Godspeed

by Nickolas Butler

  She drove off in a brown 1988 Chevy Custom DeLuxe pickup truck plus a sizable five-figure check in her pocket. The shocks were mushy, but the tape deck worked, and inside the glove compartment she found one lonely cassette tape. She popped it in, cranked the volume, and was pleased to hear the opening chords of “Folsom Prison Blues.” Glancing in the rearview as she was pulling out of the lot, she saw the old man remove his ten-gallon hat, scratch his head, then turn his back to her and do a little jump in the air, clicking the heels of his cowboy boots.

  She smiled and felt like she was righting something askew in the universe. Like straightening a painting hanging crookedly off a gallery wall.

  41

  Bart pushed the skiff out of the white-sand shallows, into turquoise waters, his shoulder against the stern. When the boat was in three feet of water and with waves lapping against the bow, he flopped in, then worked his way back toward the twenty-five-horse outboard motor. He lighted a cigarette, inhaling a delicious nimbus of smoke. With his good hand, he yanked on the motor’s starter cord, an oily blue cloud of exhaust rising into the midmorning air as he scooted away from shore toward the smaller island just southeast, where he’d found work as a maintenance man at a resort hotel. It wasn’t as sexy as his visions of tending bar, but the hours were better and his interactions with guests gratifyingly minimal.

  He tied the skiff to a pier, shook hands with one of the fishing guides, and walked into the nearby kitchen for an egg sandwich and a cup of coffee, kissing all the female cooks on their cheeks as he made his way to the manager’s office for that day’s work orders.

  “A leaky sink in unit nine, a loose doorknob in two, and I’d like you to give seven a fresh coat of paint,” his manager said brusquely, never meeting Bart’s eyes. “Nobody checking in there for a week, so you’ve got time.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Bart said, and he meant it. On Bocas del Toro, time moved differently; underneath an unrelenting sun, minutes and hours congealed, and expectations took on the value of dreams: If things happened, great; if not, no worries, man. Still, Bart kept up the old work ethic, nonetheless. He loved being an employee, frankly—loved clocking out at the end of the day, loved learning Spanish from the other workers. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t moved down here ten years earlier. The management appreciated the fact that his English was perfect, not to mention the steady pace of his work. Viewing Bart as basically indefatigable, they’d taken to calling him El Caballo. He delighted in this. Nobody’d ever given him a nickname before.

  Just after five, he punched out, made his way out to the skiff, started the engine, and pointed the craft back across the bay toward the beach and the little town where he and Margo lived in a small concrete cabana, little more than a bedroom, kitchen, small living room, and porch. A humble barbecue grill outside and two cheap plastic deck chairs. That was it. And it was just fine. He’d bought her a surfboard for her birthday that leaned against the wall outside their front door, and in the early mornings or just before dusk he’d sit on the beach and watch her ride the board as the rollers combed toward shore.

  Eight hundred yards from the beach, the engine abruptly quit. Bart lifted the little gasoline tank and discovered it empty. The sun was sinking quickly. He found the oars stowed under the benches and set their pins in either gunwale before realizing that a one-handed man did not a natural oarsman make. He sat on the center bench, feeling the sun burn his forehead. He lighted another cigarette.

  He had not meant to kill Bill, he realized months earlier. He had meant to kill himself. Or some part of himself. The whole thing still gnawed at him, of course filled his guts with loathing. Many a night he stared at the ceiling of their cabana, puzzling out his best path forward, some balance between morality and happiness. The right thing to do would be to leave this life, haul himself back to Jackson, and confess. But hadn’t he suffered and sacrificed enough? Was this new life too much to ask? He’d never harm another soul, as long as he lived, he could promise that. And, too, he was angry at Cole and Teddy, at Gretchen. Angry for being used. Her hundreds of thousands—hell, millions—meant nothing, after all. All that money was just chump change to her. Chump change off a fortune she couldn’t even take with her.

