Authors: Joe Hart
Leave the Living (12 page)
Gary walked toward him, the older man’s breath pluming from his mouth, obscuring his face as if his soul was attempting to escape. He held the gun at his side, his body patchy with shadow.
“Quit this, Mickey. There’s nowhere to go.”
“How could you do it?” Mick asked, his own breath blasting from his mouth, the air so cold on his tongue. “How could you kill your own brother?”
“Come back to the house, and let’s work this out.”
“Murderer.”
“If he had been any kind of a brother, he would have helped me,” Gary barked and tapped his chest with one hand. “He would’ve seen how much I needed the money.”
“He did try to help you. He tried to get you sober, which is what you really needed.”
“I asked for a loan, a simple loan, and now we’re here because of his stubbornness,” Gary spat into the wind. “I don’t want any more bloodshed tonight but so help me, Mickey, I will kill you dead before I see you walk away from this.”
Gary raised the gun. Moonlight shone off its sights.
Mick studied the weapon for a long moment and then found his uncle’s eyes and held them.
“I’ve forgiven him for the secrets he kept and for what he did. Can you forgive yourself?”
Gary’s face hardened, his lips drawing back in a grimace. Mick moved backward, and Gary took another step, reaching up to brace the gun with his other hand.
The ice beneath his feet made a screeching sound and shattered.
A short yelp came from Gary’s mouth as he dropped forward into the old spear hole, his legs plunging into the freezing water below. The gun flew from his hand and vanished in a drift as he fell. He hit the opposite side of the hole, latching onto it with his arms as water rushed up and out, soaking the thin layer of snow. The liquid was dark but sparkled in the crystalline air as he thrashed, trying to pull himself free.
“Help! Help me, Mickey,” he gasped, his arms sliding each time he attempted to hoist himself up.
Mick watched him struggle, the image of his father’s misshapen skull on the morgue drawer flashing behind his eyes. He remained motionless, the rippling water around his uncle almost mesmerizing.
“For God’s sake, Mickey, help!”
Mick moved forward and stopped two feet from the hole before reaching out and grasping Gary’s outstretched hand. The other man’s flesh was like touching frozen marble, the moisture between their palms solidifying instantly. Mick lurched backward, hauling the older man up. Gary bobbed in the black liquid for an instant and then slid free of its embrace, one of his knees landing on the edge of the hole.
Gary jerked Mick forward, toward the open water.
Mick slid, suddenly off balance, his upper body tipping, the lapping hole growing as he plunged toward it. Gary ripped his hand free of Mick’s grip and ducked, bringing his shoulder down to trip the younger man. Mick slipped, his leg skating forward as he tried to balance. There was a sound like more ice breaking as his knee collided with Gary’s nose.
Gary’s head rocked on his neck, and he tipped backward into the water, letting out a deep bellow as Mick fell to one side, his left arm plunging into the lake. The water was electrically cold, a bolt of lightning running from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. The rest of his body began to slide farther in, and he scrambled to the side onto solid ice, yanking his arm free. Gary submerged, his cry cut off as the lake flooded his mouth and throat. One of his feet appeared as he somersaulted in the frigid liquid. He kicked, spraying water that speckled Mick’s shirt and then was gone, the lake’s surface wobbling the moon’s silver reflection before growing calm.
Mick skidded away from the hole and watched the water for movement. Only the wind stirred, dusting the lake’s wound with bits of snow. He stood and waited for another minute before hugging his frozen arms to his body and hurrying back toward the dark house waiting on the hill.
After stoking the fire and warming by it for fifteen minutes, he made his way to the bathroom and inspected the wounds on his face and back. The gash on his cheek was shallow and had already clotted. The other, below his right shoulder blade, was a small entry and exit hole where the bullet had skipped into and out of his flesh without tasting bone. A little blood leaked from it and he hissed as he trickled hydrogen peroxide onto each hole. When he was sure he wouldn’t bleed to death, he moved to the kitchen, kneeling on the floor near the board holding the knot resembling an X. Close up he could see the dots leading to the knot were wood burned and perfectly spaced though so small they could be easily overlooked by someone standing above them.
A treasure map.
Mick placed his hands on the board, digging his fingernails into the end joint where it met the next piece of flooring. With a shove, he pushed the opposite way and watched as the board slid easily beneath the counter footing, gliding over twelve inches before coming to a stop. He peered down into the hole beneath the floor and reached inside, snagging the handle of a briefcase. He drew it up into the glow of the flashlight and set it on the floor. There were no locks on its clasps, and they popped open with a buzzing sound. Mick raised the lid and looked inside.
Neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills lay nestled within the briefcase, bound in paper wraps near their centers. Their edges were sharp and even, and they looked crisp, as if they’d come off the printing press hours before instead of over half a century ago. Mick slid his hand over the cash, hearing the rustle of it beneath his fingers. It spoke of things he could never afford, possessions his father had resisted spending it on, endless possibilities.
