by Sam Wiebe
Success! After a week in the cage James emerged meek and obedient. Dawn is buying food for tonight’s feast, the boy’s first hot meal in seven days. I knew there was a better way than the belt.
Today I gave James his first bird, a chick with a maimed wing and vestiges of its absorbed twin still grafted to its torso. It won’t live long, but it will teach James how to care for something, and allow him to observe nature taking its course. In the real world, kindness and cruelty are often intertwined. On a personal note, it feels wonderful to have someone to share my hobby with.
I am glad I was the one to find the body and the note. “Sick experiment” indeed! Fine sentiment from a career prostitute. My dear sister fell into low company before I intervened, and this “sick experiment” has made her happier than she has ever been. The child is safe and loved. All we need is a respectful distance kept by those who would meddle. Perhaps Barbara’s decision to end her life is for the best. It does beg the question of Deirdre.
It’s done and I’m back home. God will forgive me or he won’t, but the three of us are safe. Maybe Deirdre would have kept her word, but I doubt it. Cleaning her apartment I found her own diary. She shared the same apocalyptic perspective that Barbara had. I didn’t read it before shredding it. God can judge me, History can judge me, but I will not be naysayed by those with no grasp of the importance of my work. Don’t they realize that if Dawn and I are successful with James, there will be a blueprint for others to follow in rehabilitating their own families? My sole comfort is that time has exonerated other visionaries before me. And if we are unsuccessful? I gave it my all and have no regrets.
Today Dawn left. I found drug paraphernalia in her abandoned room. Has she been in a stupor the entire time? I feel weary. Everything is off-balance. How can she prefer that life to this one? I must gather my wits. James is my responsibility now. If I set the correct example she will doubtless come back.
In the last book, the dates late September:
Life is funny. I sit at my table, alone with Precious, night after night, maintaining the illusion that I’m a harmless eccentric. “The Ostrich Man,” they call me. As if, to these drunks and harlots, I’m a kind of mascot. A pet. I cannot wait for posterity to vindicate me. The books they will write: “Barton’s first great work was written in peculiar circumstances.” If only I could live to see that.
All great advances are predicated on failure. I wonder how much of my work I could salvage if circumstances forced me to flee. I love James. I consider him my son. Sometimes, though, I think of the mistakes I’ve made with him and I want nothing more than a clean slate. Maybe this is how Dawn felt. We are both hopeless dreamers. Sometimes the world seems so drab and mundane compared to our designs. Why can we not say to hell with the world and live in these designs instead?
I pocketed the first and last of the notebooks and headed out of the sub-basement. Nothing had been disturbed in the aviary. The house was still, save for the clicks and groans and hums that empty houses make. I went to the bedrooms on the main floor and tossed them. Gerald Barton was meticulous in his bookkeeping and kept a tidy room. Dawn Meeker’s was filthy, and judging from the dust on the bedsheets, had been vacant at least a month. I wondered if they fucked and where.
I left the house via the back and retraced my steps past the wood pile. I noticed built into the side of the house a wooden hatch with a bar across it. I didn’t have the stomach for another basement. I unlatched it and peered inside, once again using the cell as a flashlight. The door didn’t lead down but sideways, in a narrow crawlspace that ran beneath the kitchen and living room, between the first basement and ground level.
A water barrel on its side. A long slim zippered pouch. I recognized the latter as a rifle case. I bent and reached inside, clutching the gun by the barrel through the bag. A lever-action Winchester 30-30, some sort of limited edition with elaborate scrollwork on the metal. I checked to see if the rifle was loaded. It was. Foolish to store a gun that way.
I bent and straddled the entrance, leaning inside the crawlspace. I righted the barrel and used my free hand to work off the lid. I leaned in and hugged the barrel and twisted the lid, which came off in my hand. The barrel tipped towards me.
That smell of human meat decaying, liquid sloshing out, soaking the crawlspace, soaking my shirt and hands. A yellow eye, stringy black hair, and that smell.
