by Gerry Boyle
And then an actual call. Danni. He hesitated. Answered it.
“Brandon, this is Danni. Hey, we were just looking at this Facebook page, the cop-haters. Fucking-A, dude, what a shitshow. Are these people out of control or what?”
“They don’t know the whole story.”
“Well, that still sucks, the things they’re saying about you I almost commenting, sticking up for you.”
“Thanks, almost,” Brandon said.
A pause. In the background he could hear traffic noise. He waited.
“Listen, that’s not the only reason I’m calling. I was thinking about what you said. About that day. I think we need to talk.”
“OK.”
“Because I can’t just carry this shit around anymore. It’s like this giant thing on my back. It’s freakin’ crushing me.”
“I understand,” Brandon said.
“So listen, where are you?”
“I’m in Portland. Downtown.”
“Can you just walk around? I mean, with everything going on?”
“Sort of. I’m careful.”
“You oughta take that boat back down here,” Danni said.
“It’s ready and waiting.”
“Yeah, take old Bay Watch and—”
“Bay Witch,” Brandon said.
“Right. Sorry. But listen, can I meet you?”
Brandon considered it.
“I need more info,” he said. “What are you carrying around?”
“Jeez, Brand. I’d rather tell you in person.”
“Was I right about that day? The bikers?”
He waited. Heard traffic noise, and then Danni said, “You weren’t totally wrong.”
So they had been involved. Three people dead. Hard to can a cop who just solved three murders.
“Were you there when it went down?”
“Listen, Brandon. It’s complicated. I’d rather do this face to face. I mean, this is a big deal to me. I mean, I been holding this inside for a long time.”
“I’m sure.”
“You going back across the harbor there? Back to the boat?”
“No, it’s here.”
“Want to meet there?”
The safest place, Brandon thought. Not like they could go for coffee.
“Custom House Wharf. All the way to the end. There’s a bunch of trucks parked out there.”
He heard her start off, shifting through the gears. “Okay. How long?”
“Twenty minutes,” Brandon said. “I gotta get a coffee.”
Danni said. “I won’t hold you up, if you want to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“We’ll talk. I’ll head out from there,” Brandon said.
“I appreciate this,” Danni said. “It’s like I’m gonna get to live again, after being, like, the walking fucking dead.”
They rang off. Brandon looked at his phone. Eighty-two percent. Enough juice to record what Danni had to say. Life turning on what was recorded and what wasn’t. He pocketed the phone, felt for the Glock at the back of his waist.
Making his way to Commercial Street, he went left, headed for Arabica for coffee. Pulled his hat down low. The shop was crowded, people hunched over laptops, engrossed in conversation. The baristas were busy, the woman behind the counter barely looking up. Brandon ordered an Americano, turned away and waited. When the coffee came, he reached for his wallet, remembered he’d given his cash to the guy with the video.
He turned and walked out.
Walking back down Commercial Street, he felt lighter, weirdly liberated. One of these days the news would come out. He could picture the headline: “Portland Police Shooting Victim Wanted to Commit Suicide by Cop, Investigators say.”
How would Estusa twist it? How would he keep Brandon in his sights?
Still, Brandon felt like the truth would come out. He could take whatever came his way in the meantime. Ride it out and emerge almost intact, or closer to it. He took out his phone, called Mia, got voicemail. “Hey. Some pretty good news, sort of. Call me.”
He didn’t want to miss Danni, didn’t want to give her time to get cold feet, her secret locked away again. Nobody noticed him as he walked in the shade of the storefronts, crossing the street, walked a block up to Custom House Wharf.
He was starting down the wharf when his phone buzzed. The call had gone to voice mail: Mia. He decided to call her back, after Danni. Maybe even more news to report.
He kept walking, looking for Danni’s car, Danni herself. He went to the end of the wharf. Nothing. He turned back, walked more slowly. At the corner of a warehouse he paused. Still no Danni. No white Focus.
“Damn it,” he said.
