A Good Idea

by Cristina Moracho

  The truck was parked in a large circular clearing, alongside an enormous black Dodge Ram with a crew cab and a shiny canopy. The Ram looked brand-new, and trucks like that didn’t come cheap, but it was the only ostentatious thing around. The house itself was nothing more than a shitty prefab not much bigger than a trailer, purple paint cracking around the windows, storm door sagging on its hinges and flapping angrily in the wind, slamming against the frame every few seconds with a gunshot sound that made me anxious. Beyond the house was a smaller wooden structure with a curved roof of logs that hadn’t been stripped of their bark. The trees swayed in the rain and hundreds of feathers dangled from the branches—all sizes, some as big as eagle feathers and others small enough to have come from the tiniest sparrow I’d ever seen hop along a bench in Washington Square Park, all of them glistening with rain and twisting on their tethers.

  I knew where we were now, whose property we were on; a sick recognition filled me as I slowly turned my head and saw Owen talking to Silas.

  Silas was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only patchwork corduroy pants and a fanny pack that would have looked ridiculous on anybody else. He seemed oblivious to the rain streaming down his chest, which was covered in tattoos; poor Owen was getting soaked, brown hair plastered to his head as he nodded his assent to whatever Silas was saying. I couldn’t make out any words over the rain and my jagged breathing; slowly, I rolled my window down, just a crack.

  “Seriously, man, the multiverse is a real thing. The quantum suicide machine proves it. Haven’t you ever read Greg Egan? And think about it. The multiverse is the path to immortality. In an infinite number of universes, there always has to be one where you’re still alive. We just have to figure out—”

  I rolled the window back up. Perhaps Silas’s minions had to suffer through his sweat lodges and insane ramblings—“the price of doing business,” one of them had said in the woods—but I did not. I wanted Owen back in the truck, now, and when we got to his cabin I was going to drink all his whiskey, smoke all his cigarettes, and then beat the shit out of him for getting into business with a guy like this. I seethed. How could he lecture me about staying out of Calder’s way when he was working for this crazy motherfucker? Owen was good with his hands, I had firsthand knowledge of that, and if he needed extra money he could start building furniture out of driftwood and selling it to the tourists. I slipped back into my hiding spot and waited impatiently for his return.

  When he finally got back in the truck, he made a point of not looking down at me; I figured Silas was still standing there, watching him. Owen leaned over and put a brown envelope in the glove compartment, resting his hand briefly on my head before he strapped himself in. He executed a flawless three-point turn—there was a reason Owen had taught me how to drive—and took off back up the driveway.

  “Stay down until I tell you to come out,” he whispered.

  I thought that would be when we were back on the main road. As soon as I felt asphalt beneath the tires I began to surface.

  “Not yet,” he whispered.

  “How come? He can’t see me now.”

  “Someone else might. And that somebody else might tell him. I don’t want this fucking guy to know you exist, Finley. Got it?”

  We were on the same page there. I shut up and stayed crouched under the dash until we were safely back at the cabin. He had to help me out; by then I had lost all feeling in the lower half of my body, and I hobbled inside on wobbly, gimped-out legs, promptly collapsing on the couch and reaching for the cigarettes. Owen did that thing that guys do when they get home, emptying his pockets onto the kitchen counter—Zippo lighter, wallet, keys—and taking off his watch and setting it neatly beside them.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said, handing me an ashtray. “I had to stop by there, and I didn’t want to leave you alone after—”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I understand. I respect your efforts to keep work and your personal life separate.”

  Owen rubbed my feet, trying to get the circulation going. “Thanks.”

  “When did you start?”

  “You just said—”

  “When?”

  He got up, got the bottle—Powers this time, instead of Fighting Cock—and poured us each a glass, then he sank back into the couch, still rubbing my feet absently, eyes closed, a look of surrender on his face. “Last spring.”

  “So all last summer?”

  “Yeah. But it was different then. That was just selling a little shit out in the alley behind the diner, or over at Charlie’s. I didn’t even meet this guy until a few months ago. I was getting it from some other guy, who was getting it from him. I guess I earned up enough goodwill to get the introduction, and now—now I’m stuck with him,” he said ruefully.

  “Is he, like, the hippie Mafia or something? Once you’re in, you’re in for life?”

  Owen opened one eye. “You took a peek, huh? I fucking knew you would.”

  “What’s with all the feathers?”

  “He thinks he’s Native American,” Owen said, shaking his head. “Passamaquoddy, to be precise. He doesn’t even live in the house, he lives in that fucking wigwam he built next to it. There was some kind of scabies outbreak in the house, no one goes in there anymore. I think he might actually be Canadian.”

  “Jesus Christ, Owen, are you listening to yourself? You’ve got to get another side gig.”

  “I need the money,” he said simply. “If I stop now, the diner will go under. You’ve been here long enough to see what’s happening. There’s no tourists. No summer money. How the fuck am I going to make it through the winter?”

  “That guy is bad medicine,” I said. “Keep working for him, and I’m not sure you’ll make it through the winter anyway. What happens if you get arrested?”

