An Incidental Reckoning (35 page)

“Please. Calm down, both of you. I said this was informal. What I’ve told you I haven’t shared with anybody. No one else has all of the pieces to this. I have no intention of pursuing it. I do wish Mr. Roup could have been apprehended instead of killed, but I can’t say he wasn’t served justice after a fashion. And I could say that his death seems rather convenient for you and take a harder look. But since the money was recovered, I don’t see much of a motive. I apologize for upsetting you, but I had to know. In all honesty, Jon, you're not a very good liar even when you keep your mouth shut.”

He stood up, started to offer a hand but instead put it into his pocket and withdrew a lighter, then removed a cigarette from the pack and put it in his mouth but didn’t light it.

“But why?” Jon blurted. “If you believe all of this, why would you let it go?”

The cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke.“Jon, if this had all happened when I had first joined the force, maybe even five years ago, I would have nailed you or at least tried to. I still believe in the rule of law and always will. But I've also cultivated sensitivity to certain gray areas. I'm a policeman, and not a lawyer, so I can’t technically acknowledge their existence in my job. I also have pretty good instincts about people.

“I don’t support vigilantism, but I think this was more than that. If Stape threatened you, then you were wise to heed those threats. The truth, is that too often when the police get involved, it’s only to clean up and try and catch the thief or killer after the fact. I think that you got into something big, and did what you had to, to survive.”

Manning had walked towards the door and Jon followed. His emotions shifted between fear and relief, could see a light breaking on the whole sorry mess like the sun slowly creeping towards the horizon. But the dawn hadn’t come yet.

Manning turned before leaving, and fixed Jon with a hard stare. Erin had remained on the couch, and now he spoke in a low tone, nearly a whisper that only Jon could hear.

“But understand one thing, Jon. If I find out that I’m wrong, that you planned the whole thing with Stape and then with Will, I will cut your balls off so fast you won’t be able to remember if you ever had any. If I never find out, and you got away with something here, don’t think it means you’ll get away next time. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Detective.” He knew the title was appropriate at this juncture, knew that for this moment the visit had turned official.

Manning nodded. “Mrs. Albridge. Thank you for the lemonade and for your time, both of you. I hope we never have any need to speak again.”

He passed through the threshold, and Jon started to shut the door when Manning turned around, lit his cigarette, took a deep drag and pointed it at Jon. Smoke plumed from his mouth as he spoke.

“Tell you what. When I retire, I’m going to give you a call. And then, if you feel up to it, I’d like to hear the story. The truth. All of it. Don’t answer now, just think about it.”

He turned again to face the street and walked down the sidewalk. He glanced idly at the yard, the neighbors’ houses, cars on the road. But Jon didn’t think there was anything idle about it, that he stored and catalogued all of this sensory information for use later on if needed. He looked after him until he got into his car, put on the seatbelt, and drove away. He waited for a glance back, or a wave, but Manning just left, leaving him and Erin alone.

And if he could believe the detective, free.

Epilogue

Jon finished setting up the tent while Erin collected twigs and small branches to kindle a fire. The sporadic sharp crack of breaking wood echoed through the tall pines, accompanied by a few curses erupting from his mostly clean-mouthed wife. Jon smiled as he watched her struggle with a sun-bleached branch half buried in the dark soil.

He had harbored no desire to see Ravensburg again, but Erin had suggested it, as a way to reclaim the place as his own, she had said. Jon didn’t see the need, not as with her idea to return the money that had made sense, but allowed his wife this indulgence. If it made her feel better, that was enough. He suspected that she wanted to see the park that had played such a role in shaping their lives, and absorb something of it as a real place and not just a location from his story.

They camped in the same spot that he and Will had the previous year. This time they shared the park with several other tents, but spaced apart far enough for comfort; empty sites in the place of fences, which made for good neighbors, in Jon’s estimation.

Looking back on the past year’s events, he felt more than any other emotion – except possibly relief that it was over- sadness, for what Will had become and the consequences that flowed from his choices. He would never see his friend again to renew their bond in some other place like this one. But then his friend had departed long before Erin’s bullet had put him in the ground.

On the drive in, they had intentionally passed by the convenience store. This had more effect on Jon than the campground. His pulse had raced and he recalled clearly the sights and sounds, especially the unexpected boom of the gun; home movies his mind had captured, just as crisp despite the passage of time. Even more he remembered the surge of adrenaline, the high of rushing into unknown territory driving a hundred miles an hour with his eyes closed; the culmination of experiences that had caused an awakening within his soul, something he still took care to nurture.

Hammering the final stakes into the ground to secure the tent, Jon thought he understood enough to speculate about what had happened to Will. They had shared an identical situation, and Jon knew the power of the drug Brody had given them by forcing them to break the law. Further he understood the temptation to seek it out again for the thrill alone. But he had been able to resist, to take those forces unleashed and turn them in a positive direction.

Will had not. Simple as that.

Or maybe not.

If Manning hadn’t been able to figure out human nature after years with his arms thrust in the muck up to his shoulders, what chance did Jon have? His old mantra still seemed appropriate now. Even more so. You did the best you could with what you had. And maybe what you have is a lot more than you thought. He had even considered calling his dad, and seeing where that might lead.

