He stopped, slapping his hands down on the trunk. He gazed at the car. Her car, hidden back here so he wouldn't know she was waiting for him inside the church. The driver's side door was opened, and he could see a smear of blood on the interior's chrome handle.
A smear of blood?
Pressing one hand against the car to help keep balance, he stepped over to the open door, leaned down, and peeked into the front seat.
He drew back. Shook his head as if to clear it, then looked again to make certain his weary eyes weren't deceiving him.
Helen Mackey's husband was in the passenger seat. Dead. There was a single bullet hole in the side of his head (which hung out the passenger window), a dry line of blood plastered down the side of his colorless face. A host of flies and mosquitoes buzzed noisily about his wound.
Benjamin's body grew cold, his muscles numb, and he crumpled to his knees in the weeds and soil. Gripping the edge of the door, he gazed at the murdered man, thinking crazily, one good murder deserves another.
Then he began to laugh. Really laugh. An abandoned chaos washed over him, and all his rational thoughts drifted away like canoes plunging over the edge of a waterfall. He could feel them crashing down into the turbulence of his mind, where they abruptly rejoined to form a new, muddled-up perception, one that defied all sensible thought—that insisted he press on with his purpose, despite the adversities at hand. Osiris, thank you for the strength to carry on, he thought.
Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and peeked in the back seat.
And at once realized how the clasp and lock had been positioned back into place on the church door.
Helen Mackey's thirteen year-old son…he was laying across the back seat of the car. He was visibly trembling. There was a swath of dried blood streaked across his forehead like Indian war paint.
He stared up at Benjamin.
Benjamin smiled at him. Then, laughed even harder.
Chapter 22
September 8th, 2005
8:24 AM
The telephone rang. It grabbed Johnny, pulled him away from his dreams, and into bitter consciousness. Eyes still closed, he groped for the handset, and by the time he plucked it off its cradle, he'd completely forgotten about what he'd been dreaming about.
And, where he was.
He opened one eye, then the other. He saw ugly green walls, bad flower art, and a stucco ceiling. He shuddered, feeling frightened before recalling that he was about to embark on a new life, and for the very first time in his eighteen years, had slept someplace other than his room.
He fumbled with the handset, then, feeling nearly devoid of energy, struggled up on one elbow and raised it to his ear.
"Hullo?"
"Johnny…"
"Yeah…"
"Wake you?"
His mind felt totally vacant, clear of most thoughts, and he had to think a moment before remembering the lawyer's name. "No, Mr. Judson." Less than forty-eight hours earlier Johnny didn't even know this man existed; now he was the only human being on earth he felt he could place his trust in. Scary, considering they hadn't even met.
"Let's set the record straight, Johnny. I won't lie to you about anything, and you don't lie to me. Fair enough?"
Johnny hesitated, already feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. "Okay." He gazed at the lamp on the nightstand, then leaned up and peeked around to the digital clock. Eight-thirty.
"Sorry so early," Judson continued, as though able to see Johnny's actions, "but I've set aside the entire day for you."
Johnny leaned up and sat on the edge of the bed, one leg dangling. "Okay…"
"We're going to need it."
"The whole day?"
"That's right, the whole day."
He thought of his mother, her maiden name Conroy, lying alone and afraid in her hospital bed, her long-buried secret suddenly unearthed, driving her toward madness. "I'm guessing there's more to this than just signing a few papers," he said, wondering how she fit into all of this.
"There is, which is why I need you here at nine. There are others who will be joining us as well."
"Others…" The words died in his mouth, and a sudden, unexplainable fear settled into his guts. It was a feeling he'd gotten so used to since this all began two days earlier, when the letter arrived. He wondered if it would always be like this, if this nearly unbearable apprehension would stay with him until the day he died. He listened to his heart beating fast, and tried to swallow past the lump festering in his throat.
A moment of silence passed between them. Judson finally said, "I know this is very hard for you Johnny."
"Yeah, it is." How do you know?
"But the end result is a nice sum of money for you."
Given his Mother's familial connection to the benefactor, Johnny felt that he could trust Judson. However, the lawyer was still just a voice on the phone, making promises of an unseen fortune. And, it didn't take a scholar to know that when there was money involved, it was prudent to keep your guard up, especially with an individual so observably devoted in helping you along.
"Can you be here in thirty minutes?" Judson asked.
"How am I to—?"
"There'll be a cab waiting for you outside the motel in a few moments. You can have breakfast here."
"Thank you," he answered, not feeling very hungry.
"So I guess I'll see you in about a half hour."
"Sounds good." He hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment while deliberating what to expect from Judson, the whole day, then got out of bed and took a shower. While getting dressed, he watched a local newscast about an escaped patient from a neighboring psychiatric institution who was still at large, and was to be considered 'armed and dangerous'. A photo was broadcasted of the man, named David Mackey, who had only one eye, and a large dent in his forehead.
In twenty minutes, Johnny was walking out the front door of the motel, his tote bag draped across his shoulder. A cab was waiting for him beneath the motel's cement canopy. The driver, a thin man wearing a black polo shirt and a Red Sox cap, was leaning sideways across the steering wheel.
