by Chris Fabry
“Go!”
Before she could move, the Glock exploded on the other side of the bridge.
“Mercy!” My mother knelt on the soft shoulder and covered her mouth as the boy she’d taught in Sunday school slumped to the ground in the circling lights of the cruiser.
I stood at the end of the bridge, in plain sight, as Eddie turned and walked toward me.
“He shot him,” Mama said, her voice trembling. “He just killed Bobby Ray.”
“Mama, you have to get up.”
“I’m not leaving you.” She put out a hand, as if trying to grab a railing, and her eyes were misty. “Honey, I could never bear to go to the trial and watch. It tore me up inside. I hope you can forgive me because—”
“I never blamed you. I wouldn’t have been there if I could have helped it.”
“End of the line, Will,” Eddie said, stepping around our car. “It would have been better if you’d have stayed in Clarkston instead of coming back here. Mrs. Hatfield, stay right where you are.”
“It’s fitting we should be here—don’t you think?” I said. “Last time we were on this bridge, you lost a tooth or two.”
“What are you talking about?” Eddie said.
“Remember Karin? Remember coming out here with her? Thinking you were alone? When a girl says no, she means it.”
He disappeared into the darkness of the bridge, silhouetted by the spinning lights. “So that was you, huh? I should have known you’d take up for that no-account. She wasn’t worth all the trouble she caused.”
“And this is where you got rid of Elvis.”
“What goes around comes around,” Eddie said.
The bridge creaked and groaned, and a rail split above him. Eddie jumped to the walkway as our car fell through—halfway at first, just touching the water, and then it plunged all the way in with a splintering crash.
“Now old Elvis will have him something to drive.” Eddie laughed. “And you’re going to join him.”
“You’re gonna shoot me with my own gun?” I said. “That won’t make much sense in the report.”
“You shot Bobby Ray with it, didn’t you? When I cornered you, you turned it on yourself.” Eddie walked closer, as I knew he would, and the river flowed below, swollen and muddy, carrying debris downstream. “And before you turned the gun on yourself, you took care of the skank who birthed you.”
Of all the scenarios I’d thought of as a kid, of all the robbers and terrorists I had saved my church and school from, it had never crossed my mind that I would be defending my mother from the chief of police. I stood my ground and stepped to my right, blocking his aim. “You’re not going to hurt my mother.”
Eddie smiled. “Fine.” He moved closer to the railing and looked me in the eye. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
People wonder what they will think of in the moments before they die. Children. Things left unsaid. Forgiveness. God.
I thought of Karin in the moment before the gunshot—the distant, otherworldly explosion. I thought of the house on the hill and the view of the valley and the trees in fall. A panoramic, maudlin rehearsal of my life. I thought of all the times Karin and I would not have together, the children we’d never have, the love we wouldn’t make. The songs left on pause in the soundtrack of our lives.
The strange thing was, the gunshot didn’t hurt. I realized why when I saw the blood in Eddie’s mouth, running down his cheek, and the way his eyes rolled up as he drifted sideways, stumbling. And the railing on the bridge giving way, his body tumbling into the surging river, and the thin trail of smoke coming from Bobby Ray’s gun as he staggered on the other side of the bridge.
Then, as if the world had seen enough, the whole thing collapsed. Boards that had been there since the Civil War washed away and broke in pieces, like a life splintering.
More lights swirled near the town, and my mother spoke over the wail of the siren. “You all right, Bobby Ray?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He rubbed his chest and stumbled to his cruiser, grabbing the radio.
They dragged the river for three days after Eddie was shot, but they didn’t find his body for three weeks. A father and his son fishing for catfish seven miles downstream came upon him caught in a twisted mass of debris and sludge. It was not a pretty picture.
Bobby Ray arrested Randy, who gave up the others. The state police got involved and cornered Wes in a trailer that belonged to one of his estranged girlfriends. He wasn’t taken easily and went out in a hail of bullets. Over time Bobby Ray discovered that Elvis had overheard a rather intimate conversation between Doris Jean and Eddie. As authorities had suspected, someone who knew the inner workings of the gentlemen’s clubs up and down the valley had coordinated the robberies of those establishments. Doris Jean had been mixed up with the people at the meth lab at the end of the road. When she was late with a payment, she told them where they could get some “real money.” The deal had turned sour for her and she went to Eddie, who was more than willing to take her information and anything else she offered. Doris Jean gave the meth lab’s location because she knew there would be a sizable amount of cash on hand. Instead of arresting the men and breaking open the case that had stymied the state police, Eddie, Wes, and Randy had taken care of them, so to speak. Bobby Ray found their bodies buried on a hillside covered with ferns and rhododendron. The shallow graves were near the abandoned house at the end of Benedict Road.
The mistake Eddie had made was having a flat tire as he passed the Exxon station on his way back to the office. Elvis happened to be there and had removed the bags of cash from his trunk while installing a new tire. It took Eddie two days to piece together the truth and find evidence of some sort of explosive device Elvis had used to flatten the tire. Some didn’t believe Elvis was capable of such a plot. Those people didn’t know Elvis and how his life was inextricably tied to explosions.
