Godspeed

by Nickolas Butler

  The hotel staff expressed disappointment that Gretchen would not “be joining us” but a young woman walked Abby briskly enough to the elevator and then showed her to her suite on the third floor. It was breathtaking, with clear views of the Jackson town square. Before Gretchen’s abrupt decline, she had been worried that spending Christmas in this unknown place might make her feel melancholy—that she’d pine for her parents’ cozy, well-feathered house in Grosse Pointe. That she’d want to wake up on Christmas morning as she had almost every other year of life and drowsily drift down the grand staircase toward the sitting room, where a Fraser fir would sag beneath the weight of its dozens and dozens of accumulated ornaments and hundreds of feet of garish lights, a small collection of wrapped presents scattered beneath, and just outside the French doors—a birdbath, its tiny pool of water long since frozen over beneath the ancient oaks. She had thought she’d miss all that. And of course, driving into the countryside with her father and the falcons, watching the raptors work an early-afternoon sky.

  Just then she realized with a start that she’d forgotten her falcon inside the doorway of Gretchen’s apartment, and so, after tipping the hotel staff, she immediately went to work locating the contact information for the doorman at Gretchen’s building.

  “Chicken will work,” Abby advised, running her nails anxiously through her hair. “Just give him a bowl of cut-up chicken breasts. And make sure he has water.” She could have kicked herself. Never had she ever been so careless with one of her birds.

  “In all my years . . . ,” the doorman said. “I mean, I’ve done a lot of favors in my time here, and Ms. Gretchen never asked for much, but . . . now I’m opening her apartment to feed a bird?”

  Abby stared out the window as the sky darkened into a deep blue.

  * * *

  —

  She ate alone in an eerily quiet dining room, the taxidermy on the walls staring down at her as if these stilled creatures had something important to say, the votive candle stationed at the center of her table more like emergency heat rather than decoration. A handful of diners sat sprinkled throughout the restaurant and at the bar: a young family of out-of-towners at a six-top, with two aging grandparents in full-on Western wear; a few empty-nest couples; two tables of tourists, likely in town for the skiing; and at the bar, a man in his fifties, wearing a black-and-white track suit, gold chains heavy on his neck, more rings on his fingers than would be advisable. He kept staring at her as if there might be a future love connection, until she finally asked her waiter to be moved out of his line of sight. She would have preferred an evening of room service and It’s a Wonderful Life for the umpteenth holiday viewing, but Gretchen had wanted to share a meal here, at this restaurant, so she stayed on to honor her. It just didn’t feel right not to.

  When the Rocky Mountain oysters arrived, the serving size was grotesque for a single person, and though she didn’t entirely dislike the dish, the more she thought about what they were, where they came from, and the longer that sizable mound of testicles sat there on that serving dish, the queasier she became, until finally she spit the one she was chewing into a napkin and pushed the dish away.

  The elk medallions were more enjoyable, served on a plate with spaetzle and pickled beets in a rich pan sauce. The accompanying Brunello di Montalcino warmed her, and she longed only for a good novel, something she could return to her room with, hunkering down under a bedside lamp for a couple of hours until sleep came for her. Only then it would be morning, and she would have to rise to the occasion, acting out this uncomfortable role as a dying woman’s proxy.

  37

  Where were you?” Cole asked. “I stopped by earlier and the place was dark.”

  “Out to dinner,” Jerry replied. “Had my eyes on a good-looking piece, but she ducked out before I could so much as buy her a drink. Anyway, merry fucking Christmas. You got more of my money? ’Cause that’s the only present I want this year.”

  Jerry lived in a chalet-style three-bedroom on the edge of town in a neighborhood built onto the lower elevations of a larger foothill. The house had never been updated, which seemed fitting, because neither, really, had Jerry. The walls were decorated in sun-faded ski posters from the early eighties and amateurish nude photographs of some woman Cole imagined to be an ex-girlfriend of Jerry’s. The carpeting was avocado green here, goldenrod there, and behind the posters and nudes was diagonally laid pine paneling. The fragrance of vanilla vape hung in the air, mingled with Old Spice cologne and head-shop sandalwood incense. Aquariums bubbled throughout the house, displaying various exotic-colored fish, and Cole had already seen two large iguanas parade around the living room. The house was kept at a toasty eighty degrees, and the south-facing windows, foggy with condensation, presented a view of a wide deck where a hot tub sat prominently above the view of town, now nestled in the snow, just a little collection of white and gold lights from here, glowing softly in the night.