Tucked on one side of the cash was a folded piece of paper. Mick pulled it free and unfurled it, scooting back from the briefcase to lean against the kitchen cabinets. He began to read.
Dear Mick,
If you’re reading this note, you know the truth. I apologized in the previous letter, but I know it won’t suffice. To tell you I’m sorry for stealing the money would be obvious. I regretted it the moment your mother told me she was pregnant, but by then it was too late to return it. And I was too greedy to do the right thing and lose my freedom knowing you would soon be in the world. I pray that I’ve changed enough to receive forgiveness, not only from a higher power but also from you, my son, my blood, my light.
Do whatever you wish with the money. Return it to the bank. Use it for you and Aaron. Or leave it here in the floorboards of this house to rot and decay into nothing. The choice is yours. But be sure you make the right one, for sometimes secrets are the heaviest burden to bear.
I love you,
Dad
Epilogue
“Well, Mr. Bannon, I think that’s everything,” Agent Faring said through the phone. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else, but for now, you can consider things settled.”
Mick paced across his apartment and peeked into Aaron’s room. The boy lay on his side in his bed, a soft snore drifting from him every few seconds.
“Thank you, sir. You and the BCA have been great.”
“We appreciate all the cooperation, and we’re very sorry you had to go through this ordeal. It’s a shame when a law enforcement officer is involved in something like this, puts a bad taste in my mouth to say the least.”
“And they still haven’t recovered my uncle’s body?”
“Not yet, and they don’t think they will until spring. With all the ice, it’s hard to conduct a proper search. Warmer weather will bring the body to the surface, and well, you get the picture.”
“Yeah, I do,” Mick said, returning to the window to stare out at the late February afternoon. Chicago’s skyline was majestic in the fading light, and traffic trundled a dozen floors below in steady lines.
“I guess what still bothers me is why your uncle came to the conclusion that your father had been one of the men to rob that armored vehicle.”
There was a subtle wondering quality to the agent’s question, waiting for him to stumble, but there wasn’t any way he was going to make a mistake, not now.
“Like I said, my dad had joked with him when he was younger that he’d done it. Gary was always somewhat gullible, and he was obsessed with that robbery after it happened. My dad liked to tease him, say he had millions hidden away. I think as the years went by, and Gary’s alcoholism got worse, the thought took root in his mind that Dad was serious. It must’ve kept eating at him until he truly believed Dad actually had all that money.”
Faring remained quiet for a beat and then exhaled into the phone.
“Booze can do terrible things to people. My own father hit the bottle and then would hit me too from time to time. I haven’t had so much as a beer in twenty years. The only other question I have for you is the matter of the payment to the treatment facility that your father brought your uncle to. We spoke to the manager of Diamond Point early this week, and she said when your dad picked Gary up and paid the bill, he did so in cash. No offense, but ten thousand is a chunk to pay in cash.”
Mick closed his eyes, wondering how much Faring suspected, how much he knew.
“My dad was old-school. He always got paid cash for his woodwork, and he didn’t spend much. I think he kept a little squirreled away for certain occasions.”
“Kept it buried in a mason jar in the backyard, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Um-hm. Well, like I said, you’re one lucky guy, Mr. Bannon. With all that happened that night, there must’ve been someone watching out for you.”
Right then he could have sworn there was a crackle of static on the line, but it was gone before he could be sure. Mick smiled and nodded.
“I think there was.”
They hung up, and he made his way to Aaron’s room, checking on him again before sitting at the table to finish cutting out the short article in the prior day’s paper about an anonymous donation to the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Good news like this never occupied much space when compared with the atrocities that graced the front pages, but the amount was substantial enough to gain some attention from the media, $1.4 million substantial to be exact.
Mick cut carefully around the article and placed it in a thin folder he carried to his bedroom and slid on the top shelf in the closet above his clothes. He smiled seeing it there and then turned to go check if his son was awake.
About the Author
Joe Hart was born and raised in northern Minnesota. He’s been writing since he was nine years old in the horror and thriller genres and has written six novels and numerous short stories.
Joe has worked several jobs throughout his life such as automotive mechanic, county airport employee, CSA for Northwest Airlines, electric motor technician, personal trainer, and gym manager. He now writes full-time.
When he’s not writing, Joe enjoys reading, working out, watching movies with his family, and spending time outdoors.
Learn more about Joe by following him on Twitter @AuthorJoeHart or connect with him on Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Joe-Hart/345933805484346
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About the Publisher
DarkFuse is a leading independent publisher of modern fiction in the horror, suspense and thriller genres. As an independent company, it is focused on bringing to the masses the highest quality dark fiction, published as collectible limited hardcover, paperback and eBook editions.
To discover more titles published by DarkFuse, please visit its official site at
www.darkfuse.com
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