Blank Confession (15 page)

Shayne realized too late what was happening. Kyle buried the razor sharp tip of the knife in Shayne's calf. Shayne jerked his leg away from Kyle, whirled, and kicked. The knife flew from his calf, followed by a spray of blood droplets, and the heel of his cowboy boot struck Kyle on the side of his head with a sickening
thunk
. Kyle went down hard, but he had given Jon his opening. Jon
lunged forward and jammed the stun gun into the small of Shayne's back. Shayne's body arched and he fell forward onto his face.

That was when my paralysis broke, or, as my dad might have said back in his drinking days, I
manned up
. It wasn't that I became courageous or brave; it was more like I had stepped outside my body and was watching myself running across the roof, straight at Jon. He saw me out of the corner of his eye, turned, and met my charge with a very large fist to my temple. My brain exploded and everything went dark gray. I didn't even feel myself fall.

I don't think I was out for more than a couple of seconds. When I came to, Shayne was a few yards away, close to the wall, his pant leg soaked with blood, trying to climb to his hands and knees. Jon, holding the stun gun, stood over him, once again wearing his terrible grin. I made a sound—more of a croak than an actual word. Jon looked over at me. Shayne tried to drag himself away, but Jon was too fast; he jammed the stun gun into Shayne's bleeding leg and held it there. Shayne convulsed, let out a ragged gasp, and collapsed again.

I staggered to my feet and ran at Jon again. I was beyond caring what happened to me. All I could see was that white grin shining out from a dark Jon-shaped silhouette, framed by sky. I'm sure he would have flattened me again, but Shayne reached out and swung his hand weakly against Jon's ankle. Startled, Jon looked down at Shayne. I threw myself at him, all 107 pounds of me, and hit him in the belly with both fists. Jon let out an
oof.
He stumbled back, tripping over Shayne. The back of his knees hit the low wall at the edge of the roof and he sat down, dropping the stun gun to grab the wall with both hands.

I snatched up the stun gun and pressed it to his chest.

He laughed in my face.

I pressed the trigger and held it. The gun crackled. Jon's arms went slack. He wavered, then tipped slowly back.

There was a moment—maybe one second, maybe three—when I could have let up on the stun gun trigger. A moment when I could have grabbed him and pulled him back. A moment when I could have saved him.

But I didn't.

His feet came up off the asphalt roof. I remember seeing a bunch of tiny white roofing pebbles stuck in the black tread of his sneakers—and then he was gone.

He never even screamed.

A soundless roar filled Rawls's ears.
This must be what it's like for the deaf to witness a freight train passing,
he thought. He realized he was not breathing. Had the kid reached the end of his story? Rawls took a breath and waited out the silent seconds, watching the boy's pale, almost delicate hands play with the empty soda can, pressing in on the crumpled aluminum.

Rawls cleared his throat. “Let me see if I have this right. You got in a fight with these two, Jon Brande and Kyle Ness, and you knocked one of them unconscious and threw the other one off the roof?”

“Yeah.”

“And nobody else was there? You were alone?”

“Marie was there, like I told you. But she was unconscious.”

Rawls closed his eyes, then opened them. “Why would you tell me this?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, there was nobody there to see what happened. Why come here and tell me? Why not just say Jon fell, or jumped?”

“Because he didn't.”

Rawls did not speak.

“Also, I didn't want somebody else to get blamed.”

“Like who?”

“Anybody.”

“What about the other kid, the one you knocked out?”

“Kyle was okay. He was breathing. I didn't hit him that hard. I took Marie to the hospital. She's there now. Then I rode around for a while. Then I came here.” Shayne looked up. “Do you think I could get another soda? Mountain Dew's okay. Anything but cola.”

“Sure.” Rawls's voice came out husky. He cleared his throat. “Um …I suppose I should advise you of your rights….”

“You mean like the right to remain silent? Too late for that.” For the first time, Rawls saw the kid smile. Even after all he had just heard, Rawls still saw him as a boy, a half step beyond playing with his G.I. Joe. He reached into his pocket, came out with a cell phone, set it on the table. “There are some pictures on here you might like to look at.”