Erin returned to the clearing with an armload of wood, her hair in disarray and her face flushed. She smiled as she let go and the sticks clattered to the ground, then wiped her hands on her pants. Jon felt a stir of desire and looked forward to sharing the tent with her later on.

He heard the clop of hooves on the road as Erin said, “Oh Jon. Look.”

He turned around and caught glimpses of the Amish buggy through the trees. The moment became surreal, and he glanced at Erin, half-expecting her to be Will instead, a return to last year, a reset so that they could make better choices. But he knew that to be impossible. You only got one chance to do it right.

When the buggy had reached a larger gap, Jon made out the face of the driver, a bearded young man with a slight woman wearing a long purple dress and black bonnet sitting beside him. They locked eyes for a moment, the man's hand rising in a wave, and then he pulled back on the reins and the buggy stopped. The horse stamped its foot impatiently and shook its head.

"Isaiah," Jon said, recognition flooding over him. "I'll be right back, Honey." He walked towards the exit, and Isaiah shook the reins and got the horse moving again, pausing where the dirt campground track met the road.

Jon approached. The woman looked on curiously, sheltered behind her husband.

They regarded each other for a long moment, and then Jon spoke. There was only one thing to say.

"He's dead."

Isaiah turned to look down the road, and then back at Jon.

"May God have mercy on his soul," he said, and Jon could tell that he meant it, but also sensed relief, knew then that Isaiah had carried his fear of the threats with him each time he had passed this place. "And thank you," he added. His wife looked hard at her husband's profile, unspoken questions on her lips.

Jon nodded and lifted his hand in farewell, then walked back slowly, heard the horses' hooves resume their cadence and felt the disintegration of this small bridge between cultures, a span of violence too common to them all. He thought of his life before Brody: so much wasted time, so many regrets. He couldn’t help but, after the fact and far removed from the danger, feel gratitude that they had met again; a paradox that he didn’t think he’d ever understand. And then he saw his wife waiting for him with her own quizzical expression, saw his future there, and quickened his step. The sound of the buggy faded, and he didn't look back.

The following is an excerpt from The Way Is Is, by Greg Walker, available for digital download on Amazon.

Chapter 1

Carson left like a wraith, drifting unseen through the hot Arizona night. He drove a blue 1990 Cutlass Cierra for which he had paid two-thousand dollars cash; an ancient vehicle with surprisingly low mileage and a body marred by only a few small lesions of rust. Forty-eight thousand dollars remained of the gift from his father, less a gift but an indulgence to buy absolution, he believed.

The camping supplies, the foods dried, canned and embalmed, his fishing poles and tackle, first aid kit and the sundry hygiene products that filled the backseat and trunk he had purchased with the last paycheck from his job as a parts driver at Simm Chevrolet. His rent went unpaid. He took his clothes and music but forfeited the lamps, coffee table and television plus the security deposit.

So be it.

Carson rode by the house where he had lived as the flesh and blood apparition of a son delivered stillborn in the eyes of his father. He didn’t stop, didn’t consider stopping, withheld the absolution, hated hot and fierce to cover the wounds of rejection and drove on.

He visited his mother before leaving Phoenix, read and traced her name in the polished granite with an index finger, wept and silently asked forgiveness from whatever presence might be listening. Crickets sang a dirge from weeds crowding untended headstones and a hot wind rustled the flags of dead veterans. He heard no voice, experienced no rush of peace. The name permanently etched in stone reproached him, and he loped through the city of the dead back to the car, wiped his eyes and drove north.

North had become a symbol, shaped and forged as a concept, a place where he might find a scrap of truth as a foundation to patch together a life. He envisioned its harsh winters - bare, stoic, demanding, tasted to some degree in Pennsylvania before the move to Phoenix - as a scourge to purify and refit him. He thought of cold bracing winds and the simple delicate shapes of trees stark against white snow, in contrast to the warmth, superficial pleasure and recklessness of the South where he‘d find no comfort. He had lived long enough to know that the romanticized vision was just that, but not long enough to suffer fatal disappointment from such visions. He was twenty years old.

The money was his lifeline or his noose. At its end, if he couldn’t find somewhere to make a stand or at least pick up a promising trail, he intended to kill himself, hoping he possessed the courage to do it if he discovered that the blow that would break him had already been struck. To complicate things, he didn’t know what his City of Rebirth looked like or how to find it, but appreciated the irony that its name was not Phoenix.

Carson drove north towards the Grand Canyon, listening to a compilation of celtic melodies, most featuring the uileann pipe. He let its haunting tones infuse his emotions as they always did, the cold winds of North again blowing through his mind, the song belonging to the soundtrack of his vision.

He had never seen the Grand Canyon. His mother, in her drunken stupors, had never gone or cared to. His father went with clients and golf buddies. Carson thought it a fitting way to start the journey, and would stop at a service station to purchase the twenty-five dollar park pass, good for a week’s access. He would require it for an hour at the most, then leave it where a traveler coming to the canyon might find and use it.

He passed saguaro cacti flanking the highway while heading out, their silhouettes against the legion of stars a bewildered honor guard of aliens reaching homeward. He felt kin to them. Only a few cars rode with him at nearly three in the morning in mid-May. The day’s heat of 110, hot for this early in the year, had dropped only twenty degrees, still warm enough to require the air-conditioner for comfort. Might as well turn the heat on as open a window. The old car warmed to the journey and consented to push out sluggish and nearly cold currents through the vents.