Godspeed

by Nickolas Butler

  And so, in the end, he had but one very unsavory choice.

  First, he changed into his worst clothing, garments that could be burned without a second thought. Next, he dragged Bill’s heavy, heavy body into the woods about a hundred yards from the house. It was taxing work, and Cole was sweating heavily within minutes. The body kept catching on low-hanging branches and cumbersome rocks. Once Cole was satisfied that the body was no longer visible from the house, he noticed that the corpse had created a trail as it was dragged. He snapped a branch off a pine tree and walking backward along this trail, did his best to obscure the gruesome passage before walking to the river with a flashlight and peering down at José. He would never be able to carry the dead man out of the water and up that steep bank. Cole glanced at his truck. Perhaps he could tie a rope around José and, with the aid of the truck, tow the man not only up and out of the river but all the way over to Bill’s body. Then both men would be out of sight, at least for a little while. The cold would be helpful, he imagined; for there would be no smell, and maybe the snow would cover them.

  He slid down the riverbank in the dark, snow still landing in his hair, on his shoulders. In the river, he secured a thick towrope under José’s arms and around his back, then wrestled the man’s body so his head was positioned toward the truck. The cold water was crippling. He looked again at the body and decided he did not want to spend his night in this river, retying knots and grappling with a corpse. It began to sink in again, the horror of what he’d done, of what he was doing right now, José’s lifeless head lolling this way and that, so that Cole noticed certain details he hadn’t before: an earring hole, a tattoo of the Virgin Mary just above his heart, and those sad, generic, brutalized sneakers. Cole would disappear this man, and if he had any family, they’d never see him again; never know where he’d gone, how he’d spent his last days, or even if he was still alive somewhere and had simply chosen some new and unimaginable course. Cole realized he knew nothing about the man at all, and yet, there he was, struggling to tie a sort of harness around his midsection, weaving the rope through his lean legs and around his narrow waist.

  Once the harness was secure, Cole ran back to the truck and sat in the cab, the heater blasting so as to thaw out his frozen feet and legs. Then he put the truck in reverse and began to steadily pull away from the river until he could feel the towline growing taut. He kept a steady pressure, slowly, slowly pulling, until in one ghastly moment, he saw José’s head bob over the top of the bank in the cones of the headlights, through the slowly falling snow, and then his two arms, like a zombie miserably crawling out of his watery grave.

  But the knots held. Cole almost smiled with relief. An hour before midnight, he untied the ropes, dragged José beside Bill, and then snapped off several pine boughs and stacked them on the bodies in a crude sort of camouflage. Then he rushed back to the house to collect two large plastic buckets and poured water from the hot springs over the garage floor where Bill had fallen, washing away the coagulated blood. And now he crept slowly around, the flashlight directed toward the snowy ground just outside the garage door, desperately searching for the hammer. It wasn’t long before he found it, and he was just about to grab it before he realized he needed a pair of work gloves. Locating those easily enough, he picked up the hammer, placing it in a thick black plastic bag.

  Now he stood back, away from the scene of all that carnage. One of the garage doors was still open, and there was blood spattered all over the garage walls, ceiling, and floor. As horrific as the garage looked, that at least could be explained away. After all, Bart had suffered a horrendous but hardly unprecedented accident. They could even admit to any inquiring investigators that indeed Bart, the poor soul, had begun using meth as a means for working those hundreds of dogged hours on the house. All of that was true.

  But the cleanup would cost them a day, for sure, and they’d have to do the work themselves. Between the rapidly accumulating snow and this house’s known track record for bad luck, Cole could not plan on finding a cleaning crew to erase this horror and, even if he could, the cost. . . .

  So, the final stages of construction would fall entirely on Cole and Teddy. As for Bart, his career was likely finished. Had they been three men climbing a mountain, one of their team would have just fallen into a chasm, placing the summit once more in doubt.

