From a Dead Sleep (38 page)
Even in a best case scenario, I’d end up in witness relocation with Lisa by my side, condemned to live with a man she had no idea was a cheating, pathological liar, and now a murderer to boot. She’s had no part in any of this.
Valentino Greco weighs heavily on my conscience. The man was no saint, by any means, but did he deserve to die? I killed him for nothing. His death was pointless. As hard as I try to fight the crushing realization that I drained the life from his body—that he died at my hands—I’m unable to absolve myself of the dark, punishing guilt that hangs over me.
God, I’ve destroyed so many things. Lisa keeps entering my thoughts. Prior to today, it had gotten to the point where our marriage had become nothing but a burden, an obstacle that stood in the way of the clarity I felt whenever I’d fantasize about my future plans with Arianna. She was standing between me and a fresh start. I resented her. I had contempt for her. Now, I can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe it’s the epiphany that the same lifelessness I saw last night in Arianna’s eyes is what Lisa’s been seeing in mine for over a year. And now, I’ve placed a target on her back, too. If I’m to set her free from all of this, and set
myself
free from all of this, there’s only one thing left to do.
I glance down at my trench coat that spent the night in my brief bag. Its sharp and clean appearance is a stark contrast from Tony’s grimy, muddied jacket that I buried between some rocks upstream. It covers so much of my body that you’d never know I spent the night in the forest. I look like I’m headed to a job interview.
I sense movement out of the corner of my eye and observe a small white blur in the distance. It flickers through the gaps in the sporadically dense wilderness, unhindered by the terrain and moving quickly from east to west. A cloud of dust floats behind it and I realize that it’s an automobile along an apparent dirt road. The car doesn’t slow down when it reaches the path of the river. It glides on over to the other side. There must be a bridge ahead.
The theory is confirmed when I reach a small clearing along the riverside. The bridge is constructed primarily with wood but has two vertical, cement piers that rise up from the water to support it. There’s text branded along its lower wall. It reads “Meyers Bridge – CR 2.” I assume that the CR stands for County Road and I pull a ripped piece of newspaper from my bag that I discovered during the night. It had fallen in there along with other items from the top of the desk back at the house when I was in a hurry to grab Moretti’s ledger. I had used it as a piece of scratch paper during the meeting in town, earlier in the day. On the backside of the paper is a local map. On it, I see a County Road 1, but no 2. It must be farther south because this is the first bridge I’ve come to. That would make me close to the town of Winston if the promoters of the 7th Annual Beggar’s Basin Fish-Off were true to their representation.
It takes a desperate man to put such faith in the hands of an oversimplified map from a newspaper advertisement, but I believe it has served me well.
Another car comes into view through the trees, traveling in the opposite direction from the first one. It’s a dark shade of gray, and I dart for cover behind a tree with my chest pounding, aware that I no longer wear the cloak of night to help hide me. The car’s moving slowly but is not coming to a stop. I peer through a web of leaves and brush as it continues on its way, prowling along methodically like a steel shark in search of food. It’s Alvar’s Buick. Shit.
I’m exhausted. I no longer have the will or the strength to fight for my life, but I may not have to as they haven’t spotted me. They’re probably just canvassing the area, hoping to get lucky. Moretti’s Cadillac is most likely out somewhere on the same mission. The car’s lit headlights tell me that they’ve been at it for a while.
Exposing as little of my face as I can, I watch them slowly vanish behind a ridge to the east, in front of what I believe at first are fence posts. A concentrated stare divulges them as rural mailboxes. The disappearance of the car is so illusory that I half wonder if its presence was even real or if my exhausted mind was playing a cruel trick on me.
I check my watch. It’s nearly six a.m. I don’t have a lot of time to make this work. The event starts in just a few minutes.
I’d planned to be farther down the river by now, but it might actually work to my advantage if one of the locals later remembers seeing a gray Buick driving down County Road 2 in the early morning hours.
This
is the place to do it.