I fell backwards out of the crawlspace, landing on wet grass. My cell was out of my hand, lost somewhere. I grabbed the rifle, tried to push myself to my feet and gave up.
So there he was. Dead for over a month judging from the decomp. No indication how.
I couldn’t look at him again. I wrote off my cellphone and sealed the crawlspace, my hands and torso soaked in Django James Szabo. I knew what came next. I picked up the rifle and flung the wet case into the bushes.
I sat on the edge of the porch out of the light and I waited — two hours? Four? Tears on my face, my clothes drying solid in the cold air. I froze but didn’t care.
The first inkling of morning shone through the trees. Eventually I saw high beams down the path. The Cherokee stopped in the patch of dead grass that served as a driveway. I heard the door thunk closed, another open and then close. The Ostrich Man was whistling.
He reached the door to the house. He set down the conure’s cage and fumbled with his keys. He stopped, maybe sensing something out of place. I crossed the stoop with the gun at my hip and stepped into the halo of the porch light so he could see the son of a bitch who was about to kill him.
Recognition on his face. Terror. A glance towards his truck. I stepped off the porch, cutting off his escape. He ran for the opposite side of the house. I shot from the hip like a fucking amateur and missed, the report louder than fury.
I followed him around the side of the house where there was no light. He cleared it, racing across an open stretch of backyard. Our feet made rude noises as we worked them free of the mud. I took another shot but missed him again, transferred the rifle to my left hand and came out with the Glock. I took two shots at him as we ran. I stopped and let the rifle fall and aimed two-handed with the Glock and squeezed off the rest of the clip, slow and with regulated breathing. He dropped but came up immediately and I knew I’d winged him but not killed him.
I tossed the pistol in frustration and bent to take up the rifle, the smooth shoulder rest covered in mud. My cast made it awkward to grasp the barrel. I held my breath and sighted on his back and fired. In the fraction of time between noise and impact I prayed to whatever God would listen please let me kill him. I saw the shot catch him almost square in the back and propel him down into the grass, scant feet from the base of the knoll.
I ran towards him through the mud with the gun held over my head like some kind of trophy. He was facedown, still alive. He managed to turn onto his back and look up at me. I saw the dark splotch of the exit wound above and to the right of his heart. His right hand held the knife blade which he’d worked out of the tire, clamped in a dirty linen handkerchief.
It took him almost a minute to drag out a full sentence. “I can explain if you’ll listen.”
I pulled the notebooks from my pocket and held them in front of his face. He clutched at them and I lifted them just out of his fingers’ reach.
“I did not kill him. Swear I didn’t.”
“Your sister then?”
“Neither of us. We’re not murderers. Not a hair on his head.”
“This isn’t your house?” I kicked him. “Not your barrels?”
“I loved James,” he said.
“How’d he die?”
“Fell.”
“On the stairs?” A nod. “You push him?”
“He tripped.”
“You’re lying.”
“He fell.”
I ripped the title page out of his book.
“I swear to God he fell.”
Crows settled onto the high branches along the edge of the property. Barton’s eyes flicked to the
m reflexively. Without meeting my gaze he said, “He was trying to escape. He fell down the stairs in the dark. He hurt his head. I tried to help him but there was nothing I could do.”
“You take him to a hospital?”
His eyes on the birds. “No.”
“You just, what — hoped he’d get better? Look at me.”
Tears. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Where’s your sister?”
“I don’t know. Swear to God.”
“You hid Barbara in that shed?”
“To protect us.”
“And killed Deirdre for the same reason?”
“To protect James. He could’ve been happy here. Swear to God.”
With his free hand he reached up for the book. I tore it up the spine and knelt down with the rifle pointed at his chest.
I said, “I want you to know that after I kill you I’m going to burn this book and the others. All your papers, all your notes. Whatever fame you think you’re entitled to will vanish. You’ll be just another sick bastard. If the world says anything it’ll say good riddance.”
