His Father's Son

by Bentley Little

  He looked down into the opening and smiled.

  He spent the next few hours covering the hole, gathering light twigs and sticks, using them to gradually form a weak, delicate latticework over which he sprinkled dried weeds, to make the spot blend in with its surroundings. He’d brought no tools and so had to pull the weeds from the ground with his hands. They were tougher than they looked, and by the end, his palms were blistered, cut and chapped.

  It was a good job, if he did say so himself, and even he had a tough time pinpointing exactly where the ground left off and the mine shaft began.

  Just in case, he placed a series of three rocks at the edge of the hidden opening so he would know where it was and wouldn’t fall in himself.

  Then he’d hiked back down the trail.

  Tomorrow at this time, he told himself, Will would be dead, lying at the bottom of the mine shaft. The thought was exciting. Who knew how long it would take before his body was found? Maybe his body would never be found.

  No. Will’s car would be in the parking lot by the trailhead. After a few days, one of the rangers would call it in. Then there’d probably be a big search-and-rescue effort. They’d bring in dogs, and the dogs would find him.

  Steve was about to go take a shower when he stopped.

  What if Will told someone tonight where he was going tomorrow morning?

  What if he said with whom he was going?

  Steve kept walking toward the bathroom and the shower. He couldn’t think about that now. Everything was already set in motion. Maybe, if it wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion and he could find a way to bring it up naturally, he would try to find out whether Will had revealed any of that information to anyone.

  But what would he do then? Would he call it off?

  Steve thought for a moment.

  No. No, he wouldn’t.

  Come rain or come shine, tomorrow was the day.

  The morning dawned clear and warm and beautiful, the type of day on which postcard pictures were taken. What his father used to call a “Rose Parade day.” As Steve drove up the Costa Mesa Freeway to Chapman Avenue, he felt happy. He’d wanted to have lunch with Sherry and spend the afternoon together—not because he was trying to create an alibi but because he genuinely liked being with her—except that she had a baby shower to attend. So they’d agreed to go out afterward for dinner, and she would spend the night at his place.

  Life was good.

  He saw Will’s Hummer as he pulled into the parking lot. There were two other cars parked nearby, but other than that, the lot was empty.

  Good, Steve thought. He didn’t want to meet up with anyone who might be able to place the two of them together.

  Although he had an alternative plan in case they did run into someone else: He would come back down the trail, running for the last quarter mile so he would be all hot and sweaty and could pretend that he’d run all the way, and he’d report Will’s fall himself, telling the ranger or whoever he could find that his friend had slipped and fallen down a mine shaft and that he’d left his cell phone at home and so couldn’t call.

  He didn’t like that plan, though. There was a chance that Will could still be alive. Injured but not dead. He would feel much more comfortable if his friend could remain down there for a few days or even a week.

  He didn’t see Will at first. The Hummer was locked, no one was in it, and there were no people in the parking lot. Through the leaves of bushes and trees that flanked the entrance to the main trail, he caught a flash of blue and red, and when he stepped closer and ducked a little to peer under a branch, he saw Will just past the trailhead doing warm-up exercises.

  Perfect.

  Now if anyone were around or happened to pull into the parking lot at just that moment, that person would not see the two of them together, would not know that Steve and Will were in any way connected. From all outward appearances, it would seem that they were simply two people independently hiking the canyon.

  To further the illusion, he merely nodded at Will as he approached. “Ready?” he asked, not stopping or slowing down, adjusting the canteen strapped over his shoulder as he passed by.

  “Let’s go,” Will replied, breaking into a jog and moving competitively past Steve on the first segment of uphill trail.

  Steve couldn’t have arranged it better if he tried.

  By the time they were over the first hill and above the canyon, the two of them were in sync and walking together—like two men who had met on the trail and become temporary acquaintances. Will, as usual, was bragging about his latest acquisition, some new type of computer phone that he’d gotten access to through his wonderful job but that would not be available to the general public for another six months. Steve smiled, nodded, asked questions that made it appear he was interested, and in general was far less sarcastic and dis missive than he otherwise would have been.

  Because he knew what was coming up.

  The dynamic was still there, though, and, as always, there was that competitive vibe between them. Even though Steve was not disagreeing with anything Will said, Will acted as though he were and continued a game of belligerent one-upmanship.

  They climbed higher and higher, the sun getting progressively hotter.

  Soon they could see over the foothills all the way to the ocean. They stopped for a rest and a drink by a tree whose out-of-season fall colors formed the shape of a cross. Steve had no idea whether the tree looked that way naturally or had been trimmed so its branches formed that configuration, but he told Will that if either of them had brought along a camera, they could have sold the photo to a supermarket tabloid for big bucks.

  “Get with the times,” Will told him. “Tabloids only cover celebrities and weight loss now. Those bigfoot/ alien days are long gone. Although,” he mused, “you might be able to pawn off the tree picture on a Christian Web site or something.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think they’d pay as much.”

