An Incidental Reckoning (26 page)

The phone rang, and he froze. Calls this late usually meant nothing good, and even more so now, with reasons to dread anything out of the ordinary. He let the machine get it.

“Hi dad, it’s Justin. Are you there? I just wanted to say ‘hi’. I miss you…”

Will rushed to the phone and picked up.

“Justin? Hey, buddy. How are you? Why are you calling so late?”

“I’m okay, dad. I’m sorry I missed practice, but mom said I can’t play on the team anymore. When are you coming home?”

Practice. He had completely forgotten about it. Probably a message or two about it in the flashing queue that numbered ten now. But without Justin on the team, he saw no reason to continue, the whole thing so trivial in the scope of things. Will Roup had bigger fish to fry these days. He’d call Rick, his assistant coach, and let him take over.

“Justin, does your mom know you’re calling?”

“No, I didn’t tell her. She always says ‘later’ no matter how many times I ask.”

“Well, I don’t know what your mom has told you about…stuff going on right now. Maybe we’ll see if we can get together sometime soon. But I’ll have to talk to her first.” He bit back his anger at needing to seek permission from his wife to see his own son.

“Okay.” Will heard Justin's disappointment, felt the mounting attack of guilt and conscience for his deeds, needed to get off the phone before it all fell down around him, undone by a sad nine year old.

“Look, I’ll call your mom soon and we’ll set something up. Dad’s real busy right now, so I have to go. Talk to you soon. Love you.”

“But dad, wait…”

Will hung up the phone, and took deep breaths, trying to control his panic. He needed to get a handle on this all, and not let any breeze that blew through tie him in knots. And a new low, hanging up the phone on his own son. Father of the year material right there.

He thought back to that afternoon, to the dead man bleeding all over his demolished truck. Will hadn’t gone down there for that purpose, to shoot someone, hadn’t gone looking for that sort of trouble. Just a little excitement with the robbery, and if Steve couldn’t absorb the loss of a few hundred dollars and stay afloat, it wouldn’t be the theft that dragged him under. The fool farmer had chased after him, and left him no choice. So he wasn’t a murderer, not really. Just like he and Jon hadn’t planned to kill Chris. Chris didn’t show the proper respect for a superior weapon and died because of it.

Will slumped down into his chair and ran his hands through his hair. Almost forty years old. He was through with sales, even if he had to go back out and get a job somewhere else. Just walking out wasn’t the right way to go, he knew, should probably call and explain…but the thought of beginning some new career, mustering desire to believe more corporate lies, or at least enough to delude himself, and strive again for…

How could he possibly do that? After the revelatory experiences he now had as part of his essential make-up? He couldn’t pretend be clean or innocent anymore. Of course he wouldn’t add robbery and killing to his resume, but he carried them along inside just the same. Everything had seemed so simple until speaking with Justin. Before he could stop, Will wished that he had no son, no family to speak of, even one he would soon be excised from, leaving a vacancy soon filled by Robert, perhaps; find himself pitted against this new man, a father figure that ultimately might have more sway in his son’s life than he ever had or would.

Unless, following the job with Brody and the money made, he could be the father that bought all the cool stuff, everything his friends wanted and might get for Christmas. Except for Justin, Christmas could come every week. And then, maybe he could find something respectable to do. No one ever needed to know the detour he had taken. He could get back on track, but further along and with momentum never achieved or even possible on his previous course. And he could be someone his son could look up to, want to emulate. Perhaps he could even tell Justin about all of this when he got older. He just wasn't ready yet, hadn't lived long enough to experience disappointment and disillusionment and the hard truths of the world. His son still believed he could grow up to be a professional ball player, probably even thought Superhero was on the table. He would find out soon enough how things really were, a thought that made Will sad and angry, both for his son and for himself, wishing that he could believe in something again too that might make all of this unnecessary.

Will went to bed, his head spinning, his world in conflict, his emotions raw and his life either burning down or rising up, depending on the point of view he chose. He knew, ultimately, that definition of perspective would be up to him.

Will set his alarm in order to view the early five o’clock edition of the morning news. He expected his story to lead again, but instead the crash on Route 28, located down near Tanville, kicked things off. Must have been something for Erie to care about what happened down there.

And it was.

The southbound and northbound lanes of the highway were completely shut down, the morning commute into Pittsburgh a complete debacle. A tanker carrying a full load of gasoline had ignited, incinerating trees up to a hundred yards away. Only a quick response from nearly a dozen volunteer fire companies in the area had kept the entire surrounding woods from evaporating in the flames. They had battled the blaze all night. Video of the current scene showed a blackened and buckled roadway in need of total replacement. Looked like a bomber had come through and dropped its payload. Will found it fascinating despite his impatience to hear about his story, and leaned in close to listen.

“The driver, Alan Pitchford, 53, of Pittsburgh died at the scene. Police also found a license plate attached to a bumper that appears to have been propelled from the wreckage in the initial blast. This led to a search for more remains, and I’m now told that the identity of Brody Stape, 41, of Tanville has been confirmed using dental records matched to those held at Erie County Penitentiary. Whether Stape, recently released after serving a ten year sentence in prison, had done anything to contribute to the cause of the accident, or was simply driving in the vicinity as the truck toppled, is unknown. Investigators will be at the scene all day, trying to piece together what happened. We'll bring you more information as this story unfolds. For Channel 2 news, I’m Andrea Leeson.”