I believe I was grinning when I said that. It seemed to take the heart out of him. He didn’t react when I worked the lever on the rifle and chambered another round.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
In fact I felt like I already had. I tried to find words to tell him this.
“This is a nice country,” I said. “We’re not set up to deal with people like you.” I stepped on his chest and pulled the trigger.
The gun jammed. Barton rolled away, putting me off balance, sending me into the muck. He swiped at me with the broken blade. I felt the skin tear below my eye. He swiped again but there was no force behind the movement. I regained my feet and took the rifle by the barrel and stove his head in.
XXVII
No Redress
It took what felt like an hour before I could hear anything besides tidal waves of blood crashing into the rocky coastline in my skull. I stood over him feeling self-righteous as hell until I began to feel the cold creep up through my muddy sneakers and pant legs. The morning sun brought faint showers and no warmth. I tucked my coat around me and began to think rationally. It was my first killing and I found this hard.
I used my coat to bundle everything — guns, shell casings, knife blade and linen, all but the notebooks. I even waded back into the crawlspace, the child’s bodily fluids underfoot, and pulled my cellphone from the slime. While inside I noted the other barrels beneath a tarp, like great blue eggs. Someone else’s to discover. I righted the barrel with Django’s body in it and sealed the lid.
Barton I left for the critters.
In the house I opened the birds’ cages and dumped the feed out in a pile on the basement floor. Under the kitchen sink upstairs I found a jug of bleach. As I walked back to the van I stopped to break the rifle on the ground, douse the pieces with bleach and toss them into the forest. Cars came along the road. I turned my back to them and made like I was pissing.
At the van I stripped and dressed in yesterday’s clothes. I’d left my appliances at the motel but figured I could live without them. I made a pile of all the artifacts and emptied the jug above them. I tossed them into my suitcase. The notebooks I hid in a crevice of the van. I used the water I’d brought to wash myself as best I could, using a bleach solution to mask the smell of death.
There is an air taxi from Nanaimo to Vancouver which takes less than an hour from takeoff to touchdown. I was tempted, but I needed to bring the van back over. I wondered how much time I’d have.
I had lunch in the same cafeteria booth that I’d sat in with Fisk on the ride over. Ferry ice cream is better than it has any right to be. I had a dish and some tea, hoping a spike in blood sugar would sort everything out. I felt a dull pain from my arm and wished I’d brought my painkillers.
I phoned Katherine from a phone on the boat that charged an extortionist’s rate. She told me about Ben and about the office. I didn’t share my news.
Halfway across the Strait of Georgia I walked down to the vehicle deck and opened the back doors of the van. I slid out the suitcase and closed the doors, eyed a spot near the stern where there were no security cameras or crew members, and heaved the case over the railing and into the churning white water behind us.
What hadn’t been destroyed by Theo Atero and his crew had been stolen or vandalized by the Hastings Street locals, who treat yellow police ribbons as invitations to help themselves. The vultures even took the toilet seat. I worked off the wall panel and found the contracts and the wireless drive and the drawstring Crown Royal pouch I used in lieu of a cashbox. I tore up the Szabo contract and flushed it. I pocketed the pouch. I’d come straight from the ferry terminal to do this, knowing the Ateros could be lurking around and that I’d just pitched my gun into the ocean.
I took the stairs down and crossed to the van and heard someone call my name and turned. Gavin Fisk and Mira Das were walking towards me from the corner. We met at the van.
I held my hands over my head. “I know what this looks like, but officers, please, I swear I’m just holding for a friend.” Only Fisk laughed.
Mira said, “You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“There’s a good chance you’re right.”
“You’ve heard about your friend Ben?”
“Heading to the hospital right now.”
“Where’s this going to end, Mike?”
“What ‘this’ are you referring to, Mira?”
“You and the Ateros.” Her expression saying, “What other ‘this’ could I mean?”
“It’s played out, far as I’m concerned.”
Fisk said, “She’s worried you’ll go after them with guns blazing. You’re more of a nightstick guy, is what I told her.”
