodies didn’t seem like a coincidence, because it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe nobody was setting me up because I was the only killer.

  I had to admit – it seemed as logical as any of my other theories. All this time I’d been telling myself that Barasco had some sort of vendetta against me, but maybe he’d been focusing on me for good reason. Hell, if I were the detective in charge of this case, I’d focus on me, too. I had been arrested before for assault, I had a history of violence, and I’d been at, not one or two, but three murder scenes, with motives for two. Maybe Sophie had threatened me, said she’d tell Maria that I’d met her on Discreet Hookups, so I’d snapped and killed her. See? It all made sense. That would explain why her blood had been on me, and why I’d been trying to convince Barasco that Lawrence Ward was the actual killer. Which led to my motive for killing Lawrence – so the police couldn’t verify his alibi for the first murder. It hadn’t been self-defense, like I’d been telling myself. I’d murdered him with the intention of blaming a ‘hit man.’

  I had to get a hold of myself. I was starting to lose it – like I had those other times.

  I took a deep breath, tried to focus.

  Step two: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity.

  ‘Come on, God, if you really can restore people to sanity, restore me now.’

  Just because I’d had crazy episodes didn’t mean I was crazy. I was sober now, I was a dad, I was a good person. I’d made some mistakes, but I’d gotten on a path, and none of that had changed when I’d met Sophie Ward.

  But was this true, or was my belief that I wasn’t crazy just another rationalization? After all, I’d always been a master of rationalizing my bad behavior, so if I had snapped and killed a couple of people, why would I admit it to myself? I’d even blacked out before, had long and short gaps in my memory, so why couldn’t that have happened again? My past blackouts had been related to drinking, but had drinking been the real cause? Or maybe I had been drinking all along and had been in some kind of crazed state of denial all this time.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘What?’ I nearly screamed.

  The conductor, a heavyset guy, was waiting for my ticket.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I muttered as I dug into my pocket.

  ‘You okay, pal?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. You just, uh, startled me.’

  I gave him my ticket and he placed another one into the holder atop the seat in front of me.

  He gave me a long look, then went and took the ticket of somebody behind me.

  I still felt crazy, but that didn’t mean I was crazy. I was just caught in the maze, that’s all, but – I reminded myself – I’d been caught in mazes before and had always found my way out.

  I had to keep searching.

  * * *

  Though my ticket was to Grand Central, I got out at Harlem. I was antsy on the train, felt trapped, and I had no real destination anyway. I just needed air; needed to move.

  Wandering along mobbed 125th Street, I felt much safer and more anonymous than I had in White Plains. No one even looked at me; I could’ve been invisible. City people were so caught up in their own dramas that no one cared about mine – that’s what I told myself anyway.

  I headed downtown on Lexington. After a few blocks, I checked the local news on my phone, to see if there was anything new about me.

  There was – a few articles, but with the same content.

  I read the headline: MAN FOUND DEAD IN WHITE PLAINS, SUSPECT AT LARGE

  There was only one paragraph, mentioning how I’d been a person of interest in the murder of Sophie Ward and now was wanted for murdering Lawrence Ward.

  I was terrified – not for myself, because I knew the police would come after me – but for what Maria and Jonah would think when they found out. For Maria, it would just confirm what she’d already feared about me. I didn’t know what she’d told Jonah, but Jonah had to know that I’d done something bad in order for the school to ban me from seeing him. When this news broke, though, Jonah would be certain to hear about it, and he’d grow up thinking his dad was a killer, and who knows? Maybe he’d be right.

  Crossing the street, walking slowly, feeling dazed, I knew I didn’t have much time. That transit cop in White Plains knew I had headed back to the city, and the conductor had seen me as well. Returning to Anthony’s apartment was out because Officer Singh knew I’d been there.

  Every option led to a dead end; I was out of moves.

  Or was I?

  There was one way out of the maze; the option that had always been there. It had been my way out of trouble since I had my first drink when I was fourteen years old. Alcohol had never been the source of my problems, but it had always been my easiest escape.

  And, wouldn’t you know it? There was a liquor store on the next corner. I went in, grabbed a bottle of Bushmills from the shelf, and paid for it, using almost all of my remaining money.

  Knowing New York City was serious these days about enforcing the ‘open bottle law,’ I went around the corner and ducked into an alley. I opened the bottle and drank as much as I could until my throat burned and I needed to take a breath. Drinking felt natural, like I’d never quit, and maybe I hadn’t. Maybe those times at AA – my tearful speeches at my annual anniversaries – had been total bullshit. Maybe quitting had just been another lie I’d told myself that I wanted to believe.

  * * *

  ‘Hey, asshole… hey, asshole.’

  I opened my eyes, slow to realize that I was splayed in the vestibule of a building. A guy was pushing a door against the back of my head.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay,’ I slurred.

  I shifted enough for him to jimmy past me. He was Latino, maybe in his sixties.

