Boy in the Box

by Marc E. Fitch

  The plan, in itself, was an insurance policy, insurance that he would never have to admit to his wife and children and the world what they had done, how he had been so callous and uncaring as to put a dead innocent in the ground and hide the fact. He had long ago worked past the guilt of what happened. The fact that no one ever came forward looking for a lost boy made it easier, made it seem more like a bad dream than anything else, and he pushed it to the back of his subconscious. The others had not been as willing or able to bury it deep enough or rationalize it enough to get on with their lives. Everyone asked why Gene did it. Why he took his own life when he seemed like such a great guy, full of life, and all that other shit people said when mourning a premature death. Conner remembered the night he and Michael sat down with Gene and told him the plan. The look that came over that giant oaf’s eyes, as if he were staring into an abyss. Conner should have known right then that Gene wouldn’t make it. Two days later came news of his death, but, really, he had died the night he was confronted with returning to Coombs’ Gulch. Gene had opted for jumping into that abyss rather than returning to the Gulch.

  Conner, Michael and Jonathan understood the necessity of dealing with the issue, of moving the box, of following Conner’s insurance plan. Michael was strong. Michael dealt strictly with the problems facing him at the time. A past decision, even a wrong one, was quickly put out of his mind. He was not one to doubt himself or to look much further than the small malfunctioning parts of the vast machine before him. He didn’t deal with the guilt and sadness and regret; he dealt with the functionality of it. It was what made him a good engineer.

  Jonathan, on the other hand, was a mess. Conner wondered how long it would take before he took Gene’s way out. Mary called Madison some nights, crying into the phone, wondering what was wrong with him, why he’d taken to drinking so much and cutting himself off from the rest of the world. Jonathan was down a dark hole. Conner felt bad to an extent, but at some point you have to get a hold of yourself, no use wallowing in the past, particularly wallowing in Coombs’ Gulch. There was also the possibility Jonathan would do something stupid and tell someone else what happened. Conner had always worried most about Gene, but as far as he knew, that fat mess had kept a lid on things. Jonathan’s downward spiral somehow seemed more pure in its depression and sadness. He had known Jonathan all his life. They all felt what’d happened that night, but it seemed to weigh on Jonathan worst of all.

  Walking back into that place would make it real again. Conner had been mentally preparing himself for that, but he was worried about Jonathan losing his mind out there. Conner and Michael were strong, bound by the chain of their brotherhood. He knew Michael better than Michael knew himself. But Jonathan was different. There was always a distance between them, but now it was amplified. Jonathan was burying himself with that boy out there in Coombs’ Gulch. He couldn’t keep it together and was on the verge of losing his family. The guy just looked pathetic when Conner saw him at the Halloween parade; he looked sick, his skin sallow, eyes dark and sunken into his skull. For all intents and purposes, he looked like one of those former heroin addicts whose bodies never recover, who appear on the verge of death permanently. He wondered if Jonathan could physically survive the trip.

  Conner couldn’t say he didn’t feel the pang of guilt. It was mostly his idea to bury the boy’s body. But if they hadn’t their lives would have been ruined long ago, never to recover. It was a necessary decision, an executive decision. In this vast machine, he had at least been able to effect some small change that saved their lives. Insurance came with a price, after all. The price was on their souls, but he couldn’t risk it becoming more real, affecting things that mattered. A price was paid and another was due. Conner and Michael could handle it. That wasn’t theory; that was fact.

  Conner was lost in thought, staring at the computer screen in front of him, every stress and concern piling one on top of the other till it seemed a mountain. Start at the bottom, he thought, and work your way up. This trip needs to be done. Get that done, get it out of your life and move on to the next problem.

  There was a knock at the door a fraction of a second before it opened, which meant it was someone higher up the corporate food chain than himself. Underlings always waited for permission; not so with upper management. Tom Doley stood in the doorway, his chinless face like putty pushed into a grin so wide his whole head changed form. But it was a false smile; Conner could see that in his eyes.

  “Let’s kick off for a while,” he said. “Hit the Iron Horse Tavern. This day’s over anyway.” Tom Doley was one of the cadre of managers who oversaw the investment department. The whole company was layer upon layer of managers, investors, advisors, assistant vice presidents – any sort of title that sounded important was just stacked in and on top of every other title.

  “Sure,” Conner said. “I was just finishing up.” He had been out with Tom before. They would shoot the shit about interdepartmental strife, bitch about how things would be if only their learned wisdom and guidance would be utilized. The usual workplace bullshit every employee, from a store cashier to the CEO of a Fortune 500, engaged in whenever not in earshot of someone who had the ability to fire them. But this seemed different. Despite his entire face being mashed into a smirk, he seemed to be trying too hard, like a grieving family member at a funeral who still has to smile and thank people for coming.

  “Meet you there?” Tom said.

  Conner didn’t even look at him when he said, “Yup.” He felt Tom’s gaze linger on him a few moments before he shut the door.

