Panic river, p.24
Panic River, page 24
Corey stood, speechless. A flood of questions formed in his mind. Finally, he verbalized one.
“You knew our marriage was a sham the entire time and never said a word? What kind of sick bastard are you?”
“Actually, it was your sickness that brought it to light, Corey, when I tried to get into the psych ward to see you last year. Remember?”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I got to the hospital, you and Billy instructed the staff to refuse me entry. I told them we were married and that I was legally entitled to enter that room. They asked for proof. I was so pissed off and let every nurse and doctor within earshot know that they would be sued for discrimination. But they wouldn’t back down. So I drove home, found our signed marriage certificate with Julian’s name as the officiant and Carol as a witness, then went back to the ER.”
“I don’t see the problem, then.”
“Long story short, what I showed them wasn’t good enough. They said I had to produce a marriage license authorized in Minnesota. I guess the poor-quality printing gave them pause. I searched our files for ours and had Julian search his too. I finally called the courthouse in Ontario to try and get one on a rush basis. I was on hold for at least twenty minutes. The woman was nice, but eventually she came back and said she had no record of either our ceremony or of Julian being registered. I called him right away, and together we figured out what had happened. He felt horrible that he never registered. He didn’t even know he was supposed to. Voila, the ceremony wasn’t authorized, and we were never married.”
“But you still wear a ring. You’ve got it on right now.”
“I paid good money for this ring, and I like it. That doesn’t mean it has to symbolize anything.”
“You son of a bitch. You kept this from me for over a year?”
“Like I was going to drop that bombshell right after you tried to take your own life? I may be heartless, Corey, but I’m not cruel.”
“In your case I see little difference. You could have found a way to let me know before now.”
“There was never a good time to tell you. Anyway, in retrospect, it’s for the best. That little oversight will make our break-up that much easier.”
“Maybe so, but I still get an equal share once we go our separate ways.”
Nick paused and appeared to be thinking. “Don’t worry, Corey. You’ll get what you deserve.”
“I know, and I deserve half. I’ve contributed to this relationship just like you.”
“Not even close. While I worked forty plus hours per week, you chose to work part-time at the museum and spent the rest of the time pursuing your hobby—art.”
“You supported that plan.”
“What choice did I have? You were adamant and whining.”
“You said my paintings showed promise and encouraged me to take a chance at being a break-out success.”
“Look, I’m no art expert. I only went along with it because you cried like a little girl in order to get your way.”
“That’s not true. Regardless, the fact that you’re the breadwinner doesn’t make your role any more valuable than mine. I cooked your meals and hosted countless parties for your co-workers.”
Nick gave a mocking snort. “Okay, whatever you say. Good luck with that argument in court without actually being married.”
“Well, if not half, then what do you think I deserve?”
Nick stared at Corey and seemed to be thinking carefully about a reply.
“Come on, how much?”
“I’m not going to answer that. Not right now.”
“Typical—failure under pressure. Well I’ll tell you this. Once I inform the judge about your multiple indiscretions, I might just end up owning everything we’ve got.”
“That ain’t gonna happen, Corey. The only way you’ll get it all is if I die this weekend, before returning home to change my will. After that, you won’t be entitled to a goddamn thing.”
Nick’s utterance of that last syllable coincided with a thunderous crash, followed by the sound of something writhing in the leaves nearby. Nick turned and looked behind him.
“That’s our buck. He must’ve fallen. Let’s go.”
Nick turned and resumed a torrid pace. Corey trailed reluctantly, still in shock over all he’d just heard. Of course, he remembered telling the hospital staff to keep Nick out of his room. At the time, Corey was enraged and upset about hearing Evan’s voice on the phone. Billy was there in the psych ward to support him, and that’s all that mattered. In retrospect, it was the right decision. Nick wasn’t Corey’s husband after all. He was nothing more than a stranger—a stranger who repeatedly cheated and lied.
Corey kept his hands firmly in his coat pockets grasping the gun and the flashlight. Tall pine trees obscured light from the night sky. Shadows impersonated bear and wolf. His mind began playing subtle tricks as they moved deeper into the unknown. The graying landscape created new dangers with each passing minute. He wondered whether in fact the deer knowingly led them into this forest as a trap, for revenge.
A harried voice jolted him to attention.
“Get up here and hand me the flashlight. I can’t see where the trail of blood runs next.”
Corey could barely see Nick in the darkness.
“A ‘please’ would be nice,” Corey snapped.
Nick spun an abrupt 180, taking one loud step toward him. Corey instinctively thrust both hands back into his pockets. There was security in having something to grasp—the flashlight a ray of hope, the gun a means of self-protection.
“If you’d rather just give up now and go home by all means go right ahead. But give me the light ‘cause I’m moving on.”
“Give up? You think I’m the one who’s given up? You checked out of this relationship the day I checked into the hospital.”
“Enough with the psycho bullshit, Corey. I’m talking about the goddamn deer!”
A deep, mournful groan pierced the air.
“What’s that?”