He stood and watched for her coming down the wharf. Walked across the wharf to the water’s edge, and looked up and down the walkway over the boats. He walked back and down the wharf, stopped outside Harbor Fish. People were coming and going, but no Danni. He took his phone out and called her. It went to voicemail. He said, “I’m here. Where are you? Call me back.”
He walked back up the wharf. There was a wooden gate with a sign that said, Private Dock, and he reached over and unsnapped the latch, pushed through, and walked down the ramp. He saw that the big sailboat from Marblehead had left, the Grady White, too. Bay Witch looked conspicuously alone on the stretch of float and Brandon decided to leave, maybe find a mooring, maybe anchor again off Cushing Island. He’d call Mia, hunker down. If he had to, he’d meet Danni at Woodford Bowl again.
He stepped aboard, thinking he’d need fuel if he were going outside the harbor. He could cut across and gas up at the marina and, if he were lucky, not have to talk to anyone there.
Opening the cabin door, he crossed the salon, stepped down into the cabin. Saw someone sitting on the starboard berth.
Danni. Her left eye was purple and yellow, her mouth cut and swollen.
“What are you—”
A gun pressed against his head from behind.
“I’m really sorry,” Danni said.
Twenty-Eight
Clutch kept the gun hard against Brandon’s neck.
“Don’t shoot. It’s not worth it,” Brandon said.
“You should know,” Clutch said. Danni came off the berth, a strip of duct tape hanging.
“Put out your hands, Brandon,” she said. “Please.”
The gun pressed harder. Brandon held his hands out and Danni wrapped the tape around his wrists, concentrating like she was wrapping a package.
“Search him,” Clutch said.
“He’s not working. He’s not gonna be carrying.”
“Search him.”
Danni leaned close, patted Brandon down. Last time she’d tried to kiss him. She patted his waist, front and back, pulled the Glock out with two fingers, holding it by the butt.
“What’d I tell you,” Clutch said. “Son of a bitch ain’t walking around unarmed. People hate his guts. Put it over there, on the couch.”
Danni laid the gun on the port berth. She turned to Brandon and smiled, like things would be okay now.
“So what is it I can do for you guys?” Brandon said.
“The paper, Brandon,” Danni said. “Just give us the paper and we’ll go.”
“That all?” Brandon said. “You could have asked. No need for all this. I would have—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Clutch said and he whipped the barrel across Brandon’s forehead. “That’s for the parking lot, asshole.”
A long barrel. Revolver, Brandon thought. Blood was running through Brandon’s eyebrows, into his left eye. He blinked it away but it kept coming.
“The paper,” Danni said.
Brandon smiled.
“So I give it to you, you take the tape off, your boyfriend puts the gun away and we shake hands. No hard feelings.”
“Right,” Danni said.
“Right,” Brandon said.
“Just tell her where it is,” Clutch said. “Or I start shooting. Your knees first.”
“You’ll put a big
hole in the bottom of the boat. That’ll really start the clock ticking.”
“I’m counting to ten,” Clutch said.
“Please, Brandon,” Danni said. “He’ll hurt you.”
Clutch spun Brandon around, shoved him down on the edge of the berth. Brandon’s head hit the bulkhead, and bounced back.
“Jesus,” Danni said. “Go easy.”
“Shut up,” Clutch said, and to Brandon, “Last chance, dipshit. Where is it?”
“Gone,” Brandon said. “I decided you guys are nothing but trouble. I tossed it.”
The barrel again, the right side this time. Brandon blinked blood away.
“No bullshit,” Clutch said.
“Please, Brandon, please.”
“Don’t want to see your boyfriend chopped up?” Clutch said, and Brandon saw the sadist side. Just a glimpse.
“Can’t produce what I don’t have,” Brandon said.
“Jesus,” Clutch said, pressed the barrel of the gun against Brandon’s chin. A .357, Brandon thought. Used to be a bad-ass gun, Dirty Harry days.
“I’ll do it,” Clutch said.
“Half the Old Port will hear that shot,” Brandon said. “Shouldn’t’ve brought that bazooka.”
Clutch hesitated, looked out of the cabin door toward the salon. “Then we’ll go out where we can have some quiet,” he said. He motioned to Danni with the gun. “His ankles. And his mouth.”
