by Aric Davis
He shut off the water and then the light, flicked off the hallway light behind him as he walked into the bedroom, and slid under the sheets, feeling Alison’s warmth and smelling her, two things he could never imagine tiring of.
“Nothing?” she asked the dark. “No luck?”
“No,” said Will. “But how did you know, and why aren’t you asleep?”
“If you’d been writing, I’d have heard your fingers, at least a little bit, when your fingers really started attacking the keyboard. Or did you forget killing a laptop on the last one?”
He hadn’t forgotten. He’d felt like an idiot when the keys had started turning to dead zones under his fingers. Not that the machine hadn’t already been on its last legs—dead pixels speckling the screen like dirt, shutting off on its own whenever it felt overworked. He’d taken to writing at the library before shifts, which had only come to light when Alison told him she was leaving if he didn’t either come clean about the girl or tell him what the hell was going on. When he’d come home from the bar that night—bombed—a new laptop was sitting on his desk. He’d written until morning, drunk or not, and the chapters smashed into the new keyboard that night had forged a part of Bottles that was among those he was most proud of.
Alison switched on the bedside lamp and then turned, leaning toward him on an elbow, her nightie shifting in a way that would have been very enticing if Will had managed to expel even a few words downstairs.
“You know,” she said, “I could go back to school. I only need a few more credits, a year tops, and I’d be all set. We’ve got enough money now to get us there, and it’s not like they’re not still selling.”
“If you want to go back to school, that’s fine with me, but don’t do it on my account. I’m the one who thought he was a big shot and ready to get out of the fucking bar.”
Alison frowned, and Will was sorry he’d mentioned the bar at all. Some things, though in the past, will always show a person’s scars off for the world to see, and for Alison, those scars had been left by Will, with the bar as an unwitting accomplice.
“I’m not going back,” he assured her. “I’m just saying maybe I left a little early. Maybe my muse needs me to work to generate ideas.”
“If that’s all your muse needs,” smirked Alison, “tell her to get your ass out back and weed my garden.”
She smiled at him, the same smile that had made him notice her in the first place, that had made him fall in love with her, and that made him still love her. She wasn’t like him: her face was maturing with age, not suffering like his, not turning into the father he’d hated and respected right up until the old man put his hand over his heart, said, “I feel like shit,” and died right there at dinner. A quiet joke in the family that could still get some yucks if his brother Isaac and he were drinking—the only time Dad had ever dared swear at the dinner table and it had taken him fucking dying to do it.
“I’m going to get some beauty sleep,” said Alison, “and you, my writer man, you get some sleep and find that muse and tell her to give you some words. You’re good at this. Beating yourself up is just going to make it worse.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as she turned off the light. “We’ll both get those winks we need to look and write good tomorrow.”
Nestling back into him, she said, “Well, I’m going to look good tomorrow, either way.”
“Fair point,” said Will as he closed his eyes, and just like every other night when he’d been positive he’d never sleep, he was out before he knew what had hit him.
“Will.” Alison was shaking on his arm like she meant to tear it off. Her tone charged with hushed, dead-of-night panic, she said, “Get up, right now! I think someone’s trying to break in!”
He was awake then, awake and moving: peeling off the covers, opening the drawer of his nightstand, taking out the loaded Sig Sauer 1911 and SureFire flashlight. Alison was holding a 9mm Sig of her own. She looked terrified but determined. Is tonight the night that our son and his asshole friends break in? They’d been worried about it for so long, had been readying themselves for it, though they’d never said as much to each other. What else would the guns have been for?
Will walked out of the bedroom, the Sig pointed at the floor with his finger on the trigger guard and the still-off flashlight balanced in his other hand.
He crept down the stairs. The beating on the door started up again. A distraction, thought Will. Why else would they be knocking? He’d seen the clock, it was past three in the morning. The knocking continued, and Will moved off the steps, checking left and right of the foyer, dining room, then the parlor, before stepping close to the door.
“I don’t know who you are,” he called, “but I’m armed, and it would be a good idea for you to leave.”
The beating stopped, introducing a silence like a living thing. It seemed to last for minutes, yet was only seconds in length. Finally, the door knocker spoke.
“Sir, I am a detective with the Kent County Sheriff’s Department. I would ask that you disarm yourself and open the door. I will not be pleased if you are still holding a weapon when you do so.”
Could it be a trick? Will pushed the thought aside. If it was, it was a good one. He set his gun and flashlight down on the table next to the door, atop a pile of ignored mail.
“My door is bolted and chained,” he called. “I have set down my firearm and will release the bolt, but not the chain. If you don’t mind, slip me one of your cards through the gap.”
Will undid the bolt, staring at the 1911 on the table, knowing that this probably was a cop and that everything was going to be fine. Alex got arrested again, maybe graduated to something really bad this time. Except, that really didn’t ring true. Cops don’t come around like errand boys to let someone know that their asshole son has been arrested, much less detectives. These thoughts overpowered his fear of an intruder, and feeling quite numb, Will released the chain and opened the door.
