The Truth (12 page)

I actually take the phone from my ear and look at it in surprise. When I bring it back, I hear him saying, “I can't get close to him. But you can. And this is going to be good for both of us. You'll know the truth. As I know it. I brought you a small tape recorder you can use. Just make sure it's hidden somewhere on you, so he can't see it when you get him to talk. And if you're thinking about going to the police about me—”

“Wait a minute,” I cut in. “What makes you think I'll—?”

“I've got your brother.”

I stop. Suddenly, the room I'm standing in seems to pull away, leaving only me and the phone and Derek Brannick's voice on the other end.

“You're lying…” My voice falters. “You don't have—”

“When you let him walk to the game by himself, I was watching. As soon as you closed your front door, I grabbed him.”

“I don't believe you. You're just saying that to—”

A sound on the other end. The phone shifting. Then a different voice comes on. Familiar. Scared. “Chris?”

Devon's voice.

“Come get me. Okay? Chris, please?”

I feel gut punched. I open my mouth to respond but can't breathe or talk.

“Chris?” His voice is so small.

“I'm coming, Devon,” I manage. “You hang in there. Okay? I'm—”

The sound of the phone on the other end moving again. Then Derek's voice returning. “
Hang in there
. That's the same thing I said to
my
brother.”

“You son of a bitch!” I snap through gritted teeth. “Let him go. He has nothing to do with this. Nothing—”

“I'm doing this for both of us,” Derek says, his voice remaining maddeningly calm. “You should know that.” He pauses. “I'm sorry for what I just said. That crack about you telling your brother to hang in there… That was cruel.”

“If you hurt him—”

“You'll what? Come after me? I don't think that would be a fair fight. I'm not planning to kill him, if that's what you're worried about. But if you don't follow my instructions, then I'm going to ask him what happened. What he saw. There's still something you're not telling me. So if I ask him, what's he going to tell me? That you knew Caleb didn't have a gun and shot him anyway? And if he won't tell me right away, I'll hurt him. I'll start with one arm. I'll break it in several places. He loves baseball, right? Probably dreams of being a professional baseball player when he grows up, and unlike most kids his age who have that dream, he actually has the ability to make it come true someday maybe, right? I'm sure your father dreamed that for him. But I wonder if after his arm healed, he'd be able to play baseball the same way again.”

Now the room has closed in on me—again. I fight to breathe.

“Are you listening?” Derek asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. Once you go outside, you'll see that you're in a house. This neighborhood is only a couple blocks from where I grew up, actually, and only a few miles from where you live. If you go in the garage, you'll see a car. It belongs to the couple that lives here. They're an elderly couple that go to Florida every winter and won't be back for a week or two. Keys are in the ignition. The tape recorder I talked about is in the glove compartment. There's also a gun, loaded. Six bullets. In case you need an edge to get Detective Fyfe to talk. I should also warn you, your mother called the police hours ago, so they're looking for both you and your brother; you'll have to be careful.”

“I can't just…” I hear myself say. “Fyfe isn't going to just…”

“I know this is a shock,” Derek says. “And it's going to be difficult. But it has to happen this way. I'm sorry. You'll be highly motivated, so be creative. You said you'd do anything for your brother. I'm giving you the chance to be a man of your word.”

“Please, don't do this,” I whisper. “It won't bring your brother back.”

Silence. Then I hear, “Don't you think I know that?”

Another pause. When he speaks again, his typically harsh voice has turned colder, darker. “After—” He coughs. “After you've gotten his confession on tape, call me on the disposable phone. The number's programmed in there. At that time, I'll tell you where I'm holding your brother. Now you better get moving. It's almost seven o'clock. You've got until eight.”

“One hour? I can't—”

“Yes, you can. I have to put a time limit on it, so you'll continue to appreciate the urgency. Don't call me until you have the recording. If I don't hear from you when time is up, you might as well not call. But I promise for the next hour, your brother will be safe.”

“Please…” I try one more time. “Come after me but don't hurt him.”

Silence on the other end. Then, in a voice so low I almost can't hear it, Derek says, “It's more of a chance than you gave my brother.”

The line goes dead.

One hour.

Phone in hand, I open the door.

Now

He didn't say anything about me being on the phone when I called, so maybe he doesn't know. Or maybe he doesn't care, knowing it will be over in an hour one way or another. Might Rita's mother call the police about the strange phone call she got? Could the police put two and two together somehow and figure it was me? But why would she bother? She just thinks I'm some anonymous jerk who called.

