Lamentation (26 page)

“And what about you?”

“What about me?” He smiled. “Don’t you know it’s too late for me, little brother?”

“You don’t have to keep living this way,” I said. “You could get your ass straightened out, get a regular place to live, a job. You’re not even forty yet.”

My brother wrinkled his mouth. “I’ve been at it too long.”

“Bullshit. You could quit if you wanted to.”

“You’re right,” he said. “And I don’t want to.”

“How the hell can you say that? You want your teeth falling out? You want to sleep outside in the freezing cold? Sell your body? For what? Are the drugs really that good?”

“The truth? I don’t even feel them anymore.” My brother reached for the sky, threadbare T-shirt rising. I could count each bony rib in the firelight. “I only feel it when I don’t do them.” He winked, then walked to the window. “No, I’m in too deep this time, and I don’t have the energy to fight my way out.”

“What did you really do?” I said. “You broke into a house, a job site, so what?” I didn’t add that he’d also beaten the shit out of a man and broken his arm, trusting Turley at his word that he’d be able to keep that one off the books.

“I don’t have an alibi for the night Pete died.”

“But you didn’t do it.”

He didn’t respond.

I waited.

“Right?”

Slowly, he shook his head no. “People heard me making threats, though. I was his friend, his partner. I don’t have an alibi. And Adam and Michael know I know, and they won’t take a chance I’ll talk. I don’t have any leverage.”

“We have that disc, right?”

“No one can prove that’s Gerry Lombardi in those pictures. You said so yourself.”

“We could at least turn it over to the cops. The accusation alone—”

“From a junkie like me?”

“I’ll back you up.”

“Now why the hell would you do something like that?”

“I have a son of my own. I can’t let a monster like that run loose. It’s sick. It’s wrong.”

“You’re not even certain it’s Gerry Lombardi.”

“But you are.”

“Yes. I am.”

“Then that’s good enough for me. I’ll back you up. We take the disc, go to the cops. The press. Full-on assault.”

“You want to take on Adam and Michael Lombardi? Then you’ll have them after you too. No, little brother, I can’t let you do that. You’re right. You have a son. And you need to be there for him. This is a losing battle, and only one captain needs to go down with this ship.” He started humming, then singing quietly, swaying gently in waltz timing. I couldn’t make out the tune until I heard the words “Gitche Gumee,” and then I recognized “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

“Will you knock it off?”

“Does anyone know where the love of God goes?” he sang, earnestly. “When the waves turn the minutes to hours?”

“Is everything a joke to you?” I said. “I know it wasn’t easy for you when they died. And I know it got you started on whatever this … this thing is you’re on. But regardless of what you think, it’s not too late. It’s
never
too late. We can check you in somewhere, get you help. I mean it. I’ll vouch for you with this disc, back you up all the way.”

“You’re not really dumb enough to stick your neck out for me, are you?” He sighed. “When will you stop being such a hard case? I saw the way Jenny was looking at you. When I said you still loved her, she blushed, right in the middle of that shit storm. She blushed.” Chris flicked his butt into the fire. “What are you waiting for? You’re wasting your life.”

“I’m wasting my life? Oh, that’s rich. This coming from the guy who hangs out at truck stops …” I caught myself. “You don’t understand. I’m not husband material. I’m not father material. I’m not
cut out for it like Dad was. I can’t do that domestic shit. I can’t give Jenny and Aiden what they need. They’re better off—”

“What? With an abusive asshole like Brody? Give me a break. You’re acting like a chickenshit coward, and you’re selling yourself short. You think you can’t measure up to our father, so you don’t bother trying.”

He turned slightly over his shoulder. The flames carved up his cadaverous features.

This might’ve been the most honest conversation I’d ever had with my brother. And I hated him for doing this to me now.

“What would you know about it, Chris? You take nothing seriously. You take no responsibility for anything.”

“I did it,” my brother said, as casually as if he were confessing to eating the last cupcake, or leaving behind an empty container of milk in the fridge.

“Did what?” I asked, agitated.

“What they say I did.”

