Stuart Kaminsky - Bright Futures

“No, not yet,” I said. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.”

“You’ll be safe,” Ames said.

“Safe from what?”

“From whoever it is who’s going to try to kill you. My guess is that if he or she catches you, you’ll decide to commit suicide,” I said.

“Why would I kill myself?”

“Guilt over killing your father-in-law,” I said.

“Remorse,” said Ames.

“Case closed,” I added.

“The killer will try to make it look like I killed myself?”

“That’s what I would do,” I said. “Tell us about Blue Berrigan.”

“The clown?” he asked, examining the second blood-drenched towel. “I told you before. I don’t know anything about who killed him. I didn’t. Why would I?” He paused to look at us. “You’re going to find the killer and keep me out of jail?”

“At least for a day or two, if we can,” I said. “Ames, I forgot the introduction. This is Dwight Torcelli.”

“Can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” Ames said.

“Okay. I’m sure Alana will get me a real lawyer. I can talk her into it. She’ll calm down. Now, will you please take care of my nose.”

I wasn’t as sure as he was about Alana Legerman coming up with money for a lawyer.

He wasn’t wearing his uniform when he came through my door that night. The door had been locked, but Essau Williams was a cop. There are many ways to get through a locked door, short of breaking it down. Besides, most people carefully lock their doors at night but leave their windows open with only a thin screen to protect them.

I was lying in bed, my eyes closed, my reading lamp still burning on the chair next to my bed. I had fallen asleep with a book on my chest. The book was a list of boys’ names and their meaning. Lewis means “fame and war.” I hadn’t looked up Essau.

He grabbed me by my blue Chicago cubs sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and lifted me from the bed. We were face-to-face. There was no anger in his face. There was nothing but frigid appraisal. Before he had come in, and before I fell asleep, I was considering a last stop in the restroom. Now I had to pee. I had to pee very badly. I did not tell him.

“I did not kill Horvecki,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“The Gerall kid did it. Don’t come to my house again.”

I didn’t answer. I had nothing to say.

“You understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Say what you’ve got to say,” Essau said.

He hadn’t addressed that to me but to someone I now made out in the darkness near the door. Jack Pepper, Reverend of the Self-Proclaimed Ministers of God, stepped forward.

“Do you know who killed Philip Horvecki?” asked Pepper, every bit as calm as Essau Williams who stepped back from me but continued wearing a look of menace. He had it down. He was playing bad cop to Pepper’s good Reverend. Or maybe he wasn’t playing.

“Was it Ronald Gerall?”

“I don’t think it was Gerall.”

“If you discover who the person was who killed the bastard of hell, you will call one of us,” said Pepper stepping forward. “But it might be best if no one finds out who did it. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“But if you find the avenging angel-,” Pepper began.

“I call you so you can do what?” I asked.

“Protect him,” said Pepper. “The killing was not murder. Whoever did it, it was an execution. You find him. You tell us. You go about your business. You understand?”

I nodded, but the nod was too small and went unseen in the darkness.

“Understood?” asked Essau Williams.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good,” said Pepper.

“No,” I said. “I understand, but I won’t do it.”

Essau Williams got a one-handed grip on my already crumpled shirt.

“You could have lied to us,” said Pepper. “You’re an honest man. But honesty is not always its own reward.”

“I have a question,” I said.

“Yes?” asked Pepper.

“How did you two team up?”

“In search of retribution from the system of men,” said Pepper, “we’ve encountered each other through the years in our several attempts at trying to seek justice for our families and punishment for Philip Horvecki.”

“Find him, tell us,” said Essau.

“We decided that neither of us would exact physical retribution,” Pepper continued ignoring Essau Williams. “But if someone were to do so, we would put the full extent of our gratitude toward him and pray for the mercy of Jesus upon him.”

“ You would pray for the mercy of Jesus,” Essau Williams amended.

“What will you do?” asked Pepper, now only a few feet from me.

“Get a lock for my door,” I said.

Silence. I prepared to be hit, as well as anyone can prepare. The instant the blow came I would go with it, fall back. Then again, Essau Williams might simply decide to strangle me.

“You’re not afraid,” Pepper said.

“No.”

“You know you are in the hands of Jesus,” said Pepper.

“No.”

“Then…?” Pepper asked.

“I have another question,” I said.

“What?” asked Pepper.

“Do you have a favorite first line from a book?”

“ ‘Behold, I send my messenger before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee. Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’ The Gospel according to St. Mark.”

“You left out a little,” I said.

“What the fuck is this?” Williams said. “Are you both crazy?”

“I was going to ask the same thing,” I said.

“We have a damn good reason if we are, Philip Horvecki. What’s your damn good reason?”

“There’s someone in the dark,” I said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Williams said.

“Me,” came the voice from the door.

Victor Woo had entered while they were doing their best to intimidate me.

Williams and Pepper turned toward the door. Victor flipped on the light switch. He was barefoot, wearing clean jeans and an orange University of Illinois sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. In his right hand was the old aluminum softball bat I’d found in the closet when I moved in here.

I could see now that Williams was also wearing jeans. His long-sleeve T-shirt was solid blue. Pepper, pale, his straw hair slightly tousled, wore brown slacks and a white shirt and tie. I wore my underpants with the penguins and my Cubs sweatshirt with the cut-off sleeves. No one wore a smile.

“Victor batted leadoff for two Tigers farm teams,” I said.

I might analyze that instant lie sometime later with Ann Hurwitz. Anyway, it didn’t seem to have any effect on my visitors.

“We’ve said what we have to say,” Pepper said calmly.

“You can put the bat down, Jet Li,” said Essau Williams.

Victor moved away from the door so they could pass. Pepper went out first. Williams paused at the door and said, “‘Once upon a time, there were three bears, a papa bear, a momma bear, and a baby bear.’ A favorite first line. My mother used to tell me that one when I was a baby. That was long after Philip Horvecki raped her and my aunt, and long before he came back eight years ago and turned her and my aunt into cowering old women and ended my family’s history.”

He closed the door behind him. Victor followed them out to be sure they left and then returned, bat still in hand.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “You?”

“I don’t like tea,” he said. “But I have Oreo cookies and milk.”

“That’ll work for me.”

We woke Dwight Torcelli, who was sleeping on a blanket in the room next to mine. Victor had been in that room, too, lying on his bedroll in front of the door to keep Torcelli from deciding to wander. There was a strip of white tape across his swollen nose. The skin under both of his eyes had turned purple. I almost apologized, but I wouldn’t have meant it.