by Gerry Boyle
And then there was quiet again, gulls and water. Brandon crisscrossed the cabin until he felt the black rage start to fade. And then he looked at the writing desk, went and sat.
He flipped the laptop lid, the screen lighting to show Danni’s Facebook page, her sad, smiling face. He hesitated, then started to type a message:
You don’t know me but I feel like I know you. I found a diary and I think it’s yours. From high school in the 90s. Your best friend was named Starr. She was arrested for shoplifting at the mall. If you’d like the diary back, just shoot me a message and I’ll get it to you. I live in Portland.
Brandon hit return and the note was sent—from the Facebook account of Chris Craft of Portland, Maine. He picked the diary up from the desk, went back to the settee and started to read. Danni working at MacDonald’s. Danni meeting her best friend Nelly at Domino’s. Telling Nelly about a new guy she’d met, Marcus, who seemed wicked nice. Turned out he wasn’t.
My mind is so confused its unreal. I hate life and especially myself. I hate men. They are all jerks, assholes, users. I am very hurt. My heart feels like it has been stamped on by everyone. Is their something wrong with me?
The entry ended not with a smiley face, but with a grimace. Brandon read a few more pages, snapshots of Danni’s sad and lonely life. But every few days, she’d pick herself back up, meet a new guy, party with her friends, draw a few smiley faces until the next betrayal. Brandon wondered what she’d think if she read the message, knowing a stranger was reading her most private thoughts, seeing her when she was most vulnerable.
He’d give the book back to her, say, “Here you go. Your secrets are safe again.” It was a small thing but these days small things were all he had.
And then Brandon fell asleep on the settee, lulled by the slap of the waves, the cool September breeze blowing off the harbor and through the cabin. He was out cold, gone, exhausted by all of it, maybe driven to the deepest sleep by the need to escape. He didn’t dream, didn’t move, slept with his head lolled back on the settee pillow, the diary open on his chest.
And when he woke it was dark. He had a moment of peace before it all landed on him again, compressing his chest, clamping down on his skull. He took a deep breath, hoisted himself up off the settee, lurched to the galley sink. Reached over the sink to turn on a light, filled a glass with water, rinsed his mouth and spat.
Brandon picked up his phone, and climbed the steps to the bridge. Sitting at the helm, he looked out at the lights of Portland, glimmering across the harbor. Behind him, the red markers glowed on the bridge and headlights streamed across. The world was moving around him, like he was the only thing that had been anchored in place. He tapped his phone on, saw a missed call from Mia, another from Kat, still another from Sergeant Perry. He checked his voice mail: Mia wanted him to call her. Kat told him to stay away from alcohol. Sarge said he was just checking in, call if he needed anything, he’d call back.
And then another message, this one forwarded to his email. It was from Danni. She said:
hey, chris. yeah its me. I’d really love to have that back. Embarrased! Blush!!! Where do you want to meet up? Im in Woodford. Around tonight. Thanxxx!
A smiling emoji. Brandon hesitated, the typed out a reply:
Great. I’m headed down that way anyway. Just let me know where and when you want to meet.
He hit send. Waited. Ten seconds later:
Hey, Chris. Can you make it for 8? Dunkin on Route 1? Buy u a coffee for yr trouble.
Brandon looked at his watch, the glowing dial showing 6:23.
See you then. I’ll be driving a blue Chevy pickup.
White ford focus. Number 3 in back window.
Nascar fan. Friends over to watch Talladega.
And another message appeared:
just park in the lot and wait. I’ll find u.
Brandon stood. Hesitated there in the cabin, weighing his choices. Stay on the boat and replay it a thousand times. Leave and go meet this person and maybe get away for an hour or two. He could be Chris Craft. Leave Brandon and his problems behind.
He went to the locked cabinet on the starboard side, fished the key from its hook behind the curtain. Unlocked the wooden locker and stood there. Inside were five boxes of .45 ammo, the department Glock, his personal carry gun, a smaller Glock 26 9-millimeter in a waistband holster. Brandon picked it and held it in front of him. It looked foreign, not the familiar thing he’d picked up every day. Wallet. Keys. Radio. Gun.