"You Johnny Petrie?" he asked.
Johnny nodded. His stomach growled, and he realized—despite not having any appetite—that he hadn't eaten much over the last thirty-six hours. He tossed his bag into the back seat and slid in alongside it. He felt out the lawyer's letter in his back pocket, now becoming a security blanket of sorts, then reached into the tote bag and removed the clear plastic bags containing the feather he found on the fire escape back home, and Ed's strange suicide note. He folded them carefully and placed these into his pocket as well, keeping all his keepsakes of this momentous event in one place.
Once the door was shut, the driver pulled out of the lot, turned left, then moved slowly down Farland Avenue. Johnny sat quietly behind the driver, taking in the sights, observing the differences between the hustle-and-bustle lifestyle of Manhattan, and small-town New England. Here, everything was spread out, small shops and parking lots adorned with flower pots, set apart by stretches of woodland and pastures that seemed to go on forever. The city, on the other hand, was Wellfield's polar opposite: crowded with just about everything under the sun, you couldn't see ten feet in front of you because there were so many buildings and people in the way.
The cab reached what appeared to be a busier part of town—the heart of Wellfield, perhaps—and made a right. Johnny saw a diner, a small movie theater, and a bank with a large LED display that showed the temperature to be seventy-four degrees. As the cab idled at a stoplight, Johnny could see a drug store, a toy store, and a stationery store.
"Where are ya from?" the driver asked, breaking the silence.
"New York."
"City boy, eh?"
"Yes sir."
"Here visiting some relatives?"
"You might say that."
The cab jerked forward as the light turned green. They rode in silence for another half-mile, passing rows of shops, homes, and queues of cars
parked with their rear-ends facing into the street. They circled around a fountain with three cement bears looking out from their midpoint support, then passed another strip of small retail stores. Perhaps a hundred yards behind these stores, Johnny could see a large stretch of unused land that sloped upwards into a knoll. It was surrounded by a rickety-looking wooden fence, weeds and gnarled bushes growing high behind it, packed tightly into the area like subway riders during rush-hour. A rusted metal sign alerted those nearby that it was 'Private Property' and that there would be 'No Trespassing'. To Johnny, the unused land seemed out of place in this built-up area of town. But then again, what did he know? He was a stranger in these parts: a stranger in a strange land.
The driver made a right turn onto Center Street, then pulled over against the curb, about fifty feet up. "After nine, almost impossible to find a spot on Main. Hope this is okay."
A flutter of nervousness tickled Johnny's gut. He turned around in his seat. "That was Main Street?”
"The one and only in Wellfield. You leave it, and there's not much else to see. The lawyer's office is right there on the corner. Number fourteen." In the distance, Johnny could hear a freight train whistle blowing.
"What do I owe you?"
"It's all paid up."
"Great. Thanks." He grabbed his bag and stepped out of the cab onto the sidewalk. The driver yelled, "Have a good day!" then pulled away, leaving Johnny, once again, all alone. He stood there for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sun beating down on him. Even the sun felt different here. Cleaner. More golden. Shouldering the bag, he paced down the sidewalk, passing a young mother with a stroller who smiled and said, "Good Morning". He returned the amiable gesture, realizing that in addition to friendly people, there were a good many things he'd have to get used to while here in Wellfield.
Then he wondered with dismay as to how long he would actually get to stay here, knowing that it was only a matter of time before someone eventually tracked him down. Again he thought of his father, dead by his own hand and still more than likely hanging and thumping. Soon enough someone would report a terrible smell coming from the apartment. And after that they might notice the mail piling up. And then Ed's employer would start looking for him because he hadn't shown up for work. Eventually, the cops would come and break into the apartment, and there they would find Ed Petrie, three or four days dead, the cockroaches and waterbugs investigating his remains. After getting in touch with Mary in the hospital, they would discover that Johnny was missing, and his face would end up on the five o'clock news, just as he said it would.
Needless to say, if Mary got there first, the events would play out differently. A sick feeling pitted Johnny's stomach as he envisioned his mother stumbling upon her dead husband, hanging and swinging and thumping, her son nowhere to be found. She would drop to the floor as she had two days earlier when Johnny mentioned Benjamin Conroy's name, only this time it would be of a major coronary attack instead of an anxiety attack, and then the series of events would play out until the cops came to discover two dead bodies in the apartment.
He turned the corner and found himself looking at a white doorway set into a three-story brick building, a brass number '14' at its center. To the side of the door, a matching brass plate indicated three tenants. Andrew Judson's office was on the first level, below a dentist's office and a real estate agency. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and went inside.
He was immediately greeted by a smiling face, a woman in her late forties perhaps, sitting at a desk behind a redwood cutout. "Johnny?" she asked warmly.
"Yes ma'am."
She picked up the phone on her desk and intercommed Judson. Johnny waited about thirty seconds, listening to canned Neil Diamond until a man appeared from an adjoining office.
Contrary to his young-sounding voice, Judson was a man pushing sixty, with fair skin and white hair receding at both hairlines. He was neatly and professionally dressed, wearing blue trousers and a navy and red striped tie sitting subtly against his pressed white dress shirt. His smile was wide and brimming, and on the face of it, more trustful than his voice had been on the phone.
