“It’s not looking good for you, Jack. The media is starting to pick this story up. Public opinion of your guilt is forming. And there’s something else.”
I walk to the window hoping to feel the sun’s warm rays on my face. Instead, I’m met with my reflection. My skin is sallow from so much drinking. There are lines etched into my face that weren’t there before. My eyes are dark points of rage.
“What else?” I growl.
“There was a glass of scotch at the scene that they believed was consumed close to the time of death. They tested the DNA on the rim. It belongs to you, Jack.”
I close my eyes, stopping my brain from going where it wants to go. I quickly grasp for a solution.
“Your statement doesn’t add up,” Joel says. “You say you arrived at your father’s office that morning, and immediately called the police. If that were true, when would you have poured yourself a glass of scotch?”
I close my eyes, trying to remember that morning. All I see is darkness.
“Where would I go?”
My words bounce off the window pane back to me. In our shared silence, it’s clear we both know what I mean. Joel walks over to my side and speaks in a low voice. He seems a little relieved.
“I have property upstate, a cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere. Some great uncle I met once left it to me. You can go there, hide out while this dies down.”
“I didn’t do it,” I repeat. I’m not sure I believe the words anymore, but I want Joel to believe them.
Joel lays his hand on my shoulder. “I won’t stop working this case. I’ll find out what happened. And then you can come home.”
It seems hypothetical at first, the plans Joel draws out for me to run from the law. Most of my assets are tied up in trusts, or held in overseas tax shelters. My account that’s liquid holds half a million dollars. I already have twenty grand in cash. I walk down to the bank on my block and withdraw twenty grand more. I curse myself for not cashing out sooner. While the bank manager counts the bills out in my hand, I realize how bad this looks. By making a large cash withdrawal just before fleeing, I might as well have tattooed the word GUILTY across my forehead. I spend the rest of the afternoon hitting up a few more branches of the same bank, working fast before anyone gets suspicious. At the end of my efforts, I end up with one hundred grand in cold hard cash.
Joel’s meticulously stacking the cash in a layer on the bottom of a briefcase. He covers it up with dummy documents. I call Henry and tell him to get to my place as soon as possible, and not to tell anyone where he’s going. Joel eyes me while I make the call. He doesn’t want anyone to know about this, not even Henry. But there are things I need from my cousin, and I don’t know where else to get them.
Henry arrives with his tie undone and the top of his shirt open.
“Hey, man, got a beer?” he says.
I pop one open for him. He takes a deep drag, then sighs in relief. “So what the fuck’s going on?”
I don’t have the time or patience to ease into things. I tell Henry that once I start talking, he can’t ask any questions. And he can’t tell anyone about this ever. Henry nods, blinking, his complexion going a shade paler. Joel stands a few feet away, his cool stare directed at Henry. As much as I always wanted the three of us to be a solid crew, the fact is, Henry and Joel aren’t friends with each other. Both are simply friends with me.
“Do you still have that contact that can forge documents?” I say.
Henry squints in confusion. “Marco? The guy who made us fake ID’s when we were underage?”
“Do you still have his number?”
“I think so. I got one for my cousin not long ago.” Henry furrows his brow at his phone, scrolling down his contact list. “Yeah, it’s here.”
“Text him.”
“Now?”
I bend down, making my face level with his. “I said, no questions. And yes, now.”
Henry begins to text furiously. He has to keep deleting misspelled words because his hands are shaking. After he sends the text, Marco responds a few minutes later.
“What do you need?” Henry asks.
“A passport. A driver’s license.” I glance towards Joel to see if I need anything else. He nods, saying that’s enough.
After a few more back and forth’s with Marco, the order is set. All I have to do is text him my picture, and Marco will cook up the documents. A one Mr. Pete Shepherd is being born into existence. So, what of Jack Larsen? That, I don't know.
I offer Marco five hundred bucks extra to put a rush on it. He negotiates me up to a grand, but the documents will be ready in a few hours. After the flurry of activity, and the constant dinging of Henry’s phone, things go deadly quiet.