Rita. What did Derek do to you?

An accident
, her mother said.

I can't think about that right now. I've got to focus on rescuing Devon. If he can hurt Rita, he's capable of following through on his threat to Devon.

Outside, I find myself in a backyard. I see the garage, but first I head around to the front to get my bearings.

A neighborhood, just like he said. Houses similar in style, one right after another. I see two people sitting on their front porch a few houses down. No one else seems to be outside. In every way, things appear perfectly normal. Serene.

It's still warm, but the sun is low. Dusk will be coming soon.

I've got to get moving.

The garage door opens easily. The car is there. The keys in the ignition. The clock inside actually says it's 6:55. Okay, I have an extra five minutes. Matt's party starts in about an hour. Is he still expecting me to show up with Rita to tell my story? Does he know what happened to her? Maybe she's in the hospital. Wait a minute. If the police are looking for me, is it possible that the police think I hurt Rita?

Concentrate.
In the glove compartment, I find the tape recorder and pull it out. I stare at the gun also sitting in there and leave it inside.

The urge is to start the car, peel out of there. Rush, hurry, drive fast. But what would that accomplish? I can't just go running into the police station and into Detective Fyfe's office. Even if they don't think it was me who hurt Rita, there'll be questions. Answering them will take time. And do I really expect Detective Fyfe to tell me, even if we're alone, that they planted the gun under Caleb Brannick's body? What if the truth is, he didn't? What if Derek is wrong? How will he react? What will he do to Devon?

Time seems to be ticking away inside my head like a bomb, but I have to slow down. I have to force myself to think.

One hour. Why just an hour? Surely he knows it's impossible. Maybe he's planned all along to get back at me for killing his brother by hurting mine. But he wants to play with me first. Torture me. Make me think I have a chance when really I don't.

I'll start with one arm. I'll break it in several places.

Oh God
. I close my eyes, concentrate.

Maybe I could bluff him. Wait till just before a quarter to nine to make it more believable, then tell him I've got the recording. Just so he'll tell me where he's holding Devon.

But he's probably thought of that and will insist on listening to some of the recording on the phone first.

I could try faking the recording. Do it myself, pretending to be Detective Fyfe. It might be enough to fool him over the phone. Get him to tell me where Devon is.

And I've got a gun. Once I'm there, I'll make him let Devon go. Shoot him if I have to.

But he's bound to have a weapon himself. There's too much of a chance of Devon getting hurt. Even killed.

God, poor Devon. He must be so scared. Counting on me to save him.

I'm your big brother. I will always be here to protect you.

Why did he give me a gun?

In case you need an edge to get Detective Fyfe to talk.

Does he really expect me to pull a gun on a police detective? Even if doing so got him to talk, how would I know he was telling me the truth? With a gun on him, he might just be telling me what he thinks I want to hear.

Maybe there's more to why he gave me a gun. But what?

I can't think about that right now. He's given me a chance, as small as it is. I've got to take it.

Focus.

You said you'd do anything for your brother.

Focus!

I'm giving you the chance to be a man of your word.

When the plan suddenly comes to me, my eyes fly open. Could it work? I think it through. Maybe. It's all I have. It
has
to.

The clock on the car's dashboard reads 7:00. Exactly one hour.

I need to get out of here before neighbors begin to notice the garage door is open to a house where the owners are supposed to be out of state. I start the car and begin to back out slowly. No need to attract attention by speeding out of here.

I turn onto the street, facing north. I notice a neighbor across the street stepping out of his front door, looking at me curiously. The garage door is still open. I'm not going to bother getting out to close it. I head off down the street. Looking in the rearview mirror, I see the neighbor crossing the street to the house I just came from.

To follow through on my plan, I need to make a stop. A mile down the road and to the right, I pull into a Walmart. The clock reads 7:05. I hurry in. Fortunately, I find what I'm looking for near the front of the store. Tiny blessings.

I pull out of the parking lot at 7:13. Before doing so, I took the card Detective Fyfe gave me the night we spoke outside the police station out of my wallet. His personal cell phone number is on the back. I punch in the numbers.

It starts to ring. What if he doesn't answer?
Stop thinking like that. He
has
to answer.

Four rings. Five. Six.

His voice mail's going to kick in any minute.

