by Joe Clifford
“Because I doubt it was consensual. I remember reading they found…” Nick glanced around uneasy.
“You can say cum.”
“I’d probably go with semen. But, yeah, they found that, too.”
“Benny’s?”
“How the fuck should I know? Ask your cop boyfriend.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. I don’t understand why we’re standing outside the Idlewild Motel at eleven a.m. on a Thursday. Are you, like, writing a book about this?”
“Why would I be writing a book?”
“Because of what happened to you.”
“No. I’m not writing a book. I work at a bar and walk dogs a couple times a week.” She didn’t feel like adding dealing painkillers to her resume. Though she wouldn’t mind a couple oxys right now. This might be her best chance at a decent payday.
“Were you here when she went missing?” Alex said.
“Kira? Yeah. I was back from Virginia by then. Couldn’t go online without reading about it. It was like our Summer of Sam.” Nick turned toward her. “Were you still here? Or had you already left?”
“Something like that.” Alex couldn’t explain that, like that cat in the box, she’d been both, alive and dead, here and somewhere far away. “Did you know her?”
“Not really. I remember when she moved to town, how big a deal it was. She was—I mean, she was in high school and I was older, but she was pretty. And wild. I don’t want to talk bad about her because she’s dead, but she got around.”
“You know any of her friends?”
“You know Reine. Everyone knows everyone.”
“You remember any names?”
Nick thought a moment. “Meaghan Crouse. Trista White.” Nick struggled to dig deeper. “I think Benny’s younger brother, Dan, was part of that scene. Not sure. It’s not like I partied with them. Oh, and Sharn DiDonna. Dude was a fucking asshole. There was one other guy too. A lot older than us. Always hanging around. Shit. What was his name? Cole something.”
“Are any of these friends still around?”
“I know Meaghan is. She works at the CVS by my place. Photo department. I see her a lot. But we don’t, like, talk or anything.”
“Go grab a coffee,” Alex said, nodding toward the IHOP.
“We just had coffee.”
“Then order pancakes. I don’t care. Just don’t stand near me.”
Nick looked confused.
Alex brought out her phone, held it up, spoke slowly. “I am going to make a phone call. Private. I don’t care where you go, but move far enough away from me so you can’t hear what I am saying.”
“You are a very strange girl, anyone tell you that?”
“I’m twenty-nine. Which makes me a woman. And, yes. Now…” Alex flicked her fingers until Nick started moving.
When he was out of earshot, Alex dug around her email, punching in the digits, watching fat raindrops plop in puddles, concentric circles expanding and pushing boundaries. The phone rang a while before anyone picked up.
“Offer still stand?” she said. “Yeah, well, the price has gone up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Any time there was a storm at the Galloway Institute of Living the inmates grew restless, thrashing like spooked farm animals. Some would bite their own hands, chomping down hard enough to draw blood. The staff had to cover fingers in mittens, wrap wrists with twine, secure them to armrests, bedposts. At least for the ones who still possessed ability to move limbs. Some were too far gone by this point; they just sat and stared. All. Day. Long. Can you imagine living life like that? Staring out a window at nothing at all. Used to wig Dontrelle out. But he’d gotten used to it.
Being an orderly at the funny farm was the last job Dontrelle ever saw himself taking out of college. But he had to support himself somehow. And it wasn’t gonna be on his knew, not after his ACL joint gave out. All it takes is one ill-timed jump shot, and your whole life can change. Soon as Dontrelle heard the knee pop, the free ride was over. The job market’s tough, beggars can’t be choosers, and girls get sick of deadbeat boyfriends real quick.
