Lonesome Point (24 page)

His shoulder burned, the back of his head was sore, his fingers ached. His lungs felt stuffed with cotton. The car moved with the sawing. Once again he said, sawing, “Please, man, let me out,” just to distract Patrick, kind of cover up what he was doing.

He kicked the car for good measure, sawing away, car rocking. A part of him wanted to believe that Patrick hadn’t made up his mind. The weird thing was that even as he was working that knife, gritting his teeth, he felt comforted that it was Patrick standing outside there, his brother, not Bernard or Freddy, but
his own blood, who might still give him a chance. He shouted, “What exactly do you want me to do, Patrick? Act from now on like any of this never happened?”

No response.

“Talk to me, Patrick. Don’t run away from the truth.”

“What do you know about the truth, Leo? You spent half your life clouding your brain, running away from reality, writing shit poetry nobody reads, and then you’re thinking, Oh, poor me, what do I have to show for myself? No career to speak of, no money in your pocket? All that, that’s your own fault. Don’t blame anyone but yourself for your problems.”

“All right, all right … just don’t hurt Tessa. Promise me that. She’s pregnant. Don’t hurt her.”

No response.

“You can’t give me that, at least? She’s
pregnant
, Patrick.”

“Shut up, Leo.”

Leo could feel the cut in the plastic widening under the blade. A slow, torturous process, this cutting. Like filing away at a mountain. But as long as he was doing something, he could scale down the panic. The heat wasn’t so bad, and he could still breathe, see? He wasn’t suffocating. He was in control. A tad dizzy but that was the heat … but the heat wasn’t so bad … damn, he wasn’t making any sense. He stopped to rest, breathing with his mouth open.

The part of Leo’s heart that wanted to believe in his brother’s goodness was dying with every breath in this sweltering trunk. Now he felt like he was running out of air. He said, “Oh, man, oh, man …” His head dropped to the side against the plasticky-smelling carpet, and he rested for a minute. As soon as he freed
his hands, he would pop that trunk-release lever he knew all these newer cars had. He needed to do this fast, before he passed out.

The knife slipped out of his grasp. He was so drained he didn’t bother trying to fumble around to find it. Not yet. He was thinking about how Patrick had revealed nothing new about himself today. Leo had always known, deep in the mental gutters where you left the dirtiest, most subversive, most dangerous questions, he’d always known there was something disturbingly wrong with Patrick. How could a brother not know? Patrick was missing a conscience, an empathy gene, something. He was too ruthless to be anything else but a sociopath, a narcissist. Some months back, Leo had been wondering maybe he and Patrick would close their distance, patch things up, that maybe Patrick did love him, but he saw now that he had been delusional.

He found the knife again, positioned it, his left shoulder bruised, fingers cramping. After a breath, he returned to work. He began playing a game with himself: Fifty strokes would set him free. If not, then between sixty and seventy-five. Let’s see if he was right—go.

There was a
pop pop pop
from outside.

T
HE OLD MAN FLOATED naked in the shallow muddy pond, face turned slightly to the side. Red mess in the white hair.

Freddy stood at the edge of the pond. “Poor motherfucker. This some cold shit, boy, what we do here is some cold shit.” He
tsk-tsk
ed. He looked off into the bush and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, then, we came, we saw, and this and that, so let’s head back to civilization.”

Bernard led the way back. They passed under the oak trees to where the path gave out and they swished through grass for a distance. Bernard stopped suddenly amid higher grass and Freddy almost walked into him. They were at the edge of another pond. Bernard tilted his head toward it.

Freddy stood beside him and looked down. “What?”

“See anything in there?”

“Mud and water, Bernard. Let’s go, dawg, what the fuck?”

“You don’t see like your future down there?”

Freddy squinted at him. “Boy, you crazy,” and turned to leave.

But Bernard slapped a hand on his shoulder and held him there. Freddy tried to move, but it was not happening.

“What up—what the hell you doing, B?”

Bernard had slipped that big hand up to his neck and was
squeezing. Squeezing hard, now with two hands. Freddy grabbed Bernard’s wrist. He tried to speak, made a small sound at the back of his throat, punching at Bernard’s arms, swiping and clawing his face one time.

