Cornered

by Brandon Massey

  Shouting, Corey raised the branch and brought it down.

  Leon rolled out of the way.

  The wood slammed against the earth, sent painful tremors through Corey’s arms.

  As agile as a jungle cat, Leon launched toward Corey, tackling him. Corey’s teeth clicked together as they collided, and he whammed to the ground.

  They wrestled across the forest floor. Leon was grunting, cursing.

  “Can’t take me out. . homeboy. . can’t take me out. .”

  Corey grappled him into a headlock. Wheezing, Leon got a hand free and pounded his fist against Corey’s same kidney that he had slugged earlier, and a burning poker of pain speared Corey’s side. He howled, loosened his hold.

  Their bodies tangled like the weeds in which they fought. Leon frantically rammed his elbow against Corey’s chin. Corey’s head whipped sideways, and he tasted blood, warm and salty.

  Leon got on top of him. He was trying to apply a choke hold. Corey threw a punch, and it snapped into Leon’s jaw. Leon dropped away with a grunt.

  Gun, Corey thought, desperately. Todd had a shotgun.

  He staggered to his feet. Leon grabbed his foot. Corey spun and kicked him in the head.

  Leon groaned, went down.

  On weak knees, Corey stumbled to Todd. Todd’s eyes were glazed, as if he were daydreaming, but blood soaked his face and throat.

  Was he dead? Corey didn’t know. Didn’t care.

  He snatched the shotgun out of Todd’s slack fingers. Turned.

  Leon crawled away from him, tunneling like a badger through the undergrowth. Going for the other gun.

  Corey aimed in his direction and pulled the trigger.

  But nothing happened.

  Jammed, jammed, the damn thing’s jammed.

  He didn’t know how to clear a shotgun jam, and didn’t have time.

  Leon retrieved the Glock and fired. A round whizzed past Corey’s cheek, the heat trail kissing his ear.

  Corey fled in the opposite direction. Stampeding through weeds. Bouncing drunkenly off trees.

  Another gunshot shattered the night, and a round smashed into Corey’s shoulder.

  He cried out, swayed as fire bit into him, and collided against a tree.

  No, you fall, you die.

  Somehow, he kept his balance and kept running. There was a lake up ahead. He sprinted across the banks and jumped in at a full run

  As he catapulted through the air, he prayed the water was deep enough to hide him.

  He plunged into the lake. He sank below the surface, kicked, and didn’t feel a bottom.

  Paddling his one good arm and kicking, he dove deeper.

  Driftwood and vines batted against him. Fish wriggled by. Water flooded his wounded shoulder, felt like ice leaking into his bloodstream.

  His lungs ached. He needed to breathe. But he forced himself to swim farther away from shore, stroking like crazy. When he could hold out no longer, he risked rising to the surface.

  Gasping, he looked around, expecting to see Leon on the banks, taking aim at him like a kid in a shooting gallery.

  Leon was gone.

  The echo of warbling sirens rolled across the water. Through the forest beyond the lake, he saw flashes of red and blue light, and only then did he remember that he had called 911 to report the fire.

  77

  Moving toward the trailer, Simone had to choke down her gorge. So many heaping piles of dog manure filled the overgrown yard that she didn’t know where to step. A big blue trash bin near the front porch overflowed with garbage. Four mongrel dogs were camped out in front of the can, picking through the trash.

  A rust-eaten pickup truck was parked in the driveway beside the house. A gravel road led out beyond the property.

  Who lived here? How could they?

  The dogs’ ears lifted at her approach. They turned to regard her, tails wagging.

  Relief passed through her as she saw the animals’ friendly demeanor because she wasn’t going to let any number of canines stop her from getting inside that house to her little girl.

  Other dogs inside began to bark, and she saw furry faces appear at the broken front windows. There were so many yips and barks it sounded as if a dog kennel were based inside.

  The door sagged on weak hinges. She didn’t bother with knocking. She turned the knob, found it unlocked, and went in.

