Gun Church (34 page)

“I don’t need your worry.” He shoved me down and stamped his feet on the boardwalk. “This wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out.”

“How were they supposed to be?” I asked, pushing myself up onto my knees.

“Not like this. You’re supposed to understand about how smart I’ve been and be happy and thank me for everything I’ve done for you.” More tears, but this time he was sobbing, loudly. “You’re … disappointing me … Kip.”

I almost told him to go fuck himself, but Renee’s warning about the danger to Amy, of disappointing Jim, was never far from my mind. “But I do see, I swear,” I said, if not very convincingly.

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t fucking lie! I couldn’t take that. I’ve killed for you. I can kill to hurt you too.”

“Stop it!”

His chest was heaving and he was raging. He was on me before I could move, threading his hands around my jacket lapels and pulling me to my feet.

“Stop it? I’m just getting started. Think about the weekend Haskell Brown died. Remember, I borrowed your car to see—”

“—a girl who went away to college.”

“That’s right, Kip. Too bad that wasn’t the truth, but I couldn’t tell you what I was doing because you would probably have stopped me.”

“Stopped you. Stopped you from what?” I asked although in my belly I knew what he was going to say.

“I wasn’t visiting any girl. I was up here doing what had to be done, getting rid of the one thing standing in our way: Haskell Brown. I enjoyed beating the shit out of that guy. He kept asking me why I was doing it. He kept asking until I broke his jaw. You should have seen what he looked like before I put a hole in him.”

“Bullshit!”

“The truth. Did you ever bother checking what kind of gun it was that killed him? You didn’t check because you didn’t want to know, did you? You still don’t want to know, but I’m going to tell you. It was a .25 Beretta and your fingerprints are all over it. Don’t worry. I got it tucked away in a nice plastic bag for safekeeping. No one will ever have to see it unless you get some stupid ideas about going to the police. And there’s a record of your car’s trip from Brixton to New York and back. I bet you didn’t know all the states along the East Coast accept our state’s electronic toll pass. So it would be real stupid for you to go to the police. I used all this to get Renee to let me read your book, to help me. She really loves you and would do just about anything not to have me turn the evidence over. I mean anything.”

“Let go of me,” I screamed, trying to break his grasp. “Let me go!”

“Not until I’m done.”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Fuck you!”

“Fuck me? No, Kip, you’re the one who’s fucked. You’re the one with all the blood on his hands. You grabbed Frank’s gun. Haskell Brown, he’d still be alive if you didn’t want to publish again so bad. And poor Lance Vaughn Mabry … I forget now, did you plant that idea in my head or did I plant it in yours?” Jim was no longer crying and the rage had calmed to an unsettling whisper. “I guess that was your idea. You’re full of good ideas.”

“You’re telling me you killed that kid?”

“Your books are the blueprints. Don’t you see, we’re only the instruments in a bigger plan. It took me some time to understand it.”

“You killed Mabry?”

“Just like in
Gun Church
. Renee dressed in a black wig, short skirt, and real high heels. I waited outside the bar in a stolen van. When they came out, I followed them to where I told Renee to take him. I shot him right through the windshield.”

“Renee wouldn’t do that,” I said, struggling to breathe against Jim’s fists tightening around my collar.

“You’re not listening to me, Kip. I told you, she had to do it to save you. She knew I had the Beretta with your prints on it. I made her choose between you or some kid she didn’t even know. ”

“Fuck you!”

That didn’t go over well. He let go of my lapel with one hand and buried his fist in my gut. Gasping for breath, I collapsed. I hugged my belly, my cheek flush against the wet boardwalk planks.

“Look what you made me do! Look what you made me do!
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck
. I don’t want to hurt you, Kip.” He sat down next to me, arms around his knees, rocking. “I saved your life. Don’t make me take it away.”

I ignored that and the pain. “You’re lying. Renee was visiting her family upstate the weekend that kid was murdered.” My voice was strained and cracking. “She was visiting her brother Jake back from Afghanistan.”

“She doesn’t have a brother Jake or any kind of brother, and she’s not from upstate.”

I struggled to my knees for a second time. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that Stan Petrovic isn’t dead and buried.”

