Blue Stew (Second Edition) (32 page)

Formed from his growing uncertainty and unease, the obvious notion finally came together as a fully-developed thought: Should he just stop now and turn around? He wasn’t about to confront Marshall in some stranger’s driveway, out in the middle of nowhere—that was the opposite of the controlled environment he’d been banking on. Maybe he should just return to Marshall’s apartment and wait for him there?

It didn’t seem like a bad idea, at this point. But some stubborn part of Braylen resisted—he’d come this far already . . .

His indecisiveness, coupled with the slight incline of the road, caused his car to slow.

This was lucky, because when he came around the next corner, he discovered Marshall’s small black car pulled off to the side of the road.

Braylen stomped on his brakes, tearing tracks in the gravel as he skidded to a stop about a hundred yards behind Marshall.

Straining his eyes, Braylen hastily discerned Marshall’s outline still in the driver’s seat, unmoving. He had pulled over just beyond the driveway to a large white farmhouse at the top of the cleared hill. The immediate question was, had Marshall seen his car slide to a halt behind him? Hopefully not, but there was no guarantee.

Braylen took a slow breath, trying to decide how to proceed. The sound of his idling car and the soft rhythm on the radio were all that filled the void. He realized now that he probably should’ve just continuing on and passed Marshall like a normal motorist. But it was too late for that now. If he’d been spotted he might as well confront Marshall then and there, and if not, why not see what Marshall was up to?

What
was
Marshall up to? He was still seated, still motionless. If he didn’t mean to get out of his car, then what was he doing on the side of the road? Had he seen something? From Braylen’s vantage point, there was nothing to see; the white farmhouse was still and quiet, as was the forest across the road.

Tense moments passed with no movement from within Marshall’s car. Braylen continued to survey their environment for clues as to what they were doing there.

A faint movement caught his eye. Far beyond the big house, near the lower boarder of the grazing lands, there was a brown barn. In front of it, someone appeared to be struggling with a stubborn young calf. By the look of the person’s slender, shapely body and long, sunny blonde hair, it had to be a young woman. Braylen doubted that a man like Marshall would have any business with a young woman with such a youthful and appealing figure, though, so his eyes passed over Madeline Wendell with only mild interest.

The electronically degraded words, barely rising above the low rumble of his engine, jumped out at Braylen like the blaring of a siren.

“. . .
Timothy Glass is dead
. . .”

Braylen reached for the volume knob on his car radio so fast that he bumped the tuning knob, bringing heavy static to his ears. For a frantic moment he adjusted both knobs simultaneously before the radio DJ’s voice filled the car.

“. . .
Found dead about an hour ago by the police. Apparently, he was found with that young man, Walter Boyd, who some were guessing that note was meant for, the one Timothy had left at the camp.
” Braylen’s face went ghostly white. “
Word is that it was an attempted murder-suicide, but it sounds like Walter is alive and okay. In fact, I believe the report said that
Walter
was the one who called in the police. Sorry to cut the tunes short—we just caught wind of this. Hate to celebrate
anyone’s
death . . . but that man, Timothy Glass, had no place on this earth. Anyhow, we’ll be taking a short break, then we’ll bring back the music.
”

Braylen hadn’t drawn a breath since the news report came on, and he didn’t now, not for another silent second.

Timothy is dead. Walter is alive.

He inhaled and exhaled, turning the radio back down.

His moment to ingest the staggering news was cut short. Marshall’s reverse lights had come on, and he was now backing up into the farmhouse’s driveway. Thinking fast, Braylen put his own car in gear and began to accelerate. By the time Marshall was pulling forwards, Braylen was motoring towards him at a reasonable speed. With any luck, Marshall hadn’t seen him skid to a stop, and would just think he was an anonymous passing motorist.

As the green and black cars gave each other a courteous buffer while crossing paths on the narrow road, Braylen glanced into Marshall’s car. Their eyes met. While they met for no longer than a second, and while Braylen’s view was compromised by slight windshield glare, the clear sense of staring into the eyes of an unstable, suicidal man that he’d felt when watching the interview was gone.

Continuing past Marshall’s car, Braylen tried to shake the impression off as unfounded and therefore meaningless, having come from such a fleeting moment of connection. But he couldn’t.

Maybe Marshall had been tuned in to the same radio station, and the news report had affected him deeply? Or maybe he’d merely taken a wrong turn down a back road and had pulled over to inspect a map? Or maybe Braylen would never fully know?

Timothy Glass was dead. It was done.

After a frantic day-and-a-half, a strong sense of finality now came washing over Braylen.

As he drove on, he noticed that the young lady he’d seen wrestling with the calf moments ago had returned to the farmhouse, covered in mud and sweat.

They didn’t know each other, but she smiled and waved as he drove past. Braylen returned the gesture.

•   •   •

Marshall McDowell put a foot to his brakes as he approached the base of the valley. He checked his rearview mirror one more time. There was no sign of the unknown green Subaru behind him, nor anyone else. Paranoia was all it was, he told himself.

As he closed in on the bridge, he rolled his window down all the way. Then he pulled the small vial of blue liquid out of his pocket.

He couldn’t believe he’d almost gone through with it. He needed to seek professional help before he hurt himself or anyone else; that much was clear to him now.

Cruising at little more than a snail’s pace, Marshall was well aware of the symbolism of what he was about to do.

He reached back and flung the blue vial out of the window. It sailed high over the side of the bridge and splashed into the water below.

Marshall watched as it got carried off in the high springtime current.

•   •   •

Walter had been right about one thing: he had driven his new car along Brown Hill Road many times since the day of his and Maddie’s first date. That evening, as he rumbled down the gravel road, he had no sense that this could be the end of it. He had finally reached Maddie over the phone about an hour ago. She had sounded wonderfully, beautifully pissed off at him. His mind plummeted back to earth upon hearing her voice, and he knew then that he’d just worked himself into an irrational panic, having invented all of the deeper implications underlining Timothy’s final rant. No one was out to kill Maddie, and Timothy was nothing more than a dead madman.

The Wendell farmlands opened up to his right, and beyond them a deep purple band of light was settling along the horizon. Walter slowed, marveling at the sunset.

At the top of the cleared hill, out in front of the sprawling farmhouse, Madeline Wendell was ankle deep in cow poop, spreading fresh manure over one of their family’s many organic gardens, preparing for a busy spring season.

She jabbed her pitchfork into the earth and ran her wrist along her sweaty forehead when she saw Walter’s yellow car pull into the driveway.

She met Walter at the opening to the wooden fence surrounding the garden.

She was smiling.