  Will gave him a condescending smirk. “That’s why you should get a real job. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about selling photos of phony miracles.”

  You’ll soon be dead, Steve thought.

  It was amazing how that mantra could see him through anything.

  They had long since left the main trail, following Steve’s secret markers of carefully placed nondescript stones. He’d wondered whether Will would be willing to follow his lead, but each “Hey, let’s check out this path” or “Let’s go this way” was greeted with an uninterested “Sure” or “Fine.”

  And then they were at the field.

  Steve was sweaty from the climb and the heat of the day, but his palms were sweatier still, and while he was nervous, he was also excited. Casually walking around a spiky plant and quickening his step, he managed to manuever himself into a position on Will’s right. He purposely remained half a pace ahead, leading the other man along the makeshift path through the weeds that he had tramped down yesterday. The two of them had stopped talking twenty minutes ago, having run out of things to say, but now Steve reopened the conversation.

  “Why are you such an asshole?” he asked.

  Will wasn’t even fazed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damn well what it means.”

  They were approaching the trap. Steve moved a little to the left to make sure Will would hit it head-on.

  “You know, I never liked you,” Will said. “I was talking to Dennis about that the other day, after you left. Even back in college, I thought you were a weird, squirrelly kind of—”

  Steve stopped walking, moved quickly to the left and shoved Will hard in the back. The other man lurched forward, stumbled over the three small rocks marking the edge of the concealed shaft and broke through the thin camouflage cover that hid the hole from view. “Die!” Steve screamed. The scream was loud, and he hadn’t known he was going to do it until he did. But it felt good, and he screamed it again: “Die!”

  Will couldn’t hear it, though. He’d let out a s
hort, sharp cry himself when he’d tumbled into the mine shaft, but that had been cut off almost instantly, and now there was silence. Steve crouched by the edge, peering over, listening, but he could see nothing, hear nothing, and after several moments, he got up, took a drink of water and started back down the trail the way he had come.

  He reached the parking lot, got in his car, turned on the air conditioner and drove away.

  On the way home, he stopped off at In-N-Out and got himself a burger, fries and a chocolate shake.

  That afternoon, he sat down and wrote a new short story.

  That night, he had rough sex with Sherry.

  And Will lay dead at the bottom of the mine.

  Twenty-six

  It was weird attending Will’s funeral.

  He went out of obligation, as did Sherry, but he felt awkward and out of place. Guilty, though he really had no reason to be. Will deserved what had happened to him.

  The memorial service was held in a Catholic church. Steve had not even known that Will was Catholic. It was also surprisingly well attended. Will had obviously been a very popular guy, and although Steve should have known that from their college days, he’d sort of let it slip his mind, since, over the past decade, he’d seen the man only once a week at the most, at their happy-hour get-togethers. But there were a ton of people he didn’t know at the funeral: men and women their age, older and younger. Most of them seemed to be genuinely upset by Will’s passing, and he could only think that they must not have known Will very well.

  And people kept asking him questions. Innocuous questions, for the most part, but it was impossible for him to judge their intentions, and he grew so nervous that even though the day was cool, he ended up sweating profusely, so much so that Sherry commented on it, worried that he was getting ill. He lied, telling her he might have a touch of the flu, just to throw her off the track.

  They ended up leaving immediately after the graveside ceremony, and he dropped her off at her apartment before going back to his own place, where he really did end up vomiting in the toilet.

  He called in sick the next day in order to keep up the ruse, and allowed Sherry to drop by with a container of chicken soup.

  Steve knew now why his father had kept the family moving. It was one of those don’t-shit-where-you-eat situations. He understood completely, because he himself had made that mistake and now the stress was becoming almost unbearable. Everywhere he looked were reminders of what he had done: Gina’s desk, McColl’s office, the streets he had taken while following them, the rental car agency from which he’d gotten his cars, the hardware store where he’d purchased supplies, the bars and restaurants where he’d hung out with Will and his other friends. And his apartment. Always his apartment. Where he had thought up his plans and schemes and decided to carry them out.

  How was it possible that he had not gotten caught? Were the police really that incompetent? Or were they working hard behind the scenes to build an airtight case? Was there even now an unseen dragnet closing in around him? He thought not. But while that belief gave him some confidence, it also increased his anxiety. He seemed to be immune from the world of ordinary actions and reactions, from punishment and prosecution. It was as though he had been chosen for this, as though there were some power protecting him from the consequences so that he could go on doing what he was doing.

  But he didn’t believe in higher powers or unseen forces.

  The whole thing made him anxious and distressed, and he understood why his father had wanted to keep moving, to not dwell upon the past but look only toward the future. It was the only way to keep the bad thoughts at bay.

  To top it off, he saw his father again. And this time it was not in his bedroom.