  He sat up sharply, his moment of calm repose gone. “Don’t even say that.”

  “You’re selling drugs to kids all over town,” I said. “You’re selling to Caroline fucking Miller. What if her dad finds out?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You’ve lived in Williston all your life, Owen. What makes you think you can keep a secret here?”

  “I’m careful.” He saw I wasn’t convinced. “I promise.”

  “There’s something about this conversation that’s so familiar. Like we had one just like it, really recently,” I said.

  “Working for Silas is not the same thing as trying to get a rise out of Calder.”

  “It’s not Calder I’m trying to get the rise out of.”

  “Then who is it?”

  The blood had flooded back into my legs and feet, sensation returning on a painful wave of stabbing needles and sharp, rusty pins. I got up and circled the couch like a shark, trying to walk it off. “Everybody else in town.”

  “Good luck stirring up a lynch mob against Williston’s favorite son.”

  “Good luck selling drugs for a psychotic hippie who thinks he’s going to live forever in the multiverse.”

  I finished another lap and stood in front of Owen. He reached up and pulled me onto the couch, holding me so my head was buried in his chest. Sometimes I remembered that before Owen was anything else, he had been like my brother, and when we eventually stopped fucking he would be again. His fear was a strange reminder of that, because it was so deep and genuine that I knew it stemmed from that older, more familial connection, not the more recent developments of the last couple of years. I was surprised to find the same thing happening to me, that after years of balancing precariously on the edge of the cliff that was falling in love with Owen, being afraid for him pulled me back instead of pushing me over.

  Still, I wondered if I should fuck him now. I knew Owen, stone cold. If I fucked him, he’d fall asleep. If he fell asleep, I could go out to his truck and get a look at the package he’d picked up from Silas. Then I’d know what he was selli
ng and how much of it, precisely how deep he was in. And if there was enough of it, maybe I’d take a sample. Just so I’d know exactly what we were dealing with.

  The phone rang before I could decide. I tried to stop Owen from getting up—“Let it ring,” I said—but he shook his head.

  “When I try that they just keep calling. Maybe you were right about the pager.”

  Suddenly I hated that idea. As though it meant admitting what he had become. I liked it better when he denied he was a dealer, like that meant it wasn’t real, or only temporary.

  “Hello?” he said, and raised his eyebrows at the response on the other end. I was startled when he held the receiver out to me. “It’s for you.”

  “Hello?” I said tentatively.

  “It’s Serena. I’ve been trying to find you. Your dad said you might be at Owen’s. You need to get down here.”

  “Hang on, hang on. Where’s ‘here’?”

  “Charlie’s.”

  “What’s going on at Charlie’s?”

  “There’s someone down here saying—” She took a long pause. “There’s someone down here saying she saw Betty.”

  “What do you mean, ‘saw’ her? Like, the night she died?”

  “No,” Serena said impatiently. “She’s saying she saw Betty last night.”

  “What?” I said, a little too loud. Owen stood over me, his face a furrowed question mark.

  “Just get down here.” She hung up.

  I looked over at Owen, the receiver dangling limply from my hand like something I was afraid might contaminate me. “I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  MY CAR WAS still in town, so I had no choice but to ask Owen to drive me to Charlie’s. When I told him what Serena had said, he balked, said he didn’t want to go all the way back to Main Street to watch one of the local drunks spread a bullshit rumor, but I insisted, threatened to walk, pulled out all the usual stops until he acquiesced, strapping on his watch again, angrily shoving his wallet back in his pocket. Still, he held the front door open for me on the way out, and unlocked my side of the truck before going around and settling into the driver’s seat with an aggravated sigh.

  I don’t know what I was expecting at Charlie’s, maybe something more dramatic than the usual—people spilling out into the street, the place filled with that invisible electricity, that buzz characteristic of any noteworthy event in Williston. But it was just like any other evening.

  The tiny NYC dive bars I’d weaseled into with my fake ID, Sophie’s and Lucy’s and Manitoba’s and 9C, were all cramped and smelled vaguely like locker rooms, but Charlie’s was different. Soft orange light spilled through the windows, washing over the long bar, illuminating every gouge and scorch mark in the wood. The regulars gathered here, all the faster to be served their next shot or beer. The large room had a stage and a dance floor, and a vast space around these filled with wobbly Formica tables, napkins wedged under their legs in a futile attempt to keep them stable. When there’s only one bar in town, it better have enough room for everyone, and Charlie’s had plenty.

  Tonight, it was nowhere near full. A few tables were occupied by couples—almost nothing depressed me more about Williston than watching someone’s date night unfold at Charlie’s—and the barstools were mostly taken. Granted, the sun hadn’t even gone down yet, but in July the place should have been lousy with tourists looking to use a bathroom or have one quick pint before they got back into their cars. Looking around, it might as well have been February.

  Serena was sitting at the bar; when she saw me, she lifted one arm in greeting. When she saw Owen, she lowered it, annoyance flashing across her face.

  “Hey,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to her. “What’s going on?”

  “Shh,” she said. “Listen.”