“Can I ask questions now?” Henry says.
I glance at Joel, who shakes his head. I try to make my voice calm when I talk to Henry.
“The less you know, the better.”
Henry nods, attempting to seem understanding.
“Is this about your father?” he says in almost a whisper.
I grab Henry’s arm and pull him to standing. Henry seems shocked when I hug him briefly.
“You better go,” I say, patting his back. “You’ll be seeing me soon. I promise.”
Later that night, there’s an unmarked manilla envelope delivered to my doorman. Joel fetches it for me. I take out the fake documents, acquainting myself with my new identity.
I spend the rest of the night getting my shit together. I can’t sleep, and neither can Joel. I keep asking myself if I’m really doing this, am I really running away? Do I really think I could kill my own father? I repeatedly talk myself out of it, only to come back around to the conclusion that it’s my only option.
At five am, the light in my apartment is a pale yellow. Joel and I have nodded off in the living room, me on the couch, him in an armchair. We’re jolted awake by Joel’s phone. Joel swipes open the screen, staring at it sleepy-eyed. Suddenly, he jolts up, fully alert.
“Video confirmed,” Joel reads. “Judge being petitioned for arrest warrant this morning.”
It takes awhile for the meaning to sink into my tired brain. When it does, there’s a surge of white-hot panic that lights up my core, followed by a cold detachment.
“How much time do I have?” I ask.
Joel looks me dead in the eyes. “None.”
3.
I drive three hours north in a car I bought for five grand cash from a shady used car salesman. He knew enough not to ask many questions. He just took the cash and got me out of there quickly. I grip the steering wheel the entire way, knuckles white, my muscles tense, fending off the endless questions and tempestuous thoughts that race through my skull. As the wilderness opens before me, I start to believe that I did it. I killed my father. I’m a fugitive.
I find Joel’s cabin on the bank of a lake. Other than a dozen or so other cabins that don’t look occupied, there’s no other sign of civilization. The nearest town is ten miles away. Joel had warned me that the cabin is rustic, with not much in the way of luxury. He wasn’t lying. I can see why this great uncle tossed it off to an unknown nephew. There’s not much value in the property, making it only a tax burden.
The living room and kitchen are combined into one, perfectly square room. There’s an outdated gas stove that has to be lit with long matches. There’s a box of them next to the stove on the counter. When I first get there, I spend some time lighting a few, watching them burn down to my fingers. I see how long I can stand the heat before flicking the burning nub into the sink.
There’s not even a hallway. Off of the main living area is a tiny “room,” if you could call it that, just big enough to hold a cot. I throw my duffel bag full of clothes on top of it and close the door. Outside of my window, the crystal clear lake glimmers for as far as I can see. Thick woods surround the cabin. I’ve never been this far from the city before. I feel exposed, out here in the open. I remind myself that I won’t be found here. I’m safe.
<
br /> In my rush to flee Manhattan, I hadn’t had a chance to stock up with my dealer. I only have half a gram of coke. I ration it out on a dinner plate I find in the kitchen cabinets. Five piles of white powder are dotted over the cherry blossom pattern, one pile for each day. Five days. I stare at the plate, getting more and more depressed. Suddenly, without thinking, I snort the five piles into my nose, one after another. I don’t use a bill or anything to corral it into my nostril. I just rake my nose over the plate until it’s gone. Then, I scoop up the residue with my finger and rub it on my gums.
————————
I wake up the next morning at the ass-crack of dawn. I’m lying on the cot, my right arm and leg dangling down to the floor. Obviously, I hadn’t bothered to move my duffel bag. It’s wedged beneath my spine and the thin mattress.
While I slept, I was able to forget about my circumstances. But as I blink my eyes open in the wood-paneled room, it all comes rushing back to me. I was afraid of going to prison, but this is a prison. I feel like I might suffocate in this tiny space. When I remember I did all my coke, I punch the wall. The wood is so fucking hard, the only damage done is to my hand.
