Into This River I Drown

Mom is gone. Turns out she opened the store herself that morning instead of

asking Mary or Christie. I should be surprised at this, but I’m not. We each have our own ways of dealing with things. My mother and I don’t know how to articulate our feelings very well. After Big Eddie died, there would be times that days would go by before we would see one another, each of us sequestered in separate parts of the house, or in separate parts of Roseland. The Trio tried to get us together, to eat meals, to watch TV, to have conversations neither of us felt like having. It was a good effort, but none of them could really understand the depths of our heartache. We were points of a triangle: her, me, Big Eddie. It had been the three of us. But then that triangle had been shattered, leaving us to drift aimlessly.

I know people think that she, as my mother, should have been the one to direct me, to point me toward the future. She should be offering guidance, I’m sure they said. Yes, she lost her husband but he lost his father. There’s a difference. Maybe there was. Maybe there is. I lost my best friend on that day, but my mother also lost the only man she’d ever loved, the man who had been by her side since they were kids. Her first, her only. We didn’t have him to hold us together. Even though the Trio tried, it wasn’t the same. If we ever passed by each other in those weeks and months that followed, there was usually only a shared glance, a matching look of pain etched across our faces. That was how we grieved. That was how we dealt with the inevitability of the unknown.

Eventually we got better, though not all the way. She recovered more quickly than I did. And more completely. I am ashamed to admit there were some dark days where I resented her for her ability to move on. Every smile was like a slap to my father’s memory, every laugh an affront to the loss of my father. How dare she be happy, I thought. How dare she act like everything is right as rain and nothing will ever bother her again. The Trio was instrumental in breaking her out of her bitter shell. Christie told my mother, You can sleep now, finally. We’re going to stay here as long as you need us. You sleep and let us carry you for a while. I remember thinking how hollow the words sounded, how smug I thought her voice was.

But still, I let them try their consoling ways on me, only because I knew it made them feel better. For years following his death, there were false confessions about my well-being, fabricated details about how I was feeling. I’m fine, I told them. Time heals all wounds, I said as I smiled, a bitter imitation of my mother. He wouldn’t want me to be mourning him like this. Big Eddie would want me to live.

And all I wanted was for Big Eddie to be alive. To be here, with me and my mom. To make the triangle complete again so we wouldn’t have to drift, so we wouldn’t be lost within ourselves. Sometimes, I thought we grieved only because we didn’t know what else to do. We’d never find a way out of the black hole we’d created for ourselves. After a time, it became normal, safe. No one could expect much from you if you were grieving. You could slide through life without making a splash because you didn’t care. It didn’t matter who saw you or what they said. It didn’t matter what you looked like, if you were able to get yourself out of bed the next morning, even if it was raining outside. My mom took me to a specialist once down in Eugene, maybe fourteen months after Big Eddie died. He poked and prodded and eventually told us I was suffering from depression. I had laughed a genuine laugh at his diagnosis, the first laugh since I could remember through that hazy fog. Of course I’m depressed, I told the doctor, wiping the tears from my eyes that I wasn’t sure had come from the laughter. That was probably the easiest diagnosis you’ve ever had to give.

The doctor wanted me on antidepressants. He wanted me to talk to someone. Your mother is recovering, he told me quietly. Your aunts have made sure she is not letting herself drown. Benji, it’s so easy to drown and you could become a danger to yourself.

Poor word choice there, Doc, I’d said sarcastically. Maybe read the file next time before you open your f*cking mouth.

He’d looked alarmed, but I was already storming out of the room.

Needless to say, I didn’t take the drugs. I didn’t talk to anyone. I ignored friends and family. People stopped calling me, asking me to hang out. My senior year of high school was a dream I can barely remember.

I lived day by day, allowing my grief to drift out into the open.

There were days I went to mile marker seventy-seven and sat in the Ford, poring over the police reports, the photographs, trying to recreate the accident, but missing so much information it was impossible. Other days I sat silently under the stone angel for hours, staring at the fifteen words that meant nothing, that gave no measure of the man buried underneath. I was obsessed with his death and the questions I did not have answers to. The stone angel offered me nothing.

It was on one of these days, the harder days, that I came home, planning on heading up to my room to look at the scene photographs again, suddenly sure I had missed something, sure that I was going to find an answer that had eluded me and the police and anyone else who had investigated my father’s death. I was going to have proof positive that my father had been murdered, that he’d been run off the road and left there to die, to drown in the river. I was practically vibrating as I opened the door, ignoring a strange sensation that felt like a hand on my shoulder, a breath on my neck. It was nothing. Just my imagination.

Voices, in the kitchen. Mary and my mother. They had not heard me enter. I heard my name. I thought about ignoring it. I needed to get upstairs, to finally discover the truth.

But I crept toward the kitchen instead. I heard Mary: You lost your husband, but he lost his father, the only one he will ever have.

My mother murmured something in return, her voice a whisper.

Mary: I know you can see it, hon. Big Eddie tied all of you together, but he’s gone. He’s not coming back. You can’t allow your son to follow him, because that’s what’s happening. He’s lost weight; he barely says a single word to anyone. The school called again and left a message. He cut class. They’re talking about expulsion, Lola. Expelling him. Not graduating. He’s got to get his grades up and he’s got to start going back to class, otherwise he’ll be held back. And then what about college?

A sigh.

I left quietly.

The next day, I went to class.

I came home and did homework.

I offered fake smiles. False laughter.

I came downstairs for dinner, ignoring the looks of surprise.