  For she was right all along. Time. Time was the thing he couldn’t get back. And his hand, of course. He’d given everything to her, and that house. From what he’d heard, she had died shortly after the new year. Just that young woman, Abby, by her side in some big-city hospital. And now, the house sat empty. He imagined once the teenagers in Jackson Hole heard about it, heard about this abandoned temple at the end of a road up to heaven, with a hot springs steaming the huge glass windows, why, it wouldn’t take long before there would be graffiti on the garage doors and broken beer bottles littering the driveway. How long, he wondered, until the first stone was thrown at all those inviting walls of glass? How long before someone broke in and ruined the place?

  Or maybe some other plutocratic type would snatch it up from the estate, take care of it, even as they hoarded all that natural beauty to themselves.

  Come to think of it, maybe he preferred those barbarian teenagers.

  He exhaled smoke.

  A few days prior, he’d been absent-mindedly painting one of the hotel guest rooms when he was interrupted by his boss, who stood in the doorway, looking at him dourly. Behind the boss stood a local constable and two lieutenants.

  “Come on,” the boss said. “Quickly.”

  He nodded his head, then carefully wrapped the wet paintbrush in a plastic bag and hammered the metal lid tightly back onto the paint can. He’d thought all along how easy it had been; escaping down here flush with money, setting up this new life, and far, far behind him, two dead bodies and all those crystal meth days. . . . Of course, it couldn’t end this way.

  Bart stood, and with the police leading the way, he followed them to the largest private cabana on the property. His boss walked behind him, saying nothing. Bart assumed he was being escorted to his own interrogation, his own extradition—perhaps his own execution. Imagined that old Wyoming sheriff sitting in the cabana, a glass of iced tea sweating beside his hairy knuckles while the old man ran an already soaked handkerchief across his glossy forehead.

  The local police parted and made a path for Bart, standing on either side of the door.

  “Open it,” his boss said, nodding.

  Bart fumbled for the master key, his hand trembling, found the proper key. He used the stub of his left hand to steady that right arm, and in a moment, glanced at one of the Panamanian cops, who was staring at the stump with something like disgust etched on his face.

  The lock turned, and the door eased open. The cops slid around him and into the cabana.

  “You go,” his boss ordered, pointing into the cabana.

  Bart shuffled in, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

  But then his boss moved past him, into the cabana’s master bedroom, where, through a set of French doors, Bart could see the cops standing, encircling a bed.

  Despite the open windows and the scent of the ocean and tropical flowers, Bart could smell the meth in the bedroom. And as he stood just inside the room, he pieced together what happened to the guest lying dead, half covered by bedsheets. On the bedside table was a small mound of cocaine, framed by bottles of rum. Near the dead man’s hand, on the bedsheet, was a pipe, its black bowl leaving a dark stain on the white sheets.

  “Déjanos,” the constable said.

  Bart drifted out of the room and back toward the guest room he had been painting. Inside that room, he locked the door, slid down to the floor, covered his face with his hand, and closed his eyes, a strange mélange of relief, regret, and horror sweeping over him.

  * * *

  —

  The skiff drifted slowly back to shore. On the beach he spotted what looked to be someone waving at him with two arms, like a person signaling for a
rescue. He waved back, suspecting it was Margo. He rarely carried his cell phone anymore and did not have it then, as perhaps he ought to have. The figure on the beach entered the water and appeared to be swimming in a straight line toward him.

  He allowed himself to enjoy the last heat of the day. The flat of the ocean. The moisture in the air. The dry burn of the cigarette. He felt healthy again and allowed himself to close his eyes and feel the ocean moving gently beneath the skiff.

  “You okay?” Margo called out.

  He smiled, startled out of his reverie. She was twenty-five yards off, swimming strongly.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Ran out of gas.”

  “What about the oars?” she called, spitting out salt water.

  He pulled her aboard, her skin glistening like a dolphin’s, then held up his left arm, as if it were the first time she might have seen his stump. “Ever seen a one-handed man row a boat?” he asked.

