Scott Free

by John Gilstrap

  Brandon nodded once. “Done. I defer to the expert.”

  “Saved you four bucks, too.” As Joe walked away, Brandon noticed that he even had the bowlegged swagger of an old cowboy. The bartender moved with the halting efficiency of a man who hurt most of the time.

  Brandon put his elbows on the bar and rested his face in his hands. Just how long did he have to go, he wondered, until someone yelled olley-olley-oxenfree and ended this nightmare? He was ready to be awake again. He was ready to wake up with a start in the morning only to find that Scott had once again slept through his alarm. He wanted to roll him out of bed and yell at him for running late.

  He wanted a hug from him. And a kiss. Even at sixteen, his son still gave him a kiss good night before bed. It had been part of their routine forever, and he hoped that it never faded away. Somewhere in his own childhood, handshakes had become the only means to express affection with his father, and on the day Scott was born, Brandon had made a pledge never to make the same mistake with his own son.

  He shifted on his stool and opened his eyes to find that his drink had arrived, mysteriously and silently. Joe had already retreated back to the far end, apparently reading his customer’s body language, which hollered that he wanted to be left alone. The cardboard coaster stuck to the bottom of the glass as Brandon took a sip. Damn smooth, indeed. And Joe had gotten the recipe exactly right: two ice cubes, the rest scotch.

  He chased the first sip with two more, then set the glass back onto the polished mahogany to wait for the alcohol to do its job. Never much of a drinker, he did enjoy the warmth it brought, the certain clarity of thought. He remembered his college days when his buddies used to go out bingeing, and about the best he could do was a buzz after a six-pack, and endless puking after the seventh beer. He’d learned early to recognize his limits.

  God, that was a long time ago. Hell, this morning was a long time ago. He tried to imagine how far he’d have to roll back the clock to make the horror go away. Would it have been as simple as saying no to Sherry? If he had done that, would everything else have been just fine?

  Well, maybe, but who was he to deny Scott a week away with his mother? And who the hell was she to put him in that position?

  That’s really what it kept coming back to. Why did that selfish bitch have to put Brandon in this situation in the first place? Did she really hate him that much? Did she really have so little regard for the relationship that he and Scott had built over the years that she had to force a wedge between them?

  Yes, she hated him at least that much.

  Enough to kill their only son.

  Whoa! That thought came out of nowhere. Startled the hell out of him. Scott wasn’t dead, dammit! He wasn’t.

  And even if he were, how could Brandon possibly lay the blame for a plane crash at Sherry’s feet? That wasn’t right.

  Still, if she’d just kept to her own business, and out of theirs, then sure as hell, none of this would have happened.

  “She can’t even ski, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Excuse me?”

  Brandon looked up to see Joe, a curious expression on his face.

  “Huh?”

  “You talkin’ to me?” Joe asked.

  Brandon scowled. He must have spoken his last thought aloud. “Oh, no, don’t mind me. I got some problems today, is all.”

  “Judging by the look on your face, it’s gotta be a kid or a woman.”

  “Or both.” Jesus, where do bartenders get their psychiatry degrees?

  “Yep, I figured. You okay?”

  Brandon looked at the man’s eyes. They looked curiously young for a man so old. Green, the way a cat’s eyes were green. When people throw out a question like that, they either want an answer, or they’re just engaging in a word-reflex. Joe impressed Brandon as a straight shooter. He probably thought he wanted to know, but once he heard, he’d be sorry he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Brandon said. “Or I will be.”

  Joe waited for a moment—a silent opportunity for Brandon to change his mind—then shuffled back to his duties.

  As Brandon watched the old man cross under the television set, his eyes were drawn to the white-bread news anchors on the screen. The picture cut to the standard-issue blonde with perfect teeth, and as she spoke words that were too soft for Brandon to understand, he saw a cartoon image of a plane crash over her shoulder, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he read her lips as she mouthed the phrase, “Scott O’Toole.”