Corey knew the answer to his question before Nick spoke a single word. The wounded creature wasn’t far away. Perhaps crouched behind a fallen jack pine, or sheltered in a shallow divot on the needle-laden ground contemplating a counter-attack with his antlers and a valiant fight in the waning moments of his life.
“Give me the handgun,” Nick demanded. “You shine the light on the deer, and I’ll finish him off. It’s too hard to shoot up close with the rifle.”
Nick abruptly lunged his hand toward Corey, with an angry gaze that chilled him more than the cold air seeping into his jacket. He stood, unmoved. If he succumbed to Nick’s demands, the deer would be found, and killed.
“No.” The tone of Corey’s reply was simultaneously defiant and defeated.
“Waaauuuuuuuhhhhhhh.”
The gruesome, carnal cry was now louder than before. The deer couldn’t be more than ten yards away. Suddenly Corey could see it in the distance. Urgency seized him.
“Fine,” Nick shouted. “I’ll shine the light, and you kill him. Your father gave you that handgun for exactly this purpose. Now, man up and use it.”
Corey’s mind raced between admitting defeat or standing his ground. Inside he was riven. The deer moaned again. Its hooves thrashed the dry, fallen leaves in a vain effort to stand. The buck writhed with desperation, then once again wailed in fear, twisting its antlered head, struggling to gain a footing to rise.
Corey closed his own eyes, as if that would stop the agonizing din. His hands remained deep in his pockets, clenching both the flashlight and the gun. An image appeared in his mind—one he didn’t expect. He saw his father clear as day, standing before him, a wry smirk across his lips. Behind closed eyelids, Corey stared back at the man who had given him life, who vainly tried raising him to be tough—like father like son. Corey continued his make-believe stare, then silently spoke words that turned Frank’s imaginary expression from satisfaction to fear. “You’re dead. Your time has passed, old man. You had your chance at redemption, at making things right. And you blew it, you son of a bitch. I hope you rot in hell.”
Corey opened his eyes. He could see the struggling deer, momentarily empathizing, mistaking it for a struggle of his own. Turning his head, the man standing in front of him for a moment looked just like Frank. He was barking like Frank too.
“Stop yelling. Please.”
Nick either didn’t hear him or chose not to. “Give me the damn light so you can kill the deer. Right now. He’s in pain.”
Nick closed in. Corey’s thoughts raced to extremes—surrender, resist. I love him, I hate him.
“No.”
His pounding heartbeat was louder than his voice. His hands reacted subconsciously, grasping rival solutions to this painful climax.
“For the last time, give me the goddamn flashlight and pull out your gun.”
Give up, man up. I love him, I hate him. Corey could barely breathe. All he could muster was a defiant nod of his head.
“Give me the fucking flashlight!”
Twigs snapped under Nick’s angry feet as he reached for Corey’s jacket.
Instinctively, Corey drew the flashlight from his left pocket and the Woodsman from his right. Nick grabbed the light from Corey’s hand, then rapped him on the side of his head and yelled, “It’s about goddamn time!”
Without another conscious thought, Corey pointed the shaking gun at Nick and shot him.
Reckoning
November 2013
1
Thursday
Corey watched Nick fall and saw blood spurt into the air. He was gasping and looking around, stunned, like what the fuck? A voice inside Corey’s head said shoot him again—finish the son of a bitch. Instead he turned and ran, the Colt Woodsman heavy in his hands.
A few minutes later he stopped to look back but heard nothing more than his own heavy breathing. The handgun was still in his palm, feeling as though its weight had doubled. He shoved the Colt into his coat pocket. Different choices flashed through Corey’s mind before he settled on one. He turned once again in the direction of the cabin, and he ran. He kept on going, bobbing and weaving between the trees. Pine branches whacked him in the face. Visible breath flowed from his mouth, snot from his nose. The temperature had dropped steadily since sunset, and a bitter wind slapped his face. His lungs barely held rapid, successive gulps of air, his body recoiling at each inhalation. Surrounded by darkness, he instinctively took a shortcut back toward the cabin, following familiar landmarks. He crossed the ravine and rushed past the deer stand he had abandoned hours earlier. He also passed the gravestone for his father’s dog, then emerged onto the lawn. Despite a renewed throbbing of his injured leg, he didn’t slow his pace. The sight of the cabin drew him forward.
With the heft of his shoulder he thrust the door open and headed straight toward the kitchen sink. He held his mouth open and gulped cold water directly from the faucet. Then he moved to the bedroom and threw his meager belongings into a duffel. There was no time to gather items of value for his mother as he’d promised. That lapse would remain his failure. He grabbed Nick’s keys from the table, then left the cabin, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
He got inside the Jeep and started up the reluctant engine. He pounded the dash with his fist, urging the defroster to function. Finally, the windshield cleared of rime, the heater drying up the accumulating moisture faster than Corey’s hot breath replenished it. He pulled the gear into drive, turned a tight 180 in the lawn, then sped out the driveway without looking back.
Five minutes down the road, the phone rang, and his back straightened. He glanced between the pavement and the passenger seat, then drew the device from his bag. The name of Nick’s sister flashed on the screen. He forcefully sent the call to voicemail. A minute later, he listened to her message.
