To Love and to Perish

by Lisa Bork

  “I don’t know where. He took off an hour ago. He didn’t say where he was going. I thought you might have seen him.”

  “Sorry. I’ll keep my eyes open, though.”

  “Please do. Let me know if you see him with another man.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard Cory correctly. “What do you mean?”

  “I think Brennan’s having an affair.”

  That didn’t sound like Brennan, who called the shop at least twice a day for almost a year now to talk to Cory. He was the most attentive boyfriend Cory had ever had, and, unlike my sister Erica, a stable and responsible person. “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s been weird and standoffish ever since we got here. He keeps disappearing with no reason or excuse. And the other night at home he got a phone call from a guy. He locked himself in his office and talked for over an hour, then got angry when I asked who it was.”

  All right, that would make me suspicious, too. I couldn’t even think of a way to put a positive spin on it. “Are you still driving in the race?”

  “I guess so. Maybe I’ll see him on the sidewalk.”

  “Okay. Well, be careful and concentrate. It’s pretty slick out.”

  “Yes, mom. Keep your eye out for Brennan.”

  “Done.” I snapped my cell phone closed.

  The noise of approaching engines drew our attention to the street. First a local sheriff’s SUV appeared, lights flashing, then the official Chevrolet Camaro pace car, and finally the vintage and classic cars. First an Allard passed us, followed by a Bugeye Sprite, a Porsche 356 Bathtub, and an open-top Formula Junior, the driver wearing old-time leather headgear and goggles, his yellow scarf embroidered with his car number flapping in the wind. All the cars’ passengers waved to the crowd as their drivers cleared the turns and gunned their engines up Franklin. Dozens of cars passed by, including the Mini Cooper with Cory, who didn’t seem to notice Danny and me waving to him. It didn’t seem like as many cars as in years past, but the weather conditions might have put some drivers off. Open-top cars and racing slicks mixed with rain didn’t make things festive.

  After the first parade lap ended and the roar of the engines faded into the hills, I noticed Danny was fidgeting. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “We can go over to the store across the street. The cars won’t come around again for a few minutes.” I started to step off the curb.

  Danny pushed ahead of me. “I can go by myself.”

  “Ah … okay. I’ll wait right here. Come right back when you’re done.” I watched as he crossed the street and disappeared into the store, wondering when Ray would rejoin us. Danny would have let Ray accompany him. I wasn’t certain I’d done the right thing in letting Danny go alone. This crowd was huge and filled with all sorts of unknowns. What was keeping Ray anyway?

  The cars were approaching again. I hesitated, trying to decide if I should dash across the street ahead of their arrival to follow Danny.

  As I checked the cars’ locations, I spotted a sandy-haired man with a deep tan a few yards away from me. He seemed to be in a heated conversation with a red-haired man who had his back to me. The redheaded man’s arms waved through the air and the sandy-haired man’s face appeared flushed. All I could see of the redhead was his royal blue windbreaker and jeans. A woman in a bright pink raincoat, her face obscured by its hood, clung to the redhead’s arm. It looked like she was trying to pull him away.

  I recognized the sandy-haired guy. After all, not very many men had Robert Redford’s movie star looks and charm. It was Brennan Rowe.

  He had an expression on his face I’d seen last Thanksgiving when Danny got angry, stole my Porsche, and backed it into the rear quarter panel of Brennan’s Mercedes by accident. It was a tolerant, patient, understanding expression. His flush may have related to anger from the redhead’s words or embarrassment from the unwanted attention of the surrounding crowd who pretended not to listen as the redhead ranted, but, either way, Brennan seemed to be keeping his cool.

  I tried to move a little closer to him to listen, all the while keeping one eye on the store entrance that had swallowed my boy.

  The sheriff’s car passed in front of us again, followed by the pace car. One after another, the vintage cars made the right turn off 409 and hit the gas to fly up Franklin, putting on a show for the admiring crowd.

  Brennan broke off his conversation and headed toward me. I called to him but he didn’t seem to hear. The cars were too loud.