  “Yeah, I got your money,” Cole said, passing him a cashier’s check for twenty thousand dollars that had all but depleted his checking account. Any of the money he’d set aside as a nest egg from their builder’s fee so far had been given to Jerry, and what little else he’d saved through the years was now well and fully wiped out. He had no idea how he’d explain any of this to Cristina in the official aftermath of their divorce. He saw no way out any longer, no escape. What did Cole want for Christmas? Meth, only meth. Even as he watched his life spinning ever further out of control, the filthy euphoria that little glass pipe could give him had become everything. There really was nothing else. Nothing else that mattered because at this point, he’d lost everything he’d ever had. And everyone. He’d alienated Teddy, and likely Bart, for that matter. For Christ’s sake, he was now a murderer, and the kind of man who might visit his dealer on Christmas Eve, rather than being with his parents or siblings, or some family he should have long ago started with the woman who was now officially his ex-wife.

  “I’d also like to, uh . . . ,” Cole began, unaccustomed to the protocol here. “Could I maybe get a little crystal off you?”

  Jerry sat sprawled on a leather couch, the yellowy soles of his feet propped up on a glass coffee table, his arms outstretched like an aged condor. “How much?” Jerry groaned as he reached a hand under the elastic waistband of his jogging pants to satisfy an itch.

  “Quarter of an ounce,” Cole suggested.

  “Thousand bucks,” Jerry replied.

  “That’s more than last time,” Cole said, but he could hear it in his own voice—there was no strength behind his objection, no force. He’d practically whined.

  “Yeah? Then fuck you,” Jerry guffawed. “Wake up some other dealer the night before Christmas and haggle with him on prices.” He flicked on a brand-new sixty-inch high-definition plasma TV, apparently the only thing in the house originating from the twenty-first century. “Now leave me alone. I got a basketball game to ignore.”

  “Can I write you a check?” Cole asked.

  Jerry stopped staring at the TV and glowered at Cole. “Motherfucker,” he said, “we need to have a talk, all right? Sit down.”

  Cole did as directed. He was tweaking now, bugs under his skin, his eyes bouncing around his skull.

  “I heard the sheriff’s been sniffing around town for those two missing bodies,” Jerry said. “Frankly, I’m a little surprised you didn’t think to give me a heads-up about his visit to that house you’re building.”

  Were building, Cole thought darkly.

  “Me and Teddy handled it,” Cole said confidently. “Look, we had it covered. He came, asked his questions, and left.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Do I seem worried?”

  “And what if that sheriff connects the dots between those checks you’re cutting and me,” Jerry asked, leaning forward, pointing a finger in Cole’s face. “Then what?”

  “So, make up some bullshit invoices,” Cole said evenly,
“and we’ll say you were doing labor for us. Carrying drywall, painting, whatever. I already thought about all this.” He worked so hard to keep calm even as he wanted to scream, Where’s my goddamn meth!

  Jerry smiled and nodded his approval. “That’s not half bad, Cole,” he admitted. “You know, I did work a little construction back in my day.” It was true. Back more than thirty years earlier, Jerry had been a skinny eighteen-year-old with weed connections, and after providing the other guys on his crew with whatever vice they needed, he decided to ditch the manual labor for something a little less strenuous.

  Jerry reached behind the couch he was installed on, producing that black nylon gym bag. After fishing around for a few moments, he tossed four small plastic bags at Cole.

  “I’ll take a check tonight, dipshit,” he said, “but in the future, you gotta start bringin’ cash, all right? Now get the fuck outta here, huh?”

  * * *

  —

  That night, Cole checked into a dodgy little motel, its lobby smeared in the afterglow of a neon vacancy sign. He locked the flimsy door and propped a chair under its cheap brass knob. He turned on the TV, as much for companionship as for entertainment, then bolstered himself up in the bed and lit that little glass pipe.

