“I hope so,” Ricky replied. “This is a really great game. Dad never takes me to the Bruins anymore.”
The crowd roared as the B’s scored a goal. Pell turned to watch the celebrating players when, to his horror, he saw Allen Jenkins standing directly in front of him on the other side of the glass. Blood spurted and trickled down his forehead from the bullet hole Pell had put there.
Pell glanced at Ricky who looked through his father, as if he didn’t even see him.
He turned back to Allen and tried to say something but the words weren’t coming out.
“You’re lying to my boy, Pell. I’ll never get to take him to another game because of you!” Allen screamed. Pell barely heard him over the roar of the crowd.
“But, Allen. You were there. There was nothing I could do.”
“Bullshit.”
“I regret it every day.”
Allen pressed his face against the clear barrier. His pasty features compressed and turned grotesque as he slid his head back and forth, leaving trails of blood streaked along the glass.
“You wimped out. I want you to tell Ricky what you did.”
Pell shook his head spastically. “I can’t. It wasn’t my fault.”
“You’ve got to tell him the truth!” Allen screamed as he pulled his head back and slammed it into the glass, shattering it. More blood poured out of the fresh cuts on Allen’s face as he leaned in and hissed, “Tell him now.”
His breath smelt of the grave – as if he had gargled with dirt and worms and rot.
Suddenly, as if someone turned on the lights in a dark room, Ricky saw his father. He started to wail.
“He did this to me, Ricky,” Allen said, pointing to Pell.
Ricky’s howl rose to the roof of the Garden, growing louder and louder until it eclipsed all other sounds. Pell looked around frantically. Everybody else was still celebrating the goal. Just he, Allen and Ricky were not. Ricky started pounding his eight-year-old fists into Pell’s chest.
“Why did you kill my father,” he cried. “Why?”
Pell jerked awake and fell out of his chair. His forehead was covered with sweat. He got up on his knees and looked over at Chris, who was crashed out. He glanced at the communicator. They were still on-line. He went to his office, pulled out a bottle and raised it to his lips.
As the bottle came under his nose, he breathed deeply. The pungent smell of the vodka made him suddenly and violently ill. He barely got his head over the wastebasket before he vomited. His stomach heaved until he thought he was going to wretch up some internal organs.
“Jesus Christ,” he said as he leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Four o’clock in the morning and trying to get drunk. That was the story of his life. Every day he woke up and made a commitment to himself that he would lay off. Give it up and turn his life back around. But every day, before he had even showered and dressed, he had inevitably given in to the liquid demon. He looked at the bottle, picked it up and pulled out the other bottle he kept in his desk drawer. He walked to the men’s room. Unscrewing the tops of the bottles, and before he could talk himself out of it, he poured them down the toilet.
Once he had emptied the second one, he put his hand on the flush lever and had to look away as he depressed it. The swirling water-booze mix disappearing down the drain was an apt metaphor for his life to this point. He started to cry.
DAY 3 – TUESDAY, JUNE 30
1:14 am Unorganized Township T8 R4, Aroostook County, Maine
Seth stood hidden in the bushes as Bert’s car rolled to a stop at the top of the hill that led down to the lodge. He watched Bert study the hustle and bustle of activity below. He must know that the jig is up. As Bert reached for the shift lever to put the car in reverse, he slipped out of the woods and pressed the cold steel of his rifle barrel against Bert’s temple.
“Evening, Bert,” Seth said. “I figured you’d be curious about what was going on.”
“What do you mean?”
Seth laughed. “You know what I mean. Why don’t you put your hands up where I can see them.”
Slowly he placed both of his hands on the wheel.
Seth reached in, grabbed a shotgun from his lap and removed his pistol. “Planning on doing some bird hunting?” Seth asked sarcastically.
Bert stared straight ahead, not responding.
“Now, you’re going to do exactly what I say, or I’m going to pull this trigger. Understand?”
He nodded as he glanced at Seth without turning his head.
“I want you to put the car in drive and move it down the road real slow. I’m walking, and if the end of this gun barrel leaves your head, I’m pulling the trigger, so don’t do anything rash.”
Seth pressed the barrel into his head. “Let’s go.”
They started creeping slowly down the road. In a couple minutes they were in the driveway of the lodge.
“Shut off the car and get out.”
Bert opened the door and stepped out. He gritted his teeth as he looked down at the much smaller Seth. But Seth had the rifle, the ultimate equalizer.
“So what’s going on?” Bert asked, as if he didn’t know.
Seth backed away, keeping the rifle pointed directly at his chest. “I’m tying up loose ends.”
“And I’m a loose end?” Bert said as he stepped away from the cruiser.
“One more step and you’ll be a dead end.”
He stopped. “What about all of the times I’ve covered for you? Hell, I’ve never been anything but loyal to you guys.”
“That’s true. You’ve always been loyal, there’s no denying that. But don’t make it sound like you did it because we’re buddies. You did it because you’re greedy – just like everyone else in the world. You saw your chance to make some easy money and you took it. I bet if you could sell us out, you’d do it in a heartbeat.”
“Why would I do that,” Bert asked. “This doesn’t make sense. I’m not a traitor like David. I’m part of the team. I’m not a risk for you today or tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid you are very much a liability my friend.” Seth replied. “You are the only one doing this for money and not for the Cause. Once the money stops coming in, you’d happily tell all if someone offered up the right reward. We can’t leave any lose ends or have any risks whatsoever and so it’s time Bert. Time to say goodbye.”
“So what are you going to do with me?” Bert said as his gaze flitted around the busy compound.
Seth pointed at the barn and said, “There’s going to be a little fire here in the compound. You stumbled on to it and, unfortunately, the fire got the best of you. You’ll be remembered fondly by your peers, I’m sure. Maybe they’ll even build a monument here, memorializing their fallen hero.”
A loud crash came from across the parking lot. Wendel had the lift raised too high and had slammed something into the roof of the trailer.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Bert sprang forward – lunging at Seth, who had instinctively turned his head momentarily toward Wendel. Seth pulled the trigger. The heavy slug caught Bert squarely in the chest, stopping him in his tracks.
Seth looked at him coolly. “Sorry, Bert,” he said as he jacked the lever-action and squeezed the trigger a second time. “It’s just business.”
The second bullet knocked him over – his feet anchored to the ground as his body fell like a tree, landing with a lung-emptying thud. Timber! Seth smiled.
“Hey, Wendel,” Seth called. “Take it easy with that lift, will you?”
Wendel waved an acknowledgment as he continued his work.
Jerry and Curtis came out of the main lodge and walked slowly over to Seth, who stood over Bert’s body. “Did you really have to do that?” Jerry asked.