“Let me get you that soda,” Rawls said. “Then we can look at your pictures and talk about you making a formal statement. For the record.”

Rawls's knees cracked as he pushed himself up from the table. He left the interview room, walked down the hall, took out his cell, and called downtown.

“First precinct,” said the voice on the other end.

“Let me talk to Joe Spinoza,” Rawls said.

Joe picked up right away.

“Joe, this is George Rawls over at the Third. Listen, you have any incidents this afternoon? Anybody falling off a building?”

“What, are you psychic? Hell yes, we had an incident. Let me tell you….”

Rawls listened, nodding. After a time he said, “Thanks, Joe.”

“Tell me what you got,” Spinoza said.

“I'll call you back.” Rawls clicked off, closed his eyes, and waited for his thoughts to settle. He went down the hall to the vending machines. It was quiet in the station. No citizens waiting on the bench. Kramoski was sitting behind the high desk reading a book. Rawls looked at his watch. Six forty-five. The kid had walked in less than two hours ago, and Rawls felt as if he'd aged ten years.

As he fed a dollar bill into the soda machine, he thought about Shayne Blank's future. The court system would chew him up. He'd probably be charged with manslaughter, maybe worse. Even with a good lawyer he'd be doing time, rubbing shoulders with several hundred Jon Brandes. Long enough for him to learn how to jack cars and use a variety of illicit drugs and, basically, become a criminal. And then what? He shook his head. It wasn't fair. It was never fair, but it was what it was. He'd become a cop because he'd turned out to be a lousy teacher—like an untalented carpenter going into the demolition business.

But this kid …he'd never met one like this before. He walked slowly back toward the interview room, his thoughts running in hapless circles, and didn't notice
until he was there that the can of soda in his hand was a Pepsi. He stepped into the room, his mouth poised to apologize for his selection.

He stopped, his mouth open.

The room was empty. Nothing but an empty soda can on the table, slightly crumpled, and a cell phone.

I dropped the stun gun. It hit the edge of the wall, wobbled for a moment, then slid over the side and fell. I leaned over and watched it clang off the fire escape railing, then continue falling.

“Mikey …”

I looked back. Shayne was sitting up, his face white. “Are you okay?” he asked.

I felt the side of my head where Jon had hit me. It hurt, but it wasn't bleeding or anything.

“I think so,” I said.

“What did you
do?
”

I leaned over the edge and looked straight down into the courtyard.

“He landed in the swimming pool,” I said.

“Is he okay?”

“Somebody must have drained the pool,” I said.

He climbed to his feet and looked over the edge. Jon was spread-eagled in the empty swimming pool, surrounded by a corona of blood. We stared down at him, rendered speechless by the enormity of what we—what
I
—had done.

Shayne said, “Marie.” He ran back to where my sister
was sprawled on the sofa. Her face looked awful, her nose all swollen and discolored, but her eyes were half-open and she was trying to sit up. Shayne grasped her shoulders. Marie groaned and swatted his hands away.

“Lemme alone,” she muttered.

Shayne helped her sit up. He kept talking to her as I stood watching, not knowing what to do. I felt as if I was smothering inside a fuzzy, invisible cocoon. I wondered if I was dreaming. Shayne walked Marie back and forth—Shayne limping and bleeding, Marie dragging her feet drunkenly. After a minute or two he sat her back on the sofa, then went over to Kyle and held a hand to his neck, checking for a pulse.

“He'll be okay,” Shayne said after a few seconds. “Check on Trey. But don't tell him anything.”

I looked down the hatch. No Trey. I climbed down. Trey had dragged himself out of the closet into the hallway. He was propped against the wall, holding his arm.

“I think it's busted,” he said.

“We'll get you to a hospital,” I said.

“What happened up there?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. Everything, even the words coming out of my mouth, felt distant and unreal. I told my body to do things, and it responded.

Back on the roof, Shayne was kneeling in front of Marie, holding her wrists and talking to her in a low, intent voice. Marie nodded blearily, shook her head, winced. Shayne looked up at me. He stood up—I could see it hurt him—and came over to me.

“Is Trey all right?”

