by Jake Hinkson
“It depends on what we want to happen next. If the police find him here, then our lives are over. Your life as you know it is over.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Yes. Exactly. Jesus fucking Christ.” He nods. “I always wondered what the appeal of blasphemy was. Now I get it. It’s a way of dragging the Almighty down to our level.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He waves that away. “Here’s the point, Brian. Unless you want to go to jail tonight, we need to get rid of this body.”
“But we can’t just dump him down the road somewhere.”
“No, we can’t. So, let’s think. How did you two get here? Together?”
“Yeah. In his truck.”
He thinks about it. “Where is it?”
“Parked on the side.”
“Under the trees?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That’s good. It’s a well-shaded spot, and it’s not visible from the north side of 65. That means that only people coming from the south could see it, and I think they’d have to really be looking. So, there’s a good chance, especially at this time of night, that no one even saw you.”
I take a breath and look down. He’s got the shirt wrapped around Tommy’s crushed head to soak up the blood and then the bag around that to catch any spillage. He ties the bag at Tommy’s neck. And it kind of hits me again. Tommy is dead. I’ve known him for years, and he’s dead on the floor. “I killed him . . .”
“It was self-defense. Like you said, you had to do it. If we had let him hold this thing over us, then what?”
“I . . . killed him.”
“We both did. That’s what a jury would say.”
“Jesus.” I rub my face, and my hand drips with sweat. “I just knew that no matter what else happened between the two of you, I’d be fucked. I’d lose the store, my kids, probably go to jail.”
The preacher stops what he’s doing and looks at me.
I say, “Now, though—now I just think we’re fucked.”
“Don’t talk that way. We can still make this work.”
“No, man. Look, I think—”
“Stop it, Brian,” he says. “Don’t even say it. We all had our chance to do the right thing, and none of us took it. Me, you, and Tommy. All of us. That chance is gone, and now we’re managing the consequences. You really want to go to jail? What will happen to your kids?”
My face gets hot. “Don’t talk about my kids, man. You don’t give a shit about me or my kids.”
“I don’t matter, Brian.” Still using the bags as gloves, he pulls off Tommy’s belt and uses it to fasten the robe tight around his bloody torso. “Don’t think about me at all. I don’t care about you, and you don’t care about me. Fine. So forget about me. Ask yourself what’s going to happen to you, and then make your decision based on that. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“What does that mean?”
He looks up and kind of takes in the whole church. “It means I’m not going to throw away my life tonight. Neither should you. We can still make this work.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, man. Tommy is dead. We can’t make that go away.”
“Yes, we can. I can.”
“How?”
“We put his body in his truck, and we take him to the bridge.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“And we throw him over.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, man. Then we go to jail. Anyone can tell he was murdered.”
“Yes, but it can be made to look like someone else did it.”
“Who?”
“Gary Doane and Sarabeth Simmons.”
“Tommy’s stepdaughter, or whatever?”
“Yes, that’s the one. And her boyfriend.”
“Gary Doane is the kid who went crazy . . .”
“Exactly. Everyone knows that he’s got emotional issues. And she’s nothing but a slut.”
“But why frame them?”
“Because the money is for them.”
“The money . . . is for them . . . Why?”
The preacher takes a deep breath. “Because I’ve been sleeping with Sarabeth. They were blackmailing me.”
“Oh, Jesus, man.”
“You’ll have to help me carry the body out to the truck. It’s perfect. We dump the body, and then I pay off Gary and Sarabeth and they skip town with the money. You think that won’t make them the prime suspects?”
“Yeah, it would, but they’ll say you gave them the money. They’ll say you gave it to them.”
He shrugs. He’s so calm now he can fucking shrug. “And I’ll say I didn’t.”
“I don’t know, man.”
He shakes his head. “But I know, Brian. You’re going to help me dump Tommy over the bridge, and then you’re going to go home, and nothing bad is going to happen to you. If the police come and talk to me, I’ll handle it.”
“Am I supposed to just take your fucking word for that?”
“The other option is to call the police and go to jail. We can go home tonight, or we can go to jail tonight. I know what my choice is.”
I try to think about it, but it’s too hard. He’s acting so cool. He stands up. You wouldn’t know that he was standing over a dead guy. He’s calm, and it’s weird, but that makes me feel a little better. It’s like we’re both lost, but at least he has some idea of where to go.
But what about Bud?
“The sheriff seen me with Tommy,” I tell him.
“When?”
“Tonight. Like a hour ago.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“Nothing, really. But I could tell he thought we was out looking for the money.”
“He know you were coming to see me?”
“No.”
“Good. Then if they ask you what happened, you say Tommy dropped you off at the church. And I’ll back you up. You came to the church, and we discussed the vote, and Tommy left to find Gary and Sarabeth.”
That makes sense. I could do that. Me and the preacher were talking at the church, and Tommy run off and went after the kids who stole from him.
The preacher says, “It’s good. This will work. You and I have an alibi. Tommy dropped you off. And I saw him drive off. I’m a perfect alibi for you, and you’re a good alibi for me.”