  The crowd closed in around him. Although the majority of spectators remained stationary roadside, a throng continually moved up and down the sidewalk, making it too difficult for me to grab Brennan as he passed. The man and woman he had been talking to disappeared in the mass.

  I moved down the curb toward Brennan, who had gotten stalled by a woman trying to weave her wheelchair against the crowd. I turned to check again for Danny. No sign of him. Must be the store restroom had a line. The race had drawn one heck of a crowd.

  Rising on my toes, I waved my arms like a crazy person, trying to catch Brennan’s eye as he jockeyed around the woman. I was about to give up when he spotted me and waved back.

  I motioned for him to come over. Cory hadn’t passed by a second time yet, so maybe I could get Brennan positioned next to me in time to catch Cory’s eye.

  Brennan nodded and gave me the “there in one second” finger.

  A brake squealed nearby. I turned to catch sight of a Triumph Spitfire rounding the corner in front of me.

  Again, I checked on Brennan, who had started to move in my direction against the pedestrian traffic flow. The masses on the sidewalk surged, shifting him closer to the street.

  I took my eyes off him and craned my neck in the opposite direction to look for Danny again.

  A TR2 flew around the corner and hit the gas. The crowd cheered.

  My gaze moved back to the store entrance. What was taking Danny so long? And where in the world was Ray? I started to sidle back up the curb toward the store, trusting Brennan to find me.

  The next car took the corner even faster, brakes squealing in protest, before accelerating on the straight. Applause broke out.

  A BMW 2002 rounded the corner, almost on two wheels, squealing. The spectators let out an appreciative gasp.

  The Cobra behind it took the curve still faster. Too fast.

  Brakes squealed. I heard a sickening thump.

  A woman started screaming.

  I swung around. I couldn’t see the screamer or determine the reason for her screams. I couldn’t spot Brennan anymore either. The mass of people was too thick.

  I turned back to check for Danny again and watched in horror as the oncoming line of race cars slammed on their brakes, the ones coming around Milliken’s Corner struggling for control. For a second, it looked like one of the Porsches was headed into the crowd. But no, all the cars came to a safe, if off kilter and herring-bone shaped, stop.

  People poured into the street. Sheriff’s deputies appeared. Ray was with them.

  Then I heard, “Oh my God, is he all right?”

  “Call 911. Somebody call 911.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Did he fall?”

  “Did anyone call 911?”

  A woman shrieked, “That guy pushed him. He pushed him!”

  The other deputies cleared the crowd from the street. I held my ground on the curb. Danny would never find me if I moved now.

  I was left with an almost unobstructed view of the road. The redheaded man lay in the street a few yards away, his legs bent at an impossible angle and a pool of blood beneath his head, soaking the shoulders of his royal blue jacket. The spectators were now silent, eyes wide, as the sheriff’s deputies moved fast to secure the area.

  I choked back my cheeseburger and fries as they rose in my throat. I scanned the other side of the street, fearing Danny would see the man.

  A sheriff’s deputy approached the group nearest the victim.
“Are there any witnesses?”

  A dark-haired woman tumbled off the sidewalk and grabbed the sheriff’s deputy’s arm. Tears streamed down her face. “That guy pushed him. He deliberately pushed him.”

  My gaze followed her finger.

  She was pointing at Brennan Rowe.

  TWO

  SHOCK AND DISBELIEF CROSSED Brennan’s face. He blanched and grimaced, giving the crowd a glimpse of his square white teeth. “The lady is mistaken. I tried to save him.”

  A couple men in the crowd started to mutter, one stepped toward Brennan with his arm raised. The sheriff’s deputies were on him in an instant, herding him away. Ray stepped closer to Brennan, his gaze scanning the crowd until it came to rest on me. He looked all around me then mouthed, “Where’s Danny?”

  I gasped and spun around. The crowd in the street blocked my view of the store entrance. I started to push through, stepping on toes and bumping people out of my way. A hand grasped onto my forearm.

  “Jolene?”

  “Danny! What took you so long?”

  “I was looking at the race car miniatures. They have 1:43 scales in there of tons of cars. Can I get one?”

