The Guilt We Carry

by Samuel W. Gailey

  “Why do you do that? Keep saying my name?”

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah. You do.”

  He thought about this for a moment. “Perhaps it’s a means of making a connection with someone.”

  “Well, it feels forced. Most connections—the ones that matter—happen naturally.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration.” Sinclair lit up another cigarette and offered Alice one as well.

  “So, Alice. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know how all this will play out?”

  Alice cracked the window and blew out some smoke. “No.”

  “No? And why’s that?”

  She looked over at the man, buckled securely into his seat. “I don’t really like to look too far forward. Never have.”

  Sinclair nodded. Seemed satisfied with the answer.

  “I’ve been running my whole life it seems like. Never in one place for very long,” Alice confided. She paused. Smoked for a second. “I want this over. The money. The running.”

  “I understand. It can be exhausting.”

  Alice took one hand off the steering wheel and settled back into her seat. “My brother’s name was Jason.”

  Sinclair listened intently. Waited for more.

  “He was only four years old when he died. I was babysitting him. There was an accident. Nobody’s fault. That’s what everyone has always told me. But he was my responsibility. His death destroyed my parents.”

  “It must have been a very trying time.”

  She looked at him again. “I don’t want to run anymore. And to be honest, I don’t mind dying here today. At least it would be over. Running. From everything. But they’re my parents, and they didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  Sinclair sighed, smoke curling up from the corners of his mouth. “Yes, we owe our parents a great deal, don’t we? They sacrifice so much for their children. They grant us life. Provide shelter and food and unconditional love, and how do we repay them? We leave the nest they raised us in and sometimes act as if they never existed. A thankless cycle of life.”

  Alice drew on her cigarette. “You know, part of the process of feeling responsible for the death of someone is dealing with the guilt. The guilt is always with you.”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “But then, after some time, the guilt begins to change. After a while the guilt shifts. I found myself going a few days, then a few weeks, forgetting about Jason. And I didn’t feel guilty that I was forgetting about him. I felt guilty because I wanted to forget about him. Easier that way … but you never really forget. Not for long, anyway.”

  Sinclair nodded thoughtfully. “Pushing something uncomfortable from our conscience is a coping mechanism, Alice. Perfectly understandable and acceptable. It enables us to continue our lives without inflicting self-torture upon ourselves.” He studied her profile for a moment. “Perhaps in actuality you didn’t want to forget your brother, you merely wanted to forget his unfortunate end.”

  “Maybe.” Alice put a little more pressure on the gas pedal.

  “If I may ask, how did your brother—Jason—lose his life?”

  Alice looked over at Sinclair. “Why? Why would you want to know that?”

  “Because, Alice, you intrigue me. Something about you truly fascinates me. You’re broken. And because of that, I want to understand you a little better. I want to understand your pain.”

  Alice stared forward. Watched the landscape slip past and thought about that night all those years ago. She didn’t think she would respond to his question—why would she? To him of all people? Her mind went to Jason and that distinct thumping sound filled her ears once again, and she was overcome with a sudden, inexplicable compulsion to share the memory. “My parents went out for dinner. Jason and I were home alone. I was supposed to be watching him, but I wasn’t. And I heard a sound. A sound that I can still hear—right here, right now.”

  “A sound?”

  “Yeah. It’s always there.”

  “I see. Sight, smell, and sound can all trigger emotionally charged memories. But with auditory perception, sounds are stored within our echoic memory. And most sound information is only maintained for a short amount of time—four or five seconds—but a specific sound resulting from a traumatic incident can remain stored for a lifetime.”

  “Are you talking from experience, or just something you read?”

  Sinclair merely smiled. “What happened after you heard this sound, Alice?”

  Alice pulled on her cigarette. “I knew Jason was making the noise, so I went downstairs to find out what he was doing. And the sound got louder.”

  KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK.

  Alice tried to block out that awful sound, but couldn’t—she knew it to be pointless. “It was coming from the basement. It was steady. Nonstop.” She hesitated before continuing. “I walked down the steps. I didn’t see him, but I knew something was wrong.”

  KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK.

  “Then I looked over to where the sound was coming from. It was the dryer … shaking and rattling.” She smoked again. “Jason had climbed inside. And, somehow, for some reason, the dryer turned on.”

  Sinclair silently processed this for a moment. “So you were the one to make the discovery?”

  Alice crushed out her cigarette and nodded.

  “Disturbing. How does one recover from something like that?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Touché.”

  They drove in silence for a few seconds.

  “Do you know what a stadiometer is, Alice?”

  “No.”

  “Most do not.” He peered out the windshield, silently composing what he wanted to say. “The stadiometer is a standard piece of medical equipment used in doctors’ offices to measure one’s height and weight. You step on the platform, and a sliding horizontal headpiece is adjusted to rest on the crown of your skull to determine your stature. They are cold and clinical devices.” He tapped his cigarette onto the ashtray. “During my annual physical exams, my height was always taken—like it is with most children. Once a year, I would step on that platform, and the headpiece would be adjusted. Always lowered from that of the previous patient. The stadiometer would make a distinct metal clicking sound as the headpiece was lowered to rest on the top of my head. A click, click, click. Each piercing click went right through me. I grew to hate that sound.”