My only thought was Pete, which made no sense, since we’d just talked about that. “You’re changing your story now? Telling me you murdered Pete? I don’t believe you. You’re being ridiculous. Five minutes ago—”

“Not Pete,” he said.

A chill ran through me.

He turned back around, talking through the glass, as if to the night. I watched his breath spread over the windowpane, cracking silver ice on a mountain lake.

“I waited for the night of the Merriman’s annual Christmas party,” he said, “because I knew he’d take Lamentation Bridge. The bridge always ices over that time of year.”

“What are you—”

“I’d driven with him enough to know he took Lamentation Bridge faster than he should, especially when he’d had a couple drinks, and he
always
had a couple drinks before the Merriman’s party. Of course, I couldn’t have known it would actually work. Brake lines snapping ain’t an exact science.” At this he peered over his shoulder at me, a wicked
glint in his eye. “But it didn’t matter, Jay. If it hadn’t worked that time, I’d have kept trying until it did.”

“You’re lying. Why are you saying this? You’re lying.”

He went back to talking softly to the night. “She knew,” he said, voice so lulled it was almost a whisper. “The whole time, she knew. I wasn’t going to let him do to you what he’d done to me.” My brother let his head fall, resting on the cold glass.

I lowered my shoulder and tackled him to the ground. We crashed in a heap. The 9mm in the back of my pants fell out and slid across the floor. I had him pinned.

“That didn’t happen!” I screamed into his face. I began raining blows on his chest. He didn’t squirm or try to fight back. “You’re making that up! Like that bullshit drowning story. And all your other bullshit stories.” I grabbed him by the collar, shaking him violently. He responded like a limp rag doll, flopping about, googly eyes rolling back in his skull. “I know you’re lying! Tell me you’re lying!”

I let him go. His head thudded. He looked off to the side, like he’d grown disinterested in the conversation, sleepy, or simply bored.

“Was it Lombardi? Did he do that to you? Is that why you hate him? Is that what this is all about? Answer me, Chris!” I was almost crying. “Dad never did that. Tell me you’re lying. Tell me that never happened.”

“I’ve told so many stories,” my brother said. “I’m not sure what’s even true anymore.”

We both fell silent.

Feedback hissed from a bullhorn. Flashing colors swirled through the windows like a kaleidoscope. White-hot spotlight poured in.

“Come out with your hands on your head!”

That wasn’t Pat or Turley.

I dragged Chris away from the window, sticking him in the corner away from an open shot. I picked up the 9mm from the floor and pointed it at him. “Stay there!”

This wasn’t happening.

I peeked out the kitchen window. There were a lot of cop cars, way more than Ashton’s limited fleet. And more were speeding up the driveway, sirens sounding, blues and reds whirling, tires screeching to a halt.

I crept toward the front door. I heard Chris walk into the kitchen behind me.

“They want me, Jay. Not you.”

“Shut up. Let me think. I told you not to move!”

“Lombardi won’t stop.”

I spun around. “That isn’t Adam or Michael Lombardi out there. Those are cops.”

“Those aren’t Ashton cops. They’re not putting me in the county jail this time. I’m going to prison, little brother. I’ll be dead before breakfast. There’s no way I walk out of here alive.”

“Stay put and let me handle this.”

“Jay, it’s me, Turley. I need you and your brother to come out. Hands on your head. Okay? We’ve got to straighten this out, Jay. It’s not too late to straighten this all out. Come out with your hands up.”

“He wasn’t a cop!” I shouted back.

“I know. Now come out with your hands on your head before someone else gets hurt!”

There was a seismic shrill as the megaphone was ripped from Turley’s grip.

The police switched off their lights, casting the house in total darkness.

“This is Lester Gibbons of the Concord Police. Exit the premises now with your hands on your head. This is the last time you will be instructed to do so. You have thirty seconds to comply.”

“Or what?” I shouted back.

“What are you planning on doing, little brother? Going out like Butch and Sundance?” Chris chuckled in the dark.

