“Did he kill the guy?” Jacob says quietly, wincing with the effort.
Clara sighs. “It doesn’t look like it,” she says. “The cop’s in the ICU. That big guy pulled Dad off of him just in time.” She gives Jacob a smile that’s not really a smile. What would she call that? A rueful smile. That’s the word. When you’re sort of happy about something but kind of bitter about it at the same.
“Do they even know why those guys were there in the first place?” Jacob asks.
Clara shakes her head. “I’m not sure. Something about a political movement. That’s the most I could get.”
Jacob nods. “I’ll tell you one thing—I will not miss that hoodie.”
Clara chuckles. “I liked it,” she says.
“I swear to God I am not wearing another hooded sweatshirt for as long as I live,” he says. “A black guy in a hoodie isn’t even safe in his own home…” He gazes past her, like he’s looking at something off in the distance. A dark cloud passes over his face. His eyelids begin to narrow. “No, you know what? Fuck that! I’m getting a new one the minute I get out of here. Jet black. With a print of a fuckin’ Glock or some shit on the back!”
Clara smiles. “Do you even know what a Glock is?”
“And I’m gonna wear it every-fucking-where,” he says, ignoring her, “with some chains and shit. ‘Cause you know why? ‘Cause fuck them, that’s why. Fuck the whole system. I’m tired of capitulating, trying to accommodate whatever entrenched views people have of me while I gently disabuse them of their punk-ass personal biases and assumptions. Implicit bias, explicit bias—makes no difference to me. They want a gangsta-ass nigga, I’ll give ‘em a gangsta-ass nigga.” He makes a fist and thumps the mattress, then winces from the pain.
Clara’s mouth hangs open as she looks at him. She’s never heard her brother talk this way before. Even when he gets going about some political or social issue—which is rare—he always speaks with restraint. He picked that up from their dad. Jacob has never been an agitator.
“And fuck this hillbilly racket I’ve been playing,” he continues. “The band’s over. I’m selling that fucking banjo. Or scrapping it. Two years plucking at that thing like some fucking Appalachian retard.” (He pronounces it Appa-latch-an to drive home the point.) “Fuck that. I’m going back into the studio and lay down some fresh beats. That’s what I’m gonna do.”
“I like your music,” Clara says.
“Yeah,” Jacob sneers, “you would.”
Clara is silent. She tries to speak, but she can’t find anything to say. A chasm has opened between them.
Her injured rib begins to ache. “I wish Matthew were here,” she says.
Then, like a guardian angel—or maybe like a ghost—their older brother appears in the doorway. He walks slowly over to the bed, the searching look in his eyes suggesting tectonic shifts inside his skull.
“Hey guys,” is his only greeting.
Jacob is silent.
“I didn’t know if you got my messages,” says Clara.
“I did,” Matthew says.
“How’d you get here so fast?”
“I was on my way already,” he says. “I got into New York last night. I was coming home to tell you all something.”
“Join the fucking club,” says Jacob.
“J, please,” says Clara.
Matthew puts a hand on her arm. He looks searchingly at Jacob. Jacob returns his brother’s gaze for a moment, then turns his attention back to the wall. Matthew closes his eyes, a crestfallen look sweeping over his face.
Clara had suspected that a change was coming for their family. Now it’s happened. There’s no turning back the clock on this. Even if Jacob makes a full recovery, they’re living in a new world now. Or maybe they’re all in their own new worlds. Maybe they’ve been blown apart, scattered to distant corners of the universe, forever off-limits to one another.
Matthew opens his eyes and looks at Jacob. The searching look has been replaced by one of sheer resolve. “Listen, Jacob—” his voice sounds older somehow, more authoritative “—I want you to know that I am going to find out who was responsible for this. And they are going to pay.”
Jacob says nothing, but his Adam’s apple rises and falls.
Clara’s heart flutters. A knot forms in her throat. She doesn’t know whether Matthew’s remarks have touched her with their sincerity or terrified her with what they might portend.
“Come on,” Matthew tells her, “let’s let him get some rest.”
Clara nods and goes with him out into the hallway.
“You need to get some sleep,” says Tess.
“I’m fine,” Matthew tells her, but he knows she’s right. Apart from a little light dozing on the flight, he’s pushing 30 hours. Even on the Adderall-fueled benders he’d partaken of during the first part of his European adventure—before his big ‘epiphany’—this would have been a bit much. His thoughts and perceptions are wavy, inflamed—like he’s seeing things through the heat rising off the stones in a sauna.
“Look, Matthew,” Tess says, “I know you want to be close to your family, but there’s really nothing you can do right now. They’re all going to be resting. We should get you home so you can get some rest too. That way you can be refreshed when they need you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew spots a middle-aged guy with neatly spiked salt-and-pepper hair. A t-shirt with a designer logo hangs on his doughy frame. He’s looking at them. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe Matthew is growing paranoid from lack of sleep. Maybe he should get out of here before he does something rash.
The guy coughs into his hand and comes tentatively over.
“Excuse me,” he says in a practiced baritone, a voice that’s accustomed to addressing an audience, “is your name Matthew Lavando.”
