by Joe Clifford
Cody didn’t have an answer. Neither did Dog or Lester, who wasn’t much of a talker.
“There’s still a chance for you to do the right thing, Brandon,” Simms said.
I turned my attention to the two cops, who looked more bored than angry or concerned.
“They’re not going to shoot us,” Simms said, nodding at Lester, who now came across less as a badass and more like a kid in over his head. In fact, all these guys from the house on the hill seemed as young as I was. Next year I’d be earning my master’s, and these four lowlifes would be right here, pushing dope, getting old before their time. That was if they weren’t in prison. I didn’t know the penalty for trying to run over police or holding a gun on them. But it had to be as bad as dealing drugs and stealing cars. Of course, I wasn’t out of the woods yet. The word “accessory” bandied about my brain.
Rick turned to me, his pupils as large as Lenna Ann’s and Lotty’s. Of course these guys were high. They pulled this move because they weren’t thinking straight. Beyond getting loaded, fired up, and plowing their big truck into the trailer, these guys didn’t have a clue what came next.
I spied Eddie’s laptop on the floor.
Up until a few weeks ago I never could’ve pictured myself siding with criminals over authorities. A lot had changed since then. I wasn’t breaking the rules for those guys. This was payback.
“Can you grab that?” I said to Rick, meaning the laptop.
Eddie, don’t come home. The only way anyone got shot now was by mistake. Keep the room calm, nobody get jumpy.
Rick retrieved the laptop. I inserted the memory stick, pulling up a replay of Boy Blue’s final minutes.
Rick’s eyes went wide—wider than they already were, which I would’ve thought impossible. The others peered over. You could feel the communal rejoice. There was a way out of this mess.
“You got an email address?” I asked Rick.
“Who doesn’t have an email address?”
I typed in what he told me. Then I asked the other three for the same, attached the file, and sent the ironclad evidence into cyberspace. “That’s for Jacob,” I said.
“Big mistake, Brandon.” Simms’s words lacked conviction.
Grinning, I didn’t stop there. I also pulled up the contact information for the Times Union, Daily Gazette, Observer Dispatch, and every local television affiliate, online journal, and media source in the greater Upstate New York region—cut and pasted an intro, attached the file, and hit send.
Standing up, I turned to the two dirty cops, on their knees. “And that’s for Francis.”
“The old man dead?” Rick asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I liked him,” Rick said.
“Yeah, me too.” I turned to Lester. “You can put that down,” meaning the gun. We had all the guns and ammo. Simms and Young had nothing.
“What are we supposed to do with them?” Cody asked me.
“Check their car for weapons and let them drive away.” I turned to the two disgraced officers. “Give them a head start to turn themselves in. As of two minutes ago every major news outlet in the greater Tri-State Area has that video. Town, names, dates, descriptions.
Cody nodded at Lester, who headed outside, to check for weapons, I assumed.
“Hey, Rick,” I said. “Mind giving me a ride to my car?”
Sitting passenger side while Rick reversed out of there, I took a look back at the sliced-up trailer. “I bet Eddie is going to be pissed when he sees that.”
“We’ll help Lenna Ann and Lotty with repairs,” he said. “We’ve taken care of Lenna Ann and her brother for a long time now. We got them that trailer. But there is no Eddie. Lenna Ann doesn’t have a boyfriend. She makes him up when she’s high. Speed freaks see people who aren’t there, bruh. Don’t you know that?”
I’m learning, Rick.
“Lenna Ann’s father is a real piece of shit,” he said. “What he did to his own kids… Man’s a monster. And along with Simms, Young, and McKinty, he’s part of the scam. Fences the shit they steal.” He looked over at me. “We didn’t come to help you tonight. No offense.”
“None taken.” I didn’t want to hear what their father did to them. I’d met the man once and could tell then he was a bad person. I’d seen Lenna Ann, who was messed up. I had no idea what was wrong with Lotty. But the boy wasn’t right in the head.
“We take care of our own.”
The return to the decrepit house on the hill afforded me a few minutes to get the rest of the answers. I needed to be done with this, not saddled with lingering questions eating away at me sleepless nights.
“Did you know Isabel?”
“She left with your buddy. They were…”
“What?”
“Let’s say they liked each other. Water seeks its own level.”
“Lenna Ann said Isabel didn’t leave with Jacob.”
“Lenna Ann doesn’t know what planet she’s on half the time.”
“Do you know anything about McKinty?”
“Other than he’s a fascist pig?”
“They said he’s dead.”
“Good.”
“Why didn’t you tell Francis and me Jacob had a girl with him?”
Rick glanced sideways. “You didn’t ask.”
Fair enough.
“You know where Isabel is now?” I would’ve loved to talk to her, at least make sure she was safe after the quarry “accident” in Minnesota.
“She went home.”
“To London?”
“This life isn’t for everyone, bruh. Some people can’t handle meth. Isabel couldn’t. Made her wig out.” He slid up a smoke. “Of course, now I know why she was so scared. McKinty, Simms, and Young are scumbags, but they never did this level bad. Isabel said she’d seen the goblins abduct Boy Blue.”
