He hated that his fate was tied to such ignorant people as Kyle, Frank, and Earl.
But he had made that decision without thinking it through.
Haywood had gone to his oldest friends in Coldwater that day when he decided to bury Michael. He went to the familiar, rather than thinking of the aftereffects. The life after the act that would bind them all together for the rest of their days. He didn’t think about who could handle the burden, the guilt, the anxiety. He just thought of those available at the time.
Even as they had sat in the back of Gilly’s waiting for Michael to come in that evening, Haywood knew it had been a mistake including Kyle and Earl. Their vocal hesitation and backtracking was the only conversation in the bar.
“Are you sure about this?” Kyle had asked.
“Yeah, man, I mean, should we be doing this?” Earl added.
“It needs to be done, for everyone’s safety,” Haywood said.
“But . . . if what you said about him is true . . .”
“Yeah, how are we not going to bite it . . .”
“Boys, we’ve already talked about this. We’ve already decided.”
Silence would fill the room for a breath, and then they would start again.
“Are you really sure about this?”
And even now, sitting in the passenger seat of Clinton’s SUV, bouncing through the rough terrain of the north woods, Haywood could hear Kyle’s voice in his head.
“Are you sure about this?”
He had been, hadn’t he? Michael was dangerous. Haywood knew, without doubt, the ex-con had killed Morrison. He would be driving east of town and see Michael walking into Coldwater, passing him on the shoulder, and the bile would rise up in his throat at the sight of him, and he wanted nothing more than to swerve the wheel and plow the man over, avenging the murder of his friend.
And if Michael had killed Morrison, why wouldn’t he kill again . . . and again . . . and again.
The boys did not see the depth of danger they were in. To entertain the presence of evil was to invite it in and let it fester until it would unleash itself on the world. How could he, an upstanding citizen, a decent man, allow this cancer to reside in his community? The state might have deemed Michael fit for release from prison, but no one had thought to consult with the people who would be forced to live every day of their lives with him as their neighbor.
The state had failed, just as it failed at almost everything it did.
Haywood was not going to leave his fate and the fate of his town to bureaucrats and lawyers sitting in their offices a hundred miles away. They had done nothing when Morrison was found in the woods last spring. They had written it off as an accident and headed back to the city before his friend’s body was cold. They had no interest in the welfare of the people of Coldwater. It was up to Haywood to fill that vacuum. His right. His divine right to protect himself.
Morrison’s death in the woods, it was a sign. A sign that the evil in Michael was coming alive again. The boogeyman stories from Michael’s past were true. He had come home to Coldwater and planned on continuing his murderous ways.
Then Old Man Jackson and James confirmed the power that was being unleashed on them. Haywood was not about to wait for it to happen to him.
forty
THE WOODS BLENDED TOGETHER in a constant cacophony of color as Haywood, Clinton, and Davis crisscrossed the north roads and service trails. They would stop occasionally, get out of the SUV, and fix their eyes on the landscape, looking for movement amongst the sedentary trees. The sun was high in the sky and the day seemed to have no end.
This particular stop placed them on a rise that gave a bird’s-eye view of the world south and east. Clinton stood to the right of Haywood and cast a shadow from his giant frame. Davis leaned against the vehicle, his constant stream of nicotine going full bore, tainting the air with a thin tang of bitterness.
“How long we going to be out here?” he asked between puffs.
“Why, you almost out of smokes?” Haywood said, not bothering to look back at the human chimney.
Clinton eyed his friend, who simply shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to ignore his comrades.
“He could be hunkered down anywhere,” Clinton said. “Chances of us tripping across him are pretty slim.”
“He’s out there.”
“That he is, but out there’s a pretty big place.”
“That boy’s dugout was almost straight north of where James and Kyle were found.”
“That gives him three ways to go. Doubt he’d double back toward town.”
“Yeah,” Haywood said. “Then how come I got this nagging feeling that is exactly what he is going to do? He ain’t going to keep heading north. He wouldn’t survive out here very long.”
Clinton nodded, his cold stare looking toward where the earth met the sky.
“East. He’d head east. Toward the interstate.”
“That’s a long walk. Through the woods, take him a week,” Clinton said. “Could be taking the long way back to his place.”
“Most likely. That’s why I told Frank and Earl to stake out the place.”
Clinton chuckled. “So that’s where you sent them two.”
“Couldn’t stand Earl’s crying no more.”
“He’s not cut out for this. Frank neither. Should have left them and Kyle out of it,” Clinton said. “James too.”
“Couldn’t keep James away,” Haywood said.
“He sure was fired up, wasn’t he?”
Haywood nodded. He turned and saw Davis walk over across the dirt two-track and begin to relieve himself on an unsuspecting tree.
“Davis seems not to be bothered.”
Clinton smiled. “Not sure he gives two cents either way.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You wish you had been left out of this?”
“Don’t matter anymore. No use regretting it.”
“That all you got?”