"Johnny," he said, coming around to greet him. He held out his hand, which Johnny accepted. It was warm and clammy. "Such a pleasure to meet you finally."
"Likewise," Johnny answered, thinking, Finally? It's only been two days.
"Come with me," Judson said, seemingly ready to get down to business. He escorted Johnny past the secretary, into the office. Johnny had never been in a lawyer's office before, and he gazed at the two built-in bookcases lining the side walls, each jam-packed with legal tomes. On the wall behind Judson's cherry desk hung six fancy frames boasting the lawyer's educational credentials. Just to the left was a window that overlooked Main Street's sidewalk.
Judson said, "Please, take a seat."
There were three chairs arranged in front of Judson's desk. Johnny placed his bag down on a small ottoman to the left of the door, and sat in the closest chair; Andrew Judson sat in the large leather swivel chair situated behind his desk (much plusher than the three Johnny had to choose from), and said, "Welcome to Wellfield, John."
"Thanks." Johnny's heart started pounding. He wondered how long it was going to take for him to walk out of here gripping a big fat check and a new lease on life. Give me the papers to sign, and let me out of here.
It isn't going to be that easy.
The whole day…
"Sleep okay last night?
"Very well, thank you."
"The Wellfield Inn is pretty much the nicest place in town. Certainly not as posh as what you're used to, living in Manhattan and all."
"Well, Mr Judson—"
"Please, call me Andrew."
"Okay, Andrew…last night was actually the first time I've ever stayed in a motel."
Judson smiled warmly. "You don't say?" He hesitated a moment, eyes searching Johnny's features, and Tommy imagined the lawyer might be pitying him at the moment, despite having a mind cluttered with soon-to-be-discussed issues. "Well Johnny Petrie, after we're through, you'll be able to stay in the nicest hotel Manhattan has to offer."
This statement impressed Johnny. It wasn't so much the lawyer's promise of wealth, as much as it was his proficiency in instantly molding Johnny into a firm believer—now, Johnny felt he could trust him. He also felt that Judson knew a great deal more than he was letting on. With this in mind, he saw a need to give the lawyer an up-to-the-minute update. I won't lie to you about anything, and you don't lie to me. Fair enough?
"Mr Judson…Andrew…before we get started, I have to tell you something…a lot has happened since I received your letter two days ago, and I am certain that it's all related to what you already know…and talking about it…well, it will probably make me feel a bit better about this whole situation."
Judson nodded and tilted back in his chair while Johnny spent the next few minutes divulging everything that'd happened, from his receiving the lawyer's letter, to the discovery of his mother's maiden name in the hospital, to his father's suicide. He left out a few details, most notably the note his father had left behind.
When he was finished, Judson asked, "So you just left your father hanging there in the apartment? You never called the police?"
Johnny nodded, using a thumb to feel out the folded baggies in his pocket.
Judson folded his arms, then rubbed his chin in thought. "Which means we'll have to move faster than planned. The bus tickets were issued in your name, and once they discover I paid for them, they'll call. May take them a while, but they'll figure it out."
"I didn't do anything wrong." Johnny shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and his breathing began to shallow up.
"No, you didn't. But there's much to discuss, and now, less time to do it."
Johnny didn't respond; instead, he sat up straight in the chair, and folded his hands protectively in his lap.
The intercom beeped. Judson pressed a button and said, "Yes?"
The sec
retary's voice spilled into the room from the tinny speaker: "They're here."
"Tell them to wait," he said firmly. "And Susan…could you bring the food in, please?"
"Right away," she answered, and not ten seconds later appeared with a small tray filled with bagels, muffins, and coffee. She offered it to Johnny. He helped himself to a bagel and a cup of black coffee.
"The men waiting for us in the lobby," Judson said, taking a muffin from the tray, "are the mayor of Wellfield, and his lawyer."
"What do they want?"
Judson waited until Susan left the room, then said, "They want your inheritance."
Johnny hesitated for a moment, then bit his lip and asked, "What is this all about? I mean, why am I here? And how is it that I am the one to receive this man's inheritance?"
Judson took a quick sip of coffee, paused, then leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "Johnny…this is all going to come as a shock to you, but I feel it's best that I come right out and tell you." He took a deep breath, and at this moment Johnny imagined Judson telling him that he was going to die of some form of incurable cancer, and that he had only ten days to spend his newfound fortune before dropping dead. But as Johnny realized how foolish that contemplation was—considering that Judson was a lawyer and not a doctor—Judson pinned his gaze and said, "Johnny Petrie is not your birth-given name. Your real name is Bryan Conroy. Benjamin Conroy was your father. And you are the sole living heir to his estate."
Johnny froze for a moment, then placed his coffee and bagel on the desk, his interest in food instantly diminished. His hands started shaking, and he could feel his heart-rate speeding up. He sat back, feeling a unique level of fear that was both indistinct and precise, as though he were engaged in a dream, stripped of his clothes and vulnerable in some strange public forum.
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