  38

  The porchlight of Teddy’s condo cast a glow over Bart and Margo where they stood in the cold, Margo’s arms stacked with presents, Bart’s one good arm slung over her shoulder. They looked like rediscovered love, like a winning lottery ticket plucked right out of the garbage.

  Teddy held open the door for them, and as soon as Bart was through the threshold, he gave his friend a viselike hug.

  “Merry Christmas, buddy,” Teddy said, his eyes glistening.

  “I didn’t know Mormons celebrated Christmas,” Bart replied, a grin on his face. “Don’t you guys worship some sacred prophet’s dirty underwear or something?”

  “Come on in!” Teddy said, chuckling good-naturedly and ignoring the barb.

  “We brought presents,” Margo said, giving Teddy a chaste kiss on the cheek and then offering a hug to Britney. “Don’t worry, though. We won’t stay long or anything.”

  At the kitchen table, the adults sipped eggnog and watched the girls open their presents. Then the children drifted off to their bedrooms, leaving wads of wrapping paper on the worn carpeting.

  “You guys mind if Bart and I go for a little walk?” Teddy asked, already rising from his seat to kiss the top of Britney’s head.

  Bart and Margo exchanged a glance; it hadn’t really been posed as a question. Something in Teddy had changed, and for the better, too. It wasn’t something a person could squarely place their finger on, but . . . the guy had toughened somehow, his confidence expanding.

  * * *

  —

  The two men donned their jackets and walked out onto the cleanly shoveled driveway. A silver sliver of a moon hung over those mountains of darkest black; the stars a million tiny sugar crystals spilled above.

  “I’ve been texting Cole for the past two days,” Teddy said. “Haven’t heard back from him.”

  “Well, I expect we’ll see him there tomorrow morning,” Bart said, rubbing at his jaw. “He’s not going to miss out on that bonus, for one thing. And hey, we’re still a triangle, right? Still three partners. Without any one of us, that project would never have gotten done.”

  “Amen,” Teddy said, nodding. “You clean again?”

  “Yeah, tryin’ to be,” Bart said, glancing at his boots. “Don’t ever, ever pick up that shit. I’ve always been able to climb out of the hole, but . . . I ain’t gonna lie . . .” He thought back to Bill, to what he was pretty sure he’d done. “Without going to that hospital, I might not have actually managed to clean up there. Fact is, amigo . . . I prolly ought to skip town sometime soon. Put some distance between me and this place. If I was you, I wouldn’t ask where I’m headed either. I’ll find a way somehow to send word.”

  Teddy nodded gravely. Then both men stood in the cold, blowing into their hands.

  “So, tomorrow is sort of the end, then, of our company?” Teddy asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that,” Bart replied. “I think the way you brought this project home, the way you shepherded it from start to finish . . . Hell, Teddy, either you can do this by yourself, or maybe you and Cole can give it a go if he’s up to it. You’ll have this house under your belt and maybe a little publicity, plus Gretchen’s recommendation and all that bonus money . . . I mean, you grabbed the golden ring, Ted. You got it.”

  “Couldn’t a done it without you,” Teddy demurred.

  “So where is Cole?” Bart asked.

  “Honestly,” Teddy began, “I’m not sure. I tried a few likely places. No dice.”

  “Well, maybe we should go find him, after all,” Bart said. “I don’t trust Gretchen. I don’t want to give her any reason to hold back that bonus, and if he ain’t there, holding his hand out, too . . . Yeah, come to think of it, let’s not leave it up to chance. We gotta git him. And another thing, Teddy-Bear. If he’s out of his mind, we can’t have him getting picked up by the cops and flapping his gums. We’re so close to the finish line, amigo. But if we were to get so much as pulled in for questioning, let alone arrested . . . All that money we made . . . It wouldn’t take long for a team of attorneys to burn through that. . . .”

