The Evil That Men Do (24 page)

He parked and entered a bar across the street, feeling misled. There wasn’t an empty warehouse or dislocated house within view. In fact, he couldn’t see the appeal of the abandoned land. He supposed if the government was buying the land to put in ethanol factories like Marshall said, it would be valuable, but it would take a hell of a lot of work and a huge investment to build real estate.

Then again, land was land.

He sat at the bar and ordered a beer. It would make him feel looser, take the edge off. He would be able to think. The bartender put a Yuengling down in front of Donne. This early in the afternoon, he was surprised at how crowded the bar was.

“You’re not a regular here, are you?” the bartender said.

Donne looked down at the ketchup-stained bar, not wanting to be bothered. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Didn’t think so,” he said, nodding at the people around him. They were blue collar, guys in flannel and jeans, with dirty nails and dry knuckles. Apparently, he didn’t fit that crowd.

An idea struck him.

“Hey,” Donne said, “anyone else who wasn’t a regular come in here recently?”

The bartender arched his eyes. Donne described Hackett.

“Ah,” the bartender said. “He’s kind of a regular. Hasn’t been here in a while, though.”

The bartender turned and walked away.

“Hey! Wait a second.”

Ignoring Donne, he headed back into the kitchen. Looking around, it seemed all the regulars were ignoring him. If he made a scene, at least they didn’t seem to care.

The jukebox came on, Johnny Cash. Donne vaguely recalled Artie mentioning how there were only a few artists you’d hear at a bar. And most of those artists you’d also hear on the radio. Johnny Cash was the exception. You could hear him on TV.

The bartender came back, stroking his beard. His eyes were dark and Donne couldn’t read them. He looked like most of the people who sat drinking. He was holding what looked like receipt tape.

“Our mutual friend is kind of a dick, isn’t he?” His free hand was tight in a fist on the bar, and his nostrils flared. Donne had mentioned Hackett’s name when he described him, but the bartender wouldn’t even say it.

Donne nodded. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“You ever see him around anymore?”

“No. I’m actually looking for him now. Thought I might find him here.”

“Used to be a real quiet guy. Weird, though. Come in, have a beer or three, leave and just stand outside for an hour or so staring at the bridge. You know anything about that?”

“I have a few guesses,” Donne said.

“Thought so. Then you probably know him pretty well.”

Donne shook his head.

The bartender nodded toward the regulars. “Better than any of them.”

He put the piece of receipt tape in front of Donne. “You see, he stormed out of here a few weeks ago. He still hasn’t paid his tab. Maybe you could help out with that.”

Donne finished his beer and closed his eyes. For a minute, he actually thought the bartender was going to give him some much-needed help finding Hackett. He took out his wallet.

“Yeah, I think I can help.”

The bartender’s face flushed. Donne thought he was probably surprised this seemed like it was actually going to work.

“If you help me out first,” Donne said.

“I can give you a refill.”

“You said our friend was a dick. Why?”

“Last time he was here, he almost got my liquor license pulled. He was always quiet, so I don’t know what the fuck happened. But he had a couple of shots with his beers this time and started talking to Eddie. He’ll be in later. And the next thing I know, they’re in each other’s faces arguing. Eddie’s saying you can’t even see the scar. And our friend, he tells him the scar ruined his life. Eddie tells him not to worry about it. And our friend breaks his nose. Don and Ralph try to pull our friend off Eddie, and our friend puts Don through a table. Then he jams a dart in Ralph’s cheek.”

“Jesus,” Donne said.

“Yeah. So he leans over Ralph and tells him now he’ll have a scar too. And then he walks over to Eddie, and according to Eddie, he whispers to him, ‘This scar shows me I am alive.’ I don’t know for sure, I was on the phone with nine-one-one at that point.”

Donne looked at the receipt and paid the tab. “I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.”

“How would you know?”

“He’s said it before. To me.”

“Weird fucking guy. He was definitely a dick.”

Donne didn’t answer. He got off the barstool and headed toward the door, as Johnny Cash gave way to Bruce.