“The Shadow People.”
“Yeah, that’s what she called them. Figured Boy Blue tossed her ass out.” Rick peered over his shoulder, as if called by a voice in the night. I didn’t know if he’d heard a bird chirping in his ear, caught a flicker of light that distracted him. He didn’t look long before returning his attention to the dark, crooked road before him.
“You sure she went home?”
“Um, yeah? Drove her to Albany International myself.”
“When?”
“Friday before you stopped by. Personally walked her up to security. Caught the two forty-five home on British Airways. She was scared for her life.” Rick drew on his cigarette. “Just because you’re paranoid don’t mean they ain’t out to get you.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The arrest ran on all the major outlets. It was plastered everywhere—the Times Union, WNYT, smaller local publications like The Codornices and Cortland Standard. It even made the Daily News. It blew up social media, the part involving police anyway. There was nothing about the dingy blue house on the hill or the wretched people who lived there, nothing about Lenna Ann, Lotty, or any of the other invisible residents of Wroughton.
The official report was short, to the point. Two officers from a rural New York burgh arrested for murder. No mention was made of McKinty other than “authorities looking for a third officer involved.” Why would Simms and Young say Jacob killed him? But if true, it explained why the two had been so dogged in their pursuit, avenging a fallen brother. That, and the money and jewelry they were hoping to recover. As much as I loved puzzles, I couldn’t solve this one. Would McKinty show up one night? Did I have to keep looking over my shoulder? All I knew for sure: that unseen passenger I picked up outside the Utica Insane Asylum had left without saying goodbye.
I scoured sources for more info but couldn’t find anything except a brief description about the life and death of Darryl Smith, Boy Blue’s real name. The papers alluded to narcotics but didn’t get specific. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news for Rick and the boys. They were never getting saved, but this treatment
allowed them to remain in the shadows, stay alive. Which meant Lenna Ann and Lotty would be taken care of too.
The night before I was scheduled to move to Syracuse, I had dinner with Sam, this greasy burger joint with the best chili fries you could find anywhere east of Minnesota. Seeing her again moved me. We didn’t know each other that well, and last thing I was doing was projecting neediness by implying we belonged together. Yet, being with her felt familiar, right, like reconnecting with an old friend you haven’t seen in years, picking up where you left off. She felt it too, I could tell, the way she’d nibble her lip or run a finger along her neck, all those mannerisms that make your heart melt.
I had a few questions I needed to ask. Not wanting to alarm her, I phrased these best I could. But, yes, a couple guys matching Simms and Young’s description had approached her outside her apartment the day before Francis and I took our road trip. They’d claimed to be friends of mine, coworkers on the late shift who I was supposed to be meeting for lunch. I didn’t tell her who they were or what they would’ve done if they’d found me that day. Last thing I wanted to do was scare her.
“You could tell they worked the graveyard shift,” she said. “Not the greatest people skills.”
I also told her about the road trip with Francis. Instead of a quest for revenge, I framed our journey in terms of a pilgrimage and search for closure.
“In a way,” I said, “Francis was my grandfather too.”
Wanting to keep things light, I skipped the part where he died. Instead, I talked about the timelessness of the road, the motels, the quirky, weird parts of his personality I’d come to appreciate, the odd trivia he retained, like his story about the color blue.
“There was no one like the guy,” I said. “Difficult but original, unique in the truest sense of the word.”
Our burgers halfway gone, Sam started shaking her head and laughing. I hadn’t said anything funny.
“What?” I said, savoring a mouthful of rare, grilled meat.
“You,” Sam answered. “You’re…different.”
“How so?” I slurped my milkshake.
“Not as uptight?” She leaned back, wrinkling her button nose, winking one eye, as if to see me better. “Letting your freak flag fly.”
I didn’t know if I should be offended, a reaction reflected in my expression.
“It’s not an insult,” she said, taking off her little red beret, shaking loose her shorn black hair. “I like them weird, Brandon.”
We ended up back at my place. I’d never been the kiss-and-tell type. But saying she liked it “weird” might’ve been an understatement. Either way, best sex I ever had.
The morning after there was no awkwardness or self-consciousness. The way Sam fit in the crook of my arm, like she was born to be there. We didn’t talk about the next day or next week. No one pointed out Syracuse was only a half hour away on the 11. When I dropped her off, she kissed me, soft, warm, and long. No one bothered saying they’d call the other later.
There was one more stop I had to make before I drove to Syracuse, even if it wasn’t on the way. In fact, Utica was in the opposite direction.
But I owed Mrs. Balfour that much.
After learning the truth about how I’d come to live with the Balfours, I could’ve gone either way. For a moment or two, I admit the revelation proved challenging, testing my resolve and naturally calm disposition. But I’d been grounded too long, was too certain of who I was to allow this minor, albeit important detail, to derail me. The term crazy is nothing but a point of view.
