Five Minutes Alone (42 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY

I’m back in the art museum with the large phone that has the little phones attached, the little phones making up the keypad, and all at once they start ringing. I try to reach out to them, but my arms don’t move. In fact none of me is moving. The edges of the room are dark, but the middle is bright, too bright, and I want to look away, but I can’t because my head won’t move, my eyes won’t move, and I have the kind of headache I used to get when I had to take a few hours off from drinking.

Then I remember that’s what I was doing before going into the art museum.

Then somehow one of the phones is against my ear. It’s Rebecca. She’s found me in my dream.

“Tate? Where are you?”

I tell Kent about the headache, and the words form, but they don’t make it out. They die somewhere in my throat and I swallow them back down. The big piece of modern art has gone, it’s been replaced by a windshield, a road beyond it, some parked cars and houses and a bunch of lampposts and trees. I can taste whiskey. The sky is darker than I last saw it. There are clouds heading from the mountains to the west. The car is parked on the road outside a hedge.

“Theo? Are you there?”

I have the phone pressed against my ear. “Rebecca?”

“There have been two phone calls over the last thirty minutes,” Rebecca says. “One from Naomi McDonald, and one from Monica Crowley. Schroder has been to see them. The police know, Theo. They know who they’re looking for, and the print has been run
and it’s all confirmed. We’re on our way to Schroder’s house now. Where are you?”

“I’m in a car,” I tell her.

“Where?”

“I . . . my head hurts,” I tell her.

“Tate—”

“I was dreaming of modern art again,” I tell her.

“Are you drunk?”

“Maybe. Why are you call . . . hang on a second . . .” I say, and the door to the car opens. “Hey, Schroder’s here. Hey, Schroder! How the hell are you? Are we driving to a bar?”

Schroder reaches over and takes the phone off me. He switches it off and tosses it into the backseat.

“Hey, why the hell did you do that?” I ask him.

“We’ve got work to do.”

I tell him to leave me alone, but the words are all lost at sea. They’re drowning in the whiskey-induced headache. I feel like I did a few months ago just before slipping into the coma, that day where the headache got stronger and stronger and then disappeared, taking the world with it. Would they put a coma patient into jail? If so, would the years count? Would they hang a man in a coma?

“Would they?” I ask, and finally some words are appearing.

“Would they what?” Schroder asks.

“Hang a coma patient?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, because the street and the parked cars and the lampposts and trees are moving. We’re passing them by.

“I did what you told me to do,” he says.

I tighten my eyes and I can see some colors floating around. I’m thirsty. “I need some water,” I tell him, and a moment later a bottle of it appears in my lap. I don’t question where it came from. If I do, it might just disappear and turn out to be part of a dream. I drink half of it, then the other half, and it makes me feel a little better.
“Got any painkillers?” I ask, and the universe provides them too. With all the water gone, I have to end up dry swallowing them. Then Schroder takes a couple of painkillers too, chewing them down, and I guess he’s got a hangover too.

I drowse as we drive. We’re on the outskirts of town. Through neighborhoods and then heading north. The big, cruel sun beats down on the car and I’m sweating. I can feel the whiskey seeping out of my pores. The painkillers are starting to work.

“The police know,” I tell him, waking up a little more. “That was Rebecca on the phone. She said . . .” I say, and then I really have to think about it. What did she say? “She said Naomi McDonald and Charlotte Crowley have . . . no, it wasn’t Charlotte, it was Monica. She said Naomi and Monica called the police. She said you’d gone to see them.”

“I gave them their five minutes,” he tells me, rubbing at the side of his head.

“What?”

So he tells me more. First Ron McDonald’s wife. Then Peter Crowley’s wife. Then Kelly Summers’s parents. He tells me all about it. The conversations. And as he tells me, we keep driving, and as we drive, I start to wake up more. We’re heading north. Out of the city. Hotter out here because we’re closer to the sun. But then the heat goes out of that sun. The clouds roll in and hide it away. Then the trees lining the paddocks start to sway.