Brandon put the gun down and stared at it, like he was window shopping. He hesitated, then reached back into the little cupboard and took the gun out. Stripped off his belt and slipped the holster on. Clinched the belt and stood. Could he do this? If he could carry it, could he ever fire it again?
Seven
Brandon made his calls on the ride south, Mia first. She didn’t pick up. He left a voice mail: “I’m fine. Just had to get out of Dodge, go for a drive. I’ll call you later. No worries.”
Then Kat, the sound of the police radio in the background.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Brandon said.
“And you’re a lousy liar, Blake. You can be a lot of things right now, but fine isn’t one of them.”
“Okay, I’m fine considering. Going for a drive. Change of scenery.”
“Good idea. Call me later, if you want.”
“Will do. How’s the night going?”
“The usual assholes and inebriates,” Kat said. “You’re not missing anything.”
“Sure I am,” Brandon said. “I’m missing the whole goddamn thing.”
“Got your back.”
“I know.”
And then Perry, with Christiansen’s K-9 barking in the background.
“What you got, Sarge?” Brandon said, like he could be there in five.
“Runner from a traffic stop. Passenger panicked. Condom full of heroin up his butt.”
“That’ll raise the anxiety level? Dog get him?”
“Oh, yeah. They can run but they can’t hide.”
“Right.”
The dog barked louder, voices in the background, someone saying, “Keep him back.” Then the barking subsided, replaced by the sound of a cruiser moving, the motor revving up.
“How you doing, Blake?” Perry said.
“Fine.”
“Staying away from the news?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Just gotta ride it out,” Perry said.
“Right.”
“Stay close to home.”
Brandon was getting on I-295 south.
“Right.”
“Watch the Red Sox on TV or something.”
“Gotcha.”
“Low profile, Blake. Under the radar.”
“Will do, Sarge.”
And then Perry was gone. Brandon was passing the Scarborough exit. It was 7:15.
He had rules for meets like this, which were usually with informants or potential ones. Get there way earlier than the C.I. Park with your rear bumper to a fence and scan the area.
Wyatt Earp always sat facing the door of the saloon.
He rolled into the parking lot of the Dunkin’ at 7:35, cruising through slowly once and then exiting, watching to see if anyone followed. No one did. He doubled back.
The second time in he parked at the back of the lot near the Dumpsters, turned off the motor and lights and sat. The place was quiet, a half-dozen cars parked in the back row beside him, beater Honda sedans and a lifted Toyota pickup that probably belonged to employees. Closer to the entrance there were four more cars and two Harleys. As Brandon watched, the bikers—big-bellied guys with black do-rags—came out and climbed on and revved, roared off.
He waited, the diary on the console beside him like a gift for a high school girlfriend. Cars came and went: an older couple holding hands; a Somali family, the women and girls in headscarves; the guys in shirts and ties. A skinny kid came out of the back of the restaurant with a bag of trash, walked toward Brandon, the kid maki
ng eye contact as he lifted the lid of the Dumpster and dropped the bag in. Brandon nodded and the kid did, too, started to cross the lot and stopped as a white Ford Focus swung into the lot and wheeled around the corner. Brandon saw Danni at the wheel, blonde hair pulled back. The car passed and parked nose in, four slots down the row. The lights went out, and Danni walked quickly from the car to the restaurant.
She was stocky and muscular, like somebody who did physical work. Waitress or CNA in a nursing home. Jeans tucked into black high-heeled boots, a black sweater. Brandon waited. At 7:58 Danni came out of the restaurant on the far side carrying two coffees, walked along the building and started for her car. When she reached the car she looked around, stood for a moment, and then walked over to Brandon’s truck.
He opened the driver’s door as she approached. Danni pulled it wider with the pinky of one hand and held the coffee out.
“Chris,” she said.
“Danni,” Brandon said.
