An Incidental Reckoning (30 page)

He approached a set of large sliding doors, large enough for an armored truck to pass through. A rusty chain and a lock barred access. Will set down the bag and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters, and with some effort cut the chain loose. It fell to the ground with a thud and the chime of metal striking metal. He paused and listened, and then grabbed the handle to the left door and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. He shoved again and it gave, but only an inch or so. Will began pushing in quick, sharp thrusts, throwing his weight behind each one, and the door moved grudgingly, squealing its indignation at the ground he forced it to yield. He stopped again to listen, heard only a few cars passing on the road and the bass from the music at the bar, then went back to work. The door finally gave way and opened with one piercing shriek that Will felt sure would bring the entire Erie police force. He moved quickly through the litter-strewn yard to the shadow of one of the sheds and waited. A single dog barked in response to the sound but otherwise the night remained still. A row of houses, tall and thin and nearly identical in appearance, sat further back up on a hill and beyond some train tracks. Will watched for silhouettes in windows defined by the glow of televisions or shadowy figures peering down from porches. One person did emerge, but only to order the dog to shut up and then went back inside.

Will began work on the next door, taking his time, creating only mild squeals until this too stood open. He pulled out a flashlight and stepped inside, shut the doors – already moving with much less noise and effort - and then stood in utter darkness.

He flipped on the light and guided it around the space. Wooden pallets rested in heaps to his right, some still stacked and others jumbled where they had been thrown down or had fallen. His beam revealed office chairs with tears in their vinyl covers and hemorrhaging stuffing, some missing wheels or an entire base. Some rats scurried away, while others stood up on hind legs to take his measure. Will ignored them, sweeping the light over the detritus, only needing to make sure both a car and the truck could fit in here, and to determine if any squatters had taken up residence, with the plan to evict them if so. He had brought his gun along for that purpose, but the warehouse appeared to be deserted without any signs of recent occupancy.

Will went back outside, opening the door up just enough to squeeze through before pulling them closed. He picked up the chain and threaded it through the handles to maintain the impression of security, and went to complete his final task. At the main gate by the road, he cut off the lock but kept the chains in place. He pulled out the final item from his bag, a new lock, and snapped it into place, then retreated to the shadows and dialed Jon’s number.

Chapter 22

"Yeah?"

"Jon, bring the car in now. If there's anyone behind you, or you see anyone around, drive past and then come back when it's clear."

Jon hung up, and then lowered the phone and set it on the passenger seat. His gut churned and his head hurt despite the Tylenol he'd swallowed a half hour before. He started his car and drove from the motel where he had been instructed to check in under a false name.

By Will. Not Brody, but Will.

Apparently, Brody had other things to tend to, and had given Will the details and orders that concerned them. He had been kept in the dark for the most part, a fact that bothered and relieved him; the less he knew, the better, but it also allowed him to imagine the worst possible scenario. But at least it would soon be over, one way or another.

Jon trembled at the thought of the shotgun hidden under a coat in the backseat, and replayed the conversation with Erin while they had both lain awake in bed.

"There is one thing we haven't discussed. One thing you could do," Erin said.

Jon didn't answer, waited for her to speak again.

"You could kill him."

He took in the statement, spoken so mildly but in earnest by his wife, and his thoughts turned to the campground. He and Will had considered the same thing, but that had come in the heat of the moment, when they hadn't known if Brody would let them walk away. After coming home, he hadn't seriously thought of it again, focused solely on getting through intact.

"But what if I try and I miss? He'll kill me, Erin. I think I could live with that, but he would come after you too. Any maybe Will and his wife and son. It all comes back to that."

He listened to her breathe during a long pause and he thought the conversation over.

"Then don't miss."

Over time he had warmed to the idea. They had bought the shotgun from a K-Mart. If it evolved into a murder weapon, it would be destroyed or buried or resting at the bottom of a very deep body of water. Jon was willing to rent a boat and take it out into the Atlantic Ocean if it came to that.

He had vowed that no man would ever own him again, except for Brody Stape. But his heart and mind begged for an amendment, the removal of that one exception. There was still the camera, but with Brody dead, it might not matter. Jon wanted out for good, had too much momentum towards a future to allow Brody continued influence over his life.

He had started classes at the community college, went for frequent walks or bicycle rides with Erin; kept up the effort to turn their relationship into something they both enjoyed and desired to be part of. Sometimes they would slip back into their old selves, but then one of them would propose an activity or turn off the television just to talk, and they would find the right track again and roll on. Their lives weren’t perfect by any stretch. They were still the same people, but, Jon believed, learning to become better versions of those people. She had loved the flowers that he had bought for her the first time, and then every week after, stopping at a florist shop on his way home from work, the little Italian lady soon addressing him by name after the little bell on the door announced his arrival.

He had done nothing to deserve any of this, except for choosing the wrong place to hide on his first day of ninth grade. He already knew it wasn't easy to shoot somebody, and would be harder to do in cold blood; but he knew for certain that living this way was the hardest of all. If the opportunity presented itself, a chance where he couldn't miss, he planned to kill Brody Stape, wash his hands of it all, and go back to living his life. And he could set Will free too, to pursue his own.

