Dark Debts (19 page)

I would have.

At Cathy's trailer later, in the early hours before dawn, holding on to her like a drowning man clinging to a buoy.

“Jack, you didn't kill the guy.”

“But I would have.”

“You don't know that.”

He knew it. Knew it then, knew it now. And every minute in between, even though he rarely let himself think about it head-on. He couldn't. It was excruciating. That's what people never realized—what you could never explain to the “they're just animals” crowd. The pain of hurting someone that way. (And the pain that made you
want
to.) He could only imagine what that pain would be like if he'd actually killed the guy . . .

Was that what had happened to Tallen? Had something snapped inside him and called forth some uncontrollable rage? How long could such a thing last? Long enough, after the initial impulse, for Tallen to find the gun, head to Alabama (a two-hour drive even if he was going ninety), park the car, go into the church? (Why a church? And why
that
church, as opposed to all the others he must have driven past? They didn't even
know
any Catholics.) Long enough to climb the stairs to the balcony and (from what witnesses had described) sit there waiting for the right moment—when everyone stood up to sing, unwittingly lining themselves up like beer cans on a fence rail? (Had Tallen specifically waited for them to sing “Joy to the World”? Something in that logic made a strange kind of sense to Jack—not that any of it made any
real
sense.)

If he'd been in some kind of wild fury, why wouldn't he have opened fire on the local Dairy Queen? Or a local church, if it had to be a church? It was Christmas Eve, it wasn't like he had to go far to find a church that was holding services. Why did he drive almost two hundred miles? Was he trying to outrun it somehow, whatever “it” was? Then why did he give up?

No, it wasn't possible. No one could have sustained a blind rage for that length of time. He had to have known what he was doing. Still, that wasn't the way Tallen had described it, the one time they'd talked about it.

Jack had spent the entire year trying to get Tallen to open up about it. The only thing Tallen would ever say was “I'll tell you someday. I don't want to talk about it now.” Finally, the night before Tallen's execution, Jack had pressed the point.

“Tal, I need to know what happened.”

“No, you don't. How's that gonna change anything?”

“I don't want to spend my life wondering.”

“Then don't.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, since when is there something that you can't tell me?”

“Since last Christmas Eve.”

“Why? Do you think it would change how I feel about you?”

“I just don't see the point.”

“The point is that I'm the one who's gonna have to live with this for the rest of my life, so at least do me the courtesy of telling me what it is that I'm living with!”

Tallen had been quiet for a long time, staring at the floor. Then, finally, he'd sighed—a long sigh, as if he were exhaling something more than air. The macho façade had melted away before Jack's eyes, and when Tallen looked up, Jack had seen a flash of the guy he used to know.

“Okay. If I tell you this, you'd better swear to me you're not gonna tell the ACLU or the
Atlanta Constitution
or anybody else. You don't even tell Mom.”

“All right. I swear.”

“I haven't told you because . . . I don't remember.”

“What do you mean?”

”I don't remember. Driving there, going into the church, any of it. I don't even know where I got the damned gun.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, it's a joke. Of course I'm serious. I remember calling Mom that night, looking for you. She said you had to work and you wouldn't get there until after midnight. Cam was there and the two of them were going out to eat, did I want to come? I said yes, just because I knew how much it would piss Cam off. I remember getting into the car and starting to drive to the house. The next thing I remember, I was lying in the church parking lot with a cop pushing my face into the gravel with one hand and pointing a gun at me with the other, saying if I moved, he'd blow me to Hell where I belonged.”

“Tallen . . . were you . . .”

“No, I wasn't on anything. And you know I'd tell you if I was.”

“Did you tell any of this to the shrink?”

“No.”

“Your lawyer?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not? Are you crazy? It might have made a difference.”

“I know.”

Their eyes had locked, and Tallen hadn't taken it any further. He didn't have to. Jack knew. Now it made sense, why Tallen had been so insistent about dropping all his appeals. Tallen didn't want to live, because he didn't want to live with what he had done. Especially since he had no memory of it, because he'd never be able to understand it, and it would never get any easier. Somehow, all of that was conveyed in the look that passed between them. No more was ever said about the crime. They'd spent the rest of their time together reliving some of their escapades, and talking about Lucy and what Jack was going to do about her, and going over the disposition of Tallen's few worldly goods.

Jack had never planned to stop on the way home. He certainly hadn't planned to stop at a bar. He'd made up his mind he wasn't going to drink until after Tallen was dead. But he had underestimated how hard it was going to be to leave Tallen. (
“Tell Mom . . . just tell her I love her. Tell Cam to take care of himself, not that he won't anyway. And, you . . . you just”—his voice cracking—“. . . God, Jack . . .” 
) That was as far as Tallen could get—as close as he could come to saying good-bye to Jack. The guards had let Tallen hug Jack. Hadn't even told him when to stop. Jack had prayed that they would. It was the most agonizing decision he'd ever made: at what moment to let go of his brother, knowing he'd never touch him—never see him—again. When he'd finally pulled himself away, all he could do was look Tallen in the eye and nod. If he'd tried to say anything, he would have started sobbing and embarrassed them both. He'd managed to mouth a silent “I love you, Tal,” and then turned and walked away without looking back.

He'd underestimated how hard that was going to be, even though he'd expected it to be devastating. He hadn't thought about having to walk through that parking lot, through the carnival of TV news crews and cameras and weeping protesters and festive revelers. Tailgate parties. High school kids with six-packs and buckets of fried chicken. They'd come with
dates
, for Christ's sake.