I dwelled hard during the night, and I’d succumbed to the notion of letting Lisa find out about me from the police during the investigation. She’ll be floored by the raw details. She’ll take it hard. Of this I have no doubt. But she’ll one day get past it and live the kind of life she’s always wanted. Of this, I also have no doubt.
The sight of the mailboxes gives me pause, though. I hadn’t expected such an opportunity to present itself. It’s as if I’m being sent a message from God himself to both make things right with Lisa and ensure Moretti gets what he deserves.
I sit down on a large, rounded rock that makes a convenient seat. I open my brief bag and spread it across my lap. I yank a couple sheets from the back of Moretti’s thick financial ledger and turn them over where they’re blank. In my haste, the only writing utensil I managed to sweep into the mouth of the bag was a red ballpoint pen. It doesn’t write at first, but some scribbling brings it to life.
One would think that an exhausted man with no soul left in his body would have trouble finding the words to write, but they come effortlessly. I tell Lisa nearly everything—who I really work for, the affair, what happened last night, and why she’ll never see me again.
I let her know that when my body is found, the authorities will look at Moretti. All kinds of people saw us together in Lakeland. Our entourage of slick Italians, a hot woman, a giant Mexican, and a blonde-haired pencil-pusher stuck out like a sore thumb. And if that’s not enough, the FBI in Vegas will receive a blueprint of my murder, along with details of Moretti’s numerous illegal activities on their doorstep in a couple of days. I tell her that she’ll be safe, and that Moretti won’t bother to seek retribution against the wife of a dead man who wronged him—especially if he thinks that man was murdered by another adversary.
I end the note with,
I’m sorry. I wish I was the man who you deserved.
I set the note along the forest floor and begin a second one—this one to the FBI office in Las Vegas who knows more about Moretti than pretty much anyone besides me. I quickly scribble a frantic note that I hope to look like it was written under distress, explaining to the Feds that I’m an associate of Moretti and witnessed him murder a woman at a mountain home near Lakeland. I tell them that I also saw them take a man named Kyle Kimble deep into the forest and return without him. I tell them that I fear for my life and am being watched closely by Moretti’s men, and that I hope they’ll find the enclosed information useful if something happens to me. I sign the letter, “Valentino Greco.”
One last mind-fuck to absolve Lisa from any act of revenge if things don’t work out this morning as planned.
I dig back into the leather bag and retrieve two legal-sized manila envelopes, one of which I had planned on using to send a signed contract to Moretti’s new partner. I write the Las Vegas address for the FBI on one of them, knowing it by heart from the identification I’ve carried around in my wallet for the past few years. The note and the ledger go inside. The other note goes in the envelope I address to the cottage. I write both as legibly as I can to ensure they get where they need to go. I secure an abundance of postage to each, using up all of the first class stamps that I have.
I seal the envelopes with long licks that are dry from thirst and stack them across a nearby stump, then pull the purple stocking cap from my head. I hold it to my face and inhale, absorbing Arianna’s scent as a reminder of what could have been. I shove it into my brief bag and begin raking away at a patch of wet dirt beside an overturned tree, using my fingers as picks to dislodge rocks and earth. Once I’ve created a hole satisfactory in size, I shove my bag into it and begin refilling the hole with dirt. When I realize that I’ve still got the page of newspaper in my coat pocket, I add it to the grave, pound it down under the loose dirt, and place a large rock over the disturbed terrain. I thought about just tossing the stuff in the river, but if it’s found, it will only prompt questions that will distract from the scenario I’ve created.
I wash off my hands in the river, then watchfully venture my way across the range toward the mailboxes, alternating my attention between the ridge to the east and the bridge. I keep low, ready to drop behind the tall grass that lines the dirt below me at a moment’s notice.
I reach the boxes and survey the road more closely now that I’ve got a clean view. Nothing. An American flag stems out from the lone mailbox that stands next to a yellow, plastic newspaper box labeled, “The Winston Beacon.” I was right. I’m in Winston.
I open the mailbox to find a couple of outgoing letters, which is good. The resident won’t check the box again until the mail’s been picked up. I add my mail to the pile.
