Last Light (17 page)

SAYLOR:
Believe you me, a concussion is the least of Dicky’s worries.

MANNING:
What’cha mean? I don’t understand. And why am I here? Just let us go, it’s been hours. You can’t just keep us here.

SAYLOR:
Sure I can. Especially when your brother just confessed.

MANNING:
Confessed to what?

SAYLOR
: He said you were there, Mike. That you were just defending him, like always, like the good little brother you are. What happened? Tell me in your own words. He surprised you, didn’t he?

MANNING:
Who? Dicky?

SAYLOR
: Don’t play dumb with me. You know who I’m talking about. Peter Martin. He walked in on Dicky and you had to protect your big brother so you shot him.

MANNING:
What? No! Mr. Martin? Why—

SAYLOR:
To save Dicky. That’s what he said. In his confession.

MANNING:
He’s crazy. You can’t listen to him. Lord only knows what he took, and besides, his head is all messed up. He needs a doctor.

SAYLOR:
We’ll get him one. Just as soon as we get all this cleared up. Let’s start with the gun.

MANNING:
Oh, yeah. It’s not mine. I found it. Was going to bring it to you guys, but I had to get Dicky first when I saw he’d taken our rent money, knew he’d be out trying to score.

SAYLOR:
Right. You took the gun with you and went to meet Dicky. How many shots did you fire?

MANNING:
What? I never—

SAYLOR:
Dicky says you did. Says you’re the one pulled the trigger. And before you say anything, let me tell you straight-up that despite everything, I talked the state’s attorney into giving up the death penalty.

MANNING:
Wait. Death penalty? What the hell you talking about?

SAYLOR:
Emotions are running high. I can’t guarantee your and Dicky’s safety if you leave here. Your only hope is to take the deal I’m offering. It will save both of your lives.

MANNING:
I have no fucking clue what the hell you’re talking about. I want a lawyer—one for Dicky, too. We’re getting the hell out of here.

SAYLOR
: Dicky waived his right to counsel.

MANNING:
He’s in no shape to waive anything. You shouldn’t even be talking to him.

SAYLOR:
I don’t know. He cut a pretty good deal, given the circumstances. But it’s contingent on your corroborating everything. If you don’t, the deal’s off and the death penalty is back on.

MANNING
: I don’t…I can’t—

SAYLOR
: Dicky told us everything. All you have to do is agree to it. We know he didn’t do it alone—two weapons means two killers. And he made sure we knew it wasn’t your idea, said you came looking for him, couldn’t stop him, he was out of control. That you were only protecting him when Peter Martin walked in.

MANNING:
Walked in on what? What was Dicky doing? Robbing their house or something?

SAYLOR
: Don’t play dumb, Mike. I’m trying to help you here. Giving you a chance to save you and your brother from the chair.

MANNING
: I’m not playing dumb. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

SAYLOR
: I’m talking about Lily Martin. I’m talking about her son, Alan. You’ll be happy to hear he survived. Doctors say he’ll make it. So that’s another factor. He’s an eyewitness, will seal the deal at trial if you let it go that far.

MANNING
: Survived? Survived what? What the hell do you think we did?

SAYLOR
: This. Look at the photos, Mike. Look at that pretty lady and see what your brother did to her. Fifty-three stab wounds. That took some time.

Sounds of retching and coughing.

SAYLOR:
No, you don’t get off so easy, damn it. Look. Here and here. All that blood, that’s all that’s left of her face. And here’s her little boy—we only got a few shots of him before the medics took him to the hospital. Oh, but here, this is the one sure to buy you the chair. This one makes me want to weep. It’s why those folks outside want me to let you go, why they want to take care of you and your brother themselves. Look here, Mike. Look at beautiful baby Glory. Only seven months old. Look how your brother butchered her.

MANNING:
Stop! We had nothing to do with this! How could you even think—

SAYLOR
: I’m not thinking and neither is that crowd outside. Now, we know you were there, Mike. Your brother said so in his confession. You don’t back him up and he fries for sure, you as well. You want to live? You want him to live? Tell me, tell me now.

MANNING:
No, no...I can’t...

Sounds of sobbing.

SAYLOR:
Sure you can. It’s easy. Just tell me you went to the Martins to find Dicky. Tell me how worried you were about him using again. Tell me how you wanted to stop him but you got there too late.

MANNING
: No, please...I can’t...

SAYLOR:
You’re not betraying him, Mike. You’re protecting him, saving his life. Tell me how Peter Martin walked in with that gun and you took it from him, shot him three times. How it was over so fast you didn’t even know it happened, didn’t realize you had blood on your hands—literally. We have your bloody fingerprints all over that revolver. You were there, Mike. There’s no denying it. Only question you have left to answer is: do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison or do you want you and your brother to die in the electric chair?

DAVID STARED AT
Michael. He was telling the truth—at least David believed him. So far.

Michael continued, “I knew how to shoot—our dad took us hunting when we were kids. But I’d never held a pistol or thought of aiming it at a human before that night. It changes you, thinking like that. Like suddenly the world is divided into tiny man-sized parcels, some worth saving, others less than human, okay to kill.”

“What happened?”

“I drove on over to Powell’s place. He squatted on land owned by the government, was supposed to be some kind of ag-development project that never went nowhere. A few acres between the river and the Martin farm. Trees enough to hide his marijuana plants, an old barn, fire pit, a few rusted-out trucks and tractors. I don’t even remember how I got there—one minute I was feeling like God, staring up at the stars, and the next, I was holding a pistol in my hand, burning with rage, aiming it at my brother and Powell.”