  Teddy whistled low. “Every morning,” he said, “I wake up and I imagine that everything I saw was gone, erased. And I try to build a new memory. A memory where we’re waving goodbye to them, watching them walk down the driveway to Bill’s truck. We make plans to visit José down in Mexico.” He shook his head, as if to discard the reality of what happened, then covered his mouth with a hand. “But it’s hard, Bart. Those men are gone.”

  Bart placed a hand on Teddy’s shoulder.

  “You need to think of your girls,” Bart said quietly. “Do whatever you need to do to make that story true, because, brother, the alternative is . . . monstrous. We’ll be seen as monsters.”

  Teddy nodded.

  “You understand me?” Bart asked.

  “Yeah,” Teddy mumbled. “I got you. Guess I oughta tell Britney we’re headed out for a bit.”

  “Good idea,” Bart agreed. “I may have just got back together with Margo, so maybe I oughta check in, too. . . . Probably shouldn’t screw that up already.”

  * * *

  —

  Maybe if they lived in a metropolis, Cole could have disappeared for days, sunk into the fabric of the city unnoticed by anyone. But all it took was an hour of calling the hotels and motels around town before they found him at a Motel 6.

  The manager hesitated to cooperate, but when they explained that Cole was likely holed up, doing drugs, he quickly acquiesced, providing them with the room number.

  “Cole!” Bart shouted. “Open this fucking door, or I’ll bust it down!”

  “Go away!” Cole shouted back. “I’m not here.”

  “I hate to break down a good door on Christmas Eve,” Bart sighed. “Seems like bad karma.”

  Teddy leaned against the door. “Buddy,” he began, “it’s us. Okay? We’re here to get you. We’ve got just one more thing to do and then we’re free and clean. Listen to me: I promise you—we’ll get you some help. Some serious help. ’Cause, listen, this ain’t who you are. All right? Now let us in and we can talk. But if Bart has to break down the door, you know the cops’ll be here in a second. And none of us want that, now, do we?”

  When the door opened, Bart hardly recognized his friend. His eyes were huge and rolling around in his skull like two loose eight balls. He wore only a pair of dingy blue jeans, no shirt or socks. The television blared behind him, glowing blue.

  “Merry Christmas, fellas,” he said with some effort.

  “Get some clothes on, buddy,” Teddy said to Cole. “Warm clothes.”

 
Cole slunk back into the motel room, wandering around the bed in search of his socks.

  “You get him into your truck,” Bart said, “and I’ll gather his stuff and drive his vehicle.”

  “What stuff?” Teddy asked, almost laughing. “He can barely find his boots.”

  “The drugs, he means,” Cole said.

  “Oh, right,” Teddy said. “Wait, we’re not taking him to my place, are we?”

  “No,” Bart sighed. “Let’s go back to where it all started.”

  * * *

  —

  They drove slowly southeast out of town, following the snaking road along river bottoms, past mountains hulking up high, and obscuring the heavens where they rose up into the night like sharp white teeth. Then the two trucks left the county highway, as they made their way up that familiar gravel road, Cole in the passenger seat of Teddy’s truck, peering out the window like a meek little boy. Up, up, up they rode, cautious on the icy surface and for once in no particular hurry. They wended farther and farther up, until finally, in the distance, they began to glimpse a pale glow.

  A quarter mile before they reached that final turnaround, just before the river and the bridge, they caught a proper view of the house in all its glory. Teddy stopped the truck, and they sat there, more or less motionless, save for Cole, whose tweaking body vibrated as if a current of electricity ran humming through him.

  “Jesus,” he mumbled. “Would you look at what we . . . at what we did.”

  Most of the houses and apartments that True Triangle had worked on, the condominiums and retail spaces, were instantly forgettable, identifiable only in their banality or neglect. The hoarder’s house that they’d been hired to empty, for instance—the ten dumpsters they filled with moldering stuffed animals and dolls before discovering that the basement was a repository for years’, perhaps decades’, worth of the man’s urine, all safely stored in hundreds upon hundreds of recorked wine bottles. Or the apartment where they found a brick of cocaine when a sodden drop-tile ceiling collapsed. Or the condominium where Teddy happened into a couple’s private dungeon, not much larger than a crawlspace, all lined with mirrors, ropes, gags, and whips.