Dontrelle wasn’t naïve. He knew what these men had done. When he first signed on, he’d read the files. Scared the bejesus out of him, the evil some men were capable of. One man, Lewis Brewster, had kept his neighbor’s heart in his refrigerator for a month. He lived across the hall from her. According to the other tenants, Brewster never said a word to anyone. Then one day he walks over, maybe asks to borrow a cup of sugar, a stick of butter, whatever, then slices her up, cuts out her heart. The cops found it in a Tupperware container in the freezer. Another man, Silas Freeport, had murdered twenty young male prostitutes. What he’d do, he’d pick them up at truck stops and bring them back to his parents’ house, butcher them right there in the garage. Twenty had been the figure the prosecution agreed upon to make trial. Although, given the transient nature of his victims, most speculated the real number was much higher. Even creepier, authorities maintained Silas’ parents had known what their son was up to all along and had chosen to do nothing about it. But it’s hard to prove that kind of stuff.
Men like Brewster and Freeport had been deemed unable to stand trial by reason of mental defect. Dontrelle didn’t get hung up on legalities. He was supposed to be playing point guard for the Knicks. The worst of the worst were kept in the bowels of the facility, in padded cells, chained up like the dogs they were. Dontrelle liked the third floor better.
Not that the crimes here were any less heinous. You still got rapists and murderers. But by this point most of the men were pumped full of drugs—chemically castrated, electroshocked into submission, brains scrambled—they were harmless. Like pillows with arms, heads on a stick. The only time they caused trouble was on evenings like this when the rains slashed against the glass. Lightning crackling, thunder rolling. Then, like feral beasts, the crazies freaked the fuck out, flapping arms, squawking, howling. A goddamn zoo.
Except Benny.
Dontrelle didn’t have sympathy for any of the psychos in the basement, and he didn’t give a shit about most of the men on the third floor either, but goddamn it if he didn’t have a soft spot for Benny Brudzienski.
He knew what Benny had been accused of doing to that girl. But being accused ain’t the same as being found guilty. And Benny had never been convicted. Never tried. Never even formally arrested. Who knew what would’ve happened if Benny had his day in court? Maybe new evidence comes to light. Maybe a body turns up, an eyewitness steps forward. Didn’t matter because some good ol’ boys got hold of Benny Brudzienski and fucked his shit up. Vigilante justice. Having grown up down South, Dontrelle remembered when they called it something else. What got to him most were those fucking eyes.
Some of the orderlies didn’t bother getting Benny out of bed, would let him lie there in his own filth. But Dontrelle thought the man ought to at least be able to look out the window in clean underpants. Usually when Dontrelle attended to Benny, changed his linens, diaper, applied ointment to the bedsores, rolled him out to the plate glass window, nothing. Blank slate, dead eyes. Like staring into the face of a tuber. But every once in a while…
Happened again tonight. Dontrelle was about to eat dinner in the break room. He walked past Benny, who never even blinked, and somehow he was in a different position. Not an arm at a different angle, or fingers resting higher on the thigh. His whole chair had been scootched over, like three, four feet, which wasn’t possible. No one else was working, and Benny was all but brain dead; he hadn’t moved a muscle on his own in years. Doubted he even could, atrophy so bad.
Dontrelle should’ve continued on to the break room, warmed up his dinner, let it go. But he had to know—was he going nuts? Because that chair had definitely moved. Stooped over, Dontrelle searched for scuffmarks on the floor, but it was too dark to see anything, even with the sporadic flashes of lightning illumining the fields. Another orderly must’ve moved him; someone from anot
her floor stopped by while Dontrelle went to the can to take a leak. Unless Dontrelle did it himself and forgot? He did smoke a fatty before punching in.
He was ready to let it go, chalk it up to chronic paranoia. Then he looked in Benny’s eyes. Normally black, soulless pits, this time his eyes shone vibrant and alive. The big man still slumped in his chair, head drooping halfway down his chest like it might slide off his body, but his eyes told a different story. Dontrelle almost asked how he was doing before he caught himself. The man couldn’t talk, couldn’t comprehend a damn thing. The best doctors and head-shrinkers, prosecutors and the courts—some of the smartest men in the state of New York—had examined Benny Brudzienski and concluded he was toast. If it were that easy to beat a murder rap, there wouldn’t be a man doing time in Riker’s. But that look…as if he yearned to say something. So Dontrelle waited, stood in place, actually leaned in to give the impossible a chance.
