by J. T. Warren
Ellis told him that if he ever needed anything, anything, Brendan could call them or stop by. He gave Brendan the business card. Brendan nodded and then Ellis told him what to tell his father when he asked where Brendan had been for three hours. Dwayne then drove him home, stopping a little ways before the guarded entrance to SkyView Estates. Dwayne asked for the business card back, flipped it over, and scribbled something. He handed it back and said, “That’s my cell. Don’t bother calling the Temple; they’ll give you the stock rigamarole. You need something, call me.”
“Thanks.”
“You know why I’m giving you that number?”
Brendan shrugged. “You’re nice?”
Dwayne laughed. “That’s rich. You oughta tell my ex that. No, I’m giving it to you because I understand you, better even than Ellis understands you.”
“What do you mean?”
After a long pause, Dwayne said, “Don’t think too much about what you did. There’s no point in drowning in mistakes. But you need to accept that you did what you did because you thought it was the right thing. That should help it sit right in your conscience.”
Now, only a day later, Brendan turned the card over and stared at Dwayne’s cell phone number. Beneath it, he had scribbled, You’re special.
That phrase should have unnerved him coming from a stranger. It was something molesters said before they turned off the lights and whispered, “Shhh.” It was what a kidnapper said before he peeled off a strip of duct tape. Brendan didn’t feel that way about Dwayne because he wasn’t a stranger anymore. Brendan had shared with him and Ellis what he did to Delaney. He confessed and these men did not judge him. They embraced him. Dad would never react that way. How could he? Or Tyler? If they knew, they would see Brendan as a beast or a deranged madman. They might even turn him over to the police or the psychiatric wing of some hospital.
He trusted Dwyane and Ellis. If he needed help, they would be there for him. Well, he needed help now. Brendan picked up the phone. All he wanted was for his family to be safe and happy. How had such a simple, pure wish degenerated into a mangled mess? How could such pure wishes bring about such destruction? What was the point? Why did God let it happen?
God helps those who help themselves.
He dialed Dwayne’s number and waited.
* * *
Brendan told Dwayne everything Tyler had said. Dwayne asked one question and Brendan’s inability to answer it is what led him back to Tyler’s room a few minutes before midnight. Light shone from beneath the door. Brendan knocked.
Tyler opened the door. He wore black jeans and a black sweatshirt. He was only missing a ski mask if he wanted to commit robbery. Maybe he really was inspired by the Darkman.
“What are you doing up?” Tyler asked.
“I have an idea.”
“Go to bed.”
“Please, Tyler. Let me in.”
Tyler glanced down the hall like it might be suspicious if anyone saw Brendan enter Tyler’s room. He stepped aside and Brendan entered. Tyler shut the door, walked to the window. His hands flexed open and closed repeatedly. He parted the blinds and peered outside. “What’s your idea?”
“I know you don’t want me help, but … I think you should at least listen to me.”
Tyler checked his watch. “I’m listening.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
The blinds snapped into place and Tyler spun around. His eyes darted from Brendan to the door and back again. “I told you too much. I’m sorry for that. I never should have. Your twelve, for God’s sake, you don’t even know the cock-trapping ways of women. You will one day. Be aware. Be really fucking aware.”
Brendan took a step backwards. He couldn’t help it. Tyler hadn’t been angry earlier when he explained what happened, but now rage pulsed in his wide eyes and throbbed in his clenched jaw.
I told you about those people, the religious guys.”
“Nut jobs.”
“The one guy, Dwayne, thinks he can help.”
“Totally fucking absurd,” he mumbled. “Ridiculous.”
“Are you okay?”
Tyler blinked and seemed to see Brendan for the first time. “What’s the idea?”
“These guys know how to help people. They know how to solve problems.”
“The cure for my problem is not something you want to know.”
Brendan swallowed. Something else had happened since their first discussion. Tyler had called the girl, tried to solve the problem and it had backfired. There was no time to dillydally, as his teacher last year used to say. “Who is she?”
“What?”