  I hugged his shoulders. “Sure, but later. We have a problem.”

  “What?”

  I tugged him in the direction of the store and stopped next to the bake sale table, which was now surrounded by crying girls in red varsity sweatshirts. “A man got hit by one of the cars. He’s dead.” I said that with certainty.

  An ambulance siren erupted, making me jump. The vehicle crept up the street, coming from the far end. The race organizers always had ambulances and flatbeds nearby, just in case. How unbelievably awful and surreal that this time they had been called into action.

  My cell phone rang. It was Ray.

  “Did you find Danny?”

  “Yes, we’re by the bake sale table.”

  “Can you come back over here?”

  “What about Danny? I don’t want him to see … you know.”

  “Leave him at the table. Tell him I said not to move, not one inch.”

  “Okay.”

  I clicked my cell phone closed and instructed Danny. He didn’t argue, taking up a position against the store wall. Then I wiggled my way across the street through the growing crowd, who were pointing, crying, explaining, speculating, or just plain standing with their jaws slack, expressing their own shock and dismay. I must have said, “Excuse me” a hundred times before I broke into the area cleared by the deputy sheriffs. One of them put his hand up to stop me, but Ray motioned to him to let me pass.

  Cory now stood next to Brennan, pure panic on his porcelain-colored face. At a wiry five-foot-one with poodle-tight auburn hair and girly eyelashes, Cory was often tapped to play a teen in his Finger Lakes Broadway-quality theater group, but the fear on his face today made him look all of his thirty-plus years.

  Ray flanked Brennan’s other side, along with the sheriff’s deputy Ray had gone off to talk to earlier. The three kept a wary eye on the crowd, Brennan still pale beneath his summer tan but standing tall.

  A few yards down the road, I could see a deputy taking the statement of the woman who’d accused Brennan of shoving the man into the street. Her arms waved as she described the scene, and the deputy had to step back to avoid being whacked.

  Ray motioned me closer. I kept my eyes averted from where the ambulance workers and deputies surrounded the dead man. “Ken, this is my wife, Jolene Asdale Parker. Jolene, this is Ken Sampson. He’s got a few questions for you.”

  Ken was an imposing man with a thick neck, crisp uniform, and no-nonsense aura. “Mr. Rowe said he was walking over to meet you when the victim was shoved off the curb. He said you might be able to confirm he reached out to save the guy.”

  My chest felt tight, my mouth dry. “Confirm?”

  “Yes, ma’am. This gentleman”—Ken gestured to a white-haired man holding a camera with a telephoto lens—“has a picture of Mr. Rowe’s arm extended out into the street as the victim is falling.”

  I swallowed. “A picture?”

  Ray nodded. “It’s Brennan’s arm. Same gray shirt color. Same Rolex watch. What did you see, Jolene?”

  This was not what I had expected. Ray looked at me, eyebrows raised.

  Cory grabbed my bicep. “You saw Brennan try to save the guy, didn’t you, Jo? Didn’t you?”

  I took in the tears sparkling in the corners of Cory’s eyes, the dawning realization in Ray’s, and the resignation in Brennan’s. Now would not be the time to admit that my gaze wasn’t on Brennan because I was watching the store entrance for my twelve-year-old boy who had gone to the bathroom and, if not there, then the other side of the street for my husband who’d disappeared in the crowd when he went to talk to his friend, this very officer standing before me and waiting for my answer.

  “I’m sorry, Brennan. I’m sure you did try to save him, but I wasn’t looking your way at that precise moment.”

  Always the gentleman, he dipped his head ever so slightly to acknowledge my apology.

  Cory tightened his grip on my bicep. “Then what did you see, Jo?”

  “I’m so sorry, Cory. I didn’t see anything.”

  _____

  As I crossed the street to rejoin Danny, it occurred to me that what I had said wasn’t quite the truth. I had seen Brennan in what appeared to be a rather heated conversation with the victim, minutes before he lay dead in the street. No one had asked me about that. I considered calling Ray’s cell, then decided it should wait until we could discuss it in private. I didn’t want to add to Brennan’s trouble.