There was that smile again. “No, he’s dead all right. I made sure of that. I guess I sort of neglected to put live rounds in his gun. I set most of it up, but you played your part without even realizing it. Man, Kip, when you threatened to kill Stan in front of folks at the hardware store, you made things that much easier for me. Be tough for you to explain away him turning up dead, shot by your gun after threatening him. Like I said, Stan’s dead. On the other hand, he’s not exactly buried.”

The world wobbled beneath me as I willed myself to my feet. My ability to function since killing Stan had been based on the belief that Jim, Renee, and the rest of the people in the chapel had acted honorably, that they had done as promised, burying Stan’s body in a place in the woods somewhere he would never be found. Now I couldn’t be sure of anything.

“You better start treating me with the respect I deserve,” Jim said, getting right up in my face, his breath stinking of vomit and beer. “And you better not think about going to the police.”

I walked over to the beachside railing to help keep me upright. He followed close behind.

“Go to the police! With what, some cockamamie story you dreamed up? They would think I was the crazy one.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Jim, I don’t know what you’re getting out of this or what you want. Is it money, do you want some money?”

He was horrified, hurt. “Money? You think I want your money?”

“Then what?”

“I told you.”

“What, my love and respect? You think stalking me, lying to me, hitting me, and threatening me is the way to go about earning it? You got some funny ideas about love and respect.”

“Don’t say that! Don’t say that!”

“Or what, you’re going stomp your feet some more? Grow up, kid, and stay the hell away from me.” My head spinning, I pushed off the rail and made for the staircase to the street.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

“I wasn’t lying,” he called after me. “Don’t make me prove it to you.”

“Grow up, kid,” I repeated, not looking back.

“I’ll prove it to you.”

Now I turned and shouted at him across what was almost the entire width of the boardwalk. “Whatever game you’re playing at, you leave Amy and Renee out of it. This is about you and me.”

“My game,” he said. “My rules.”

“They’ve always been just your rules, haven’t they, Jim? All that stuff about how things were supposed to go in the chapel, that was a load of crap. I know a narcissist when I see one and I’m looking at one right now. This isn’t about me. It’s about you.”

“I didn’t wound Ralph for me, Kip.”

“Ralph? Who’s Ralph?”

“The guy from the grounds crew at school. I clipped him in the arm to get a rise out of you. I wanted to see how you would react to blood, to see what you’d do with McGuinn in
Gun Church
after that. Ralph was pretty mad at me for that. I had to kill him too, you know, before he could talk to you.”

“Stop it, Jim. Just stop this, whatever this is, now.”

“Too late for that. Too much blood spilled already to stop. Watch for signs, Kip, and you’ll see clear enough what this is. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, he turned his back on me. He walked down the boardwalk toward Coney Island until his figure was swallowed by the fog. I stood there, frozen. My hands were shaking, but not from the cold.

Three days later and nothing. No headlines, no obits, no proof that Jim Trimble’s twisted boardwalk tale was anything more than a fantasy narrative born of desperation. Poor Jim, I thought, so damaged by the Colonel, so in need of affection and approval he was willing to have me as a surrogate father. Yet, as bad as I felt for Jim, I no longer wanted any part of him. Even if every word he had said was utter crap, there was stuff he’d done, words spoken that could not be taken back. I wondered if he was in a motel room somewhere trying to figure out how he might unscramble the eggs. Maybe he was in his old pickup, driving back home to Brixton. I hoped Renee had found her way clear of him. There had been no sign of her either. Whether his story was real or imagined, the fact that he could take very profound tragedy and pain and weave it into such a warped chain of events scared the shit out of me. He needed help, a lot of help, but he wasn’t going to get it from me.

To Amy’s credit, she’d been pretty understanding about my disappearing act at the Peking Brasserie, but there was no getting around telling her about Renee. I didn’t go into too much detail over the phone and I was careful to avoid the big picture. There was no need to worry her unnecessarily. It was bad enough that Jim had me looking over my shoulder. I didn’t see the point in infecting Amy with my paranoia and nagging fears. Still, I was pretty sure Jim had broken into her loft and I wasn’t prepared to roll the dice with her life. The morning after I walked down the boardwalk steps, I asked Meg to find me someone to keep an eye on Amy.