“The girl, the one says you raped her.”
“Fucking slut.”
“What’s her name?”
He checked his watch again. “Goddamn bitch.”
“She lives in Trailer Trash Town, right?”
He stopped, glared at Brendan. “You need to go to bed. Now.”
Brendan started to back up out of the room. Tyler approached him quickly like a predator leaping at its prey. His arms grabbed Brendan’s shoulders. “Go to bed and don’t say anything to Dad. You got that? Not one fucking word.”
Fear blanked out Brendan’s mind and he thought he was going to pass out or have a heart attack or something. What had gotten into him? Tyler shook him and somehow Brendan managed to shake his head up and down. Then he was shoved out into the hall and Tyler’s door shut in his face.
Brendan stood between two doors. Behind one was his suddenly crazed brother; behind the other was his comatose mother and his aunt. Dad had vanished after the funeral and when he came back he was different, crazy. He had gone into his bedroom and a huge fight erupted with Mom. Things were thrown. Aunt Steph said it was going to be okay, but she kept crying and staring at the tissue in her hand. Dad left eventually, vanished somewhere in Mom’s car. That was a few hours ago. The family was falling apart. Soon there’d be nothing left.
* * *
When the headlights of Paul’s car splashed across the front of the house, Brendan narrowed the gap between the blinds through which he was peering. He could barely make out Tyler’s figure as he bounded down the front steps and slid across the front lawn. Brendan couldn’t see his face—maybe Tyler had put on a ski mask. A few moments after Paul arrived, he was gone again with Tyler aboard.
Brendan wasted no time returning to Tyler’s room. He quietly shut the door behind him and tiptoed across the room, though he was sure Mom was asleep for the night and Aunt Steph probably was, too.
Tyler had taken his cellphone with him, of course, but Tyler’s laptop lay on his bed. He hadn’t shut it down or put it to sleep for the night. He’d been too distracted bashing women to concern himself with the proper care of his computer, not that he was especially good with it on normal days.
Brendan clicked the Safari icon and hoped he could get really lucky for a change. When the Apple homepage opened up, Brendan typed in the address for Hotmail. He crossed his fingers and stifled a cheer when the page opened into Tyler’s private e-mail account. Tyler assumed no one would touch his computer and he was right, and lucky for him, his trusting ways might be the key to saving him from the mess he was in. And probably making worse right now.
There were several folders that might contain what Brendan needed. They had different names: Kelly, Kristen, Allie, Shelby, Steve, Paul, and then topics: Bio, Eng, Work, and something called Free Range. He clicked on the folder for Allie (might as well start alphabetically). All the e-mails were from Paul. In the most recent, Paul wrote, “Let that bitch go. She’s a ho. Ha. Allie’s hot. I got pot. Need a blow. Fuck that ho.”
The next folder—Kelly—actually had an e-mail from Starstruck489@gmail; it read, “Tyler, you’re a great guy, but we really wouldn’t be a great couple. We’re different. See you in school. Hugs!” The other four e-mails in the folder were from Paul. Brendan didn’t need any more of his clever rhymes.
Brendan moved the arrow to the next folder,
but then he saw a more promising folder labeled, PSYCHO. The first was from Paul. He had written simply: “You’re fucked. Just joking. We’ll fix this.”
Farther down the line of e-mails, including ones Tyler had apparently written to himself, was a message from SKarras17@newmail. Sasha had written: “Going to a movie is fine with me. It’ll be fun just to go out, you know?” Then she rambled on for a few paragraphs about how unfair their math teacher (“Mr. Sux,” she called him) was and how his mustache made him look like “a creeper.” It was signed, “See you soon, Sasha.”
There were no other e-mails from SKarras17. In an e-mail from Tyler to himself (entitled, Get the Date), Tyler wrote: “Hey, Sasha. I was just wondering if you thought we could go out some time.” Several lines beneath that, he wrote, “Too lame? More forceful? Seductive? WTF bitches want?”
He felt bad for his brother. He was barely scraping out a social existence and his effort at dating had turned into a rape charge from a psycho.
