by Joe Clifford
Alex dropped the bat, wood knocking wood. She lifted both hands, holding them high in surrender. “Tell me.”
Meaghan kept the shaky shotgun fixed, finger on the trigger. Alex didn’t move. No one did. They all stayed that way, frozen in time, as sirens wailed across the pond and through the trees, carried on preserve winds, closing from all around.
“Benny killed her,” Meaghan finally said, soft and sad. “I swear to God.” Her hands started to shake harder and tears filled her eyes, sobs escaping her lips, until she couldn’t hold the Remington any longer and lowered the shotgun, hanging her head, bawling, barely able to get the last words out. “It was Benny. Benny did it…”
This is how the story ends.
Felled twigs cracked underfoot. Bodies emerged from the forest, beams carving profiles, flashlights crisscrossing. A sea of blue flooded the breakers, surrounding higher ground. Static cut through intercoms and two-ways. Officers stomped up the steps, raiding the party house; instructions barked to clear corners and secure the perimeter. Firearms leveled, the police ordered Meaghan to drop her weapon. As she bent forward to place the Remington on the floor, the tears dried up and she locked eyes with Alex. A narrowed stare conveyed silent warning to keep her mouth shut. The threat held no sway.
Alex saw Riley first. For an instant she forgot everything, the years buried between the lanes and the miles, the distance that had grown between them; he’d come to rescue her again. Except he hadn’t. She’d done that herself this time.
Then she saw Nick. He’d run around the side of the house trying to reach her. A pair of uniforms held him back, before Riley motioned for them to let him through. Nick rushed to Alex’s side. She didn’t try to pretend to be stronger than she was. She threw her arms around him. It was over.
New York State troopers and the Reine PD secured the porch. The Plotter Kill party house was now a crime scene.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rainwater plopped down in big, fat drops from the telephone line in the early dawn light. Alex tucked away her cell and turned toward the guest bedroom where Nick lay peacefully asleep. She resisted crawling back beneath the covers. She grabbed her things instead, heading through the kitchen, out to the porch, where Linda sat drinking coffee, enjoying the day’s first cigarette. Alex wasn’t surprised to see Tommy there. Linda had called him from the hospital after Plotter Kill. It had been a crazy night. Panning between them, Alex could see the reconciliation had already begun.
“What did he say?” Linda had overheard Alex’s phone call to Riley in the kitchen.
“That Cole Denning confessed in a letter, in his own handwriting, before blowing his brains out. Suicide.”
“He doesn’t believe that, does he?”
“Doesn’t matter. That’ll be the official finding.”
Riley also explained that Meaghan, Trista, Patty, and Jody had been taken to separate rooms, grilled all night, asked to verify stories, and each repeated the same version. Verbatim. Clearly rehearsed, answers pat. But nothing he could do about it.
“That’s bullshit. Trista White took a shot at you.”
“And I hit her with a baseball bat. On Jody Wood’s property. Evie Shuman reported a break-in at the Idlewild. Which doesn’t help. Says she caught an intruder trying to strip copper. Had to use force.”
“Her word against theirs,” Tommy said.
“So the cops are just letting them go?”
“I told Riley to talk to Sharn DiDonna.” In between the mockery and captiousness, Sharn had provided the most credible version to date. He was at least worthy of another interview. Given how much Sharn disliked authority, Alex wasn’t holding her breath. “No one has proof of anything.”
Whatever happened in that motel room seven years ago was a secret those four were taking to the grave. They’d already proven they were willing to kill to protect it.
“What about everything they said when they thought you were knocked out?”
Alex shrugged and tried to light a Parliament with damp matches.
“Hearsay.” Tommy passed along his lighter. “How’s your head feel?”
“It’s been worse.”
“Cole’s admission helps Benny, right?” Linda said, still searching for that silver lining. “Keeps him out of Jacob’s Island?”
