Shattered Lives

by Joseph Lewis

  One night on a sleepover after a movie and shortly after the kissing incident, Dominico pulled out a DVD.

  Before he turned it on, Dominico said, “Bobby, we’re going to watch this together from beginning to end. You won’t get up off the couch, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut.”

  The DVD was of Brett and Dominico.

  Bobby sat and watched it in horror, not believing, not understanding, and yet knowing that what he was seeing was real. It wasn’t made up. It wasn’t Hollywood.

  Bobby wanted to throw up. He wanted to run from the house. He wanted to phone his parents, the cops. Someone. Anyone. He wanted the DVD to end, to stop.

  “He said you were still alive, and if I ever wanted to see you again, I couldn’t say anything to anyone because all it would take was one phone call, and you’d be dead.”

  Brett wept, unable to look at his brother.

  “He said he and I were going to do things like in the movie. He said I had to. He said I had to because if I didn’t, you’d be killed.”

  Brett wept some more and nodded.

  Bobby looked from his mother to his father and said, “He told me to grow my hair long so I’d look more like Brett.”

  Brett didn’t- couldn’t- look at his brother.

  “Bobby, why were there so many cameras and microphones in your room?” Pete asked.

  “Why do you think?” Bobby sobbed incredulously. “He couldn’t be with me every night. He’d text me and tell me to do stuff.”

  “You knew he had us bugged?” Thomas asked.

  Bobby shook his head sadly.

  “Not at first. The first time he texted me and I texted back after a little while and said I was done. I pretended to do what he asked. He texted me right away and told me I was lying. He asked if I wanted to see Brett again and that if I did, I better do what he wanted me to do.”

  “Oh God!” Victoria said softly. “Oh my God!”

  “He watched me in bed,” Bobby said sobbing.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Thomas said.

  “Brett, I’m sorry. I know I should have told somebody, but I was afraid they’d kill you. Honest!” Bobby sobbed, “I wanted to tell, but I was afraid.”

  Brett shook his head and said, “Shhhh, it’s okay . . . it’s okay.”

  “I know it’s not, but I was afraid,” Bobby yelled.

  “Bobby, it’s okay. He was right. They would have killed me. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But maybe you could have been home sooner. You wouldn’t have gotten shot,” Bobby said.

  And maybe Johnny would still be alive and Ryan wouldn’t have been taken away. Maybe Stephen and Mike wouldn’t have been taken, Brett thought.

  But instead of saying any of that, he said, “Listen, Bobby . . . look at me.”

  “No,” Bobby said shaking his head, refusing to lift his chin off his chest.

  Brett got up out of his chair, went to his little brother and hugged him fiercely.

  “I need you to listen to me,” Brett said. “Please look at me.”

  Bobby lifted his head, and Brett held Bobby’s face with his hands, his face inches from Bobby’s.

  “I should have told mom and dad two years ago when that shitbag stuck his hands down my pants. If I would have, I never would have been kidnapped. You wouldn’t have been . . . whatever. I should have said something back then. If I would have, none of this would have happened.”

  “But-“

  “-But nothing,” Brett said. “But nothing,” he repeated softly. “I’m to blame. Not you. Not mom. Not dad. Me. Only me.”

  Bobby tried to shake his head, but Brett held it firmly and said, “Yes, I’m to blame.”

  “No, Brett,” Victoria said softly. “Neither one of you are to blame. The only one to blame is my brother. He’s the only one to blame.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  West Bend, Wisconsin

  Tim was lost.

  That was the only way to describe what he felt like, what was going on inside. He felt like he didn’t belong. After the news conference at the West Bend Police Station, he had asked his father to drive past Badger Middle School and St. John’s Lutheran Elementary School. West Bend had gotten bigger and at the same time, smaller. While it was familiar to him, it was also different and not in a friendly way. Perhaps he was different.

  His sister Christi glanced at him furtively and stayed away from him. His mother doted on him, trying to feed him a cookie, a sandwich, a glass of milk or juice. All were politely refused because he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. He had no appetite.

  His father had proudly shown him that his bedroom hadn’t changed during the time he was gone. A museum exhibit of the life Tim had before he was taken. It was neat and tidy, but creepy and frozen in time. It was as if he had never left, never been gone for over two years. It was as if he had just rolled out of bed, spent the day doing this or that and was now back. Of course, that wasn’t the case.

  His baseball and basketball trophies lined the shelves above his desk. A picture of him and his two best friends, brothers Caleb and Kaiden Mattenauer with their arms over each other’s shoulders laughing at something Cal had said was framed and sat beside the trophies. Tim remembered the day and the joke like it was yesterday, and just like it had done each time he looked at the photo, it made him smile, but at the same time, sad.

  A picture of Brett Favre leading the Packers to a win in Super Bowl XXXI against the Patriots hung over his bed. His baseball glove, ball and cleats were in his closet just as they were after each baseball game he had played. His uniform was washed and hung in his closet awaiting his next game. He didn’t think he was on the team any longer, certain that the coach had long ago selected another player to take his place. It probably didn’t fit him any longer anyway. A basketball was on the floor of his closet alongside his basketball shoes, three pair, all fairly new, but probably too small for him to wear.

