by Brent, Amy
“Please stop,” he said, his voice a coarse whisper.
“Why, Hank?” I asked smugly. “There’s so much more to read.” I let him stew for a moment. He tugged a dirty rag from his back pocket and mopped his face with it. “Tell me the truth, Hank. When did it start? How? Why?”
Hank took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Staring through the windshield, he said, “She called me one night a couple of months ago. Right after you shipped out. Said the shower was leaking. Asked if I could come over and fix it for her. So I did.” He put his hands in his lap with the rag wadded between them. “We’d always been flirty, you know, just innocent stuff. But that night, after I fixed the shower, she came in wearing just a robe and said she was going to take a shower and wanted me to join her.”
“She came on to you?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “Bull fucking shit, Hank.”
He pushed his shoulders up and down. “It’s the truth. She said she was lonely. She said she didn’t want to hurt Emily, but— “
“Her own fucking sister,” I growled.
He nodded. “Yes. But she needed someone. She was so lonely… so we… well… you know.”
“So, you fucked my wife in my shower,” I said, humming. “Go on.”
“It was only supposed to be a onetime thing, but things got out of hand.” He glanced over at me with a sad smile at the edge of his lips. “You know how it is at our age, Ben. You live your life, you try to be faithful, you try to be a good man, but then a beautiful woman looks into your eyes and tells you how sexy she thinks you are, how much she wants you. I started obsessing over Bethany. I couldn’t get her out of my head. We met at the house to talk about it. Turned out, she was having the same thoughts as I was. So… well… after that we met three or four times a week.”
I snorted a laugh. “You were fucking my wife three or four times a week?” I bit down hard on my lip to keep myself from slapping him just out of principle. Bethany and I barely had sex two or three times a month, even when things were good. Son of a bitch. Then I thought of Lolita. The appeal of a new attraction. Hormones and testosterone raging. I would fuck her three or four times a day if I could. My cock was chubbing up just thinking about her. Lolita. My little Lolita.
“Ben?”
I blinked away the thoughts of Lolita and turned to find Hank staring at me. He swallowed hard and said, “Did you hear what I said?”
“No.”
“I asked if you were going to tell Emily?”
“Am I going to tell sweet Emily, your wife who thinks you hung the moon, that you were fucking her sister? Am I going to tell her that the two people she loved the most betrayed her? I don’t know, Hank. Do you think I should tell her? Or should I just let you do it?”
“I… I mean… She’ll be devastated, Ben.” Tears filled his eyes. He sniffed back the snot and swiped a dirty hand under his nose. “I mean, out of everyone involved, she’s really the only innocent party here.”
I frowned at him. “What about Cody, Hank? What about your kids? Hell, what about me? Am I not an innocent party?”
He huffed a smile. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Do you think Bethany would have turned to me if she was happy with you, Ben?” he asked. He hitched his chin and looked down his round nose at me. “She said over and over that you pushed her away. That you were married to the SEALs and only came home when you had to.”
“That’s not true,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. My hands rolled into fists in my lap. “I left the SEALS for her. I did my best.”
“Maybe you did, Ben,” he said, blowing out his cheeks and looking out the windshield again. It was hot in the car now even with the AC blowing cold from the vents on the dash. “But your best wasn’t good enough.”
I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel to keep my hands busy and stared out the windshield along with Hank, though neither of us were looking at anything in particular. We were just two guys who’d shared a woman, sitting in a black Range Rover on a hot Virginia day, one contemplating running and the other contemplating… what? What was I going to do to Hank? Was I going to beat the shit out of him because I was a shitty husband and pushed Bethany away, as he claimed. I didn’t know what I was going to do yet. There were more people involved than just me and Hank. There was his wife and kids, my son… Lolita…
“Tell me about the night she died,” I said quietly. “What was she doing out in that storm?”
Hank took a deep breath and wiped his eyes on the rag. “We met that evening,” he said. “It was just a spur of the moment thing. Bethany dropped Cody off at the house to spend the night. She said she was going out with some friends for dinner, but we planned to meet at a motel out on the highway where no one would see us.”
“So, while your wife was babysitting my son, you were fucking my wife in some shithole motel on the highway.”
He lowered his eyes and let his head bob. “I wasn’t home when Bethany dropped Cody off. I was on a job in DC. Lockheed facility pipe burst. I don’t normally work on Sunday, but it was an emergency, so… She called me after she left the house and told me to meet her.”
“And did you?”
He raised his head to stare out the window again. His eyes scanned the empty parking lot like he was looking for the answers there. “Yes, we met at the motel around six. I left there around eight, I guess, and headed home. The last time I saw Bethany she was getting into her car to go home. It was raining out. I told her to be careful. The roads would be slick.” His eyes filled with tears again. His voice cracked and filled with phlegm. “I swear to God, Ben, that’s the truth. That’s all I know.”
“Which motel were you at?”
“Huh?”
“Which motel?”
He blinked at me. “The Motel 6 on the I-395, at the Arlington exit.”
I knew the one. I passed it whenever I went into DC to meet Quinn. I gave him a hard stare and said, “And the last time you saw Bethany she was heading straight home. And so were you.”