“Riley seems to think so. That’s what he said, anyway.” Though not an admissible confession, Cole Denning’s suicide note at least provided reasonable doubt. Civic leaders would bury the story, the Plotter Kill standoff another black mark to scrub clean, like the trestle’s overpass on the way into town, and no one wanted the extra work. Prosecutors wouldn’t risk opening that door. Any halfway competent defense team would have a jury hung by noon, which should allow Benny to stay put. Despite Yoan Lee’s assertion to the contrary, Galloway offered the best care option. A small victory. But sometimes those are the only ones you get.
“That’s it?” Linda said. “Those four get away with it?”
“I called Noah Lee,” Alex said. “Told him what happened, handed off what I had.” Which, she admitted, wasn’t much. “Riley gave me a few quotes. Noah is sending the remaining thousand we agreed on. Maybe he can make something happen.” Yesterday’s enthusiasm aside, Noah Lee wasn’t making anything happen. He’d try. He’d write up something sensational and speculative; he’d get his grade, save his trust fund. His story might run in the Uniondale paper, a handful of people might read it. He might even get to intern at The Times, use the case to catapult a career, just like he’d drawn up. But for the rest of them, nothing would change.
“Are you going back to the city?” Linda asked.
“All my stuff is there.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
A sleepy, shirtless Nick appeared in the doorway, yawning, stretching. Alex knew Linda and Tommy were watching her reaction. Last week Alex might’ve been embarrassed, wouldn’t have wanted Linda especially to catch her so unguarded. Today she didn’t care.
Alex turned and kissed Nick on the mouth, catching him by surprise. He caught up quick enough.
For the past twelve years, Alex had hated to see the morning come. Strange as it seemed, given events of the past week—beaten, bludgeoned, almost raped and nearly shot dead—Alex felt more hopeful than she had in a long time. Call it a chance to start over, leave behind the parts she wanted to shed, move on. She’d made deals like this before, promises to read more books, eat healthier, pills only on the weekend. It wasn’t a question of sincerity this time but accepting that she’d spent enough time trapped underground. There was plenty of fresh air to breathe up here.
Then it was time to go. Tommy hefted himself up. He reached over for a hug, which was more one-arm back pat than full-on embrace. Linda’s goodbye didn’t last long and the cousins didn’t look at each other. It was easier that way, faces too much like their mother.
Nick walked her to her car. They waited silently by her open front door, in the street, beneath the sneakers swaying on the telephone line. She could see him searching for the right words. And it endeared how much he wanted to get it right. When he opened his mouth to speak, she kissed him again. They’d said enough last night between the sheets. This wasn’t goodbye. She didn’t need guarantees, and she wasn’t making any promises. But Alex Salerno had come home, for better or worse.
As promised, Riley waited outside the gates of Galloway, his part of the bargain to get her to go to the hospital last night and get her head checked out. Twelve sutures later, Alex walked away with more questions than answers. Any victory was bittersweet and promised to be short-lived. Even if Riley was right and Cole’s letter caught Benny Brudzienski a break, to the town at large Benny would always be a killer. Alex may never learn what really happened in that motel room seven years ago, but of one thing she’d grown certain: Benny Brudzienski wasn’t a killer. She had to see him again, tell him that face to face. She owed him that much.
Riley looked better, back to his u
sual self, well-groomed and handsome, but they didn’t speak beyond small talk. Alex had a hard time locating that spark. Maybe it had never been there at all, any connection the by-product of circumstance. No, it had been real. She needed it to be real if she were to leave it behind, grieve proper. And Alex finally felt ready to do that.
On the third floor, one of the orderlies, a young, black kid, greeted them. The boy beamed giddy, like he was bursting with a secret to share.
The orderly brought them to the big man slumped in his chair. Like the other day, Benny’s misshapen, lumpy head lolled to the side, vacant gaze locked out the window. Riley held back to give Alex her moment.
She tried to catch Benny’s eye, hoping for a glimmer of recognition, an acknowledgment of yesterday’s echo.
Alex leaned over and kissed Benny on the top of his head, before whispering in his ear. “I know you didn’t do it. I can’t explain how I know that. I just do. In here.” She pointed at her chest. “Goodbye, Benny.” Then she stood straight and wiped a tear from her eye.