Bernard smiled and kept the pressure on, Freddy’s eyes bulging, mouth open. Bernard leaned all his two hundred ninety pounds into it, Freddy buckling under the force. Bernard saying, “Fuck you, you rapist,” pressing his thumbs into the windpipe, “no respect for women, fucking rapist,” Freddy’s arms flapping, falling to his side, “you get what you deserve.” It was so easy; Bernard didn’t expect this to be so easy. He didn’t want to enjoy this, but, damn, he was enjoying this shit. His grip was brutal, brother, no doubt about it, Freddy’s eyes just about popping out of his head, face changing colors, reddish brown to a purple hue. He was close to passing out. His arms stopped moving, body going limp.

Bernard didn’t want to look anymore. He shut his eyes and choked that neck harder to hurry things. For some reason, the Lord’s Prayer floated into his head, he began remembering whole lines of it, even though he hadn’t remotely thought about praying in years. But this up-close job, the first he’d ever done with two hands, had him tripping in a big way. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be—there, that was it—something snapped and crumpled under his thumbs, and he held on for just a moment longer, making sure it was over indeed.

He released the neck, the body dropped. “Thy will be done, thy kingdom come.” He opened his eyes, saw the body twisted in the grass, and moved away. “Thy kingdom …” He was breathing fast. He took a moment.

What was all this religion shit doing in his head? His brain was going electric. He fumbled with his handkerchief, saw a tremor in his hand. He wiped his face and spat to get a foul taste out of his mouth. Why’d he have to go and use his hands like that? Probably despised Freddy more than he had realized. A secret hatred that must’ve been building and building.

He didn’t want to reflect on this anymore. He hurried over to Freddy, bent down, trying not to look, grabbed the ankles and dragged the body to the edge of the pond, then heaved it in. It splashed on its side.

The last thing he noticed before he walked away was that Freddy had soiled himself. Bernard trudged up the trail, feeling queasy.

PATRICK WATCHED him return alone, half-moons of sweat under his arms. He waited until Bernard was nearer before he asked, “The verdict? That was kind of quick.”

Bernard barely looked at him, raising two fingers and walking past, toward the car. “Two men currently dead.”

Patrick watched him open the front passenger door and rummage through the glove compartment and come away with a small bottle of Purell. He squirted some into a palm, tossed the bottle onto the seat, and walked up to Patrick, rubbing his palms together.

“Mr. Rocha said there’d be a monetary token of appreciation for this particular thing, which to me was a nasty job. Therefore I’d be in the right to expect some solid appreciation. If you want to just be a gentleman about it.”

Patrick said, “No arguments here,” and reached deep into a
pants pocket and handed over a wedge of folded hundreds. “With much gratitude, Bernard.”

Bernard thumbed through the bills, lips moving as he counted silently. “Don’t mind if I do.” He shoved the money into his back pocket. He nodded at the car. “Didn’t see dude in the backseat. He in the trunk, huh?”

“Was the best place for him. Most soundproof spot, if you understand.” Patrick walked over to the car, gestured at the windows. “He almost kicked out the glass. Freddy was here, he would’ve taken a shit.”

“Freddy took a shit, believe me. So what we doing with this dude?”

“Well,” Patrick said, slapping hands together and folding them. “He’s not giving me anything.” He stared at the trunk for a long time. Somewhere in the bushes a bird started to sing. The heat was growing unbearable. He sighed, looking around and up at the sun, which was sinking, wisps of clouds, the heat unforgiving. “You need me to say it?”

Bernard wiped his bald head with his kerchief. “Truthfully, I need you to say it. ’Cause it’s, well, that’s your brother in there.” He folded the kerchief. “I know this ain’t no easy thing. I mean, me myself, I just been through some horribleness back in the bushes there that blew my mind, kinda makes a man don’t want to go through that shit no more if he can help it. Therefore you have to give me the word for certain, to the point where in the back of my mind I know a hundred percent I’m doing what you really desire, you get me?”

Patrick lowered his head and pinched the knot between his
eyes and massaged. “Yes, but that’s my dilemma. I don’t know if I want to give you that word right now. I’m of the mind that we best hold on, see if we can convince him to give up his fiancée. It might take twenty minutes. An hour, maybe.” Massaging his brow, waiting to see if Bernard accepted that.