  “Poor baby,” she said. “Get in the stern. I’ll row you back.”

  He watched her strong arms move in that particular rhythm. Looked at her long, beautiful feet in the dirty bilge water, her stomach muscles clenching with each pull.

  “You sure you’re okay?” she asked. “You look sad.”

  He smiled bravely. “Couldn’t be happier,” he replied.

  When they were perhaps a hundred yards from shore, he unbuttoned his shirt, his pants, and removed his socks and boots, right down to his underwear.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, frowning. “Bart?”

  He bent down and kissed her firmly, their tongues weaving over each other. Her mouth tasted like cold gin and lime; her skin smelled of the salt water and sunscreen.

  “Race you back home!” he yelled, diving out of the skiff.

  He moved below the surface for several kicks, before rising up into the sunset-painted waters and then turning onto his back, floating, to stare up at the blue, blue sky. The truth of it was, he didn’t have any interest in ever racing anyone, or anything, not ever again.

  He backstroked slowly back to shore, and when his feet touched sand, he stood and there she was, looking at him with a blend of curiosity and affection. Together, they pulled the skiff up onto the sand and then made their way back to the cabana.

  42

  You know what “mortgage” means in Latin, don’t you? Teddy’s grandfather used to say. “Death-pledge.” Think about that.

  Nevertheless, the following spring, Teddy and Britney bought Penny Abrams’s house in town, paying more than fifty percent down in cash. With what money remained, Teddy hired on a framing crew he trusted to rip off the roof, construct a second floor, and finish the basement, complete with new egress windows to brighten its subterranean position. Two months later, the house was unrecognizable. At twenty-two hundred square feet, it was no monstrosity, but each of the girls now had her own room, and for the first time since they were married, Teddy and Britney had a backyard where, on summer nights, they sat together in the darkness, holding hands and listening to the tourist bustle several blocks away.

  “I can’t believe you did it,” Britney said on one of those evenings, not long after they were finally moved in. “I mean, I’ve always believed in you. Always knew you were a hard worker, but . . .”

  “But what?” Teddy asked.

  “I just feel like—you know, like our dreams are actually coming true.”

  * * *

  —

  Three months after the house was finished, Teddy’s phone rang at a jobsite. It was Britney.

  “You better get home quick,” she said. “Some folks are here to see you.”

  Teddy didn’t need any introductions to know who the sad-faced trio of visitors sitting in his living room were, ignoring the cups of coffee Britney had offered them. It was José’s family, come up from Mexico to search for their son, their brother. His parents were short people, well-dressed, with suspicious eyes. They didn’t speak any English. That duty was left to his younger sister, a woman who might have been twenty years old, Marisol.

  “How can you not know where my brother is?” she asked. “He worked for you. Don’t you care about your workers?”

  The question stabbed Teddy right in his heart. She was right, of course. Bill and José had been their employees, and True Triangle had been responsible for them, responsible for them beyond just scratching checks or barking out orders.

  “Well, see . . . ,” Teddy stumbled, “now, I don’t know a lot about most of our contractors. Like, for example, after that job, I never seen any of those window installers ever again. Or the tile guy.” Teddy saw an opportunity to plant a seed of doubt. “Did you check with ICE, or the INS? Maybe the federales picked him up on something. These days they’re doing that kind of thing. Swooping down on a jobsite and just picking up everyone.” Teddy wasn’t actually sure this was true, but it sounded true enough.

  “Mr. Symthe,” Marisol began, “José wasn’t working at a meatpacking plant outside of Omaha. He wasn’t picking strawberries in Salinas. He is a skilled stonemason. A married father of four, I might add. His wife is beside herself.”

  Teddy scratched at his head; did not meet Marisol’s eyes, though he could feel the woman staring a searing-hot hole right through him.

  “Look, I am happy to give you José’s wages. I want to.”