Benny’s blank stare remained fixed on the big, black birds gathered on bare, brown branches. His blunted expression showed no signs of comprehension, no indication of understanding.
She knew she’d been asking for too much. Miracle cures don’t happen in real life; the comatose don’t suddenly wake up excited to hear about new technology or the latest slang. That shit only happens in Hollywood. Real life doesn’t end with confessions or the truth.
BENNY BRUDZIENSKI
There are the roads that take you into town and there are the roads that bring you home. I leave the farm and start out to find her. It is getting dark and has been raining for several days. I have not seen her in a long time. I want to give her the book I made for her. I have it tucked inside the bib of my overalls. It has the pictures she gave me, the ones with the pretty words. I added photographs of me too from when I was a regular boy, before I turned into this thing I have become. I do not make it into town before my brother swoops me up.
My brother Wren hates me. He usually brings our other brother Dan with him but today he is alone. Wren blames me for having to quit football, for having to come help around the farm after Mom died. He stares out the dirty truck windshield and will not look at me. Wren usually screams at me. He usually says he is sick of me interrupting his day, wandering off, making him leave the farm to come and fetch me. He says he should be playing football. He says one day he will put a bullet in my head and bury me in the far-away fields, past the silo with the dead chickens. But he does not yell today. He is not taking the road back to the farm.
I try to use my words. I used to be able to do that if I focused all my energy and tried really hard. I have not been able to do that in a long time. I know I am getting worse. I hear Dad on the telephone talking to the men at the bank who want to buy the farm. I hear Dad on the phone talking to the men at the hospital who say it is time I leave the farm and stay with them. I do not want to leave our house. Wren is in charge now. If I can make my mouth say sorry, it might start something good between my brother and me. He will see that we are still brothers and that there is still a person inside me. He will tell Dad to let me stay. But I cannot make any words come, only low gurgling sounds that stay trapped in my throat and make me sound like a mindless beast chewing cud.
“Stop that, Benny. You’re making me sick.”
There is a darkness behind my eyes. It grows stronger every day. White and light have become harder to see. I feel like I am disappearing.
Wren reaches over and flicks my ear hard with his finger. It stings like a hornet. “I said shut up.”
Time goes forward because I know that is how time works, it does not stay in one place, but it does not feel that way to me, and I know I have been here before. How many times have we made this trip? My day feels like a big circle. It has no start. It has no end. It goes around and around, a never-ending loop.
Wren parks at the edge of the woods, across from the motel where I work, on the shoulder where shipping trucks turn around after dropping off deliveries. Wren always makes me ride in the back of the truck. It does not matter if it is raining. Today he had me sit up front. Wren orders me out. It is cold and the wind blows hard, my teeth chatter and makes my bones feel raw. He is taking something off the flatbed. I cannot see what it is at first because the skies have grown darker. Now I see it is a bicycle. A new bicycle. Wren takes it off the truck and sets it down in the mud. It gleams fire engine red through the murky drizzle. It has a banana seat and a pennant flag. At first I am so happy because my brother has bought me a present. He smashed my old bicycle against a tree because I kept wandering off to see her. This gift means he feels something for me other than hate so there is hope.
“I know you can hear me,” Wren says. “I know you understand.”
I splutter and moan, spittle dribbling down my chin. I want to thank him for my present. The rains begin to pick up and the water pools at my feet. It seeps between the soles of my old boots, soaking my socks. Wren points toward the motel, to a room on the other side, the only one with a light on. It shines, warm and inviting. It is so cold out here. I would like to be inside.
“That’s what you want?” my brother says. “Take your turn on the train?” He laughs. It is not a kind laugh. “Have at it. Hell, might make a man of you.”
He points down the road, the other way, in the direction away from our farm, away from the center of town, toward the dark places I do not go.