Smells good, I said. Brightly.

After a time: Benji, can I talk to you a moment?

Can it wait, Mom? I’m kind of behind on homework and need to get caught up. I flash her a smile, quiet and earnest.

Oh? Homework? Sure, Benji. It can wait.

Thanks.

Benji?

Yeah?

I think… I think everything is going to be all right.

Of course you do, I thought. Of course you do, you bitch. How dare you forget him like he’s nothing. How dare you. Sure, Mom. Whatever you say. I gave her another smile as she left the room.

And for the next few months, I focused on what needed to be done not to draw attention to myself. I buckled down. I worked hard. The police reports, the coroner’s reports, the photos, the little chunk of metal that supposedly came from his truck, twisted and black—all stayed locked up, secreted away. They would have my undivided attention later. I would give them all the time they needed once the focus was no longer on me.

But the longer they stayed hidden, the harder it was to find the courage to look at them again. Maybe I was seeing things that weren’t there. Maybe there was no evidence to suggest anything happened other than what the investigators said. Maybe my father was going to Eugene to meet with friends. Maybe he lost control of the truck (a deer? slick roads? distracted?). Maybe he crashed down the embankment, flipped his truck, and drowned just like they said. Maybe that’s all it was.

Adrift. My mother and I were adrift, occasionally colliding and bouncing away. The wounds scabbed over but never healed, just waiting to be torn open again. That’s the thing about grief: the longer it festers, the harder it is to cleanse.





So I’m not surprised that my mother isn’t there the morning after Cal returns.

She’s seen something that has altered her perception of the way the world works and needs time to work it out on her own. It helps me that she had the exact same reaction I did when Cal first revealed himself: shock, denial, then anger. She and I are more alike than I like to admit, and I would do well to remember that.

Mary rejoices at seeing Cal again, much like her twin. Christie seems more subdued and gives a less warm reception, but Cal still has her smiling by the end of breakfast, charming her completely. If my mother has said anything to either of them, they don’t show it on their faces. I like to think that they wouldn’t be able to hide the shock of something so life-altering from me, especially given they are blood relations. I watch closely for any telltale sign, any flicker of fear or amazement based on anything other than the conversation at hand.

There’s nothing.

Cal and I spend the rest of the day in bed. I don’t hear my phone ring later that night, my mother leaving a message in a flat voice that she wants me to open the store tomorrow, but that Cal should stay at Little House. Like hell, I think when I listen to the message. Cal’s running his big hands up my thighs, cradling my balls. Like f*cking hell. I toss the phone to the floor as he leans down and swallows me whole. Fast learner, he is.

The second day, Roseland rejoices at Cal’s return.

It doesn’t take long for word to spread that the big guy is back. What starts off as a quiet morning soon leads to the bell above the door ringing steadily. I begin to recognize the looks that people give when they walk in: a brief smile for me, almost as a courtesy, their gazes darting until they find who they are looking for. Their eyes light up, and they step forward, hand outstretched if they are male, arms wide open for a hug if they are female. “It’s good to see you,” becomes the mantra of the day. “Glad to have you back. You sticking around this time?” Cal glances at me every time before he answers, as if seeking my approval, as if I am the one making the decision for him. And every time I nod. “Sure am,” he says. “Benji’s going to let me drive the Ford. It’s so cherry, you know?”

They know.

Rosie comes to steal him away later in the afternoon, taking him back to the diner, wanting to show him the green-clover marshmallow cupcakes she made just for him. His eyes go slightly dreamy at the thought (not an “I don’t know if I’m going to like that” uttered) and she glances at me, as if asking my permission. I shove down the slight panic, rolling my eyes and muttering that she’s going to be responsible when he’s destroyed the town due to his sugar high. She laughs and has started pulling him away, the other ten people in the store waiting to follow them out, when Cal stops. And turns. With a determined look in his eye. I know what that look means. I have about four seconds to make up my mind on whether or not to stop him before he’s on me, leaning across the counter, hooking his hand around my neck, pressing his lips firmly against mine. The world goes white around us as he nibbles on my bottom lip, briefly touching his tongue to mine. He pulls away and presses his forehead against me. “Okay, Benji?” he asks quietly, kissing my cheek. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

“Sure,” I manage to say. “Have fun.”

He pulls away and turns toward Rosie, who has the biggest shit-eating grin on her face. “Looks like someone has been holding out on me,” she says, eyeing me over his shoulder. “Cal, it appears you owe me a story or two.”

“I know a lot of stories,” he assures her as I groan, already wondering what the hell he’s going to tell her. Or them, as the rest of the people begin to follow as well, like they’re his little groupies. For the most part, they smile at me, reaching out to pat my hand as they walk by, ignoring the furious blush on my face. “How lovely for you, dear,” Eloise Watkins says, she of the Friday Virginia Slims. “He does have quite the ass. And that red hair….” She sighs and follows him out the door.

“Good for you!” Doc Heward says cheerfully. “It’s about time.”

“About time?” I call after him. “He hasn’t been here that long!”

“Bah!” I heard him call back through the door, following the rest up to Rosie’s.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.

That bastard knew exactly what he was doing when he kissed me in front of everyone. I’m fine with being out, but that’s different from everyone knowing my business. Granted, I expect half the town assumed we were already f*cking the first day they met him, so I don’t suppose it’s anything too bad. Well, not until the gossip wildfire reaches my mother and she finds out my… well, whatever he is to me… kissed me in the middle of the store in front of half the business owners on Poplar Street. That should make for a lovely time at the next meeting of the Roseland Chamber of Commerce. Hysterical.

