14
Terms of Cowardice
“Secrets? I’m not the only one here with secrets,” Bronson said, guarding the ladder with his kattara. Wylie Morgan nursed his head with a cold compress.
“Yeah, but I’m an adult,” Wylie said. “We’re allowed to have secrets. Running around all night with criminals, fighting people… What would your dad think?”
“Who do you think gave me all this stuff?” he asked, holding up his mask. “Nice burn on your neck, by the way. Where’d you get it?”
“Of course,” Wylie said, touching the wound. “Bronson, the fact is I can’t fool you. I shot Dexter Stonehouse.”
Bronson considered cluing Wylie in to the ruse then thought better of it. He figured Mr. Morgan deserved to percolate for awhile.
“How could you kill somebody?” Bronson asked.
“I feel guilty beyond words for the things I did. I’m a coward,” he said.
“But you’re a magician. How could a coward get on stage every night?”
“It was easy with your dad, Bronson. We’d practice the tricks by ourselves so many times it was muscle memory. The only difference was people clapped at the end,” Wylie said.
“Mr. Morgan, I haven’t called the police yet. Talk, or I’m gonna have to,” Bronson said.
Wylie sat on the bed, staring at the ground, wringing his hands.
“We were in Dixon Park for the 4th of July. Good music, big crowd. We were having fun. Then those thieves showed up. I smelled them before I saw them. Like an open sewer.”
“Exactly like an open sewer,” Bronson said, recalling the scent from his time living among the Guild of Thieves.
“They circled around us. My wife Lyla… you remember her?” he asked.
“Of course,” Bronson said. “You need a drink? You’re sounding pretty rough.”
Wylie nodded. Bronson grabbed a bottle of cola from under his bed.
“Thanks,” Wylie said, then popped the cap off with his belt buckle. He took a long swig.
“Lyla looked up at me like I had a plan or something. Me, the world’s biggest wimp. The thieves were winning. They were bearing down on us and I couldn’t think. All I could hear was this selfish little voice… Get out, run away, stay far from danger.”
“So I let go of her hand and ran,” Wylie said. “I made it to the vending area before I realized she wasn’t with me. I should have gone back, but that little voice…”
“Is she okay?” Bronson asked.
“She fell, from what they told me. All those scared people, trying to run away. She didn’t make it. I thought about joining her at first, but the idea terrified me to a point where I couldn’t function. I didn’t have the guts. Again. The worst part was I didn’t even have the money to give her a proper burial. A lot of bookings dried up when your dad died.”
Bronson put his hand on Wylie’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, Mr. Morgan,” he said.
“I went around town looking for work. It felt like I was half a step off from the rest of the world; like I shouldn’t be here anymore. Then I spotted the flier at 30th Street Station. ‘Now Hiring — Performance Art Project Needs Performers of All Stripes — Call Today, Cash Tomorrow.'”
“Didn’t you have anybody you could ask for help?”
“Why would anybody want to help a pushover like me? Lyla’s gone. Your dad too. Guess the only person I have left is you,” he said.
“Why didn’t you come find me sooner?” Bronson asked.
“I was as surprised as you when I came in this morning to find you here.”
“No duh,” Bronson said. “You’d have to be pretty stupid to pawn your best friend’s stuff in the shop where his son works.”
“You’re right, of course. I knew he wanted me to hold on to it for you. I don’t deserve any of it. Here.” Wylie reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slip of paper with an address and combination scrawled on it. “This is a storage unit a few miles from your old house. Everything your dad left me is in there.”
Bronson took the piece of paper.
“This is an okay start,” he said. He knelt down, popped his trunk open, then stuck the paper in one of the side pockets.
“So what happened after you called them? Did you have to audition?” Bronson said.
“They brought me in for an interview down at the old chemical plant down by the river. They must have liked me. We talked a little business, then they sent me right downstairs for orientation. I got there late, then the guy in charge handed me a bag with a gun. I wanted to leave, of course. I wasn’t going to help these people commit murder. Then I saw the poetry in it… the parallel structure… Pay for Lyla’s funeral by killing the part of me that killed her, that selfish little thing. I figured she’d appreciate the irony.”
“It was wrong what you did, Mr. Morgan, but you aren’t as bad as you think. Me and my friend spent all afternoon looking for you. From what we heard Dexter Stonehouse might not be dead after all.”
“I know. Those men in the sedan today told me, but I didn’t know when I shot him that the gun had blanks in it. Now they’re blackmailing me. Forcing me to do one more favor before they pay me or else they’ll turn me in.”
Wylie grabbed Bronson’s shoulders.
“Mr. Morgan, what are you doing?” Bronson asked. An orange flash—
Bronson alone in the dark. Wylie standing on Liberty Pier. Applebottom. A bright light then a boat. Two men struggling on the upper deck.
The orange light faded.
“Sorry, buddy, but I have to do this. For Lyla. For me.” Wylie pushed Bronson back against the wall then held him there while he fetched a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. He closed one end of the cuffs around Bronson’s wrist then locked the other cuff to a rung on the ladder.
“Don’t trap me. You’re pretty much innocent. We can still fix this.”
Wylie climbed up the ladder then turned, looking down into the hole.
“What if I don’t want it to get fixed?” Wylie asked.
He lowered the hatch, leaving Bronson alone in the dark.
 |
 |
 |