  Iron Horse Tavern was quiet. A few people sat at its unnecessarily long bar and a couple of senior citizens at the tables. Iron Horse was one of those places that are utterly devoid of character; put some interesting Americana on the walls, slap together a menu and then advertise all these neat local beers on tap so the newly established young generation of beer connoisseurs can pretend their slide into alcoholism is fueled by an intelligent interest in the finer consideration of hops and barley. Generally Conner played right along with that – order some beer that you’ve never heard of based on the sommelier-type description on the menu. Today he just ordered a Budweiser.

  “You drink that shit?” Tom said. He had a double IPA infused with who-the-fuck-knows in a pint glass.

  “Sometimes. Roots, you know. My father drank these till the day he died.”

  Tom nodded, trying to find his opening. Conner could sense it; they weren’t here for good times. There was something that needed to be said, but Conner certainly wasn’t going to help him get it over with.

  “I heard you lost a friend a little while ago,” Tom said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks. Old friend. We hadn’t been in touch for a while, but we grew up together. Used to do a lot of hunting together. It was one of those things where your buddies all get married and have kids and you don’t keep in touch.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t realize you were a hunter.”

  “Not much anymore. Who has the time, right?”

  “I’ve done that clay pigeon shooting? That was pretty fun.”

  Conner nodded. “Yeah. A couple times I’ve done it. It’s like golf. They have whole courses set up at some of these clubs.”

  “You’re taking off at the end of the week, right?” Tom said. “I saw that you’re going to be out. Where you off to?”

  “Upstate New York. Myself, my brother and another friend. Doing one last hunting trip as a send-off for the guy that died – Gene was his name. We thought it would be a good way to remember him.”

  Tom Doley nodded and looked into his beer, seemingly considering the situation. The whole charade was becoming tedious, so Conner threw him a bone. “Why? Something going on?”

  Tom’s putty face seemed to scrunch and twist like what he was about to say caused him physical pain. “Well…it’s just the timing is really bad. The fourth quarter reports are coming u
p and…”

  “There’s always a quarterly report coming up.”

  “I know, I know. But it’s just things in your department aren’t looking good this year.”

  “That’s not news. They haven’t looked good for three years now. You think I like having to say that? It’s fucking killing me.”

  “Hey. I know it is, brother. I understand. That’s why it just seems like now is not a good time to take a little vacation. Some of the managers upstairs are looking to make some cuts. We just can’t compete anymore, and without significant investment income we’re going to be looking at some hard times to come.”

  “What are you trying to tell me here?” Conner asked. “Layoffs are coming?”

  “That’s the word.”

  “They’d be stupid to lay off anyone in my department. We’re the only chance they’ve got. They want to hire some outside firm? They’ll be paying double in fees. You know this. They know this. They’re just looking to pin everything on someone or something. Truth is, they have no idea how to get things back on track and they’re flailing.”

  “I hear you, Conner. I hear you. I’m just giving you the heads-up. Now is the time. Now is the time for you to step up and really take control, show them what you’re made of. I like you. I think you do a great job. I don’t want to see anybody get laid off, but the truth of the matter is we’re looking at significant losses this quarter and some heads are going to roll.”

  “I’m taking off three days, not a month, Tom.”

  “You’re taking three days off during the investors leadership summit in Mamaroneck.”

  “Jesus Christ. That thing?”

  “It’s a big deal, Conner. The bosses, they want to see people involved, actively engaged in problem-solving, in mitigating losses, in using the downturn to optimize for leaner and smarter investment management.”

  “Christ, Tom. I went last year. It’s not rocket science; they just make it sound like rocket science. Frankly, they make it sound more like a cheap self-help book by a quack psychologist.”

  “I’m just saying, Conner. You should be there. It would look good for you. It would look good for us.”

  Conner stared down at his bottle of beer, its red, white and blue label slightly peeling, soft from the condensation on the glass. He pursed his lips in frustration, anger, the fucking idiocy of it all. His life on the line and here he was being upbraided for missing a meeting that amounts to nothing more than a minstrel show for bigwigs trying to hold on to the precipice of imaginary power.

  “I can’t, Tom. This trip is important for other reasons. I can’t make it to the investors workshop. Not this year. I’m sorry.”

  “I gotcha, Conner,” Tom said, holding up his hands as if he meant no offense. Just another slimeball sent on a slimeball’s mission, to weasel and cajole. “I’m just trying to look out for you, buddy. That’s all. Things are just lean right now and they’re going to get leaner.”

  Tom poured his putty face and fish-eyes into his glass of double IPA scented with shit. Conner pounded the Budweiser and ordered another and another.

  Tom Doley left at about 5:00 p.m., his long, lumbering figure making haste out of Iron Horse Tavern while Conner pulled up a stool and sat lonely and angry with his beer – every bartender’s worst nightmare. The pretty girl behind the counter avoided conversation, standing near the service bar; she chatted with waitresses and a guy from the kitchen before enough people showed up that they had to get back to work. In a way, Conner envied them. Sure, there wasn’t much money in it, but at least at the end of the night you left it all here; it didn’t follow you home, sleep with you in bed and wake you up at four in the morning just to remind you that you are owned. A job like this, he thought, one that was vastly simpler, meant for the young or those without the stress of mortgages and growing families, implied a simpler life, one not connected to status, cocktail parties, pointless meetings in faraway places and the idea that you must succeed or die trying. It was something he missed. He had worked jobs like this as a teenager and through parts of college. Still the best times of his life. And merely saying that to himself made him feel old and bitter, as if he were already on the downward slope of life.

  The tavern finally became too crowded for him and his thoughts, so he paid the bill – on a credit card, no less – and left. The drive home was nerve-racking. The traffic was always bad this time of day, plus he had to contend with the hazy onset of inebriation blooming in his brain. All he would need was an accident, his fault or not, and one of the last supports of his life would be kicked out from under him. One of the guys in Sales – Peter Selchick – got pinched for a DUI last year after a ‘lunch’ with a number of other salesmen turned into a shit show with five bottles of wine and tequila shots. He got canned after a departmental review. Hell, one of the guys on the review board had been in the bar with him that very day. But what can you do? Blood in the water and everybody wants a bite. Something like an arrest just brings the feeders. Conner wondered if this little trip and missing the Mamaroneck meeting was a spot of blood finding its way to the upper echelons of Parson’s. This little talk with Tom Doley made him wonder, left him feeling vulnerable.

  Coombs’ Gulch had to be put to rest. He’d spent enough of his life bleeding internally from that goddamned night. First there was the fear – the weeks and months after that night spent in suspended animation, waiting for the guillotine to slam down on his neck. Panic. Wondering when he would see that first story of a little boy missing in Upstate New York, see the picture and recognize the face, the outline of his head, wondering when he would stare at a picture of a boy with two living eyes, rather than one dead eye and a bloody hole. That time never came, and as Conner’s panic began to subside after six months or so, the guilt set in. Of course he felt terrible. Only a sociopath wouldn’t. What they had done, covering up their crime, was the same thing anyone would have done. Sure, people like to pretend they’re honest and caring, believe they would fess up right away to such an incident, but when they actually see their entire future about to be ripped away, self-preservation kicks in. Conner told himself it was only natural what they’d done. Simple numbers: ruin four lives at the behest of one death? No. It didn’t add up.

  But still there was something missing in that equation. It was a child. It wasn’t a natural death. What the fuck was that kid doing up there, in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night? Where were his parents? Why was no one looking for him? Dear God, the boy wasn’t even dressed for the cold, probably would have died of exposure if he hadn’t caught a bullet.

  And what about that bullet? Conner hadn’t fired the shot. That was all on Gene, who had now given up all his responsibility by putting a bullet through his own head. Same rifle no less. Now Conner, Michael and Jonathan were left holding the bag if that box was ever found – and it would be, if this new development went through. Conner had seen the plans. He had pored over them during late nights, staying after 5:00 p.m. at the office just to root through the proposals without anyone noticing or asking questions. Some guys wondered why he took such an interest in their latest underwriting project, but he just brushed them off. The box had to be moved. The boy had to be buried someplace where no one could find him. Conner hatched the plan himself and it was a good plan. He suddenly felt a surge of optimism, as if he were about to turn his life around. Peaks and valleys, mountains and gulches. Life is going up toward one or down toward another. This would put it forever behind them, clear the way for him to get his life back, unencumbered by the sins of the past. He would have to skip these stupid meetings for the sake of a long-dead boy and thereby continue working his way up the ladder of success. He would continue making enough payments on the mortgage to keep the foreclosure dogs at bay. He could do this. One step at a time, as the drunks say. One step at a time up that hill, up that mountain, with a dead body in tow, toward a lake in the mountains where it could all be put t
o rest.

  Conner took the exit, leaving the tumult of the highway and driving onto the dark and winding back roads toward his little enclave in the hills. He stopped for gas and a coffee, hoping the caffeine would help right his brain and cover up the beer smell on his breath. He crossed into his hometown at seven. Clouds moved overhead and it was officially night. He had never left his hometown and he wondered why. Was that pathetic? He wasn’t sure. It just was and at this point there was no getting out of it.

  His neighborhood was set high on a large hill, and his SUV burned gas plowing up the steep incline. During the day there were great views, but at night it was just rolling blackness occasionally dotted with headlights from Route 4 below. But as he approached Ridgeline Drive he saw different kinds of lights. Red-and-blue strobes bounced off the trees and mailboxes of his road. He turned the SUV and suddenly his mind went into overdrive. Two state police vehicles parked outside his house. He gunned the big engine and raced the few hundred yards to his driveway, jumped out of the car and ran to the front door. Terrifying images ran through his mind of what lay on the other side. Why would the police be here? What had happened? Were Madison and the children okay? Down the road he could see neighbors standing at the edge of their driveways, trying to catch a glimpse.

  Conner opened the door and saw Madison standing in the tiled foyer with two hulking troopers. Her eyes lit on him for a moment and then turned back to the officers. He knew this look. She was all business right now. She was concerned and in charge and leveling expectations on those gathered around her. He could already see the deference in the faces of the officers.