The same workers who looked for Eddie’s body in the river found Elvis a few hundred yards from the bridge, wrapped in chains and two cinder blocks. His body had decomposed, but it was in better shape than Eddie’s.
Mama and I went to the funeral, closed casket, and sat next to his mother. It was the first service I’d been to with my mother since my release, and it felt like I was finally home. The preacher said as many good things as he could about Arron, even referring to his nickname and his penchant for singing. But no one even came close to capturing who he really was. Arron was one of the walking wounded, haunted by the choices he made, just like the rest of us. He hadn’t deserved his fate, and I wished I could have been released earlier.
Bobby Ray came to the burial and spoke with Mrs. Spurlock afterward. He told her how sorry he was and that he wished there was more he could have done. She hugged him, and it almost seemed like she was giving more comfort than he was.
I reread Arron’s will and tried to decipher his words. As kids we would come up with words with double meanings, producing a hidden message only we could understand. It was our “Elvis Code.”
I have only one other thing of value, and it should all go to Will Hatfield because he’s probably as tired of the police around here as I am. He’ll know where it’s at, and I think he’ll know what to do with it.
It finally struck me, so one frosty Sunday morning I called Bobby Ray and we went down to the station and popped the trunk of Eddie’s cruiser. Inside the spare was most of the money from the robberies still in their bank deposit bags.
“You know there’s a reward for this,” Bobby Ray said.
“How much?”
“I’m thinking it might be enough to finish that house you’re working on.”
The reward was slow in coming, and I was loath to keep all of it. As much as Arron loved his mother, I figured he would want her to have some, so I made sure the bank cut a check to both of us. Some people weren’t too happy with my decision, but I figured you can live your whole life and not make everybody happy.
Judge Henderson came to the house one day while I
was working, and Mama drove with him up the hill. He looked at the wide expanse of hillside and stretched. “I suppose this is what kept you going over there in Clarkston.”
I nodded and wiped the sweat from my brow.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “It would me too.”
“Judge Henderson and I went to school together many moons ago,” Mama said. “He lost his wife about this time last year, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“She was a fine Christian woman.”
Henderson nodded. “Never could get her to do any target practice like I hear you’ve been doing with the local constables.”
My mother laughed, and it was one of those sounds you dream about. Like life coming back into the body of Lazarus. Or a stone rolling away from a tomb.
“I never knew you were Coyote,” I said.
“Didn’t want anybody to know,” he said. “It was something to pass the time, especially after my wife passed. Just to hear a few voices in the night made it a little easier.”
“I’m glad you were listening that night.”
“Not sure I did much to help. Wish I could have done more.”
He informed me, on behalf of the town council, that the eminent domain issue was going away. “It was something Eddie was pushing on them. You shouldn’t hold your brother responsible.”
I showed Henderson the layout of the house, and Mama tagged along like a happy puppy. On the deck outside I told him I hoped one day to stand on that very spot and watch my children play in the front yard.
He ran a hand along the railing. “Will, I don’t say this very often—don’t have the chance to—but I think I was wrong about you.”
“How so?”
“The way you acted in court. I’ve never had anyone just sit there and take it like you did. I spoke with the warden at Clarkston, and he told me you were a model prisoner.”
“Sounds good to you and me, but it doesn’t look too hot on a résumé, Judge.”
“After all that’s happened, I think the town will accept you. I think it’s the least they can do. Be a little more open to their prodigal son.”
“I appreciate that.”
Mama invited Judge Henderson to dinner that night, and I told them I had so much work to do that I couldn’t see breaking away. Mama just laughed again.
Karin
Ruthie once said that life isn’t pretty, so you gotta hug the ugly out of it. I hung on to that as the days passed. I talked with Richard and tried to sort things out, but I wasn’t there for my children like I wanted and I was unable to reach Ruthie. She had now pushed me away as much as pushing me toward something.
I kept coming back to the thought of Will and the drive home from Cincinnati. I couldn’t shake the awareness that I had been there when he had killed the children. Was it true? Or had he dropped me off beforehand and fallen asleep on his way to work?
I busied myself about the church, drinking my coffee in the atrium, thinking Ruthie would walk in and join me, but I drank alone.
I was in my husband’s office, pouring my heart out about something, when a knock came at the door. “Come in,” he said.
The door opened and Will Hatfield walked inside. Older, his face lined and sunburned from whatever work he had found. Immediately I turned to Richard in fear that he would think something was going on between us, but he welcomed Will, shook hands, and pulled up a chair for him.
“Hi,” Will said to me.
I remembered his voice, and warmth spread through my body. “It’s been a long time.”
“Sure has. How are you?”
I looked at my husband again. He had taken a chair directly across from us, as if we were going to participate in some kind of three-way conversation. “I’m okay,” I said. “Struggling with some things, but okay. What brings you to the church?”
Will looked at Richard, then back at me. “I wanted to talk to you about that night.”
“Yes, the concert and the trip home. We were just talking the other day about whether or not I was still in the car when you . . . when the accident occurred.”
