His words soothe me, even if they cause my chest to hitch.
I think about going to the funeral, but in the end I don’t, unsure if it’s my place. I don’t know if I could stand to see the grief-stricken faces of his family. I don’t know if I would be welcome, even if I would be unknown. I don’t know if I’m already being watched somehow. It doesn’t seem possible that an agent with the Bureau could have driven out to a diner to meet with me without leaving some kind of trail behind. Thoughts of phones pinging off cell towers and recorded conversations bounce around my mind. I don’t know how possible it is or if I’ve seen too many movies. At the very least, I expect the FBI to question me. I did call Corwin at his office one time. Surely they will check the call log. Surely they will wonder why he was so far away from home when he died.
The media began to speculate, helping to spread rumors like wildfire. After all, a big thing did happen in a small town. A mystery occurred, one that had no answers, so of course there was speculation. It was discovered (leaked?) that Corwin worked on a drug task force. Surely that was related somehow? He’d gotten caught up in something related to his work and had paid the ultimate price. Maybe, some thought, he’d been dirty and had been double-crossed. Maybe he was undercover and had been found out. The FBI didn’t release much information, aside from saying they believed someone out there had to know what happened. Anyone with any information was urged to step forward. The FBI didn’t take kindly to their own agents getting gunned down. They had some leads, though they declined to reveal what those leads were.
Corwin’s funeral was held on a bright sunny day in Eugene. Abe didn’t want me to go, the fear in his eyes palpable. Cal didn’t want me to go, the anger in his eyes like fire. We didn’t tell my mother. Much went unsaid, though I am sure we all thought it. Traynor. Or Walken. Or Griggs. Or one of their people. Someone had forced Corwin to his knees, stripped him of his clothing and shot him through the back of his head. Did he say anything about me to his killers before he died? Did he tell them I was the one who had called him? Did he tell them what he knew? Did they force it out of him?
Again, so many questions with no answers. I didn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t show my face. I didn’t step forward as they had asked. It wasn’t out of fear for myself, not completely. It was out of fear for my family. If I’d shown up to Corwin’s funeral and someone was watching to see who would go, then I ran the risk of endangering everyone I loved. I couldn’t take that chance. I had to protect my family.
Roseland was in the claws of the men who ran it. I could feel the grip tightening around us, and soon there would be no way to struggle for release. There was something coming on the horizon. It felt like things were building, though I couldn’t say to what point that might be. All I knew was that I was stuck in that grip. I couldn’t get out, not anymore. I thought about struggling, but I refused to pull anyone into it with me.
This was the life and death of Joshua Corwin. He lived until I killed him.
these flickering lights
I am in the river, chest-deep. Shadow of a figure up on the road, hidden by rain.
Flashes of crosses and feathers. The current is rough against my skin. “Benji.” My name is uttered. It’s as loud as I’ve heard it. Is it the river? Is it my
father? Is it a guardian angel who I—
need can’t live without must have love love oh god i love
—know will wrap a strong arm around me and pull me from this place? I don’t
know. I don’t care. Whatever the whisper is, it says my name like a caress and I
lower my head beneath the surface of the river because that’s where it is, that’s what
it wants. Who am I to fight it? Who am I to deny it?
The sound of the rain thundering down from above is muffled underneath the
surface. I open my eyes and prepare for the sting.