“I went to all of them and none of them were angry enough at what I had done,” he tells me.

“Are we going to the police now?” I ask.

“Does it look like we’re going to the police?”

I look left and right and straight ahead. “No.”

“When you killed Quentin James, how did it feel?”

I think back to that moment and all the moments that followed. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Hurt? No. It didn’t hurt.”

His mouth turns down at the sides and he starts nodding. “Yeah,
that’s what I figured. It didn’t hurt when I let Dwight Smith get killed, and it didn’t hurt killing those assholes out at Grover Hills. It didn’t feel wrong and it didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel anything. It’s the bullet,” he says, and he taps the side of his head the same way Tom from Tim’s Tires tapped his when he said he knew how to describe the bald man. “The bullet switched off something inside of me.”

“I know.”

“But then Peter Crowley died, you know? He died, and then all that stuff that got switched off, well, some of it started to come back. I know I got him killed, but I didn’t kill him, and there’s a big enough difference between the two for me to feel bad, but not feel hurt. Does that make any sense?” he asks, and I can see him crying now. This man who feels nothing has tears rolling down his cheeks.

“It makes sense,” I tell him, and the headache is almost gone now, but my mouth feels dry again. “Got another bottle of water?”

“That was the only one.”

We drive along for another minute. He wipes his hands at his face, getting rid of the tears. A few drops of rain hit the windshield.

“Killing Ron McDonald,” he says, and he keeps wiping his face, but the tears keep on coming, “that felt good. Ah, hell, Tate, I shot that guy in the stomach and he bled out and for the first time I didn’t feel nothing, for the first time I felt great. I felt happy. I wanted to kill more people. The city is full of assholes who deserve to get shot.”

“However flawed the justice system is, Carl, your way isn’t any better. You’re not out there like Batman, cleaning up a city. You’re out there putting innocent people in harm’s way, and those innocent people have died.”

“I know that, goddamn it,” he says, and he punches the steering wheel, then his face tightens up in pain, but I’m not sure why exactly, then he reaches up and massages his temple a little. He has a headache. Maybe a hangover headache, even though I don’t think he drank much at all.

“Yeah, you know that now,” I say.

“You’re right. I felt good shooting that guy in the stomach, and
he cried when he died, Tate, he cried and he told me he was innocent, and that just made it all seem better. Then . . . then when you called . . .” he says, and the tears are too much for him and he has to pull over. We’re well north of the city now, not too far from the turnoff that would take us out to where Quentin James used to be buried.

“It’s okay,” I tell him.

“It’s not okay,” he says. “It’ll never be okay. I killed an innocent man, Theo. It’s not like earlier in the year with that woman. We had no choice there, and she was a monster anyway, but this guy . . . this . . . Ah hell, it’s all gone to shit. I’ve gone from feeling nothing to feeling everything, and I want it to end, Tate. I want it to be over.”

He puts the car back into gear. We carry on driving. The rain carries on raining. Harder now. Schroder puts on the wipers.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he says.

“Let’s turn around,” I tell him. “Turn yourself in.”

“Is that what you would do?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Really? You’ll turn yourself in for killing Quentin James.”

“Yes.”

“Even though you’ll never get to see your child grow up?”

“Yes.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t believe you,” he says, and he takes the turnoff towards the woods that have played a big part over the last few days, which can only mean we’re going where I thought we might be going. I just don’t know why, but it doesn’t feel like it’s a good reason. It’s why I just lied to him that I would turn myself in. Something is wrong here.

“I killed an innocent man,” he says. “You killed the man who killed your daughter. Naomi told me what a hero was, and that’s what you are, Theo. You’ve killed people, and I know Quentin James isn’t the only one, but—”

“There’s nobody else,” I say, “other than in self-defense.”

