The Uber drops Hugo off back at the empty and quiet parking lot. He recites something in Spanish before telling Brandon that he needs to deliver the second half of the payment by the end of the week. That’ll be no problem for Brandon. The dude is loaded. Going on tour with a major record company while in a world-renown band will only give you cash on cash on cash. Racks on racks on racks. It’s a completely different lifestyle than what Shawn is used to. It’s an unimaginable way of life.
The two ride along the Uber. The driver’s unmistakably quiet. Sometimes you get an affable, fun-loving driver. But the man at the wheel, a shorter man with a thick nose and fading curly hair, says nothing. He lightly hums the lyrics to Hall of Fame rockstars, but that’s it. He doesn’t make an attempt to talk with either Brandon and Shawn. Of course, Shawn understands why the driver may not care about him. He’s not exactly the most clean man on the street, nor does his demeanor say anything pleasant. But Brandon’s a rock star. A rock god even. Come on, Uber Driver, it’s not like the lead singer in a popular band sits in the backseat of your car everyday.
Well, it is Los Angeles. Maybe that is the case.
“Look man,” Brandon begins, turning his body slightly to face Shawn but keeping his head out toward the window, just so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. “I really appreciate you coming and picking me up. Helping me out with all of this.”
“You couldn’t get your own Uber?”
“If the cops are chasing me, they may be watching my phone. I threw it away after we talked.”
“What did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you do that would make the cops want to come after you?”
“We’re not doing this now.”
“Yeah, we are,” Shawn reasons. He’s right. It’s as good a time as any to approach the subject. Shawn is in head deep. Best know what’s going to flow down the crappy creek before he opens his mouth wide open.
Brandon fidgets in his seat, checking for a cigarette, biting the nail of his ring finger. He scratches the back of his head and leans back in his chair. He sighs the deepest sigh Shawn has ever heard. He grunts at the frustration, the powerless struggle he has found himself in.
“Okay, okay, so when I was coming back from the tour I knew I had to go to the store and pick up some things, and I just, you know, didn’t pay for them.”
Lie. What a horrible lie.
“No, that’s not true.”
Brandon faces his friend with eyes as wide as a deer’s in the night with stark lights approaching.
“How did you know?”
“I’m not an idiot. I’ve known you since we were babies, man. I know when you’re trying to get one over.”
Again he sighs, this one even deeper than the previous. Maybe it’s because now he knows he’s been caught in a fib and he will have to unveil the truth to his friend. That’s what this has come to. Irritation lingers on Shawn’s brain like a bug that won’t fly away. He wants the conversation to end so that he can go home and soon be with Cassie again.
Cassie.
Her image strikes him like golden sunlight on a purple cloud day. He sees her so clearly, sitting beside the sun, her golden hair waving with the wind. She lays on grass with a sundress painted in pedals flowing freely with the wind. Dimples expose themselves to the world as she expresses nothing but joy and glee. They converse and she’s sassy, her typical snarky self that once put him off but now made him want her more than anything.
Oh, to be with Cassie. To see her again. To take her out to dinner. What a world that would be.
And yet now he is here, stuck listening to his lying best friend, who has apparently been caught in something so nefarious he rather tell a fib about it than actually confess what really happened.
“Fine,” Brandon says at last, letting his forehead rest in his palm. “I did get home from the tour early. And I wanted to go out for the night. You know, that typical after tour feeling. No, I guess you wouldn’t know. But you know? Like, I just wanted to be out and so I took my Jetta, the nice new one, not the old crappy one. It’s white and bright rims. And I took it out and I just, I just made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
Shawn is so close. He can’t let his friend stray.
“I texted and it just ended up badly, okay? Got into this wreck, well, not really a wreck. I hit the curve and my tail spun and another car hit it and I just ran away from the scene before anything could happen, okay?”
The knife cuts deep. Shawn feels it slice through his bones and to his core.
“So wait, what happened?”
“It was really bad,” he says. “Like, really, really bad, man. The other car got wrecked to high hell. Just smashed to bits and crumble. Like, I don’t know what happened there but something did, and I just couldn’t stand to stay and see what happened, okay? So I bolted.”
They’re in an Uber, so ratings matter. Had they been on the streets of Lowell, Shawn would have laid a punch right to Brandon’s jaw and shouted him out for leaving someone behind to potentially die. Just running away from a crime scene like that isn’t anyway to get things done. And yet look at the turn of events. A hero, a leading singer and songwriter across the country, causing problems, wrecking havoc, and not holding himself accountable.
“I just don’t know what to do.”
Your handsome good looks will set you free. Nothing bad will happen to you. You’re about as innocent as OJ, and yet you will get off just the same. Free from any blame or punishment. Your car won’t be seen again and the cops won’t come looking for you.
You’re a well-to-do, famous white-guy. Please.
Shawn could let the conversation die. Brandon won’t care. There exists a very good chance that the two won’t speak again after tonight. Both of them have their reasons. Shawn doesn’t want to sink himself deeper into the swamp of criminality. And Brandon won’t want to associate himself with someone who knows about the true crime.
