The Righteous Path

by James D F Hannah

  Matt rested his hand on hers. “We’re doing everything we can to bring her home to you, Gloria.” He squeezed her hand gently. “About the other man who met with Tyson and Campbell. Are you sure you don’t remember his name?”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry. All this, it’s nothing I’ve given two breaths thinking about for years now. Is any of this going to help you find Micki?”

  “It might. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it would.”

  “I don’t get what Gary Campbell and Tyson have to do with Micki being missing, though.”

  “It’s complicated, so I need you to let us work this, and don’t talk about it with anyone, please. Trust us on this. Can you do that?”

  “If it’s for Micki.”

  Matt slid open the side door so he and Crash could get out. Gloria rolled down her window.

  “You’ll tell me when you find something, right?” she said.

  “We’ll call as soon as we find out anything,” Matt said. “One last thing. Where were you and Tyson living when all of this was going on?”

  “There was a trailer park out on Route 68, and we rented this shitty little single-wide. It was a fucking dump. The roof leaked, the floors were falling in, and anytime the wind blew, you’d think for sure the damn thing would topple over or cave in. But we were kids and didn’t know any better and didn’t have nowhere else to go, anyway. After Tyson left, I couldn’t even afford the rent on it, so I had to move to Section 8 housing. Jesus but that was even worse.”

  Matt nodded. “Thanks for talking. Thanks for trusting us.”

  “I wouldn’t if it were almost anyone else. But why d’you ask about that old trailer?”

  “No reason, Gloria. Just curious, that’s all.”

  Gloria’s minivan turned out of the lot and faded into the distance down the road. Matt folded his arms across the roof of the cruiser and rested his head there.

  “Goddammit,” he said.

  “What do you want to do, Sheriff?” Crash said.

  Matt lifted his head and looked at Crash. “Calling me Sheriff again. Never a good sign.”

  “This situation is what the classicists would refer to as a ‘giant clusterfuck,’ and I may be out of my element, so I’m opting to lean on your many years of experience.”

  “That feels distinctly like a dig at my age.”

  “Look at it instead as me saying you’ve done this for only slightly fewer years than I’ve been breathing, so you may have a better idea of what to do next.”

  “That definitely feels like you’re calling me old.” Matt opened his door. “Let’s go talk to Gary Campbell.”

  “He hasn’t been too interested in talking to us before now.”

  “Shit changes. He’s going to have to find himself interested.”

  Chapter 24

  Matt and Crash found the business card Matt had left stuck in the front door was still there.

  From the car, Matt called the hospital. He talked to someone for a few moments, hung up, and said, “Campbell’s not there, either.”

  “Drive me back to the courthouse. I’ll get my truck and stake out this place. I can take a spot down the street, and he won’t notice my truck the way if I was in a county cruiser. You want to take the hospital?”

  “Sure. Might be the same spot Campbell's daughter parked at when she told herself she caught her father cheating on her mother.”

  “You suppose there’s any irony in that?”

  “Nope. Irony died in all of this fuck-up a while back.” Matt took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I can keep this shit up much longer, Crash.”

  “I don’t blame you. You’re old as fuck.”

  “You can stop that shit anytime you want. Me getting older isn’t the worry. Honestly, it beats all the other options. I’m just tired of people being assholes to each other.”

  “You’re tough, Matt. You’ve got this.”

  “Yeah. Sure I do.”

  Matt sat in the hospital parking lot, his cruiser pointed toward the entrance. He had driven by the Riverside and picked up a roast beef sandwich and fries and coffee. He ate most of the sandwich, but the fries were cold and soggy. All the meals from the Riverside he’d consumed from Styrofoam takeout containers, he kept a higher level of expectation for the food he’d eat if he sat down there. He sipped at his coffee. At least he had that.

  He called Rachel and let her know he wouldn’t be home for a while. She wasn’t happy, but she accepted it, the way she had always accepted his long hours at work. Their first time around, shit like this had happened more nights than it didn’t.