I don’t know what else to do. I nod.
The preacher looks at me like he understands, like he’s my dad talking me through a hard time. “This will be over soon,” he says.
“I just—”
“It’s going to be okay, Brian. Nothing can bring Tommy back. So we have to think about what’s best for us and what’s best for our families. We can do this.”
“Yeah . . .”
“We can iron out the details later, but right now, we need to do this. Right?”
“Right. Yes.”
I bend down slowly and pull up Tommy’s socks, because I don’t want to touch his bare legs. Solid. He feels weird and solid. His socks are still sweaty. The preacher gets him under the arms and we lift him up. Heavy. We grunt. I gag, because Tommy is dripping piss and shit inside that robe. The preacher grunts.
“Hold on a sec,” the preacher says, and we put Tommy down. The preacher scans the highway and unlocks the door.
“The truck is in the side lot?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Once we get to the truck, the trees and the shade make it less likely that someone can see us from the road. So, the only thing we have to worry about is the short space between here and the truck.”
I nod.
He scans the highway again.
“This is it,” he says. “We go hard and fast.”
“Okay.”
He unlocks the door and opens it and we’re outside. The air is cold, and Tommy is heavy, and I need to piss again. My hands are sweaty, and my legs are burning, and I’m scared I’m going to drop him. What are we doi
ng? We carry him across the parking lot and into the shadows beneath the pines and lay him on the ground. While the preacher digs through Tommy’s pockets for his keys, I catch my breath. The preacher puts the keys in his own shirt pocket and drops the tailgate. Then we grunt and heave Tommy into the bed of the truck.
“The bat,” the preacher says. He looks at me hard for a minute and finally says, “I’ll be right back.” Then he runs back into the church.
And now I’m alone, standing by the truck in the shadows, and Tommy is dead, and the grasshoppers and crickets are so loud tonight, it’s like they’re yelling at me.
now’s your chance to leave
Can’t. Nowhere to go. Gotta do what’s best for me. For the kids.
I look up at the church. It’s so big. If he runs something this big, he’s gotta know what he’s doing.
He comes out with the bat and tosses it in the back of the truck, and it thuds against Tommy. He climbs into the truck bed and undoes the robe, pulls Tommy’s arms out of the sleeves, and unties the bag and all the stuff on Tommy’s head. Then he puts the belt back on Tommy, with the empty holster on his hip. “I’ll dispose of this stuff,” he says, waving at the robe and the bag. “He has to go into the water in nothing but his own clothes.”
I nod.
“Get in,” he says, climbing out of the bed.
He’s so calm. I can barely think straight, and he’s so fucking calm.
I get in the passenger side, and he slides in the driver’s side and starts the ignition. We pull out and creep down the service road.
At the end of the road, where it turns onto the highway, there’s a little grove of trees I’ve never noticed before, and he pulls in there and shuts off the truck. I look through the back window, and Tommy is laying there in moonlight, clear as day.
“Anybody can see him.”
“No one will,” the preacher says.
TWENTY-SIX RICHARD WEATHERFORD
From where we’re parked in the trees, we can see the highway as it descends the hill and passes the church, crosses the bridge, and then skirts the edge of downtown, headed north. A truck tops the hill coming our way. At the same time, distant headlights approach from town.
“Okay,” I say. “After this car and truck pass, we go. We have to do this quickly. We don’t want to be on the bridge any longer than we have to be. So, once I throw the truck in park, we jump out, grab him, and over he goes.”
I glance at Brian to see if he understands. He’s staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I can’t believe this is you.”
I turn my attention back to the highway. The truck speeds down the hill and passes the car coming across the bridge. The taillights of the truck fade in darkness. The car climbs up the hill.
“I’m not myself right now,” I tell him.
He seems to accept that as an answer but says, “Then who are you?”
I almost laugh at that.
“So,” he says, “it was all just bullshit?”
“What?”
“Your whole Christian thing. This whole time. Everything that everybody thinks about you. It’s just an act? This is the real you?”
“Get ready,” I say. The car disappears over the hill in a whisper, and I turn the ignition and hit the gas.
TWENTY-SEVEN BRIAN HARTEN
The truck lunges forward in the dark. I want to close my eyes, but I can’t. Without headlights, the night is as blue as a bruise and it’s like I’m being pushed from behind. The black highway and trees and the bridge and water.
At the middle of the bridge, the preacher hits the brakes. He swings right up to the railing, so close I have to squeeze out. I’ve driven across this bridge a million times, but I’ve never stood on it. In the dark, it feels like we’re a mile up from the beating water. We run around to the back, drop the tailgate, and each grab a leg. I look over my shoulder. No cars coming. We drag Tommy out of the truck bed, hoist him up, and flop him against the railing. Then we lift him up and over and he drops away from us. One shoe flies off in the dark. I can make out his pink shirt as he plops into the river.