Some would’ve seen Mrs. Balfour’s omission as a form of deceit. I saw that point of view too. I chose not to embrace such terms. Intentions matter. Mrs. Balfour was a good woman who’d looked out for me, who’d wanted to protect me. Under no legal obligation, and already dealing with her own tragedy, she brought a broken boy into her home and made him part of her family. This wasn’t a foster child situation, where the state kicked in compensation for my care. Quite the opposite. She was a single mother taking on another mouth to feed. Had she handled the situation perfectly? I couldn’t say that. Unique situations are, by definition, groundbreaking.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I wanted to share the complete truth, everything I’d uncovered these past few weeks since first learning about Jacob’s death, but I found myself holding back certain details. Not unlike the choice she’d once made for me—I did so to spare her unnecessary anguish. As a mother, she didn’t need to know Jacob had been stalked, hunted, murdered; and she didn’t need to know two dirty cops accused her son of the same. But I told her about Isabel because I thought she’d like to know Jacob had made a friend.
It was the right call. The more fleshed-out details of their relationship made her smile.
“That’s all I ever wanted for Jacob. For him to have a normal life, make friends, fall in love. Be his own man.”
“I’m sure he knew that, Mrs. Balfour.”
She grabbed my hand, squeezing it. What started as a tender gesture turned desperate, and I could feel her reluctance to let me go.
“Sorry…” I said, searching for a more personal connection, a name less formal and detached. Lori still didn’t feel right.
When I added “Mom,” it did.
It also made her cry. I hopped up and wrapped my arms around her, apologizing.
“No,” she said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you say that.”
We sat and talked awhile longer, about what I planned to study at Syracuse (coding), when I’d be back (soon), how hard it was for her to go into his room (“There is so much to do, but I’m not ready to say goodbye.”). I promised she’d be seeing more of me, and it was a promise I vowed to keep. Then Chloe came home. I swore in the short time since I’d seen her last, she’d sprouted another inch. We all sat around the table, eating, joking, laughing, a real family.
On my way out, Mrs. Balfour told me to hold on, returning with a piece of mail. “I almost forgot. This came for you while you were gone.”
The letter felt thick. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, and there was no return address.
Who would mail me at the Balfours’? I hadn’t lived there in years.
I didn’t think any more about it as we all hugged goodbye and I waved from the car, warm feelings fueling tears and filling hearts. I tossed the envelope along with the rest of my things on the seat and headed west.
Blasting the radio, singing along, I was starting my new life, and it felt good to feel good again. It wasn’t until I stopped for gas that I remembered the envelope. Pumping fuel, I opened it, puzzled at first. There were several sheets of folded paper, all blank.
Then the ring fell out.
I picked it up, squinting into the sun, rolling over the interwoven figure eight in my fingers. The promise Jacob and I made to each other all those years ago. Our make-believe band, the Hanging Chads.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I headed for Albany International Airport as the clouds rolled in. Traffic was sparse in the soft summer rain. The last piece had fallen into place.
I didn’t expect much by way of verification. I doubted anyone was going to remember who boarded a flight bound for London a couple weeks ago. So many airlines, passengers, and interactions. Plus, even if, on the off chance, an attendant or gate agent did remember that particular flight and who got on the plane, how much would they reveal anyway? These days, everything was private, protected, secure, multiple forms of identification required to rent a pull cart. But I had to try.
Turns out the British are way nicer than the Americans. The lady I spoke with at the British Airways check-in desk knew right away who I was talking about.
“Not to be insensitive,” she said, “but it’s not every day you see a man that…large…missing a hand. Especially with a young lady so attractive and smitten.” The attendant offered a broad, toothy grin. “I don’t think she took her head off his shoulder the entire time they were w
aiting to board.”
Leaving the terminal, I pulled out the ring, studying the intersection again. A reminder of Jacob, my friend, a permanent memento and promise made from back when we thought our music could change the world. No beginning, no end. I felt calmed, assured knowing I didn’t have to worry about retribution from McKinty. He’d been burned to a crisp, left in the bottom of a quarry, unidentifiable save for a few painfully self-extracted teeth, sprinkled at the scene along with the fingerprints from a self-amputated hand.
Jacob never was one for half measures.
There were some questions I’d never know the answer to, unless we were to meet up again some sunny day. Was it self-defense? Or had my friend lured them to the construction site, knowing his way around equipment like turbochargers, familiar with the temperatures required to cause an engine to combust? Had he gone there with the intent to murder? Was this a mastermind plot or survival mode mothered by necessity? I shuddered to think how one summons the courage and strength to cut off his own hand. Who’d even think of such a drastic action? Except a crazy person. Maybe Francis was right after all. Madness is a superpower. Especially when life or death is on the line.
How much money and jewelry did Jacob and Isabel manage to get away with? Would it last them forever? Would they need to get jobs, new identities? Where would they live? This new life would bring complications and hardship, no matter how much cash. Even with these concerns, it was hard not to smile.
Jacob and Isabel would never have to look over their shoulder. As far as authorities were concerned, he was dead. Nobody searches for a dead man.
And he had to know: I’d never tell.
About the Author