The broadcast returned to the anchors, and after grave words they segued to the robbery. He listened just enough to understand that the police seemed no closer to catching the perpetrator and had resorted to pleas for eyewitnesses to come forward. This was followed by sound bites of townspeople praising Aikens the Third and condemning Will to rot in hell, in so many words.

He shut off the TV and stared at it, catching his own shocked expression in the glare of the black glass. Brody dead. Which meant that he and Jon were free men. He picked up the phone, started dialing Jon and then hit the end button. Will knew this should qualify as good news, but it only made his stomach ache. Without Brody, Will was just a guy who had abandoned his job and held no future prospects. He looked at the phone again, and pulled up Lloyd his boss from his contact list, knew he should call and see if he could smooth things over, make up some sob story, perhaps tell him about the upcoming divorce and that he had fallen into despondency as a result. Move on and try to make the best of it.

A sudden thought occurred to him that eclipsed all else in its immediacy. The camera. What if someone found it, and got the pictures developed? Chances are they couldn’t identify him and Jon, but images like that would get turned over to the police and eventually lead to a knock on the door, unless they just bypassed any niceties and broke it down. True, they would then be free to tell their version of the story, the truth, and maybe even convince the police of its veracity. But Will feared any involvement with the cops, didn’t want to be on their radar in any capacity that could draw them to his deeds not explained as the result of another's coercion. The conversation with Detective Manning still left a bad taste in his mouth. He could hear the man’s condescension and ill-hidden belief in his guilt as though he had just had the conversation.

He stood up, got his coat, and rushed out the door, planning to drive to Tanville, see if there was any chance to retrieve the camera. He hoped Brody had kept it in the house, and that cops or family hadn’t descended on it. After that, Will would think on what to do next, but for now he appreciated the opportunity for action, better than brooding alone in his apartment with only a handful of bad or worse choices to pick from. He ran back inside to get a pair of gloves, realizing just as he locked his door that he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints behind in what would amount to a burglary. He thought dryly that maybe he could add rape and loansharking to his list of accomplishments before he returned home.

Will passed by the house several times, déjà vu all over again. No one appeared to be home, and this time not even the Mustang sat in the driveway, now melted down to its steel frame and dragged away to an impound lot or scrapyard, along with whatever charred portions of Brody Stape they couldn't scrape off.

Will finally stopped the car in nearly the same spot as before and sat for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone would arrive at the house and to make sure there was no passersby that might see him.

Satisfied that he was alone, at least for now, Will got out and strolled casually along the berm, doing his best imitation of someone out for a walk. It was a beautiful day, the sky a deep blue with puffy cumulus clouds on the horizon, a gentle breeze blowing against his face, the smell of fresh turned earth emanating from the cornfield. At the driveway, Will turned and walked towards the house in the same unhurried manner. He began to sweat underneath his light jacket, and his breath came in gasps despite his easy pace. He wondered when being a criminal became easier. He might have asked Brody, but that wasn’t going to happen short of a séance.

Will reached the front door and mounted the crumbling concrete steps in need of repair, then opened the screen and knocked on the door. If someone answered he would ask if Joe Richards, a name he made up on the spot, lived here, and then politely apologize and go back to his car. But nobody came, and he tried the doorknob. Locked. Descending the steps, Will glanced at the road again, listened for traffic, and then went around to the back and found that door locked too.

He searched for something to break the glass with. The cornfield had provided the means for desecrating the car, so he returned there and dug another rock out of the soil. With one more pause to look and listen for witnesses, he launched it through the plate glass in the back door.

He reached in and unbolted the deadlock and stepped inside, the glass crunching beneath his feet. In awe, Will viewed the dingy walls and dated appliances and countertops and cabinets, couldn’t help but think he should have come here and sold a kitchen facelift to Brody. He thought- no had never thought just assumed- that Brody lived like a king. This place made his own apartment look like a candidate for a feature story in some home décor magazine.

He forced himself to focus, knowing that time was crucial and wondered where the hell he might find the camera. He walked through the house, appraising the wood paneling and floral patterns on the wallpaper from the seventies with disdain, the shag carpet that he bet covered the floors when he had stood outside as a high school sophomore. The furniture wasn’t in any better shape, or any closer to originating from within the past twenty years. At least Brody had kept a neat house, a good indicator that he likely would have put the camera somewhere specific, not just tossed it under a pile of clothing or pizza boxes and forgot it. But where?

Will found his bedroom and started searching through the drawers, then realized it would take far too long and removed them one by one, dumping the contents on the bed and sifting through them. He felt a grand satisfaction at digging through the personal effects of the one that had caused him such grief. After emptying the last one he cried out in triumph as the camera tumbled onto the bedspread. He picked it up and walked back through the house towards the back door, then glanced at the counter and saw it still set to "0". He had found the second unused camera, not the one with the pictures.

Will groaned in frustration and returned to the bedroom. In the closet, he reached up to the shelf above the sparse collection of clothing hanging inside. He pulled down some boxes that contained old photographs and documents yellowed with age. His hand closed on a pistol and he pulled it out, excitement rippling through him, and decided to keep it to replace the one Brody had confiscated, stuffing it into his pants at the small of his back after checking to see that the safety was engaged. Since it belonged to Brody, he simply assumed it to be loaded.

He continued through the house poking and prodding, but Brody didn’t have many possessions and few obvious places to hide something. His concern mounted and a tickle of fear wormed its way into his brain. How stupid to survive Brody himself but be done in by such a small thing as a disposable camera. But then, if he couldn’t find it, what were the chances that someone else would? Too important to leave to chance, though.