In the kitchen, there’s no food besides an ancient looking can of beans. My stomach is raging. It’s been about twenty-four hours since I last ate. I’ll need to go into town to get supplies.
Outside, it’s bracingly cold, but the chill cuts through my cocaine hangover. And the air smells clean, sweet, even. It’s not the heavy, exhaust laced air of the city. Gentle, lapping waves disturb the surface of the lake. White birds with huge wingspans swirl over the water, occasionally diving down to snatch a wriggling fish.
For a moment, I feel at peace. It’s a new feeling, with it’s own kind of excitement. I don’t have a day full of useless meetings ahead of me, or a night of torturing my body from the inside out. There’s no “friends” thinking of new ways to use me, and vice versa. Inside of me rises an optimism I didn’t know I had. Maybe this will be good for me.
There’s one flat, semi-paved road that leads straight from my cabin into the tiny town of White Oak. There’s a cheery sign that greets you with a picture of lake running through a green meadow, and the town’s name scrolled in white letters. Population: 3,000.
“The middle of fucking nowhere,” I mumble.
I stop at the first store I come to. It’s packed with inventory, and a hodgepodge of different items. There’s grocery, housewares, hardwares, hunting goods, and souvenirs bearing the White Oak logo. I load up a cart with odds and ends, a five pound bag of rice, a few pounds of frozen sausage, three huge loaves of bread and a jar of jam made from every fruit you could think of. I’m stocking up because I don’t want to make too many trips out here and raise suspicion.
In the hunting section, I find a pocket knife with a long, sharp blade and a smooth wooden handle that fits nicely in my hand. I throw it in the cart, just in case.
A rotund woman sits on a stool behind the cash register. Behind her, a flatscreen TV that’s too big for the table it sits on plays Fox News on a low volume. The woman turns from her show to ring up my items. When her eyes flutter up to me, she blushes, giving away her attraction. I can’t help but smile smugly. Even in the beat up shape that I’m in, I can still rely on my good looks.
“Staying awhile?” she asks, scanning the rice.
“Planning on roughing it.” I infect a slight southern accent. It just feels right.
She picks up the knife, and her eyes widen. “You have good taste. We don’t sell many of these. Too expensive, people complain. But it’s worth every penny.”
“Good to know.”
She’s meticulously scanning each jar of jam, when the television catches my attention. I grip the counter to keep from running at full speed out the door. The newscaster speaks in a solemn voice as they flash a picture of me onscreen. I’m wearing a tuxedo, toasting a glass of champagne, and smiling broadly at the camera. It was taken maybe two years ago. The words scrolling under the picture read “Fugitive at large. If seen, do not approach. Call your local police. Fugitive is considered dangerous.”
The woman starts to peek over her shoulder. Thinking fast, I distract her.
“So, what’s there to do around here?” I ask.
She turns from the TV with a shy smile. “Most people come up here for the lake. But it’s too cold for fishing, or swimming, or anything really. What made you want to come up this time of year?”
“Just looking to get away.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my picture frozen on screen.
The woman cocks her head while she bags up my purchase. “Well, you could take a walk in the woods. No snakes this time of year.”
Finally, my picture disappears, and they’re on to another story. The relief is so strong it almost feels like a drug. With my confidence restored, I tell the woman to hold on for a minute. Rushing back into the aisles, I grab a couple bottles of blond hair dye.
“For my girlfriend,” I say, approaching the counter. “Almost forgot.”
Her smile dies at the word “girlfriend.” I pay what I owe and get out of there.
————————
I stay holed up in the cabin for the next month, avoiding people and headlines. I barely touch the food I bought in town. I don’t want food. I want coke. Booze. Women. To drive a car at a breakneck, suicidal speed. Bread and jam can’t satisfy me. It can’t soothe the gnawing under my skin and on the edge of my brain.
