by Ted Staunton
And there it was again, my favorite question. “Danny,” I said. I knew it was pathetic now, and I knew I could have told him anything, but I wasn’t giving up my last shred of…whatever—dignity, I guess. And in some weird way, I couldn’t let Shan down. Griffin didn’t say anything, just held his cigarette by the open window. The slipstream blew the smoke right back in to me. I said, “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m old-fashioned. I believe in truth and justice.”
“Shan already hates you.” I wanted to rub something in. “You’ll flip her out.”
“It’s not a nice thought to face, is it? One of your brothers murdering the other. I guess that means she’s going to hate you too—if she doesn’t already.”
I wasn’t going to think about that. I pushed harder. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Sure, it bothers me. Does it bother you how you’ve abused that family’s trust?”
“What have I done except make them happy?”
Griffin took a last drag and flicked the half-smoked butt out the window. “You can’t live a lie,” he said. “It’s a cancer.”
“You are so wrong,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Happiness isn’t truth.” Griffin put up his window.
This time he was right. Happiness was better.
It was maybe half an hour to Peterborough. It was deep twilight now. We drove to a neighborhood of dumpy old houses. Griffin showed me Ty’s place as we rolled past. It was especially crappy, with a mattress on the patch of front lawn and some two-by-fours propping up one end of the porch roof. He parked the car just around the corner and opened the glove compartment. The receiver for the wire was the size of an electric shaver. He plugged it into the dashboard outlet and unspooled an earbud connection. Then he looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Ground floor, back, number two. Front door’s always open. He’ll be there—he always is, this time of night. When you turn the corner out here, say something as a test. I’ll flash my lights if it’s working. If I don’t, come back here.” I looked away and nodded, shrinking deeper into my hoodie. Griffin popped in the earpiece. “Got the joint?” I nodded again. “It’ll get you in the door, get him started if nothing else. Then take your time, see what you can get. Like I said before, we may have to do this more than once.”
The hell with that, I thought. It was now or never. I swung the car door open.
“And…” Griffin said. I turned. “Be careful. He’s jumpy as hell, even when he’s stoned. We don’t need anything happening to you”—I started to get out— “before this is done.” I slammed the door.
THIRTY-TWO
I had the shakes again. I stuffed my hands into the pouch of the hoodie and thought about running, but I knew it wouldn’t help. I walked to the corner. The sidewalk was wet; the grass glistened under the street and house lights. It must have rained earlier—I hadn’t noticed. “Test,” I mumbled. “Danny counts one, two, three.” I glanced back. The Camry’s lights flashed.
Up close, Ty’s place looked even worse. The rainsoaked mattress on the lawn had scorch marks on it and wads of burnt stuffing exploding from one end. The yard was all empties. One of the porch steps was broken, and the storm door hung wide open. It had no glass, just a torn screen. I pulled my hand into my sleeve before I tried the main door—I didn’t want anything connecting me with this place.
The door was unlocked, like Griffin had said it would be. Inside was a cramped hallway. The scuff marks on the walls were lit by a tilting ceiling fixture. There were stairs on the right, battered little mailboxes on the left. Beside the mailboxes was a door with a black number one on a slanted gold sticker. At the end of the hall was a two. Between them, a kitchen space and a bathroom, doors open, were competing with the reek of weed to see which could smell worst. There was no sound.
I thought again about running. Then I shut the front door softly and cat-footed down the cracked lino to Ty’s door. Now I could hear shuffling sounds and the dribble of hip-hop from earbuds. I kept my hand in my sleeve and tapped. The door felt about as sturdy as cardboard. “Ty?” I kept my head down, trying to muffle my voice. Nothing. I tapped harder. The door wobbled under my knuckles. The tinny hip-hop got louder, as if a bud had popped loose. The shuffling got closer.
“What, what?” from behind the door.
“It’s me,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“What, who?”
I had to go for it. “It’s me, Danny,” I hissed.
The door jerked open a few inches. Ty looked out at me, more like death than ever. I could tell he didn’t recognize me. “Hey,” I said. He focused on me; his eyes flared and he sucked in his breath. Then he did that neckroll thing and said, “Ah, ah, not now, dude. Not a good time.” He started to close the door.
