Stacking in Rivertown (30 page)

He lifts me and starts dragging me to the van. “You made me do it, Beth. If you’d only come back to me the way I told you, none of this would have happened.” He slides open the side door and throws me in so that I land on my shoulder. Piercing lights shatter my head. He rolls me onto my other side and tapes my ankles. Then he tapes my mouth and eyes.

But now Ben kneels next to me. He sounds like he’s crying. Ben lifts my body and leans me back against him, holding and rocking me. His tears drop on my cheek. Then I think that I pass out.

What I remember next is that he’s quiet, and he lies me down gentle, stroking my head, saying, “I’ll get you fixed up again, Beth. You’ll be good as new.”

Not one thing is making any sense to me.

Ben steps out of the van and slams the side door shut. I hear him walking behind the van, coming around to the driver’s door.

That’s when the first explosion goes off. Something hits the van, rocking it. Another explosion. There’s a sliding sound. One more explosion.

Silence. I wait.

The side door slides open.

“Becca. Oh, Becca.” It’s Miriam. She’s sobbing like crazy as she rips the tape off my eyes. Then the tape at my mouth. All I can do is moan and drool. She’s choking and screaming, trying to get the tape off my ankles. Then she moves to my wrists, having calmed some.

For me, lights are flashing all over the place.

“Where’s Ben?” I say. It comes out garbled.

She’s weeping quieter now. “I shot him,” she says.

I shake my head, afraid of passing out again.

“You shot him? Is he dead?”

“I think so. He looked dead.”

“Help me up.”

“No. I’m taking you to a hospital. I’ll drive this van into town.”

I grab the driver’s seat with my good hand and pull myself up so that I’m sitting. “Miriam, listen. We’ve got to think this through.”

The thinking part is coming a little hard for me. She’s staring at my face like she’s seeing a ghost or something. “Becca. He hurt you so badly. I have to get you to a doctor.”

“Miriam, you don’t want this on your hands. No. Stop it. Listen to me. There’s things about myself I never told you. When this story hits the airwaves, all hell will break loose. They won’t let you have a moment’s rest. It could ruin everything for you.”

“Becca. You’re off your head. Lie down.” She takes my arm and tries to force me back onto the floor.

“No. Listen to me.” I shake her off. “We’ll make it look like I killed him. As far as everyone else is concerned, you were never here. I’ll bet there’s a cell phone around in this van somewhere. I’ll call the police and tell them I did it. No one will question me. I have every reason in the world to shoot the son of a bitch. I’ll get off. Look at me. It’s obviously self-defense.”

She’s quiet now, but blank, and blue around the lips. “I’m not leaving you like this. I don’t care about my career.”

“They’ll send an ambulance. It’ll be here sooner than you could drive me to a hospital. I won’t be alone very long. Help me up.”

She takes my good arm and I slide out of the van. I press my bad arm close to my side to keep it still, but it’s screaming into my brain and my eyes.

“How did you know?” I say, as we take it a few inches at a time. “How did you find me here?”

“After you left, I couldn’t get any of it to fit. I thought you’d cracked from the stress. I remembered how you said this cabin would be a good place to commit suicide. For some reason, I knew for sure that you were coming here. I didn’t have a clue about Ben.”

“They got me into a car yesterday. They threatened to hurt you, telling me to make you think I was leaving so you wouldn’t call the police.”

By now, we’ve made it to the back of the van. I sink to my knees, my head swimming.

“Ben’s thugs,” I say to Miriam. “The guys watching your place. Did they follow you?”

She kneels beside me, her arms holding me up.

“Oh God. They were from Ben? Oh fuck. I thought they were stalkers or crazy fans. I lost them in town. Over the last couple years, I’ve gotten good at that kind of thing.”

“Help me up. I can’t do it myself.”

She puts one hand under my bad shoulder. I scream and almost faint.

“Becca. This is crazy.” I feel her shaking now, and I wonder if the two of us can pull this off.

I grab her arm and hoist myself up with her help.

Now we edge around the van to where Ben’s body lies. There are blood steaks along the side of the van where he slid down. His chest is a mess. She got him three times close to the heart.

“My dad taught me to shoot,” she says. “When I was a kid. I guess you never lose something like that.”

“Where’s the gun?” I say. I lean against the van as she goes back to the Taurus, picking up the Smith and Wesson from where she dropped it on the ground.

“Wipe it off and give it to me,” I say. Then I take it in my left hand, which is shaking so hard I don’t know if I can aim the gun. I fire it into Ben’s chest two more times.

“That will put traces of powder on me,” I say.

I look at her. “You have to go. Don’t go home. Get into a hotel or something. Take a shower right away and get rid of the clothes you have on. Make sure no one will ever find them. I’m serious about the bodyguard. I don’t think anyone will try to hurt you now that Ben’s dead, but we can’t be sure.”