“I was hoping you weren’t just some weirdo in another blue Chevy pickup.” He took the coffee and slid out, Danni holding out her hand to shake. They did and hers was strong. They stood awkwardly for a moment, both sipped. Smiled. He handed her the diary and she looked at it, said, “Oh, my god. I never thought I’d see this again.” She glanced up at him, flipping pages with one hand, the swirling cursive showing in the parking-lot light.
“Did you read it?”
“Some, not all.”
“Jesus Christ, this is so embarrassing. I can’t believe I wrote this stuff down,” she said.
“Sometimes it helps to get things out, I guess,” Brandon said.
“Where did you find it?”
Brandon opened the coffee and sipped. Danni did the same, the breeze bringing a waft of mocha.
“Somebody I know bought a desk at a second-hand place in Portland. This was in the back of one of the drawers.”
“And you tracked me down?”
“Wasn’t hard. Facebook knows all.”
She snapped the book shut, said, “Jeez, that brings some stuff back.”
She gave a shudder, looked at him.
“I had my ups and down in high school,” Danni said.
“Didn’t we all,” Brandon said.
“You go to Portland High, Chris?” she said. “I knew people went there.”
Brandon shook his head. “No. Home schooled, actually. Long story.”
She looked at him curiously.
“I’ll bet.”
Dannie stared and said, “You ever live around here? You look kinda familiar.”
“No. Portland, South Portland.”
“Boy, seems like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Maine’s a small place,” Brandon said.
He sipped the coffee. Milk, no sugar. A good guess.
“Well, awful nice of you to bring this down. Hope it didn’t take you too far out of your way.”
“Nah, no big deal.”
“I’m glad to get it back. May burn it, though.”
Brandon smiled. “You can spread the ashes.”
“Hate to think of somebody reading about my love life, such as it was. God, I was a disaster.”
It was getting awkward again.
“I’m sure it all worked itself out in the end,” Brandon said. He lifted the cup to take a drink. Saw movement to his left, someone coming fast down the line of cars, Danni blurting, “Oh, my god!”
A guy running toward them, fist cocked back. Brandon turned to meet him, got his forearm up, stepped inside the first looping punch, the coffee cup flying. Their forearms slammed together, Brandon’s arm going numb. The guy was close in, threw a wild left that hit Brandon in the shoulder, glanced off. He stepped in and hooked a leg, got the guy’s right arm in a lock, jammed it backwards. The guy grunted. Brandon drove him back into the front of his truck.
The guy pushed off and they wrestled standing, just like Brandon with a drunk in the Old Port. He was big, stocky, a barrel chest and thick arms. Head shaved and a goatee with gray, his breath smelling of alcohol. The guy shouted, “Cheating bitch,” and Danni stepped in, tried to pull him away. “Stop it, stop it. Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Danni was thrown off as they spun around, the diary falling and skidding on the pavement. She tried to reach for it but they stumbled into her and she staggered backwards. Brandon got a foot in again and drove his shoulder into the guy’s chest, and this time the guy stumbled and fell. Brandon rode him down, blocked another punch with his forearm and hit the guy twice in the face. Two short jabs. The guy’s face spurted blood and he saw Danni circle around them, drop to her hands and knees, looking under his truck.
The diary.
“You bitch,” the guy shouted, and Brandon felt people watching. The guy went slack like he’d given up and when Brandon eased off, the guy thrashed and got another punch off, this one hitting Brandon on the cheekbone.
Brandon put his forearm across the guy’s throat, scissored his legs and held the guy down. The guy got an arm loose and started to reach for something at his waist and Brandon grabbed the guy’s left arm and twisted hard. The guy gasped, “You fucker,” and Brandon took his arm off the guy’s throat long enough to hit him in the face again. Once. Hard.
A small crowd was gathering. A few people from the restaurant, the kid who had taken out the trash. “Cops are coming,” he said, like they should scatter. Danni reached under the truck, came up empty, her shoulder flecked with gravel. Got to her feet, trotted toward her car.