Tess seems confused, but Matthew looks at the man steadily. “That’s right,” he says.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” the man says. “My name is Cedric Powers. I host a cable news show.” With a practiced movement, he produces a business card between two fingers and slips it into Matthew’s hand. “Perhaps you’ve seen it.”
“I don’t think so,” says Matthew, unimpressed.
Tess looks over Matthew’s shoulder. “The Power Hour?” she says, reading the man’s card. She stifles a laugh. “This is a news program?”
Cedric clears his throat. “We cover cultural events primarily. Entertainment, of course, but also—”
“So a tabloid, basically,” says Tess.
Cedric bristles. “I’ve never really cared for that word.” Then, pivoting, he says, “Could I buy you both a cup of coffee?”
“We were just leaving, I’m afraid,” says Tess, taking Matthew by the arm.
“Just five minutes,” says Cedric. “Please.”
Tess urges Matthew down the hall. “Let’s go,” she says.
“I may have some information regarding what happened to your parents last night.”
Matthew stops. He turns around and gives Cedric a long look. As slick as he seems, the guy sounds sincere.
“I can’t do cafeteria coffee,” says Matthew.
“There’s a Starbucks across the street,” Cedric says eagerly. “Please, just give me five minutes.”
Matthew nods and starts down the hallway.
“… So of course I’m trying to figure out, a) what happened to my contact and b) who it was I was talking to.” Cedric takes a big slug of his venti almond-milk latte. Matthew watches him lick his lips, momentarily fascinated by the blend of high- and low-brow the man represents. It’s no wonder he’s been able to climb the ranks of his chosen profession; he’s able to keep it on the level with regular folks while projecting an air of, if not respectability, at least something in the same zip code.
“Anyways, I get on the police scanner, and I hear about this madness going down at your house. I head over there—” he leans in, lowering his voice “—and this is where it gets weird—I manage to ascertain that the cop
who shot your brother… he’d had a busy night. They found a body in the trunk of his cruiser. I’ll give you two guesses who it was.”
“Your contact?” says Tess.
“My fucking contact.” The guy leans back. “So I’m thinking this homicidal asshole must be the person I was talking to last night. What’s more, they found two other bodies in a car on the side of the road one town over, and it looks like he might’ve done them in too.”
“Jesus,” says Tess, looking over at Matthew, who no longer has to play at looking hard and impassive. His mind is a furnace now, baking his thoughts into stone.
“And this message your contact recorded… from the intruders,” Matthew says, “the only copy of that message is on your contact’s phone?”
“As far as I know,” says Cedric. “If he was smart he would have backed it up somewhere, but—forgive me for speaking ill of the dead—I’m not convinced he was the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“And the last person to have possession of your contact’s phone,” Matthew continues, “was this cop.”
“Again, as far as I know.”
“Well, then… it’s pretty clear what the next order of business is.”
“What,” says Tess wryly, “you want to get your hands on that phone?”
Tess and Cedric both laugh, but Matthew is silent.
Cedric swallows. “You’re kidding, right?”
“What do you think?” says Matthew with a look of pure steel.
“How do you propose to do that?”
“By whatever means necessary.” Matthew stares at Cedric until the smile drains from his face. Tess looks down at the table, thinking over what he’s just proposed.
“You’re serious,” Cedric says.
“I think I’ll head over to the ICU,” says Matthew, “have a little chat with Officer Damien Edwards.”
“I’m sure they’re guarding his room,” Tess observes.
“And I’m sure whoever is guarding him could use a couple thousand bucks added to his pension—tax-free.”
Cedric scoffs. “Where are you gonna get that kind of cash?”
“There’s a Bank of America on the corner,” says Matthew. “I’ll withdraw the rest of my travel fund. Should be more than enough to grease a few palms.”
“I’ve gotta warn you, kid—” Cedric leans forward “—you start going down a path like this, you’ll find it’s a slippery slope.”
“It’s a good thing I’m wearing my boots,” says Matthew, with a hint of a smile.
Cedric laughs again, but there’s a downcast tinge to it now. He’s beginning to understand how serious Matthew is. “All right. Tell you what, though, you let me do the talking. I’ve been at this for a while. I know how these guys operate.” He shakes his nearly empty cup. “Think I’ll get a refill. I didn’t sleep much on the flight.” He goes off to the counter.
Tess puts her hand on Matthew’s. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” he says, staring straight ahead.
“What about all that stuff you were telling me last night? About feeling one with the universe?”
That all seems like a far-off dream to him now. Everything he told her, the conversion he thought he’d undergone, it’s been replaced by something new. A deep, elemental certainty.
“It’s like you were telling me,” he says, striking a conciliatory tone, “your Bobby Frost Theory of Transcendence. You’ve got to deal with things.”
“Sure,” she says, “but this is pretty—”
“These people attacked my family,” he says, a note of finality in his voice.
Tess folds her hands and nods. “All right,” she says. She gestures to Cedric, who drums the counter as he waits for his refill. “But let’s keep ‘Power Hour’ over there away from the cops. You let me do the talking.”