I actually shoved my foot forward, like some cheesy salesman. “C’mon, Ty, we gotta talk,” I said, patting my pocket.
His eyes flicked down. More twitching. “You holding, dude?”
I nodded. He stepped back and I slipped in, close enough to smell whatever the hell was on his breath.
The room had a table, a chair, a floor lamp and a mattress with a sleeping bag crumpled on it. 50 Cent glared down from one wall. On the opposite wall there was a fist-sized hole in the plaster. A Confederate flag draped the window. There was a pile of clothes in one corner and a bong beside the mattress. The floor was a litter of empties, sub wrappers, cardboard slice triangles, what I guessed were crack pipes, and a couple of mini gas bottles like the ones Harley used to have for a portable barbecue. It was cold in there, but I was sweating. I could feel the surgical tape, the transmitter, the wire, all clutching at me. I wondered if it picked up my heart racing. “Whattaya got?” Ty said. He was twitching up a storm. His earbuds were dangling, still rasping away.
I fished out the joint and tossed it to him. He missed the catch, then pounced on it, hands and knees, as it landed beside what might have been the top of a little blowtorch. “That’s it?”
“Whaddaya want? Those suckers cost, dude. It’s for you. To say thanks, like.” Already I was mimicking him. I wasn’t even trying.
“No worries, no worries.” He had it out of the wrap and was snapping a lighter, still kneeling in the crap on the floor. He wore a grubby camo hoodie. The pocket on the right side bulged. The bulge was the size of a lot of things, all of them bad. I took a step back and bumped the table. A plastic soda bottle rolled to the floor. Ty didn’t notice—he was too busy sucking on the joint. I hooked the chair closer with my foot. I figured I could hit him with it if I had to.
Ty let out a long jet of smoke and flopped onto the mattress, back against the wall. His eyes were still bouncing everywhere, but they kept coming back to me. “So…little bro…” Now his feet were jerking around too.
“How you hangin’?” I said.
“Dude, you don’t wanna hear. Don’t wanna know.”
“Sure I do.”
“Well, I’m not so good, man. Cupboard’s bare. Not feeling…up to snuff, you know?” He gave an electric little cackle, then took another toke and waved the joint. “I was thinking some bad thoughts, just now, before you come.”
“What kind of bad thoughts?” I wished I was closer to the door, just in case.
“Don’t wanna know, dude, don’t wanna. Bad, bad thoughts, things comin’ back…But brother W helps, dude. Helps…”
“Good,” I said. “I just wanted to pass on a little thankyou, ’kay?”
His eyes got narrow and shrewd. Stoner shrewd. Harley had always told me that heavy dopers get paranoid. “What for?”
I took a breath, felt my way. “Well, I’ve been…hearing things, you know?”
He went rigid. “What kind of things, dude?”
“Just really weird shit, man. About you—and that people thought…”
He erupted into jerks and neck twisting. His hand wobbled over the big pocket, then he hit on the joint again, like his life depended o
n it. As he blew out he said, “Who’s…saying stuff?”
Now I was going an inch at a time. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. “Well…like, the cops? They were all over me, you know…and they…”
“IT’S NOT TRUE!” I was ready for it, but I still flinched, jolting the table. Ty slapped the pocket, snarling. Ash from the joint spilled onto his leg and the mattress. There wasn’t much more than a roach left now.
It was too scary. I started easing toward the door. I forced a deep breath, held up my hands, did my best casual. “Well, duh. ’Course it’s not true. I’m here, aren’t I?”
He jerked and settled back down, except for one foot that kept kicking. Only now something was different: the other foot was digging into the mattress, and he was pressing himself back against the wall, almost as if he was trying to get away from me. He did the neck twist and took a stab at a smile. “That’s right. Absolutely, dude, absolutely. You’re back.” Ty’s right hand with the roach was on the bulging pocket. His mouth was open and his wired eyes were locked on mine, but the look wasn’t stoner shrewd anymore. At first I didn’t know what it was. Then I did: he was scared. That was all I needed.