  “Turn that up!” Brandon shouted, startling the shit out of Joe.

  “What?”

  “The television! Turn it up! Turn it up now!”

  Rattled, Joe had to search for the remote. He found it near the beer taps, just about a microsecond before Brandon was about to launch himself across the bar. The picture had already switched to a reporter standing in front of the building Brandon recognized as Terminal Two, but this pretty-boy was already well into his monologue before the sound became audible.

  “…until sundown, but then authorities will have to suspend operations until morning. Given the weather predictions for this evening—yet another punishing snowfall—even that seems iffy.”

  The picture cut to the image of a dour man whom Brandon had never seen, speaking into the bulbous end of a microphone. The graphic on the bottom of the screen identified him as Fire Chief Norman Howlette. “If you don’t know where to look, you’re bound to have trouble finding someone. Everything’s made worse by the snow cover. Truthfully, if we don’t find that wreckage soon, we’re going to have to make some tough decisions.”

  “What kind of tough decisions?” asked a voice from offscreen.

  Howlette looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if he were aware of the camera for the first time. “The toughest.”

  “You mean to discontinue the search?”

  “Oh, I don’t know that we’d ever officially discontinue it, but there’s a big difference between search and rescue, and search and recovery.”

  “And that difference is?”

  Howlette scowled, clearly wishing that this parasite would go away. “The difference is, you can only rescue someone who’s still alive. And, well, it’s awfully cold out there.”

  An invisible hand squeezed Brandon’s belly. He realized as he looked down at his drink, still poised for a sip in front of his mouth, that his hands were shaking. Half of it spilled before he could set it back down on the bar.

  What did these people think they were doing? Who were they to even think about giving up? Rage blossomed as he stood and fished with trembling hands for his wallet.

  From his station over by the beer taps, Joe watched, and those green eyes showed that he understood now. He understood everything. “Forget about it, sir. This one’s on the house,” he said.

  Brandon cocked his head and looked strangely at the old man.

  “Really,” he said again. “Go fight for your boy.”

  BRANDON DIDN’T EVEN SLOW DOWN for the door. If it hadn’t opened easily, he’d have knocked it down. He made eye contact with Jesse Tingle, and the deputy buzzed him in without questioning a thing.

  As Brandon marched down the aisle through the maze of chairs and desks, all work stopped and all eyes followed him. Apparently, his rage was that obvious. He set a course for Chief Whitestone’s door, and no force on earth was going to stop him. At least three of the armed officers stood at their desks.

  “Is he in?” he asked Charlotte Eberly.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Thank you.” Thank God the doorknob turned easily. Brandon threw the door inward, but caught it before it could destroy the wall.

  Whitestone looked startled, then angry. “Hey!”

  Brandon’s door slam shook the building. “Is what I just heard on the news true?”

  The chief looked away. “I haven’t been watching the news—”

  “Don’t bullshit me. It’s true, isn’t it? You guys are about to give up.”

  Whitestone thrust out his hand
like the traffic cop he no doubt once was. “Absolutely not. Who said we’re about to give up?”

  “Some fire chief on the news.”

  “Well, we’re a long way from that, I assure you.”

  “How long?”

  Chief Whitestone thought for a moment as he sat back down. “We’re certainly continuing the search tomorrow. In fact, we hope to add two more airplanes.”

  “Unless the weather turns bad again.”

  The chief inhaled noisily. “Well, yes, the weather is always a consideration.”

  “And they’re predicting more snow for tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the plan for the day after tomorrow, then?”

  Whitestone considered lying. Brandon could see it, like a neon sign on the lawman’s forehead. He actually opened his mouth to do it before he shut himself down. “Tomorrow’s the last day we’ll be treating this mission as a search and rescue operation.” There it was, right square on the nose.

  Brandon helped himself to a chair. Suddenly, there was nothing to say. “But that’s my son up there.”