“He says his arm is broke.”

“Can he walk, do you think?”

“He's pretty tough.”

“Good. We have to get him and Marie out of here. Both of them need to go to the hospital.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Now listen to me, Mikey. This is important. You were never here. You and Trey. Never. Here.”

I nodded numbly.

“I want you to keep your mouth shut, no matter what. Don't tell anybody anything. Will you promise me that? Not even Trey. Not Marie.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“That doesn't matter. Mikey, are you hearing me?”

“I hear you.” I felt absurdly grateful to Shayne for telling me what to do.

We got Marie down the ladder, listening to her woozy complaints all the way. When we got down, Shayne checked Trey's arm.

“It's broken,” he said.

Trey managed a weak laugh. “Tell me something I don't know.”

Shayne then gave Trey the same talk he'd given me. Trey listened, his face chalk-white, nodding at all the right moments.

By the time we left the apartment, Marie had recovered enough to walk on her own. Trey was on his feet too, though from the look of agony on his face it must have taken everything he had. Shayne improvised a sling out of a towel and tied it around Trey's neck and arm.

“There's a hospital a few blocks away,” he said. “Do you think you can walk it?”

Trey closed his eyes and swallowed. “I think so,” he said.

“Don't forget—you fell off your bike. That's all you tell them.”

Trey nodded miserably. We took the elevator down, none of us speaking. Shayne got Marie on the back of his bike and took off with her. Trey and I made our way slowly toward the hospital. Several times, Trey had to stop and lean against a lamp pole or the side of a building—I thought for sure he would pass out, but he didn't.

When we got to the emergency room we found Marie slumped miserably in an orange plastic chair holding an ice pack to her nose.

“Where's Shayne?” I asked her.

She pointed at the exit.

I ran to the door and out onto the street. Shayne was on his bike, pulling away from the curb.

“Shayne!” I shouted as loud as I could.

He looked back and pulled over to the curb. I ran up to him. “Where are you going?”

“I have to do some things,” he said. “You should go home.”

“But …what about Marie?”

“Look, you can't be here. You were never here. I talked to Marie. She knows not to say anything.”

I didn't understand.

Shayne smiled. It was a sad, ancient smile. I felt like a child.

He said, “Mike, I have to go now. It's time.”

A cold, lost feeling rose up inside me. “No,” I said.

“Yes,” said Shayne. “You and your sister will be fine. Just go home.”

“Where are you going?” I asked again—even though I knew he wouldn't tell me.

He shook his head slowly and smiled that ancient smile, turned his head, put his bike in gear, and pulled out onto the street. I watched him grow smaller as he rode away. Then he was gone.

Jon Brande didn't die. I didn't find out until the next day. Somebody must have seen him fall and called 911, and they'd rushed him to the hospital. I remember when I was in the ER, waiting with Marie and Trey, some paramedics had rushed through with somebody on a gurney, but I didn't know it was Jon.

It seemed impossible, that a guy could fall four stories and live. One theory was that he'd landed on the diving board and bounced off. In any case, Jon was messed up bad—broken vertebrae, broken pelvis, cracked skull, and a bunch of internal injuries.

Trey, his arm in a splint, told me all that at school on Thursday.

“He might not ever walk again,” Trey said.

“Is he conscious?”

“He's talking, but he doesn't remember anything. Nothing.” Trey gave me a long, measuring look.

“Kyle's okay?”

“Yeah, but he's not talking. How is Marie doing?”

“She's fine. They sent her home last night. Her nose wasn't actually broken, but she looks awful. And I think she's grounded for life.”

“I haven't seen Shayne today.”

“Me neither.” I was dying to talk to him, but he hadn't shown up at school. I'd tried to call him, but his phone just went to voice mail. I didn't even know where he lived.

All that day I felt like I was in two worlds—the world of school and the world inside my head. I couldn't shake the images. Even when I was talking to somebody, or pretending to listen in class, I kept seeing the pebble-studded soles of Jon's sneakers as he tipped back off the edge of the roof. I kept seeing Marie's battered face, and Jon's spread-eagled body flat and bloody on the bottom of that pool.