  It all felt strange to him, foreign. Like someone else’s room, but familiar enough to be his. His, but not his.

  He didn’t know how to act. He didn’t know what to say. His day was no longer programmed or structured. He wasn’t confined to a locked room without a TV or radio.

  He could roam the house freely just as he did the hospital, noticing new paint in the living room and hallway. If he had wanted, he could have gone out to the garage, jumped on his bike and peddled over to Cal’s and Kaid’s house to see what they were doing.

  If he wanted to.

  He didn’t.

  He didn’t want to go anywhere or see anyone. At least not yet. He wasn’t . . . ready.

  His parents, family and friends were going to throw him a welcome home party tomorrow, and he wasn’t certain he wanted to attend even though he was the guest of honor.

  For now, Tim was content to sit on the back patio on a recliner staring at the late afternoon sun and the clouds and breathing the clean, fresh air. That was enough for him for now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Hannibal, Missouri

  The six of them had finished eating at a Texas Roadhouse and then jumped into the hotel pool for the better part of two hours. Billy had helped George get undressed and into his swimming suit, and both of them ended up laughing at it to the point where George’s ribs hurt like hell because they got to laughing so much. He liked the hot tub the best, but swam with the other guys as best he could with his sore ribs. The swimming and hot tub helped him stretch out and relax his muscles. Maybe the laughter helped too.

  The best part of the night, even the day- besides laughing in the bathroom with Billy, was when they wandered into the hotel bar to grab a soda. Danny spotted an older, upright Baldwin piano and sat down on the wooden bench with a twinkle in his eye. He didn’t ask the bartender for permission. Before he began an instrumental version of Billy Joel’s Piano Man, he told Randy to run up to the room and grab his and Randy’s guitars.

  Two empty stools sat on a small nicked up stage opposite the bar. Two microphones on
adjustable stands sat on the stage along with the piano. The cords led to an amplifier that served as a sound system. After he finished the song, Danny flicked on the amp, turned on one of the microphones and tested the sound level.

  The bartender poured dark amber liquid into an eight ounce cut-glass with ice cubes for a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit. Two other men sat at a corner table munching on peanuts or pretzels, one with a soda over ice and the other with a Corona. The only other table that was occupied was filled with Jeremy, Jeff, Billy and George, each with a soda: a Fanta for Billy; a Coke for George; and Diet Cokes for Jeremy and Jeff.

  Randy walked up to the stage carrying both guitars feeling nervous but excited at the same time. He didn’t know if he was ready to perform on a stage in front of a room full of people, even if more than half were family and friends.

  George didn’t know much about music. In fact, he didn’t listen to it all that much, but he liked Randy’s voice. It was smooth and easy to listen to. Danny’s voice was even better. He soared on the high notes and had a sad, lonely quality. Randy had told him about Danny’s musical ability, but George had no idea how good he was until he had heard Danny sing and play.

  George loved the songs, but mostly loved Danny’s voice. More impressive was how he performed. It reminded him of his grandfather when he prayed each morning. His grandfather had the ability to shut out everything except for the words he chanted. George used to sneak peeks at his grandfather, amazed at his concentration and effort.

  Danny was the same way. There could have been a hundred people in the room or no one else. It wouldn’t have mattered because Danny was so into the words, the sound, and the song. Danny wasn’t on the stage. He was bigger than the stage.

  Another five or six people drifted into the bar to listen. A girl with a cell phone recorded. The bartender became busy. The hotel manager stood just inside the door with his arms folded across his chest, listened to a song and left.

  When Danny and Randy finished their first four songs, there was applause.

  One man said, “Hey . . . you’re the kid who was on Letterman, right? The kid who plays sixty different instruments at once.”

  Danny laughed and said, “Well not quite sixty, but yes, that was me.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I’m Danny Limbach, and this is my friend, Randy Evans. We’ll play a couple more songs, if that’s okay with you.”

  By the time their impromptu concert had ended, there were twenty or so people in the room, and another bartender appeared along with another waitress. Several other cell phones had come out to record the boys’ performance.

  “Okay, last song,” Danny said. There were protests, and Danny held up his hands and said, “We really have to go, but we’ll leave you with this one.”

  Danny played and sang, Set Fire To The Rain and to George it was the best song yet. Danny sang with intensity, with power, with . . . heat. Each note was sung clearly and with what seemed like pain and anguish. It left George silent and shaking his head.

  The crowd was silent, into the song, and hanging on each word, each note. When he ended, the crowd stood and cheered. As the boys packed away their equipment, the crowd dispersed and the only ones left in the bar were Jeremy, Jeff, Billy and George, along with the two bartenders and the waitress.

  “Hey guys,” the original bartender called. “Come back tomorrow. Best entertainment we had all year!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Hannibal, Missouri

  Back in their room, Billy had asked which side of the bed George wanted, giving him no choice as to who he was going to sleep with, which was all right with him. He had gotten used to Billy’s rhythm. He took the side closest to the alarm clock with Billy taking the side nearest the wall.

