The Unwilling

by John Hart

  “So I wait?”

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go home and go to bed. Other than that, yeah, you need to wait.”

  But I had no desire to do that. Pushing through the crowd, I saw that the old man was younger than I’d thought, sixty maybe, or maybe a hard-won fifty. He was bigger than I’d thought, too, with hands like a mechanic’s. When I was five feet out, he said, “You don’t want to be here, kid.”

  “I just want to ask a few questions.”

  “Last chance, son.”

  After that, three things happened simultaneously. I opened my mouth, took a step, and someone hit me in the stomach so hard and fast it bent me in half. The old man said, “Outside,” and that’s where they took me, through a metal door and into the dark behind the building. They threw me down. I tried to breathe.

  “Do we know him?” An unfamiliar voice.

  Someone else said, “He looks like his older brother.”

  “What brother?”

  “Jason French.”

  “No shit?” The old man gripped my hair and twisted my head for a better look. “What’s your name?”

  “Gibby…” I choked on the name, tried again. “Gibby French.”

  He twisted harder, got some light on my face. “Here’s the thing, Gibby French. Angels’ business is my business. Why are you asking about my business?”

  “All I want to do is help my brother.”

  A voice said, “Tyra Norris. Somebody cut her up.”

  “Yeah, well. Tyra. I can’t worry much about her.” He let me go, and my head hit pavement. “I don’t mind the idea of your brother in prison, either. Good for the club, good for me.”

  I rolled onto my back, gravel and grit grinding into my skin. “He didn’t kill her.”

  “Nobody here cares.”

  “I want to talk about the fight.”

  “Talk? That’s it?”

  “That’s it and that’s all.”

  “Well, I’ve got news for you, kid.” He dragged me up, crazy strong. “This has never been a talking kind of place.”

  He hit me hard; bent me in half a second time. He swung again, high to low, right in the face. I hit the ground, blood streaming.

  “Get up,” he said.

  I tried to do it, but took a boot in the ribs because I didn’t do it fast enough. I heard a door open, and saw the bartender looking down, skinny and pale as he said, “Hey, uh, can you maybe, uh, not do it here? This job is all I have, and the manager is already looking to fire me. I’m thinking … you kill this kid, then cops and such…”

  “Oh, is that what you’re thinking?” A disgusted look crossed the old biker’s face. “Go on, then. Bring your truck around. We’ll take this party down the street.”

  The old biker turned away, and I didn’t even think about it, just drove with my legs, put a shoulder on his belt, and slammed him into the wall. With blood in my eyes, I couldn’t see much, but I could feel him, the old fucker. I got two good ones on the ribs and a couple on his face before someone pulled me off. I swung wild, and felt a lip burst. Then I was on the ground, and a dozen boots were working hard to keep me there. They swung in and out, and the world became a simple thing.

  At first, it was pain.

  Then it was the truck.

  Then it was the ditch.

  23

  Across town, Gibby’s parents ate a late dinner alone. French was angry at his son’s absence, but so pleased with his wife the anger didn’t matter. She laughed, and touched his hand, her lips bright with five years of forgotten smile. Pouring wine, he asked, “Why are you so happy tonight?”

  Strangely timid, she shook her head. “I feel guilty talking about it.”

  “You’re allowed to be happy.”

  “But Jason is still … He’s still…”

  “Sweetheart, Jason is beyond us now. Whatever we believe or wish to believe, it’s up to the system.”

  “What do you believe?”

  She posed the question in such a quiet, small manner that she seemed childlike to French. He placed his hand on hers. “Tonight, all I want to talk about is you.” She looked away, but it was clear the comment pleased her. “This feels fresh—this moment. I don’t want to lose it. Look at me, okay? Tell me your thoughts.”

  “You’ll hate me for them.”

  “I won’t.”

  “But you will. I know you will.” She lowered her eyes, and a single tear hung on her lashes. “It’s been so hard…”

  “But you’re happy now. Won’t you tell me why?”

  “You won’t be angry?”

  “Never.”

  She looked up, and her damp eyes filled with trust. Leaning so their faces were inches apart, she said in a soft and smiling whisper, “I don’t feel him anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In my heart, I don’t feel him. Jason,” she said, and the childlike smile was back.

  * * *

  That image stayed with French long after he’d taken his wife to bed. Lying in the darkness beside her, he studied the workings of his own troubled conscience.

  What do I believe about my son?

  Since Jason’s arrest, French had walled himself away from as much emotion as possible, and, perhaps, he admitted now, from critical thought as well. That detachment had offered shelter and security, but he felt cracks in the foundations of those walls; and it was his wife who’d unsettled his defenses.

  In my heart, I don’t feel him …

  French understood the need for self-protection, but could no longer hide from the more difficult truths. Too much of his son remained: the memory of his birth, the smallness of his hand. Rising in silence, he carried his guilt to the study, where he kept things dark, and dialed his partner’s number from feel. “Are you still up?” he asked.

  “Definitely.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  * * *

  On the crosstown drive, French was as much cop as father.

  Could he have done it?

  Not possible.

  But maybe …

  It came down to a single thing.