Luckily, the withdrawal is enough to distract me from whether or not I’d committed fratricide. I spend most of the day curled up on the cot. My muscles ache, I’m constantly covered in a cold sweat. I’m at once exhausted, and can’t sleep. There are moments of delirium when I’m sure I’ve died and gone to Hell.
It gets worse before it gets better, then one morning, after incremental progress, it’s gone completely. I sit up on the creaking cot, my head clear and still. The nausea’s gone. I can lift my arms above my head without shouting in pain.
I rise slowly to my feet, carefully stretch my arms up to the ceiling, then swing them down, touching my toes. This doesn't make the spins come on, so I do a few more repetitions, getting faster and more confident.
It’s pitch dark in this cabin. I think it’s the middle of the night, but the digital clock tells me it’s past dawn. After drawing back the curtains, I see why it’s so dark. Heavy, fat snowflakes are falling from the sky, blanketing the ground and trees, and blocking out the sun.
In Manhattan, I hated when it snowed. It was just an inconvenience, and messed up my shoes. Here, it’s beautiful, mesmerizing. The snowflakes dance delicately on the wind, yet, lightweight as they are, they’re powerful in their numbers, capable of shutting down an entire town. I imagine the local weather reports have been warning residents of a severe snowstorm for days now.
There’s already half a foot on the ground outside. I have to heave my shoulder against the door to get it open. A cold blast of air assaults my naked body, and snowflakes flurry inside of the cabin like tiny invaders. A sane person would close the door and leave it that way. But something possesses me to take a step outside, to welcome this frigid embrace.
My bare foot sinks down to the hard wet ground. It’s so cold, it burns. It feels like hot needles piercing through the bottom of my foot. It’s exhilarating, so I take another step out.
Soon, I’m in front of the cabin, standing naked in fresh, pillowy snow that’s rapidly piling up around me. I sink to my knees, grabbing big fistfuls in my hand. I’m not cold anymore. I’m numb.
I look up at the angry, blotted out sky, furiously dumping snow on this tiny town. It churns wildly with no sign of stopping. I realize how powerless I am against this storm, how weak I am against it.
I don’t know how long I stay out there, but in that bitter cold I find a truth. This naked, clearheaded man standing waist deep in snow never would’ve killed his own father. When I’d found him dead, I’d thought the grief would swall
ow me whole. I loved him. Our relationship wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t perfect, but he was my blood.
But as for my other self, the shadow that flits in the dark corners of my psyche, I’m not so sure of his innocence.
————————
The storm leaves a few feet of snow. It takes a couple of weeks to thaw off. During that time, I find out that the cabin’s furnace isn’t worth a shit. It barely warms a foot in front of it, let alone the whole cabin. One day, out of blue lipped desperation, I wade through the slush to a small outbuilding. Inside is a small pile of chopped wood, a few axes, and a long rifle. I haul the wood back to the cabin and make a fire in the hearth with the long matches. I hold my hands out to the flames, greedily sucking up the warmth.
When I use all of the available wood, I start chopping more like it’s my job. The storm has left plenty of fallen trees that buckled under the weight of the innocent looking whiteness. I spend hours outside, lifting the axe above my head, and hurling it down on a thick tree truck. I’m shit at first. I can’t seem to hit the same place in the tree more than once. My hands quickly explode into painful blisters that eventually burst and leak, leaving raw skin.
But I can’t quit. I have to stay warm, or I’ll die. And plus, this is all I have.
I eventually learn how to sever a trunk quickly and efficiently. The raw flesh on my hands turns hard, leathery and impenetrable. I’d thought I was muscular before, but gym weights have nothing on this exhausting work. Huge boulders sprout under the skin of my biceps. My torso is hard and cut, my thigh muscles thick. I’ve neglected to shave or worry about my hair, so a raggedy dark beard covers my entire face. My hair falls to my ears.
While out there chopping, I fall into a meditative rhythm. I become so focused, I barely notice the freezing wind whirling around me. It’s then that I start to entertain thoughts about going back to Manhattan, finding out who really killed my father. But I tell myself to be patient. Joel will get in touch with me when the time is right.
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