Outside, Donne tried to call his sister. He wanted to ask her about what Hackett had said in the bar.
I am alive
. There seemed to be a clue there, something that would lead to Hackett’s location. The phone rang until the voice mail picked up. Maybe they’d gone for the money.

“What are you doing?”

This didn’t make any sense to Susan. A cop wasn’t supposed to be pointing a gun at her. And the look in his eyes was one of pure anger.

“We have to go to the bank,” Marshall said, his finger wrapped around the trigger.

“Please, put the gun down,” Susan said. “Please.”

This was the second time a gun had been pointed at her in less than twenty-four hours. Jackson must have been through it a thousand times. Did it always feel this way? The lead ball in her stomach weighing her down. Every muscle in her body tensed, begging her to run. But if she got up to run she was dead, shot in the back. Sitting here wasn’t a better option; death still seemed certain.

“We have to go to the bank and get the money.”

The words were haunting and hypnotizing. Susan felt compelled to get out of the chair and follow this man anywhere he wanted her to go. She had no choice.

Oh my God, this isn’t supposed to be happening to me.

She clenched her fists, gritted her teeth, and willed the fear out of her. She was going to figure a way out of this.

The phone in the living room rang.

“Leave it,” Marshall said. “We have to go. Now.”

“No.”

Marshall pointed the gun at Draxton’s body and put another bullet in it. The gunshot echoed off the kitchen tiles. Sharp stabbing pain shot through Susan’s ears. She couldn’t believe how loud a single shot could be. When the guns went off before, she was on the ground, covering her ears; it sounded like a thunderstorm. Now it sounded like standing next to an airplane taking off.

“Go. Now,” Marshall said.

Susan Carter went.

SIX HOURS

Bryan Hackett stared at his computer. The money should have been in his account by now.

Water dripped behind him and the smell struck him again. He couldn’t wait to get out of this hellhole. He refreshed the web page displaying his bank account. Still no transfer.

Sitting back, closing his eyes, Hackett pictured the islands. The sun beat down on his face as the waves lapped along the shore. Jill held his hand. They were finally happy. His parents were there, his mother smiling at the coast. His father put his hand on Hackett’s shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, son,” he said. “The fire was beautiful.”

Hackett smiled back at his father.

“It was, wasn’t it?” he said. Surprisingly, his Irish accent was back. The one he’d worked so hard to hide. But now that it was all over, it was okay. Everything was acceptable now.

It was the way it should be.

“Ma,” he said. “I’m so sorry you had to suffer. But I did it.”

His mother opened her mouth, but no sound came out. It was okay, though; he knew she was happy.

“Lad,” his father said. “This is what I’d always hoped of you. We never wanted to give you up.”

Hackett opened his eyes with a start. Checking the clock, he saw he’d been asleep an hour. Time was ticking away. He pressed refresh once again. Still no money.

What the fuck?

This wasn’t the way it should be working out. The two of them, Donne and Susan, should have paid by now and be making their way down the stairs. Creeping toward Carter. Donne would be watching his back — he was smart. But their goal would be Franklin and only Franklin. Hackett would be across the street counting the seconds. And then finally, when he knew they were downstairs, he’d type the number into his cell phone and…
BOOM
.

Just like his father said.

The fire would be beautiful.

But where was the money?

Only one beer. Donne had stayed for only one beer. But his body wanted another six or seven. He wouldn’t allow it. Maybe he was growing up. Maybe the last few months of his life weren’t worth getting drunk over anymore. Or maybe he just wanted to save his brother-in-law’s life.

He crossed the bridge on Route 78 heading back toward the Turnpike. The conversation with the bartender still tickled something at the back of his mind. He tried to remember when Hackett had said those words to him before.

Donne turned up the radio. “Walking on Sunshine” played. He sang along, trying to give his subconscious a chance to work.

They’d found themselves down along the Passaic River. It was a hike from his aunt and uncle’s, but the weather was nice and his uncle had sent the two boys off in the hopes that they’d bond. Donne was trying to connect with his cousin. Hackett was having none of it.

