An Incidental Reckoning (25 page)

“I love you too, Erin."

He held her eyes, and they smiled at each other. Erin felt giddy and almost foolish. But not quite. She had denied herself too long.

Jon said, "So, let’s finish up and go find the address for that store. Thank you. I like the thought of taking it back, at least as far as I can. And maybe after the next thing, we can do the same…”

He trailed off, and Erin saw a cloud pass over his face, knew that as the deed had yet to be named, so also the consequences could only be guessed at. If they couldn’t find a way to stop it, she just prayed that Brody Stape was a smart as he seemed to be, and would make good on his promise to release them afterwards. Not "them" meaning Jon and Will, but her and Jon, because as long as Brody held any sway over her husband it extended to her, and she was in whether Stape liked it or not. She would root for the home team out of necessity, even help if it came to that, but after this perverse season ended…she didn’t know what came next. She had never hurt anyone in her life beyond pulling hair during recess. But if it came down to her husband or this bully, she thought she could go as far as required.

Chapter 17

Brody had spent the night in his own house, depressed by the faded wallpaper he could still see in its vibrancy when put up, and the photos of his mom and dad that he hated looking at, but couldn’t bear to take down. They had been good to him, early on encouraged him to go out for Little League and participate with the other kids in games of hide and seek and tag. When he had struck his coach with a bat after being benched, and dominated the other children into doing his bidding, his father had sat him down and given him a series of stern lectures. Brody had nodded and tried to look appropriately shamed, but inside he hadn’t much cared. He didn’t feel sorry at all, had hit the man because he had favored his own son, a boy with less physical strength and skills, over Brody to play second base. And if the other kids were weak and cried for their mothers, that wasn’t his fault. His parents still tried to maintain order over the years: met with the principal so many times as to be on a first name basis, disciplined him with chores around the house and threats of groundings and lost privileges.

But they were out of their depth, lacked the iron will installed in him at conception, and slowly relinquished control until Brody did what he wanted, whenever he wanted. He drank and smoked in the house at the age of fifteen, even brought a girl home and took her to his room, parading between his parents and the television en route, Sharon wearing her short red skirt that revealed more than it covered. He lost respect for them even though he supposed somewhere deep inside he wanted them to step up and take charge. He would have fought them, sure, but authority was only as good as its ability to flex its muscle and they failed the test on every level. But he didn’t go in for that pyschobabble shit, didn’t care what labels a shrink would slap on him, doubted there was enough room in a notepad to contain them all. Just another tool of the weak to try and marginalize the strong that threatened what they called society. Things had played out how they’d played out, he had won, and except for being set up by Marcus and doing the time, the law had never even come close to catching him. Without the act of a traitor, Brody would hold a perfect record and in his mind still did. And the man that had dared to cross him had now been divided into bite-sized morsels digesting inside the bellies of scavenging catfish.

Brody had considered God on occasion, and had formed no opinion either way as to His existence, believing it ultimately irrelevant in light of the evidence; either God didn’t have the power to stop him and others that did “evil”, or he didn’t care. And so Brody chose his own path and if called to account one day, he preferred to burn for those choices rather than live forever in thrall to someone that forced him to resist against everything instilled in his being. His parents had been casual churchgoers, but even their sparse attendance had declined due to the shame of having such a wild and uncontrollable son.

But despite all of this, he still couldn’t take down the pictures.

He had bummed around the house after getting up, considering his future, wondering how he would go about financing the rest of his life and kicking some ideas around. He could find a crew to help, some hand-picked men that he trusted or could test to determine their worth and come up with a new plan. Perhaps even those two that had come with Marcus but left alone. He felt better after deciding to drop Jon and Will from the payroll, but also held some regret; had really wanted to see how it all turned out. The weekend had been so much fun. But Brody was not a fool, and believed that any party with Will on the ticket meant trouble. If he ignored his gut on that, then he would only have himself to blame for what happened later.

Now that night had fallen, he prepared to visit Jon, and then later drive all the way to Erie, break in and stage a home invasion, pop Will, and be home by sunrise. He had contemplated hiring someone, but decided that since he had created Will, or at least stirred up something already there and now running with the lever stuck in the ON position, he had a duty to pull the plug. Beyond that reasoning, Will might end up in prison, if they caught him for the robbery and murder or some unknown misdeed in the future. Will would never, ever, make it there; if he came out, he would not come out whole. The death Brody offered in light of that possibility was a blessing Will could thank him for on the other side.

Brody walked to the Mustang, and then turned and looked at the shed behind the house. He hadn’t ridden the Harley since the weekend past, and wanted to feel the wind rush over his face, feel the rumble of the engine beneath him, the sheer power at his command. But it was loud. While he relished disturbing the peace of uptight moralists tucked up inside Tanville, the noise would draw attention, and some busybody member of the garden club might pull her fat ass out of her recliner and peek out the window and see and remember his visit to Jon’s house.

But the call of the motorcycle remained strong, and so he compromised: take a spin on the bike, get out on the highway and demolish the speed limit for a while, then come back and drive the Mustang on his business trip. Mr. and Mrs. Jon might then be in bed, but that would only heighten the drama. In bed they were most vulnerable. They needed to know they could never be safe from him, and sitting in their skivvies hiding under a blanket while a man entered and took command of their home would go far towards that end. He liked Jon, but too much rode on all of this, and he needed to keep him off balance and under control.