Seven.

“Bob Fyfe.”

Not a recording.

“Detective Fyfe? It's Chris Russo.”

“Chris, where are you? We've been looking for you.”

I hear the urgency in his voice and imagine him signaling people around him.

“I didn't hurt Rita. I didn't—”

“We know.”

“Is she okay?”

“She's in the hospital with a fairly serious concussion. She was unconscious for a while, but she woke up a little while ago. They're going to keep an eye on her, but her prognosis is good.”

I take a breath. “I need to see you. Just you. Right away. Otherwise, he's going to hurt Devon.”

“You mean Derek Brannick?”

Hearing the name surprises me, and I falter, my planned speech flying out of my head.

Detective Fyfe jumps into the silence. “A number of people saw him talking to you at the game last Monday,” he says. “Somebody we talked to after you went missing actually got him in a photo he was taking of the boys on the field, which helped us identify him. But truth is, we considered him right away. Haven't been able to find him. His parole officer didn't even know where he was. So we figured it had to be him that took you and Devon.”

“You knew about him being out?” I hear myself say. “And you didn't warn me?”

“We were keeping an eye on him.”

“You did a great job of that, didn't you?”

“Chris—”

“I'm gonna be in front of the Memorial Park sign in two minutes,” I tell him, getting back on track. “I'll wait five. No more. If you don't show up, or I see other police in the area, I'll leave, figure something else out.”

“You don't have to—”

“I only have until eight o'clock. So just do what I say. Please.”

“Chris, listen—”

I cut him off by hanging up. Slip the cell phone inside my jacket.

Either he's going to be there or he's not.

Before moving, I pull the gun from the glove compartment and slide it into my jacket.

The clock reads 7:22.

Now

Memorial Park is two blocks down the street from my house. The dashboard clock reads 7:24 as I pull up half a block short of the sign, which sits close to the road. I leave the car idling, hunching down low in the seat.

I only gave him a total of seven minutes to get here, so he wouldn't have time to set up anything. No time for any kind of wire surveillance. But I'm not naive. The police will try something. I pick the cell phone up off the seat next to me and wait. I tap my right foot on the floor.

Three minutes. My right foot keeps tapping. I flip the phone back onto the seat. It bounces and almost falls to the floor.

Four minutes. Now my fingers are tapping on the dashboard. I pick the phone back up. Quickly put it back down. If he doesn't show, what do I do? Call Derek and beg? Call Detective Fyfe back and tell him everything, hope that, somehow, they can find Devon in the little time left? Maybe I should have called the police right away. Let them do what they're trained to do.

Five minutes. I decide to wait a little longer. Tap tap.

Six minutes. The phone is back in my hand.

I see him hurrying up to the sign, looking for me. I see no car by the curb that he could have gotten out of. I doubt he walked here. He would have had to run in the time I gave him, and he doesn't look out of breath. Somebody drove him, another cop probably. Someone who dropped him off a block away, maybe, so I wouldn't see him, and is now looking for a place from which to keep an eye on us.

Pulling up quickly next to Detective Fyfe, I call out, “Get in!” through the open passenger-side window.

He looks surprised; he didn't expect me to be in a car.

“Now!”

He hesitates.

“Fine,” I say and take my foot off the brake.

“Okay, okay,” he says, yanking open the passenger door and climbing inside.

I pull away before he's closed the door, drive three blocks, then turn into a shopping center parking lot, pulling around behind the row of stores and stopping. Maybe I shook the other car, maybe I didn't. But if it's close by, I doubt it will come back here and risk being seen.

I shove the gearshift into park. The clock reads 7:34.

“Open your shirt,” I tell him.

“I didn't have time to put on a wire.”

“Do it!”

Detective Fyfe unbuttons his shirt, opens it. I'm not sure I know what I'm looking for, but nothing looks suspicious. Of course it could be someplace else on him, but I don't have time to check. I'll have to trust that he's telling the truth.

From under the seat, I pull out the tape recorder. “If he doesn't hear from me in about twenty minutes that I've got a tape recording of you admitting you planted the gun on his brother, he's going to hurt Devon. Bad. He says he won't kill him, but I don't know if I believe him. He thinks you planted the gun to protect me. He wants the truth.” After a moment, I add, “
I
want the truth.”

I hold the tape recorder up and make a show of pushing the record button.

