by Greg Walker
Now that night had fallen, he prepared to visit Jon, and then later drive all the way to Erie, break in and stage a home invasion, pop Will, and be home by sunrise. He had contemplated hiring someone, but decided that since he had created Will, or at least stirred up something already there and now running with the lever stuck in the ON position, he had a duty to pull the plug. Beyond that reasoning, Will might end up in prison, if they caught him for the robbery and murder or some unknown misdeed in the future. Will would never, ever, make it there; if he came out, he would not come out whole. The death Brody offered in light of that possibility was a blessing Will could thank him for on the other side.
Brody walked to the Mustang, and then turned and looked at the shed behind the house. He hadn’t ridden the Harley since the weekend past, and wanted to feel the wind rush over his face, feel the rumble of the engine beneath him, the sheer power at his command. But it was loud. While he relished disturbing the peace of uptight moralists tucked up inside Tanville, the noise would draw attention, and some busybody member of the garden club might pull her fat ass out of her recliner and peek out the window and see and remember his visit to Jon’s house.
But the call of the motorcycle remained strong, and so he compromised: take a spin on the bike, get out on the highway and demolish the speed limit for a while, then come back and drive the Mustang on his business trip. Mr. and Mrs. Jon might then be in bed, but that would only heighten the drama. In bed they were most vulnerable. They needed to know they could never be safe from him, and sitting in their skivvies hiding under a blanket while a man entered and took command of their home would go far towards that end. He liked Jon, but too much rode on all of this, and he needed to keep him off balance and under control.
He walked back to the shed and went inside, threw off the sheet that covered the machine and wheeled it outside. He started the engine and the vibrations coursed through him. He let out an animal yell, a cry that barbarian hordes and Viking marauders would have recognized as their own, and tore out of the driveway, flinging gravel and probably chipping the paint of the Mustang but he didn’t care. Crush could fix that later. For now he only wanted to ride.
Brody returned exhilarated. He had hit one-hundred and twenty on a straightaway, swerving around other vehicles when necessary and screaming his battle cry. He had made the right choice, the speed and the danger a thrill he wished he could bottle up and sip anytime he needed a jolt. Hell, if someone could figure out how, he might just retire from crime altogether and sit on a beach for the rest of his days with a flask in hand.
He tucked the bike back inside the shed, and then grabbed his car keys and just before leaving, decided to take Will's gun along. He didn't think he would need it, but best to be prepared. He had grown fond of the piece, a little souvenir from his reunion with Jon and Will and their wild weekend together to remember always.
He hit the highway again, this time only driving eighty. Speed in a car could satisfy, but nothing like the bike or the boat, where the lack of a roof or doors heightened every sensation and distilled the experience into something pure and holy. He supposed only skydiving might top it, but the fear of heights was the only fear Brody Stape admitted to. He had never set foot on an airplane nor would he. He detested any situation completely out of his control, and would not die sitting in an uncomfortable chair with his head tucked between his knees while someone else wrestled with the controls of a plummeting aircraft.
He found it ironic, as events before him transpired, that his last thoughts before death were of dying. As the tractor trailer ahead of him jackknifed and toppled, the wreck spanning both lanes, he stomped on the brake knowing his speed guaranteed failure to stop; as he turned the wheel sharply to try for the median strip and the wheels left the ground and the car rolled, he also found time to recognize anger at dying in such a stupid, stupid way. Brody Stape was a man destined to go down in a hail of bullets, not flattened like a bunch of drunk teenagers in their daddy's cars on prom night. But even perishing in this lowly manner, it surprised him to realize that at some level he had never believed he could die at all, that his middle finger aimed at morality and those that bowed to its code would earn him immortality, death reserved only for those that had already surrendered their lives to a long line of authority figures waiting at the way stations of high school and college, marriage and the workplace, church and state.
But as the car spun into the truck, a tanker - the word Exxon flew past the now demolished windshield - he found time to reconsider. This, actually, could be quite interesting.
Befitting even.
When his Mustang and the tank become one, Brody felt bones snap and organs rupture, the spray of cold liquid and the cloying odor of gasoline, and heard sounds that no words in his vocabulary could describe. He remained conscious just long enough to see a blinding flash of light and feel a tremendous heat.
And ushered into that great unknown inside the belly of a great inferno, Brody Stape was smiling.
Chapter 18
Will turned on the eleven o’clock news. He wrestled with a mixture of fear and triumph when the reporter appeared in front of the hardware store, listened as she related in sad, solemn tones the death of one Robert Aikens the Third, and of a community in mourning for one of their fallen sons; a hard-working man well-loved and already missed.
The failure to mention Aikens’ stupidity in rushing after him irritated Will to no end. He had escaped with a couple hundred dollars. Wasn’t his fault that the man put such a low value on his life. From the sound of it, it didn’t seem that Aikens needed to add “hero” to his list of superlatives, his character already beyond reproach. But Will had always distrusted praises for the dead; seemed that every stiff would have given the shirt off of their back to anyone that asked, and what need was there for hell, since everybody in the end departed a saint. If so, he wondered, why was the world such a shitty place to live in, where you found out early on you were on your own and if you slipped and fell, you got trampled underfoot?
His attention and concern rose to a new level when the reporter spoke with a state policeman. Will hunched forward in his chair and gripped the armrests, ignoring the sound of a small tear in an especially threadbare area. The police admitted they had no leads except the description of a white Toyota fleeing the scene, but no specific make. And that the suspect was tall. Will wondered if he should get the car painted but decided against it. How many white Toyotas were on the road? Probably thousands in the area, and if he took it to a body shop for a paint job, they might have seen the newscast and wonder why a tall man wanted his car painted a different color. No point giving them anything. Let the police earn their money and reputation as the protectors of society.
The blinking of unheard messages on his machine drew his attention away from the television for a moment. He had avoided listening to them, assuming they had come in from work or possibly Michelle; all parties he had no wish to speak with right now. He didn’t know exactly what to do about his job; he didn’t want to return or even explain his unscheduled leave of absence, but found a curious reluctance in formally severing his ties. He had a little money saved up to last a while, maybe six months, and preferred burning through most of it instead of handing it over to Michelle after the divorce. He hoped Brody would call soon, and that the job would be scheduled in the near future. They hadn’t talked about a cut of profits for him, but with his newfound skills and willingness to employ them, he felt certain this added value should amount to something significant. More than Jon, surely.
Thinking of Brody fired resentment of the beating he had taken in the kitchen and the threats with the knife. He knew he couldn’t take on Brody and survive, or at least with all of his body parts intact. But it still irked him that he belonged to Stape again, a sore spot that no other benefits arising from their decades-later meeting could assuage. He hated and feared and…admired Brody Stape.
He turned his attention back to the TV. The reporter demurred to the
anchors, who dutifully shook their heads and expressed stock sorrow and outrage before going on to the next story, their solemn expressions shed in the process. Something about a fiery car crash. Will saw the video of an inferno far in the background, yellow and orange so bright as to render everything else in the frame completely black. This new reporter couldn’t get too close due to the heat, apparently. Will turned off the TV with plans to catch the morning news for any new information from Loudenville.
The phone rang, and he froze. Calls this late usually meant nothing good, and even more so now, with reasons to dread anything out of the ordinary. He let the machine get it.
“Hi dad, it’s Justin. Are you there? I just wanted to say ‘hi’. I miss you…”
Will rushed to the phone and picked up.
“Justin? Hey, buddy. How are you? Why are you calling so late?”
“I’m okay, dad. I’m sorry I missed practice, but mom said I can’t play on the team anymore. When are you coming home?”
Practice. He had completely forgotten about it. Probably a message or two about it in the flashing queue that numbered ten now. But without Justin on the team, he saw no reason to continue, the whole thing so trivial in the scope of things. Will Roup had bigger fish to fry these days. He’d call Rick, his assistant coach, and let him take over.
“Justin, does your mom know you’re calling?”
“No, I didn’t tell her. She always says ‘later’ no matter how many times I ask.”
“Well, I don’t know what your mom has told you about…stuff going on right now. Maybe we’ll see if we can get together sometime soon. But I’ll have to talk to her first.” He bit back his anger at needing to seek permission from his wife to see his own son.
“Okay.” Will heard Justin's disappointment, felt the mounting attack of guilt and conscience for his deeds, needed to get off the phone before it all fell down around him, undone by a sad nine year old.
“Look, I’ll call your mom soon and we’ll set something up. Dad’s real busy right now, so I have to go. Talk to you soon. Love you.”
“But dad, wait…”
Will hung up the phone, and took deep breaths, trying to control his panic. He needed to get a handle on this all, and not let any breeze that blew through tie him in knots. And a new low, hanging up the phone on his own son. Father of the year material right there.
He thought back to that afternoon, to the dead man bleeding all over his demolished truck. Will hadn’t gone down there for that purpose, to shoot someone, hadn’t gone looking for that sort of trouble. Just a little excitement with the robbery, and if Steve couldn’t absorb the loss of a few hundred dollars and stay afloat, it wouldn’t be the theft that dragged him under. The fool farmer had chased after him, and left him no choice. So he wasn’t a murderer, not really. Just like he and Jon hadn’t planned to kill Chris. Chris didn’t show the proper respect for a superior weapon and died because of it.