  Now, her tone was different. Now was a begrudging acceptance of situation and circumstances. She knew this couldn’t last forever. There was the elephant in the room he didn’t want to discuss. The Big C. Rachel, she was good to talk about it. She wanted to understand it, to help her understand Matt.

  Hadn’t been that way when he told her. Not at first. No, in those initial weeks, she dug her heels in and acted like it was nothing. Like it was a cold or the goddamn flu. She had seemed determined to pretend it all away. That didn’t work, though, because it wasn’t an answer that ever worked.

  So she changed tactics. She studied up on liver cancer. There were books about it all around the house and websites bookmarked on the computer. She pushed him to go to a support group. He refused, so she went instead when she found one for partners of cancer patients and survivors.

  And she made plans. God love her, she made these big plans for when he left office. At first, she wanted him to resign, or take medical leave, but they both understood that would never happen. He told her he didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. She offered to buy him a dictionary. He agreed not to run for another term, and they would make life plans for what happened after that.

  Matt hoped to discover what would happen after that.

  The sun set low in the distance, and the sky darkened, with gray clouds threatening overhead. He could almost smell the rain brewing.

  His phone rang. It was Amy, Carl’s sister. Crying.

  “Amy?” he said.

  More sobbing. “Matt? Matt?” Her voice was rushed and exhausted at the same time.

  Matt bolted up in his seat. “Amy? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Carl. He’s locked in his room.” Something crashed and shattered in the background. “He’s got a gun, Matt.” A breath. “He’s got his gun.”

  The line went quiet. In the background, Matt heard a faraway voice. A man’s voice. Angry.

  Matt strapped his seat belt on and started the engine. “I’m on my way.”

  Amy’s face was red and blotchy as she ran to Matt in the driveway. She had to bend at the waist to rest her head on Matt’s shoulder as she slung her arms around him and cried.

  “What happened?” Matt said.

  She pulled back and wiped away tears. “I was in the kitchen, making dinner. Michael’s coming home from Clarksburg with the girls. Carl was in the bathroom, and then he was screaming and cursing. He slammed his bedroom door shut and the lock snapped shut. I banged on the door and asked what happened, and then I smelled something coming from the bathroom—”

  Matt nodded.

  “I heard him getting into his gun box. I told him to let me in, and he said to leave him alone, that he had a gun. He said it like it was a warning.”

  “And you’re sure about the pistol? He’s not bullshitting you?”

  “Yes. It’s a .45 our dad owned.”

  “Okay. I need you to call Tim and tell him to meet you by Dairy Queen, and get the girls ice cream. Don’t tell him anything because you don’t want him to have to play a scenario out in front of everyone. Stay out there for a while and I’ll call you, give you the all-clear.”

  “Are you going to call anyone? Call the police?”

  Matt smiled. “I am the police. But I’m also Carl’s friend, and that’s the more important thing right now. Calling me was th
e right decision. Now I need you to get the hell out of here.” He rested his hand on her warm, wet cheek. “He’s a stubborn son of a bitch. Always has been.”

  Chapter 25

  Matt pressed his ear against the door to Carl’s bedroom. Bob Dylan played. “All Along the Watchtower.”

  The smell from the bathroom down the hall still hung heavy. The stench of piss and shit. Droplets of something dark on the hardwood floor led out of the bathroom and into Carl’s bedroom.

  Matt took a deep breath through his mouth and knocked on the door.

  Inside the room, Carl said, “Goddammit, Amy, I—”

  “It’s Matt, Carl.”

  The pause lasted a while. Carl said, “Get the fuck out of here now, Matt. This ain’t got shit to do with you.”

  “Brother, you and I both know that’s not happening, so you may as well roll your ass over here and open this goddamn door.”

  “Fuck off, Matt. I’m not in the mood.”

  “And you think I am? Your sister’s scared shitless. It’s not like I don’t have fifty other things I could be doing, so you are aware.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come here, Matt.”