“This is Chris Russo. I'm talking to Detective Bob Fyfe of the Maple-Braden police force. Detective Fyfe, identify yourself.”

Detective Fyfe says nothing, scowling at me.

“Detective Fyfe, I'm asking you, did you or another member of the police force plant the gun found under Caleb Brannick's body the night I shot him?”

He still says nothing.

“Detective—”

All at once, Detective Fyfe grabs the tape recorder from me and turns it off. “You don't have to do this, Chris.”

“Give that back!”

“You don't cooperate with someone like him. You think if you show up with my voice on this tape recorder, he's going to let your brother go? More than likely, he'll kill both of you. You want to help Devon, you tell me where Derek Brannick's holding him, where it is you're supposed to meet him after you make this tape.”

“It's too risky.”

“And what you're doing isn't?”

I lean in. “You told me if I needed anything from you, to call. You said you'd be there for me. Well, I need something now. I'm desperate. Please help me.”

He stares at me. I see anger in his eyes.

The clock reads 7:42.
Hurry up, damn it!

His expression changes. He looks at the tape recorder in his hand, then emphatically pushes the record button and begins to speak into it in a harsh, edged voice.

“You want the truth?” he says. “On the night Caleb Brannick was killed, a gun was discovered under his body during the course of the on-scene investigation. Further investigation over the next couple of days confirmed that the gun belonged to one Helen Brannick, Caleb's mother. When we talked to her, Mrs. Brannick said she had only noticed the gun was missing in the last month or so—this was confirmed by a police report she'd filed—and before then, she hadn't even taken the gun out of the closet, where she kept it in a shoe box, in ten months or longer. Since it turned up in her son Caleb's possession, it was determined that either he had taken it without his mother's knowledge when he ran away from home or that, at some point later, he snuck back into the house to steal it. The truth is he had the gun on him the night he broke into the Russo home and was killed. His death was caused by an act of self-defense. Case closed.”

Detective Fyfe angrily turns the tape recorder off and extends it toward me. “If you want to go play this for him because you think that's the best way to save your brother, go ahead. Or you can tell me right now where it is you're supposed to meet, and we can go get him.”

When I don't take the tape recorder from him, he puts it away in his jacket pocket.

“You won't have enough time,” I tell him.

“You'd be surprised.”

I swallow, take in a deep breath. “I'm supposed to meet him by the big roller coaster at the old amusement park that closed down five years ago.”

“Fun Time Alley? In Ridner?”

“Yes.”

Reaching inside his jacket pocket again, he pulls out a cell phone. “Got that?” he says into it.

“We're already on our way, sir,” a voice from the phone answers back.

“Good. Keep me apprised.”

I stare at him. “Someone was listening the whole time?” I say. “I didn't even think of a cell phone.”

“We usually know what we're doing.”

“What if they don't get there in time?”

“We can move fast when we have to. Plus, they'll be getting the Ridner police involved as we speak. It's going to be okay.”

Tossing out those words like it's that easy.
It's going to be okay.

“I wish you'd called us right away when you had the chance.”

“I'm sorry. I should have.”

Detective Fyfe sighs, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You were trying to save your brother. You thought you were doing the right thing.

“Where'd you get this car?” Detective Fyfe asks.

“Derek left it for me to use.”

“Derek? You're on a first-name basis with him?” He looks at me then mutters, “Stolen, probably.”

I don't say anything.

“We got your car from the front of the Moyer home, by the way. We'll get it back to you soon, get you a loaner in the meantime. Found your cell too.”

I just nod.

“Let me drive now. I need to get this car into impound for evidence, and we need to question you, but I know your mother will want to see you. I'll drop you home. There've been two officers with her, in case a ransom call came in. You can come by the station when we have your brother.”

We switch places, and the car starts moving. I see the minutes clicking down as we pass Memorial Park, then the baseball field where Devon plays his games. Soon, we're in front of my house.

The sun has started to dip below the horizon, making everything around us turn a shade of gray.

“As soon as we've got him, I'll call you,” Detective Fyfe says. “I promise.”

I go to open the door, glance at the car clock. Nine minutes till eight.

My heart's pounding. But there's still time, and I have to be sure he's telling the whole truth. Devon's life may depend on it.

“When you questioned me at the station the night it happened,” I say, speaking carefully, “you specifically told me not to mention to the assistant DA that I didn't remember actually seeing the gun in his hand. If you knew he had a gun, why was that so important?”