The detective standing before him was holding a white business card in his fingers. Startled to have the door swing open so rapidly, the detective’s hand went to his hip, the card falling to the ice-spattered stoop. Will could feel eyes probing him for a gun. None of this was going right. Why was this cop here at all?
Convinced Will was unarmed, the detective knelt to retrieve the card. It had a damp corner, but was otherwise immaculate. The detective handed it to him, and Will read it as the detective said his name, Detective Dick Van Endel. He was of just above average height and build, a little paunchy around the midsection, and had a mustache that was more salt than pepper.
“Are you Will Daniels?” said Van Endel, and it was all Will could do to nod, knowing already what was to come, but praying the words wouldn’t come from this stranger’s mouth.
“Mr. Daniels, I have some terrible news. Your son, Alex Daniels, was found dead three days ago.”
“Three days,” Will repeated. He gave his head a short, hard shake, trying to process this. “My boy’s been dead for three fucking days, and you come to my house in the middle of the goddamn night? Are you insane? Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”
“Mr. Daniels, would you mind if I stepped inside? There’s a few things you have to know, and I’m sure you’re going to have more questions.”
“Who is it, Will?” called Alison from the darkness at the top of the stairs, and both men jumped at her voice.
“It’s a detective, Ally. Why don’t you set down your pistol and come on down here? He has some bad news for us.”
Alison was there in an instant, the color drained from her face. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she stammered. “Alex is dead? Is our son dead?”
Detective Van Endel nodded grimly. “I’m sorry to say that he is, ma’am. Would you and Mr. Daniels mind if I came in so we could talk about this further? I was just telling your husband—”
“He’s been dead for three fucking days,” Will spat, unable to hold back the rage in his voice. “Our son has been dead for th
ree days, and this is how they tell us.”
Alison’s face somehow paled even further; her skin was practically translucent now. In a very small voice, she said, “Why don’t you come in, detective? I’ll put some coffee on.”
Will watched incredulously as this detective, this liar, was allowed into his home. How could Alex have been dead for three days without them knowing? More importantly, how could his son, as troubled as he was, be dead at all? Van Endel passed him, and then Will followed his wife and the detective into their kitchen, his mind full of black thoughts. His only son was dead.
For the first time in a great while, Will had completely forgotten about his writer’s block.
Will made the coffee, despite Alison’s suggestion that she would do so. It was a ritual he’d been in charge of from the start of their relationship. This had its genesis in his alcoholism: only he could balance exactly what his stomach could tolerate against how strong he needed the coffee to be in order for him to function. Drinking or not, and these days mostly not, the job of making coffee was still his. Will made the coffee with fingers that seemed to have lost all muscle memory, every action requiring complex thought as he loaded the water and ground beans into the machine.
“Your son, Alex, was found shot to death in an abandoned barn about two miles from the East Beltline,” said Van Endel, “on the north end, between Plainfield and Rockford.”
“I still don’t understand why it took three days for you to tell us what was going on,” Will said with conscious effort, containing his rage as he poured a measured scoop of grounds into the cone-shaped coffee filter. “We have rights, and if you think I won’t be calling my lawyer in the morning, you’re sadly mistaken—”
“Will,” said Alison, “make the coffee and let the man speak. There’s clearly more to it, right, Detective?”
“Yes, ma’am. I want to warn you, though. What I’m going to tell you will explain why we were unable to contact you, but it’s probably going to make this a good deal harder for both of you.”
“We can handle it,” Will said.
Van Endel nodded, then turned to Alison. “Are you sure you feel the same way, Mrs. Daniels?”
Alison nodded, and Will could see the truth sinking in on her face, now looking nearly jaundiced under the kitchen lighting.
“Your son was found burned beyond recognition in the remains of an abandoned barn, next to a van that had also been burned. The van, and your son, are both considered to have been involved in the robbery and killings that took place at the Lake Michigan Credit Union branch a few miles from there. You’ve heard about that robbery?”
Will mouthed assent, and Alison nodded. Alex was involved in that bloodbath? The robbery was all the news had been talking about for days, how three armed gunmen had broken that ancient rule of armed robbery, gunning down innocent people who’d been doing what they had been told. “Here’s what we know so far: At eleven forty-five a.m. on Tuesday, your son and two other men entered the credit union. One of the men, who I believe to be Alex, shot a loan officer who was attempting to trigger the silent alarm. Alex and one of the other suspects went into the vault—there’s video of them stealing a great deal of marked bills—and the third accomplice opened fire with a rifle inside the credit union lobby.
“As you might’ve heard, four people have been pronounced dead, not counting Alex, with two more in critical condition. None of those people are likely to survive. One of them is a little girl who was shot in the back of the head. She was there with her parents, both of whom are dead now. Even if she does live, she’s going to be a vegetable.”
Detective Van Endel looked at his hands, which he’d begun clenching and then unclenching as he spoke. Now he opened his fists one last time and laid his palms flat on the glass tabletop.
