David Bell - Never Come Back

“Why would I give you anything?” I said. “That’s ridiculous. You’re nothing to me. If Beth wants to give you something, you’re her father. I can’t stop—”

“I’m not giving him anything,” Beth said.

“What leverage do you have over me?” I asked. I pointed to his pocket. “Except for that.”

“This,” he said, moving it in his pocket a little. “This is nothing compared to other things. I know some truths I could share. I could share them with you. I could share them with the authorities. Your little protected mind would never be the same, would it?”

“He’s lying,” Beth said.

But her words and her voice weren’t convincing to me. I felt as if I was staring into the eyes of a cobra, being mesmerized by his promise of the truth.

“I know things about certain people,” Gordon said, moving a little closer. “Your sainted mother, for example.”

“If you’re talking about the movies, the things Beth discovered, I don’t believe it.”

“She spilled the beans about all of that, huh?” Gordon said. “And you chose to believe her?” He gestured toward Beth again. “You know, this woman over here, she’s a lifelong liar. She lied when she was a kid, and she’s been lying her whole life.”

“Stop it,” Beth said, her voice ragged with tears.

“She’s an addict,” Gordon said. “An addict will tell you anything to get what they want. If you choose to believe someone like that, then you’re the sucker.”

“Mom would never—”

“Do you know that?” Gordon asked. “She didn’t tell you a lot of things. She didn’t tell you about me . Or Beth. No one in your family did. And now you want to think the best of them ?”

“You broke into my apartment. Why?”

He shook his head a little. “I wanted to see the will. I wanted to know who was getting the money from your mom. It was easy to do that. All I needed was a little help.”

I opened my mouth to speak again, but my words were cut off by the sound of footsteps from behind me. I turned. It was Ronnie. He was dressed, his hair combed into place. He was red cheeked and looked healthier than before his nap. He looked at Gordon and Beth and then at me. He read my face as he always did, and his brow furrowed.

“It’s okay, Ronnie,” I said.

“Is this the man?” he asked. “Is this the man who hurt Mom?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it’s okay.” I swallowed hard. “Why don’t you let Ronnie leave? He can go to the neighbor’s house. He doesn’t need to hear all this.”

Gordon looked at me, his face dripping with condescension. “Really? He can go? And call someone to help you?” He shook his head. “The little man can stay.”

“It won’t matter,” I said. I nodded toward Ronnie. “ We’re not giving you anything.”

“Are you sure that’s a deal you’re willing to make? Do you want to hear everything I know?”

“I know all I need to know,” I said. “You blackmailed Mom. You sucked money out of her and killed her when she threatened to turn you in to the police for kidnapping.”

Gordon had taken a couple more steps toward me, bringing him within ten feet of me. But when I said the word “killed,” he stopped in his tracks.

“I’m not a killer,” he said.

“You killed Mom. You tried to kill my friend Neal.”

“That punk. If I wanted to kill him he’d be dead. I defended myself.”

“And Ronnie?” I asked. “What about the pills? The heart pills?”

“It needed to be done,” Gordon said.

Ronnie darted forward. He lunged at Gordon’s face with his hands, clawing and digging. He took Gordon by surprise and sent him stumbling back a couple of steps. But then Gordon regained his balance and pushed back against Ronnie, bringing up both his hands and releasing his grip on whatever was in his pocket.

“Ronnie!”

Ronnie continued to struggle for a moment; then Gordon regained the upper hand. He shoved against my brother as hard as he could. He sent Ronnie flying backward, where he crashed against a shelving unit. I watched Ronnie’s eyes close in pain as he made contact and fell to the floor. The shelves fell on top of him along with the picture frames and other items. I heard glass break, but Ronnie was silent.

“No,” I said.

I started forward, my hands up. I swung at Gordon, making contact with the side of his head, feeling my knuckles against his skull.

The blow didn’t faze him. He swung back at me, knocking me down. He stepped toward me, reaching for his pocket.

I’m dead, I thought. I’m dead. This is how I’m going to die.

Then I saw Beth moving behind Gordon. A quick, blurred movement. Something swinging and a sickening thump of an object against the back of Gordon’s head.

I saw the look on his face when the blow connected. His face lost all animation, and his eyes rolled up in their sockets, revealing nothing but white. His mouth formed an oval shape, the beginnings of a cry he never made.

He fell forward, his body limp. He landed at my feet, where I still sat on the floor.

I looked up. Beth held a lamp, a thick glass lamp. The base was cracked but not broken where she had smacked Gordon on the back of the head. Her eyes looked crazed and fearful. She held the lamp in two hands like it was a baseball bat. She looked at the lamp and her hands once. She stepped forward, standing over Gordon.

“Beth,” I said.

She swung the lamp again, striking another blow against his head.

Gordon’s eyes were open, still showing white. I pushed myself up. Beth prepared to swing again. I put my hands on hers. I tightened my grip, tried to hold her in place.

“Stop,” I said, my voice firm. “Stop.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide and glazed. She started to pull back, trying to break out of my grip.

“No,” I said. “It’s over. Drop it. It’s over.”

She came back to herself slowly. Her eyes regained their focus. She seemed to see me, to recognize me. She dropped the lamp and it crashed to the floor.

“Check him,” I said, pointing to Gordon. “I need to see about Ronnie.”

I stepped over Gordon’s body and ran to my brother. Ronnie was under the shelf, his eyes half open.

“And call 911, for Christ’s sake,” I said.

She looked down at Gordon. She nudged him with her shoe. He didn’t respond. She went to her purse and pulled out a phone.

“Ronnie?” I said. I touched his forehead. A trickle of blood ran down from near his ear. “Are you okay? Ronnie?”

He groaned.

I pushed the shelf off of him, felt the broken glass cutting my fingers.

“Ronnie? Tell me you’re okay. Ronnie?”

Beth came to my side, her face white.

“The police are on their way. And an ambulance.”

“Good,” I said.

“Elizabeth?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I think I just killed my father.”

A paramedic with a shaved head tended to the cuts on my hands, which I’d suffered when I removed the broken glass covering Ronnie. I sat on the back bumper of the open ambulance, a blanket wrapped around me against the cool autumn night. Ronnie sat next to me, and while my wounds received attention, another paramedic examined Ronnie, asking him to turn his head first one way and then the other. He shined a penlight into Ronnie’s eyes and asked him to follow the path of his finger in the air.

“You’re looking okay, buddy,” the paramedic said to my brother. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow, but I don’t think you have a concussion.”

“He was bleeding,” I said.

“I saw that,” Ronnie’s paramedic said. “It’s a small cut. Superficial. He’s lucky. With all that glass around him he could have really been sliced up.” The man pointed at my hands. “You got it worse, trying to help him.”