Matthew’s eyes widen with surprise.
“Oh, come on, Matt,” she says, “you didn’t really think I found your wallet on the counter, did you?”
He’s still searching for a response when Cedric returns with another large drink. He stands beside the table. “Should we get going?”
Matthew looks at Tess, then at Cedric. “This movement the intruders were supposedly a part of…”
“Yeah?”
“What did you say it was called?”
Cedric squints. “I’m pretty sure they called it—”
“The Reclamation?” Sergeant Murphy says incredulously.
“That’s right,” Chief Carbonneau says with a sigh. “This Harrison fellow claims it’s part of a national uprising.”
The district attorney chimes in: “Have we heard any reports about similar events elsewhere?”
“Not so far,” says the chief, glancing down the stairwell to make sure no one’s listening. “It could be the guy is out of it. He took a pretty bad knock to the head.”
“And what about the other one? The big guy?”
“He’s not saying much.”
“The ‘Reclamation’?” Murphy repeats, stifling a chuckle.
The D.A. shoots him a look. “I fail to see anything funny about this situation, Sergeant.”
“Sorry,” says Murphy, shaking his head, “it’s just I got a brother-in-law works for the Bureau of Land Reclamation. So when I hear that word, all I can think of is ground water management.”
“I don’t imagine that’s the image they were shooting for,” says the chief.
“Sorry,” Murphy says again.
“I’m a little surprised,” says the D.A., “that the immediate superior of a cop who just went on a killing spree would act so cavalier about the situation.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Murphy says. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of that little shitbag for months.” He turns to the chief for support. “Isn’t that right, Ken?”
“So there were warning signs?” says the D.A.
Chief Carbonneau puts up his hands. “Officer Edwards had been disciplined for one or two minor infractions over the past year or so. But there was no indication he would do anything like this.”
“One or two infractions?”
“Yes.”
“How many? One or two? Or three? Four?”
“Sam?” says the chief, turning to Murphy.
“I’d have to check his file.”
“What,” says the D.A., “you have so many disciplinary incidents in your force that it’s hard to recall?”
“Actually,” says Murphy, his blood pressure rising, “there has been an uptick lately. And you know why? Because we’ve been not only cooperative but goddamn proactive in trying to raise the bar in terms of conduct and accountability. Which I would expect you to appreciate.”
“Gentlemen, please,” says the chief. “Rather than playing ‘hot potato’ with the blame, I think we ought to discuss the best way to move forward.”
“That sounds good to me,” says Murphy.
“Frankly,” says the D.A., “I think this is mostly a question of damage control. We prosecute the intruders, try to determine if there are any co-conspirators, and we leave it at that.” He looks at the chief. “We’re both up for reelection this year, Ken, let’s not forget that.”
“Are you kidding me?” says Murphy. “That son-of-a-bitch Lavando tried to kill a cop. Permanently disfigured him in the process.”
“A cop,” the chief says, “who had already killed three people earlier in the evening—”
“We don’t know the details of those incidents. There could have been extenuating—”
“A cop who violated protocol by not calling for backup—”
“Let’s not forget—”
“Let’s not forget,” the D.A. says, “that the cop had just shot the guy’s son.”
“Hey, from the way it looks to me,” says Murphy, “that was a justifiable shot. The kid looked suspicious, and he fit the description of—”
“Don’t go there,” says the chief.
Murphy sneers.
“
Look,” says the D.A., “the feds are already sticking their noses into this. That’s enough of a headache on its own. You don’t want to invite any more scrutiny into your department’s practices than you’ve already got coming. You’ll be lucky if you’re not facing a massive lawsuit over this. I would strongly advise you not to antagonize the victims of these horrible crimes.”
Murphy opens his mouth, but the chief gives him a look that tells him whatever he might have to say isn’t welcome at this juncture. Jesus. Right now, he feels like he’s got more in common with the officer awaiting surgery in the ICU than he does with the two men he’s talking to.
Maybe the lawyer is the problem. Maybe if they just got a little distance. The D.A. pulls out his phone and starts plucking out a text message. Murphy takes the chief by the arm. “Hey Ken,” he says, “can I, uh…” He nods his head to the right, and Ken follows him down a flight of stairs to the next landing. “You’re not gonna throw me under the bus here, are you?”
The chief rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Sam.”
“I’m serious!”
“No, I’m not gonna throw you under the bus. Provided you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Then I’m not gonna throw you under the bus!”
“Okay!”
They look at each other for a moment. Realizing they’re uncomfortably close to each other’s faces—close enough to feel each other’s breath—Murphy turns away and trots down to the landing beneath.
Chief Carbonneau heads back up to meet the D.A.
Murphy leans over the railing and looks up at them. They’re speaking quietly, conspiratorially. Ah, fuck. All he’s ever done is what this fucking guy asked him to do, and now it’s gonna bite him in the ass. No good deed and all that. He was never a fan of the changes in protocol—it handicaps his guys, he always said, when they’re out there trying to do good work—but does that matter now? Hell, no. This asshole is ready to let him take the fall.
Well, if he does have to take the fall, he’s at least not gonna take it lying down.
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