  Whitestone nodded and his eyes reddened. “I know that.”

  “And if the weather’s bad tomorrow?”

  Whitestone sighed again. How was he going to explain this? “The issue, Mr. O’Toole, is one of probable survival. Our experts tell us that after tomorrow, there’s just no reasonable expectation that they could…well, you know. We confront this same sort of issue when a boat sinks. At first, we all go balls-out to rescue all survivors, but then, mathematically, physiologically, there comes a point where it’s just not possible for anyone to remain alive.”

  “Even if they have outdoor survival training?”

  Another sigh. “Their aircraft crashed in a storm, Mr. O’Toole. They fell out of the sky.”

  Brandon pounded his fist on Whitestone’s desk. “God dammit! You never believed they were alive from the beginning.”

  “I never led you to believe otherwise.”

  “How can I expect you to fight for one more day, when you believe in your own heart that it’s useless?”

  “I did fight for another day.”

  That stopped Brandon cold. “You did?”

  Whitestone nodded. “That’s why they’re going out again tomorrow.”

  “Unless it snows.”

  “Unless it snows a lot. It’s just the best we can do. I’m sorry.”

  Brandon stared. Could it possibly be that this was all there was? He nodded silently and pressed hard against the wooden arms of his chair to raise himself out of his seat.

  Whitestone rose with him. “Can I…get you anything?”

  Brandon didn’t even hear him. “So, tomorrow night. Or the day after. What happens?”

  The chief scowled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “If they’re…not found. How will I…Will I ever…” He couldn’t bring himself to form the question.

  “When the snow melts and visibility gets a little better, we’ll start looking again. It’s hard to hide wreckage like that for too long.”

  “And the boys? Scott?”

  “They’ll be treated with the utmost dignity and respect. You have my guarantee on that.”

  Brandon fell silent again. He supposed that about covered it. There should have been a thousand questions, but he couldn’t imagine what they were. He couldn’t imagine anything, in fact.

  “Let me walk you out,” Barry offered.

  “No,” Brandon said. “Actually, I think I’d really prefer to be alone right now.”

  Whitestone said something sympathetic, but Brandon didn’t hear it. He felt oddly separated from his body as he walked out of the police station, oblivious to the stares.

  THE TINY CHAPEL SAT NESTLED among towering pines. Built to hold maybe 200 people, it sported a rectangular sanctuary with a vaulted roof, and a thirty-foot steeple on the end nearest the parking lot. It was a place of nondenominational worship, where everyone was welcome. Brandon knew this because a glass-enclosed menu board outside the front door said so. Three stained glass windows on either side depicted scenes from the Bible, the Torah, the Koran and the Book of Mormon. The place looked like a Christmas card.

  For the longest time, he sat in the parking lot, watching the little church, listening to the barely audible sounds of hymns being sung. His Jeep was one of maybe a dozen automobiles in the parking lot, among twice that many snowmobiles and countless pairs of skis, all stacked neatly in racks along what doubtless became sidewalk after the spring thaw. Stalactites of ice hung from the eaves, dangling below the thick layer of snow that blanketed the roof.

  Brandon didn’t know why he’d come here; it was the last place on earth he wanted to be. Those of a more religious bent than he were altogether too anxious to grease the pathway to Heaven by prematurely presuming death. For Brandon, the real sin—the real sacrilege—lay in giving up. Yet, it was so easy to do. Father Scannell, the priest who’d first broken the news of Scott’s disappearance, had been ready to pronounce death even before the details were known. And now it was Whitestone. He could hear it in the chief’s voice. Hell, he could hear it in his words. They would find the boys alive tomorrow, or they’d resume the search for their bones in the spring. Jesus, how could it ever come to this?

  Brandon sat there for the longest time, trying to think of something—anything—that would make things different. He longed for a sign of hope.

