To Love and to Perish

THREE


I HAD RESERVED A room for us at the same motel—a family-owned, twelve-cabin basic close to the track—where Brennan and Cory were staying. Ray dropped Danny and me off, intending to meet Cory at the track and make a plan to obtain a lawyer for Brennan. I wanted to go with Ray to tell him about the redheaded man and to help Cory and Brennan, but at the same time, I didn’t want Danny too involved in this whole mess. From the moment he joined our family, we’d treated the evening news and the details of Ray’s job as X-rated. Danny didn’t need to know more about the poor redheaded man’s violent demise, and Ray was far better suited to deal with Brennan’s arrest.

Trouble was, the motel room was dark and tiny—maybe thirteen by thirteen with most of that space taken up by two double beds—and had no television to keep Danny entertained with his beloved SpongeBob. The room didn’t have a phone either. After one trip into the claustrophobic five by seven bathroom, I decided to take him across the street to the ice cream parlor, a popular spot in the town for many years.

When the vanilla scent of fresh-made waffle cones hit my nose, I thought I’d made a wise decision. The thirty-plus homemade ice cream flavors as well as a dozen fresh fudge choices were all enticing. An older couple in line ahead of us seemed to have difficulty choosing what to order. They taste tested a handful of flavors before ordering, giving Danny and me plenty of time to decide. I settled on a sugar cone of Southern Pecan Praline while Danny chose a double scoop waffle cone of Cake Batter and Triple Brownie.

Unfortunately, the deadly incident was bound to be the talk of the town, not to mention the flat-screen television mounted above the ice cream counter where we stood.

As pictures of the ambulance leaving the scene flashed, a newscaster’s voice announced, “We have new details in today’s tragic death in Watkins Glen. The Sheriff’s Department has a prominent contractor from Wachobe, New York, Brennan Rowe” —Brennan’s picture from his construction company’s web site appeared on screen—“in custody at this time. According to the Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Rowe is not under arrest, although an unidentified witness at the scene claims Mr. Rowe pushed the victim in front of the Cobra automobile that struck and killed him on impact in front of hundreds of race fans attending the Vintage Grand Prix Festival on the main street in Watkins Glen this evening. The name of the victim is not being released pending notification of his next of kin. When asked if the Sheriff’s Department suspected foul play, the department declined further comment at this time.”

As the newscast moved on to the day’s next top story, Danny and I took seats at the table farthest from the television, next to the table where the couple had sat. I licked my cone with little enthusiasm and watched them enjoy theirs.

The man shook his head. “I’m not surprised. The way the two of them were going at it, I could tell there was going to be trouble.”

“Did you tell the sheriff’s deputy that the dead guy kept saying, ‘You killed her, you bastard’?”

“I told him, Gladys.”

“And that he said, ‘You should have died, not her’?”

“Yes, Gladys.”

“And that the woman with him said, ‘Leave him be, Jimmy; it won’t bring Monica back?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, I guess that’s all we can do. Sure looks like that Rowe killed him, though.”

Danny ate his cone with gusto, seemingly oblivious to the discussion going on behind him. I tried to keep my eyes averted, but my gaze returned to the man’s face over and over, hoping he’d say more.

I should have been relieved not to be the only witness to Brennan’s and the redhead’s argument on the street. Apparently this couple not only witnessed the scene but got an earful and had let the Sheriff’s Department know. Instead, I feared evidence was mounting against Brennan, who I still believed incapable of murder. I did wonder what happened to the woman in the pink raincoat, who had been hanging from the redhead’s arm, apparently pleading with him to leave Brennan be. She never appeared at the scene. Where could she have gone?

The man crunched up the last of his cone and wiped his lips.

“Are you ready to go, Gladys?”

She rose. “Yes, we have a long drive ahead of us.”

The man hitched up his pants. “I can’t say I’m all that eager to get behind the wheel. I keep seeing that man lying there on the road, when just minutes before he was so animated. I wonder how them fellas knew each other.”

Gladys put her hand through the crook of his arm. “I’m sure it’s all going to come out. We may not hear about it at home, though. This is local news.”

I pondered the woman’s statement as the bell on the ice cream shop door announced their departure. Was this going to be just local, small-town news? If the tragedy was deemed an accident by investigators, then probably so. But if investigators ruled this death a homicide, would the story get widespread press? I supposed it depended on other breaking stories and perhaps on how sensational this story might become. For Brennan Rowe’s and Cory’s sakes, I hoped it would all be cleared as an accident, but after hearing what appeared to be the couple’s eyewitness account of the argument on the street and learning of the photographer’s shot of Brennan’s arm reaching out into the street near the fallen man, even I wondered about Brennan’s involvement. Worse, I knew the residents in Wachobe had joked forever about what Brennan might have hidden in the poured cement basements of the homes and office buildings he erected there. After all these years, might the jokes have been more than that? Did Brennan really have something to hide? If so, had he hidden it from Cory as well?

Cory, I knew for a fact, did not appreciate having his partners hide things from him. He preferred honesty, even brutal honesty, perhaps the reason he and I were such close friends. Would this tragedy be the end of his relationship with Brennan, not to mention Brennan’s days as a free man? And what about Cory’s already existing fears that Brennan was having an affair?

My cell phone chirped. I flipped it open.

“Darlin’, Cory and I are on our way to pick you up. He hasn’t eaten and I think he should. I called the lodge. They can seat us at nine thirty.”