Back in the Bad Time, sometimes I’d take it out on even littler kids at schools. All it took was that same look in their eyes, and I’d be on them. I could feel myself changing gears, taking control. Griffin was right— I had words, now that the time had come. It felt so good, I never stopped to think they might be the wrong ones. “That’s why I appreciate you giving me the chain, man.” I held my hands palms up, as if this was a no-brainer. I heard my voice get confidential. “That sucker is, like, worth its weight in gold to me. It was in my description.”
“No shit? No worries, dude.”
“So, like you said, we’re in it together? All the way?”
“What? Yeah, yeah, all the way.” He was pushing away so hard I thought he’d go through the wall. I tried not to look at the hand.
“Excellent. So, listen, I wanted to give you something back to show it’s the real deal, that I’ll keep it together, you know?”
“Sure, sure. Okay. I’m all for that, dude.”
I put one hand on the chair and leaned forward. “Sweet.” I was almost purring. “So where did you put him?”
“Wha—?”
“Where’d you put him? Where’s the body?”
He scrabbled back from me like some kind of giant insect. His head started snapping around like it would fly right off his neck. He hissed, “What are you—don’t even say that, man!”
“No, listen. Don’t you see? You tell me what you did with his body, it makes me an accessory. I can never tell or I go down too. You’ve got my secret, I’ve got yours. We’re bound together, like blood brothers or whatever.”
His eyes glittered crazily. “I don’t…I don’t know what—”
“Sure you do,” I coaxed. “I got to tell you, weird as it sounds, I was glad when I figured out what you’d done for me with the chain. I mean, all at once I knew I wasn’t alone in it anymore. I knew that you had my back. It was a good feeling. I want to give that to you, man. Brothers in blood, back to back.”
“Get outta here.”
“Come on, Ty. You’re feeling sick with it. Share the load; you’ll feel better.”
“You think I’m sick,” Ty shouted. “You’re sick. You’re a maniac. You’re…you’re…”
“I’m what? Pretending to be a dead kid to his family?”
“HE’S NOT DEAD!”
“No, I’m not. I’m not dead, am I? Danny’s not dead, is he?” I waved my hand around the room. “This is dead. Tell me, and you won’t be.”
“Yes, we will.” Ty kept twisting back, as if he was hearing a sound behind his shoulder. “We are dead. We’re dead, dude. Dead, dead, dead. That’s why we’re here. And we both know it. I thought about it a whole, whole lot, all the time. Only diff is, you’re here forever and I’m not.”
Before I could move, his hand jumped into the pocket. As I grabbed the chair, he jerked something out and stuck it in his mouth. I saw what it was as he pulled the trigger. I never heard the shot. I’m pretty sure I screamed at the same time, but I never heard that either. His head snapped back and something blotched the wall behind him and I was gone.
THIRTY-THREE
I ran blind, I don’t know how far, before I realized the Camry was rolling beside me. Griffin pulled ahead and up to the curb. The passenger door opened. “Get in.” I was past thinking. I got in.
He drove fast but carefully, not saying anything. I was hunched up, knees to elbows, hyperventilating, trying not to see red blossoming behind Ty’s head, puddling behind Harley’s. I heard Griffin say, “Where’d he shoot?”
“His mou—” I gagged, and he pulled over. We were on the two-lane highway. I staggered through a muddy ditch, the puke already spilling from my mouth, and heaved and heaved in the long grass by a fence. I scrabbled under my clothes and ripped off the tape and wire and threw them as far as I could. When I turned around, panting and acid-mouthed, I was almost surprised to see the car was still there. I got back in and we pulled away. “I didn’t know he had a gun,” Griffin said. He didn’t look at me.
We took some kind of backroad into Port Hope. As we started down it, Griffin said, “What’s done is done. Maybe it’s better this way. In that place, they may not find him for days. There’s no connect. You’ll be long gone.”