  The TV was tuned to some movie on HBO, but the volume was barely audible and the four boys lounged on George’s and Billy’s bed. George was propped up with pillows and sat cross-legged on top of the covers. Billy laid half-on, half-off the bed, leaning towards George. After they had gotten back to their room and after brushing teeth, Billy had again helped George out of his clothes and into his shorts as they got ready for bed. George hadn’t asked Billy to help him. He had just knocked once on the bathroom door and entered.

  When George thanked him, Billy shrugged and said, “You’d do the same for me.”

  “Can I ask a question?” George asked looking at Danny.

  “Sure.”

  “Where do you get the ideas for your songs? The two songs you wrote,” George said looking from Randy to Danny, “were beautiful.”

  “It just sorta happens.” He turned red and said, “When Randy writes lyrics, I read the first couple of lines, and I sort of know what I want to do with the music.” He finished with a shrug.

  “Where do you come up with the words?” George asked Randy.

  “Things I think about. Things I feel.”

  Randy had been quiet since the concert. He had yawned a lot and seemed tired, but to Billy, it was more than that. As the guys talked, Billy glanced his way every now and then, but said nothing.

  “What?” Randy asked.

  Billy shook his head.

  “What?” Randy repeated.

  “I don’t like what this crap does to you.”

  By this crap, Randy knew Billy meant talking to kids and parents about abuse. Listening to their stories. Getting involved.

  He sighed and said, “Billy, I’m okay.”

  “You’re not,” Billy answered. “You were like in a different world up on that stage, but as soon as you stepped off . . .” he finished with a shrug.

  Randy sighed and said, “Billy, I’m fine.”

  Billy shook his head. The two boys stared at each other like gunfighters.

  “Really.”

  “I’m worried about you. How many times did you check your cell during dinner? How many times did you check it in the last half-hour?”

  Randy knew he was busted. There was a rule in the Evans’ house that during meals, cell phones were forbidden. He had been on it constantly and still was, mostly to Mike and Stephen, and Patrick. Brett had checked in a couple of times using his brother’s phone. The only one he hadn’t heard from was Tim. Billy sat up with his legs crisscrossed under him like George and frowned at Randy.

  “Billy, who else can these guys talk to?”

  “Dad.”

  Randy’s cell buzzed, but he ignored it and said, “We’ve been over this. These guys went through a lot. They need someone to talk to. I’ve been through it so I understand. I know what they’re feeling.”

  Billy leaned forward and said softly, “It’s tearing you up.”

  “Billy, I promise. I’m okay.” Randy knew Billy wasn’t convinced so he said, “I promise.”

  Billy sighed and gave up. There was no point in arguing because he knew nothing would change anyway.

  Danny lay down between Billy and George, but faced them, leaning on a pillow from the other bed.

  Looking at George he said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  George nodded.

  “The night you fought that man . . . were you scared?”

  George had thought about it but hadn’t come to any resolution. He almost talked to Jeremy about it, but decided he didn’t need to.

  “I was nervous but not scared.”

  “But that guy had a gun,” Danny pressed. “He was going to kill you and everyone else.”

  George looked at Dan but spoke to the three boys when he said, “My grandfather was with me. I trust him.”

  “Well, I’m glad you killed him. You, and Randy and Billy and Jeremy wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”

  George frowned as he said, “He gave me no choice, but I am not happy I killed him. Navajos do not believe in killing.”

  Randy and Billy nodded.

  The twins had noticed that George spoke formally when the topic turned serious.

  Danny thought it over, looked at George and said, “Were you scared
today? I mean, that guy had his gun pointed right at you.”

  Billy and Randy turned to face George, eyes wide, mouths open.

  It was Billy who spoke for them, “I didn’t know he had his gun pointed at you.”

  “He pushed dad out of the way and knelt over him, and the guy pointed his gun at George,” Danny explained.

  Blushing, George said, “I didn’t think he was going to shoot me.”

  “But you knelt over my dad . . . protecting him like he was going to shoot somebody,” Danny said.

  George explained. “I was not as big a threat as your dad was.”

  Danny wasn’t convinced.

  “But that was a huge chance you took,” Randy said.

  “Huge,” Billy repeated.

  George looked down at his lap. Sitting cross-legged was uncomfortable for him, but he didn’t want his ribs to dictate what he did or didn’t do. Besides, the hot tub and the swim, not to mention the pain killer he had taken, had helped.

  “Danny, he had just shot the guard. I did not want him to shoot your dad because I know what it is like losing family. I did not want you to go through that. If someone was going to get shot, I would rather it be me and not your dad.”

  “Shit, George! Randy and I don’t want to lose you either!”

  George shrugged and said quietly, “Once Mr. Jeff was out of the way, I did not think he was going to shoot anyone else. He had to get away.”

  “But then you went after him,” Danny pressed. “Even after my dad told you not to.”

  “My grandfather did not want me to let him get away,” George answered. This was the truth and the only explanation he could give the boys. “I had to obey my grandfather.”

  Danny shrugged, not understanding the whole thing about his grandfather, even though Jeremy had tried to explain it to him and to his dad. But the twins didn’t question it.

  “What?” George asked Danny.