“Tell me first what’s going on.”
“Cut the engine and I’ll show you.”
We got out of the car. Clouds had moved in since dinner, and there were no stars. Just a dull reminder of the moon behind a canvas of clouds. The elevation of these mountains wasn’t much, fifteen hundred feet maybe, but the wind was strong here, the air cold. It was a raw night best spent indoors, not out here. Not when you’ve run out of the house without even a jacket or sweatshirt. I shivered.
“I want you to know,” Nolan said, “that I’d have done this alone if I thought there was any way that I could. Okay, open the trunk.”
The word “trunk” snapped me awake and sobered me up. Something was in the trunk. And I had driven it here.
I shook my head no.
“Open it, Will.” When I didn’t move, he said, “Then give me the keys.” He took them from me.
A moment later, the trunk was open, and I was looking in. I don’t know exactly what I expected to see, but I was surprised at first. And, for a moment, relieved.
“That’s from the studio,” I said.
“I know.”
I was trying to piece together a coherent story as to why Nolan would sneak out of the house while I slept, let himself into the studio with my keys, and steal the canvas sack filled with drum hardware.
As I thought about this, he opened the back door and removed the shovel. It was mine, from the garage. The one I used to dig our garden plot. That was when my surprise turned to understanding, and then to revulsion.
While I’d been sleeping, Nolan had been busy.
My legs nearly gave out from under me. “You killed her.”
After everything we’d been through, he’d gone and killed her anyway. It made no sense.
Nolan shook his head. “No—is that what you … no. Will, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I swear, I didn’t.”
“Then what—”
“How about you don’t ask me that, okay? Let me do you that favor. Just shut up, take an end, help me carry this awhile, and don’t ask me a single thing. We’ll do this, then we’ll drive home, you’ll go back to bed, and when you wake up it’ll be tomorrow. Let’s do it exactly like that, okay?”
“So you didn’t … hurt her?”
“It isn’t a body, Will. I promise. Now take an end.”
I looked into the trunk again. It was just a bag from my recording studio. Drum hardware. Cymbal stands and snare-drum stands and the metal legs of floor toms. It didn’t need to make sense.
I began to lift an end of the bag out of the trunk.
It was very heavy, no surprise. But silent. Metal drum equipment would rattle.
Although we were alone, I wanted to be safely in the woods before saying another word. We hauled the bag out of the car. I gripped the handle at one end of the bag with both my hands. Nolan needed only one hand. With the other, he carried the shovel. We walked sideways, the bag swaying between us. Once I could no longer see the car or the road, I told Nolan to set the bag down.
We’d barely gone a hundred feet, but I was down on my haunches sucking wind.
“You’re lying.” Frigid air stung my throat. “How could you? We had an agreement. You didn’t even give her a chance.”
“Listen to me. Marie is perfectly fine. Now please, I’m begging you—”
“No. Not until you explain.”
“Goddamn it, Will …” He threw down the shovel. “Can’t you see I’m trying to do you a favor?” He stared at me. I stared back. We waited while the tops of trees bent in the wind. And when he saw that I wasn’t going to budge or even blink until hearing the truth, he knelt down beside me and his voice softened. “He saw us. He saw her.”
At first I thought he was talking about Joey, but then I understood.
“He was only a panhandler,” I said. “He wouldn’t have put anything together.”
“He saw her, Will. There was no choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
“It was our only loose end. I had to do it. For all of us. Because nobody else would have.”
He’d come to this decision, no doubt, during his late afternoon run. While I’d been showering, working to scrub every bit of the weekend’s filth from my body, Nolan had been planning a murder. And then he’d dined with me, and gotten himself drunk, and then he’d gone and done it.
“Good lord,” I said.
“Don’t ‘good lord’ me. I understand your horror. It’s horrible. Don’t you think I know that? But we created the horror. The moment we drove away with that girl in your car, somebody was going to die. All we’re doing now is seeing it through. This”—he looked down at the bag—“is the endgame.”
“Don’t call it a game,” I said.
He watched me, maybe waiting to see if I’d bolt back to the car. “Nobody saw me do it. And nobody’s going to miss him. It’s done.” He stood up, brushed dirt off his jeans. Picked up the shovel from the ground. “So I’ll ask you again. Please, Will, take an end, and let’s finish this already so that we can leave here and go home to bed and pretend this was all a nightmare.”