“Come on, Chris.” He sees me staring at him, sighs. “I just wanted to make things easier for you. That's all. There was no need to complicate things.”

“Complicate.”

“Yes. Now, I really have to—”

“What is it you're not telling me?”

Exasperated now, he shakes his head. “There's nothing—”

“Yes. There is.”

In a lower voice, as if he's afraid someone is listening, Detective Fyfe says, “Why can't you just drop it, Chris? With everything your family's been through—”

“If you don't tell me, I'm always gonna know there's something. I don't want to live with that. I'd rather live with the truth.” I grab his arm. “Bob…
please!
”

After a moment, Detective Fyfe shakes his head again. “You are relentless, aren't you?”

I just wait. Heart now
slamming
against my chest.

Another moment passes before he begins. “Caleb Brannick definitely had a gun. Just like I said. The gun belonged to his mother, and he brought it into your house. But we didn't find it under his body. We found it in his pocket. So it couldn't have been in his hand when you shot him. We took it out and put it under his body, to make it look like he'd been holding the gun and dropped it, then fell on it.”

I let his words move slowly over me.

It couldn't have been in his hand when you shot him.

“It doesn't change anything, Chris. You understand that, right?”

They come to your house and find a scared teenage kid, the son of a cop who'd died in the line of duty, who'd just killed an intruder for doing what? Pointing a can of soup at him?

“Are you all right?” I hear Detective Fyfe ask.

“Yeah,” I say in a low voice.

“What I said about calling me if you need to talk… That still goes.”

“Okay.”

“Go see your mother. She needs you. I'll talk to you later.”

I get out of the car.

It couldn't have been in his hand when you shot him.

It doesn't change anything, Chris. You understand that, right?

But it does change things. In essence, the police did plant the gun.

Derek was right!

And if I hadn't gone downstairs, an unarmed thirteen-year-old boy would not have been killed.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I hear Detective Fyfe ask from the car.

“It helps to know.”

“Still, if you want to talk…”

I nod, and Detective Fyfe puts the car in gear, waving as he pulls away.

I move slowly toward the house, listening for the sound of the car to diminish behind me.

As soon as it's gone, I turn back toward the road, just shy of the front door. As I begin walking down the sidewalk, I pull out the cell phone Derek had left me from my jacket, along with the second tape recorder I bought at Walmart. Thankfully, it's still running. I rewind it and listen to make sure I've got Detective Fyfe's voice clearly.

The clock in the car had read four minutes till eight when I got out. I'm in good shape. I got it all, and there's still time. Moving quickly, I push the button to dial the number Derek programmed into the phone.

Two rings. Three.

Pick up, pick up
.

Five rings. Six.

Please, please, pick up.

Seven rings. Eight.

Why the hell aren't you—?

Suddenly, his voice comes on.

“You're too late.”

And he hangs up.

“No. No! I'm not!” I'm shouting, even though I know he can't hear me. As I call right back, I yell, “I have a couple minutes!” It rings. Ten, eleven times. Nothing.

Then the ringing stops. Followed by a click that ends the connection.

I collapse onto someone's front lawn. It was all for nothing. Derek had never intended to let me save my brother. Was he hurting him right now?
Devon, I tried. I—

The phone rings.

“I've got it!” I blurt into it, wiping tears from my eyes.

Long silence. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“Play it.”

I bring the recorder up to the cell phone.

My desperate voice plays out. “
You told me if I needed anything from you, to call. You said you'd be there for me. Well, I need something now. I'm desperate. Please help me.
”

Silence. Then comes Detective Fyfe's voice.

“
You want the truth? On the night Caleb Brannick was killed—
”

I cut it off, bring the phone back to my ear.

“Keep it going,” I hear him demand.

“No. I'll play the rest when I see you.”

“You're in no position to—”

“Do you want me to play this whole thing for you? Then tell me where you are, where Devon is. I'll play it then. You know I will.”

A long silence. Has he hung up? Did I push it too far? “We're at the baseball complex,” he says finally. “The minor field. Where we first met. I'll have him in the home dugout.”

“Put Devon on the phone,” I say.

“You'll see him—”

“I want to know he's okay. If you want to listen to this tape, put him on.”

The sound of shuffling. Then I hear, “Chris? When are you coming?”

“I'm coming right now. I'll be there soon. I promise.”

Derek comes back on. “Now get over here.”