  * * *

  “Hi, Ken. Sorry. I know it’s late.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Burklow stepped back to let him inside, then made drinks without asking. “Here. You look ragged. You okay?”

  “It just hit me, is all.”

  “Jason, you mean?”

  “Everything.”

  French kept his wife out of it. Her regression to near-infantile contentment was too personal to share.

  “So.” Burklow sat across a low table, his long, heavy frame cradled in a worn leather chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “A favor.”

  “Ask it.”

  The response was automatic and honest. If French killed a man, Burklow would scream and fret, but, in the end, he’d help bury the body. It was that kind of friendship. “You spoke to me once of a friend at the Defense Department. He told you there’s war and then WAR, and that Jason fought the second kind.”

  “Chris Ellis. He’s high up.”

  “A good friend?”

  “Good like you’re good. Is he the favor?”

  “It’s time I knew more about Jason.”

  Burklow immediately stood, tall and unsmiling. “Wait here.” He went to the back bedroom, and came back with a manila envelope tucked beneath his arm. He dropped it on the table between them.

  DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE

  INTERNAL USE ONLY

  Beneath those words were Jason’s name and rank and serial number. “Jason’s military records.” Burklow sat again and picked up the whiskey. “I knew you’d want them.”

  “But … when?”

  “I made the call yesterday. Drove up last night to collect them.” French leaned away, as if afraid of so much unadulterated insight into the life of his oldest living son. “Most of it is classified. If you get caught with it, we’re both screwed, and I mean federally.” He sipped again. “Are
you sure you’re ready for what’s inside?”

  French had been sure, but now was not. People said twenty-nine kills, but it could be fifty or a hundred; and both men understood enough of war to know it could be even worse than that. Friendly fire. Civilians. Black ops.

  Not all kills were clean.

  “After we found her,” French said. “Tyra, I mean. I asked the medical examiner what could make a good man do bad things. What could break a man so horribly and irretrievably? He said it would be something big.”

  “And you’re thinking, War.”

  “Do you know anything that’s bigger?”

  A silence followed, both men lost in their own memories of war, and in the stillness, a phone rang, shrill enough to make them flinch. Burklow answered the phone and listened. “Yeah, he’s here. Hang on.”

  He held out the receiver.

  “This is Detective French.”

  “Detective, hi. This is Lauren at dispatch. I’m sorry to bother you so late. I tried your home first, but no one answered.”

  “It’s all right, Lauren. What’s the problem?”

  “I hate to give you more bad news.”

  “Best just say it, then.”

  “Yes, sir. Four minutes ago, I took a radio call from a patrol unit working the industrial corridor on the south side. They found your son beaten senseless, facedown in a ditch two hundred yards from the Carriage Room. He’s alert now, and declining medical attention. Patrol is still on-site, but they say he’s hurt pretty badly. I can send paramedics, but thought you might want to keep this one quiet, given the past few days and the news and all.”

  French felt disconnected from the voice, the room. Maybe it was sleeplessness or the scotch, but what he’d heard made little sense. “I think you have a bad ID, Dispatch. Jason’s in lockdown at Lanesworth.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m not talking about Jason.”

  * * *

  French drove fast, Burklow on shotgun. Beneath the hood, the engine screamed. On the roof, the cherry flashed. “You can’t help him if you kill us getting there.” They crested a hill, and the car rose on its shocks. “He’s safe. He’s with our people.”

  But the hammer stayed down. Words. None of them mattered.

  “Bill, slow down. I mean it.” They blistered an intersection, the stoplight steady red. “Jesus Christ.”

  French understood the concern, but something wild had filled his heart. “He’s different, Ken. He’s changing.”

  “Your son is changing. Fine. Slow down and we can talk about it.”

  French drifted a hard right, and left rubber on the road. “I think it’s Jason,” he said. “He’s opened up something rebellious and dark. Watch Gibby’s eyes, the way he looks at his mother and me, his whole life. He’s trying to prove something.”

  “How about you get us there alive, and then we see what’s what?”

  It was hard to do, but French slowed enough to get them across town in one piece. It was a dismal part of the city, a place people lived because they had no choice, or because they wanted the drugs, the bought sex, the loss of self. Cops patrolled, but rarely.

  Gibby shouldn’t be here …

  And yet he was. French saw the lights from four blocks out. They split the darkness; painted the ground. His youngest son sat on the curb, and looked painted, too: wet and red, and in places, black.

  “Head wounds. You know how they bleed.”

  French did not respond. He cut across four lanes and smoked the tires when he stopped. One cop stood at the edge of an empty lot, the Carriage Room beyond him, down the street. The other cop was on the curb, talking to Gibby. When French got out of the car, he said, “Here’s your father.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody beat him badly, and dumped him in the ditch. He was crawling out when we saw him. I couldn’t tell if he was white or black, male or female. Nothing but blood and mud and ditchwater.”

  “Son, are you okay?” He knelt, but Gibby looked away. “How bad is he?” French looked back at the uniformed officer.