“I’m sorry about your office,” Mira said.
“It’ll fix.”
“And your face?”
Barton’s blade — my blade — had left the faintest of marks. “Cut myself,” I said.
“Your friend Katherine told me you were coming here. She asked us to watch out for you.”
“I didn’t tell her I was coming here.”
“She must have assumed it then.” Mira patted my shoulder. “Go home and see your grandmother. And clean yourself up. You need a shower in the worst possible way.”
The main hall of the church was in use, but Pastor Flaherty set aside one of the meeting rooms for us. The carpet had cigarette burns and the one window looked out on the building next door. Cliff Szabo was waiting, holding two cups of coffee.
I wanted to confess everything to him. He deserved it. At the same time there was self-preservation to think of, and his own culpability. I pulled two folding chairs off the stack and set them facing each other. I sat him down and told him his son was dead. I’d never seen him emote beyond frustration and anger, but he bowed his head and the tears came, along with a whimpering sound from his throat.
“How?”
“Accident which went untreated,” I said. “I’m sorry as hell.”
I gave him his money and told him to rip up his copy of our contract. A silly precaution given that he’d announced I was working for him on the nightly news, but the less evidence the better. I told him to tell people that I’d been on vacation, that he’d never asked me to accompany Fisk to the Island. I wondered if Fisk would tell what he knew. Hard to say.
“In a week or so,” I said, “you’ll get two books in the mail. They’re written by the man responsible, in his own hand. They spell out what happened. If I was you I’d burn them, but you deserve the option.” I stared at my hands clasped in front of me, avoiding his face. “I don’t think he suffered,” I added.
“What happened to the man responsible?”
I told him.
Ben was lying with his back to the door when I entered the bright hospital room and took in the stale, flower-scented air. I figured he was sleeping and that I’d sit for a while, maybe rustle up a Ludlum
or a Travis McGee from the hospital’s lending library. But he turned over and I saw the tears on his face.
“Feeling okay?” I said, once again trying to comfort someone to whom the idea of comfort was obscene.
Both legs cast, bandages on his face and hands. “How can you ask me that?”
“Want me to get the nurse?”
“I have a button if I need it,” he said. “Anyway, I’m pretty high right now. That’s why there might be tears. Side effect of the drugs.”
“Right.”
He repositioned himself on his back. “How’d it go?”
“Not well,” I said, laughing despite myself at the understatement. “About the same as things here.”
“So he’s dead?”
“Yes. No miracles.”
Ben nodded and invented pretexts to wipe his face. I turned away for a moment and pulled a wicker chair closer to his bed.
“That’s how Cynthia ended up, didn’t she?”
“I didn’t find her body there, though I’m sure that’s the first thing your mother will ask me. The cases aren’t connected.”
“But that’s what happened to her, isn’t it?”
I began to lie but couldn’t summon the effort.
“Probably,” I said. “Almost certainly.”
“Some evil bastard just took her and did what he wanted and killed her.”
“They’re out there,” I said, “and there’s nothing you can do about them, nothing that can make it right. And that applies to the person that put you here.”
“I gathered that,” he said.
I handed him the wireless drive. “The attack will be on here. No way Theo walks after the police see it.”
Ben nodded and let it fall on his bedsheets. He said, “Until I ended up in here I don’t think I ever felt the emptiness of not having Cynthia, just as a presence on the planet. It sounds stupid, but I think I was keeping her alive by writing about her. That’s why I write, you know — to keep dead people alive. Magnus Kane started out as this ultra-powerful version of me who could do whatever he wanted, but as I started fleshing him out, he became my brother. And Rosalind, she was just a hostage to be rescued in the first game, but then she grew and became Cynthia. It wasn’t so much about rescuing her as about what she’d do once she was rescued, the life she’d lead. The further I went, the less it felt like the real people were really gone. And I can’t write anymore because I see it for what it is, a poor substitute, and not fair to their memories.”