He walked back to the shed and went inside, threw off the sheet that covered the machine and wheeled it outside. He started the engine and the vibrations coursed through him. He let out an animal yell, a cry that barbarian hordes and Viking marauders would have recognized as their own, and tore out of the driveway, flinging gravel and probably chipping the paint of the Mustang but he didn’t care. Crush could fix that later. For now he only wanted to ride.

Brody returned exhilarated. He had hit one-hundred and twenty on a straightaway, swerving around other vehicles when necessary and screaming his battle cry. He had made the right choice, the speed and the danger a thrill he wished he could bottle up and sip anytime he needed a jolt. Hell, if someone could figure out how, he might just retire from crime altogether and sit on a beach for the rest of his days with a flask in hand.

He tucked the bike back inside the shed, and then grabbed his car keys and just before leaving, decided to take Will's gun along. He didn't think he would need it, but best to be prepared. He had grown fond of the piece, a little souvenir from his reunion with Jon and Will and their wild weekend together to remember always.

He hit the highway again, this time only driving eighty. Speed in a car could satisfy, but nothing like the bike or the boat, where the lack of a roof or doors heightened every sensation and distilled the experience into something pure and holy. He supposed only skydiving might top it, but the fear of heights was the only fear Brody Stape admitted to. He had never set foot on an airplane nor would he. He detested any situation completely out of his control, and would not die sitting in an uncomfortable chair with his head tucked between his knees while someone else wrestled with the controls of a plummeting aircraft.

He found it ironic, as events before him transpired, that his last thoughts before death were of dying. As the tractor trailer ahead of him jackknifed and toppled, the wreck spanning both lanes, he stomped on the brake knowing his speed guaranteed failure to stop; as he turned the wheel sharply to try for the median strip and the wheels left the ground and the car rolled, he also found time to recognize anger at dying in such a stupid, stupid way. Brody Stape was a man destined to go down in a hail of bullets, not flattened like a bunch of drunk teenagers in their daddy's cars on prom night. But even perishing in this lowly manner, it surprised him to realize that at some level he had never believed he could die at all, that his middle finger aimed at morality and those that bowed to its code would earn him immortality, death reserved only for those that had already surrendered their lives to a long line of authority figures waiting at the way stations of high school and college, marriage and the workplace, church and state.

But as the car spun into the truck, a tanker - the word Exxon flew past the now demolished windshield - he found time to reconsider. This, actually, could be quite interesting.

Befitting even.

When his Mustang and the tank become one, Brody felt bones snap and organs rupture, the spray of cold liquid and the cloying odor of gasoline, and heard sounds that no words in his vocabulary could describe. He remained conscious just long enough to see a blinding flash of light and feel a tremendous heat.

And ushered into that great unknown inside the belly of a great inferno, Brody Stape was smiling.

Chapter 18

Will turned on the eleven o’clock news. He wrestled with a mixture of fear and triumph when the reporter appeared in front of the hardware store, listened as she related in sad, solemn tones the death of one Robert Aikens the Third, and of a community in mourning for one of their fallen sons; a hard-working man well-loved and already missed.

The failure to mention Aikens’ stupidity in rushing after him irritated Will to no end. He had escaped with a couple hundred dollars. Wasn’t his fault that the man put such a low value on his life. From the sound of it, it didn’t seem that Aikens needed to add “hero” to his list of superlatives, his character already beyond reproach. But Will had always distrusted praises for the dead; seemed that every stiff would have given the shirt off of their back to anyone that asked, and what need was there for hell, since everybody in the end departed a saint. If so, he wondered, why was the world such a shitty place to live in, where you found out early on you were on your own and if you slipped and fell, you got trampled underfoot?

His attention and concern rose to a new level when the reporter spoke with a state policeman. Will hunched forward in his chair and gripped the armrests, ignoring the sound of a small tear in an especially threadbare area. The police admitted they had no leads except the description of a white Toyota fleeing the scene, but no specific make. And that the suspect was tall. Will wondered if he should get the car painted but decided against it. How many white Toyotas were on the road? Probably thousands in the area, and if he took it to a body shop for a paint job, they might have seen the newscast and wonder why a tall man wanted his car painted a different color. No point giving them anything. Let the police earn their money and reputation as the protectors of society.

The blinking of unheard messages on his machine drew his attention away from the television for a moment. He had avoided listening to them, assuming they had come in from work or possibly Michelle; all parties he had no wish to speak with right now. He didn’t know exactly what to do about his job; he didn’t want to return or even explain his unscheduled leave of absence, but found a curious reluctance in formally severing his ties. He had a little money saved up to last a while, maybe six months, and preferred burning through most of it instead of handing it over to Michelle after the divorce. He hoped Brody would call soon, and that the job would be scheduled in the near future. They hadn’t talked about a cut of profits for him, but with his newfound skills and willingness to employ them, he felt certain this added value should amount to something significant. More than Jon, surely.

Thinking of Brody fired resentment of the beating he had taken in the kitchen and the threats with the knife. He knew he couldn’t take on Brody and survive, or at least with all of his body parts intact. But it still irked him that he belonged to Stape again, a sore spot that no other benefits arising from their decades-later meeting could assuage. He hated and feared and…admired Brody Stape.

He turned his attention back to the TV. The reporter demurred to the anchors, who dutifully shook their heads and expressed stock sorrow and outrage before going on to the next story, their solemn expressions shed in the process. Something about a fiery car crash. Will saw the video of an inferno far in the background, yellow and orange so bright as to render everything else in the frame completely black. This new reporter couldn’t get too close due to the heat, apparently. Will turned off the TV with plans to catch the morning news for any new information from Loudenville.