The bell rings overhead and I roll my eyes without looking up from going over the delivery invoices. “If you’re looking for Cal, the party’s moved up to Rosie’s.”

“Cal?” a man says. I look up, not immediately recognizing his voice. I’m instantly wary of the stranger standing before me. He’s a lot older than me, probably in his forties. He’s on the losing side of fat, his middle thick, his arms like slabs of concrete in the gray collared shirt. He’s balding on top, his dark hair thinning in little wisps. His eyes are small, and he almost reminds me of a fish, the way his lips pucker as if he’s bitten into a lemon. His face is doughy and pale.

“Can I help you?” I say. He doesn’t seem like one of the Strange Men, but given the last few days, I don’t want to take any chances.

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” he says as he walks to the counter and places his meaty hands flat down on top of it. “You said something about Cal?” he asks, watching me closely.

His voice is familiar to me, though I can’t quite place it. I rack my brain as I say, “Uh, sure. He’s up at the diner with most of the rest of the town.”

“Is that a fact?” he says, sounding amused. “So old Cal Blue came back, did he?”

“I’m sorry, do you know him?” I feel cold.

“Not personally, though I’ve heard a lot about him,” Fish Eyes says, a small smile on his face. “Seems a lot of people around here are talking about him.”

I school my face so it’s blank when I shrug. “He’s all right.”

Fish Eyes laughs. “I’m sure he is. And you must be Benji, right?” “Yes.”

“And you run the station here, right?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Big Eddie’s Gas and Convenience. Quite the mouthful.”

“Can I help you with something?” I want him to leave. I wonder briefly if my thread is showing, if Cal is racing toward the store. I hope not. The moments when threads show during the day, I’ve had to calm him so his wings aren’t visible. I don’t know what would happen if they exploded out of him in the middle of Rosie’s Diner. Probably not the best thing to happen. I will myself to calm.

“I’m sure you probably could,” Fish Eyes says. “Tell me, Benji. What does a guy your age get up to in a small town like this?”

“Mostly work,” I say with a false smile. I can almost place his voice, but the answer dances away. “I own the store, so I don’t have time for much else.”

“Well, as long as you’re staying out of trouble, then you should be okay,” Fish Eyes says. “Would hate to think anything would happen to you. Or Cal. Good old Cal Blue, right? That his name?”

“You ask a lot of questions, mister.”

He laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard. “I am a curious man,” he agrees, wiping his eyes. “I like to know everything I can, if you catch my drift.”

“Can’t say that I do,” I say, trying to sound bored. Stay away, Cal. Stay away.

He looks behind me. “Why don’t you give me a pack of them Marlboro 100s and we can call ourselves square.”

I turn, an idea forming in my head. I reach up and grab the smokes. “Got your ID on you?”

He looks taken aback. “I’m flattered, Benji, but I think I’m a bit above eighteen.”

“Federal law requires me to swipe a driver’s license through the reader every time I sell cigarettes. Don’t want to get dinged by the state. They do random tests.” I shrug like it is out of my hands. “For all I know, you could be an agent doing an inspection. Haven’t had one in a while.”

“Do I look like a government agent to you?”

“You look like a lot of things to me. Got that ID so I can ring you up?”

He narrows his eyes as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He opens it and slides an Oregon driver’s license across the counter. I snap it up, trying to look at ease. I turn to the ID reader behind me and slide it through. I glance down at the screen on the reader. VERIFIED, it says. JACK TRAYNOR DOB 11/14/1959.

Traynor.

Where have I heard—

No. Oh f*ck.

The gunman: All I wanted was a f*cking hit, man! Traynor told me I could get it, that f*cking bastard!

Then—

Mayor Walken: You seem to forget, Traynor, that you are operating in my town, with my permission, which makes me your boss.

Then—

The smoker: I say we just take them out now. Kill the f*cking faggot before he goes any further with this.

He’s here, I think. He’s here and he knows I was there that night. He knows I was listening.

For each thought I have, each voice that goes through my head, another second ticks by. I can hear them counting off in my head and it’s one and it’s two and it’s three… until I realize that I’m still staring at the reader which is shouting: TRAYNOR TRAYNOR TRAYNOR.

“There a problem?” I hear him ask, an edge to his words.

“No,” I say, sounding remarkably calm. “No problem. It just didn’t read it. Shouldn’t be but another moment.” I swipe it again. The screen lights up brighter than it ever has before, saying TRAYNOR, shrieking TRAYNOR. It’s trying to tell me what I already know. Get it together, Benji, I tell myself. Focus. Get it together and f*cking do your job. He’s waiting for you to f*ck up. He’s waiting for the look on your face. Do your f*cking job.

I plaster a smile on my face, the skin feeling tight. I turn back to Traynor, who is watching me with a scowl. I hand him back his ID, which he snatches out of my hand. I ring up the smokes. “That’ll be $7.86,” I tell him evenly.

He hands me a ten. “You know, you look a little nervous.”

F*ck. Calm. Calm. No threads. Cal, stay away. “Just tired,” I assure him as I make his change. “Been a rough couple of weeks.”

“Is that right?” he says, holding out his hand for the change, hooking his fingers up. I can’t help but think how much like a bear trap it looks.