  “No, you did not. Your sister did, because you’re acting like a horse’s ass. Now I’ll ask you one more time to open this door. If you don’t, I’ll kick it in.”

  Carl laughed—almost more of a snort—but there was movement in the room, and the lock on the door clicked. Matt opened the door as Carl wheeled himself back toward the center of the room.

  The stink in the bedroom was worse than what had been in the hallway. Something soaked Carl’s sweatpants as though he’d spilled coffee all over his lap. The .45 rested on his thigh, away from the stain.

  Carl’s bedroom was decorated as an altar to his former life, though it felt more like a memorial for someone who had died. Framed newspaper clippings from his high school and college football days were mounted on the wall. Carl had played defense and tackle at Marshall, and football trophies lined a shelf. Citations for bravery and commendations for excellence in duty hung next to pictures of Carl and Matt on fishing trips. In one, they stood next to one another, each holding their catch. Carl towered over Matt, but Matt’s fish was a beast compared to the minnow Carl held in his oversized hands.

  The pictures seemed like ancient history, though Matt remembered vividly. Two or three years ago at most for them. Hell, they seemed like yesterday sometimes. They hurt to look at or to think about.

  “Where’s Amy?” Carl faced the window. The wind stirred outside, and branches from the oak trees on the side of the house whipped against the glass.

  “She’s headed down the road.”

  “You tell her to leave?”

  “I did.”

  Carl’s hand patted the .45. “What you expecting on happening here, Matt?”

  Matt stepped toward Carl. “Depends.”

  Carl’s hand wrapped around the .45. His finger slid against the trigger as his hand folded around the grip. Carl’s focus stayed locked on the window. “On?”

  Matt froze, his eyes focused on the gun. “Depends on what you’re planning on doing.”

  Carl sighed. “I’d like to go on vacation. Somewhere they’ve got dark-skinned, big-titted women who’ll serve you drinks from hollowed-out tropical fruit, and they’ll call you ‘American Joe’ and they don’t mind that your dick doesn’t work.”

  “I’m pretty sure what you want to do is be in one of those movies about Vietnam vets, because none of that shit has happened in thirty years, I’m almost positive.”

  “Easy for you to say; your dick works.”

  Matt made a step toward Carl. Carl twitched ever so slightly, but he didn’t respond otherwise. He kept a firm hold on his pistol.

  “Stay where you’re at, Matt.” Carl’s voice was cold and flat.

  Matt reached his right hand out, palm up. “Why don’t you give me that gun?”

  Carl remained still. “Why’d you tell Amy to leave?”

  “Thought it might be better if she wasn’t around for this.”

  Carl rolled closer to the window. “For this? What’s this, Matt? Is it where I shove this gun against the roof of my mouth and pull the trigger? Because you and I both know, you do shit like that, you’ve got to be sure you’re blowing out a substantial amount of brain matter. Clean out the really important parts. Not like that guy a few years back? You remember him? The high school janitor.”

  “I remember. He had come back from a deployment in Afghanistan. PTSD.”

  “That’s right. Fuck. I’d forgotten that. The wife, she left him, didn’t she? Took the kids with her?”

  “She did.”

  Carl said, “Yeah, what I remember is that all he did was shove the gun to the back of his throat and boom. What that did was take out the back half of his skull. He realized what had happened, and he had to call 911 himself. Once he got out of the hospital and went into rehab, he hung himself with a bedsheet.” Carl lifted the gun and gestured it for emphasis. “That type of determination, that’s what really makes this nation incredible. We’ll keep doing something stupid until we get it right. But that is not how I want to go out. I’m scoring for more of a one-and-done situation. No need to hang around and linger, because then what’s the point, right?”

  “Carl—”

  Carl spun around, and he aimed the gun at Matt. “What about a murder-suicide? What do you think of that? You’ve got cancer, I’m in this chair. Everyone will think we opted to take this way out to end the suffering.”