The guy’s face was slick with blood, Brandon’s fist red as he raised it again. Danni’s car started and the tires squealed as she pulled out of the space and accelerated toward the exit. The guy fell back and went slack and this time stayed down. Brandon reached behind him for his cuffs, felt nothing but belt and Glock. He jumped to his feet and said, “You crazy bastard. She’s not cheating on you. I returned something to her, that’s all.”
“Yeah, right. The goddamn slut—”
“You’re an idiot. It was some book from high school. I picked it up, found her on Facebook and gave it back to her. Never laid eyes on her before. Never will again. Now get the hell out of here before I lock your sorry ass up.”
The words slipped out, and the guy stopped resisting. Like you’d thrown a switch. His expression changed, the tension draining out of him. Sometimes people came to their senses. Not often.
The guy wiped his face, looked at his bloody hand, then at Brandon and said, “Misunderstanding, dude.” He stepped back as he got to his feet, wiping blood from his nose and mouth. “I just figured the bitch was—” the guy muttered.
“Listen to me,” Brandon said. “She didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t take it out on her.”
He started for the truck, saw something on the ground. The diary was near the driver’s door, splayed open in a puddle of coffee. He leaned down and snatched it up, hurried to the truck and got in. The guy was walking away, his hand over his bleeding mouth. Brandon started the truck and pulled out, heard someone say, “Hey, stop,” but then he was around the corner, swinging into the Route 1 traffic.
The diary was beside him on the passenger seat, the flowered cover splotched with the guy’s blood. Brandon pulled off into the lot of a Burger King, leaned over and took napkins from the glove box. He wiped the blood from his hands, hoped the bastard didn’t have HIV. Then he wiped the blood from the diary, smearing the flowers with brown streaks. He got out and dropped the bloody napkins in a trashcan, pulled back out and headed north.
“Shit,” he said, settling back into the seat, looking at his scraped knuckles.
It wasn’t supposed to go down that way. Danni probably had the son of a bitch on her case now, beating her up as soon as he got home. She looked like a longtime abuse victim, had that reflective eagerness to please, to mollify. Bringing Brandon coffee, thanking him, talking about what a mess she’d been. The guy looked like a classic abuser, the kind Brandon had seen a hundred times at domestic violence calls.
Enraged, controlling, sadistic bullies, fear showing in the woman’s eyes, the look of someone locked into a sick relationship with no easy way out.
Brandon wondered if they had kids. How long they’d been together. Had Danni had affairs? Had she looked for someone better, kinder, gentler? She seemed like a nice enough person, judging by the diary just somebody who hadn’t caught a break. A bunch of loser guys and then she gets stuck with this one. “Dump the piece of crap,” Brandon said, taking a left to get back on the interstate. He gunned the engine, glanced at the rearview, saw headlights coming up the access road fast.
“Damn,” he said as the blue strobes blipped on.
He pulled over, saw the cruiser, an Explorer SUV, slide up and out beside him. He opened the window, reached his wallet from the console. Flipped it open to his badge. Waited. It was a minute before the cruiser door popped open, the cop running his plate, getting it back.
Brandon Blake. Isn’t that...?
A flashlight beam swished through the cab and then the cop was at his left shoulder.
“I’m Portland P.D.,” Brandon said, held up his badge. The cop leaned closer.
“Blake,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you—?”
“Yeah.”
“Admin leave?”
“Right.”
“Marlon Davey. As in Brando”
Brandon looked at him. Chubby guy, maybe 40. Military haircut, baby face, glasses with thick dark rims. Looked soft but appearances could deceive.
“Seen your name around,” Brandon said.
“Sorry for your troubles. Freakin’ pellet guns. After your…your thing, I looked it up. Something like forty a year, people carrying replica guns shot by cops. Took one off a kid you couldn’t tell from a Glock 26. That’s in broad daylight, never mind the dark. Oughta be outlawed.”
“A little late,” Brandon said.
“For you,” Davey said. “Sorry, man.”
“Yeah.”
He moved up beside him, lowered the light.
“So we got a call.”
“Yeah. A bit of a cluster back there.”