  Cole would need to drive Bill’s truck up to the house. He’d need to collect all the masonry tools and the ladder and stow all that in the bed of Bill’s Ford. He collected another two pails of water and carefully rinsed any blood off the ladder. Then he walked back to where Bill and José rested, their limbs contorted unnaturally but their eyes at least closed and their heads arched back as if in deep slumber. Cole fumbled through Bill’s pockets and collected his wallet and keys, then bent down and did likewise with José.

  He drove the stonemason’s truck up to the house, those old headlights shining like two dirty, golden lanterns. He stowed the ladder and all their tools in the back and then drove to the turnaround across the river, taking care to park out of the way—not hidden, exactly—but certainly under the overhanging branches of a big pine, the passenger-side wheels off the asphalt entirely.

  It was after midnight. Cole’s adrenaline jolted through him like electricity. Stripping off his clothes, he made a small pile where they normally burned scraps and offcuts. He doused the clothing with a bottle of lighter fluid from their barbecue back in October, when everything felt so different, when it seemed like they would easily make their deadline, all of them together, happy, and healthy, their business fortified and now endorsed by this elegant, high-net-worth customer. True Triangle had been on its way to such great good things.

  Now Cole stood naked in front of the little fire, steam drifting off his pale body even as the snow kept falling down.

  There was someone he needed to call.

  * * *

  —

  Jerry met him at the Rose. The bar was almost empty, and Cole sat in a booth, half-hidden by after-midnight shadows, a chandelier glowing against the bar’s close darkness. Jerry ordered a drink from the rather blasé waitress and slumped against the Naugahyde.

  “I gotta tell ya, I’m gettin’ a little tired of your late-night phone calls,” Jerry grumbled. “And ’sides, where’s Bart? You ain’t a customer of mine.”

  Even in the gloom, Cole could see something crystallize in the dealer’s widening eyes. “Well, Jerry,” Cole began, “see, that’s sort of why I called you.”

  Jerry stood abruptly and seemed ready to split, but he leaned down toward Cole, pointing a trembling finger in the younger man’s face.

  “I ain’t in any way responsible for him,” Jerry hissed. “You hear me? That’s the fuckin’ social contract between dealer and customer! I mean, what the fuck—”

  Just then the waitress arrived at the booth with Jerry’s drink, what looked to be a screwdriver.

  “Gonna be last call soon,” the bartender said. “Can I get you fellas anything else?”

  The two men glanced at each other, shaking their heads, allowing the waitress to drift away.

  “Sit down,” Cole said evenly.

  “Fuck you,” Jerry replied as he stood there defiantly, sipping his drink.

  “Sit down,” Cole repeated, “or I will most definitely rat you the fuck out.”

  Jerry hesitated a moment, then slid back into the booth and listened intently as Cole told him the entire story, leaving nothing out.

  “I need help,” Cole said. “Bart needs your help.”

  “Why should I?” Jerry said.

  Cole leaned forward. “Because you’re old, Jerry. And you don’t want to go to jail. We get caught for this thing—guess what?—I’ll have nothing to lose. No wife, no kids. So, I’m asking you to help us out here, okay? Let’s just help each other out.”

  Jerry sat back, sipped his drink.

  The barten
der flashed the lights. “You don’t have to go home,” he sang out, “but you can’t stay here.”

  “I want a hundred grand,” Jerry said. “That’s what I’ll need, if you want my help.”

  Cole shook his head.

  “Well, then,” Jerry said, rising from the table, “as the Mexicans say, Buenos suerte, pendejo.” He pounded the last of his drink and started out of the bar.

  Cole sucked in a tortured breath, threw some money down on the table, and rushed out into the night after the dealer. “Fifty!” he yelled.

  The door to Jerry’s Charger was open, and he stood there, dragging on a cigarette in the wan light of the bar’s front windows as he exhaled a great plume of smoke, flicked the butt out into the snow, and collapsed the distance between them.

  “Look, I can have your whole mess cleaned up before lunch,” he whispered. “But it’s gonna cost you a hundred, bub. And you can try to rat me out, by the way, but I hope you got at least a million to pay those hotshot attorneys you’re gonna need.”

  “Seventy-five,” Cole spat.

