by Joe Clifford
Dan was still tough to read, though. He didn’t act like he had anything to hide. But his pain was profound. A deep-seated sorrow undermined attempts to smile and pretend everything was okay.
“Do you see your brother?”
“Of course. We live together.”
“I meant Benny.”
Dan’s eyes grew mean, quiet indignation seething behind them. “We don’t think of him as a brother. And we don’t say his name. He was a mistake, an aberration. What he did…no, we don’t talk about him. He’s dead to us.”
“You think he did it?”
“Of course he did it! Everyone knows he did it. They found his blood and—”
“Couldn’t find your notebook,” Nick said, reentering the kitchen, stopping short when he saw Dan’s red face and clenched fists.
Alex motioned to stay calm.
“What is this really about? You aren’t writing anything down.”
Alex turned to Nick. “Did you find my recorder?”
“No. Sorry.”
“You asked him to get your notepad. You didn’t say anything about a recorder.”
“That’s what I meant. My notepad.”
“Bullshit. You said notepad. You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying. Did you find my notepad?”
“Couldn’t find that either.”
“What reporter doesn’t have a notepad?” Dan looked over her clothes, jeans and plain white tee, jangle bracelets on her left arm, biomech tattoo peeking out the sleeve on her right. “You don’t look like a reporter.” He twitched unstable, accelerating to unhinged in less time than it took to sneeze. “You’re a liar!”
“Relax. The Codornices is a college paper. Uniondale. Look it up on the internet. Just have a few more questions.”
“I don’t want to answer them. You guys have to go.”
“Do you know they’re trying to move Benny down to Jacob’s Island?”
“I told you. We don’t talk about him! He’s not our brother. Benny is a fucking retard rapist murderer. He’s not a Brudzienski, okay? Now go! I’m serious. Or I’ll call the fucking cops. I’ll call Wren. Trust me, you don’t want to be here when Wren gets home.”
Nick tugged at Alex’s sleeve. “Come on. We should get to class.”
Dan was breathing heavy, worked up, overlooking minor details like no one goes to class on Sunday.
Alex decided Nick was right. Time to cut bait. They backtracked through the living room, into the hall, Dan Brudzienski standing there, watching, smoldering, a tiny time bomb ticking, fuse lit and ready to ignite.
They were almost to the front door when they heard the rumbling truck engine grind to a halt. Nick had already twisted the knob. Alex recognized the big man with the canvas sack bulling up the walkway in the sun-bleached trucker’s cap. He was the same man who had knocked on her door at the Royal Motel, the same man she’d seen later at the Fireside. And he did not look happy to see her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wren dropped the big bag of football equipment he’d been shouldering, helmets spilling out the top, severed heads tumbling down the steps. He charged, backing up Alex and Nick inside the house.
“I thought you were in Virginia till tonight?” Dan said.
“Wanted to get an early start, get out ahead of the storm.” Wren eyed Alex. “What’s she doing here?”
“She’s a reporter for some paper.”
“The fuck she is.”
Alex took a step toward the door, trying to slip around him, but Wren blocked her path and kicked the door shut with his muddy boot.
“That’s what she told me,” Dan said.
“That’s what she told me,” Wren sang back. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Sometimes I think you’re as dumb as that retard upstate.” Wren turned to face Alex. “That’s who you’re here about, right? The retard?”
“I have a few questions, yes.”
“I bet you do. I’ve heard all about your questions. Bugging everyone to get a story that isn’t there.”
“I thought you said she wasn’t a reporter?”
“She’s not. That’s Alex Salerno.” He studied his little brother, searching for recognition that didn’t come. “Five years before your little girlfriend disappeared—”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend—”
“There was this sicko up by the lake. Kenneth Parsons. Abducted girls. Typical candy-in-a-van pervert shit. But good looking, blond hair, blue eyes, had money. Didn’t take much to lure them back to his castle on the water. He targeted the needy ones desperate for attention. No daddies.” A sneer cracked his lips. “He did…things…to them. When he was done, he’d bury them in his backyard. Except one of them got away.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember that,” Dan said. “This is the girl that got away?”