“What is this, Kip, stalking by proxy?”

“I wish I had the time to explain the irony of what you just said, but I don’t. It’s not about that. Please, just do it.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Someone with a carry permit who can handle himself, but someone who won’t stick out in a crowd. He’s meant to be insurance, not a deterrent. I don’t want Amy or anyone else to know he’s there.”

There was a pensive silence coming from Meg’s end of the line. Then she gave voice to her worries, “Are these those gun nuts from—”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on? Is Amy really in danger?”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“Why not call the NYPD?”

“No cops, Meg! No cops.”

“All right. Don’t bite my head off. You realize this kind of thing can get very expensive.”

“Do it, Donovan. Just do it, please?”

“Okay.”

I didn’t give her time to ask more questions I wasn’t going to answer anyway, so I clicked off. Within two hours of my call to Meg, I received a call from Tom McDonald, a retired NYPD detective who ran a private security firm. He explained that when they were on the NYPD, he and his team had helped safeguard everyone from the mayor of New York to the president of the United States and that they were expert at blending into the background if that was what the client required. That was exactly what I required. I gave him accurate descriptions of Jim and Renee, and Jim’s truck. I gave him all I thought I knew about them. He said he already had all the information on Amy he needed to begin and promised that he and his relief, another retired detective, would give me regular phone updates.

He asked one last question. “You wanna tell me anything that maybe you didn’t mention before?”

“They’re both experts with guns.”

“Hitting paper targets don’t make you an expert.”

“I’m not talking about paper targets, Mr. McDonald.”

“Ex-military, huh?” he asked, his voice suddenly more serious.

“Something like that,” I said.

“Good thing you told me, but don’t worry about it. My partner, Tony Dee and me, we got her back. Nothing’s gonna happen to your ex-wife on our watch.”

“She can’t know you’re there.”

“We know. Believe me, we’ll fade so far into the background, no one’ll know we’re there unless they have to.”

In spite of McDonald’s reassurances and regular updates, I didn’t sleep much that night or the following night. It was far more unnerving not knowing how much, if any, of what Jim had said was reality based. Not knowing made it really difficult to determine what else I could do to protect Amy; but even if I could have been one hundred percent sure of Amy’s safety, I had plenty to keep my nights sleepless. There was no avoiding the truth of Jim’s narrative even if he had nothing to do with most of it. Frank Vuchovich and Haskell Brown’s deaths were facts. My rebirth as a writer and as a man had come at the price of blood, a lot of blood, and, so far, none of it mine.

It was all pretty exhausting and I got to the point where not sleeping was no longer an option. I could feel my body shutting down, but stubbornly hanging on to wakefulness. I just needed something to dull the edge of my own mania. There was nothing in my apartment to drink. I considered going downstairs and paying a visit to Isaac’s daughter. For me, nothing took the edge off quite like fucking, but the Kipster was still dead and using a woman that way was his MO, not mine. Then I remembered the painkillers the ER doctor had prescribed for my broken ribs. I snapped one of the two remaining pills in half and swallowed it dry. I don’t know when the sun was supposed to set on the rest of the world, but it set on me pretty damned quickly.

I jackknifed up in bed, eyelids snapping open like cartoon window shades, my clothes soaked through with cold sweat. The last time I woke up in a cold sweat, I was in detox. Christ, it was so fucking clear to me in my sleep that I couldn’t understand how I hadn’t seen it before. I had the proof or, hopefully, the disproof of Jim’s version of events right there in the apartment with me.

The clock read 3:02
A.M.
when I stepped onto the bare wooden floors and stood, stretching the knots out of my muscles. The room was utterly dark and still, but not quiet. The traffic noise from Coney Island Avenue and Ocean Parkway was like the buzzing of a sleepy hive and with the Avenue H subway station only two blocks away, the
cha-chum cha-chum
,
cha-chum cha-chum
of passing subway wheels was the rhythm of the night. Transfixed by the sounds, I let the darkness wash over me.