I heard Cory say he wasn’t hungry.

My ice cream cone stuck in my throat. Poor Cory. He was undoubtedly devastated, but Ray believed in “the show must go on” as did I. Most days Cory would have agreed with us. Today I wasn’t so sure.

The local lodge Ray had referred to was known as the official racers’ hangout. On its walls could be found the photographs and autographs of many of the greats, especially the race winners of year’s past. The five of us would normally look forward to rubbing elbows there with this year’s best drivers. Tonight it seemed like it could be a strain.

“What about Brennan?”

“He declined our assistance.”

“What?”

“Let’s talk about it later.” Ray’s tone implied he didn’t want to talk now while Cory was sitting next to him in the car. “Meet us at the motel. We need to wash up.”

Danny had finished his cone and was eyeing the remains of mine. He could eat more; he could always eat more.

I swallowed the last of my cone and my fears for Brennan. After all, now was the time to rally around Cory in support. No way did I want to be the one to suggest Brennan was anything other than innocent.

_____


“It doesn’t look good for Brennan.”

Ray’s voice was muffled as he pulled a clean polo shirt over his head and the fine hairs on his broad chest. At his suggestion, Danny sat outside on a woven lawn chair, listening to his iPod that he had retrieved from my Lexus. Cory had disappeared into the room next door without a word to anyone. I wasn’t positive he would come out again.

Perched on the edge of the bed, I fiddled with the bedspread fringe. “Because of the photograph?”

“That and the eyewitness reports. A woman swears she saw Brennan shove this James Gleason into the road. A couple other people said they witnessed the two of them arguing near Milliken’s Corner just prior, and some other woman was with Gleason at the time. They’re looking for her, and the Department’s interrogating Brennan now.” Ray finished tucking his shirt into his jeans and started to re-buckle his belt.

“I saw them arguing. And I saw the woman.”

Ray stopped buckling his belt. “What did she look like?”

“She had on a hot pink raincoat. I didn’t see her face, just the raincoat. She was tugging on Gleason’s arm. It looked like she was trying to pull him away from Brennan.”

Ray resumed buckling. “The department knows all that. They need to identify her.”

His tone said I made a disappointing witness, but how could I have known the woman was important at the time? “Doesn’t Brennan know who she was?”

“No.”

Well, he definitely knew the man with her. “What did you mean earlier when you said Brennan declined your help?”

“Cory and I drove over to the sheriff’s office. I found Ken, and he went in and told Brennan we would arrange for an attorney for him. Brennan said ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Tell them I’ll take care of everything myself and to stay completely out of this.’”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“What did Cory say?”

“He asked to see Brennan. Then he demanded. He got pretty worked up. I had to drag him out of there.”

“Why couldn’t he see Brennan?”

Ray eased onto the bed next to me, his weight pulling me against his side. “Brennan’s in custody. The department doesn’t want him talking to anybody, not to mention Brennan had already refused our help. We had no choice but to leave. I’m lucky they told me anything at all.”

“Is Brennan under arrest?”

“I don’t know if they’ve read him his rights yet, but I doubt he’s walking out of there any time soon.”

“Does Cory know about the witnesses?”

“I told him. I didn’t see any reason not to. It’ll be on the news soon enough.”

“What did he say?”

Ray rubbed his hand over his chin, making his five o’clock shadow rasp. “He clammed up. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or scared shitless.”

If I knew Cory, probably a little of both. Or maybe a lot. Brennan had gotten himself into a pretty big mess.

When we knocked on Cory’s door a few minutes later for dinner, he appeared in his usual casual dress: a clean striped dress shirt, untucked of course, and khakis. He climbed into the car without comment.

The drive to the lodge was short and silent. Danny still had his headphones on and made no effort to remove them until Ray insisted he leave his iPod in the car.

Inside the log cabin lodge, the smell of prime rib and baked potatoes wafted over to greet us at the entryway. Dozens of men surrounded the bar in the center of the room, many of them still wearing their flat-soled leather racing shoes. Although the place was packed, our table was ready, and the hostess seated us immediately. The din of chatter was incredible, and the flat screens in the restaurant corners provided closed captioning. Danny and I took the seats facing the television while Cory and Ray had their backs to it.

Ordering proved difficult because we had to shout at the waitress, who asked us to repeat ourselves more than once. Conversation was impossible. Danny seemed engrossed by all the photos on the walls. I entertained myself by watching all the people, having seen all the photographs at least a dozen times before. Ray appeared to be enjoying his beer. Cory’s gaze never left his placemat. I hated seeing him like this, so unlike his usual carefree, light-hearted self.

Just as the waitress delivered our sampling of appetizers—the only thing we could get Cory to agree to consider sharing—a breaking news story flashed onto the flat screen. Brennan’s photo appeared again, followed by photos of a car wreck, a young woman, and what appeared to be Brennan’s high school graduation picture. The closed captioning took longer than the live announcer and bled into the next story’s pictures. I had no trouble following the gist of the newscast.

Thirteen years ago, Brennan Rowe had been driving a car that veered off the road into a tree, killing a passenger and leaving him in a coma. The two had just left their five-year high school reunion. The young woman who died in the crash was named Monica Gleason, sister of James Gleason, victim of today’s tragedy. Worse, thirteen years ago, investigators believed Brennan Rowe had been driving drunk.

The gist: Brennan Rowe was already a convicted killer.