“That’s not true, and it doesn’t matter because you’re a hero to me. Would you really turn yourself in?” he asks, and before I can answer he carries on. “If I showed you where Quentin James was, and promised never to tell another living soul, would you turn yourself in?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, Tate, be honest with me. There’s nothing left but to be honest.”

“Then no,” I tell him. “He killed my daughter, and if I had the choice I wouldn’t let him stop me from raising another one.”

“We’re almost at the end,” he says, and we continue to drive, the houses petering out, the farms going on for acres and acres, and then the trees, the woods, and then we’re pulling over in the exact same spot I pulled over with Bridget on Saturday, the same spot I pulled over the day I brought Quentin James out here to pay for what he did. Schroder gets out of the car and I do the same and the wind pushes at us and the rain slaps at us, and it feels like the weather doesn’t want us out here. The world spins a little, but not like before. I got drunk quickly because I haven’t had any alcohol in over a year, but I’m sobering up quickly too.

“What are we doing out here?” I ask him.

“We used to be so alike,” he says. “Then you went one way and I went the other, but we’ve both been to the same places and seen the same things. Dark places and dark things. Hell, we were even in comas at the same time,” he says, and he runs his hand over his bald head and wipes away the rain. “The thing is, Theo, we’re always going to be the same, you and me. We believe in the same things. We’re fighting the same fight. We’ve done the same things and you’ve been in my shoes and I’ve been in yours.”

“And?”

“And that’s why we’re out here,” he says, having to talk louder now. “We’re one in the same. That test with the cell phone, that was silly and pointless, but it was a test and you passed. It meant
you were on my side. Asking you about Quentin James, that was a test too, and that one you failed.”

“What are you talking about?”

He takes the gun out of his pocket. “You’re not prepared to take responsibility for your actions, Theo. Not like me. I offered those people their five minutes. They didn’t want them, but that doesn’t mean they still can’t have them. I’ve done things on behalf of people, and I’ll do this for them too. They deserve to see me dead.”

“What are you going to do? Shoot yourself?”

“Why not? What’s my future here? To be arrested? To be paraded around the courts and be made an example of, to maybe even be the first man to be executed under the new law? I don’t want that for me or for my family. I’ve hurt them enough, and I’ve hurt too many others.”

“Carl—”

“And you,” he says. “I sure as hell don’t see you offering yourself to the people you’ve hurt.”

“What the hell are you getting at?” I ask, looking at the gun that is pointing at the ground, wondering where he’s going to point it next. Or at who. But I already know. I felt worried in the car, but now it’s worse. Now I’m scared.

“We’re the same person, Theo. The same person. I killed an innocent man on Monday. When will you kill one, huh? Next Monday? Next year? The next bad guy you chase down, the next serial killer, will you kill him? Of course you will. What if the next one isn’t the guy? It’s going to happen, buddy, the same way it happened to me, and I can’t let that happen.”

“Let’s go back to the police station and tell them everything.”

“No,” he says. “I still believe in what I was doing. I made some mistakes along the way, but I still believe in, in this . . . this mission. You and me, buddy, this here is the end of the line. These woods, right here, we’re not going any further.”

“We?”

He points the gun at me just like I knew he would. I should have started running the moment I got out of the car. “This is
where it all started for you, and this is where it’s all going to end,” he says. “Symmetry. You said before you wanted to see what karma looks like? Well, now you’re going to know. Come on,” he says, and points the gun into the trees to show me where to start walking. “Let me show you where I put Quentin James and let’s get this over with.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

We walk through the woods. The rain is hammering the trees. It sounds like a waterfall. It gets caught up in the leaves and branches, the drops running together and forming bigger drops that soak my clothes and roll down the back of my shirt. I keep moving because to not move is to get shot. To not move is to say good-bye to the world, whereas to keep moving means there’s a chance. The longer I can stay alive, the more possibilities there will be. Maybe the cops will arrive. Maybe some people are mountain biking nearby. Maybe Schroder will step in a bear trap.

“Carl, come on, don’t do this,” I tell him. “Please, don’t do this.”