Until Dontrelle started laughing. This is what happens when you work too long in the looney bin. You start goin’ looney too.
Dontrelle straightened up. “Gonna miss you, my man,” he said shaking his head, walking away.
BENNY BRUDZIENSKI
“Hey, dumb dumb. Get over here!”
Mrs. Shuman is standing outside one of the rooms with the door wide open. As I shuffle up I see the mess inside. Every weekend, they have another party here and each time they do more damage. I do not know why Mrs. Shuman lets Cole do this to her motel. It is not very respectful.
“One of those high school fuckers threw up all over the room. It’s on the walls and everything. Where’s your bucket and mop?”
If I could talk like regular people, I would say it is back where I left it, where I had been doing my job like I am supposed to. She called me over and said to hurry so I did not bring it. If she wants me to bring my bucket and mop, next time she should tell me to bring my bucket and mop. But I cannot talk like regular people, and I know if I try, the words would not come fast enough, or they would not be in the right order, and Mrs. Shuman would tell me to stop stuttering like a fool. So I do not say anything. Instead I nod like I am sorry, even though I am not sorry at all.
“Clean this puke up,” she says. “Then head over to number eight and clear them out of there.” She looks at her watch. “It’s almost noon.”
I do what Mrs. Shuman says. It takes a long time. I start with the biggest chunks first, picking them up with a rag, then I gather the smaller ones. I wipe and spray with bleach. I mop and wring out the sick. When I am done, I head over to room eight.
It is very cold walking across the lot to number eight, which is on the other side. The motel is in an L-shape. That room is at the far end. The air smells like it will snow soon. Clean, cutting, chemical, like the bleach I used to sanitize the vomit. It hurts my lungs to breathe all the way in. I like the snow. Even though the snow makes more work for me. Mrs. Shuman will not pay for a plow. It is up to me to shovel and clear a path for guests. But I like being out in the snow. It reminds me of when I was little, before Dad and Mom gave up on me, back when we would build snowmen and throw snowballs and I would carry the wood.
The curtains are open. I see her sitting inside the room on the unmade bed. The curtains are not open all the way, just enough that I can see her. She is sitting on the bed, naked, arms wrapped around her knees. I know I should look away. I know I am spying and that is wrong. It is important to respect personal space. Mrs. Collins, my last teacher, told me that. There were a bunch of rules at the special school, like Be Kind, Be Considerate, and Respect Personal Space. They hung these rules on the wall and told me what they meant. When I first went there, I liked to hug everyone. I did not mean anything bad by it, but I got in trouble. Mrs. Collins told Dad and Mom that I needed to respect personal space. I am not respecting personal space now. But she looks so beautiful and sad, and I want to hug her and make her feel better.
I step away from the window and knock on the door. I knock softly so I do not scare her. Kira comes to the door. She cracks it open and pokes her head out. She looks like she has been crying.
“Sorry, Benny,” she says. “It’s past checkout time, isn’t it?”
I nod and turn my head away. I wonder if she is still naked.
Kira turns over her shoulder. With a bob, she gestures behind her. “Give me a minute, okay?”
“Take. Your. Time.” I am surprised by the sound of my own voice. I have not heard it outside my head in so long. I did not stumble over my words or anything. They did not come out fast but they sounded normal. I did not stutter or stammer. They were normal, regular words. I wished I could have saved it for Dad and Mom, Wren and Dan because I know I will not get it right again anytime soon. I was not thinking of talking this time. I was thinking about what she looked like behind the door, and my brain clicked. It is gone now, I can feel it going away, sinking into the muddy waters of my mind. My cheeks burn hot.
Kira wrinkles her nose, like a bunny. “Look at you,” she says. “I knew you could talk. Everyone tried to tell me you couldn’t, but I could see you were a smart boy, Benny.”
