Liam’s mind sped forward a hundred times faster than he could think, but he came up with no connection to him or to what had transpired ten months before. “Yes?” he answered.
There was a pause, a familiar one. Familiar since he’d paused the same way dozens of times in the last eight years.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother, Allen, and his wife were the victims of a home invasion last night. They did not survive.”
The icy tip of anticipation plunged into his chest fully, and he leaned back on the counter behind him. He let the words roll over him, let them sink in like water on dry soil. His brother was dead, and so was Suzie. He squeezed his eyes shut, a third shoe dropping, one he didn’t know existed until then.
“Mr. Dempsey? Are you there?”
Liam gritted his teeth and nodded. “Yeah, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Details aren’t entirely solid at this point, but from what we know, an individual or individuals entered your brother’s home last night and murdered both your brother and his wife. We have several leads already, and I assure you that we will find those responsible for your loss. I’m very sorry.”
Liam heard concern in the man’s voice, but something else also: impatience. The agent on the other end of the line wanted, needed, to get off the phone. This wasn’t his specialty, and he wanted to be done with it. So did Liam.
“Thank you. I’ll need a few hours to get some things in order, and then I can be down there.”
“That’s perfectly fine, sir. If you need to get in touch with me before then, please don’t hesitate to call.” Phelps rattled off a number that Liam tried to hold on to and then let slide away beneath the crushing feeling on the top of his head. He was in the jaws of a massive vise, the handle turning slowly but surely, the steel around him unforgiving as it closed in.
The agent said something else, but Liam didn’t catch it. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I just said that you can take as much time as you need.”
“Thank you,” Liam said, and stretched his arm out to hang up the phone. The cradle didn’t grab the earpiece when he let go, and it fell to the floor and exploded into three separate pieces. He stared at the rechargeable battery, with its electrical tail sprouting from its casing, and without thinking about it, he picked it up and hurled it as hard as he could into the living room. It hit something that fell over with a crash, but he didn’t notice as he slid to the floor and closed his eyes to the sunshine of the young day.
The Chevy’s tires growled as Liam turned left and headed southeast, away from the open country he was used to. The cab was quiet, with only the hiss of air traveling around the vehicle and his measured breaths. He glanced at the stereo and studied it for a moment, like it was an artifact from another planet. He considered turning it on just to drown out the quiet and his thoughts, but dismissed it. Music wouldn’t hold back the churnings of his mind. Songs didn’t mean anything to him anymore. What was the last song he’d heard? He knew the question was of no importance, but for some reason it felt criminal not to remember. Another question, the important one, finally shouldered its way to the front of his thoughts, and he clenched his jaw. When was the last time he’d seen Allen?
His stomach surged upward for the umpteenth time, and he swallowed the taste of bile on the back of his tongue. The song his father used to sing began to play on a loop inside his head, the words rounded off into slurred vowels and consonants, but the melody so sad and clear it made the corners of his eyes sting. He shrugged his shoulders and brought the travel mug to his lips, letting the cooling coffee trace a path down his throat.
The truck went over a bump in the road, and he heard his bag shift behind him. He hadn’t really contemplated the things that were in the duffel bag; the time after the phone call was indistinct, hazy with hurried motions and punctuated by several pauses when he merely stared at the wall for minutes on end. He knew there were some clothes, his toothbrush, and his iPad in there.
And the gun.
He fidgeted with a frayed piece of the steering wheel cover and tried to discern what made him reach onto the top shelf and feel with a hand until his fingers met the cold, dusty steel. He hadn’t shot the Sig in well over a year, but without thinking, he’d snapped the magazine free, checked the rounds therein, slammed it home, and placed the SP2022 at the bottom of the bag, beneath a pair of worn jeans.
The miles became meaningless as he drove, landscape shifting without recognition outside the windows. The flat plains and fields filled with farmers’ crops became lined with encroaching trees, their arms flush with flags of green leaves. The land began to roll up and down, cresting on hills that overlooked the occasional stream or river winding through the earth like the track of some great serpent long extinct. The ground became rockier, the faces of stones peeking from beneath shaggy overgrowths of reeds and grass on the edges of the road.