  The front room was dimly lit with a kerosene lantern, but it was difficult to see the furniture because there were so many dogs. Dogs were everywhere, puppies and adults and geriatric hounds, of every breed and size, some in poor health, others fine. They swarmed around her, licking, poking, sniffing.

  The stench of feces and urine was unbelievable. She covered her mouth with her T-shirt.

  Hoarder, she thought, recalling case studies. Whoever lives here is a hoarder, obsessive compulsive, and because dogs are being hoarded, the resident is almost certainly a man.

  She wished she had a weapon. It would have made her feel safer.

  A thumping sound reached her. It sounded as if it were coming from a back room, as if someone were going nuts with a hammer: thump-thump-thump-thump.

  Her heart pounding in sync with the sound, she forced her way through the crowd of canines. She passed by a kitchen that was unbelievably foul. Roaches skittering across the floor and walls and counters. Mounds of feces everywhere. Urine-stained tile.

  Sweet Jesus.

  She gagged into her shirt, longing for a gas mask.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump.

  She moved into a narrow hallway. Head-high stacks of phone books lined one wall. Light came from behind a door near the end, on the right, and that was where the thumping came from, too.

  She pushed the door open.

  Dogs were in here, too, but compared to the rest of the house, the room was pristine. It looked like a nursery. She saw a dusty crib. A box of diapers, a changing table.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump. .

  A bearish, long-haired man in a fatigue jacket knelt in the corner, his wide back to her. He was ruthlessly beating something with a hammer and muttering a stream of gibberish.

  Her blood froze. Not my baby, no.

  Mesmerized with his task, he didn’t stir at her entrance. She sidled closer and peered over his shoulder, her shirt stuffed in her mouth, her gut tight.

  He was pounding what looked like a cell phone. He had smashed it, literally, to smithereens.

  “Mom!”

  Simone whirled as a closet door behind her slid open. Jada and a large black Labrador bounded out, the dog’s tongue lolling happily.

  Jada leapt into Simone’s arms.

  “Oh, God, oh, my baby,” Simone cried. She clasped her daughter to her and sank to her knees, tears weaving down her cheeks. She sobbed into Jada’s hair, smelling her, feeling her, making sure she was okay, and she was, she was alive, everything was fine, everything was going to be fine.

  78

  Later that night, Special Agent Falco and her partner, Agent March, visited Corey at Grady Memorial Hospital in downtown Atlanta.

  Although the bed Corey had been assigned wasn’t intended to accommodate three people, Simone and Jada had slipped under the sheets and snuggled close to him, and the nurses on duty granted them an exception to hospital rules.

  Otis sat watch in the upholstered chair near the bed, reading his Bible by soft lamplight. He had brought Jada’s speech processor, which she had gratefully slid on. Jada normally didn’t wear it when she slept, but Corey suspected that she would insist on having it on at all times for a while.

  Corey had allowed himself to finally drift off when Falco and her partner knocked on the door. He snapped awake, tense, and Simone and Jada awoke instantly, too, clinging to him.

  “Excuse me.” Otis rose from the chair and moved to intercept the agents. “I’m afraid this is not an appropriate time for questioning. Please give this family some peace.”

  “It’s okay,” Corey said wearily. He wiped his eyes, looked at th
e agents. “Don’t you people ever sleep?”

  “Once a week, on Sundays.” Falco strolled to the foot of the bed; March remained near the door. “How you holding up? Heard you took a shot in the shoulder.”

  “It’s not too bad.” Corey raised his good arm and tapped the dressing that covered his gunshot wound. “Considering everything that happened, I figure I got off easy.”

  “Gates certainly didn’t. But I think you know that.”

  “I don’t take any pleasure from it. I used to think he was a friend. But that wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been fooled, I guess.”

  Falco gripped the railing at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were red with fatigue, but glinted with steel resolve.

  “Where is Sharpe?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. He got away.”

  She scowled. “He got away? Again? After all of that? Don’t bullshit me.”

  “It’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m going to need a full, very detailed statement from you,” she said. She cut her gaze at Simone. “And you, too.”