This is not the first time I have seen her in a room at the motel. I can smell she did not spend the night alone. Maybe my brother was here with her. Dan is in love with her. He talks about her on the telephone every night. It makes me happy to think that. Dan is a good person. He is not mean like Wren. I am not stupid. I know what men and women do together in the dark.
She does not close the door and she does not cover up. She walks around naked. She looks at me as she puts on her underpants first, one long leg at a time. I see the faint white crosses on her arms. I try to turn away. But it is hard.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she says. “You can look.”
When she is done, she comes outside. She is wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and she has dried the tears.
“Walk with me a little while?”
We walk to the front of the driveway. It is not far. I do not know if she is waiting for someone to pick her up. I do not see any car.
“Thanks for walking with me, Benny.” Kira points down the road. “I live down there.” She bites her lip. “You probably have to get back to work, huh?”
I shake my head.
“You’re done for the day?” she says, eyes bright and happy.
I nod.
She thumbs down the road. “Want to walk me home?”
I do not go back and get my bicycle or tell Mrs. Shuman I am leaving. I am afraid if I turn from Kira, she will vanish like snow in the spring, and I will never see her again.
We walk together. Kira starts talking. She tells me things. She tells me a lot of things.
I listen.
CHAPTER NINE
“Thanks for meeting me.”
Applebee’s, Reine’s latest chain jewel, frenzied with the dinner crowd—Mom, Dad, screaming baby, grandpa about a week from dying trying to cram in one last two-for-twenty-dollar special.
“No problem,” Riley said, sounding as though it was very much a problem.
Alex knew she’d acted childish the other day. She wanted to accept responsibility, apologize, move on.
“I haven’t been fair to you,” she said. “Coming back here hasn’t been easy.”
Riley’s tense shoulders relaxed a bit, but he was far from at ease.
“It’s more than Parsons. This place…” Alex paused, trying to get the inflection right. “I’ve held the entire town to blame. Reine became this convenient, I don’t know? Excuse? For every wrong committed against me. Which isn’t fair to this place.”
The server interrupted her pitch, running down the list of “specials,” slabs of mid-grade meat slathered in sweet sauce, wrapped in plastic, and reheated in a microwave.
“Diet Coke,” Alex said. No alcohol tonight. Be responsible, act grown-up. Before meeting Riley for dinner, she’d stopped at Marshall’s, picking out a white top and pair of flats. Couldn’t go too crazy, even if Noah L
ee had agreed to mail the first installment.
“Coffee’s fine,” Riley said, not yet ready to forgive.
The waiter left to get their drinks, leaving Alex and Riley to defend their moral ground. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. But why did it have to be this hard? They once were lovers sharing a bed. Now they negotiated like strangers. She hadn’t held up her end of maintaining the friendship, it was true, but she also hadn’t committed some egregious offense, the other day’s outburst notwithstanding. Alex didn’t expect them to pick up where they’d left off, but she deserved more than this cold shoulder routine.
“How is Meg?”
“You want to talk about my wife?”
“Just trying to make conversation.”
“Please. Alex. Cut the shit. I agreed to meet you because you asked and said it was important. We’re past playing catch-up. I have to get back to the precinct.”
Alex tried to act surprised, hurt, offended, but couldn’t pick any one emotion fast enough, which left her stuck in an awkward in-between state, like permanent pre-pubescence.
She balled the napkin she’d taken the time to smooth over her lap, dropping it on the plate. If this was the way he wanted to play it, what choice did she have? He was the link to the information she needed. “Benny Brudzienski.”
“Didn’t we cover that particular topic the other day when you threw your hissy fit at the hospital?”
“I apologized for that.”
“I tried to be square with you. I brought you up to Galloway, on my own time, to show you what’s what.”
“The hell you did. You brought me up there to scare me straight, like some eighties’ afterschool special bullshit.”
The waiter returned with the Diet Coke and coffee. What was the point? “Beer and a shot,” she said.
“Which kind would—”
“Whatever IPA you got on tap. Tequila, whiskey, whatever.” Alex didn’t take her eyes off Riley, nor his off hers.
“What do you want from me, Alex?”