Michael shook his head so hard that the chair legs tapped against the uneven floor. “Idiot. Damn idiot.”

“But you didn’t kill Powell.”

“Of course not. He and Dicky were stoned out of their minds—mixing PCP with peyote and pot. I was damn lucky they didn’t kill me, state they were in. Running around naked, screaming, tearing at their hair. Took me hours to get them talked down to the point where I could get Dicky in the truck. Never seen him like that—burning up like his body was trying to eat itself. Eyes so wild—he didn’t even recognize me. Lost in his own world.

“That’s what I’ll never understand. Dicky wasn’t like our father, never went to war, never had anything happen bad to him. What was so great about that drug-induced nightmare that he’d leave his only family, steal the food and rent money, and risk his own life to get there again?” He scraped the chair, tugging it closer to the table, scrutinizing David’s face. “You’ve been around the world, seen more than I can ever imagine. You have an answer for that?”

An attempt at deflection? No, David decided, he truly wanted an answer. “I wish I did. I’ve seen addiction come in all forms: drugs, gambling, women, power, adrenaline...”

Michael squinted at his son. “But never you, right? I read somewhere it might be inherited.”

“I’m too much of a control freak—hate feeling vulnerable.” It was weird sharing a confidence that intimate with a stranger like his father.

Michael nodded, satisfied. “Good. I mean, not good that you can’t let loose, relax—you should talk to someone about that.”

A chuckle escaped David. “Like I should take advice from you.”

“Learn a lot about living locked up in here. How to stay alert without letting fear eat you alive, how to not get bored, how to learn to find peace within yourself, how to get along with folks.” He shrugged. “Not that I’d recommend it, but after all these years, I’m not sure I could live anywhere else. I know how to be a prisoner, know where the lines are drawn, what to expect, how to survive...Outside, I’d be lost.”

“Is that why you wanted Mom to drop the appeals when I was a kid? Why you gave up?” Gave up on us, gave up on your family, on me, David wanted to add but it’d be too cruel.

From the anguished look that twisted Michael’s face, he’d filled in the blanks on his own. “No. It was Dicky. After they sentenced us and I realized what was really happening, that it wasn’t all some horrible mistake, I asked for a new lawyer. But they said if I contradicted his story, our plea deals would go away and we’d both be facing the death penalty. Maybe he was a lousy brother and it was his fault we were in this mess—his and that damn gun—but I couldn’t do that to him.”

“So last year when he was killed—”

“I told your ma I’d cooperate if she wanted to try again. It’d been so long, I figured there was no hope in hell, but it meant so much to her. She was lonely—you were gone, covering the war—and I figured it’d be good for her. Never dreamed she’d be able to take it this far. She’s a strong woman, your mother. Best woman I’ve ever met. Better than I deserve, that’s for sure.”

David didn’t argue the point. It was the truth. But he still needed the rest of the story of that night twenty-nine years ago. “Keep going. You got your brother in the truck, left Powell.”

“Powell took off into the trees, no idea where. By then, the sun was coming up. We were heading down the lane—the one that ran from the river to the Martin farm—when I saw the boy on the bike. Or more importantly, he saw us. The Blackwell kid, Caleb. No idea what he was doing up so early on a Saturday morning. Bad luck for us, I guess, because right after we got home, the cops came. Dicky freaked out, tried to run. It took three of them to get him down, way he fought, the PCP making him go berserk.”

David had read the arrest report: one deputy with a broken collarbone, another with bites that had required a trip to the ER, and the third was the one who’d used his shotgun butt against Dicky’s head. Despite the fact that Dicky had been knocked out for several minutes, they’d deemed him too great a risk to take to the hospital, had instead hogtied him and hauled him into the county lockup. Back then, police could get away with shit like that.

No one questioned the fact that they’d interrogated a drug user with a concussion while he was intoxicated and then detoxing from a powerful combo of hallucinogens. No one even considered that Dicky might be especially susceptible to suggestion or coercion...not that the deputies were that subtle in their methods. When Dicky finally saw a doctor a few days later he had two skull fractures, a few cracked ribs, and bruises head to toe. Resisting arrest was the official cause of his injuries.

“Dicky was never the same after that,” Michael mused. “Not sure if it was the drugs or one too many cracks to the skull or just waking up in prison realizing his life was over. Without me near to watch over him, he’d have been a goner within weeks.”

“That was the one thing you asked for when you finally signed your confession two days later.”

“That we stay together. Only thing they didn’t lie about.”

“So the rest of your confession? About how Dicky went crazy, stabbed that woman and her children and you defended him by shooting the father when he tried to stop Dicky?”

“Bullshit. Every word of it.” Michael leaned back, lips pressed together, waiting for David’s disbelief.

“You had the gun. Your fingerprints in the baby’s and the father’s blood on it. You seriously want me to believe you just happened to pick up the murder weapon?”

“Not just happened—we were framed. Everyone knew Dicky’s truck, knew he was an addict. Easy as pie to throw the gun into the back, set the cops on us. Just happened so fast—because of that boy seeing us driving away that morning. That was a piece of bad luck we could have done without.”

“But that means whoever threw the gun in the truck—it had to happen after the Martins were killed but before you found it at three in the morning.”

Michael shrugged. “Could have been anytime from when Dicky lent me the truck to go to the game, around sunset—I remember the light in my eyes—to when I got home again. The truck was at the school all during the game, then parked along the road after—Maria and I hiked into the trees down by the river. We couldn’t see the road, didn’t want no one to see us. Anyone could have driven past, tossed that gun in the back.”