Beyond the door, I could hear muffled orders given, the scatter of feet getting in position, weapons cocked and mounted, ready to fire on a single command.

All I wanted in that moment was to be back with Jenny and my son. My family. Just the three of us, in a cozy house, somewhere far from here. I swore to God and the heavens above that if He could just get me out of this mess, I’d make it right. No matter what. I’d make it right.

Then there was a loud crack, like glass shattering, a flashbang exploding in a brilliant wave of light, and I felt all my weight being pulled down.

I crashed to the dusty floor as Chris blew past me out the front door.

Gunfire erupted all around.

And then I was out.

Turned out my brother had no trouble knocking me unconscious in the dark, after all.

He’d probably hit me harder than he’d intended. Or maybe not. Between brothers, there’s always sibling rivalry. This was his free pass. To haul off and slug me and still come off looking like the good guy. I went down hard. Maybe it was more than getting blindsided by a patio chair. Maybe I’d collapsed from the weight of it all. Either way, I came to in the hospital. The doctors said I had a mild concussion.

I knew what had happened before anyone told me. I could’ve dreamt it, or perhaps I’d overheard someone talking in my sleep.

What did it matter now? My brother was gone.

After he’d slugged me, Chris had taken the 9mm from me when I fell, stepped outside, and waved it around like a lunatic. Suicide by cop, they called it.

That’s how everything got wrapped up. No Butch and Sundance. No grand finale. Just a junkie checking out because he was too tired to go on, which left me with more questions than I’d ever get answers to. What else was new? When it came to my brother, you had to divide by four to get at the truth. Charges of molestation. Saving kids from drowning. Cutting brake lines. Lombardi. My father. Who did what to whom. Who knows? Chris was right about one thing, though. I don’t think even he knew what was real anymore.

The rest was easier to ascertain. When I took off after Chris, Fisher had picked up the phone and filled in Turley, who immediately called Concord PD, only to get confirmation that the man calling himself
McGreevy wasn’t actually McGreevy. The revelation that someone had been impersonating a dead Concord detective had unleashed a wave of real Concord cops onto the scene. Which was a bit of irony, if you think about it.

Roger Paul, it would be determined, had been collecting on a drug debt. A ridiculous and flimsy cover, but probably the most convenient way to sweep an embarrassing problem under the rug. Which worked in my favor too, since there are no vehicular manslaughter charges for scumbag-on-scumbag crime. Perhaps Turley and Pat parlayed whatever favor they had for my benefit. Or, more likely, no one gave a shit about two dead lowlifes. Certainly, no one had tied Roger Paul to the Lombardis, and I didn’t offer any theories. I made sure Fisher and Charlie didn’t, either.

I don’t know what would’ve happened if Chris had given himself up, whether he might’ve been able to explain he didn’t kill Pete, or, with everything out in the open, if Adam or Michael or whoever would’ve had no choice but to back off and let events take their natural course. But in the weeks following my release from the hospital, as everything returned to normal, or as normal as things would ever be, I saw that my brother had been right not to bother trying. The riptide that took hold of his life had dragged him out to a rough sea too damn deep and dirty to wade out of clean. When you hit the point of no return, I guess you keep going and see what’s on the other side. I hated him for not giving me the chance to say goodbye, but in moments like that, I guess nobody gets a happy send-off.

The funeral took place on a cold, brisk February day. Most of the town came to pay their respects. People from Chris’ graduating class and from the wrestling team, guys he hadn’t talked to in years; Turley, and Pat, who’d officially announced his retirement; Claire Sizemore, Fisher, and, of course, Jenny and Aiden. I even saw Adam Lombardi lurking in the back row when I got up to deliver my eulogy at the church, dressed sharply, there to represent the entire Lombardi family. I wasn’t surprised to see him. He’d never miss the opportunity for face time or, more
accurately, risk being perceived negatively, especially not with his new ski resort about to break ground. He’d come without his bodyguard. Maybe Erik Bowman and his Commanderoes buddies no longer ran security for him. Or, maybe the situation didn’t require their presence. For such a small town, it was a helluva turnout.