Fatal Option

by Chris Beakey

  He stood still in the freezing air, and stared at the drab, faded white house, which he now realized had been formed by a trailer in the front and an addition in the back. Slats were missing from the ornamental shutters that flanked the four front windows and the top of the downspout that led from the gutter along the roof had come loose. It looked inhabited but ignored, as if its owner had decided to let it gradually succumb to the wear of weather and age.

  The forest beyond the house was dense even without foliage; a wilderness.

  Miles and miles of woods up there.

  Stephen thought about the recent conversation with a neighbor who had grown up on the mountain but happily forsaken it for a big, comfortable modern home.

  People have gotten lost for days.

  He started walking again, his feet numbed by the cold, trying to resume his pace despite the treacherously slick road surface. O’Shea had said the clearing was a quarter of a mile past the house, but it was difficult to gauge his progress as the fatigue took a greater hold on his muscles. The first sections of the mountain road had been plowed, and when he had stepped outside of the Explorer he had been able to hear the faint din of traffic on the highway below. Now the air was silent and still, the landscape frozen in place by the heavy snow and capped by a low, leaden gray sky. He remembered looking at the online map the night before; remembered the indistinct charting of the road; the sense that it simply ended at a random point beyond one of the curves that came every hundred yards.

  And then suddenly the clearing was there, and marked by the black pickup truck on the shoulder. At the center of the clearing he saw blackened cinder blocks that made up the foundation of a burned-out house and the remnants of a collapsed chimney. There were lean-to outbuildings behind the foundation and the ground was smoothly covered by an expanse of snow.

  He tightened the scarf around his neck, crossed his arms over his chest, looked over at the black pickup and saw footprints. They came around the front of the truck and led around the perimeter of the clearing, indicating the driver had gotten out and gone straight into the woods. He stepped closer. The footprints had been made by boots that had sunk knee-deep in the snow. He put his gloved hands back into his pockets, peered back over the clearing, and then started walking, following the footprints. The ground was covered with brush underneath the snow and became more challenging as he stepped into the woods.

  After a few feet he stumbled and fell forward, his arms sinking up to his elbows.

  He stood up quickly and awkwardly, feeling clumsy and certain that O’Shea was watching him from a hiding place within the forest.

  That feeling was confirmed a few steps later when he saw movement from the corner of his eye and heard: “All right you can stop now.”

  He turned toward the sound, and the sight of a man, just barely discernable twenty feet deeper into the woods. Stephen recognized his pale face from the glimpse he had gotten from the second floor window.

  For a long moment they both stood very still, and then O’Shea said:

  “Walk toward me.”

  He complied, his eyes focusing on the uneven ground, his hands touching the trees to keep his balance. After a few unsteady steps he looked up. O’Shea was standing on slightly higher ground, looking down at him.

  “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

  He resumed walking toward O’Shea, who stood completely still. The scarf around Stephen’s neck shifted as he moved and the cold again found its way through the opening at the top of his jacket.

  “That’s close enough.”

  He shivered as he met the man’s eyes. They were blue-gray, and bloodshot. His cheeks were unshaven.

  “Where’s my daughter?” His voice was a whisper from his parched throat.

  O’Shea tilted his head slightly down but kept his eyes locked on Stephen’s as he stepped forward, his right hand was thrust deeply into the side pocket of his coat.

  In one smooth motion O’Shea pulled out a gun.

  “No!” Stephen shouted and ducked, his hands raised in a feeble gesture of self-protection.

  The gun was pointed at his face.

  “Get down on your knees,” O’Shea said.

  He stayed still, frozen in place, felt sweat trickling from his armpits.

  “DOWN!”

  He squatted, just barely balancing in the heavy clothes and uneven ground, the icy snow swallowing his thighs.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  O’Shea pressed the gun against his cold-numbed skin.

  “It was an accident!”

  His eyes were squeezed shut, but he imagined the bullet smashing through his skull, blowing his brains and blood out into the snow.

  “Please…”

  Suddenly the pressure was gone.

  He opened his eyes. O’Shea was still standing over him, with both hands on the gun. But the gun was pointed at an upward angle now. O’Shea was looking up toward the sky, his mouth moving soundlessly as if he were praying, and as a tear trickled down his face. Stephen remembered the tone of his voice on the phone; the sense of menace he had felt. But now he thought he might have heard something else. The sound of grief.

  You lost Lori. He lost his brother.

  So talk to him. Connect with him.

  “I can’t even express…” His voice faltered.

  He sucked in a deep breath, tried again.

  “I can’t express my shame, and my sorrow, for this.”

  O’Shea was standing very still. Stephen saw the muscles of his eyelids flickering, as if he were watching dream images in a half-sleep.

  And then suddenly O’Shea’s eyes opened and stared down at him. Then without looking away O’Shea flicked the safety on the gun and put it back in his pocket.