“Please, Brandon. Just tell him. Just tell him and we can go.”
“Okay,” Brandon said. “It’s in a purple trash bag, last seen being heaved into the dumpster outside the marina in South Portland.”
Another slash with the gun barrel, blood running down Brandon’s temples, dripping off his chin.
“Oh, god,” Danni said, but she was tearing strips off the roll of tape. She moved close and pressed the strip against Brandon’s mouth, said, “It won’t stick.”
She was crouched in front of him, the tape stretched in front of her. Clutch reached for a T-shirt from the shelf, stepped in and swiped Brandon’s face, like a rough dad with a messy kid. Danni tried again and the tape stuck. Brandon took a long breath through his nose, watched as Clutch—jeans, workboots, camo hoodie—stuffed the gun in his waistband, stepped out into the salon. Brandon heard thumping, lockers opening and closing and then Clutch was back, a toolbox in front of him, Bay Witch written in marker across the lid.
“Ankles, too,” he said, and Danni knelt in front of Brandon, started peeling tape off the roll. She looped it around his ankles, pulled it tight and strapped it down. “Some people just ain’t got the sense to leave shit alone,” Clutch said, unsnapping the lid, digging through the tools. “Everything was great. For years. And this son of a bitch cop has to stick his nose in. You have to write shit down in some fucking book.”
He took out a pair of vice-grips, needle-nosed.
“Oh, Clutch, don’t,” Danni said. “Let me talk to him.”
“Too late for talk, babe.”
“No. Brandon, just tell him where it is. We’ll get out of here. Don’t you have enough crap to deal with? I mean, you don’t need this.”
Understatement, Brandon thought. He breathed slowly, in and out. A diesel rumbled outside, moving on the water. Maybe nobody would hear a shot.
Clutch snapped the pliers shut, said, “Last chance. You want to talk, just nod your head.”
Brandon stared at him.
“Your choice. After this we get out the saw, start cutting off fingers.”
“No,” Danni said. “He’ll tell us, won’t you, Brandon.”
Clutch stepped closer as the boat rocked. He reached out and steadied himself on the bulkhead and Brandon kicked out straight and hard, both legs, aimed for the groin but hit the knee. Clutch shouted, punched Brandon in the head, knocking him sideways. Pain shot from his ear, radiating inside his head. Clutch hit him again, same place, kicked him in the shin.
“Wanna play rough, freakin’ cop? We can play rough.”
He yanked Brandon’s hands up, pulled his left index finger out and clamped the pliers on. Brandon screamed into the tape while Danni said, “Oh, my god, stop.”
The pliers were still on, the pain burning, shooting up Brandon’s arm.
“Like that?” Clutch said, taking the gun out, pressing the barrel to Brandon’s forehead. “Want me to put you out of your misery? Cause I’ll do it, I swear. Just like I did with those biker assholes. Put them down like dogs, but they was half dead already. No loss, those pieces of shit. They were murderers, for Christ’s sake. Sash, too. They worth getting jammed up like this for? A couple of biker murderers, Blake? Is it? Is it?”
Brandon shook his head, his teeth clenched under the tape.
“There you go,” Danni said. “You can stop now. He’ll tell us.”
Clutch still had the gun on Brandon’s head, and he didn’t answer. Brandon looked at her and their eyes met. She wasn’t getting it, that the paper was only half the problem, and the other half wasn’t going away by letting Brandon go. He gasped through his nose, mucus spurting. Danni wiped it for him, said to Clutch, “Please. Stop it.”
He did, unclasping the pliers. Brandon’s finger was crushed, throbbing, turning black-red.
“Ready to talk?” Clutch said.
“Sure he is,” Danni said, and slipped a finger under one end of the tape and pulled. Brandon gasped again, panted for air. His finger was paralyzed, the pain spreading to his whole hand.
“Where is it, Blake?” Clutch said, the gun pointed at Brandon’s forehead.
“It’s gone,” Brandon said. “I’m telling you, I threw it away. Mia, my girlfriend, she was pissed because I found Danni. It was nothing but trouble.”