  Maybe it had been a mistake to come out here to Utah. Maybe he’d have been better off just staying at home, waiting for the phone to ring with word of final resolution. But if it were not for him, who else would have been the cheerleader for Scott’s cause? Who else would have stood in the way of the naysayers? Whitestone had already said that if it hadn’t been for Brandon’s pushing they’d have called off the search already.

  He told himself that while it wasn’t much, at least it was something.

  He slid out of the Jeep and pushed the door closed. The air seemed colder up here than it did down on Main Street. He pulled his collar up against it and kept his head down as he waded toward the glowing chapel. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell if the snow that whirled around him was falling from the sky or merely driven by the wind. He climbed the two steps to the red wooden doors, pulled one open and stepped inside.

  The turnout touched his heart. Virtually every seat was taken, all of the occupants young and vital, still dressed in their skiing attire, many still wearing their ski boots. Up at the front, beyond the altar rail, a red-faced blonde with a tight ponytail was speaking to the group from the pulpit. It was clearly a story of Cody Jamieson’s antics, and while Brandon had arrived too late to catch the real gist, the congregation clearly found it funny.

  Brandon stood in the back, behind the last pew, watching more than he listened. With no intention to stay more than a few minutes, he removed his gloves but not his coat.

  As far as he could tell, this service was by and for the resort staff. The young man in charge seemed more a master of ceremonies than a minister, making sure that everyone who wanted one got a turn at the microphone. Brandon’s mind conjured an image of what the service at Robinson High School must have been like as Scott’s friends gathered to remember the good times, to say nice things.

  The next speaker to take the pulpit was all of twenty-one. She had an athletic look about her that was something short of pretty, but somehow attractive, nonetheless. She brought no notes from which to speak, and she adjusted the microphone just-so before she started talking.

  “I’m Sandy Masterson,” she said. “I’m not really sure what I want to say, other than to remember that Cody wasn’t the only one on the airplane that day. I don’t know how many of you had a chance to meet Scott O’Toole, but he and Cody were friends. They seemed to have hit it off right away. I wish I knew more about him—Scott, I mean—so I could say more, but I just wanted everybody here to think about him, too. If I close my eyes, what I remember about him isn’t just tha
t wild hair…” A chuckle of recognition rumbled through the crowd. “…but also his smile.”

  Brandon’s throat thickened as his vision blurred. Throughout the chapel, heads nodded in recognition of that smile.

  “He always seemed happy to be hanging around with the patrol, and when he’d laugh, it was like this light came on in his face. I wish I knew what he liked and what he was afraid of and what he loved. I think we all wish that we had known him better, but for the time being, at least I have his smile to look at in my mind. And I like that.”

  Having run out of words, Sandy looked suddenly uncomfortable behind the microphone, and she sort of shrugged as she turned to make her way down the short flight of stairs leading from the pulpit.

  Brandon smiled. He didn’t think that anyone had noticed him standing there, and that fact made the tribute to his son all the more poignant. Suddenly, it didn’t matter so much that they talked about Scott in the past tense; it didn’t matter that they had given up. What did matter was that they had gotten to know the same Scott that he’d known for sixteen years, and they had paid tribute to him as the person he really was.

  A new warmth filled the void in his soul as he pulled on his gloves in preparation to leave, but before he could take a step, he felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see a couple in their sixties standing so closely together that they were virtually one. Brandon knew who they were before they said a word. The sadness in their eyes told him.

  “Are you Mr. O’Toole?” the man asked.

  Brandon nodded. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “I’m Arthur Jamieson. This is my wife, Annie. We’re Cody Jamieson’s parents.”

  Brandon pulled the glove off his right hand and greeted them both with a blank expression. He wanted to hate these people for what their son had done. He wanted to lash out at them, but seeing their agony swept those feelings away. There was a limit to how much people could hurt, and this couple was already there.

  “We’re so sorry,” Annie Jamieson said. “There’s no excuse for Cody taking the plane up in that weather. I can’t imagine what you must think of him.”