  He drew on his cigarette. “It reminded me of what I was … and would always be.”

  Alice offered him nothing.

  “What was your sound like, Alice? With your brother in the dryer?”

  Alice visibly flinched. She hadn’t expected that question. But she wouldn’t share this specific memory—she would not give him that piece of Jason.

  She looked at the man beside her, and he held her gaze, waiting for an answer, but she went in a different direction. “Do you have any kids, Sinclair?”

  Sinclair flicked his cigarette out the window. “No. No, I do not. Don’t really see it in my future, truth be told.”

  “No? Don’t want to leave a legacy behind?”

  He chuckled at the thought. “I think I’ll leave a different kind of legacy.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure you will.”

  “And you? You think you’ll leave some lasting impression? Some mark upon the world?”

  Alice adjusted herself in the seat. Put her free hand back on the steering wheel. “No. I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  Sinclair scrutinized her for a moment. “You live dangerously, Alice. Everything about you. Right down to not even wearing a seat belt.”

  Alice looked over at the seat belt that hung unused by her shoulder. “Yeah. Well. We’re all going to go sometime. Right?”

  “But we should take precautions, Alice. That’s what life is about. I’ve learned that over the years. It’s gotten me to where I am today.”

  Alice glanced over at him; an odd expression—perhaps a smile—upon her face. �
��Maybe that’s what I’m doing. Taking precautions.”

  He studied her for another moment, honestly perplexed by not only her statement, but by her expression as well.

  “Can I get another one of those smokes?”

  Sinclair handed her a cigarette, then they both lit up.

  The Cape Fear Memorial Bridge loomed in front of them, and there, off in the distance, stood the USS North Carolina—the gray seven-hundred-foot battleship permanently docked. Alice had visited the battleship a half dozen times. With her parents on a few occasions, a school field trip, once with a group of friends.

  And then there was the last time.

  The last time she set foot on the battleship was with Jason. His first and only visit. He had been so excited, eyes wide the entire time, racing around, pointing at the gun turrets, touching the sides of a Kingfisher aircraft, screaming through the narrow hallways below deck. He ate it all up. Said that he wanted to be a sailor when he grew up. Her parents bought him a USS North Carolina T-shirt and captain’s cap, both of which he wore almost every day for a month.

  Alice watched as warning gates jerked and lowered in front of the bridge; lights flashing red, bells sounding. The bridge’s vertical lift engaged, and the steel platform that divided the overpass started its ascent skyward, foot-by-foot.

  Alice flicked on her blinker and merged into the right-hand lane.

  “So, tell me, Alice. What is it that you planned to do with my money? What did you hope to achieve?”

  Alice smoked on her cigarette and slowly pumped the brakes. “Achieve? I’m almost there.”

  “Almost where, Alice?”

  “To freedom, Sinclair.”

  “Is that right? With me?”

  “Yes. With you. I’m not running anymore. I know where I’m going. All because of you.”

  The Grand Marquis rolled to a stop in front of the warning gates, and the dull clanking of the bells filled the cab of the car.

  “I’m curious about something,” Alice said.

  “Oh?”

  “Do you work for somebody? Or are you on your own?”

  Sinclair laughed softly. “There are people above me, of course. My product must be secured from someone, but the distribution is my enterprise alone. I prefer it that way. Partnerships can be a bit complicated.”

  “Makes sense.” Alice almost smiled as she proceeded to unroll her window all the way down.

  “Anything else you’d like to ask me? Anything else you’d like to know? I’m an open book to you.”

  Alice watched as the section of the bridge approached its apex, then looked toward a freight ship that loomed nearby, waiting for authorization to pass under and continue down the Cape Fear River.

  “Yeah. Just one last question. Do you know how to swim?”

  Sinclair started to say something, but the words weren’t there. Instead, his eyes went to the river that flowed in front of them.

  Alice gripped the steering wheel tight—liberation was there at her fingertips. Between her ten fingers. She slammed her foot onto the gas pedal—the Grand Marquis lurched forward, crashed through the warning gates, tires humming atop the steel grating, going faster, picking up speed.

  The pistol slipped from Sinclair’s hand and thudded to the floorboard. He reached forward to retrieve his weapon, but his seat belt restrained him. He tried again, but failed. Sinclair leaned back into his seat, peered over at Alice, and his face transformed as realization fell upon him. A sound escaped his lips. A single word that seemed to be etched in fear—Alice.

  She pushed the Grand Marquis to its limit. The thundering engine and the roar of the tires upon the steel grid below blocked out everything else. For the next few seconds, the sounds proved deafening, then, as the car launched off the precipice and took flight, all went silent—an inaudible moment caught in time.

  Alice glanced over at Sinclair. Feeling peace for the first time. Feeling the weight of guilt lift off her shoulders. Feeling the sense of freedom she always sought but never obtained.