  Matt didn’t flinch. Didn’t even move. Kept his eyes trained on Carl. “Can we leave behind a note for everyone first? Something that goes on about how no one would understand our ‘love that dare not speak its name’?”

  Carl sighed. “Goddammit. Just goddammit all.” His arm dropped and swung next to his chair, the gun pointed toward the ground. His head fell forward, shoulders slouched, and it was almost as though he were praying.

  Matt considered moving again. He could get closer and grab the gun from Carl. But even in the wheelchair, Carl was a big man, and he could knock Matt across the room with little effort.

  Instead, he crouched onto his haunches and leaned backward until he balanced on his heels and his shoulder blades hit the wall.

  “You want to do this?” Matt said.

  Carl lifted his head. He wouldn’t look at Matt. “Do what?”

  “Jesus fuck, Carl, play Monopoly. You reek of piss and you’ve got a goddamn gun, so it feels like the options here are few. Kill yourself. That. That what you want?”

  “I think so. I don’t know. Some days are better. Days like that, I’m okay with this. I’m not good with it, but it’s what it is. Other days—” The words drifted off and faded into nothing.

  “Days like today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had to empty the bag. Amy usually helps, but you can’t keep asking your sister to dump your piss into the toilet, so I tried it myself. I was in the bathroom, and I had it unhooked and I was dumping it in the toilet, and this boom of thunder came from nowhere, and I twitched when it did, so—”

  Matt waited for the next words, but they didn’t come from Carl. Instead, Carl stared off into the distance.

  “Can I have the gun?” Matt said.

  Carl shook his head again. “No.”

  “You’re not doing this, Carl. Give me the gun, let’s get you cleaned up, and then—”

  “I want back out there. This isn’t what I signed up for. Do you not get this is all I am now? Some useless pile of shit in a wheelchair?” He lifted his arm and raised the gun in the air.

  Matt came to his feet. Carl swung his arm around and aimed the pistol at Matt.

  Matt’s hands went up, and he stared at the barrel of the gun. A small smile curled up from his lips, and he laughed. His hands dropped. Carl kept a steady aim at him.

  “Go ahead,”
Matt said. He took another step forward. “Pull the trigger. Do it.”

  “I don’t want to, but I will. You can just turn around and leave, Matt.”

  “That’s not happening. Your options are hand me the weapon or you shoot me. And I need to be super clear here about one thing: I don’t give a fuck if you shoot me, so this, it’s not even a threat.” Another step forward. “I’m already dying, you stupid, selfish son of a bitch. Christ, but you’re a fucking asshole, Carl, and you don’t even realize it.”

  Carl’s hand trembled, but he kept the gun aimed at Matt’s chest.

  Another step from Matt. Maybe two feet between him and the gun. He could have snatched the gun from Carl’s hand.

  “You sit here and whine about being in a goddamn wheelchair, whereas in six months, I’m most likely going to be in a coffin. Your ignorant ass wants me to knock up my wife so she can have a kid I’ll never see, and you’re fine. No, you can’t walk. No, you’re in this goddamn chair. You know what? I’d give anything to be in that goddamn chair. I’m sick and tired of cancer. I’m sick and tired of waking up every day, kind of surprised that I’m waking up, and going through every day knowing I’m dying. And not dying in that ‘Hey, we’re all dying a day at a time’ bullshit. I’m dying in the ‘Fuck, I might not make it to see the next Star Wars movie’ way. I’m dying in the way that doesn’t get to be stoic and dignified. That’s my life, Carl, so pardon me if I don’t feel sorry for you because you had an oopsie moment and you got shit on you, because at this moment, my insides are literally being eaten away by my own body.”

  Matt reached out and grabbed the pistol. He didn’t pull it away but instead raised it higher, leveling it even with his chest. Carl watched Matt with an escalating look of surprise. Matt let go of his hold on the gun’s barrel.

  “So there you go,” he said. “You wanna do this shit, do it now, and let’s move on with our deaths. Otherwise, let go of that goddamn gun before I take it and beat the ever-loving fuck out of you with it.”