“So, we could go to a movie, or we could go over to Huntsville and have a picnic while they kill that guy.”

One comedian was dressed like the Grim Reaper and carried a handmade sign that said
BURN, BABY, BURN
, with a lightning bolt through it and a happy face in the corner. By the time Jack somehow made it to his car and got out of there (after almost coldcocking a reporter who wouldn't stop shoving a microphone in his face), he'd been in such agony, he couldn't think about anything
but
finding a bar and getting drunk as fast as he could.

Maybe if he hadn't been so upset by the last-minute knowledge that Tallen might have saved himself, but chose not to . . . Maybe if he'd been mentally prepared for the scene in the parking lot . . . Maybe if the jerk in the bar had shot his mouth off
before
Jack had time to get so drunk . . . Maybe if even one element of it had happened differently . . . he might be back at the hotel right now, asleep in Randa's arms.

But it did happen.

Ever since that night, he'd asked himself how much difference there was between his deed and Tallen's. The difference was one of degree and circumstance. Fundamentally, they were the same. Jack had wanted to kill the guy. Had
tried
to. Someone had stopped him; no one had stopped Tallen. Jack was alive and free because a couple of redneck truck drivers had pried him off his victim. But what was the difference between what was in his heart and what was in Tallen's?

Precious little.

Could he live the rest of his life without acting on it again? He'd fought it all these years with rigid control, convinced that the only way to keep from doing something horrible was to keep from doing anything. Cathy had been right; he did sit on a volcano of rage, all the time. What would happen if his mind slipped into someplace where he wasn't aware of the danger?

You know what would happen.

I don't know for sure.

If Cam couldn't escape it, what makes you think you can?

Jesus. Cam. He'd almost forgotten. When Randa had told him about Cam and the liquor store, he'd immediately written it off as a case of mistaken identity and “his brother was a criminal so he must be, too.” But what if it wasn't? What if Cam, who didn't even cheat on his income taxes, really did kill someone? Was it possible?

Look at the facts. Your father probably killed Ethan. He could have killed other people you don't know about, given all the time he spent away from the house. Tallen went nuts and killed five people. Now Cam's friends say he went nuts, the cops say he killed someone. What does logic say will happen next?

It was true. Everyone in his family went insane, sooner or later. The men went insane and killed people. Whether it made sense or not, it was undeniably the pattern.

Up ahead, through the heavy morning fog, he saw the dark stairwell of the MARTA entrance, beckoning him underground. He walked faster, eager to accept the offer. He thought of Randa waking up in the hotel room to find him gone. He hoped she'd be too angry to be hurt. He couldn't stand the thought of causing her pain. Still, it was better than what he might cause her if he stayed.

He would return to his life, just the way it was. Working, eating, sleeping, reading. No human contact. A danger to no one but himself, and free from any ridiculous hope for the future.

You can't hide from it forever.

No, probably not. But he'd hide as long as he could. And if he took anyone down with him in the end, it wasn't going to be Randa.

If you had the guts to kill yourself, you wouldn't have to worry about taking anyone down with you.

It was true. He wasn't sure whether it was because he was gutless (
yes, you chickenshit coward
) or just that he wasn't convinced it was the only answer.

When
will
you be convinced? When you're standing next to a corpse?

Shut up! Just shut the hell up! I need time to think.

You mean rationalize.

He reached the stairs and descended, stopping at a machine to buy a token. In his coat and tie, he blended in easily among the morning commuters. He could be any one of them—an accountant, a salesman, a computer programmer—on his way to the same world as everyone else.

But you're not one of them.

No, he wasn't. He knew that much. He just wasn't sure how far it went in the other direction.

Don't kid yourself. You know.

For a fleeting moment, the voice in his head was Randa's. He felt her hand on his face, heard her whispering,
“It's okay.”

But it wasn't okay. It would never be okay.

The train was coming. He could hear the wind whistling through the tunnel. It slid into view and squealed to a halt. The doors hissed open and Jack climbed on board, flowing with the sea of humanity. He sat and waited for the train to move. Away from her.

“The doors are about to close . . .”

The metallic warning evaporated into the air above the indifferent commuters; the doors closed and the train pulled out.

Jack stared blankly at the people surrounding him. The fact that the train was packed was a mocking irony—a cruel wink from a vindictive God. Wherever Jack was headed, he was going alone.

Look around: there is someone else, always someone else.

What he breathes is your suffocation,

what he eats is your hunger.

Dying, he takes with him the purest half of your own death.

—Rosario Castellanos, from “The Other”

“
F
ather, can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Michael shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.” He offered the best smile he could muster. The plump storm-trooper-with-a-heart-of-gold nurse had been offering him coffee about every thirty minutes. He almost never wore the collar for exactly this reason: it made people so solicitous he wanted to strangle them. He'd thought about accepting the coffee just to make her stop asking, but he really didn't want it, and she seemed to be the type who would check to see if he was drinking it and give him grief if he wasn't. She gave up easily this time and headed back to her station. He breathed a small sigh of relief. All he wanted was to be left alone with his thoughts.

He looked at the clock. His grandfather had been in the operating room for two and a half hours now. The doctor had said it would be between five and eight. Michael wondered how it could take so long just to remove one organ. The doctor had explained it all in a vocabulary that meant nothing to Michael, along with: