by Greg Walker
“No. No, Sir, I don’t think that. I realize…”
He waved a wrinkled but strong looking hand at Will.
“Fine. As long as we’re clear on that. Can you lift a 50 pound bag?”
“Yes.”
“Have any problems getting in and out of a truck? You seem fit enough.”
“No problems at all.”
“You’ll have to take a drug test, and we’ll do a background check as well. Any problems with that? No point in going any further if you do. Just get up and go, no questions asked.”
“No problems with that.” At least not yet.
“You’ll have to complete a firearms training course first. We’ll pay for it, but you won’t receive any compensation for your time. Okay with that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“All right, Mr. Roup. I’m willing to take a chance on you. Don’t let me down.”
Will stood up and reached across the desk. “Thank you, Mr. Stanley. I’ll do my best.”
He looked him in the eyes, trying to picture them when a few million dollars went missing and carrying the burning knowledge that he had put the man in place to make that happen. Will nearly shivered, in excitement and fear; fearing a meeting with Stanley afterwards, perhaps out of a job and vengeful, but thrilled in pulling off the deception of presenting himself as a viable candidate.
It had dawned on Will, before coming in for the interview, that he would not have the luxury of staying in Erie after the robbery. He might not even have the luxury of remaining in the country. It only took a few moments for him to accept that fact, knot his tie, and walk out to his car to leave for the meeting. He was in too far now, leaving Justin his only regret, but one he believed he could eventually live with.
Stanley gripped his hand and gave it a quick squeeze and pump, all in one, and let go.
“When are you available to work, Will?”
“As soon as you want me.”
Will created an account on Yahoo, then sent a quick e-mail to Jon with the address of yet another new account. Will explained that Brody had contacted him and told him to pass it along, that communication between friends would be less suspect to anyone paying attention. He then went to an internet cafe downtown and wrote a message in the new account and saved it as a draft for Jon to read. Will enjoyed thinking like Brody, trying to express himself in the mannerisms he recalled, the sense of playfulness in the midst of shady doings.
Hey guys!
Time to get started. Hope I didn’t make you wait too long, as I know how excited you are about all of this.
There's a lot of work to do first, so just relax for now. I’m keeping the mission under wraps until it happens. The less you know the better, for now anyway.
I want you to check this address every day. When one of you reads a message, put your initial at the bottom. When you’re both done, delete it. Be in touch.
W
Will read it over, made some adjustments, then read it again, imagining it like one of those books on tape read in Brody's voice; Brody back from the from the dead via Will Roup. For all Jon would know - for all Jon knew, apparently, how he missed the news was anyone's guess - the message had been composed by Stape himself. He had considered telling Jon exactly what he, or Brody rather, planned, but as Brody said, the less Jon knew the better. Satisfied, he saved the draft and went home and to bed.
In the morning, at the cafe and with a cup of coffee in hand, he logged on and saw immediately that the draft folder was empty.
Chapter 21
Three more days.
Three more days of riding around dowdy little Erie in the truck.
Three more days of listening to Terrence's stories about Iraq and Afghanistan. Will had respect for soldiers, what they endured and had accomplished, but apparently Terrence had won every battle single-handedly with one grenade, a pistol and his fists. He wondered if the man had even seen combat. Will responded with "Gee" and "Really?" and an occasional "Wow", but these tepid remarks didn't deter Terrence in the least. And he complained. All the time.
Three more days of being poor. Three more days of being a middle-aged man making ten bucks an hour a few months away from a divorce hearing. Three more days of the old Will Roup.
Will actually liked the job: after years of hustling things nobody needed and most didn't want, thinking that the next call might be the one that pushed him over the top, that one more would add to his sales bonus and he could move up a tax bracket and start calculating monthly payments on big, shiny things, it was a relief to not have to care. There was the job, you did the job, you went home. Sure, the money sucked, but then he didn't take the job for the money. Well, he did, but not for the measly sum in his bi-weekly paycheck.
He liked the uniform. He liked the respect it garnered from most people, especially children who thought he was a cop. And he especially liked the gun.
In three days, it would be Saturday night. On Saturday night, at midnight, he and Terrence would pick up the spoils from the Lake Erie Casino and drive to the bank, where a condescending young man dressed in a suit would let them in and lead them to the vault. He would tap his foot and look at his watch while they hauled in that night’s take. Saturday night was the big night, when the grandmas rode up from Pittsburgh on the tour buses and the dock workers blew their paychecks before slinking home to their wives, if they still had wives left. It was late August, and it seemed that everybody was trying to cram in their last bit of gambling before the start of the school year and the onset of winter. Now was the time to act.
He had worked hard, never clocked in late or complained, volunteered for overtime, kept his uniform clean and his gun shiny; gave Mr. Stanley every reason to believe he had made the right choice in hiring him.
Will had thought of amending the original plan, waiting until inside the bank to pull his gun and take not only the casino’s money but also some of what the bank held in trust. But he decided it would be pushing it. In addition to Arnold the bank man, the bank had its own security on hand. He might run into a hostage situation, if he couldn’t get out before the cops arrived. He would have to depend more on Jon, and he didn’t trust Jon to hold up his end any more than necessary. Despite all of that, he was still tempted, only to see the look on Arnold’s face with a gun stuck in it. But he wasn’t stupid. Nobody’s fool. Not Will Roup.
On Friday night, Will drove to a section of abandoned warehouses several miles from the casino and on their route to the bank, passed by, and drove several more blocks to park near a bar that seemed to require ownership of a mud-covered pick-up truck for entry. He got out, and pulled the duffel bag from the back seat and set off walking back down the road.
He hummed a tune that had been playing on the radio and walked casually, stepping through high grass that complemented the dark and decrepit buildings ahead where the cracked sidewalk refused to go any further.
He reached the fence around the building nearest to him, the one he had picked after several stakeouts to watch for activity, and followed it away from the road, moving perpendicular to the warehouse. He had found what he had sought after seeing a bum dressed in several layers of clothing slip through the fence. At one of the posts, the chain links had been torn up and rolled back to allow access. Will looked around once more, then squeezed through, his jacket snagging on a piece of wire and tearing. He cursed and pulled it free, and then picked his way through the yard, dotted with piles of lumber sporting rusty nails that stuck up like rotten but still dangerous teeth, beer cans and broken bottles, to the main building. Several other sheds, the neglected and abused children of the larger structure, sat mournfully nearby.
He approached a set of large sliding doors, large enough for an armored truck to pass through. A rusty chain and a lock barred access. Will set down the bag and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters, and with some effort cut the chain loose. It fell to the ground with a thud and the chime of metal striking metal. He paused and listened, and then grabbed the handle to the left
door and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. He shoved again and it gave, but only an inch or so. Will began pushing in quick, sharp thrusts, throwing his weight behind each one, and the door moved grudgingly, squealing its indignation at the ground he forced it to yield. He stopped again to listen, heard only a few cars passing on the road and the bass from the music at the bar, then went back to work. The door finally gave way and opened with one piercing shriek that Will felt sure would bring the entire Erie police force. He moved quickly through the litter-strewn yard to the shadow of one of the sheds and waited. A single dog barked in response to the sound but otherwise the night remained still. A row of houses, tall and thin and nearly identical in appearance, sat further back up on a hill and beyond some train tracks. Will watched for silhouettes in windows defined by the glow of televisions or shadowy figures peering down from porches. One person did emerge, but only to order the dog to shut up and then went back inside.
Will began work on the next door, taking his time, creating only mild squeals until this too stood open. He pulled out a flashlight and stepped inside, shut the doors – already moving with much less noise and effort - and then stood in utter darkness.
He flipped on the light and guided it around the space. Wooden pallets rested in heaps to his right, some still stacked and others jumbled where they had been thrown down or had fallen. His beam revealed office chairs with tears in their vinyl covers and hemorrhaging stuffing, some missing wheels or an entire base. Some rats scurried away, while others stood up on hind legs to take his measure. Will ignored them, sweeping the light over the detritus, only needing to make sure both a car and the truck could fit in here, and to determine if any squatters had taken up residence, with the plan to evict them if so. He had brought his gun along for that purpose, but the warehouse appeared to be deserted without any signs of recent occupancy.
Will went back outside, opening the door up just enough to squeeze through before pulling them closed. He picked up the chain and threaded it through the handles to maintain the impression of security, and went to complete his final task. At the main gate by the road, he cut off the lock but kept the chains in place. He pulled out the final item from his bag, a new lock, and snapped it into place, then retreated to the shadows and dialed Jon’s number.
Chapter 22
"Yeah?"
"Jon, bring the car in now. If there's anyone behind you, or you see anyone around, drive past and then come back when it's clear."
Jon hung up, and then lowered the phone and set it on the passenger seat. His gut churned and his head hurt despite the Tylenol he'd swallowed a half hour before. He started his car and drove from the motel where he had been instructed to check in under a false name.
By Will. Not Brody, but Will.
Apparently, Brody had other things to tend to, and had given Will the details and orders that concerned them. He had been kept in the dark for the most part, a fact that bothered and relieved him; the less he knew, the better, but it also allowed him to imagine the worst possible scenario. But at least it would soon be over, one way or another.
Jon trembled at the thought of the shotgun hidden under a coat in the backseat, and replayed the conversation with Erin while they had both lain awake in bed.
"There is one thing we haven't discussed. One thing you could do," Erin said.
Jon didn't answer, waited for her to speak again.
"You could kill him."
He took in the statement, spoken so mildly but in earnest by his wife, and his thoughts turned to the campground. He and Will had considered the same thing, but that had come in the heat of the moment, when they hadn't known if Brody would let them walk away. After coming home, he hadn't seriously thought of it again, focused solely on getting through intact.
"But what if I try and I miss? He'll kill me, Erin. I think I could live with that, but he would come after you too. Any maybe Will and his wife and son. It all comes back to that."
He listened to her breathe during a long pause and he thought the conversation over.
"Then don't miss."
Over time he had warmed to the idea. They had bought the shotgun from a K-Mart. If it evolved into a murder weapon, it would be destroyed or buried or resting at the bottom of a very deep body of water. Jon was willing to rent a boat and take it out into the Atlantic Ocean if it came to that.
He had vowed that no man would ever own him again, except for Brody Stape. But his heart and mind begged for an amendment, the removal of that one exception. There was still the camera, but with Brody dead, it might not matter. Jon wanted out for good, had too much momentum towards a future to allow Brody continued influence over his life.
He had started classes at the community college, went for frequent walks or bicycle rides with Erin; kept up the effort to turn their relationship into something they both enjoyed and desired to be part of. Sometimes they would slip back into their old selves, but then one of them would propose an activity or turn off the television just to talk, and they would find the right track again and roll on. Their lives weren’t perfect by any stretch. They were still the same people, but, Jon believed, learning to become better versions of those people. She had loved the flowers that he had bought for her the first time, and then every week after, stopping at a florist shop on his way home from work, the little Italian lady soon addressing him by name after the little bell on the door announced his arrival.
He had done nothing to deserve any of this, except for choosing the wrong place to hide on his first day of ninth grade. He already knew it wasn't easy to shoot somebody, and would be harder to do in cold blood; but he knew for certain that living this way was the hardest of all. If the opportunity presented itself, a chance where he couldn't miss, he planned to kill Brody Stape, wash his hands of it all, and go back to living his life. And he could set Will free too, to pursue his own.
Jon had come to understand something through his altercation with Chas at work. Since his return, Chas had mostly avoided him. When contact became inevitable- passing each other on their machines, or standing by the time clock at the end of their shift to punch out- Chas refused to meet his eyes or talked and laughed too loud in his presence. He still maintained his swagger, and Jon witnessed Scott bearing the brunt of his anger and ridicule more than ever. Once Scott had been something of a sidekick, a devoted fan that Chas allowed to run along beside him. Now he functioned primarily as his whipping boy.
Jon believed that Chas hated (and feared) him because Jon had exposed him; exposed a weak and insecure man that gnashed his teeth in order to appear to have something he didn't. And it followed that Chas punished Scott because he had witnessed that unmasking, even though with his constant attempts at appeasement Scott seemed entirely willing to continue the deception. After all, he had expectations for his life, too.
Through this, Jon saw the fundamental difference between Chas and Brody. Chas played a role that even he didn't truly believe. Brody simply was, with no need to prove anything. Involvement with him came with no guarantees: he might let them go after they were done, kill one or both of them, or decide they had more usefulness down the line. It wouldn't depend on anything they did or said, but only on Brody’s perspective once the dust had settled. Years could pass with the belief that they had been set free and they could find themselves again threatened with the pictures or, for all Jon knew, a new set taken at the scene of the thing he drove to now. He believed the only way to truly be rid of Brody Stape, was if Brody Stape lay rotting in a box six feet underground. And he felt that if he could let Brody in on his plan to murder him, that - before Jon took a bullet to the brain or heart or both in retaliation - Brody would understand and approve.
He had always wondered if they had fought back in school, if it would have made a difference. Now, he didn’t think so, or at least it wouldn’t have been the deciding factor. Brody wasn’t a coward that would search for easier prey and would never have relented for any reasons other than his own; ultimately, it would have only made
things worse for them in the end, Jon truly believed.
But it still didn't make killing him any easier.
Jon turned and approached the warehouse. He checked his rearview mirror, watched one car continue on straight past the turn and no one else, and slowed at the gate. A shadow detached from a small building to the right and hurriedly unlocked and opened it up to let him through. He pulled in and cut the headlights, and after locking the gate Will jumped into the passenger seat.
"Ride to the end down there. We're going to stash your car inside until tomorrow."
"Is Brody here now?" Jon asked. He didn't plan to tell Will anything about his plans. If he felt he had the shot, he would take it, and they could discuss it afterwards. Although Jon had forgiven Will for stirring all of this up, it didn't mean that he trusted him.