He gave me a nod and looked away.
I thought about it for a moment.
Something didn’t ring true.
Then it hit me.
Bethany’s death was not an accident.
And Hank was never the man I thought he was.
Lolita
I tried to call Ryder to let him know the shit was hitting the fan with my mom, but the call went straight to voicemail. I smiled at Cody, who was sitting next to me on the couch in Ben’s living room watching a Barney video. Ben had left me the key so I could feed Cody his lunch and put him down for his afternoon nap.
“Where is your daddy?” I asked, staring at the phone. I sent Ryder a text, then set the phone on the couch and let Cody lay his head in my lap. I played with his hair for a few minutes and scratched his back. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.
I brushed the hair from his forehead and smiled. Such a beautiful child. I wanted to just squeeze him to death. Honestly, I had never given a moment’s thought to being a mommy, but this felt so right. I could see myself raising this child, fixing his lunches, sending him off to school, taking care of his booboos and tucking him in at night. I knew I was getting ahead of myself. And I had to admit that Mom was right about one thing: Ben and I had just met and didn’t really know each other. And maybe I was just a coping mechanism for his grief. And maybe I had a “daddy complex” that drew me to older men. That’s a whole lot of maybes… I could only judge things by what I felt in my heart. And my heart was telling me to just hang on tight and enjoy the ride to see where it might lead.
I carefully slid off the couch so I didn’t wake Cody and picked up my phone. I walked through Ben’s house, slowly, letting my eyes drift all around. I had been inside the house most of the weekend, but I hadn’t paid it much attention. It was nice, neat and tidy, which was surprising given that a four-year-old lived there. There were framed photographs on the wall in the hallway. Ben and Bethany when they we
re young. Ben and Bethany on vacation. Ben and Bethany getting married. Ben and Bethany and Cody when he was a baby. Ben in uniform. Bethany holding Cody. They all looked so fucking happy. Sad, how time changes everything. Or does it? Do things change or do they simply fall apart over time like an old rusty car?
Standing there staring into the eyes of Bethany Ryder, I felt like an invader. Like a virus that was poisoning her memory.
Maybe mom was right about everything...
Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight…
Maybe Ben was too old for me…
Maybe my Pussy Power was being overridden by his Cock Control.
Ben said his marriage was over, but the poor woman had only been dead for a few days and now here I was making myself at home in her house.
Maybe mom was right.
Maybe this was all a very big mistake.
Ryder
I didn’t say anything else. Neither did Hank. I put the gear into Drive and drove silently back to Hank’s shop on the other side of the industrial park. When I pulled into the lot I saw three white vans lined up with the back doors open. Hank’s three helpers were loading pipe and tools into the backs of the vans.
“What were you driving that night?” I asked. I shut off the engine and pulled out the key. I held the key tight in my right hand like a small dagger. When Hank didn’t say anything, I slammed the sharp tip of the key into his left thigh. The key cut right through his pants and went deep into his leg.
“Fuck!!” Hank screamed and grabbed at my wrist, but he couldn’t pull my hand away. I dug the key in and twisted it around. “Jesus fuck, Ben! What the fuck are you doing?”
“I asked you a question.” I nodded at the three white vans. They were identical, older Fords white with “Perkins Plumbing” on the sides in big blue letters. “What were you driving the night Bethany died.”
There were tears in his eyes now. His fingers clutched at my wrist. Blood was soaking into his pants leg. Hank’s helpers noticed the commotion. They each took a length of pipe in their hand and gave me a hard look.
“Hank, if those guys come over here someone’s going to get hurt and it won’t be me.” I twisted the key in his leg. “You have two seconds to answer my question.”
He held up his hands to keep his helpers back and said, “I was in my truck.”
I glanced around the lot. “Your truck? What truck?”
“The F-150, parked out back.” He was crying like a baby, snot streaming from his nose as he tried to free the key from his leg.
“Show me,” I said, pulling out the key and pushing him hard toward the passenger door. I got out of the car and went around to the other side. I jerked open the door, grabbed Hank by the collar of his sweaty t-shirt, and pulled him out of the car.
“Fuck, Ben, what are you doing?”
I ignored Hank’s moans. I looked at his helpers, big boys with thick forearms who were bouncing pipes in their hands like they were thinking about taking a swing at me. I lifted the front of my t-shirt so they could see the Glock tucked into my waist band. I barked at them.
“Call the cops,” I said, letting my shirt drop. “Tell them to get here now. Tell them there’s been a murder.”
“Ben… what the fuck…”
“Shut up, Hank,” I growled, pushing him in front of me. “Show me your fucking truck.”
Hank held up his hands and led me through the shop, which was an old Jiffy Lube building with open bays and an office on one side. The walls were covered with racks of pipes, joints, sinks, faucets, and an array of old plumbing parts that Hank used on the job. We went out a back door and there was a white Ford F-150 pickup truck that I recognized as Hanks.
“There,” he said, jerking away from me. He leaned down and clutched his bloody leg. “Fuck, I need to go to the ER.”