“I think we should have let Michael be, if that’s what you want me to say. I know you’re trying to even the score on account of Morrison. But Morse was poking a hornet’s nest with Michael from the beginning. Not to say that he had it coming, no way I’m saying that. But ever since Michael came back, you guys been thinking the worst of him. I figured he done his time. Leave him be. But now . . .”
“But now what?”
“Now, whatever I thought before don’t matter. We finish what we started.” Clinton looked at Haywood, his face fixed with firm determination. “This ain’t something you quit halfway through. We’ve already crossed the line. Ain’t no going back as far as I can tell.” He returned his gaze to the south. “I’m in this till the end. However it ends.”
“Thanks, man,” Haywood said.
Davis walked back across the trail, zipping himself up, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “You boys hear that?”
Haywood looked back.
“That noise,” Davis said. “That boom? You hear it? Look! There!”
Clinton and Haywood looked to where Davis was pointing.
About two miles away a puff of black smoke started to spire toward the heavens, snaking its way up and dispersing into the blue sky.
“That’s him,” Haywood said as he ran back to the truck and jumped into the passenger seat, leaving the others gawking at the site. “Come on, guys! Let’s go!”
Davis and Clinton loaded up, and they set off through the forest toward the rising pillar of black.
forty-one
INSIDE THE METH HEADS’ TRAILER, Michael found the remnants of white-trash life. Most of the paneling inside had been ripped down, the furniture old and stained, with more cigarette burns than there was fabric. A large screen TV was propped up to one side, set up like an icon, the only thing of value in this hovel of depravity. He stepped into the kitchen and searched the cupboards for any food. Most of the boxes were empty or had been looted by insects boring into their sides. He found a cou
ple canned items and an opener in one of the broken drawers.
He opened one of the cans, fruit cocktail long past expiration, and slurped it down like a savage. The syrup clung to the growing stubble of his chin and he wiped it off with his sleeve. He searched the cupboards again, found a few more items, and put them on the counter.
In the bedroom in back, he found some clothes that were close enough to his size. He grabbed them and headed to the bathroom. The earth and river smell had become so embedded in his senses that he could only guess at how repugnant he had become. He stepped into the shower and found that it worked. Cold water poured out even with the handle turned all the way over, but he scrubbed the past several days’ journey off his skin. The bar of soap he found was all but a sliver, but it did its work.
Now clean and dressed in another’s clothes, he grabbed his scavenged goods and headed back outside.
The garage was smoldering in a heap of embers, collapsing in on itself and leaving only the foundation to show what it used to be. The burnt body lay blackened on the grass in front of it.
Michael had thought about going over to see who it was. To see if it was Cathy, the addict girl, the one so enamored by the men’s manufactured tickets to heaven that left her burnt, but he decided against it. What did it matter? All three were gone. It didn’t matter which one ran out. It wouldn’t soothe his mind knowing that she had died instantly versus suffering on the run. She had found the ultimate release and where she was now wasn’t for him to decide.
He turned and headed east again, the sun at his back and the looming assurance of more death to come. Before long he was deep in the woods again, and the smells of nature returned to their undiminished fullness.
He had to be more careful. Thrice now he had been caught unawares and he knew his luck could only run so far.
He had escaped the grave.
He had escaped the naive friendship of an innocent boy who knew not what he was in the presence of.
And now he had escaped the paranoid jitters of backwoods entrepreneurs.
But he would never escape from himself. The shadow lay dormant, constricted around his spine and ready to protect its host. He would never be free of it. It was his burden to carry, his wages, his judgment.
Michael’s thoughts returned to Will. Sitting in the presence of innocence reminded him of a time so long ago when he felt free, when smiles, rather than horror, rained down on him. When companionship wasn’t something to be thought about, because it was always there and always would be.
He knew these were dangerous thoughts. He had spent so many years hiding his memories as much as he hid from the world. But now, with the adrenaline leaving his body and the thoughts of the young innocent boy he had left that morning, he couldn’t keep his mind in check.
Michael thought of his brother.
forty-two
THE HANDGUN ALWAYS FELT SEDUCTIVE in his hand whenever he swiped it from his father’s dresser drawer. Its black metal appeared to suck in all the light around it. It was too big for him to hold like he saw on TV, but with both hands he was able to lift it and aim it with one eye scrunched closed. It made him feel powerful, which is why he often found himself running to grab it whenever his mom and dad left him alone at the house.
Michael could still remember the day his brother and sister came home. Marcus and Melissa, the twins. What used to be his world had now become someone else’s, and his seniority did nothing but let others think that he was in no need of attention. He watched as his mother and father soon enveloped the twins in all their thoughts. Michael would look on from a distance and watch Marcus smiling as his father played with him on the living room floor.
Fewer and fewer were the times when it was Michael who was the one smiling.
When the twins were finally down for the evening, his parents were too exhausted to even look at him. Michael would find that he was drifting further and further out of their orbit. He took to walking in the woods on his own, thinking about running away, and always, always, thinking about his former life when it was just him and his folks who occupied the house.