“This is the girl who got away.”
Nick grabbed Alex’s hand. “This was a mistake.”
“Yeah. It was,” Wren said. “You don’t barge into people’s houses—”
“We didn’t barge in.” Alex snatched her hand back. “Your brother invited us in.”
“When you told me you were a reporter—”
“What difference does that make? You don’t talk about that shit. Didn’t I tell you to keep your mouth shut?”
Dan kicked at the rug, head hung, every bit the baby brother.
“What ‘shit’ would that be exactly?” Alex said.
“None of your fucking business.”
“He means our brother, Benny.”
Wren slapped him, a quick, open-palmed snake strike, hard enough to leave a welt on Dan’s cheek. “What did I tell you about that? He ain’t our brother. You don’t say his name in this house. He’s the state’s problem. Mom and Dad didn’t die and leave us this place so we could pay for that fat slob to get fed through a tube, you hear me? That money is for us. This farm. Our future. Got it?”
Dan rubbed the side of his face, bobbing his head.
Wren cupped his ear, leaning in. “What’s that?”
“I said I got it.”
“We’re leaving,” Alex said.
Wren planted his feet, widening his stance, a football move. He had a good seven inches on her, and Alex wasn’t short by any stretch. Nick tried to wedge between them but the broad-shouldered Wren had little trouble boxing him out. Nick tried to push back, but if Tommy manhandled him, she hated to see what a guy like Wren could do.
“What’s the hurry?” Wren said. “You just got here. You have an appointment to harass someone else?”
“I’m not harassing anyone.”
“What do you call this?”
“You’re the one following me. You came to my motel room. I saw you at the Fireside—”
“I’m not following you or anyone else, girlie. I happened to be meeting with your teenage fantasy, Riley, about this Benny bullshit the night you showed up. Thought I’d pay a visit, meet the infamous Alex Salerno, see why you were sniffing around after you got done throwing yourself at him. Fucking home-wrecker. You know he has a daughter?”
“Fuck you.”
“Can everyone calm down?” Nick said.
“Fuck me? You’re in my house, bitch.” He reached around Nick, poking Alex in the bony part of her sternum. “Yeah, I know all about you, Alex Salerno. Whole town knows about you. But your story’s played out. You don’t matter anymore. Go down to the Jackal’s Den. Suck off someone for blow, whatever losers like you do. But stay away from me and my family. You hear? Or maybe you want me to call Riley, huh?”
Alex pretended the insult didn’t sting and that last part didn’t concern her. Her silence betrayed the hurt.
“Didn’t think so.” He turned to his brother. “Get me a beer.”
“But I—”
“I said get me a beer. This is my house. Mom and Dad left it to me. Not you. Me. I let you stay here, rent-free, no job—you don’t do shit on the farm—I buy all the
food, pay all the bills. Least you can do is get me a goddamn beer when I ask for it.”
Dan slinked off toward the kitchen.
“And not the piss water in the fridge either. That’s for you and your little friends. Get me a bottle of stout, from the basement.”
When Dan was out of earshot, Wren stepped to Alex and Nick, who still hadn’t left her side. Even banded together the two of them didn’t constitute half of Wren Brudzienski. “The Galloway Institute of Living pays for that retard up north. And it’s going to stay that way. I am not shelling out good money—my money—to keep that brain-dead potato breathing. And I sure as shit am not bringing him here.”
“I don’t understand why—”
“It’s not your job to understand.” He didn’t even consider Nick, clocking Alex. “This is your last warning. I hear any more bullshit about you nosing around, asking about Kira Shanks, I swear to God, I won’t call your make-believe cop boyfriend. I will gut you like a fish, nail you to the barn wall, and dry you out like jerky. We clear? Now get the fuck out of my house.”
