A Welcome Grave

“I wish he’d gone to the cops,” Doran said. “Could’ve changed some things.”

I looked at him, saw his face lined with shadows. “Let me out of the van, and you take over. Only don’t go to see Brooks. Go north, south, west, wherever. But don’t go there, Doran. It won’t end well.”

“Just shut up, Perry.”

For a while neither of us spoke. We were the only car on the road, nobody coming in the opposite direction, just us in that musty old van listening to the wind and the tires on the pavement.

“There was a time,” Doran said, “right before Monica got killed and I got arrested, that I about had my shit together. Be the first to admit it had been a long time coming, but, man, I was getting it together. Cutting back on the booze, cutting back on the pot, working steady hours, honest hours. It was that place in Geneva that did it, you know? Out there with the trees. Not even an hour from where I grew up, but, damn, it was good to be out of the city. I liked those trees. I was happy out there. Had a savings account, even. Putting some dollars in there when I could, thinking about upgrading to a better place after winter.”

I saw it in my mind: a trailer in the woods, tall trees surrounding it. I saw that, and then I saw Alex Jefferson’s sprawling house by the country club, Paul Brooks’s winery and estate just off the lake.

“I was doing all right,” Doran continued, “and Monica, she was good for me. Knew it wouldn’t last, she and I both knew that, but she was good for me. Her friends and her parents didn’t like me, but they didn’t know me, either. All kinds of rumors going around about me being violent and shit, but that was done. That was in the past, and Monica got it. Nobody else did, maybe, but she got it. When we split up, I remember sitting outside that night and smoking a cigarette and thinking that I was going to be clean by spring. I mean, really living solid. I’d have a new place by then, be done with the drugs and the drinking and the rest of it. I was close. All I had to do was make it through winter.”

His voice changed, went soft and almost musical. “Just make it through winter.”

We reached a four-way stop, and Doran motioned for me to go right, toward the winery. The wind picked up and shook water from the trees.

“You had to know somebody was setting you up,” I said. “Why take the plea?”

“Because someone had set me up, Perry. They’d done it well, too. It’s one thing to fight a charge when you’re sure of the facts, but I wasn’t anymore. I didn’t know what the hell they’d find, and that attorney, that paid-off prick, he was in my ear every damn day telling me I’d better think about the plea. Said I could always appeal, get out early, but that I was done if we did a trial in that county. Case was too big, my reputation too bad, I had no chance. Told me he couldn’t get a new venue, either. So take the plea and then think about an appeal, he said. The safe bet.”

“Did you have any ideas about who set you up?” I said. “Just blame the cops?”

“Had a million ideas, and none of them were close. I thought the cops were a part of it, but who killed her? At first I wondered about her father. He never liked me. But he never seemed like a psychotic, either. So why me? Who picked Andy Doran for the fall? I thought about that every day and every night and never got close. You know I honestly considered the Army? Can you believe that shit? I’d been kicked out, and I thought, hell, maybe those boys take things more personally than you realized. That’s how far off I was.”

“You didn’t know Paul Brooks?”

“Never seen the man. Still haven’t. We’re about to fix that.”

“I’ll get you some money, Doran. Somehow. Get you a nice amount of cash, and then you take off. Go wherever you can go and just fade out. Forget Brooks. Joe and I will see that he goes down. You can watch it on TV, read about it in the papers, from someplace safe and far away.”

Doran’s face was turned away from me, staring out at the dark countryside. “You were a cop. You’ve been in some prisons.”

“Yeah. Several times.”

He nodded. “Then you know what they feel like.”

I thought of the hollow sound the door had made banging shut and locked behind me in the jail in Indiana, the way it had reminded me of a submarine hatch, that sense of finality.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got an idea.”

“And you know what goes on in there, when those doors close.”

I didn’t answer that one.

He turned back to face me. “I did five years inside, Perry. Something like that? You don’t forgive it, you don’t forget it, you don’t walk away from it. You take it back in blood.”

43

Brooks was home. That was obvious as soon as we cleared the pines and the illuminated windows of his big log home became visible. There were no cars in the driveway. I parked in front of the garage, watching the house and wondering if Brooks had seen us arrive or if he’d missed us entirely and was sitting there in front of his television feeling at peace with the world, any memory of murder cast aside.

“Get out,” Doran said, opening his own door. I got out and stood beside the van as Doran came around and slid the back door open. He looked up the drive and then back at me. “Get him up. He’s coming in, too.”

I reached in the van while Doran held the gun at my back, got my hands under Gaglionci’s arms, and lifted him clear of the seat. He got his feet down and stood under his own power, breathing hard, staring at Doran.

“We could be counting money right now,” he said. “Instead you’re—”

He stopped talking when Doran laid the barrel of the gun against his lips.

We walked up to the house, Doran a half step behind me, with the gun in one hand and the other wrapped in Gaglionci’s hair, shoving him along. At the front door, he told me to knock. I dropped the brass knocker on the heavy wood, and we waited. Footsteps moved inside. The door swung open, and Paul Brooks stood before us in a bathrobe, a curious expression on his face until he recognized Gaglionci and saw the blood on his chest.

“What in the hell?” Brooks lifted his hands, palms out, and stepped away from the door, and that was when Doran shoved past Gaglionci and pointed his gun at Brooks.

“This him?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, and Brooks looked at me and frowned. His face, with the hard jawline and smooth skin, made me think of an aftershave commercial.

“Can I ask what you think you’re doing?” he said.

“Shut up.” Doran stepped all the way into the house, shoving Gaglionci in with him, and kicked the front door shut. Brooks was backpedaling, and Doran followed him.

“You recognize me, asshole? You know who I am?”

Brooks hesitated, not because he was trying to place Doran, but because he was trying to decide whether to tell the truth.

“You’re Andy Doran,” he said. “The murderer.”

Doran let go of Gaglionci and hit Brooks in the face with the gun, a loud, vicious smack, and Brooks stumbled and caught the banister at the foot of the stairs to keep from going down. I’d moved maybe a foot toward them before Doran spun and put the gun to my forehead.

“Stand down, Perry. Like I said, you’re here for the show. You’re a spectator now, all right?”

We were standing in the long entryway of the house, the kitchen looming dark behind us, the stairs heading up to our left. A wide loft hung just above us, a bank of skylights reflecting the light from the open room below. Brooks clung to the banister and stared at Doran as blood dripped out of his nose and splashed onto the shining hardwood floor. Gaglionci had fallen to the floor when Doran let go of him, and stayed there now. Doran pivoted and pointed the gun at him.

“This is your boss, right? Guy who paid you?”

Gaglionci nodded.

“You tell me,” Doran said, “you tell me here, in front of him, why he had you kill Jefferson.”

Gaglionci fought his handcuffs, trying to sit upright. “Because he killed that girl. The one you went to prison for.”

As soon as Gaglionci spoke, Doran hit Brooks again. He was ready this time and turned his head in time to take the blow above his ear instead of flush in the face. He moved up one step, trying to put himself behind the