I nod and drop the dollars and coins into his hand. And just like that, the trap closes, his fingers encircling my wrist, vise tight. I know he can feel my pulse, the blood rushing in erratic beats of my heart. My hand is clammy and my breath lodges in my throat. It’s like the world has gone silent around us, as if we’re stuck in a vacuum. I don’t know if I could call out even if I tried. No, Cal. Stay away. Stay away.

Traynor has a shrewd look on his face, as if he can see inside my head and knows every single damn thing I’m thinking. There’s so many weird things going on in this town that I banish Cal from my thoughts just in case Traynor can see inside. These are some strange days, I think frantically. I’m expecting his eyes to start twitching back and forth and his head to cock to the side, like he’s a bird stalking its prey.

“You okay, there, Benji?” he asks, deceptively soft. “You getting sick?”

“Might be the flu,” I say weakly, the first thought in my head. “Been going around town. May head on home when the shift change gets here in a few minutes.” There’s no one coming in, but he doesn’t know that. At least I don’t think he does.

If he’s worried about my words, he doesn’t give a reaction. He grinds his fingers into my wrist and I bite back the whimper that threatens to rise. “You know,” he says, “faggots can find themselves in a world of hurt if they don’t mind their own business.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he says, squeezing my wrist again. “But you look like you need a reminder, just in case.”

Anger is rising and I do nothing to stop it. I try to jerk my hand away, but he outweighs me by a good seventy pounds, and his hand is a steel trap. “Get the f*ck out of my store before I call the cops,” I growl at him.

He laughs. “The cops? You want to get the sheriff in here, boy? Well, that might be the best idea you’ve had in your short, short life.”

The bell rings overhead as the front door opens. Traynor stiffens and immediately drops my wrist, leaning back on his heels. He doesn’t turn away from me.

“Everything okay in here, Benji?” F*ck.

“Everything’s fine, Abe. Just selling this gentleman his smokes. He was just on his way out.”

Traynor sneers at me. “That’s right. Just got my smokes. Hey, Benji?”

I say nothing, pulling my hands into fists at my sides.

“Remember what we talked about, okay? I would hate to see something happen to someone so young. Seems to me there’s been enough death in this place.” He smiles as he says this last, and it’s all I can do to keep from launching myself over the counter and ripping his f*cking face off with my bare hands. I want to cause him pain. I want him to hurt.

He snorts and brushes past Abe none too gently and walks out the door, the bell ringing overhead. He gets into an old Mazda and waves at me as he backs out onto Poplar and drives away.

“What in the hell was that about?” Abe asks, rushing over to me. “You okay, boy?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter. I try to hide my wrist, but it’s too late. He grabs it and pulls it up to his face. The ache is deeper than the red marks, easily seen as fingerprints. It’ll bruise later, mottling my skin into deep blues and greens.

“You’re not fine,” he snaps at me. “Who was that man?”

“Just some guy,” I sigh. “Friends with the sheriff.”

Abe’s jaw drops. “Benji, you’ve stepped into some shit here. You’ve got to watch yourself before something happens.”

“I know,” I say, withdrawing my hand. “I may need to call that—”

The bell rings again. “Abe!” Cal crows.

“Shit,” I mumble, trying to catch Abe’s eyes, to tell him to keep his fool mouth shut. He either doesn’t see or he ignores me.

“Cal,” he says tightly. “It’s good to have you back, but you seem to be doing a piss-poor job at this whole guardian-angel thing.”

“I can handle myself,” I snap at Abe. “I’ve been doing just fine for years without him here.”

“Fine?” Abe says, arching an eyebrow at me. “That’s what you call it? Fine?”

“What’s going on?” Cal asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“Some guy was just in here and he attacked Benji!”

“Abe,” I groan. “He didn’t attack—”

Cal’s in front of me even before I can finish my sentence. He towers over me, irritation flashing in his dark eyes, his upper lip twitching. “Show me,” he says.

Try as I might, I can’t refuse him. I hold out my wrist again, and his touch is gentle as he rubs his fingers on the darkening skin. I try rolling my wrist in his hands, and while it hurts, it doesn’t seem like anything is sprained.

“Who did this to you?” he says, his voice vibrating with fury.

“It doesn’t—”

“No games!” he barks. “Tell me.”

“Traynor,” I say, looking away.

“Traynor?” Abe says, sounding surprised. “Wasn’t that… Arthur Davis said that name. That was him?”

“Who is Arthur Davis?” Cal says with a scowl. “He is not one of mine. He is hidden from me. Traynor is too. You asked me about him once.”

“Shit,” I mutter again.

“Arthur Davis was the guy with the gun that you scared to kingdom come,” Abe says.

“I will find him,” Cal promises. “I will find this Traynor. He will not bother you again.”

“No,” I say sharply, and he flinches. “You are not to do anything like that again. You promised me.”

“He hurt you.” Now it looks like his anger is directed at me. “Why didn’t I see your thread if you were being hurt?”

That’s a question I can’t answer, though part of me wonders if I kept it from him by merely wishing it so. This isn’t information I think needs to be shared, if true. That would mean that God… crap, I can’t even begin to think of it. “I’m fine now,” I reassure him. “Abe came in and rescued me.” This is supposed to be a joke, but it comes out flat.

But to Cal, it’s serious. He turns to my old friend. “Thank you,” he says somberly. “Thank you for doing what I could not.”