A minute later, I stand alone at the center of the bridge with my hands in my pockets and my shoulders relaxed, feeling totally exposed and unhindered. I’ve spent the past several hours using the terrain of the forest for protection, but now it’s as if it’s releasing me from its guard and returning me to the outside world. My concentrated stare switches from one side of the road to the other, assuring that no one else is around to share in the moment. The sun is peaking up above the tranquil mountain range to my left and its greeting warms my face. Just a few hours ago, I wasn’t sure I’d see another sunrise. I’m thankful it’s such a brilliant one because it will be my last.
Beyond the mountains, lakes, and state lines is Lisa, probably tired after a restless sleep of wondering why I haven’t joined her yet. The world as she knew it is about to turn upside down, but she’ll pull through. Maybe she’ll even find a way to forgive me some day.
I peer down over the guardrail that stems up from the edge and gawk at the power of the rushing water below. Its force is awe-inspiring, and I’m confident it will take me where I need to go. It will also take mercy on me and finish me off if the bullet doesn’t.
Again I check for oncomers and see none, but not knowing how well the road is traveled, I decide that I best hurry along. I step over the railing and plop myself down on a post, taking a moment to gander at the dry blood along the palm of my hand—a mixture of mine in Arianna’s. I hope I see her soon, both of us now free of her master’s grip.
I can’t say for sure what’s in store for me, though. If there is an afterlife, what will mine be like having killed a man? My letter will fool the Feds, but it won’t fool the Man upstairs. I say a quick prayer and ask whoever’s listening for forgiveness before I reach into my back pocket for my wallet. I open it and am greeted by a photo of Lisa and me, both wearing stocking caps and standing together, cheek to cheek, in front of a snowy basin. Smiles light up both of our faces, as a reminder of happier times. Ironically, it was taken not all that many miles from where I sit now.
Things might have been so much different if I wasn’t me. I’m not a good person. I never have been.
I set down the gun along a post beside me, stand up, and balance myself along the edge of the bridge with my heels firmly planted on solid wood. The wallet goes back in my pocket that I button up to make sure there’s an easy way of identifying me after the screams of children downriver announce my arrival.
I retrieve the gun and raise it carefully up behind my head. My arms tremble, and I fight back the impulse to drop the piece from my hands and climb back to safety. The barrel of the gun is flat against the back of my head, centered where I’m certain it will do the job. I stiffen my body and lean forward like I’m about to engage in a leap of faith, trying to put as much distance between my head and the bridge as possible before I pull the trigger. I feel the spray of the rapids inviting me forward, and I squeeze my finger.
For the briefest of seconds, I find my sight unexpectedly glimpsing back up toward the bridge. It stalls on the peculiar image of a man with his hand reaching down to me. It fades when the biting cold water devours my last breath.
I hope the man was an angel.
“Y
ou’ve been keeping me very busy, Chief,” said Dr. Laura Venegas before diluting a reserved grin from her lips, quickly deeming it inappropriate.
The sun above them hung brightly, though the morning air was still cool down by the shaded bank of the reservoir.
She read no acknowledgment from Lumbergh that he’d even heard her remark. His tired eyes from a sleepless, highly stressful night were transfixed on the contents of the yellow, partially transparent body bag that was sprawled out along the padded stretcher propped up between them at the roped-off crime scene. The corpse inside was barely recognizable from the picture in the corner of the well-preserved driver’s license that the chief held in his gloved hand. The wad of gum trapped in Lumbergh’s mouth hadn’t been gnawed from the moment he’d opened the dead man’s wallet handed to him by the doctor’s assistant.
Venegas, the county medical examiner, tugged at the zipper, sealing off a short, open section at the top.
“Not by choice, I assure you,” replied Lumbergh after a delay long enough that Venegas had nearly forgotten its reference.
From upside down, she glanced at the photo of the thin, blonde-haired man staring straight ahead and asked Lumbergh who he was.
His eyes lifted to meet hers, displaying a level of seriousness that unsettled her. “His name is Kyle Kimble. He appears to work for the Las Vegas branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. Which means, I probably won’t be working this case by the end of the day.”