  Alice closed her eyes. Waited for the impact.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  A DOZEN WILMINGTON police cruisers, four fire trucks, and a handful of ambulances parked at the edge of the Cape Fear River, lights slashing through the gray drizzle that wouldn’t cease. Yellow police tape—draped from trees, light posts, anything to tie off to—snapped in a relentless breeze, keeping reporters and a few dozen curiosity seekers back and away from the scene. Water Street had been blocked off, preventing access to the riverfront restaurants, office buildings, and tourist shops, and traffic sat in a snarl on all the streets that surrounded the area. Commuters desperate to get home laid on their horns, but aside from creating a deafening drone, their efforts did little to get the flow of cars moving again.

  Nightfall approached quickly. Light dimming with each passing second. A gentle fog drifting in off the river.

  Police divers outfitted in black scuba gear floated alongside the Grand Marquis as a tow truck wench methodically cranked the vehicle from the river. First the roof of the car emerged from the water like a sea turtle shell, then the hood and trunk. A few more cranks and the car completely appeared, coated with black sludge. Muddy water churned out of the car, bubbling up against the windows.

  The steel cable groaned to a stop as the car eased up on the concrete shore and emergency workers descended on the vehicle like a pack of gnats—gurneys and medical packs at the ready.

  On the shoreline, businessmen in suits, waiters wearing aprons, and couples out on an evening stroll talked amongst themselves. Some of them taking pictures with their phones.

  One of the divers finally managed to pry open the driver’s-side door with the assistance of a crowbar, and a torrent of brown water gushed out onto the shore before winding its way back into the river. A lone figure sat crumpled in the passenger seat, skin white and puckered from being submerged for so long. Many around the car thought the victim to be a child. So small. So fragile looking.

  The vehicle was searched for other victims. The back seat. The floor of the car.

  Then the trunk.

  River water rushed from the well of the trunk, lapping over the fender and license plate, and the brown liquid, mixed with a considerable amount of blood, churned and swirled with dozens of wet twenty-dollar bills. Thousands of dollars spilled out as if dispensed from an underwater ATM. The paper currency floated atop the rushing water, then ran down the bank of the river before getting swept up in the waters encasing Cape Fear and spinning downstream.

  Amidst the darkened water that remained trapped inside, a large man’s body floated faceup, his neck slashed open, eyes swollen shut. It took the strained efforts of three paramedics to finally remove the dead weight from the trunk.

  The body was laid out on the cold, sandy concrete. Paramedics followed protocol, but found the victim to be deceased, just as they knew he would be.

  As the search continued, a police officer reached a gloved hand into the trunk and retrieved an olive-green duffel bag. The bag was turned over and stacks of waterlogged cash slapped against the ground like dead fish.

  Then a team of detectives took over, scouring the car for any evidence that would determine the cause of the accident. They found and removed Sinclair’s pistol. Phillip’s knife was discovered strapped under the man’s belt. Photographs were taken, items removed one by one from suitcases, and each article of clothing placed in plastic evidence bags. The gas and brake pedals were examined and tested for malfunction.

  Amongst the detectives, there was conversation about the empty driver’s seat and the opened window. More photographs were taken, flashes of white popping every few seconds.

  As the investigation dragged on and nightfall settled along the river, the crowd of onlookers began to thin out one by one. Everyone getting on with the rest of their day, morbidly excited to share the story of the accident with friends and family.

  A few blocks from the crime scene, a young woman stood rigid, watching
closely, but keeping her distance from everyone else. She wore a sweatshirt and blue jeans, and even though all the other bystanders were damp from rain, she stood out—her clothing stuck to her skin like wet newspaper, water dripping from the cuffs of her pants and pooling around her feet. Brown hair hung over the woman’s face, but her green eyes kept a steady watch.

  It was only after both corpses were finally zipped up in body bags and loaded into the back of a coroner’s van that the young woman began to walk away. She moved a bit gingerly—slow, easy steps with the bare hint of a limp. She didn’t look back. Not once. As the woman disappeared down a side street, the rain started to ease up a little, and the wind finally tapered off until the air grew utterly still.

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Where to begin? Well, perhaps I’ll start at home …

  This book would not be in your hands if not for my wife, best friend, and frequent mentor, Ayn Carrillo-Gailey. She inspires me. Encourages me. Challenges me to not only be a better writer, but a better man. And all of this before she helps me craft and edit my work.

  My other girl, Gray, twelve, never fails to fill me with blinding pride. Intelligent, kind, creative, and a much better speller than I.

  Thank you to my mother, Deb Templeton, who instilled in me my absolute passion for the written word. I’d like to thank my sister, Robin, for her last-minute help on one of the most crucial scenes in the book, and to Geoff, for always watching out for his little brother.

  I am eternally grateful to the Oceanview Publishing team for making me feel at home. To my editors, Pat and Bob Gussin, I appreciate your insightful notes. Thank you to Emily Baar, Lee Randall, and Autumn Beckett for all that you contribute in this process.

  Thank you to my literary agent, Esmond Harmsworth, at Aevitas Creative Management, for his loyalty and guidance.

  Where would I be without my literary manager, Amy Schiffman, at the Intellectual Property Group? You saw something in me when I was taking my first steps as a writer and have stayed by my side through each stumble and fall.