  ‘You better be outta here by the time I get back or I’m callin’ the cops,’ he said. ‘Fuckin’ bums, cloggin’ up my halls.’

  The guy left. When he got outside he was still yelling at me, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  I still had no idea where I was, or how I’d gotten here. I remembered being in the alley, taking the swig of whiskey, and then everything had gone black.

  Failure and self-loathing struck me with a lethal combination – I drank again, I got drunk. All the time, energy, and commitment I’d put into resisting alcohol for years – six years and over five months, to be exact – had been wiped out with one bad decision.

  I struggled and finally got to my feet. I was still drunk, or at least buzzed, the whiskey odor on my breath. I had my phone and wallet with me and the keys to my apartment. I had to get home to have dinner with Maria and Jonah, and then get Jonah ready for school.

 
; Then I experienced the jolt, the sudden lightheadedness you get when you receive devastating news, as I remembered that I didn’t have a family anymore and was wanted for two murders. I cried – no, sobbed. I hadn’t cried like this since my dog died when I was eleven years old. But this was worse – much, much worse. I’d lost my whole family and the reasons why seemed absurd, fake, like they weren’t even my reasons. They had been the reasons of some other Jack Harper who’d inhabited my body for a while, but now the real Jack Harper was back, and I just wanted to have my typical, dull, semi-miserable life back. Maybe I’d been afraid to settle, felt I deserved more, but if I could go back I wouldn’t complain because I’d know that if you make dramatic changes, things can get better, but they can also get much, much worse.

  But unfortunately this wasn’t It’s a Wonderful Life. I couldn’t go back and make different choices. The mistakes I’d made were irrevocable and nothing was going to save me.

  On the street, I thought I’d recognize something, but I didn’t. Well aside from recognizing that I was somewhere in Manhattan; then it clicked that I was in Spanish Harlem. Baby steps, right?

  It was still light out, but it was getting dark. As I headed down the block, toward the nearest intersection, I glanced at my watch – 5:38. It seemed like I’d only ‘missed’ an hour or two, but it was still terrifying – not just that I’d blacked out from drinking, but that the experience seemed so familiar. Maybe I’d been drinking and blacking out all along and was just beginning to be honest with myself.

  I saw the street signs as I approached the corner – 117th and Madison. I wasn’t far from the alley I’d gone in to drink. I’d bought the booze to escape, but as always, the escape didn’t last long enough. I guess that was to be expected though; if the escape lasted permanently, there wouldn’t be any alcoholics.

  Sadly, even if I wanted one, I couldn’t afford another escape; I couldn’t even afford to get anything to eat. If I showed up in a homeless center, or for a free meal at a church, how long would it take somebody to recognize me?

  I’d told a friend in college – after another friend had killed himself by jumping from the roof of the science building – that I would never want to kill myself, because I could always find one thing to live for. Well, that had been a lie, because as I tried to come up with a list of reasons to live, I couldn’t come up with a single one. Jonah wasn’t even a compelling reason to live; in fact, he was a reason to die. What son needs to grow up with the stigma of having a father who’s serving a life sentence in prison? I couldn’t possibly have any positive influence on his life; I’d be an albatross. But if I died tonight – ah, if I died! – he’d still have to grow up without a father, and with the stigma of what I’d done. But, eventually, I’d be forgotten, and Maria was an attractive woman, she’d meet someone else. There was still hope for Jonah to have a normal, happy life, but that hope didn’t include me.

  Before I ended my life, I needed to do one good thing for Jonah, something that would make him happier and that would cause him to think about me in a positive way. Actually, the idea had been percolating in the back of my mind for a couple of days – since my night in prison. It would be tough to pull off, but why not try?

  As I walked, I called the California number. Rob McEvoy picked up before the first ring, then said, in his smooth, smarmy voice, ‘Hey, my brother.’

  I hadn’t rehearsed, or even thought through what I’d say to him – I was totally winging it.

  ‘We have to talk,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry I’ve been out of touch,’ he said, ‘didn’t mean to flake, but life’s been crazy.’

  His life’s been crazy?

  ‘You think I give a shit?’ I said.

  ‘Whoa.’ He sounded shocked. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘like you don’t remember?’

  ‘Remember what? Are you okay, man?’

  ‘No, actually I’m not okay. I’m actually pretty much as far away from okay as you can possibly get.’

  ‘If this is about the apartment, I said I was sorry,’ he said. ‘Life got in the way. It’s not that I’m not interested. I totally am. It’s just that –’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about the apartment,’ I said, ‘and I don’t give a fuck about you, you lying, cheating son of a bitch.’

  He’d never been a friend, and now that we weren’t in a band together, and he wasn’t even a potential client anymore, I didn’t have to be on eggshells; I could let loose, not kiss ass and pretend I liked him.