A long bank of storm clouds encroached from the northwest, ushering winter’s silvery chill on its wings. Nick drove, apprehensive to broach what Wren Brudzienski had said. Alex wasn’t a delicate flower. She considered herself more a tough-to-kill weed. She wasn’t like Denise. She didn’t sit in showers, sobbing with all her clothes on. And she wasn’t going to let some ’roided-up jackhole push her around. Denise never would’ve survived that bunker. Denise fell apart every time the lights went out, the gas got shut off, rent was overdue; her mother’s entire life had been a never-ending slew of dire straits and epic meltdowns.
When Alex looked over at Nick, he was reading a text on his phone. “My uncle towed your car to the shop. Won’t be able to get you new tires until tomorrow. Guess you’re stuck with me till then.”
“How much is that going to run me?” Two thousand bucks wasn’t going to last long if she had to fork out for new radials.
“Don’t worry about it.”
A hard rain riveted the windshield. Strong gusts bent boughs, snapping twigs and limbs, shredding remnants of maple leaves.
“Back to my place?” Nick said. “Hole up till your car is ready? We can watch movies or something.”
“Can we snuggle too? Maybe make hot cocoa? Do you have a cat I can pet? Maybe an oversized fluffy sweater I can wear?” Alex batted lashes. “Ooh, something that smells like you?”
“What do you want to do? Go back to your cousin’s?”
“I want to check out the Idlewild again.”
“You’re kidding, right? You heard what Wren said.”
“Like I give a shit what Wren Brudzienski says.”
“You see the hunting rifles on the wall?”
“If you’re too chickenshit, drop me off.”
Nick had the wipers on high but nothing helped. “Come on, Alex. It’s pissing rain. What do you think you’ll find at the Idlewild? I talked to all of Kira’s friends. All fingers pointed at Dan Brudzienski. You saw that kid. He isn’t issuing any code reds. Wren’s the one you need to be worried about.”
“Right, but not for the reasons you think.” She’d assumed that Riley and Wren were fighting the same fight, to exonerate Benny. She now saw they weren’t. “Wren doesn’t care if Benny is charged or found guilty.” She didn’t know Riley’s real motivation in this. But Wren had tipped his hand. He was worried about the money, being on the hook for Benny’s continued care. Cold, hard cash.
“He’s guilty. They found his fucking…jizz…at the motel.”
“Wren wants to keep his brother locked up in Galloway because then the state foots the bill. Charges result in a trial, a trial a guilty verdict, then Benny goes to Jacob’s Island.”
“So? Why would Wren all of a sudden have to pay? Jacob’s Island is another state-run facility. Galloway. Jacob’s Island. What difference does it make?”
“The Brudzienskis have money now. They didn’t when Benny was sent away. If Benny is found guilty, the family could be liable for civil suits. That money—life insurance, will, trusts, whatever—becomes fair game. You think Wren wants to risk getting tossed from that ivory tower he’s built?”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that’s how the law works?”
“No, I mean, how do you know that?”
“I read?”
“What’s this got to do with Kira Shanks?”
“Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. That’s my point.”
“You are one of the most confusing girls I’ve ever met.”
“I’m twenty-nine years old, Nick. I’m not a girl.”
“Why are you doing this? You don’t have a horse in this race. You are putting yourself in serious danger—”
“Do you believe in serendipity?”
“Serenwhat?”
“It means that sometimes God, the Universe, whatever you want to call it, delivers you to the place you are supposed to be.”
“Now who sounds like a romantic comedy?”
“I saw something when I looked in Benny Brudzienski’s eyes.”
“That’s what this is about? The vacant gaze of a vegetable?”
“He’s not a vegetable.”
“Then he’s faking it.”
The downpour relentless, brackish waters gurgled out storm grates, rushing rivers carrying away detritus and fallen twigs. Nick used his hand to wipe the condensation, peeking out the base of the windshield. “I can’t see a fucking thing.”