Abe shrugs. “Don’t need to worry about that. I saw you up with those people at Rosie’s and figured Benji could use some company.” He raises his hand to cut Cal off as he tries to interrupt, guilt pouring off him. “Didn’t mean a thing by that. You might have been watching Benji for a long time, but you aren’t the only one who cares what happens to him. People are just a mite glad you are back, and I’m one of them. I don’t expect you to leave again anytime soon, we clear?”

Cal nods, bowing his head. He entwines his fingers into mine and grips me tightly. I squeeze back to let him know that everything is okay, even though it’s so far from okay it’s mind-boggling.

“What are you going to do about this, Benji?” Abe asks. “This is getting to be bigger than all of us.”

“I may need to make a call,” I admit.

“To who?”

I avert my eyes. “That FBI agent. Corwin. This might be the wildfire he was talking about.”

“Government men,” Abe mutters. “We’ll see what he’s capable of, I guess.”

“I don’t know why you just don’t let me handle this,” Cal mutters. He keeps his hand in mine, tightening his grip. He looks worried and guilty.

“Hey,” I chide softly. “None of that. I know what you’re capable of, but Abe’s right. This might be getting bigger than we are. You’ve still got my back, right?”

He looks at me incredulously. “You’re not leaving my side again.”

I roll my eyes. “You’ve got a job to do, Cal. And so do I. But we’ll figure something out, okay?”

“Government men,” he grumbles. I don’t even think he knows what that means. Abe starts to chuckle and I follow suit. Somehow it’s not as hard to laugh as I thought it would be.





the life and death of joshua corwin

I would learn later that Agent Joshua Corwin was a family man, much to my

surprise. He had a wife and three adorable girls, nine, and thirteen, and fifteen years old. He and his wife Rebecca had been married for twenty years. They’d been high school sweethearts who married upon graduation. They’d gone to college together at the University of Oregon, Rebecca electing to pursue a degree in journalism, Corwin going into criminal justice.

Shortly before graduating college, Corwin was recruited into the FBI. His plan had been to become a police officer for a few years before applying to the academy, but they came knocking years early with an offer he could not turn down. After training at Quantico and passing with flying colors, he was assigned to the field office in El Paso, focusing on narcotics coming across the border from Mexico. Rebecca worked as an on-air reporter for the local ABC affiliate.

He and his wife were twenty-three when their first daughter, Alex, was born. They were twenty-five when their second daughter, Jennifer, was born. They were twenty-seven when the world went insane on September 11. All other

assignments were put on hold as tons of steel fell in a cloud of dust so thick it looked like the deepest fog. By then, Rebecca had worked her way up to a weekend anchor desk with hopes of going to weeknight anchor as soon as that old fossil Bill Macklin decided to retire. But 9/11 gave them different priorities, much like it did the rest of the world. They made the decision that Rebecca would stay home with the girls, while Corwin, like so many others, was reassigned to work on a terrorism task force. It was a completely different animal than he was used to, but like the rest of the country, he felt an absurdly ridiculous charge of patriotism in the years that followed.

Eventually, missing the work he used to do, he put in a request to go back onto a drug task force, and when a spot opened up back in their home state of Oregon, he jumped at the chance and dragged his family back to the Northwest, including their new addition, their youngest daughter Lily.

I would learn later that Corwin was a big softie when it came to his daughters, his little girls. He doted on them, giving them whatever they wanted. They were all daddy’s girls, through and through. He was never harsh, never cross. He could be stern, but only when they were in the wrong. They loved him; they thought him the greatest man who ever lived. And for all they knew, maybe he was.

His marriage was strong and deep. Friends would say they’d never seen a couple so devoted to each other as Joshua and Rebecca. They acted like they were still eighteen, so young, so in love. They were strong together, playing off each other’s strengths until they had created a formidable team. He worshipped the ground his wife walked on.

Life was good for Agent Joshua Corwin and his family. He had a good job. He had a great family. He had the life he’d always wanted to have. It was wonderful. Everything was just wonderful.

He couldn’t possibly ask for anything more.

Those are the things I learned about him after I killed him.





Of course, I knew nothing of Corwin’s life when I first called him, the day

after Traynor visited the store. I was solely focused on not sounding like a complete idiot when I called him, especially when I realized just how thin my story sounded. It didn’t help that Cal paced in front of me, scowling, muttering to himself that he just couldn’t believe I thought he couldn’t protect me. Didn’t I know he was an angel? I reassured him that I knew that and more, pressing a kiss against his lips which he returned with a desperate edge. It bothered him immensely that Traynor had gotten in and out without him knowing. It bothered him that he did not know who Traynor was. It bothered him that he was still cut off from his memories.

But I think what bothered him the most was the fact that he had been surrounded by adoring people while I was getting harassed. I never said anything to him about this, and while he didn’t articulate it in so many words, I could see any anger he directed at himself. People came into the store the next day to see him again, but he was less forthcoming than he’d been the day before. He flat-out refused to leave with any of them. A thread arose at some point that morning, and I could see the conflicted look in his eyes as he glanced between me and the door. Rosie had walked in at that moment, much to his relief. He must have thought she carried her shotgun everywhere, because he felt at least a slight comfort leaving her there with me, even though she didn’t have it on her. She’d been puzzled, but I just shook my head, telling her Cal was being Cal, and he worried a little too much.

She didn’t leave until he returned.





“Corwin,” a gruff voice says into the phone.

“Agent Corwin?” I ask. “Joshua Corwin?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Benji Green.”

“Yes?”

“You gave me your card a few weeks ago. In Roseland? You asked about my

father, Big Eddie? I’m sorry. Edward Green. It was at the gas station.”