“I still don’t get why we’re doing this. What can be so bad? What haven’t you told me?”

“I’m a dead ringer for Clarisse Broder,” I say, “because I am Clarisse Broder.”

She stares at me now in a way that scares me. “Oh Becca,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She covers her face with both hands and starts crying hard.

I reach to her, trying to calm her. “I’m sorry I never told you. I wanted to. I just didn’t want Ben to find out I was still alive. And if you confess to shooting him and get drawn into all this stuff about me being a hooker for Ben, and then my jump from the bridge . . . I don’t know. I think it could screw everything up for you.”

I start to slide down to the ground. “Go in the van and find the cell phone. Pick it up with your shirt or something so you don’t put any prints on it. Bring it to me. And don’t leave your prints on anything else.”

She does as I say. I gaze at her as she stoops and hands me the phone. I search her eyes but don’t see myself in them anymore. They’re glazed over, empty.

I reach out and lay my hand along her cheek. She leans against it. “Wait for things to blow over before you try to contact me,” I say. “Send me messages through Josh or Tom while the police are doing the investigation.” Now I close my eyes, hating that she’s going to leave. “I love you so much, Miriam. I’m going to miss you while this is getting cleared up. I tried to keep you out of it. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”

She reaches out and touches my neck, my chest. She looks pretty gone in the head. She doesn’t kiss me, I guess because of all the blood on my face.

“Tom has a package for you,” I say. “Now go. I’ll give you five or ten minutes head start before I call.”

I watch her walk away. She turns and keeps her eyes on me as she backs toward the woods where she left the Rav. She disappears into the trees. I hear the motor start. Then I see the Rav barrel back in. Miriam stops beside me.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” she says. “I want you to get in with me. I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“No,” I say. “Miriam. You’ve got to let me do this for you. We’ll see each other in a week or two.”

She starts crying again, leaning her head on the steering wheel. Then she jams it in gear and drives away. Watching her go just about finishes me.

I wait. Then I call 911.

“I’ve killed a man,” I say. “I’m badly injured, send an ambulance.” I give them directions.

By the time they arrive, I’ve got the ghosts. When they lift me onto the stretcher, I pass out, happy to be leaving the pain behind.

When I think of Ben now, I see him with five holes in his chest, three for his sins and two for forgiveness.

And when I dream of Miriam, she has a gun in her hand. I see her onstage with a spotlight showing a face I love so much that I yearn for her as strong as the undercurrent runs in that river.

Longing is in my heart like the head of the green snake, its tail poking out my mouth. The green snake is so beautiful, you think it might be a long, wet jewel. Then, before you know it, you have it in your mouth and it’s worked its way to your heart.

But in the river, longing falls away. And the air roves free, and the light fades down so the moon can carry the sky. And I’m lying beside Vin again, his sleep swishing like weeds in a stream.

So once more, I find myself standing on the rise that we called Rivertown, watching the river go by and by. Many of us linger here beneath the live oaks and the tremble of leaves. It pleases us to do so.

Wish You the Best

I wake in a hospital room. At first, I’m groggy, but soon, I sense a thing I didn’t expect. The room is stark, barren of anything but my bed. The door is thick, with a heavy lock and a small rectangular window.

I think I’m in a prison.

My second thought is how I feel like maybe an elephant is tromping on me. My upper arm and body are in a cast. My ribs are wrapped. The pain in my head is of such an intense quality that I’m hard put to see where it begins and ends.

The door is unlocked and a nurse enters. She checks my IV.

“Hello,” I croak.

She smiles a dippy nurse smile. “The police want to talk to you,” she says. She heads toward the door.

While I’m waiting, I try to move. It appears to be a bad thing to do. One side of my nose is swollen shut. The other is blocked by a tube. My lips feel like they’re made of confetti.

Two detectives arrive. One is skinny with a crooked face that makes me think I’m going cross-eyed. The other is a real looker. He seems aware of that. The looker does all the talking.

He does the Miranda thing, calling me Mrs. Broder. The pain is socking my head in so much that it’s not making sense, but I’m beginning to get a bad feeling like the dangers didn’t go away with Ben, that there’s something more persistent at work here.

The looker asks me several questions about shooting Ben. The way he says “five times in the chest” bothers me. I’m beginning to not like what he does with his hair.

The ceiling above me twists a little. I close my eyes to make it stop.

“Five bullets,” the detective says again. “A little much, don’t you think, Mrs. Broder? He was dead by the second shot. And the last two. Were they necessary, or just malice?”

“I wanted to make sure.”

Then he starts going off about my cache of illegal weapons and the large amount of ammo stashed in the Taurus.

“Who made the arrangements to meet at such a remote location?” he says suddenly, catching me off guard.

I’m thinking that a lawyer might be an excellent move. But the elephants are tromping pretty heavy. And you know me. The imbecile.