As Hackett walked along the Passaic River, he was yelling out his name to hear the echo off the river. He walked ten feet ahead of Donne, ignoring him. Donne would try to catch up and Hackett would run ahead. The kid was a prick.

Hackett yelled, “I AM ALIVE!”

It was completely ridiculous. Donne was embarrassed, but he still tried to talk to Hackett. Every time Donne tried, Hackett would ignore him and scream he was alive again.

They trudged along the muddy banks of the river, looking at the houses up on the street. Most of them were empty or decrepit, but some were kept up nicely. One or two of them had kayaks in their yard.

After about twenty minutes — Donne wasn’t even sure if they were in Rutherford anymore — they stumbled on a small concrete building. It was abandoned, and the bricks were crumbling. Hackett, now finding a use for his bundled energy, charged the door.

“We have to go inside,” he said.

Donne made a show of looking at his watch.

“Yeah, I really think it’s time we start going back.”

“No. Let me go in here. This is the perfect hiding place. I want to see the inside.”

He tugged on the door and it gave way. Without waiting for a response, Hackett went inside.

By the time Donne followed him in, the smell of must and mold making him wince, Hackett had disappeared. The room was pretty much empty and dark. Some old papers and a lot of dust. And another doorway. Through it was the basement, old wooden steps that looked like they were about to shatter if you stepped on them. Donne wasn’t about to try and go down there.

“This is so cool!” Hackett yelled from the bottom. “I am alive!”

Donne had turned around and left. He didn’t need this. This kid was a freak.

And as the song ended on the radio, he stepped on the gas, swerving into the left lane and passing a line of traffic. He knew exactly where Bryan Hackett was keeping Franklin Carter.

FIVE HOURS

Franklin Carter knew only pain. His face throbbed, his cheeks swollen so thick his eyes were pressed shut. He was pretty sure his nose was broken, and he’d been having trouble breathing. But that was nothing compared to the screaming pain in his arm.

He’d tried to compartmentalize it, take the pain and press to the outermost reaches of his brain. But that didn’t seem to work; it was all-encompassing, all he could think about. He just wanted to go numb.

That didn’t work. Numbness never came. In fact, he had to fight through the pain just to sort through what had brought things to this point. It made sense now. Isabelle had started the decline about two months ago. She’d started talking about her father all the time, talking about whatever it was he’d been through.

Hackett’s visit must have spurred her on. Snapped those memories to the forefront of her mind, no matter how shattered that mind was. And how creepy was that? He’d visited her to decide whether or not he needed her out of the way.

That was why he’d killed Faye and George, Carter thought. But now he was out in the open. He was that confident. Or that insane.

And what the hell had he been doing behind Franklin? What had he been making?

Whatever it was, Carter wasn’t about to find out. The pain had taken hold again.

Here we go,
he thought, and gritted his teeth against it.

Donne got off Route 3 at the aptly named River Road. The Passaic River flowed smoothly, any sign of the vast pollution and sludge invisible from the street. As he drove, he saw the familiar kayaks and worn-down houses. The area hadn’t changed much since his teenage years.

He didn’t know exactly where the building was. As he drove, he hoped it would jump out at him. The houses were in need of a makeover, new paint jobs or new aluminum siding. Some areas had construction fences up, and it looked like that would happen. But for now, the area still felt like it had a decade ago. Donne drove slowly, the cars behind him beeping or passing illegally.

As he crested a hill, the building came up on his left. It was one of the areas designated for construction, a portable john and a large Dumpster set up outside it. The cinder-block walls had crumbled at the corners and the wall facing the road had a large hole in it. The building hadn’t aged well. Donne was surprised it had lasted this long.

On his way here from Wayne, he had placed the Browning on the passenger seat, and now the sun glinted off it. All morning, he’d been preparing his mind to use it again. Shooting Delshawn Butler that morning was spur-of-the-moment and he hadn’t given himself a chance to even think about it. But since then, he’d decided that if he saw Hackett he’d shoot him, no questions asked.

No way would he let Susan suffer through what he had suffered with Jeanne.