Jon had come to understand something through his altercation with Chas at work. Since his return, Chas had mostly avoided him. When contact became inevitable- passing each other on their machines, or standing by the time clock at the end of their shift to punch out- Chas refused to meet his eyes or talked and laughed too loud in his presence. He still maintained his swagger, and Jon witnessed Scott bearing the brunt of his anger and ridicule more than ever. Once Scott had been something of a sidekick, a devoted fan that Chas allowed to run along beside him. Now he functioned primarily as his whipping boy.

Jon believed that Chas hated (and feared) him because Jon had exposed him; exposed a weak and insecure man that gnashed his teeth in order to appear to have something he didn't. And it followed that Chas punished Scott because he had witnessed that unmasking, even though with his constant attempts at appeasement Scott seemed entirely willing to continue the deception. After all, he had expectations for his life, too.

Through this, Jon saw the fundamental difference between Chas and Brody. Chas played a role that even he didn't truly believe. Brody simply was, with no need to prove anything. Involvement with him came with no guarantees: he might let them go after they were done, kill one or both of them, or decide they had more usefulness down the line. It wouldn't depend on anything they did or said, but only on Brody’s perspective once the dust had settled. Years could pass with the belief that they had been set free and they could find themselves again threatened with the pictures or, for all Jon knew, a new set taken at the scene of the thing he drove to now. He believed the only way to truly be rid of Brody Stape, was if Brody Stape lay rotting in a box six feet underground. And he felt that if he could let Brody in on his plan to murder him, that - before Jon took a bullet to the brain or heart or both in retaliation - Brody would understand and approve.

He had always wondered if they had fought back in school, if it would have made a difference. Now, he didn’t think so, or at least it wouldn’t have been the deciding factor. Brody wasn’t a coward that would search for easier prey and would never have relented for any reasons other than his own; ultimately, it would have only made things worse for them in the end, Jon truly believed.

But it still didn't make killing him any easier.

Jon turned and approached the warehouse. He checked his rearview mirror, watched one car continue on straight past the turn and no one else, and slowed at the gate. A shadow detached from a small building to the right and hurriedly unlocked and opened it up to let him through. He pulled in and cut the headlights, and after locking the gate Will jumped into the passenger seat.

"Ride to the end down there. We're going to stash your car inside until tomorrow."

"Is Brody here now?" Jon asked. He didn't plan to tell Will anything about his plans. If he felt he had the shot, he would take it, and they could discuss it afterwards. Although Jon had forgiven Will for stirring all of this up, it didn't mean that he trusted him.

"No. We won't see him tonight. It's happening tomorrow. This is just preparation."

He had caught a glimpse of Will by the brief flash of the interior light, and by that quick revelation had noticed changes. Will had never carried extra pounds, but seemed to have lost weight. No that didn't accurately describe what Jon perceived. And then a strange thought came to him, but the right one.

He looks like he's been sharpened. Like a knife.

More angular somehow, and full of barely suppressed energy. Maybe fear, but certainly anticipation. The perception troubled him, and only bolstered his resolve to put a permanent distance between them after they went their separate ways.

"Right here."

Will jumped out and forced the doors open, and Jon drove in carefully. He couldn't see anything at all, a description that aptly described this entire mess. But the lights would come on soon, he knew. Already he could picture Brody's face looming out of the darkness, as clear as if he had stood there in a spotlight in front of the car.

Jon tossed and turned in the motel room bed. It was comfortable enough, as far as that went on a mattress that didn't know him personally, but he couldn't sleep. They had left the warehouse together on foot, his car stashed inside, and gotten into Will’s car parked down the road. Will claimed he didn't know what Brody planned to use Jon’s vehicle for, even as he produced a license plate and swapped it for Jon's; Will turned the screws while he held the flashlight and tried to ignore the squeaks and scurrying feet of what sounded like a thousand rats holding a carnival.

Will had driven Jon to the motel, instructed him to be ready at five in the morning, and then left. Jon felt it increasingly odd that Will knew so much about this- all it seemed except the big picture- but thought he understood after more time in his presence. Will wanted to do this. And Brody surely knew that as well, and so chose to use the path of least resistance to ensure all of the groundwork had been laid down properly.

For this reason, Jon felt good about his nerves and upset stomach and the headache he couldn't shake. It meant he still possessed a moral compass that worked. While they had both changed through their experiences, Will had gone in the opposite direction. He wondered if he should try to talk some sense into him, felt a stab of pity but also revulsion, wanted to try and salvage the friend he had once known and leave him to his fate all at the same time. Even laying aside the moral and ethical issues of willingly participating in criminal activity, Jon knew that Will would never be Brody Stape. Most criminals were dumb. The newspaper articles and internet lists that chronicled the stupidity of their acts were legion: they guy that robs a 7-11 on the pretense of applying for a job and fills out the application with his real contact information, the neighbor that suggests setting up a video camera to catch a recurring burglar and is then filmed crawling through the doggie door, the other neighbor that leaves footprints in the snow leading from his front door to the window forced open to steal the stereo. Stupid. Jon didn't believe that Will belonged in this category, necessarily, but neither was he born to that sort of life and could never survive long. He would eventually get caught and only then realize his error. Brody, by contrast, had already counted the cost and came up ready and willing to pay.

He awoke at four-thirty in the morning and took a quick shower, got dressed, and then sat on the bed in the dark waiting for the knock on the door. Headlights shone through the closed curtains and Jon stood up. His headache had gone away, but he felt on edge with a full coffee pot's worth of the jitters.