  “Tell you what,” Jerry said with a grin, extending his hand, “because I like you, I’ll do it for a hundred. Final offer.”

  Cole could practically feel his heart fall out of his chest and plunk down in the dirty snow amid the cigarette butts, plugs of discarded chew, and spent matchbooks. He could see it down there, beating slowly and sadly, new, pure snow melting on the defeated organ. Oh, my lord, he thought, what have we done?

  He shook Jerry’s hand.

  “Don’t take it so hard.” Jerry smiled darkly. “Just think of it as fifty per body.”

  The dealer reached into his car, retrieving something from the passenger seat, and then, taking Cole by the arm, pushed him back toward his truck.

  “We’ve got to hurry now,” Jerry said. “We can leave my car right here. So now, how ’bout you take me to your little cemetery.”

  * * *

  —

  About forty minutes later they stood over the bodies of Bill and José, which were now entirely covered in snow. They might have been a load of firewood under a white tarpaulin.

  “You got any big trash bags?” Jerry asked. “Like, heavy-duty ones? No cheap-ass generic bags—you know, the real deal.”

  Cole nodded.

  “How about a handsaw? And don’t give me a dull blade either; it’s gotta be sharp.”

  Cole nodded again.

  “Good, go get all that shit. The more you help me with this, the sooner we’ll be done with the whole thing.”

  It took about an hour for them to finish their grisly work and load the bags into the back of Bill’s truck. Jerry hastily threw some scrap lumber and two spare tires onto the bodies.

  “Now what?” Cole asked. “We only have a few hours.”

  “They have cell phones?” Jerry asked.

  “Yeah,” Cole asked, “I found ’em in the house.”

  “Good,” Jerry said, “you gotta smash them all to pieces. Then, be sure you put ’em in a bag with the bodies. We’ll destroy them, too.”

  “Understood,” Cole said.

  “We’re fine,” Jerry said. He yawned into his fist. “Now here’s the thing: You drive the stiff’s truck. We’ll dispose of the bodies, then get my car. When we get into town, I’m gonna need you to stop at a café so we can get a cup of coffee and some breakfast. I ain’t used to this graveyard-shift bullshit.”

  He slapped Cole’s arm. “Get it?”

  At the highway, Jerry asked Cole to put Bill’s truck into park, and the dealer made a call, speaking calmly and cryptically into his cell phone.

  “Hey, Birdie,” Jerry said, “sorry about the hour. Listen, remember that problem you helped me out with a few years ago?” He lit a cigarette. “Yeah, well, I got two more problems I could use you for.”

  Cole stared at Jerry’s face through the darkness, hoping that no traffic would pass on the highway.

  “I’ll do my best to get you the cash this morning, yep, you bet. And listen, sure do appreciate the help, Birdie.” He hung up, blew out a jet of smoke.

  “What are you gonna do with the truck?” Cole asked.

  “My parents left me a little land, outside town about fifty miles. We’ll remove the plates, scrape off the VIN, and just park her in the barn. Padlock the sumbitch up. My guess is that I’ll croak before you do, and at that point, you may have a concern.” He drew on his cigarette. “At that point, you could do a coupla things: Try torching it, or you could move it again. But who knows? We might not even have a planet by then. . . . And one other thing, Cole. I’m gonna need ten grand up front to get those bodies disappeared.”

  “Jerry,” Cole said. “I don’t just have ten grand on me.”

  “Yeah, so, when your bank opens this morning,” Jerry continued, unfazed, “I’m gonna need you to make a rather large withdrawal. You probably can’t get your hands on all hundred grand. But the ten’ll do for now. After that, I can put you on a payment plan until that big bonus of yours lands. Think about it like layaway. If that ain’t amenable to you, I can start spilling Hefty trash bags in front of the cop shop. Now, let’s get going. There’s a little café on the other side of town. You can buy us breakfast.”

  “You have to be fucking kidding me,” Cole moaned.