  “Happy to,” Simone said. “We only want to put this behind us.”

  “What about me?” Jada asked.

  Falco frowned at Jada. “That’s up to your parents, sweetie.”

  “I don’t think so,” Simone said, with a glance at Corey. “Our daughter’s dealt with enough.”

  Corey agreed. Although a physical exam had confirmed, thank goodness, that Jada had not suffered any abuse at the hands of Leon’s partner, he’d seen the inside of the trailer where the dog hoarder, Ed Denning, had taken her, and it was nightmarish and pathetic. The county’s animal control services had been notified, and Denning had been taken into custody for psychiatric counseling.

  “We’ll chat tomorrow, then,” Falco said. She straightened, glanced at her watch, sighed. “Actually, that would be today. They ought to be discharging you later in the morning. Do me a favor and don’t skip town.”

  Falco turned to leave. Simone gave Corey an expectant look.

  Corey cleared his throat. “I’m not finished yet, Agent Falco.”

  “No?” Falco retreated from the doorway. “I’m listening.”

  “You’ve been wondering all along why Leon came to me in the first place.” He paused. Every gaze in the room was fixated on him.

  He went on. “To put everything in perspective, let me tell you what happened sixteen years ago. . ”

  79

  Ten days later, Corey rented a sedan and drove to Detroit.

  Simone and Jada stayed behind in Atlanta, under the vigilant protection of a private security firm and a black, Labrador retriever-Great Dane mix with which his daughter had fallen in love during her ordeal at Ed Denning’s house. For reasons only she knew, she named the dog Ophelia.

  It was a fine day for a road trip. Under a warm sun and cloudless skies, Corey traveled I-75 North from Georgia into Tennessee, from Tennessee into Kentucky, from Kentucky into Ohio, and from Ohio, finally, into Michigan.

  When the hazy Detroit skyline appeared on the burntorange horizon around seven o’clock that evening, Corey felt an iron vise tighten across his chest. He had never thought it would feel good to come back home, but it did. It felt damn good.

  He exited the interstate at 7 Mile Road, which would take him to the East Side. To Conant Gardens.

  As the last vestiges of daylight surrendered to night, Corey parked in front of the house.

  A FOR SALE sign stood in the weed-infested front yard. The windows were boarded with plywood. The garage door, which had once protected a man’s prized Cadillac, hung askew on damaged tracks like a lopsided grin.

  Corey slung the strap of his overnight bag over his good shoulder, and went inside.

  In the front room, he clicked on a flashlight. The air was warm and musty. The dust-filmed floors were bare of furniture, stripped of carpet. Cobwebs draped the walls and doorways.

  He knelt to where a good man had once bled to death on his own living room floor. The carpet that had been soaked in blood had been removed, but as he traced his fingers across the faded floorboards, his skin tingled at the point of contact.

  He sat on that spot, propping his overnight bag beside him. He dug a small, battery-operated lamp out of his bag and set it up a couple of feet away. It gave off pale, ethereal light.

  And then, he waited.

  He was prepared to wait all night and through the next day, and longer, if need be, but after he had been sitting on the floor for about an hour and a half, the front door banged open.

  Corey straightened as Leon came inside. He wore glasses with chunky black frames, an Afro, and a thick, woolen beard. He was dressed in a black business suit, starched white shirt, black tie, and oxfords.

  Trying to pass himself off as a college professor, a Cornel West look-alike, maybe? The disguise worked, except for the gun he was pointing at Corey.

  “I’ve been following you all damn day, ever since you left ATL this morning,” Leon said. He panned a flashlight around the room. “What the fuck did you come back here for? Haven’t you heard that you can never go home again?”

  “I’m doing penance,” Corey said.

  “What?”

  “You surely know what penance is, Leon, a smart guy like you. Self-punishment, reparation for acts I committed-or in this case, was accessory to.”