This is the end, if they let it be.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Shawn says, turning to his face his friend. “You’re going to turn yourself in, okay? Just do it. You’re a rich and famous white guy. Nothing bad will happen. You’ll get some bad press, yeah, sure, but you just went out on tour. No one cares right now. Plus, there’s a good chance nothing bad happened.”
“But what if the other driver is dead? What if I killed them and they’re hunting me down for murder?”
“They’d have you already. You have one of the most recognizable faces in the country. You’d be done right now. And look man, don’t just run away and hide from your problems. Get it done, okay? Get it done.”
Suspiciously on time, the Uber rolls to a stop beside the hotel where Shawn calls home.
“I’ll pay for it,” Brandon says, waving away Shawn’s attempt to make the payment.
Shawn doesn’t care what his friend wants or thinks right now. That’s not the point. He just wants to end the hysteria before the problems become too thick to handle.
“You’ve got to end this,” Shawn says. “Next time I see you, I want this done.”
He slams the door when he leaves the car. And he walks toward the hotel, a sinking feeling drips into his stomach. A worrying tug that suggests to him that this is far from over and that Brandon’s trouble is only the beginning of what’s to come.
Massachusetts
Mother Tears
Hughes calls Cassie’s apartment complex. No one answers. A buzzing fills his phone speakers until an automated message explains that the apartment complex is no longer open, shut down at the peak of its career. Another dead end. Of course it’s a dead end. It’s been that sort of day.
Worry floats in his stomach. Shawn had no reason to runaway to California. He barely ever talked about the state when he was growing up. They didn’t have any family there and, as far as Hughes knew, Shawn didn’t have any friends there, either. The only connection was this Cassie girl, who was appa
rently Mary’s roommate once upon a time.
More sordid details of Mary’s past unveil themselves by the hour. He never knew she lived in California or that she had an abusive relationship with another man. Did Shawn even know all of this? Maybe that’s why he caused all the damage he did back at the apartment. Maybe he found out all the truths.
Best not harken on the past. Focus on the future. Hughes scribbles down some notes of the case, all the information he has at his fingertips. It’s a mini mosaic, just enough of a drawing board to help him sort through the problems that ail him with this case.
Shawn hurts Mary.
Runs to California.
Bars-Cops-Watch?
California, but no ties.
Cassie?
Bucky?
Bucky-Mary affair. Mary lived in Lowell? Warwick?
The timeline was sketchy.
He jots down what he thinks is the truth.
Mary lived in Lowell, moved to California.
Lived with Cassie.
Back to Lowell.
Meets Shawn.
Affair with Bucky.
But it’s cloudy. Something’s missing. Something just doesn’t make sense here. Why the sudden move away and back again?
Bucky.
Bucky had to be the reason. An abusive man with a hold on her so tight that she couldn’t escape him. Verbal arguments and physical violence had shifted her into a puppy, a servant looking to make her master happy. She tried her hand at independence, but it didn’t work out. So she moved back, leaving Cassie behind.
Cassie.
Still in California, still alive, still hanging around. Cassie.
He buries his head in his hands, digging his nails into his forehead. The pressure mounts and shoves down on him, pushing him closer toward his palms and deeper into the rabbit hole that he has found himself in. An image crosses his mind. It’s Shawn showing up in California outside of Cassie’s doorstep, asking to see Mary. A lie because he knows what happened to Mary. He follows Cassie, round and round we go, and soon he’s with her and he abuses her too. Physically attacks her, leaves her in a bloody mess like he did Mary. The cycles spins. Time is a circle. Life is a circle. What we do today creates what we’ll do tomorrow. Life doesn’t change. We don’t change. Tigers don’t grow new coats. We all stay who we are because that’s all we can do. Be ourselves. And it brings us down similar patterns. Abuse creates abuse. Arguments breed arguments. Fights build fights.
It’s always the same, round and round we go.
He snaps out of the rabbit hole and leans back in his chair, facing the insolent computer screen again. His eyes check the slowly-ticking glass on the wall ahead of him. Just about six p.m. Time for some food. Time to recharge the batteries and figure out what to do next.
Shawn is in California. They’ve dispatched a request to the cops out there to find him. Soon he will have his son again, and soon he can make the decision about what to do with him.
That’s a decision he can wait for. His son is in deeper trouble than he previously thought. Prison awaits him when he arrives back home.
Suddenly Hughes feels restraint curl up his body. Maybe he doesn’t want to find Shawn after all. Maybe this mess is a mess to keep him from seeing the clearer picture.
He slaps his desk and leaves it behind. Time for a cheeseburger.
He settles on Burger King (Shawn used to call it ‘Burber King’). Not his favorite place for greasy pounds of meat, but it’ll do the job — calm his growling stomach, fill his gut, clog his arteries, the whole package. Chelsea always encourages him to stop eating so much fattening food. But then again, it’s what makes him happy. The classic debate between doing what’s right and doing what you love.