He gives me a brisk, “Hold on.” I hear him cover the phone, then a muffled voice speaking to someone else. I can’t make out any of the words until, “And can you shut the door on your way out please? Thank you.” There’s another pause. “Mr. Green?”

“Uh, yeah. You can call me Benji. If that’s okay.”

“And what can I do for you, Benji?”

I’m at a loss of where to begin. I want to ask questions immediately, demand an

explanation, but my mouth feels dry, and I don’t know if I’m entitled to these answers. The silence begins to drag on until Cal comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. He reaches a big hand under my shirt and rubs my stomach in slow, soothing circles. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “You got this,” he murmurs. “If you have to talk to him, then talk.”

“Benji?” Corwin asks, his voice sharper.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m… nervous. About calling you.”

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t know. I think so. I think many things happened. I think things are going

to happen.”

“Gossip, huh?” He sounds amused.

“Like wildfire.”

“Griggs?”

“Yeah. And the mayor.”

“Walken,” he growls. “Why am I not surprised?”

“And Traynor.”

Silence. It feels thick. Then: “Did you say Traynor? As in Jack Traynor?” This can’t be good. “Yes.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Oh, Jesus Christ, kid. Have you seen him? How do

you—No. That can wait. Listen to me. You stay away from Jack Traynor, you hear me? That man is a f*cking sociopath. Do you understand? You do nothing with Traynor. You say nothing to Traynor. I’m serious, Benji.”

My hands feel clammy. I glance down at the marks circling my wrist, the red having faded into blues and purples and greens. “He’s here. In Roseland,” I say faintly.

Corwin swears. “We were told he was back East. What the hell is he doing in Roseland?” The question seems to be rhetorical, so I don’t answer. I don’t know the answer, regardless. “Listen, Benji,” Corwin says brusquely. “I need to meet with you. Get some information. This isn’t going to be strictly on the record. For now. But if Traynor is involved, this just became a whole new ball game. When can you meet?”

I try to backpedal. “Uh. Look. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If he’s as bad as you say, it may not be good for me to be seen talking to you, you know? What if he comes after my family? My mom? The Trio?” I tilt my head back to look at the man behind me, making sure he understands what I’m trying to say. He smiles softly at me and kisses my forehead.

“You want to know something, Benji?” Corwin asks, his voice going softer. No, I don’t feel that I do. But there’s something in his voice that I can’t deny.

“What?”

“A man called me five years ago. Told me he thought something was going on in

his town. Thought he should alert the authorities outside of the sheriff’s office.

Wouldn’t tell me his name. Said he had a family to think about. That he had a son.” “No,” I whisper.

“When can you meet?”

“I have a store to run,” I hedge.

“Get someone else to watch it. This is important.”

“I….”

“Benji, your father was trying to do what’s right. Now it’s up to you.” “F*ck,” I say, closing my eyes.





I ask Mom to watch the store, telling her I need a day off again. She averts her

eyes from Cal standing right next to me. She says I seem to be taking quite a bit of time off lately. I remind her that out of the last three years, any time off I took was because she forced me to. She huffs a bit at that then acquiesces. She doesn’t know Abe will be paying her a visit at the store to let her know he also knows about Cal, and to try and talk her down from whatever ledge she seems to be standing on. It’s an ambush, I know, but I don’t know how else to go about it. It’s starting to feel like I’m juggling too many things at once, and soon everything will come crashing down.

I feel absurd heading to the next town over, like I’m some kind of spy on my way to a covert drop. The whole thing is made a tad bit more ridiculous when Cal tells me in a very serious voice that he’s been watching TV in the back office at the store and that anytime spies get together, they wear sunglasses. He asks if I’ll buy him a pair of sunglasses because he still doesn’t have any money. The flush that rises up his neck while he says this is enough to melt the ice that has surrounded my heart since hanging up the phone with Corwin. I take him out and buy him sunglasses. He makes me buy a pair for myself as well, the same as his. We look like idiots.

Cal drives because I don’t think I can focus enough. Though I do admit to going out of my way to get that damn beaming smile he gives me when he’s tickled to no end. Driving the Ford inspires it. Green clover marshmallows do too. And I seem to be mashed up in there as well, because there are times he’ll look at me and that smile just comes out of nowhere, curving his lips as his eyes grow bright and warm, threatening to knock me on my ass. I thought about asking him to stay in Roseland, but even as the words came out of my mouth, he began to growl at me like some kind of feral cat and I left it alone.

We are quiet most of the way into Oakland, a small town about halfway between Roseland and Eugene. This leads us down the Old Forest Highway before hitting I10, directly past mile marker seventy-seven. This, of course, causes my pulse to quicken as my heart begins to race. Before we round that last curve, Cal pulls me across the bench seat until I’m nestled up against him with his arm wrapped around my shoulders, my face in his neck. I shake for a time, breathing him in, and when I open my eyes again, we are already on the main highway, sunglasses and all.





“Benji?” a rough voice says. I turn in the booth I sit in at the local diner, almost

knocking over the cup of coffee I have yet to touch.

Corwin stands next to the booth, his suit slightly wrinkled, his dark hair windblown and all over the place. He looks like I remember, disheveled but still with an air of authority around him. He slides off his mirror shades and I see his eyes are a chocolate brown, but they still look slightly cold. “Agent,” I allow.

He narrows his eyes as he glances over at Cal. “Who is this?”

Cal stands, his stance tense. He is bigger than Corwin, both height-wise and around. “I’m with Benji. He’s mine. You will not hurt him.”