  ‘Look, man, I don’t know what’s going on, if you think you’re being funny or whatever, but I have to –’

  ‘You’re gonna do whatever I tell you to do,’ I said.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  On the phone, in the background, I heard cars honking.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Manhattan actually,’ he said.

  He was in the city?

  ‘Where in Manhattan?’ I asked.

  ‘Midtown,’ he said. ‘I meant to give you a buzz to let you know I’d be in town again but, like I said, things have been crazy. When I got back to L.A. things got sort of, well, out of hand. So I’ve been dealing with that, then this big deal that I’m about to close and… anyway, I’m heading into a meeting now. Can I call you back?’

  I could tell he just wanted to get rid of me. Yeah, right.

  ‘No, not later,’ I said. ‘Meet me right now.’

  ‘Look, man, I just told you I’m –’

  ‘You think I give a fuck about your meeting? Is your life more important to you than your meeting?’

  ‘Look, I’m hanging up on you –’

  ‘Hang up, I’ll destroy your life the way you destroyed mine.’

  That was good – I was proud of myself for coming up with that on the fly.

  ‘Jack, what’s going on, man? Why the fuck’re you acting this way?’

  ‘Meet me now.’

  ‘I’m walking into drinks at Soho House with a top recording artist and his manager. I can’t just –’

  ‘Meet me or you’ll never see your wife and kids again. Your choice.’

  I sounded like the villain in a Bond movie, but there was nothing jokey about my tone. I was on a roll.

  ‘Jack, dude. What the fuck?’

  There was fear in Rob’s tone. He was catching on that I wasn’t bullshitting.

  Keeping the intensity going, I said, ‘You heard me, you fucking prick.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but maybe you should just chill for a while. Are you home? Can your wife help you?’

  ‘I don’t have a wife anymore,’ I said. ‘And if I call your wife and tell her everything I know about you and Discreet Hookups my bet is you won’t have a wife either.’

  Long pause – all I heard were cars honking. My threats were clearly resonating.

  ‘Come on, what’s going on, Jack?’ he finally asked. ‘Is this a joke? You fucking with me?’

  ‘If I end this call your life’s over, Rob.’

  ‘Jack, what the –’

  ‘One –’

  ‘Jack, why would –’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Okay. Okay, I’ll meet you, I’ll meet you. Just calm down, all right?’

  ‘I’ll text you instructions,’ I said, and ended the call.

  Finally, I felt like a winner.

  18

  I texted Rob to meet me at the Starbucks at 96th and Lexington. When he arrived, I was waiting near the door. I immediately noticed that this wasn’t affable Rob from a couple of weeks ago. This was pissed-off, terrified-as-shit Rob.

  It was a beautiful thing to see.

  He looked around, like he didn’t spot me right away, even though I was only about ten feet away, leaning against the counter by the window, staring right at him. Then h
is gaze settled on mine, and he seemed surprised, taken aback by my appearance no doubt. I probably looked, appropriately, like I’d been through hell.

  Meanwhile, he looked like his usual slick, smarmy self. He was in expensive jeans, looked like Diesel, an untucked black button-down, a designer sport jacket, and recently shined shoes. He looked so groomed-looking, so clean, so arrogant. Everything about him disgusted me.

  He came over to me. A couple of people were close-by – a long-haired guy tapping away on his laptop and a woman chatting on her phone.

  ‘Please.’ He sounded short of breath. ‘Tell me this is all a joke, man. You’re pissed off I flaked on the apartment. That’s what this is about, right?’

  ‘Gimme twenty dollars,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. Twenty. Right now.’

  The guy on the laptop looked over. Rob, seeming maybe relieved because he thought he was going to get off by giving me twenty bucks – yeah, right – opened his wallet and handed me a twenty.

  I got in line and when it was my turn, I bought a turkey sandwich, two muffins, and two packages of mixed nuts. I didn’t care what I was buying; I was starving and needed food.

  When I returned to Rob, I’d already stuffed about half a muffin in my mouth and I couldn’t chew fast enough. I didn’t care that I had crumbs all over my chin.

  ‘What’s going on with you, Jack? Are you okay? Maybe you should, like, talk to somebody.’

  ‘A shrink!’ I screamed. ‘You think I need a shrink?’

  People around, including laptop dude, were looking over at me.

  Paranoid that somebody in here would recognize me and call the cops before I had a chance to do what I needed to do, I said, ‘Let’s go. Across the street to the playground.’

  ‘Why?’ Rob asked.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  I’d taken Jonah to this playground many times over the years. He loved the artificial ‘Rivers of the World’ stream. We used to find twigs and then race each other – whosever twig made it to the end of the stream first was the winner.

  The playground was empty now, and dark – the only light from lamp posts on 96th and Lexington. I sat on a bench, the same bench I used to sit and watch Jonah play when he was a few years old – not letting him out of my sight. Those happy memories of being a stay-at-home dad contrasted sharply with where I was now and seemed to be almost mocking me.