“Corey! What’s going on? I got a call from Nick, but the reception sucked before the line went dead. I did make out ‘Corey’ and ‘shot.’ I called back, but it just rang and rang. I did get a text, showing a location north of Barron. What’s going on? I’m really worried. Dad and I are getting in the car to drive over there. We’ll call 911 along the way, just in case. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”
He had forgotten all about Thanksgiving dinner with the Parkers. But the voice message made him think that an ambulance or sheriff’s car might rush past him any minute. Corey noticed his seventy-five-mile-per-hour speed. What if he got pulled over and had to explain carrying a firearm with no permit? And where was he was rushing off to, alone on Thanksgiving night? He slowed to sixty. Questions and answers swirled in his mind. Did he actually shoot Nick? Yes. Did he leave Nick in the woods? Yes. Is it possible Nick might bleed to death? Hell, yes. Then Corey blurted out a question that he couldn’t answer. “Oh my God, what have I done?”
He began inhaling deeply, reciting a familiar meditation from his new age therapist.
Spirit of the world.
I belong to you.
He abandoned the chant after twenty repetitions, unable to slow the pace of his breath no matter how many mantras he uttered. He considered pulling over to regain his bearings. His eyes darted between the winding country road and the dimly lit screen of the phone still resting in his quivering hand. He scrolled through most of the alphabet until he found the name he wanted. He pushed the “send call” button with his thumb, then listened to a series of rings while drumming the steering wheel with the fingers of his other hand.
“Hey there—”
“Thank God you answered,” he interrupted.
“Corey? What’s wrong?”
Silence filled the call for several seconds as he choked back a flood of emotions. He managed to utter only one sentence before the dam burst.
“Billy, I need your help.”
Through sobs, he told a halting story of what had happened in the woods. Twice Billy asked him to slow down, to repeat what he’d just said. Corey heard a muffled side conversation through the phone. Then Larry’s voice replaced Billy’s. Corey explained things again, this time a bit slower and without tears. Larry didn’t interrupt, but frequently said, “uh huh.”
When his story caught up with the present, Larry spoke. Larry told him to call 911 and drive straight to the nearest police station.
“No.” Nick’s sister had already taken steps to save her brother, if that were even possible.
Larry then advised him to pull into the nearest gas station and wait for Larry and Billy to come get him. Once again Corey was defiant. He wanted to get far away from Barron County, and fast.
Larry’s final suggestion was for Corey to turn south and come home to Pepin. He could figure out the next steps with the people who cared about him most. Corey abruptly said goodbye and turned off his phone. He needed time to think about what he had done… and what he would do next. If Nick died in the woods, Corey would be arrested for murder. His life would be over. How would his mother bear such shame? He considered turning down a remote dirt road, pulling into the dark woods, and killing himself there amidst the trees. If he had already killed one man tonight, why not two? Like his father said years ago, it was the perfect place to hide a body. No one would ever find him.
He cracked the window to let in cool air. The feverish defroster not only cleared the front window, but also overheated the interior of the Jeep. The raw gust slapped his reddened face, reminding him that his feet still felt like ice. A sudden chill traversed him as he awkwardly shook his upper body. Alert from the chilly blast of night air, he summoned the empowering mantras that his therapist had indelibly engraved into his mind.
I am worthy of love. And I will claim it no matter what.
Universe, I belong to you. Deep in my soul, I am love divine.
After repeating those affirmations, a plan came into his mind. He would return to Minneapolis and gather a few things. From there, he’d drive someplace where no one could find him—for a while, at least. Whether Nick was alive or dead no longer mattered. What’s done was done.
He pulled into the garage just after seven, alighting from the Jeep, then rushing toward the old brick building where he had lived with Nick for the past ten years. His knee ached, stiff from his run through the woods and the two-hour drive. While riding the elevator to the top floor, he checked his phone for texts or missed calls. Then he remembered having shut off his phone after the frustrating conversation with Larry. He powered it back on.
As he waited for the elevator door to open, he prayed silently. Please, God, don’t let me bump into anyone. Not tonight. He petitioned an unfamiliar being. It was universalist meditation rather than prayer that typically brought him relief over the past year since his hospitalization. But now, he instinctively reverted to the method of his childhood, a petition to the Catholic God who had yet to grant a single one of his crisis-driven appeals.
He fumbled with his keys at the door. They all looked the same. He had a foreboding sense that someone was waiting on the other side of the threshold. He opened the door and stepped inside, then stumbled over the Hoover vacuum and fell to the tiled floor. He picked himself up, flipped on the hall light switch, and hustled toward the bedroom, intent on packing a few belongings and clean clothes though still unsure of his journey’s ultimate destination. He shoved shirts, pants, and underwear into a suitcase, not worrying about wrinkling them. He emptied his personal drawer into a cardboard box—listening as bracelets, eyewear, and coins from foreign lands fell with a thud. Somewhere down the road he’d sort out the true necessities from this pile of possessions. He did the same in the bath and hall closets, emptying shelves and drawers wholesale into another suitcase. He was careful not to take anything belonging to Nick. He wanted no reminders of his former lover.