Corwin doesn’t look intimidated in the slightest. “I’m not here to hurt him,” he says, keeping his voice even. “I’m pretty sure you can stand down, big guy, before you hurt yourself.”

I groan and pull on Cal’s hand, forcing him to slide into the booth next to me. He crowds me up against the wall of the diner. I take in a deep breath and smell earth. It calms me, at least a bit. He takes my hand and I clutch at him, pulling our joined hands down to my lap so Corwin can’t see. I’m not worried about Corwin’s opinion of us, but we’re in a place that is not our home. I don’t want people to turn hostile.

Corwin sits across the table, folds his glasses, then puts them in a pocket in his suit jacket. He cracks his knuckles and glances between the two of us before focusing on me. “I was glad to get your call, kid. Didn’t think anything would come of it.”

“Why did you stop in Roseland that day?” I ask, curious.

A strange look comes over Corwin’s face. It almost looks like he’s embarrassed. He cracks his knuckles again and sighs. “You know what? I don’t know if I can answer that.”

My eyes widen as I lean forward. “Like, it’s top secret or something?” I almost consider looking around to see if there are any spies listening in. I still have my sunglasses in my pocket. Should I put them back on?

He laughs. “No, kid. Not anything like that. It just sounds… weird.” He pauses as a waitress comes over and sets another cup of coffee on the table. He lifts the cup and drinks it black.

Cal makes a face. “I don’t see how you guys can drink that. I told Benji I wouldn’t like it and I didn’t. It’s gross.” He scowls as he takes a drink of his juice as if to prove his point.

“It puts hair on your chest,” Corwin tells him.

“Already got it,” Cal says proudly, and I have to grab his shirt before he pulls it up to show Corwin just how much hair he has. Corwin looks at the two of us like we’re the oddest things he’s laid his eyes on. If only he knew what weird really is, I think. Hell, he’s the FBI. They probably know everything about angels already. And aliens.

“Why was it weird?” I ask Corwin as Cal grabs my hand again.

Corwin has to drag his eyes away from Cal. Another one under his spell, I think. “Huh?” Corwin says.

“Why was it weird?”

He blushes again. “It sounds a little crazy.”

“I know crazy, trust me.”

Cal grins at me.

Corwin watches me for a moment then says, “For some reason, I believe that. I, uh… okay. Look. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in psychics or mystics or anything weird like that.”

“There goes my whole notion of the X-Files,” I mutter.

He ignores me. “But I do believe that people can have hunches, or feelings… you know, that something is… off. I don’t think it’s any kind of sixth sense or anything like that. To be in my line of work, though, you almost have to have it. It’s saved me a few times, whether or not I could admit it at the time.” He looks at me defiantly, like he expects me to make fun of him. I keep my face passive.

He continues: “I was digging through some old case files, trying to clear off my desk. It’s this whole new initiative going through the Bureau right now: out with the old and in with the new. Cases are being labeled with a priority level so the higherups can figure out how the distribution should work. Cases that are considered dead or cold are obviously given a lower priority than the rest.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I ask. “Or my father?”

He glares at me. “I’m getting to that, okay? Look, this isn’t easy for me to tell you, because obviously you don’t know what was going on. So just listen.”

I nod, gripping Cal’s hand tightly.

“Everything is digital these days,” Corwin says, “but even five years ago we still had a shitload of paper files. And my desk was buried in them. I had a pile that I considered my “dead” pile, and I planned on taking those all at once to be put into storage. I wasn’t planning on going through them at all. They were dead. They weren’t coming back to life. So… shit.”

“What?”

He takes a large sip of coffee and starts wringing his hands. “I was working late one night. I had to stay late because we were planning on going on vacation soon. Me, the wife. The kids. It’d been so long since we’d done anything, and I was feeling a bit guilty. So I was working late, trying to get all this shit done so I could take a week off work without thinking of the pile of paperwork waiting for me when I got back. It was going on ten o’clock. I was the only one left in the office, aside from the cleaning crew. I know this. I know I was the only one left. I was almost done. I was ready to go home, so I picked up the last stack and put it in the cart. There were probably a hundred other files in there. I got up and started pushing it toward the elevator and….” He stops, looking embarrassed again. “I can’t really explain it, okay? I’d gone maybe three steps and it was like… it was like a hand dropped on my shoulder. Out of nowhere.”

“Out of the blue?” I ask, my hands like ice. I force myself to keep looking at Corwin. I want to turn and look at Cal, to see the look on his face, to start the questions all over again, to ask what he knew, when he knew it, and why he did what he did. This is not coincidence. This is no longer about what’s impossible or improbable.

There is a pattern, I think. Shapes. A design.

“Yeah,” Corwin mutters. “Out of the blue. I don’t mind admitting it scared the shit out of me. I spun around, jerking the cart with me, but there was no one there. I told myself I was just tired. That I was imagining things. But you know what? I remember. I remember in that split second feeling fingers curling around my shoulder. I know what I felt. It was there. But no one was behind me.” He looks at me nervously. “I know how this sounds, okay? I know what it sounds like. But I’m not crazy. I’m not.”

I shake my head, feeling numb. “I don’t think you are. At all.” I hazard a glance at Cal, but his face was impassive. I know he feels my gaze on him, but he’s studiously avoiding it. I try to pull my hand away from his because I feel there’s untruth mixed in with all the rest of him, but he refuses to let me go.