“Take your turn, Benny, you stupid fuck”—he stabs a finger in the middle of my forehead, leaves it there, twisting the tip around my flesh—“and then I want you to get on your little bicycle, and you are going to peddle far, far away. You don’t come back to the farm, you hear me? You do not come home. No one wants you there anymore. We have bigger problems. Go find a nice, deep pond to sleep in, go live in the forest and trap rabbits, stick out your fat thumb and catch a ride to hell. I don’t give a shit. But you come back to the farm”—he twists his finger harder, deeper, and the friction burns—“you come back to the farm, and I swear to fucking God, Benny, I will gut you like a fish, nail you to the barn wall, and dry you out like jerky.”
My brother gets in his truck and spins his tires, spitting mud as he steers off the shoulder and onto the road, speeding into the distance, back to the place where I am no longer wanted.
I shuffle alongside my new bicycle toward the room, its light calling me. I do not know why this room, why now, but I know I have been here before. As I get closer, the music and voices grow louder, and I am filled with fear and dread. I know when I open the door I will find her. I know she will not be alone. I know something bad waits for us both.
People are dancing in their underwear, holding up beer cans and liquor bottles. It is a big party. They are cheering and laughing, celebrating. I do not know why. There was no football game today. It smells like bleach and fire. The air is thick with smoke and sweat like Dad’s card games, the holiday parties they no longer have because Mom is dead.
I push forward. Bodies part. I see her lying on the bed. Her arms are twisted above her head, wrists bound with twine and tied to the headboard. There is a wet towel around her neck and a wad of fabric stuffed in her mouth. It is covered with duct tape. I meet her gaze and stare into her eyes. Her expression is hollow, glassed-over and vacant, shattered. She cannot see me.
They shout this is what you deserve. They say this is what you get for taking things that do not belong to you. They punch her in the head, slap her across the face, yank the wet towel around her throat. When they see me, no one cares that I walked in or that the door was unlocked. They say don’t worry about the retard, and someone lock the goddamn door. They are all lined up to take their turn, all these people from town who laugh at me, the boys from the Price Chopper, the girls behind the Farm Shop. They laugh at her too. They spit on her and call her names as one man slips off and another climbs on.
I recognize him. It i
s Mrs. Shuman’s son, Cole. He works at the motel too. Cole throws parties in these rooms because he is older and can buy beer. He does not take long. When he climbs off, they pat him on the back and hand him a bottle. When his eyes meet mine, he does not look like these other people. He is not laughing. He does not look happy or proud of himself. He knows what he did is wrong.
Whatever has happened in this room, an evil has taken over. I can feel it. A portal has opened that can never be closed. I know there are demons. I have seen them. The devil is real.
A hand slaps my back. Someone says let the retard take his turn. I hear those girls laughing. It is the meanest sound I have ever heard.
I do not have to be here. I have a choice. I can fix this. I can make it right.
Dad always said I could crush the life out of a cow if I wanted to. I never knew if that was true. I never wanted to try and find out.
Until now.
The first bones crack easy enough. His arms are small. They snap like tiny bird bones. I feel them splintering, tendons snapping like coils wound too tight in a lawnmower. I throw him against the wall. They come at me, one by one, and two by four. I fight them all off. I have the strength of a dozen men. I fling body after body, man after man, until the screaming stops and all I can hear is the heaviness of my own breath.
I make it to the bed, pull the ties, and free her. Then come the bottles, the fists and the fury. The more the mob attacks, the stronger I become.
I lift her up, hoist her over my shoulder, making for the door, pushing people out of my way. I will carry her to safety. Something hard and heavy strikes my legs. The book I made for her with all the pretty pictures slips from my bib. I lose my balance and drop to a knee, and when she slides off my shoulder, I see I am too late. She flops on the floor like a chicken with its neck snapped. Her eyes are open and she is breathing but she is too far away now, unreachable. She is gone. Nothing I do can save her. I do not want her to remember this. I bend over her, shielding her bruised nakedness with my big body. They all jump on my back, gouging fingers into my eyes, tearing at my cheeks, drawing blood with their nails. I am an immovable force. I will not leave her like this. I cup my large hand over her mouth and nose and cut off her air supply. Her body shakes, convulses, twitches. It is an involuntary reaction to want to live. It is okay, I say, no one can hurt you anymore.