“Me.”

“So you lured him there, and you had a carful of weapons.”

“I didn’t lure him. The fucker was kidnapping me. What in the hell was I supposed to do?”

He gloats. I’m sure he’s wearing a hairpiece now. It’s not seated quite right.

“I am here to inform you, Mrs. Clarisse Broder, that the state of California charges you with murder in the first degree, which in the state of California can be punishable by death.”

I think the elephants must now be trying to lie down on me. I am, believe it or not, speechless.

“Did you look at my arm, shithead? Look at my face. How about my rib cage? And you want to charge me with murder? What ever happened to the right to self-defense? Do you know anything at all about this guy’s profession? Do you know what he did to me and others like me?”

He smiles a real Ben smile.

I shut up then, realizing I had just strengthened his case. “I want a lawyer,” I say. “And I want my phone call. I do get a phone call in the state of California, right? Do I get it before or after you put me on the rack?”

The two of them stand. “We’ll have you wheeled out to a phone,” says the looker.

Before he leaves, I have to get in a shot. “There’s better foundations to hide the puffiness around your eyes,” I say to the looker, the vain little creep. “I could give you some makeup tips.”

Crooked Face stares at him in surprise, angling to get a view of his partner’s eyes.

They leave, locking the door behind them. I lie in my bed of pain, too astounded for any of what just happened to sink in. Eventually, two orderlies creak open my dungeon door and lift me onto a wheelchair. Out in the hall, police are posted everywhere. They stare at me. I’m wheeled to a battered pay phone and given change.

“What time is it?” I say to one of the orderlies, who happens to be of a size similar to Ben, but with even bigger hands. “What day?”

“It’s four in the afternoon. Friday.”

I phone Burt at Tutti.

“Becca,” he says. “We’ve been worried sick about you. All we know is what we read in the papers. And Miriam’s disappeared. She came with a man yesterday evening. Tom gave her something, then bang. Gone.”

I breathe a big sigh.

“Ben beat the shit out of me, Burt. He broke my shoulder. But the worst is, get this. They’re charging me with murder. Murder! Is there something I’m missing here? Do other people get to live their lives without being kicked in the head every time they turn around?”

“Murder? Shit.”

“I need a lawyer, Burt. I need an ace. I need somebody that doesn’t like to lose.”

“Well, I think any lawyer would jump at your case. What publicity. You’re in all the
Enquirers
and such. The talk shows are buzzing with you.”

“Gee, thanks. I needed to know that. Oh, and Burt, have the cops talked to any of you yet?”

“No.”

“If they do, I’d like it if you didn’t mention Miriam. I want to keep her out of this mess.”

He’s quiet. “I can’t ask them to lie.”

“I know. Do what you can.”

As it turns out, I don’t get to my arraignment until Tuesday, because of the holiday. You know, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot?” and all that.

By then, Burt has called some woman lawyer and badgered her into taking a look at my case. Apparently, she’s well known in the bay area for winning most of the time. She’d gotten one of Burt’s buddies off of some assault with a deadly weapon charge even though he really did it. I’m hoping that bodes well for me.

By the time Tuesday rolls around, I’ve had six hours sleep, total. For my trip to court, they sit me in a wheelchair and manacle my ankles and left wrist to it. I don’t know what they think I’m going to do. The whole thing reminds me a lot of Ben.

Outside that door it’s like walking into a human-size beehive. Cameramen swarm in and a wall of reporters surges forward, shouting questions to Clarisse. Cameras flash bright and fast. At the courthouse, we worm through another batch of reporters and cameramen who could certainly have better things to do with their time.

By the time I get inside, I only get a five-minute consult with the lawyer Burt found for me, Cynthia White, a polite, exquisitely intelligent black woman that knows how to dress. I feel pretty ugly in my hospital gown and slippers. I can only imagine what my face looks like.

“I didn’t go there to kill him,” I say.

“We’ll discuss that later. For now, you’re pleading not guilty to the murder by reason of lawful defense. And you’re pleading guilty to the weapons charges. Correct?”

“You got it.”

Once I’m in front of the judge, he refuses me bail. I have too famous a reputation for leaving bad situations and disappearing. The media circus only adds to his decision.

As they wheel me out, I wave at Josh and Tom as much as the handcuffs will let me. Looking at my face and cast, they both go Scranton white, if that’s possible for Josh.

The two detectives, Cynthia, and I all arrive back at my pleasantly appointed hospital room at about the same time.

Cynthia wades right in. “Any statements made by my client in your interview Friday when she was barely conscious are not admissible in court.”

The looker sniffs once. “We have more questions.”

During this interrogation, I learn about all the holes in my not-so-carefully laid plans. They found tire tracks from the Rav Four in two different places. Not only that but a second set of fingerprints was found on the door of the Taurus, the van, and in my apartment. This information makes me sweat.