“The three suspects then left the credit union and got in a van, believed to be the one found burned along with your son, and disappeared. Smoke led us to the fire, which was very far along by the time the firefighters could get to it. Even so, a fragment of your son’s driver’s license was discovered intact in what little was left of his wallet. We’re—”
“So you’re not sure,” Will said. “That body could’ve been—”
Van Endel lifted one palm from the tabletop to quiet him. “I’m sorry, sir. And, yes, we’ll need your help to obtain your son’s dental records. But I don’t want to provide you any false hope. We’re quite certain the body is your son’s. I apologize again for the delay in relaying this information to you. For what it’s worth, I’ve only just come from the lab.”
Will’s mind spun pointlessly for a while, and then he found himself saying, “Yes. He was always difficult. More than just difficult. But Alex...he would never kill another person. Not without good reason. I know my son. I...I knew him...”
“I only know what I see, sir. I see it over and over, though. I would guess that your son went to jail thinking he was a bad dude and then came out friends with some truly bad dudes. And then maybe these dudes talked him into doing some things you just can’t imagine him doing. It’s a terrible thing, but it happens. As I said, I’ve seen it over and over. And then it’s likely that he either offended one of his partners or, who knows, questioned the killings. There could be a hundred different reasons for them to have turned on him.”
Will tried to imagine Alex pushing back on the killers, facing up to them. It was a stretch. He couldn’t imagine his son killing anybody, but he couldn’t see him playing such a noble part, either. All the same, he appreciated Van Endel offering up the possibility.
“So what now?” Alison asked. “What do we do now?”
“Well, we’re going to have to wait for forensics to finish up with Alex before we can release the body to you. It might not be a bad idea to talk to your church, if you have one, and whatever your family prefers for funeral arrangements.”
“What are the chances that the men who killed my son will be caught?” said Will. The edge was back in his voice; he tried to temper it as the words came out, but it didn’t work.
“It’s highly likely that some manner of evidence will make itself known. That could be through Alex’s associations behind bars or his friends on the outside. Someone knows what happened to him, and they had to have been pretty tight if they trusted him enough to rob a bank with them. That person is still out there, and I will find him, I truly believe that. Do you have any more questions for me?”
Alison shook her head, and Will muttered a barely audible no.
“If you come up with anything later, please, let me know. Also, if you can think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt your son, or who he may have associated with in the past, let me know.” Detective Van Endel stood. “I’m truly sorry about your loss.”
Will stood and shook Van Endel’s hand and then led the detective out into the blowing snow.
Will woke just after 6:00, surprised that he’d been able to sleep. Alison gone from their bed was confirmation that none of it had been a dream, that Alex really was dead. He pulled on a pair of warm-up pants, brushed his teeth, and went downstairs.
Alison was waiting for him at the kitchen table, in the seat she’d been in when they’d talked to the detective the night before. She was drinking the coffee that he’d made, then had forgotten to have or share with the detective. She looked at him and said, “I hope you don’t blame me for any of this.”
“You?” said Will. “Why in the world would I blame you?”
“I’m the one who raised him. I was his mother, whether I birthed him or not. He’s my only child, and now he’s dead. You put me in charge of one thing—the most important thing—and now he’s gone. We could have done more; I should have done more!”
Will sat and moved to grab her hand, but she snatched it away. “Look,” he said, “there’s no blaming you or anyone else that wasn’t there when he died. Alex made some bad choices, and as hard as this is going to be, we don’t need to beat each other up over it.”
Will di
dn’t say what he thought then, which was that the media wasn’t going to need their help to beat up what was left of their family. Alex was going to be a scapegoat for the crimes that had taken place before his death, and nothing was going to change that until his murderers were caught, and even that wouldn’t be good enough for those who really knew the victims. Nothing was ever going to be the same, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“I’m going to wait a couple of hours,” Will said, “and then I’m going to call my brother and Lou. I need to give Isaac a heads-up about Alex, and I want to talk to Lou about getting our ducks in a row, legally speaking. Before I do any of that, though, we need to talk about what we want to happen.”
“You mean with Alex?”
“Yes.”
She sipped from her coffee. Will could feel her hollow eyes looking through him. Alex had been her son more than his, even though she shared no blood with the boy. It was at that precise instant that he realized just how awful a father he’d been and that there never was going to be a moment when Alex turned his life around or when the two of them could make things right, to correct the sins of the father and of the son.
“You mean like, what are we going to do with him, once the cops release the body? Because we had a plan. Do you want to change it? He’s still your son! He’s still my son, and nothing he did changes what we wanted for him, dead or alive.”
“I guess it seems weird,” stammered Will. “With what happened to him, I feel odd going through with a cremation. It seems morbid, almost cruel, and even if we do, are we still going to want—”
“We have had a will written since you turned thirty,” she said, her voice slowly rising, “and nowhere in it does it say that if our son does something too awful, we don’t want his ashes spread where ours are going to be spread. He is my fucking son, and you are not going to let something he probably did high out of his mind affect where he ends up now. He was a troubled boy, and he died a troubled death. That doesn’t mean that he couldn’t be sweet and that we didn’t love him.” Alison’s speech sputtered off and turned to tears.