The gun, lashing across his mouth, his lip splitting, blood spurting.
“Oh, god,” Danni said. “Don’t. Please don’t.”
“You’re next, bitch,” Clutch said, “he don’t start talking.”
The blood was dripping off of Brandon’s chin onto his lap, his wrists, beading on the tape.
“It’s true,” Brandon said, blood spittle spraying. “You think some stupid bikers from years ago are worth this? What do I care about them, or you, or any of it. I don’t. If I had it, I’d give it to you in a second. It’s not my problem.”
“Is now,” Clutch said, and he slapped Brandon, a left-handed backhand. Brandon’s head rocked back, and Clutch clamped the pliers again, the middle finger. Brandon grimaced and Clutch said, “The tape, you idiot.”
Danni tried to put the old piece back on but it wouldn’t stick, folded on itself. “Get a new piece for fuck’s sake,” Clutch said, and she did, tearing it off, wiping Brandon’s bloody mouth, pressing the tape on. It stuck, one end trailing off.
“Somebody’s gonna hear,” Clutch said.
“He doesn’t have it,” Danni said.
“You don’t know that,” Clutch said.
“I do, too. I know him.”
“I’ll bet you do, you slut. We gotta get outta here.”
Were they leaving? Brandon grimaced, a glimmer of hope.
“I’ll get this tub started,” Clutch said.
“You don’t know how to drive a boat,” Danni said.
“I can drive anything,” Clutch said. “Tape him down.”
“What?”
“Around his neck and around that wood thing.”
It was the shelf above the berth, a handhold cut out for hoisting yourself out. Danni said, “Oh, Jesus,” but she started to unwind the tape. She wrapped it around Brandon’s neck, one loop.
“Again,” Clutch said. “Then through the hole.”
She did it, feeding the tape through three times before yanking it back to Brandon’s neck and making a final wrap. He was short-leashed like a dog.
“I’m really sorry about this, Brandon,” Danni said.
“You’ll be wicked sorry, I oughta give you what you deserve, starting all this,” Clutch said.
She recoiled as he feinted a swing of the gun
.
“Way I take care of you, I don’t know why I do it. Lying bitch.”
He took two steps back. The pliers were still clamped, the pain turning to numbness. Danni said, “Can’t you take those off now?”
“Shut up,” Clutch said. “You watch him. He moves an inch, you’re both dead.”
He turned and crouched as he moved through the door and into the salon. Brandon heard him stepping up to the helm, then metallic creaks and thunks as he moved the controls. The starter cranked and stopped. Cranked again. Brandon wondered if Clutch could figure out the choke, the throttle setting. Another crank. Nothing. Then another, and the big Chevy coughed and stalled. Coughed again and roared to life.
It idled while Clutch bounded down the steps and out to the stern. The boat rocked slightly as he stepped off, untying the docklines, then rocked again as he jumped back on, trotted back to the helm.
The motor throttled back, then stalled. Brandon thought, please flood it. Out in the bay, he’d be alone. He’d be done.
The motor started again, and this time didn’t stall as Clutch put the boat in gear. It surged forward, ground the fenders into the float. “Shit,” Clutch shouted. He reversed and there was more grinding but the stern was moving away from the float. The boat was going sideways in the passage between the wharves, and Clutch shifted, and the boat surged forward again. The bow hit the float and the boat shuddered, and the motor rumbled as Clutch reversed. He jockeyed back and forth twice, and then Bay Witch swung around and started out into the harbor.
Brandon looked at Danni, held out his hand, the plier hanging from his finger.
“I can’t, Brandon,” she said. “He’ll kill me. He really will.”
The motor surged, Clutch shoving the throttle forward. The boat lifted and through the crack in the cabin curtains Brandon could see the wharf and then open water. Clutch turned east, headed out of the harbor. He pushed it faster and they passed the ferry terminal, passed outside of the mooring field. Brandon looked at Danni and implored her again, grunting through the tape.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and sat still on the berth, the roll of tape on her lap.