I suggest that they belong to one of Ben’s thugs.

The crooked face guy is watching me without blinking, just like a ‘gator. I’m thinking he’s really the brains of these two. I stare back at him.

They go on punching holes in my version of the story, bringing me back over and over to Ben beating me. I keep feeling how his fists made my ears block up. Soon, I can’t really hear the detectives. And the sound of my shoulder breaking reverberates.

Cynthia cuts in, looking at me in a strange way. “My client is

showing too much strain. We’ll take a break. She’s badly injured.”

The two of them hesitate. Then the looker stands. “We’ll resume our interview tomorrow morning,” he says.

After they leave, I look at Cynthia. Ben’s fists are still banging away at my face. I wish somebody would make him stop. I don’t think I can take this kind of thing anymore.

Cynthia shifts her chair so that it’s facing me and removes a DAT from her purse. Setting the microphone up near my face, she looks me straight in the eye.

“Now let’s have the truth.”

One day I got sent home from school for beating up some stupid kid during recess. I dawdled my way home, then searched the bank for a suitable fishing pole. Daddy caught me on my way into the house to raid me and Vin’s stash of fishing line. I don’t know, maybe he hadn’t had enough to drink yet. By the time Vin got home, I was barely conscious, lying on the front-room floor. Daddy’d left a long ways back, drunk by then, I guess.

In the winter, we had days and days of rain. We grew tired of the sound of drops falling from leaves, of trickling leaks, of buckets set beneath to prevent damage.

But each day, hour after hour, the river drew close, edging up the grass.

“Someday,” Mama said every now and then. “Someday this old river’s gonna wash our two-room right away.” And she’d shrug.

When Vin came home and found me that day that I thought Daddy was going to kill me, he got me on my feet and hid with me all night in a thicket by the river.

What I remember about that night was how bright the moon fell, lighting up like it was day, like we were fuller, deeper, wider than what we looked most other times. The trees, more like magic, drooped over the river. And the black water ran slow beneath our white covering night.

Cynthia sits in silence writing down notes. I think I drowse for a bit. Then lunch arrives and I’m presented with some packets of stale crackers and a bowl of liquid that looks like sewer water. I push it away.

All of a sudden, Cynthia comes alive.

“So you went there,” she says, the end of her pen pressed against her full lips, “intending to kill yourself.” She looks up. “But you couldn’t. Instead, you let him beat the crap out of you.”

I nod my head.

She sits back, staring at me. “Sorry, but I’m not buying it. You’re going to have to come up with something better than that because I don’t think the police are buying a damn thing you’re telling them. With the tiremarks and the fingerprints, they’re probably thinking accomplice. A carefully planned murder in the middle of nowhere. You leave and nobody knows the difference.”

“Then why did I call the police?”

She sits and thinks. “Why indeed?” Her eyes go wide. “You’re covering for somebody. You had help getting out of the tape. Where did you keep the Smith and Wesson?”

I don’t answer.

“Beneath the front seat? That’s where most people keep concealed pistols in their cars. That and the glove box. That’s why the fingerprints on the driver’s door.” Her eyes narrow now.“And the last two shots close up.” She looks me straight in the eye. “So you would have traces of the shots. You didn’t kill him. You were taped up in the back of the van.”

She should get the Perry Mason snot nose award.

“Look,” I say, like I’d been around Burt too long, “Ben was my problem, my responsibility. If anyone should pay a price for his death, it should be me. If I’d gone back with Ben sooner, none of this would have ever happened.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” She looks me straight in the eye. “This is serious, Becca. The way your case stands now, I’d say you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of winning in court. I don’t like those odds. And your history as a hooker won’t endear you to any jury. They’ll think a beating by a pimp might be what you deserved. And since you didn’t try to call the police and get help, they’ll say you took the law into your own hands.”

“So I’ll cop a plea.”

“If you’d tell me who shot him, you wouldn’t have to do that.”

I pretend I’m overcome with pain and let out a small moan. She ignores me.

“You had a lover, didn’t you? The word at the restaurant is that you were having an affair with Miriam Dubois.” She waits after dropping this bombshell.

I lie my head back. All my assorted pains get worse as if somebody cranks up the dial. I moan again, this time for real. And thinking about Miriam, my longing for her hurts so deep that I decide I’d much rather feel the elephants tromping on me.

“Let’s just assume for a minute that it was Miriam up there,” Cynthia says. “Everybody I talk to says she’s a gentle, good person. Not the kind to go out and just shoot somebody. So,” she eyes me, “her case is clearer than yours. You were in imminent danger of great bodily injury, as the law states in the statute for lawful defense. If I’m guessing right, she came upon the scene having no prior knowledge that Ben was there, meaning that her shooting of him couldn’t be premeditated.