I looked at him. He was clutching the wheel with both hands, looking straight ahead. He said, “The guy in Tucson didn’t die.” He looked a thousand years old, and I hated him for every second of them. I said, “You got nothing on me now anyway. You try telling anyone, and I’ll tell them about this. I’ll tell them how you assaulted me sticking on that wire.” I spat on the dash. I spat on the seat. I clawed the roof liner and armrests, then started swiping at everything around me. “And they’ll find my fucking DNA all over your car no matter how much you clean it—and all over you.” Then I lost it and started swiping at him, hitting him. He had his arm up to keep me off and the car was swerving and then he backhanded me across the face. It hurt like hell. I yelled and stopped hitting. I couldn’t breathe right. I touched my face. Blood was running from my nose. More blood. It was all over my hand. My face was throbbing, but everything inside me had gone flat and cold. I moved my hand around, flicking it to spatter my blood all around the interior. Then I slowly rubbed a big smear into that gray upholstery. “That’ll cost you your max from the bank machine,” I said. “Unless you’re just going to kill me.” I was so far gone right then, I don’t think I would have cared if he had.
He got me the money. I stood by his car while he did. Nobody was around. In Port Hope, they rolled up the sidewalks at six o’clock. “Go,” he said. I knew I would, but I wasn’t telling him that. I shouldered my backpack. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” I said. I took a step away, then turned back to him. “Sure hope you were right about Ty.”
I meant it as a last shot at him, to get under his skin forever, but as soon as I said it, I thought I was going to be sick again. Griffin didn’t say anything. He got in the Camry and started it up.
THIRTY-FOUR
I walked. I knew I had to go, but then I’d always known that. I even had money in my pocket. Blood money, I guess. I should have been planning, but I was in a fog. The pain in my face was fading, but my nose and cheek felt puffy and tender. I didn’t even know where I was going until I realized I was walking up the hill to Gillian’s. When I saw where I was, I stopped and stood there for a long minute. I knew I had things to do before I left.
Knowing that was a strange feeling, like a dog tugging the wrong way on a leash. I’d never had it before. I was trying to decide how to get to Gillian without her mom knowing and asking questions when the front door of her house opened. Gillian came out into the porch light, frowning, with Buster on his leash, and started down the driveway. That was when I noticed the SOLD sticker on the real-estate sign.
She saw me as Buster dr
agged her forward to say hi. Her face got even cloudier when she got a better look at me. “What happened to you?”
“Aw, I was skateboarding with Matt and I messed up.” All at once I felt nervous. “Your house sold.”
She didn’t answer. She was pulling tissues out of her pocket. She handed them to me. I wiped around my nose. It hurt. “Why are you out so late?” I asked, trying to put things off.
“What do you mean? It’s only eight thirty.”
“Oh! Right. Wow, maybe I hit a little harder than I thought. Anyway, I was coming to see you.”
She took a tissue from me and dabbed at my face. It might have been the first time I ever wanted someone to keep touching me. She said, flat-voiced, “We’re moving.”
“When?”
“Soon. A month.” She looked away.
For an instant I wondered if I could hang on a month. Ty’s brain exploded behind my eyes again. I said, “Is that good or bad?”
She looked back at me. “I don’t know.” She paused. “Right now it feels bad.”
“Where are you going?” It was so weird. It couldn’t make any difference now, but knowing she was going felt like another part of me was getting torn away.
“Montreal,” she said. “It’s cheaper, and that’s where my mom’s family is.”
I touched her hand, then my cheek. “Can you just wipe here, like? It feels good.” She raised her hand again. I guided it on my face. “Maybe it will be better than here.”
“Why should it be?”
I didn’t know. I said, “Well…”
She said quietly, “You won’t be there.” She lowered her hand, and then I was kind of reaching out mine and we were holding on to each other, not quite hugging. I could feel the dog straining at his leash. “We better walk,” I said.
We started down the hill, still holding hands. I knew the easy thing to do would be to just say “See you tomorrow” and be long gone by morning. Maybe it would even be the best thing, I told myself, because when the questions started flying, Gillian wouldn’t know anything. I’d be protecting her. But I wanted to give her something so that later she’d know she was special, that I hadn’t just blown her off like one more Bad Time family I’d worked over. I remembered the birthday card. “Listen,” I said, “I’ve got something for you.” I let go of her hand and found the card in its envelope in the top pocket of my backpack. “Here.” I handed it to her. “We—I mean, you—won’t be here in February.”