William Landay - Mission Flats

Then I closed the cabin and waited. It took only a week before Dad started sneaking a drink here and there. Still I waited, unsure, needing someone else to find the body so I would have no link to its discovery; at the same time hoping the body would never be found, hoping its decay would inexorably destroy Dad’s connection to it — and mine. When it seemed I could wait no longer — when my own paranoia and Dad’s unraveling seemed to limit the time we had available — I ‘discovered’ the corpse.

As a student of history, I should have known better. Any historian will tell you: There is no end to any chain of events, ever. There is no cause without an effect, no incident without its sequel. I tried to break this chain of suffering, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t prevent my father’s pain. I could only deflect it onto others.

The hillsides across the lake, mossed over with pines, were darkly illuminated.

Gittens said, ‘We went to a place like this once, in New Hampshire, when I was a kid. Cabin by a lake, my whole family. I remember there was this girl in one of the other cabins. She was about my age, pretty little blond girl in a blue bathing suit. She used to do gymnastics on the beach. She had this springy way of walking, like any moment she was going to jump into one of those tumbling runs.’ He looked out at the water. ‘You know, I never said a word to that girl.’

I could barely listen. I had a sense of myself crumpling — of some interior structure finally buckling and collapsing. It was not fear; fear already seemed irrelevant, the time for it long past. The feeling was more like exhaustion. Acceptance. Surrender.

It must have registered on my face, or maybe Gittens, with his instinct for weakness, just sensed it. He said, ‘Stay cool, Ben. Think.’

‘What do you want, Gittens?’

He regarded me, then reached into my coat and patted my chest, sides, and back for a wire.

The rain, until now a mist suspended in the air, began to fall again. It ticked in the bare trees.

‘What’s your next move here, Ben?’

I did not respond.

‘Did you leave yourself a way out? An exit strategy?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking ab-’

‘Oh come on, Ben, stop! We’re too smart for that!’

‘What’s your way out? What’s your exit strategy?’

‘Don’t need one.’

‘No? Franny Boyle is going to testify you killed Fasulo and Trudell.’

‘Franny’s credibility is nonexistent. Lowery won’t indict anything with Franny as the only witness. Besides, all Franny has is hearsay — rumors whispered in his ear by dead people. None of it’s admissible. There’s no case against me, no proof. You’re a smart guy, Ben. Come on now, you’ve got to think.’

But there were no thoughts. There was no exit, no future. Only the past.

‘I can help you, Ben, if you just let me. Cops help each other. Let me help you.’

‘Help me how?’

‘Ben, without me, there’s no proof. I’m the one your old man confessed to, I’m the only one who knows that gun in your hand is the murder weapon. If I keep my mouth shut, there’s no case against your old man. Or you.’

‘What happens to the Danziger case? They’ll need someone for it.’

‘Braxton,’ Gittens said.

‘They’ll never buy it. Danziger had given him a deal.’

‘They’ll buy what I sell them. Especially if you back me up, if we work together.’

‘But…’ My voice trailed off.

‘Let Braxton take the hit, Ben, for all of it. He’s got it coming to him. He’s hurt enough people in his time. This just evens the score. Braxton’s not with the good guys, Ben. We’re the good guys. Remember that. Let me talk with him. He’ll confess to both-’

‘Confess? He didn’t do anyth-’

‘He’ll confess! He’ll confess, then he’ll attack me just the way he attacked you last week. He’ll grab my gun and it’ll go off.’

‘It’s murder.’

‘No, it’s the right thing. We’ve got to do what’s necessary, Ben.’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t.’

‘You don’t have to do anything. Just let me do the heavy lifting.’

I couldn’t answer.

‘Ben, there’s no other way. If I walk out of here, your old man does life without parole. They’ll whack you, too, for obstruction. Let me help you. You’re not thinking straight right now.’

I heard myself say, ‘What do you get out of it, Gittens?’

He shrugged.

‘You get rid of Braxton,’ I said. ‘He’s the only one left who can hurt you. That’s why Danziger wanted him so badly. You tipped Braxton off that night. He’s the witness who can put you behind that red door.’

With a nod, Gittens asked for the. 38 in my hand. I gave it to him, my thoughts dreamy and slow.

‘Ben, what I’m offering you here is the only way out. Take it.’

I stared out over the lake, with its lunar phosphorescence and dark rim of hills.

‘Take it,’ Gittens urged.

I shook my head no.

Gittens let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Don’t do this, Ben. It’s what you do after checkmate that matters. We have to trust each other.’

‘Is that what you told Artie Trudell?’

There was a silence. The rain plinked the surface of the lake.

He weighed the. 38 in his hand, then replaced it in his belt. ‘It’s a hell of a choice you’re making, Ben. This is your father we’re talking about.’

I looked back at my father, who was standing with Braxton by the truck. The Chief. So withered, rain-soaked, and small.

What happened next I do not recall clearly. There are glinting memories of that instant: my arm whipping down, a chuff of breath rushing out of my mouth, the stinging vibration in my palm. What remains vivid are the sounds: the clop of John Kelly’s nightstick on Gittens’s skull, a hollow sound like a horse’s foot on pavement; then Gittens’s body flumping on the sand.

The nightstick bounced up off Gittens’s head with such force I lost my grip on it. It twirled over my shoulder and landed in the sand.

There was no blood at first. The body lay face-down, motionless.

I looked up to see Braxton and my father rushing down the access road, then I looked back toward the lake and was struck again by the water’s glow.

The body stirred. Its legs bicycled slowly in the sand.

Braxton and my father stared down at it.

‘It’s the only way out,’ I told them.

My father looked up at me. His features were fallen, his lips parted slightly.

I said, ‘It’s the only way.’

I heard my voice — so self-possessed, so calm — and was surprised by it. I was anything but calm. Something was loose inside me, some wild energy I could not control and did not wish to. I glanced around for the nightstick. Where was it? I’d heard it hit the sand — I’d heard it!

Gittens groaned and struggled to his knees.

I looked again for the nightstick. Where the fuck was it? I needed it now!

Gittens dragged himself toward the lake with an indistinct grunt. In his hair, there was blood salted with grains of sand.

I said to my father, ‘What now?’

He did not answer. Just blinked at me, frowning. Creases sunk into the skin near his mouth, and sad little blankets gathered around his eyes, and rain fell on his face.

I couldn’t look at him. I turned to Braxton: ‘What now?’

Braxton gestured with his chin toward Gittens, who was attempting to raise himself on all fours. He said, ‘You want me to do it?’

I told him no.

Gittens sprawled forward. His forearms were in the water now.

Braxton said, ‘It’s the right thing.’

I stood over Gittens, hooked my arms under his chest, and heaved him forward into the shallow water. The cold revived him. He pushed up with his arms to lift his head and shoulders out of the water. It was only a foot or so deep. With my right hand on the crown of his head, I pressed him down into the water. He shook his head free and came up with a gasp, thrashing wildly. His yellow raincoat glimmered. My hands gripped his skull, fingers over his ears, thumbs squeezing down on the occipital bone, the little bony horn at the back of the skull. I pressed his face all the way down into the sand. A thin screech bubbled from the water. It cut through the sound of his thrashing. High-pitched, like a baby’s cry. It was the worst sound I’ve ever heard.