Brendan chuckled, just once; he couldn’t help it. Maybe he’d take his brother’s advice and stay away from those cock-trappers.
Regardless, he had what he needed. Now, it was time to call Dwayne again.
* * *
“Karras?” Dwayne asked. “You’re sure the girl is Sasha Karras?”
For a moment, Brendan thought he had done something wrong, but his logic was sound: the e-mail was signed “Sasha” and the address was SKarras17. This wasn’t rocket science.
“Yeah, I think so,” Brendan said.
“That’s incredible.”
“Why?”
“Because He really does work in mysterious ways.”
“Who?”
“God.”
PART THREE
“Anger cannot be dishonest.”
Marcus Aurelius
1
“There’s a baseball bat in the back,” Paul said, “and a crowbar.”
Tyler took off the ski mask; it had seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago but now he felt ridiculous dressed in all black. Paul was wearing his usual: jeans and a blue Carhartt jacket. Paul’s father worked outside a lot and always dressed in clothes with the name Dickie’s or Carhartt. Paul wore this jacket religiously, even when it was a bit too warm like tonight. He sped out of SkyView Estates so quickly he almost nicked his car on the automated gate.
“A crowbar? We can’t actually … do anything, you know.”
“Relax,” Paul said in a we’re-just-fucking-around-so-stop-being-a-fag way. “We’re not going to do anything permanent.”
“What’s that mean?”
They were speeding along one of the main roads in town. Paul didn’t even have his unrestricted license yet; he wasn’t allowed to drive after nine. “Slow down, we don’t want to get pulled over.”
Paul laughed. “You are way to tense for this.”
“I don’t want to get arrested.”
“You called me, remember?”
“Yeah. I needed help, not a rap sheet.”
Another burst of laughter. Did he smell of alcohol?
“Were you drinking?”
Paul shook his head as if that was the most ridiculous idea. “I snuck a few of my dad’s beers. He won’t even notice. There’s a couple in the back if you want.”
“Jesus.” If they did get pulled over—he was still speeding—they’d definitely get arrested. “Maybe this was a stupid idea.”
“No, no,” he said and car swerved a bit, not too much but enough to make Tyler grab the handle on the door. “This is the perfect idea. That crazy bitch will have no idea what’s coming. Don’t worry about the crowbar and the bat, they’re just for show. We’re going to scare her so bad that she changes her mind.”
“Scare her into having an abortion?”
“A procedure’s what they call it. You sounded pumped on the phone.”
That had only been a brief time ago but it felt farther away than that. In the interim, Tyler had threatened Brendan, probably scared the kid so badly he wouldn’t sleep for days. Sasha had caused this, created him into this unstable beast that had forgotten who he was.
Tyler had wanted to tell Brendan about tonight but he had already told the kid too much. He probably would tell Dad, if he could find him, and then the truth would finally spill out. There was likely no way to avoid that. Yet, if there was something he could do, he had to at least try. Dad was languishing in misery (he’d looked like a zombie during the funeral) and throwing this Sasha shit on top of him—by the way Dad, I raped a girl from school and now she’s pregnant—would kill him. One way or the other, Tyler was sure the news would lead to another funeral in the near future. Maybe even one of those FATHER SLAUGHTERS WHOLE FAMILY WHILE THEY SLEEP killings.
Paul was right: they had to do something, try anyway. As long as the crowbar and baseball bat were only props in an elaborate play meant to scare Sasha and not bludgeons or weapons of vandalism, Tyler would go along with this. But if Paul decided to run up to Sasha’s house and smash her windows, Tyler was out. At least he hoped so.
“No violence, right?” Tyler asked.
“Don’t puss out, man. This is something we have to do. This is like Gospel or something.”
“What does that mean?”
He laughed. “I don’t know, shut up and think of something we can do.”
* * *
By the time Paul stopped the car in front of Sasha’s house, Tyler still hadn’t thought of anything. This felt too much like the last visit. Only this time they had weapons.