  Owen hovered behind us. I bowed my head as if that would allow me to hear better. First I had to tune out the jukebox, which was playing that Badfinger song “Come and Get It,” and then I was able to pick up the voices drifting down from the other end of the bar.

  “Don’t you think you should tell the sheriff?” someone said.

  “Tell him what? I know what I saw, but it’s not like I got a picture of her.”

  “You’re sure it was her?”

  “I recognized her by the clothes. You remember how she used to dress? Like she thought she was in a movie? Long blonde hair, red lipstick, some fancy gown. Just walking down the road in the middle of the night.”

  I lifted my eyes to get a look at the raconteur. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t think of her name. Her hair was a deep blue-black, pulled into a bun that sat primly on top of her head. She was wearing workout clothes, shiny nylon leggings and a purple top that looked like it was supposed to wick sweat or trap body heat or something equally fancy. Even though she was seated at the bar, I could tell she was unusually tall. She had perfect posture, unlike most Charlie’s patrons, who tended to slump, the curve of their spines directly proportional to the amount of hours they had clocked at the bar that evening. At closing time, their noses were nearly touching the wood, except for those who fell asleep with their cheeks nestled cozily against the sticky varnish and needed to be roused by the bartender with harsh words and coffee so they could stumble outside to their trucks and drive home.

  The woman was drinking a Bloody Mary; she paused to fish one of the olives out of the glass with her straw. She used it to emphasize the next part of her story, pointing the straw, olive still speared onto the end, at her companion, a woman who had her back to us.

  “Can you imagine? Where on earth has she been this whole time? I know she was mixed up with a lot of different boys—she must have run off with some boy, that’s what I think, and I bet now he’s tired of her and she wants to come home—”

  Serena half rose from her stool, eyes filled with hateful intentions at hearing Betty bad-mouthed. I gripped her tightly at the waist and whispered into her ear. “Don’t.” She glared at me, too, but settled down and took a big swig of her beer. I kept my hands on her, moved my stool a little closer. Her face didn’t soften, but she didn’t pull away, either.

  “Or maybe,” the woman continued, “she’s just been playing a big joke this whole time. Some kind of prank.” At last she ate her olive, chewing it more than seemed necessary. She plunged her straw back into the glass and sucked up the remainder of her drink. Her cigarettes and lighter were beside her; she slid them toward the bartender and stood up. “Can you keep an eye on these, Jed? Just put them behind the bar somewhere. I have to go teach an aerobics class. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Behind me, Owen snorted.

  “Maybe it was her ghost,” Serena said loudly. “Maybe you did see her. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t dead.”

  The aerobics instructor didn’t respond, only smirked smugly in our direction and walked out the door without saying good-bye to the woman she’d been talking to. I figured they were just acquaintances, that the aerobics instructor had come down to Charlie’s with the simple intention of telling her story to whoever happened to be sitting at the bar. But then the remaining woman turned her head, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure.

  “Jed, could I have another shot of Powers? And a Narragansett. Thanks,” Emily Shepard said.

  Before Owen or I could move, she was already coming our way. She had a good buzz going—something in her loose-limbed movements gave it away—but her eyes were still sharp, and when she settled them on Owen, he took a step back.

  “Owen,” she said.

  “Emily,” he answered.

  “Come outside with me.”

  He followed her obediently onto the back deck, overlooking the water.

  “Who is that?” Serena asked me.

  “One of Owen’s cousins. I forget how they’re related, exactly.”

  “Why does she look so familiar?”

  I waited
until the bartender’s back was turned, then I chugged the rest of Serena’s beer. “She was sheriff for something like eight years. She was still sheriff when Betty died.”

  “You think she’s seen Calder’s confession?”

  “I’m sure she has. She might have even been there when he gave it.”

  “Let’s kidnap her,” Serena said angrily. “Tie her up somewhere, pull out her fingernails until she tells us what she knows.”

  “A lot of good it would do us. What could she tell us? Calder killed Betty? Yeah, news flash. Nobody cares.” I sipped my drink. “She sure seems pissed at Owen, though.”

  “What were you doing at his place, anyway?” Serena asked.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Hang on.”

  I crossed the dance floor and stood just inside the door that led out onto the deck. I cracked the door open and leaned my ear toward the narrow opening. The deck faced the water; I could smell the ocean and hear the faint hiss of waves against the rocks. Over that were low voices, Owen’s and Emily’s.

  “I mean it,” Emily was saying sternly. “I can’t protect you anymore. You need to get out. Now.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Owen said.

  “You’re a smart kid,” she said. “Figure it out.”

  I’d heard enough, so I went back to Serena.

  “So?” she said expectantly.

  “So what?”

  “You were about to tell me why you were at Owen’s.”

  “I talked to Calder today.”

  “What?” Serena said, shocked.

  I related everything that had happened—except for the part about seeing Silas again. After hearing what Emily said—knowing that even she knew about Owen’s side business—I was suddenly thinking in terms of who could be called to testify. The fewer of us there were, the better. I was already regretting that clandestine look through the truck’s windshield. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. Something like that.