The handgun brought back control. He loved it. Each time, he would envision himself as the hero of the day, battling enemies, rescuing whole countries just as Rambo did. And killing all those in his path. The righteous maniac, the one-man army. His daydreams drifted to saving the day, winning the girl, how the whole world would love him.
This particular time would change his life forever.
Marcus had been infuriating this day. He had snuck into Michael’s room and proceeded to ruin his prized possession of baseball cards. The cards he had spent a long time collecting when his father used to take him to the shop way down in South Falls. It had been forever since he had looked at them, but they were remnants of a cherished and mourned-for past. And Marcus had all but destroyed them. His parents had told him to calm down when he told them what his brother had done.
“He’s just a kid, hon,” his mother said. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“It’s not like you played with them anymore,” his father said.
His cards, just like Michael himself, had become disposable to both his mom and dad. They were no longer used, no longer looked at, no longer valuable. Looking back now at the motivation, it wasn’t the cards themselves, or the annoyance of a seven-year-old boy, but the pushing away, the growing irrelevance of his own existence in his parents’ eyes, that led him down that path. So on that afternoon when his parents went into town and left him in charge of his siblings, Michael took the handgun, placed it in his waistband next to the small of his back, and took Marcus outside.
The two boys walked into the woods and stopped.
Michael pulled the gun from his belt.
“Look what I have, Marcus.”
“Wow.”
“Do you want to shoot it?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay.”
Michael held the gun out and Marcus grabbed it with both hands. It was too heavy for him to hold, so Michael put his arms around him and helped him aim it at a tree not too far off. They pulled the trigger and watched the bark erupt in splinters. The blast rocked their ears. Marcus was amazed.
“Awesome!” he yelped, his smile beaming from ear to ear.
“One more time,” Michael said. He moved to his brother’s side, his right hand on top of Marcus’s, holding the handle of the pistol, his left on the boy’s thin upper arm.
He was so small, so malleable. His brother, relaxed and trusting, excited about this unexpected thrill.
Michael rolled his wrist quickly to the side, the gun suddenly pointed back at his brother, and as he did so, he pulled the trigger.
The blast deafened his left ear as he felt his brother’s body go limp in his arms.
The sun in his parents’ sky snuffed black with the twitch of a finger.
Michael lowered his brother to the ground and made sure the gun was still firmly placed in his little hands. Blood from the wound seeped into the thirsty earth.
“Goodbye, brother,” he said as he walked back to the house.
forty-three
WHAT CAN A CHILD possibly know of mortality? How can they, so new to life, understand the finality of death? Michael had remedied a season of sadness with an eternal prescription. He had calculated his brother’s death that fateful day, but he had not thought of every day after. He had wished only to be wanted again, in the way that he had been accustomed to before the twins came, and so, with a bold stroke, sought to tip the scales back into his favor. His child mind, evaluated now with his adult conscience, appeared as depraved to him as others saw it. But what could that child have known? How could he have possibly evaluated the evil he had unleashed? A single blow bearing eternal consequences.
In court, in prison, in the life since, Michael wished away his past. He wished that he would have turned the gun on himself instead, and thus his brother would have lived on, enjoying the affection of his parents which Michael ha
d foolishly sought to recapture with a gunshot.
But once done, there was nothing to fix his sin.
He missed Marcus. Every day he missed him. He saw his face in his dreams, not as a reminder of his own action, not with misguided anger for the penalty that he had to endure since killing him. No. He missed him as a brother misses a lost piece of himself.
Michael would replay the scene in his head and will his younger self, the one who knew not the momentous consequence of his actions, to not go outside, to not lead Marcus down the path, to not use his little brother’s trust as a trap. And each time, his younger self moved on to the death blow and walked back to the house with the cold calculation of a child oblivious to the immensity of what he had done.
But there would be no reprieve, no pardon in this lifetime.
Michael was forever trapped on the other side of that action. Coldwater’s thoughts of him were formed by that action. He could never alter it. No amount of contrition would pay off the world’s opinion. He could beg forgiveness again and again until his mouth ran dry, but his words would fall on deaf ears. He knew this now. Knew it all too well. He had been educated to this fact and wished beyond reason that he could go back and instill that knowledge in his younger self.
Like a stone dropped in still water, Michael sat in the woods and felt the world retreat from him in concentric circles. He was outside of nature, wandering in a vacuum. The woods went on forever and he thought that he could spend the rest of his life unnoticed by another living creature.
He looked out at the trees ahead, their foliage starting to show the early signs of autumn, the seasonal dying off. But fall was not the end of the world. It would bud and blossom again. The fall would be forgotten. The forest would go on, resurrecting each year.
He would not.
His fall led to a terminal winter, one without thaw. Without the hope of a season of rejuvenation.
Michael would wander, and wherever he would go, the fall would go with him.
What point was there to going on? There would never be an eternally green pasture for him to lie down in. His presence would poison the ground and turn the rolling prairie of life into a wasteland devoid of promise. Devoid of hope.
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