  He was at Sherry’s apartment, spending the night, and he’d gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom. The alarm clock on her dresser said it was five past midnight. Not wanting to wake her, he climbed carefully out of bed and padded across the room. She kept a little night-light on in the bathroom because she did not like to sleep in darkness, a flowery, antiquey thing that plugged into the socket next to the sink counter, and it illuminated the small space, but weakly, faintly, with a soft yellowish glow.

  Still, he saw his father instantly.

  The old man was standing in the shower stall—

  The shower door had not been open earlier

  —with his arms hanging limply at his sides and a slack expression on his face. His clothes were different this time—jeans and a T-shirt, the type of clothes his father never wore—but they were still soaked with blood, and Steve could see blood on the tile floor of the shower stall, as though it were leaking down from his dad’s body. The image was frightening, and indeed he did feel chilled, but his overwhelming response was one of sadness. His father looked so lost, so forlorn, that Steve wished that he could help him. At the same time, he wished the opposite, that his father could help him, and he was filled with sorrow that they were now separated by death.

  Whether his father’s form was a figment of his imagination or not, Steve was unable to urinate in front of him, and he exited the bathroom for a moment, then came back in.

  As he’d hoped, as he’d somehow known, his father was gone.

  The days passed.

  It was the lack of response or reaction, the fact that he was being completely left alone despite the fact that his department secretary, his boss and his friend had all recently died under mysterious circumstances, that made Steve increasingly uneasy. He was nervous at work, though he hid it well, and away from work he was left with far too much time to think. Sherry, the one person who might have been able to understand, was completely in the dark, and so fundamentally trusting that she had no clue what he had done. He wished now that he’d come clean earlier, brought her in at the beginning so they would be in this together, but it was too late now. She might have been okay with what he’d done if she’d learned about each instance individually. The silencing of Lyman Fischer she’d be able to understand, and it was possible that she would have approved of Gina’s killing. She may have even countenanced what he’d done to Will—she’d never liked him. But hearing about it all at once, no matter how gently he brought it up, she was bound to think he was out of control. People were not dogs, and, knowing her as he did, he was certain that she would never understand, no matter how many puppies she had strangled.

  Did anyone suspect what he had done?

  He thought they might. He didn’t like the way he was being treated, the friendliness, the niceness, the understanding. It seemed suspicious to him. He went out with Jason and Dennis after work on Friday, and all they did was talk about what a good guy Will had been, how funny he was, and Steve knew they didn’t really feel that way. He was pretty sure that they were talking up Will for his benefit, but he could not understand what the point of that would be. Were they gauging his reaction? Looking to see if he disagreed or went off on them for their hypocrisy? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell, so he made sure he had no reaction at all.

  His mother, too, might suspect something. Her attitude toward him had not changed—she was still as hostile as ever—but there were subtle differences. He went to her house twice in one week to help her clean out the back room and carry furniture out to the garage for a yard sale she intended to have before she moved, and when they had minor disagreements over where to place a few of the items, she seemed almost afraid of him.

  As though she knew what he’d done.

  Did she know what her husband had done?

  Steve still wasn’t sure. It was a question to which his mind kept returning, but it was one that could not be answered unless he talked to his mother about it directly—something he was never going to do.

  On the way home from his mother’s house, stuck in traffic on the Santa Ana Freeway just past Disneyland, he found himself wondering if his father had had a will.

  Will.

  His mother had never said anything about it—and even if his father had had one, he
’d probably left everything to her—but Steve was still curious. He wouldn’t put it past his mother to make a power grab and take everything for herself, whether it was really supposed to be hers or not.

  Did his mother have a will?

  It didn’t really matter. As far as he knew, he was her only living relative. Everything would automatically go to him.

  He tried to imagine how she would die. She was getting on in years, although he was not sure of her exact age. Sixty-five? Sixty-eight? Seventy? Somewhere around there. She was pretty healthy, though. And her own mother had lived to be ninety, although her father had died young. So there was a good chance that she would be around for a while. Probably, he thought, she would die in her sleep at a ripe old age.

  But she might have an accident of some kind. She might slip in the bathtub, fall and break her neck. She might trip over a step on the front porch and crack her head open. She might accidentally leave her gas stove on and start a fire. She might die in a car crash. Once she moved to her new place, her apartment or condo or whatever it was, she might choke on a sandwich or experience some type of accident that he could not yet imagine.

  Or she could be the victim of a crime. She could be killed in a home-invasion robbery. A gangbanger could shoot her in a drive-by. A lunatic could rape and murder her.

  There were a lot of things that could occur.

  A lot of ways she could die.

  Traffic was finally starting to move. Steve wiped the sweat from his forehead. If his mother was killed, murdered in her sleep by some criminal, he would probably be suspect number one. Family members were always under a cloud of suspicion in murder cases. Husbands first, sons next. Even if he didn’t do it, the police would probably think he had, and then they would start digging more deeply into his life. Lyman might not turn up, but Gina, McColl and Will certainly would.