“You know, Mr. Varela?” Bernard looked off at the trees. “All due respect, time ain’t a luxury we have. That man Freddy shot might still be running around out there, and the risk is me and you get sent up, and I been in lockdown before and that ain’t no cakewalk, either. What I’m trying to say now is you please consider the risk.”

“You’re right.” Patrick took three steps closer to the trunk and stared at it. “You need me to say it, then I will. You got the green light, okay? But you’ll have to take care of it. Wait, before you say anything,” Patrick raising a hand without turning to look at Bernard. “I will compensate you again. Handsomely.”

No response came, and the silence crept on. Patrick turned around squarely.

Bernard said, “See now, you’re talking
at
me. Assuming that I’m doing it. Like I already agreed. I don’t remember accepting this particular job.”

Here is where Patrick needed to be careful, but firm. “I’ll give you double what’s in your pocket there, but if you don’t like that, then can you please hand me the fucking gun, Bernard? Because I’m not in the mood, and because I find it really unseemly to haggle over the price of somebody’s life.” Patrick came up to him and stretched out a hand. Bernard didn’t move. “What? Change of heart, Bernard?” They locked eyes.

Eventually, Bernard’s face creased into a smile, and he nodded, saying, “Okay, then, okay.” He stepped around Patrick and moved to the car.

Watching him, it occurred to Patrick that he was right all along, that after today the person most detrimental to his career would be Bernard right here, the man who would know all the incriminating details. Always, always, there had to be a loose end, a wrinkle to iron out, somebody to silence—it just never fucking ended.

This was why Patrick was carrying a small .45 automatic in a Milt Sparks inside-the-waistband holster belted tight to the flat of his right hip, under his shirt. As soon as Bernard returned, Patrick would finish the matter forever. Let the big man stroll back, feel comfortable. Patrick would step behind him, put that three-inch barrel at the base of his smooth head. A .45-caliber to the brain is so sudden it must be painless, could hardly rank as cruel.

L
EO HAD HEARD MOST OF IT: They were talking about him like he was a foregone conclusion. But his arms were free now. He’d cut through the zip-tie, slipped the knife back into his right sock, alongside his ankle bone. Transferred the Swiss Army knife from his front pocket to his back pocket.

His panic had burned off and a calm had settled in. If he was going to die, he’d do it with no fear, no tears. And if he saw even a ghost of a chance, he was going to fight back. What choice did he have? He nudged the blindfold down, breathing low, preparing his mind.

He blinked into the darkness and immediately started second-guessing himself. As soon as the trunk opened, they’d see the blindfold off, see his hands free, and shoot him right away. He didn’t stand a chance if he didn’t act quickly. Come out swinging. Or maybe bide his time? Wait till they escorted him to some secluded spot, then …

He laid his head back, taking in gulps of air. Man, he didn’t know how much longer he could take this torture, the heat, the dank air. Keeping his phobia in check.

Light blinded him when the trunk flew open.

“Morning, sunshine,” he heard Bernard say, but he couldn’t see anything, covering his eyes. The fresh air chilled him. He blinked, catching shapes, forms, way too much glare.

Patrick said, “He got loose. How’d he get loose?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

Bernard’s rough hands grabbed his arms and shirt and hauled him out, Leo stumbling on jelly legs. It hurt too much to open his eyes completely. Bernard whirled him around, patted him down fast, pulled the Swiss Army knife from his back pocket. He cussed under his breath and flung the knife away.

“Do it now,” Patrick said, “just go off somewhere and do it now.” His voice trailing away.

Leo was unable to see where Patrick was exactly but he knew it was somewhere on the right. Bernard on the left, close by. Leo raised a hand to shield his eyes. He glimpsed green all around, gauzy bush and the haze of trees. The air smelled like freshly turned earth. He thought of running.

Bernard grasped his left wrist, bent his hand back and cranked his arm straight up so that Leo had to lean forward, drop to his knees.

“Know how easy I could snap your arm in two?”

Leo said, “Pretty easy … I’d suspect,” sounding much calmer than he was feeling. And right then he decided he was going to play it cool and wait for his moment. Be clever. Didn’t know how he’d do it, overcome two of them, but he’d have to do it. Or never see Tessa again. Never see his daughter born. Because he knew it was going to be a daughter. He shivered as the air stirred around him. His Nadia. That was it—he had found a name. He liked the sound. Na-di-a. The poetry of syllables.