I Was Here(94)
“I appreciate that, but I need to talk to him myself.”
“So you want me to lurk in the bushes?” He doesn’t seem pleased with this option.
“Bradford is cagey. If he so much as suspects that anyone is with me, there’s no way he’ll talk to me.” It isn’t that I’m not frightened of Bradford; I am. But it needs to be just me in there. “I want you to wait for me here.”
“Here?” Ben is incredulous.
“Here.” I am pleading.
“So I was just the ride, is that it?”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Then why am I here?”
Because I need you. That’s the truth. And it’s almost as frightening as what awaits me down the road. But that’s not what I tell Ben. “Because you’re wrapped up in this too.”
Recoil.
“So that’s what this is about?” His voice is hard, flat, angry, like the day he came for the T-shirt. “In that case, there’s no fucking way I’m letting you go see this guy. I already have Meg’s death on my conscience. I’m not adding yours to the pile.”
“He’s not going to kill me.”
“Why not? He killed Meg. Isn’t that what you’ve been saying all along?”
“Yeah, but not like that. He’s not going to pull a knife on me or anything.”
“How the hell do you know that? How do you know he doesn’t have an arsenal of shotguns? How do you know the suicide shit isn’t some side project? How do you know he doesn’t have a dozen bodies buried in the backyard?”
Because Bradford Smith uses a different type of weapon, and leaves you to do the dirty work yourself. “I just know,” I say quietly.
“You know what, Cody? You don’t know shit.”
I don’t know shit? I look at Ben and it’s like: Who the hell are you? I know where you came from too. We crawl in the same muck, Ben McCallister. I’m angry now. But that’s good. Angry is better than scared.
“Wait for me here,” I say.
“No way. You want to be like your friend and walk right into a trap? I’m telling you: don’t. I’m telling you, this guy is dangerous, and going to see him is a fucked-up idea. I never warned Meg, but I’m warning you. That’s the difference between you and me: I learn from my mistakes.”
“Ben, the difference between you and me would fill up a book.” I’m not sure how these words can feel so good and so false at the same time.
Ben gives me one last look, shakes his head, and then he walks away.
x x x
There’s no time to contemplate Ben’s desertion, which I think I’ve been expecting all along. It’s just me and Bradford. As it needs to be.
He lives in Unit J in a completely nondescript complex. White door. Levolor shades in the window. I can’t see inside. At the unit next door, a couple is out on the patio, drinking beer. They don’t so much as look at me, but it’s reassuring, knowing they’re there.
I ring the bell.
The man who answers has white hair and a beard. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and an oversize Hawaiian-print shirt that hangs over his gut. He’s grasping a large sweating glass in his hand, full to the top, the ice not yet melted. I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed. Because this can’t be him. This guy looks like a sloppy Santa Claus.