  “You need to get over it already.” Leaning against the wall, face half-concealed in shadow, Leon tapped out a cigarette and lit it with Mr. Rowland’s lighter. Taking a puff, he shook his head. “I’ve never met someone so unable to put the past behind him, to move on. You didn’t even kill the bastard. You were going along with me like your weak-willed ass always did, yet here you sit indulging in this ridiculous and overblown act of self-flagellation. It’s not going to change anything, deal with it, suck it up.”

  “See?” Corey said. “You once said we were just alike, but that’s the difference between you and me. You can gun down someone and then go grab a beer somewhere. I see something like that, and it haunts me for the rest of my life.”

  “The world’s composed of leaders and sycophants, homeboy.” Leon tossed the lighter up and down as he spoke. “CEOs and yes-men, too, uh-huh, wolves and sheep, that’s the way of the world, always has been, I’m the leader, the CEO, the wolf, you’re the sycophant, the yes-man, the sheep.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Corey shrugged. “Can I see that lighter? Over all these years, I’ve never touched it.”

  Leon tossed it to him. Corey snagged it out of the air. He turned it around in the lantern light, struck the wheel, igniting a flame.

  “I think Mr. Rowland’s widow would like to have this,” Corey said.

  “Think so?” Leon snickered. He raised the gun. “If you can make it out of the door alive, you can personally deliver it to her.”

  “That’s quite an offer.” Corey pulled his bag in front of him, unzipped a compartment, and dropped the lighter inside. He kept the bag positioned in front of his chest. “Unfortunately for you, homeboy, the Detroit PD and the FBI gave me a better one.”

  As a puzzled frown twisted Leon’s face, hallway doors exploded open. Heavily armed FBI agents in dark tactical gear rushed out with a thunderous clatter of boots and shouts of “FBI! Drop your weapon now!”

  But Corey knew Leon, knew he would never go down without a fight, without taking someone with him. As agents converged on him, Leon aimed at Corey and squeezed the trigger.

  Corey shielded himself with the overnight bag. It didn’t contain any clothes-it held a bulging plate of Kevlar armor.

  Rounds punctured the bag, the impact rocking him backward, and then a cacophony of gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes brightening the room, the bitter odor of cordite infiltrating the air.

  When it was all over, Leon’s bullet-riddled body lay on the floor, the wig askew on his head, fake beard soggy with blood. The crazy light in those eyes had finally been extinguished forever.

  Looking at his one-t
ime friend, Corey felt no sense of pleasure or vindication. A vague sadness weighed on his heart, and he thought of how his life and Leon’s might have turned out if they’d chosen different paths.

  Agent Falco approached Corey. She wore tactical gear like the other members of her team. A walkie-talkie crackled on her hip; the operations vehicles they’d been holding at bay would be descending on the house like bees to a hive.

  She extended a gloved hand and helped Corey to his feet.

  “You got your man,” Corey said.

  “Wish it had been alive.” She shrugged. “But it happens this way sometimes.”

  In exchange for his cooperation in bringing Leon to justice for the murder of Rowland and his other crimes, the FBI and Detroit PD worked out a deal with Corey’s attorney that allowed him to remain free on all charges. The life Corey had built in Atlanta, and the testimony of character witnesses such as Otis Trice, had played a key role in the leniency he received.

  “Here’s your wire, for what it’s worth,” Corey said. He stripped away the miniature microphone taped to the inside of his shirt and dropped it in her palm. They had recorded the entire conversation to capture Leon’s confession of the murder on tape.

  It would, at last, close the case.

  Falco shook his hand. “Thanks for working with us, Webb. It took a lot of courage.”

  “I’m no hero. I only did what I had to do.”

  A smile crossed her face. “Where you going now?”

  “I owe a visit to a lady who would appreciate having this.” He unzipped the pocket of the overnight bag and fished out the lighter. “After that, I’m going back to Atlanta. I’ve got a wife and a little girl expecting me home soon, and I don’t want to keep them waiting too long.”

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  Document ID: fbd-5cc909-2d92-7b44-b3bb-e7c9-8131-1593f6

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  Document creation date: 08.03.2013

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