He really loves Chelsea, so he dials her number just to check in once he’s sitting in his car, waiting out by the parking lot. He texted her earlier in the day to make sure she knew he’d be working later, probably through dinners and breakfasts for the next week. But doesn’t hurt to check in, especially during his own break.
“I wondered when you’d call.”
“Hey babe, how are you?”
“I’m just so tired,” she says, and he can hear the sink running. “Just washing some dishes before I make some pot pie. You’re not going to be home, right?”
“Unfortunately not. Still looking for him.”
“Are you ever going to bring him home?”
“Trying my hardest, honey, but it never goes smoothly. You know that. There’s always a trick with him.”
“Always been that way since he was a boy. Always had a good lie to get himself out of trouble. Laundry, breaking curfew.”
“Yeah, always a smart one.”
The running sink ends and silence fills the void. Hughes already knows what next. It’s the same thing that always happens when they talk about Shawn. Time is a circle after all, bringing the past to the forefront and the forefront to the past. You can’t escape it sometimes. It just comes barreling for you, ready to take you away, like a vicious wave attacking a lonely surfer.
“Were we good parents?” she asks. He knows her eyes are rheumy with tears.
A rueful smile on his face, he answers, “We were.”
“Then what went wrong?”
“He’s just had a hard way of it. Some people do.”
“Yeah, I just wish our son had an easier break.”
“Parents want what’s best for their kid, but at some point you have to let them make their own decisions too.”
“I just wish he made better decisions on his own.”
Hughes didn’t want to get her hopes up, but the possibility still existed that their son wasn’t the dark criminal he was made out to be. Drug deals and scandals when he was younger made sense — that’s just the way it goes sometimes for a cop’s kid, or someone growing up in a tough place like Lowell. But this recent crime, the near (and soon-to-be) murder of his girlfriend. A truly heinous act that sent him over the deep end into a place of no return. There’s no guarantee that he did it. Someone else could have easily done it.
“He’ll be fine,” Hughes says, “and whatever happens next, we’ll get through it together, like a family should and a family does. I promise. He’ll be better for all of this.”
She rushes him off the phone because she wants to have a deep cry. She always does after these sorts of conversations. When he hangs up, he leans back in his aged chair and shuts his eyes. He thinks of Chelsea and her being alone. Sleeping through the dark nights while he risks his life or trying to find their son.
He takes the rest of the food and tosses it out the window. He can’t stand the thought of seeing her alone. Not now, not ever.
Shattered Glass
The passenger window smashes open and glass rains down like snowfall. He ducks low with his arm above his head. Slits of glass cut against his hand. Red worms slither down his fingers. He picks his head up but the darkness of the gun’s barrel faces him. Point blank and nearly touching his nose. One shot and his face would be torn to bits. Life over. His time on Earth closed by a circle.
“Drive,” the voice says.
Bucky lowers the gun and points toward the road. Hughes isn’t surprised to see him there. He almost anticipated it. He checks his rearview mirror and sees the white Chevy Malibu parked behind him. An image from when he left the cafe sparks behind him. It’s the same car that followed him back then.
Bucky shuts the door and they’re off down the road.
“So I assume this is about Mary.”
“It’s about you,” he replies, the gun still facing his temple. “And everything you plan to do with what I told you.”
“I promise, I’m not telling anybody about what happened between you two, okay? This is my investigation and I’m keeping it to myself for now.”
“No, that’s not it at all,” he says, pointing the gun forward. “Take a right at the light.”
He takes a right. They’re getting closer to the university. That’s where Bu
cky works, or at least where he says he worked.
“I didn’t tell you everything when we met before.”
“Tell me now,” Hughes replies, attempting to sound even and calm, even though the gun still points his way. “You can put the gun down.”
“No, I can’t, and I’m not going to. You’re going to listen to me.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are, because you need to know the truth about everything before you tell the cops about me and what I did.”
“I’m not telling the cops.”
“Yeah, right. Well, explain why a pack of cruisers drove by my home earlier today? Or why I keep seeing them.”
“You’re paranoid,” he responds. His hand shakes against the wheel.
“Well, anyway, I need you to listen and hear everything I have to say, okay? And don’t think about pulling the car over. Take a right here.”
The car screeches at a red light. Instead of doing the sane thing and rushing out of the car, Hughes stays inside to hear out Bucky. The man must have something important to say. You don’t normally pull a gun out on a police officer. Unless you’re desperate and out of your mind.
Bucky seemed to be both.
“Alright so me and Mary weren’t having an affair, okay? We barely knew each other. She came to the school library once and I was there. We were just looking at books and found each other. But we never slept together or got together after everything that happened, okay? None of it happened. Just became friends.”
“So why lie? Why say you were from California if you weren’t?”
“Take a right,” he says out of subject, pointing toward the right. Hughes follows his words but still awaits an answer.
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