  They drove into town, the black plastic bags in the bed of the truck rustling with the wind. At the café, they were clearly the first two customers, and the waitress seemed to know Jerry, slapping him playfully on the arm before leading them to a booth in the corner of the restaurant surrounded by wide windows offering up a commanding view of the coming day. Cole sat opposite Jerry, watching the dealer eat his breakfast, a huge platter of pancakes, bacon, sausage, two eggs over easy, and sliced orange alongside a cup of coffee and a tall glass of cranberry juice.

  “I like ketchup on my eggs,” Jerry offered. “Some people think that’s crude. But the lycopene’s good for my prostate. I think it’s my prostate. The juice, too, though that’s probably mostly sugar. Thing is, just about everything worth eatin’ll kill you.”

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Cole whispered, leaning across the table. “I mean, Christ, Jerry—they’re right out there.” He pointed to the parking lot.

  Jerry waved a piece of bacon in the air, dismissing him. “They ain’t going anywhere.”

  Cole put his head in his hands. He was so tired right then, with no idea whether Bart was dead or alive, or Teddy’s whereabouts, for that matter. He didn’t know what day it was or where his phone was—probably in Gretchen’s house, he guessed. He sat back in the booth and breathed deeply, the thick, embedded smells of the café almost too much for him. He felt at once nauseated and claustrophobic, his own life closing in around him like a black velvet hood cinched about the neck.

  “You boys got greedy, didn’t ya?” Jerry said. “I told your buddy Bart, right from the start. Not with all the meth in the fucking world could you build that house. It was a farce, Cole—a complete and utter boondoggle. She used you boys right up.”

  “We’ll complete the house,” Cole said sternly. “We have to.”

  “Why?” Jerry asked. “I bet you’ve made your money off builder’s fees, haven’t you? Enough already.” He forked a great serving of pancake into his mouth, maple syrup dripping onto his chin. “No one’s gonna blame you, Cole. One of your partners lost his goddamn fingers, all right? Quit, regroup. Hell, people might respect you more for telling this lady to fuck off.”

  Oh, but how Cole wished he could quit. Wished he could call Gretchen and tell her in the most sincere and sorrowful voice that they simply could not bring it all home. But that was just it, really: One of the very things drawing him forward was the thought of Gretchen’s face as they walked her around the house, as they watched her reactions, as she presented them with their checks. And even more than that: to complete
something grand, this palace in the mountains, amid the steam of those hot springs; this house of grandeur, so well imagined in its blueprints, so timeless in its materials. And now, their blood and sweat and tears embedded in its very drywall and studs.

  He thought of Bart’s fingers, lying somewhere on the garage floor. If they didn’t press forward, what would all of it have been for? And how could they let another builder, some group of strangers, move in, with just a few days to go now, and finish their work for them? It would be like another man up and marrying your wife, raising your child as his own, while you slumped through life, receiving their beautiful Christmas cards in the mail and visiting on weekends, some schlub, some secondhand parent. No. They had to finish this. Especially now, with Jerry taking a hundred thousand of Cole’s dollars, two-thirds of his bonus. How could he possibly quit? There was no choice.

  “You boys were doing fine,” Jerry continued. “You were amigos, three young bucks. You owned a goddamned company together. How many guys your age can brag about that? And people knew who you were, too. You were on the cusp, on the make. Another five years, you would have been getting them glamourous jobs all the time, I guarantee it. But now . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and he pushed back from the table and took a big swallow of coffee.

  “Hell, Bart is finished. I don’t know too many one-handed builders. And sweet Jesus, the amount of meth he did . . . coulda killed a buffalo. That motherfucker has a looonnnggg road ahead of him ’fore he’s clean. And you’re never really clean again, now, are you?”

  Cole looked out the window at the pickup truck.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Jerry said.

  * * *

  —

  An hour later they pulled into a veterinary office down a quiet little road a ways out of Jackson. The world was just beginning to stir, sporadic traffic here and there, but the little parking lot was empty, save for Bill’s truck. Jerry strolled up to the front door and knocked on the glass. Within moments, an extremely tall woman answered the door. She looked to be about six-foot-three, including the hairdo piled on the top of her head, and towered over both Jerry and Cole with oversize glasses that magnified her eyes