The water takes his body, and it disappears beneath the bridge, and the back of my head explodes
crack
no, i try to yell, stop
crack crack
rail
over
air
scream can’t
water flies up
n
TWENTY-EIGHT RICHARD WEATHERFORD
I wipe off the bloody bat with the robe and throw it over the bridge after Brian. Then I toss the robe into the truck bed and run to the open door. I have to do a three-point turn to get the truck pointed back toward the church. As I do, the gun, the money, and Weller’s cell phone all slide off the seat and clatter on the floorboard. No cars pass as I race back to the service road.
I’m winded when I jump out of the truck and pause to catch my breath. I survey the parking lot. No vehicles except my own.
I collect the stuff from the floorboard and run into the church and lock all the doors behind me. I should be alone. No one with a key has cause to come here this late. I check my phone. No new messages.
Blood in the foyer.
I grab liquid hand soap from the foyer bathroom and hurry through the darkened sanctuary. Passing the organ flanking the right of the stage, I go into the baptistery dressing room and recoil at my image in the mirror. The dried blood of Tommy Weller and Brian Harten dots my skin like freckles. Stripping naked, I collect some towels and climb the stairs to the baptistery. I run the water warm and use the soap to wash myself. Then I use the towels to wash the baptistery. The blood washes off easily.
I know, of course, that there is no way for me to clean up all the microscopic evidence of my crimes, and it would be a waste of time for me to attempt to do so. It is better to clean myself, to clean the scene, and to hope that the deaths of Weller and Harten do not lead the police here. My greatest bulwark, I remind myself, is that no one has a reason to suspect me. No one has a reason to come here and look for evidence of murder, here of all places.
After I’ve cleaned myself thoroughly, I retrieve a dry towel and wrap it around my waist. I hurry to the janitor’s closet, grab the fiberglass cleaner and a black garbage bag, and take it all back to the foyer. The towel keeps coming loose, so I slip it off while I clean the foyer from top to bottom. I wash the windows, scrub the floors on my hands and knees, wipe down the walls and the doors. I take out the damaged ceiling tile and carry it downstairs to the dumpster. I break it up into four pieces before I dispose of it. On my way back up, I grab a replacement from the basement supply closet. I fix the ceiling, then turn on the lights in the foyer so that I can inspect everything. When I’m content that all looks normal, I shut off the light.
Then I bathe myself again, dry myself off, throw everything into the bag, and go to my office. I keep a spare pair of clothes in my office to wear under my robe when I baptize new believers. It’s just a plain gray T-shirt, jeans, underwear, and socks that I keep in my coat closet. I get dressed and take the garbage bag downstairs to the other janitor’s closet, where we have the washer and dryer. They were gifts from the estate of elderly Sister Rutherford a couple of years ago. She worried about people having to tote home wet clothes after being baptized. Odd, the things people care about. The truth is we don’t have enough baptisms to justify such a thing, but it’s nice to have the washer and dryer here for towels and table linens. During the last bad tornado season, we were able to help out several families who lost their power.
We have a bottle of Tide Ultra, which Penny bought for the express purpose of washing the fake blood out of the Easter costumes. I soak my clothes, the towels, and the clothing I wrapped around Tommy.
Then I start the washer. I don’t know if the stains will come out completely, but either way, this will make them less obvious. When everything is washed and dried, I’ll fold it all neatly at the bottom of my office cl
oset until I can bag it up and throw it in the dumpster just before the trash pickup on Monday.
I run upstairs and look over everything once more. I turn on all the lights and look for spots on the floors of the sanctuary and the hallways, but I don’t see anything. Still, I make a note to call the carpet cleaners on Monday.
I climb the baptistery steps, look everything over, and turn off the lights in the dressing room. I walk back up to the sanctuary and check the Easter stage.
Everything is in order.
Scrolling through the contacts on Tommy’s phone, I find her. Sarabeth Simmons.
I look at his last few texts to get a feel for how he writes. The hallmarks of his style seem to be all caps, an inability to distinguish between its and it’s, and no use of punctuation outside of an abuse of the exclamation point.
I sit down on the front pew beside Tommy’s gun.
I text her.
TWENTY-NINE SARABETH SIMMONS
I’m packing my final bag when my phone dings. It makes me jump. Even though they don’t have my number, I’m afraid it might be Gary’s parents. I pull it out and read it.
“What the hell?”
“What?” Gary asks, drying his hair with a towel.
I show it to him. “Look at this shit.”
It’s from Tommy. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU
Gary frowns. “What does he want?”
“I have no idea. Maybe he doesn’t want me to tell my mom about what happened? I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted me to be quiet about it. God, what a piece of shit.”
I write him back, After what u did? Go fuck urself
A second later he texts, ITS IMPORTANT!
I fire back, U goin and fuckin urself is important
That one slows him down, but after a minute or so he writes, ITS ABOUT THE MONEY
“He said what?” Gary asks.
I show him.
We stare at each other for a second.
“What’s he mean?” I ask.
Gary sits down on my bed. His skin is still pink from the shower. “He doesn’t mean the money from the preacher. He doesn’t know about that.”
“No.”
“Ask him what he’s talking about.”