“Just keep walking, Theo.”

I keep walking, but I also keep talking at the same time. Talking the walk and walking the talk. I’m heading towards Quentin James’s empty grave because it’s the only landmark out here I know, and Schroder doesn’t say anything to correct me. I keep looking for branches I can hold and fling back at him, and there are some, but he’s keeping his distance waiting for it. The day is getting colder. It’s dropped ten degrees since we started our walk. The clouds are darker and—

A fork of lightning flashes overhead, it cuts the sky and disappears, a few moments later the rumbling thunder follows, it sounds like the empty belly of a giant. I pause to look at the sky and Schroder tells me to keep walking. There is more lightning and more thunder, one flash almost bright enough to blind me, one rumble so loud I feel it through the ground. Out here the world is ending. The rain, not to be outdone by the lightning, doubles its efforts. The ground around the trees pools with water. And still
we walk, we walk and walk, and then we’re there, Quentin James’s grave, a place that three years ago I never thought I would need to see again, and now nobody can keep me away. The grave is empty, the walls are turning to mud and sliding inwards, at the bottom dirty water is pooling up.

“Where is he?” I ask, turning towards Schroder. “Where did you put him?”

“Check your pockets,” he says.

So I check my pockets. I find a note inside one of them. It’s from Schroder. It says “
Q. J. is twenty yards from where you left him to the north.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Really. Now turn around and kneel down,” he says.

“No.”

“Seriously, Theo, do it. You can kneel down and we can talk, or I can shoot you right now and end this. Go with what you think are the better odds.”

“We used to be friends,” I tell him.

“And now we’re both killers. Turn around and kneel. I won’t ask again.”

I turn around so I’m facing the grave. I kneel down. The ground soaks into my knees, into my trousers. My old man knees complain at the movement, but soon they’ll be at peace.

“All that matters is that the world is about balance. About symmetry,” he says, and he has to talk louder now to be heard over the storm. “This is where you killed him, and it only makes sense that this is where justice is carried out.”

“I thought you were carrying out justice for the people I haven’t killed yet.”

He doesn’t answer.

“And, if I haven’t killed them, then it’s not justice at all, is it?”

“What is the biggest problem with being a cop?” he asks.

“Getting shot in the line of duty?”

“The biggest problem is we’re reactive, Theo, not proactive. If
you could arrest people before the crime, you would do it, wouldn’t you? Only that’s impossible. Except for right now. Right now it’s possible because I know you’re going to kill again.”

“I’m not going to,” I tell him. “Hell, even if you told me where Quentin James was and I got away with all of this, I would still give up being a cop. This isn’t the life I want, not now, not with a baby on the way. Please, Carl, don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

He doesn’t answer. I can feel him back there, can feel the gun pointing at me. Can feel him making the decision.

“Come on, Carl, please don’t do this,” I say. “I have a chance to make things right,” I add, and I’m reminded of Quentin James out here, him telling me he would do better. This is the world finding balance. We are one gunshot away from symmetry. “Bridget is pregnant. Think about her. Think about what you’re going to do to her. She can’t go through this.” He doesn’t answer. The wind is howling through the trees. More lightning and more thunder. “Goddamn it, Carl, don’t do this!”

When he doesn’t answer again, I start to turn around. If he’s going to shoot me, then he can shoot me while looking me in the eye. He can shoot me while . . .

Schroder is lying on the ground. He’s on his side and his eyes are wide open, but they’re not looking at me. They’re not looking at anything. The gun is still in his hand, but the barrel is pointing into the ground, his wrist bent inwards, the other arm tucked beneath him. His mouth is sagging open, the tip of his tongue protruding.

“Carl?”

Carl doesn’t answer. I move over towards him, grab hold of the gun, and then check for a pulse. There’s nothing. I check twice more, once in the neck, once in the wrist.

Carl Schroder is dead.

The bullet inside his head has finally traveled its course.