  Thank God. Stephen exhaled, felt the tension draining from his body. He was still kneeling, his legs numbed by the snow. He shakily stood up, knowing how it would end. The confession had already happened; he had admitted being at fault, and now he would reveal the terrible but unavoidable circumstances. Sara sounded scared when she called me. I thought she was in trouble. I couldn’t get anyone else to help her. I skidded on the ice; couldn’t stop—

  “Turn around,” O’Shea said.

  “What?” Stephen asked. “Why—”

  “Walk away.”

  He stood still, trying to think of something else to say. And then O’Shea tilted his head slightly forward and reached for the gun again.

  “All right.” He held up his hands.

  “Go,” O’Shea said.

  He turned around and took a step and heard a grunt behind him as a hard kick knocked him forward. His head snapped backwards in a whiplash and his arms flailed as he slammed face-first into a tree.

  The impact stunned him; spots of red flashed in front of his eyes. He turned halfway around before the next punch, which landed deep into his abdomen and knocked the air from his lungs.

  He dropped to his knees and looked up an instant before O’Shea kicked him in the chest. He fell backward; his skull striking something hard and sharp underneath the snow, then scrabbled sideways just a few feet before O’Shea stepped behind him and grabbed the back of his coat collar and yanked him back up, then kicked him once more at the center of his back.

  He shot forward and fell on his face, his teeth cutting into his tongue as he hit the ground. In his peripheral vision he saw O’Shea’s leg drawing back; shut his eyes and pulled his arms and legs into a fetal position as O’Shea kicked him in the ribs, shooting pain through his upper body.

  Warm blood from his tongue filled his mouth and trickled into his windpipe as O’Shea stooped down and put his knee against his chest and pinned him to the ground.

  He coughed violently, spraying blood into the air. O’Shea’s eyes were red with rage, his teeth bared as he clasped his hands together in a double fis
t. He imagined that he screamed NO as O’Shea said “Your turn now, fuckhead!” as the fist came down in a blur; smashing the soft cartilage of his nose and sending a jolt of pain through his spine.

  Caruso put Marco Niles in an interview room at headquarters and then called his father. Joseph Niles was predictably angry that Marco was being charged with a DUI, even more so when Caruso told him he wanted to question the boy alone about the source of the weed that had been in the car when he was arrested.

  He didn’t mention the reason he wanted to get to Marco by himself, but worked it into his opening questions as he stepped back into the room.

  “So what happened to your eye?”

  Marco glared at him but didn’t respond. His hair was sandy-blond and his broad face looked older than his years. He bore no real resemblance to his father except that he was big and tall and sporting a broad chest under his Langford Secondary letter jacket. Based on the scent that filled the small room Caruso guessed he was sweating beneath it.

  “Must hurt like hell,” Caruso said. “I can get some ice for it.”

  “It’s nothin’,” Marco muttered.

  “Or type up a complaint against the guy who did it. Who was it—a kid at school? The guy you bought the drugs from? Someone else?”

  “I don’t know anything about any drugs.”

  Caruso frowned. The weed had fallen from Marco’s coat pocket the moment he stepped out of the car. It was now in a plastic evidence bag, and was undoubtedly covered by fingerprints that would match Marco’s once they got to that step in the process.

  “We both know that’s not true. But I’m still interested in your face. What happened?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Just want to make sure you don’t claim it was some kind of police brutality, just because you think things like that actually happen.”

  Marco’s good eye widened a bit.

  It was the sign Caruso was looking for. “Your dad has a bruise just like it. Maybe not as bad. So what happened—did you fight each other?”

  The boy sat back slightly, and looked past Caruso, toward the camera affixed to the wall.

  “It’s not on,” Caruso said. “So he’s not watching.”

  Marco’s shoulders dropped a bit.

  “So is that what happened?”

  Marco looked down at the floor; his lips still tight. Still holding it in, Caruso thought. It only took a moment for his mind to go back to encounters of child abuse in his own past: the numerous visits to the run-down mountain residence owned by Nurlene O’Shea; the memories of both Kieran and Aidan O’Shea, battered and bruised from her beatings; the meetings with the social workers who tried but failed to bring it all to a halt.

  He leaned slightly forward with his hands clasped on top of the table, a move to make his body language less threatening. As a twenty-three-year-old deputy he had failed to help either Kieran or Aidan. He wasn’t going to fail again.

  “You need to talk to someone about this, Marco.”

  The boy pressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head, clearly conveying he had nothing else to say.

  Caruso sighed, and thought about sliding his card across the table, repeating the offer, but decided to first tend to the matter at hand.

  “I know you’re a senior at Langford. I expect you’re looking forward to graduating and going off to college. But now you’ve been arrested, and regardless of what you say or what you want to believe you’re facing serious charges that aren’t going to go away. With the DUI your license is as good as gone. Add to that the reckless driving that led to the accident, the running of the stop sign and the drugs—you’re screwed.”

  “I told you—I don’t know anything about any drugs.”