“Right,” Will said, rubbing his hands on his jeans. He had such strong hands, and muscles rippled up his arms. But he seemed nervous. “What do you remember?”
I told him what I had told Richard but that things were fuzzy.
Will listened, nodding and affirming my words.
“At some point,” I said, “my father said you brought me home and carried me inside.”
Richard crossed his legs, studying me. “Karin, sometimes you need permission to remember. There are things locked up inside all of us that we don’t think are affecting us but have bearing on our lives every day.”
“You sound like some psychologist.” I laughed.
Richard smiled. “It’s okay to remember. We’re here to help.”
“Okay,” I said nonchalantly, “I’m ready.”
Will leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. “Karin, there’s something you don’t remember about that night.”
We had gone the long way home, south of Cincinnati toward Kentucky, and Will had swerved to miss a deer crossing the interstate near Morehead. A late night/early morning fog had settled in, and he turned in to a rest area. I stirred and Will patted my shoulder.
“I need to sleep for a few minutes. My eyes are really heavy,” he said.
I was hunkered down in the passenger seat, trying to shake off the effects of the wine. He asked if I wanted to stretch out in the backseat, but I said I was comfortable where I was.
“I can’t stretch my legs up here,” he said. “I’m going in the back.”
The night drifted over us as 18-wheelers passed through the rest area. There were so many lined up along the on-ramp that I lost track.
An hour or two later, we began moving again as the morning mist fell, a coating of moisture on the windshield. Tired wipers squeaked as they moved back and forth.
My parents will be worried.
A blue sign welcomed us to Wild, Wonderful West Virginia. The trees seemed inviting, the hillsides exploding with green, and the air filled with that wet, earthy aroma. Morning traffic increased, people going to work at hospitals and factories and auto supply stores. We passed an old truck laden with junk, half of it hanging so loosely that I was afraid it would fall into the road in front of us.
The road hummed a soothing melody, and it was impossible not to think of sleep again. We were only a few minutes from my home, but Will had to get to his job, and I assumed he’d want to freshen up.
I turned and stared at him sleeping, then adjusted the rearview mirror to look at his face. Peaceful. Sleeping the rest of a baby, soundly and unaware of the world around him. This was a boy—almost a man—who would make a good husband. With some work, of course. But a good, stable man, loyal and true. Not like many of the boys I had known.
Will was everything I had failed to be. I did not deserve a man like this or a life with love and kindness. I had tempted and tested the limits, and here I was, in the presence of this good son.
The first sign of trouble was a jerking feeling, bouncing and knocking at the right side of the car. I looked up, startled in that dreamy half-asleep/half-awake world of morning. The car was off the edge of the road, kicking up gravel into the wheel well, the steering wheel swaying violently.
Will sat up. “Karin!”
It was too late. I overcorrected and jumped from the edge of the pavement to the other side, stepping on the gas instead of the brake. No one was coming in the other direction, but when I swerved back into my lane, I overcorrected again and this time both tires went off the road.
“Brake! Brake!” Will yelled.
I put both feet down and we slid, but not before we hit something, then slammed into the guardrail.
Will climbed over the seat and out the passenger side. Steam came from the radiator. I thought he was looking at the front of the car, to check for damage, but the expression on his fa
ce was one of pure horror. He bent over, examining something. Then he moved to his left. When he looked up at me, his eyes showed a despair I had never seen, as if there were something deep in his heart he could not explain and could never share.
“No, stay in the car,” he said.
But I was already out, walking to the front, looking at the damaged hood, dents in the metal . . . and streaks of red.
A doll lay on the ground, its face in the gravel, and I wondered who could have dropped such a lifelike toy by the road. Some child would certainly have cried herself to sleep when she couldn’t find it.
And then I spotted another. Dark brown hair over the shoulders, masking the face. Something red oozed from her head. Arms and legs splayed.
I collapsed on the ground beside them, and Will picked me up—he must have because I awoke in the car, pulling into my driveway. He carried me from the car to the front door and put me on the couch.
“There’s been an accident,” he said to my father. “I’ve called for help, but I have to go back.”
Like waking from a long, tortured dream, the truth of that moment engulfed me. I had been hearing a single note on a piano, and now I began to hear the strains of the symphony of sorrow, love, and living. I had not only been there in the car at the scene; I had been behind the wheel. It finally made sense that Richard would allow Will access to me, to break through with this terrible reality and what it had done to me.
“You were asleep,” I whispered to Will, “and you told the police that you were driving.” I turned to my husband. “I was the one who should have . . .” I put my face in my hands.
Will took one of my hands and held it gently. “Karin, from the time we were kids, I knew . . .”
“Knew what?”
“That we’d be together someday. And I couldn’t stand the thought of you facing this.”
“I haven’t faced this.”
“I mean facing the consequences.”
The walls of the study seemed different. I had painted them a pretty lime green, but now they were a drab off-white, just like the shades. Richard sat in front of a steel desk, not the wooden one in his office. Was I in the church conference room? someone else’s study?