“I know what I’m supposed to do. I know why I came back.” She pointed straight ahead. “Idlewild.”
“Oh come on—”
“Idlewild.”
That was Alex’s last word on the subject.
By the time they got to the motel, the worst of the squall had passed, but the rain still fell dark and slow.
Nick punched it in park. “What now? Please tell me you don’t want to see the room where it happened? Seven years later, I’m pretty sure they’ve cleaned it by now.”
Alex hopped down, mud slopping beneath her Chucks. She headed around back, Nick trailing, muttering. Half the motel was under renovation. Or it had been. Efforts to resurrect the dump had been abandoned a while ago. Empty paint cans rusted in the weeds. A rotting ladder lay splintered on its side. Blue tarps rippled along the edge of the property, unfurled flags flapping on unpatriotic seas. Big black trash bags were piled beside waterlogged, stained mattresses propped against the wall, bellies sagging under the weight of a thousand rainstorms. Alex stared into the forest, imagining all the places a body could hide.
“What are you two doing back here?”
A stout, middle-age woman stood beneath an umbrella, smoking a long, skinny cigarette. Alex could see her pores, wide as rice grains, from ten feet away.
“You can’t be back here. This is private property. I’m going to call the cops.”
“We’re looking for—”
“Scrap metal to sell. I know. All the copper got stripped long time ago. There’s nothin’ left to steal. Whole motel ain’t worth squat. Now get.”
Alex shielded her eyes from the rain. “We’re not stealing anything. I’m looking for Cole Denning. I heard he works here.”
The old woman drew on her Virginia Slim, scowl fading. After a moment, she waved for them to follow.
Inside the tiny check-in office, the old woman handed them each a towel, warn so thin they might as well have been drying off with cheesecloths.
When they were done, the old woman held out her hand, snatching back the rags as though they were prized possessions. The lobby was choked with stale cigarette smoke and the burnt singe of vending machine corn nuts, assorted junk foods that came in single-serving bags. A small TV, the ancient kind with aluminum-foil rabbit ears, played behind the counter, which was done up like the inside of an RV, cheap wood paneling culled straight from the seventies.
“I’m Alex.”
She offered a hand, which the old woman accepted, begrudgingly.
“Evie Shuman. Motel used to belong to my husband, John. He’s dead. Now it’s mine. Until they tear it down. Fuckin’ gummint wants to build a freeway. Least they can do is pay me what the land’s worth. You said you was a friend of Cole’s?”
“Not exactly.”
“What you want with ’im then? He owe you money?”
“This isn’t about money. Just want to talk to him.”
“He don’t work here no more. Fired him last week.” Evie Shuman’s expression washed empathetic, an odd emotion for a woman so hardboiled. “Didn’t give me no choice. I knew he drank on the job. I didn’t care about a few beers. He was good at fixin’ stuff. Not as good as the last guy I had, but no one was. That big dumb retard could jigger PVC flappers like nobody’s business. Didn’t have to pay him nothin’ neither. Give him a few treats, settle up with his dad, work it out in trade. Great arrangement. Till he went and mucked it all up.”
“Are you talking about Benny Brudzienski?”
Evie Shuman’s face coiled tight as a copperhead. “What you asking about Cole and Benny for? Why you snoopin’ ’round my property?”
“I, um…”
“Because,” Nick said, picking up the ball, “we are reporters for Uniondale University. We are writing a story on eminent domain.”
“How the government seizes valuable property,” Alex added, grateful to follow Nick’s lead. “How they can make you sell but don’t have to give you what it’s worth.”
“Goddamn right. Takin’ advantage of people is what they do.” Evie Shuman waited. “What the hell you want to talk to Cole for?”
“The paper doesn’t have the most up-to-date resources,” Nick said. “We had Cole and Benny listed as working here.”
If the old woman had taken a few moments to think about it, she would’ve asked why a school newspaper considered two handymen contacts, but she was too fired up about the government stealing her land.