  “Your clothes reek of pot. I know you’ll come up positive for that once the results of your urine test come back.”

  Caruso paused, thinking of another way to come back to the abuse, and lowered his voice.

  “I can guess how your father feels about all this.”

  There was a noticeable tensing in the boy’s posture. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  “But maybe you do have a way out,” Caruso said. “If you want to tell me where you got it—who you bought it from and who else you know who’s dealing or doing drugs to kids at your school—you might be able to—”

  “I can’t.”

  Caruso watched him carefully. “Can’t or won’t?”

  Marco stared down at the tabletop. Caruso sensed his mind moving, debating his response.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  There was a brief knock at the door, and then Joseph Niles stepped in.

  Caruso’s fragile professional rapport with Niles fell apart completely in the ten minutes that followed, with Niles ordering his son to say nothing about where he obtained the drugs and even insinuating that the offer of lower charges was a ruse. Looking absolutely terrified, Marco did exactly as he was told, leaving Caruso with no choice but to charge him with possession on top of the DUI.

  Caruso pulled Niles aside for an explanation, reminding him that the charges would have to be reported to the principal at Langford Secondary, which would lead to an automatic expulsion. Niles’ response only intensified his suspicions.

  “Fuck it, I don’t care.”

  “How could you not care?”

  “Kid’s been a fuck-up his whole life. One thing after the other.”

  “He’s your son.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He brought it on himself.”

  “What about that black eye? He bring that on himself too?”

  Niles bristled, looking as if he was about to throw another punch, then turned and walked away. Caruso watched until he reached the end of the hallway, feeling glad that Marco had gotten at least one solid hit back.

  And then he went back to his desk, his mind skipping through everything that had just happened between Joseph and Marco Niles. Niles had said little about his son in the year that they had worked together, but he had no doubt that they had fought each other, with Marco obviously suffering the worst. Perhaps it was none of his business, except that Marco was a juvenile, which made the physical assault an act of child abuse.

  Has to be a reason, he thought, and went online. Social media had become one of the most reliable tools in investigations of crimes involving teenagers, so there was a good chance Marco’s Facebook page might provide some evidence of the troubles with his father.

  Unfortunately the initial scan didn’t tell him much. There were hundreds of mobile phone photos chronicling Marco’s daily life as a busy athlete and more than a few taken at parties where alcohol was obviously readily available. Marco was a big fan of the selfie, usually with his arm around attractive teenage girls and “look at me” smiles.

  Caruso scanned quickly through the photos, and then moved on to Marco’s recent posts. Once again there was nothing to indicate emotional stress, and no reference to problems with Niles; nothing more than boasts about his athletic feats in football during the fall and in basketball over the winter along with taunts about opposing teams. Taken together, the photos and posts painted the picture of a typically self-centered teenager, without a hint of the vulnerability exhibited in the company of his father.

  He opened another browser window, intending to go next to Twitter and Instagram when he noticed the link for “Albums” in the photo section of the Facebook page. There were several identified in the “Profile” “Mobile” “Timeline” categories, all with similarly narcissistic but innocuous images. Caruso clicked through them quickly, and was just about to move on when he came to an image that had been scanned from a print photo. It was a class of young children, posed and standing on bleachers in a gymnasium. The photo was labeled third grade, mrs. kelley, and the coloring made it obvious it was several years old.

  He scanne
d the faces, and found it easy to pick out Marco, in the back row, already bigger than the rest of the kids. The listing of the students’ names was in the right hand margin of the page.

  It listed him as marco devon.

  He leaned forward, peering closer at the boy’s light hair and pale skin, remembering his last encounter with April Devon behind the wheel of her SUV.

  And then he sat back and thought some more about Niles, who had mentioned an “ex-wife” only once as far as he could remember, and in a disparaging way that had made him disinclined to learn more.

  He went back to the open browser, and did a search for Joseph Niles. The second link that appeared was an article from Classic Car magazine. Niles was one of several people interviewed in an article about Hummers, which the magazine predicted would become collectable treasures. The article was anchored by a photo of Niles standing alongside the two that he owned.

  A perfect match to an outsized ego, he thought, and then went back to the search page. This time he entered Niles and then Devon.

  Several new links appeared; all of them from news media sites. He took them in all at once. And then he read them, one at a time. After two minutes his heartbeat quickened. After two more he moved on to the password-protected law enforcement databases, his voice a near-whisper as he muttered “son-of-a-bitch” and began to put it together.

  Your spine is broken.

  You’re dying—

  Stephen saw himself in his mind’s eye, lying limp in the snow. He felt as if he had left his body but was still tethered to it, still bound by the signals that continued to fire through his brain. He thought that he was alone—he had a memory of Kieran O’Shea looking down at him and then turning and walking away; remembered hearing the sound of snow crunching under boots and the distant creak of the door to the old pick up truck as it was opened and slammed shut; the rumble of the engine as O’Shea drove off.