I spent some time trying to clean out the gash under my cheek and my other cuts and scrapes. It stung like hell when I put the antiseptic ointment on. After bandaging up my wounds up as best I could, I filled up the tub with hot water. When I took off my shirt and looked at myself in the mirror, I saw my side was one big purple bruise. I had no doubt that I had some cracked ribs. It didn't matter, though. Over time they'd heal.
I ate the food and then gingerly lowered myself into the tub. As I lay in it, I had two of the beers. For the most part they were tasteless, or at least they seemed that way. After I got out, I dried myself off, and lowered myself onto the bed. I tried to picture Charlotte, tried to imagine how she looked when her eyes were calm and not jumping around like ping-pong balls. I tried to concentrate, but I couldn't picture her. She was gone. As much as
I wanted to mourn her there was nothing left for me to mourn. My memory of her had faded away. After a while I gave up trying. Then I closed my eyes.
Next thing I knew it was two thirty in the afternoon. I had been asleep over fourteen hours. I felt groggy, disoriented. It was as if the world had shifted somehow. I lay there for another half-hour. I felt this sense of disquiet that I couldn't shake. I just felt so damn alone.
I got up and found Tina's business card in my wallet. I was able to get her at her desk.
'Hi,' I said, 'I think I've waited long enough.’
‘Really?'
'Can I stop by later, maybe at seven, and we could have dinner?'
'I'd like that, Joe. I can't wait to see you.'
I felt better then. Her voice had sounded so sweet. I just hoped I'd be able to talk her into moving to Albany with me.
I checked the clock and saw that it was a quarter past two. With a forty-five-minute drive to Burlington that left me four hours to do what I needed to do. I took a shower, dressed, grabbed my duffel bag and got out of there.
I still had the paperwork for the police pension on me. I hadn't thrown it away yet. I looked it over, signed it, and took it over to the post office. I figured I'd collect the thirty-four sixty a month while training for a job, but once I got settled I'd drop it.
My stomach was feeling empty. I didn't think I could wait until seven – also, I had that blueberry wheat ale on my mind, so I stopped off at the Bradley Brewery and ordered a cheeseburger and an ale. As I was eating my food I saw Phil Coakley walk in. He noticed me, hesitated, and then walked over and sat on the stool next to me. I could see his arm was still in a sling.
'You've been busy the last few days,' he said.
'Yeah. You caught the news broadcast Wednesday night?'
"That's not what I'm talking about.’
‘What're you talking about, then?'
'All the deaths and shootings we've had. Let's see, Scott Ferguson, Jamie Hubbard, Duane Wilcox, Manny Vassey Jr. – oh yeah, and a young nurse, Charlotte Boyd, who was hacked to death. And of course Susie Baker, and my own self being shot.'
'I had nothing to do with any of that, Phil.'
I could feel him staring at me.
'From what I understand,' I said, 'Sheriff Dan Pleasant and his boys shot Junior after he had murdered-’
‘Hacked to pieces.’
‘Okay, hacked to pieces that nurse.'
'Charlotte Boyd. You should at least call her by her name, Joe. I know you dated her.’
‘Okay, so I dated her.'
'Funny, though, she didn't seem your type.'
'I had just gotten out of jail,' I murmured. I was lonely.'
'I still can't see it. The only thing I can see is that in some way you were responsible for her death. My guess, you're responsible for all of them.'
I turned to him. 'What do you want, Phil?'
'I want to see you punished for what you've done.' He sighed. 'But I guess that's not going to happen, at least not in this lifetime. But Joe, I hope you end up rotting in hell.'
He got up and walked to one of the empty tables.
I finished my burger and ale. I didn't bother looking at him when I left the bar. It wasn't worth letting him get to me. It was over. I squinted against the sunlight as I walked outside. It was a new day. What was past was past.
I drove over to my parents' house. I didn't really care about saying any goodbyes, but there were things of mine that I wanted to give my girls. Some football trophies, the game ball for a division championship, some books – just some small things.
The door was unlocked. I yelled out, nobody answered, so I went straight to my old bedroom. As I was collecting my things, my dad walked in.
'What are you doing here?' he asked.
'I'm leaving for Albany tonight. I'm getting some of my things together for my girls. I'll be out of here in ten minutes.'
He stood silently and watched me, his face growing more haggard every second. I guess he reached a point where he couldn't help himself.
'Look at you,' he cried out. 'You're all beat up. God knows what you've been doing. And you're going to go to your daughters for what? To screw them up the way you screwed yourself up?'
I wanted to ignore him, but he got to me. I turned to him. 'Look,' I said, 'I was hoping we could have some sort of amicable goodbye, but I couldn't care less anymore. Go to hell, okay?'
I turned my back on him. I could hear him leave the room. I was a little surprised to hear him come back less than a minute later.
'Joey,' he said, his voice not quite right, 'I can't let you do this.' I turned around and saw that he was holding a Colt. 45, pointing it at my stomach.
'Jesus, where did you get that?'
He was shaking as he held it. He started crying. 'I'm sorry, Joey, I can't let you do this.'
'Dad, you look ridiculous holding that gun. Just give it to me.'
I reached for the gun. The last thing I expected was for him to use it.
He shot me in the stomach.
I slid down the wall and sat on the floor and watched as the red circle in my stomach grew outward. At first all I could think was Damn, another shirt ruined. Then, as I looked up at my dad and saw him weeping, I had a clarity of thought that I hadn't had before. I knew I couldn't blame him. He was only trying to protect my daughters – his granddaughters. How could I blame him for that? How could I after everything I'd done?
As I lay there I thought about all the people who had died recently. Maybe most of them deserved what happened to them, but not all of them. I might not have pulled the trigger, but I caused all of it. I could have gone to Phil and confessed my crimes. I could have sought real atonement for what I had done. Instead I tried to hide and cheat the system, and because of that, and because of what I was, all those people died.
I had to be honest with myself about what happened and about other things, things that I didn't really want to admit to myself. What happened to Charlotte was really no great surprise. When I told Dan about Charlotte, I knew I was trading her life for mine, but I didn't care. Just as I knew when I told him about Phil and Susie that he wouldn't try busting Phil on a morals charge. I knew him well enough to know what he'd do. I might have been kidding myself at the time, but I knew all along what I was doing. That promise I made about living in a way my daughters could be proud of – fuck, I did a lot since then that they could be proud of, didn't I? It was as worthless as any I had ever made.
I should also admit I killed Billy Ferguson. The story I gave Manny afterwards was the obvious one – the guy wouldn't pay up and things got out of hand. The truth, though, I needed that thirty grand. My luck had to change. I had to win a few bets so I could grow that thirty grand and pay off Manny and be free of him. That was the plan anyway. But of course the bets I made were losers and a week later I was no better off than before. Whatever bookie gave Dan his story was on the level.