Will slumped down into his chair and ran his hands through his hair. Almost forty years old. He was through with sales, even if he had to go back out and get a job somewhere else. Just walking out wasn’t the right way to go, he knew, should probably call and explain…but the thought of beginning some new career, mustering desire to believe more corporate lies, or at least enough to delude himself, and strive again for…
How could he possibly do that? After the revelatory experiences he now had as part of his essential make-up? He couldn’t pretend be clean or innocent anymore. Of course he wouldn’t add robbery and killing to his resume, but he carried them along inside just the same. Everything had seemed so simple until speaking with Justin. Before he could stop, Will wished that he had no son, no family to speak of, even one he would soon be excised from, leaving a vacancy soon filled by Robert, perhaps; find himself pitted against this new man, a father figure that ultimately might have more sway in his son’s life than he ever had or would.
Unless, following the job with Brody and the money made, he could be the father that bought all the cool stuff, everything his friends wanted and might get for Christmas. Except for Justin, Christmas could come every week. And then, maybe he could find something respectable to do. No one ever needed to know the detour he had taken. He could get back on track, but further along and with momentum never achieved or even possible on his previous course. And he could be someone his son could look up to, want to emulate. Perhaps he could even tell Justin about all of this when he got older. He just wasn't ready yet, hadn't lived long enough to experience disappointment and disillusionment and the hard truths of the world. His son still believed he could grow up to be a professional ball player, probably even thought Superhero was on the table. He would find out soon enough how things really were, a thought that made Will sad and angry, both for his son and for himself, wishing that he could believe in something again too that might make all of this unnecessary.
Will went to bed, his head spinning, his world in conflict, his emotions raw and his life either burning down or rising up, depending on the point of view he chose. He knew, ultimately, that definition of perspective would be up to him.
Will set his alarm in order to view the early five o’clock edition of the morning news. He expected his story to lead again, but instead the crash on Route 28, located down near Tanville, kicked things off. Must have been something for Erie to care about what happened down there.
And it was.
The southbound and northbound lanes of the highway were completely shut down, the morning commute into Pittsburgh a complete debacle. A tanker carrying a full load of gasoline had ignited, incinerating trees up to a hundred yards away. Only a quick response from nearly a dozen volunteer fire companies in the area had kept the entire surrounding woods from evaporating in the flames. They had battled the blaze all night. Video of the current scene showed a blackened and buckled roadway in need of total replacement. Looked like a bomber had come through and dropped its payload. Will found it fascinating despite his impatience to hear about his story, and leaned in close to listen.
“The driver, Alan Pitchford, 53, of Pittsburgh died at the scene. Police also found a license plate attached to a bumper that appears to have been propelled from the wreckage in the initial blast. This led to a search for more remains, and I’m now told that the identity of Brody Stape, 41, of Tanville has been confirmed using dental records matched to those held at Erie County Penitentiary. Whether Stape, recently released after serving a ten year sentence in prison, had done anything to contribute to the cause of the accident, or was simply driving in the vicinity as the truck toppled, is unknown. Investigators will be at the scene all day, trying to piece together what happened. We'll bring you more information as this story unfolds. For Channel 2 news, I’m Andrea Leeson.”
The broadcast returned to the anchors, and after grave words they segued to the robbery. He listened just enough to understand that the police seemed no closer to catching the perpetrator and had resorted to pleas for eyewitnesses to come forward. This was followed by sound bites of townspeople praising Aikens the Third and condemning Will to rot in hell, in so many words.
He shut off the TV and stared at it, catching his own shocked expression in the glare of the black glass. Brody dead. Which meant that he and Jon were free men. He picked up the phone, started dialing Jon and then hit the end button. Will knew this should qualify as good news, but it only made his stomach ache. Without Brody, Will was just a guy who had abandoned his job and held no future prospects. He looked at the phone again, and pulled up Lloyd his boss from his contact list, knew he should call and see if he could smooth things over, make up some sob story, perhaps tell him about the upcoming divorce and that he had fallen into despondency as a result. Move on and try to make the best of it.
A sudden thought occurred to him that eclipsed all else in its immediacy. The camera. What if someone found it, and got the pictures developed? Chances are they couldn’t identify him and Jon, but images like that would get turned over to the police and
eventually lead to a knock on the door, unless they just bypassed any niceties and broke it down. True, they would then be free to tell their version of the story, the truth, and maybe even convince the police of its veracity. But Will feared any involvement with the cops, didn’t want to be on their radar in any capacity that could draw them to his deeds not explained as the result of another's coercion. The conversation with Detective Manning still left a bad taste in his mouth. He could hear the man’s condescension and ill-hidden belief in his guilt as though he had just had the conversation.
He stood up, got his coat, and rushed out the door, planning to drive to Tanville, see if there was any chance to retrieve the camera. He hoped Brody had kept it in the house, and that cops or family hadn’t descended on it. After that, Will would think on what to do next, but for now he appreciated the opportunity for action, better than brooding alone in his apartment with only a handful of bad or worse choices to pick from. He ran back inside to get a pair of gloves, realizing just as he locked his door that he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints behind in what would amount to a burglary. He thought dryly that maybe he could add rape and loansharking to his list of accomplishments before he returned home.