  I reached Danny, who was biting into a cookie. “Where’d you get that?”

  “The girls gave it to me. They gave everything away and went home.”

  The crowd had, in fact, thinned rapidly. The rain had dialed up to a full force downpour, killing any remnants of the spectators’ curiosity about the accident, which I felt confident it was. While I didn’t know Brennan all that well, I believed him incapable of violence. Cory wouldn’t be attracted to him otherwise, that I knew for sure.

  By now, the ambulance had driven away with the victim inside. No sirens this time, just flashing lights. A dozen sheriff’s deputies had begun to take statements from the spectators on our side of the street, some of whom seemed excited to be questioned while others were more subdued. I wondered if any of them had been in the nearby bars or the beer tent earlier and how accurate their recollections might be. Hopefully one of them would be more helpful to Brennan than me.

  Ken had asked Brennan to accompany him to the Sheriff’s Department, placing him in the back of a department SUV that had arrived minutes after the ambulance. Cory had tried to go with him, but Ray blocked him and herded him back in the direction of the Mini Cooper, instructing him to return to the track and wait for him there. Cory put up an argument to go to the jail instead, but Ray convinced him otherwise. Ray then asked me to wait with Danny for a couple more minutes until he could rejoin us.

  Danny offered me a chocolate chip cookie from the sandwich bag he held in his left hand.

  “No, thanks, you enjoy them.”

  “Okay. What happened?”

  I filled him in minus any details about the victim.

  “They took Brennan?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Ray’s helping them?”

  “Yes, but he’ll be here soon.”

  “And you didn’t see anything. Geez.”

  Again, I knew that wasn’t quite the truth. I turned to watch for Ray.

  THREE

  I HAD RESERVED A room for us at the same motel—a family-owned, twelve-cabin basic close to the track—where Brennan and Cory were staying. Ray dropped Danny and me off, intending to meet Cory at the track and make a plan to obtain a lawyer for Brennan. I wanted to go with Ray to tell him about the redheaded man and to help Cory and Brennan, but at the same time, I didn’t want Danny too involved in this whole mess. From the moment he joined our family, we’d t
reated the evening news and the details of Ray’s job as X-rated. Danny didn’t need to know more about the poor redheaded man’s violent demise, and Ray was far better suited to deal with Brennan’s arrest.

  Trouble was, the motel room was dark and tiny—maybe thirteen by thirteen with most of that space taken up by two double beds—and had no television to keep Danny entertained with his beloved SpongeBob. The room didn’t have a phone either. After one trip into the claustrophobic five by seven bathroom, I decided to take him across the street to the ice cream parlor, a popular spot in the town for many years.

  When the vanilla scent of fresh-made waffle cones hit my nose, I thought I’d made a wise decision. The thirty-plus homemade ice cream flavors as well as a dozen fresh fudge choices were all enticing. An older couple in line ahead of us seemed to have difficulty choosing what to order. They taste tested a handful of flavors before ordering, giving Danny and me plenty of time to decide. I settled on a sugar cone of Southern Pecan Praline while Danny chose a double scoop waffle cone of Cake Batter and Triple Brownie.

  Unfortunately, the deadly incident was bound to be the talk of the town, not to mention the flat-screen television mounted above the ice cream counter where we stood.

  As pictures of the ambulance leaving the scene flashed, a newscaster’s voice announced, “We have new details in today’s tragic death in Watkins Glen. The Sheriff’s Department has a prominent contractor from Wachobe, New York, Brennan Rowe” —Brennan’s picture from his construction company’s web site appeared on screen—“in custody at this time. According to the Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Rowe is not under arrest, although an unidentified witness at the scene claims Mr. Rowe pushed the victim in front of the Cobra automobile that struck and killed him on impact in front of hundreds of race fans attending the Vintage Grand Prix Festival on the main street in Watkins Glen this evening. The name of the victim is not being released pending notification of his next of kin. When asked if the Sheriff’s Department suspected foul play, the department declined further comment at this time.”