I swept my eyes down the driver’s side. The truck was dirty and scratched from heavy use, but the paint was intact. I wondered for a moment if I’d been wrong. Then I walked around to the passenger side. There was a long swipe of charcoal gray paint and deep scratches on the left front fender; damage left from Hank forcing Bethany off the road.
“You said Bethany was heading home from the motel,” I said as I came back around the truck. I was calm on the outside, but on the inside I was a fucking volcano about to erupt. My insides were churning. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my muscles.
“Yes,” Hank muttered. “That’s right.”
“But she wasn’t heading home, was she,” I said. “She was heading in the opposite direction when she went off the road. She was headed to your house, wasn’t she? Where was she going, Hank? Was she going to tell Emily about your affair?”
He put up his hands like he thought I was gonna punch him. He leaned away from me and spat out the words. “What? No… I swear— “
Before I even realized what I was doing, the Glock was in my hand and the barrel was pointed between Hank’s eyes. I had a small, laser-sight mounted under the Glock. The little red dot bounced around his forehead for a moment, then steadied between his eyes.
“You motherfucker,” I said, my eyes filling with angry tears. “You killed her, didn’t you?”
“It was an accident, Ben,” he muttered, putting his hands up to shield his face from the laser dot. “She got upset. She wanted to tell Emily. Christ, Ben, she was headed to my fucking house to tell Emily everything. I couldn’t let that happen. Don’t you see? It would have devastated Emily. And my boys. It would have ruined my marriage.”
I grabbed the front of his shirt and swung him hard into the side of the truck. The breath jarred from his lungs. I stuck the Glock into his left ear and pushed his head sideways.
“You fucking piece of shit,” I growled. “She was going to tell Emily so you ran her off the fucking road?”
“No, it wasn’t like that!” he whined. Tears streamed down his face. Snot dripped from his nose. I pushed the barrel harder into his ear and the air filled with the sour scent of urine as he pissed his fucking pants.
“Tell me,” I said, teeth gritted. “You have three seconds.”
“We were at the motel. She wanted to tell Emily about us. She had this crazy idea that we could be together. I told her no, that I loved Em. What we had was just sex. She jumped in her car and took off. I followed her in my truck. It was raining. I tried to pass her, just to get her to stop. My truck tapped her car. I didn’t mean to hit her. It was an accident. She went off the road and hit the tree… Jesus Christ, Ben, you gotta believe me… it was an accident… I didn’t mean to do it… don’t you see…”
He fell to his knees and started blubbering like a baby. I could hear the sirens getting closer. I grabbed Hank’s collar and told him not to move. His three helpers were peeking around the building watching the scene play out.
“Did you guys hear that?” I asked. They all nodded with their mouths hanging open. I briefly thought about stepping behind him and putting a bullet into the back of his head. I’d done it in Iraq more than once. I could do it again without batting an eye. Then I thought about Cody. And Lolita. And Emily and her boys. Enough people had been hurt because of me. I let my arm drop to my side.
I dropped the clip out of the Glock into my palm and ejected the bullet that was in the chamber and caught it in the air. I pushed the bullet back into the clip, then set the Glock and the clip on the hood of the truck just as I heard the cop cars screeching into the front lot.
By the time the dozen or so cops came around the building with guns drawn, I was on my knees next to Hank with my hands behind my head, waiting patiently to be cuffed.
I’d explain things at the station house.
For now, the goal was to not get shot by a trigger-happy cop.
Hank was lying on the ground in a ball, crying like a fucking baby who knew his playtime was over.
Ryder
Quinn was waiting outside the station house when the police finally released me later in the afternoon. I knew trying to explain things to the
cops on the scene would be a waste of time. I simply and calmly said, “This man killed my wife and they heard him say it” and let them manhandle me to the ground.
My wrists were wrenched and cuffed behind me, then I was shoved into the back of a police car for the ride to downtown. Hank was treated much the same, though it became a debate among the cops who would have to ferry the bawling guy with blood and piss all over the front of his pants.
I waited until I was in an interrogation room with a plainclothes detective named Quincy to lay out my story. He listened intently and took notes, then called in Lieutenant Mason, the uniformed cop who was at the scene that night. At first, Mason was hesitant to back up my story, embarrassed that he’d missed the swipe of white paint on the fender of Bethany’s car. The detective was no idiot. He picked up quickly on Mason’s hesitancy to admit his mistake and let him go.
“So, just once more for the record,” Quincy said, tapping the pen to the notepad lying in front of him. “Lay it out for me.”
I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Calmly, for the tenth time, I said, “My brother-in-law, Hank Perkins, was having an affair with my wife, Bethany Ryder.”
“Hank is married to Bethany’s sister, Emily,” he said, following along with the notes he’d taken an hour before.
“Yes. Hank and Bethany were at the Motel 6 on Interstate 395, at the Arlington exit. Bethany wanted to confess the affair to Emily. Hank didn’t want her to. Bethany got in her car and headed toward Hank’s house in Fall’s Church.”
“And Hank goes after her,” he said, nodding slowly.
“Yes. Hank confessed to me that he ran her off the road. He said he was trying to get her to stop. He said it was an accident.”
“Do you believe him?” Quincy asked, glancing up from his notes.
“Does it matter?”
He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Not to me.”
I smiled.