  Just then he was relieved to stand and walk briskly into the kitchen, where he had kept two checks—already written out and dated several months earlier—stored in a cupboard for just such a moment as this. He stood for a time in the kitchen, the envelopes in his hands, trying to imagine that reality he had long ago fabricated: Bill and José walking down the driveway toward their trucks and waving back at Teddy, Bart, and Cole like lifelong friends. He tried to picture them altogether in Mexico, drinking beers and barbecuing together.

  When he returned to the living room, he handed José’s mother the checks and sat down heavily.

  “I’m sorry there isn’t more that I can do,” he said. “José was my friend. Bill, too. Most talented stonemasons I ever met. And maybe if you leave me your contact information, why, if I ever run into him, or hear word, I’ll let you know immediately.” He passed Marisol a pen and piece of paper.

  These things she held in her hand disgustedly, as if all she wanted to do was throw them back into Teddy’s face.

  “No me gusta este hombre,” her father said in a low voice. “El sabe algo.”

  “He criado niños,” her mother added. “Su cara está mintiendo.”

  “We’re so sorry,” Britney said, tears freely wetting her cheeks. “How horrible for you all. And his family. I think we ought to pray, don’t you, Teddy?”

  Marisol stared at her father until finally he nodded and reached for the hands of Britney and her mother. Toward the end of the prayer, and only for an instant, Teddy opened his eyes, and he saw that Marisol and her father were staring directly at him; he quickly bowed his head again, and this time, he prayed fervently to God that these people would never hound him again. He wasn’t sure that he could keep up with this charade if they did.

  * * *

  —

  He kept the company name. None of his new clientele knew that he’d once had two partners, and if they’d ever heard of Cole McCourt, they certainly didn’t connect the murderer to Teddy, this soft-spoken, reliable Mormon, often seen about town, shuttling his daughters from one event to the next. The in-towners, of course they knew; knew about the ill-fated multimillion-dollar house up by those hot springs. And they knew that no fewer than three men had died there. But the blessing of a tourist town, perhaps, is that memories are short. The influx of California marijuana money and social media millionaires didn’t especially care what Teddy had or had not done. All they cared about was that he was capable of building them a beautiful house and responsible enough to return their phone calls. Which, of course, he was; and li
ke a loyal golden retriever, Teddy delighted at pleasing his new masters.

  He did update the logo. Now, instead of a single triangle, there were three triangles, interlocked, the tallest triangle in the middle. Though he’d never tell anyone as much, that triangle was him—the last man standing, the tallest mountain in a proud old range, now mostly eroded away.

  And sitting in his backyard on some night, long after Britney and the girls had fallen asleep, poking at the embers of a dying fire, he even imagined himself somewhere in the future, a state legislator, well-liked by his peers on both sides of the aisle, even as they talked about him behind his back: his lack of education, his limited travels, the fact that he wouldn’t share a drink of Scotch with them. But he could see himself, in a well-tailored suit, cowboy boots, bolo tie, and Stetson, looking every inch the successful entrepreneur and family man, a leader in his ward, and the rare sort of politician who overlooked no one, perhaps because earlier in his life, everyone had overlooked him.

  43

  The sheriff walked out onto the sun-drenched patio of the treatment center, followed by a counselor who all but tugged at his arm to waylay him. A patient in a hammock practically spilled himself onto the ground when he saw the lawman and quickly speed-walked out to one of the many therapeutic paths leading into the desert. Conversation stilled in and around the rectangular-shaped pool. All eyes were on Cole, where he sat on a lounge chair reading Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire. He let out a little sigh of relief and stood to shake the sheriff’s hand.

  “You weren’t an easy man to find,” the sheriff said. “Your buddy Teddy was pretty tight-lipped about your whereabouts. And your other amigo, Bart, up and disappeared like a fart in the wind. Turns out, it was your ex-wife who tipped us off. Guess she forwarded some mail on to you.”