  “Cuts and bruises, maybe some damaged ribs. Most of the blood is from gashes in the scalp. I’d say somebody got him on the ground and kicked him pretty good. I don’t think the blood is all his, though. Looks like he gave a little back.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “He didn’t want me to call you.”

  “But he’s lucid?”

  “If not, I’d have transported him myself.”

  “Okay, thanks. Both of you.”

  The cop squatted beside Gibby, one hand on his shoulder. “Your father knows what’s right for you. Hospital. Doctors. You listen to him. Talk to him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  No slurring or confusion. That was something. Hell, it was everything. When the patrol car left, French sat beside his son, their shoulders almost touching. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I need something better than that.”

  Gibby shrugged, and French caught his partner’s eye.

  Rebellious.

  Dangerous.

  “Were you at the Carriage Room? Are the people who did this to you there? Would you know them if you saw them?” Still nothing. Not even movement. “Is this about Jason?”

  “Can we go home now?”

  “No, son. Hospital. Come on.”

  French got his son in the back of the car, then turned across traffic, watching the Carriage Room as he did. It was the only place open for three full blocks. He wanted answers, and thought he’d find them there. He wanted to kick in doors, tear the place down.

  “Just be cool, Bill.” Burklow kept it soft. “We can come back later.”

  At the emergency room, Gibby walked on his own, but it wasn’t pretty. French spoke to the doctor, and dashed off a final signature. “If he tells you what happened, I want to know.”

  “You’re aware of patient confidentiality, Detective.”

  “He’s my son.”

  “Your son is eighteen.”

  “Just do what you can, Doc. Patch him up. Cover the worst of it. His mother will have a fit as it is. Bandages can’t make it any worse.”

  An orderly got Gibby into a wheelchair, and pushed him toward the double doors. “I’ll be right here, son.”

  Gibby did not respond or look back. When he was gone, Burklow said, “He’s in shock. Give him time.”

  “I think I’m out of time.”

  “That’s the worry talking.”

  “Why would he go to the Carriage Room? Or be on that side of town at all? It has to be about Jason.” French moved, unable to stand still. “We should canvass while it’s fresh. We need witnesses, the location of Gibby’s car. I want the bastards who did this.”

  “Let’s go, then. Let’s do it.”

  “I told Gibby I’d wait. I can’t leave him.”

  “I’ll stay. I’ll get him home.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re coming out of your skin as it is. You do what you need to do, but call in backup for the Carriage Room. I don’t want you in there alone.”

  The idea moved through French like a drug. He wanted to move and do, to cop the shit out of that bar.

  “One last thing.” Burklow put a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Young men push back. They test the world, the father. It’s part of growing up.”

  “I know that, Ken. I have raised two others.”

  “What I’m saying is that any kid but this one would have pushed back years ago. Right or wrong, you and Gabrielle have kept him in a bubble, and the bubble has kept him quiet.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is my fault.”

  “Listen, brother. Rebellion is natural in any red-blooded kid. Whether Jason stirred something up or not isn’t the point. Same with the way you’ve raised him. The cause could be as simple as a girl or graduation, or it might simply be Gibby’s time to crack the shell. All I’m saying is this: That si
lence you hate … the pushback. Don’t make it personal.”

  * * *

  French understood the logic, but the understanding didn’t help. He needed the why and the who.

  Why had his son been on that side of town?

  Who stomped him bloody and left him in the ditch?

  In the car, French radioed dispatch, requesting backup at the Carriage Room and an all-points on Gibby’s Mustang. He’d parked it somewhere, or someone had ditched it. The location would tell him a lot. After the call, it was another fast drive back to the dangerous side of town. By the time he arrived, it was after midnight, and felt like it. Even the Carriage Room seemed quiet, with only a few cars in the lot and not a soul outside. French studied the scene from fifty yards out, then rolled in soft and slow, flashing his lights once when he saw a patrol car, dark in the shadows. He parked beside it, and found the same officers who’d discovered Gibby in the ditch. The driver said, “How’s the kid?”

  “Still with the doctor.”

  “Is he talking about what happened?”

  “Not yet. How long have you been here?”

  “Eight minutes. Maybe ten.”

  “Any movement?”

  “The bartender’s there, and a skinny girl, sweeping. Two old drunks are pretty much facedown on the bar. Everything else looks quiet.”

  French studied the building and the darkness around it. Quiet could be dangerous at times, but this did not feel like one of those moments. “It wasn’t like this before.”

  “It’s been two hours since we found your son. Blue lights. The cherry. Some people spook easy.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Listen.” The uniformed cop hooked an elbow through the open window. “We’ll play this any way you want, but I’m not sure you need us. The bartender. A couple of old drunks.”

  French didn’t blame them. End of shift. A long night. “It’s fine. You boys go on home.” He watched them go, then locked the car, and walked to the bar. The lights inside were up, a record spinning on the jukebox.

  Allman Brothers.

  “Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More”

  The uniforms had been right about the men at the bar. One slept. The other slumped, peeling the label off a bottle of Budweiser. The skinny girl with the broom was sweeping up dust in the far right corner. As French watched, she did a little dance move with the broom, startled to complete the turn and see a strange man standing where none had been a moment before.