The house was dark. Most of the neighborhood was dark and Sasha’s neighbor was apparently asleep too, which was a relief. The guy who had been standing on his porch watching all the excitement last time might recognize them, even call the police. Paul dismissed his worries.
Now, Paul sorted through the scattered items in his backseat. “I think I have a golf club in here, too, if you’d rather use that.”
It was pointless asking why a golf club might be in the back of Paul’s car. An entire golf bag replete with a full set of irons might be buried back there beneath soiled clothing, school books, and crushed Dunkin Donut cups. “I threw the bat and crowbar on top so we wouldn’t have to waste time, but if you’d rather have the golf club …”
“No, no.”
“Okay, bat it is.” He handed it to Tyler. “Crowbar’s mine.” Tyler sat back in the driver’s seat and appreciated the thick piece of steel like it was a hand-made sword. “My dad calls this The Persuader.”
Paul’s father was a carpenter with a penchant for crude jokes. Tyler liked him immensely. It was easy to see why he would call the crowbar a “persuader.” If Tyler saw someone coming at him with that thing he’d do whatever the guy wanted.
Tyler expected a light to come on in Sasha’s house. At any moment one of the windows would fill with light and a shadowed form would fill the frame. He waited and no lights came on.
“What’re we waiting for?” Paul asked.
“Nothing. What exactly are we going to do?”
“Make some noise and leave a calling card.”
Tyler waited for an explanation.
Paul pulled a can of spray paint from the space between the door and his seat. He shook it. “You’re better with words than me, what do you want to write?”
“Kill the baby?” Tyler said in half-bewilderment. What were they doing here in the middle of the night?
Paul smiled. “That’s not bad, but let me spice it up a bit. I was thinking something like We’re not fucking around, bitch—kill the baby or we’ll be back. Real Call of Duty type shit.”
“You’re going to write all that out? Where?”
Paul thought for a moment. “You are fagging out.”
“No, I’m—”
“Who gives a shit where we write it? Do you want to end this shit or what? The bitch is a psycho and her mother’s a card-carrying witch, you said so yourself.”
“Sasha said it was all a misunderstanding, some elaborate thing h
er mother does. She’s not right in the head.”
“No shit.” Paul smacked the crowbar (persuader) against an open palm with a dull thwap. “Do you want to be a father or not?”
“No.”
“Then let’s party.”
Before Tyler could offer any more delays, Paul was outside and running up the front lawn. He started screaming almost immediately. It sounded more like the shouts of an angry child than a barbaric war cry.
Tyler got out of the car as well, bat in both hands, unsure what to do with it. Paul smacked the crowbar against the wood railing on the front steps. The structure vibrated. Paul hit it again and wood crackled with a deafening splinter. Another hit sent the railing tumbling over into one of the well-groomed bushes on either side of the stairs.
Tyler ran to him, grabbed his arm. “You said no violence.”
“No.” He smiled. “You said no violence.” He crashed the heavy steel bar onto the fallen railing and a piece fractured almost in half. “Shit’s rotten anyway.”
“Enough.”
Paul laughed. He shook the spray-paint bottle like he was getting ready to throw it as a bomb. “We haven’t left our mark yet.” He started spraying a message on the steps. It was impossible to see what he was writing in the dark, but Paul apparently thought it was amusing enough to keep giggling like someone whose brain has just split.
A faint flickering red light floated out from the downstairs window. Had that light been on the whole time? It was the candles on the witchcraft altar.
Tyler grabbed Paul’s arm again, hard. “I don’t think she’s sleeping.”
“What?” He glanced at the house. “The psycho’s watching us?”
“No,” Tyler said, “her mother.”
* * *
Tyler and Paul froze. Somewhere a dog barked and car screeched to a halt. These sounds echoed to them from the other side of the lake, but no sounds emanated from the house. Maybe Sasha’s mother had left a few candles burning as some sort of witchcraft custom. She might be far off in dreamland right now while he and Paul were imitating mannequins in her front yard.