Corwin doesn’t seem to notice any of this, only looks relieved at my assurances. “It’s just strange to say it out loud,” he admits.

“These are some strange days,” Cal says, and I have trouble swallowing. It feels like my throat has closed.

“Yeah,” Corwin says. “But I’m not done. When I saw no one was there, my heart just jumped into my throat. I’d never felt like that before. It was like a small electric current running through my body and I felt… more alive. Like there was something more about me. Something I had never thought of before, and it felt important. I’m not explaining this very well.”

I’m confused, but I just nod.

“The point is, I spun around and the entire cart got knocked over. Literally thousands of pages from hundreds of files fell to the floor and scattered everywhere. It would take weeks to put everything back together. But out of all those files that spilled, out of all the pages on the floor, there was still one in the cart, still one thin file intact, not a single page spilled. I hadn’t come across it when clearing out my desk. It must have gotten lost in the shuffle. I hadn’t even thought about it in years.”

The waitress comes back, refilling the coffee and Cal’s juice. She asks if we want anything to eat and we say no. She stands above us, and I see her glance at Cal’s hand entwined in mine in my lap. She rolls her eyes and walks away.

“What was in the file, Corwin?” I ask, not sure if I want the answer.

He looks down at his hands. “Part of my job is to track trends, data analysis involving drug shipments. In early 2006, I began to notice what seemed to be an increase in the distribution and use of methamphetamines. There’d always been concern in Oregon about meth usage, given how much of the area is rural, but it spiked drastically, like either multiple labs and dealers had popped up out of nowhere, or there was a massive new operation that was manufacturing and distributing meth.”

“I don’t understand,” I say quietly, feeling sick to my stomach. “I’ve never heard of anything like that around here.”

“Well, you probably wouldn’t, would you?” he counters. “Most organized meth labs aren’t exactly out in the open for everyone to see. This wouldn’t have been because of one man making meth out of his bathtub. The point is, I began to track where it was coming from, as that was my job. But I came up with nothing, just a bunch of dead ends. There were never reports of anyone buying the massive quantities of chemicals I would expect for the size of the operation I felt was happening. No large shipments of fertilizer aside from the usual to farms in the surrounding counties, all of which have to carry permits to lawfully order. Even my usual contacts couldn’t tell me if there was a new major player out there.

“You have to understand that all I had to support me was a bunch of random statistics that might have just been a fluke. Meth manufacturing can be a relatively cheap process when done right, and the use of meth was on the rise, so it was easier to turn a profit. For every number I had showing the spike, you could have found the same thing happening all over the country. I didn’t have any evidence. Nothing concrete, anyway.”

“Then how’d you find anything?” I ask.

He sighs. “I had a buddy in the DEA who owed me a favor. His reach goes further than mine, and I had him put out a couple of feelers to see if he could get a nibble where I couldn’t. He ran into someone who gave him someone else’s name. Turned out to be a hard-core drug user, but one who still seemed to be in his right mind, for the most part. We call ’em twitchers, because of the little seizures they seem to have, the shakes. He pointed us south. Turns out I’d been looking too far north. Portland, Tigard, hell, all of Multnomah County. I even spread my dragnet as far as the coast, places like Tillamook and Seafare. But he told us south. And that’s when I got a phone call. One of those quirky twists of fate. Luck, pure and simple. Early 2007, it was. Somehow landed on my desk. Maybe someone heard of my project, maybe they just tried to pass the buck off, I don’t know. But I picked up the phone and on the other end was a man who refused to give me his name. Deep voice, though. Sounded like he’d be a big guy.” He watches me directly as he says this last, anticipating my reaction.

I feel the blood drain from my face as I draw in a sharp intake of breath. “Dad.”

Corwin nods. “I think so. I really do. Like I said, no name, wouldn’t give me his phone number, wouldn’t tell me where he was from or how he knew what he knew. Told me he was worried about what would happen to his family if he was found out. He had a son, he told me. Sounded real proud when he said it too.” I close my eyes. “Said he didn’t want to take the risk, but wanted to let me know he had reasons to suspect the good sheriff of Douglas County might not be as clean as he’d led others to believe. Seems said sheriff was actually quite the opposite of clean. And maybe others were involved as well. He didn’t have a whole lot to go on, but he wanted me to send the cavalry out here with guns blazing.”

A tear slips down my cheek. That sounds just like Big Eddie. “But you didn’t, did you,” I say bitterly. “You didn’t do a damn thing.” Cal puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into him. I don’t care if someone has a f*cking problem with it in the diner. I take comfort from his heat and the low growl coming from his throat, directed at the man across from us.

“You have to understand, Benji,” Corwin said, looking miserable, “there wasn’t a whole lot I could do, at least not right then. Regardless of the small town it was in, sheriff is still an elected position, and then the mayor’s name was dropped as potentially being involved? It would have been a bureaucratic nightmare to accuse them without any evidence. My superiors would have laughed me out of their offices, and no judge would have granted me a warrant. It was all speculative. All I had were flow charts and the voice on the phone of a man I didn’t know. Hell, I had one of our geeks in the computer lab run satellite searches over the Umpqua National Forest and couldn’t find a damn thing that stuck out. If they were doing anything, it’d have to be well hidden.”

“They were talking about moving,” I say suddenly, flashes of conversation running through my head. “They said things were getting too close.”

“Who?” he says excitedly.

“Walken. Griggs. Traynor. A couple of others.”

“How do you know this?”

I hesitate, only because Cal doesn’t know the full story here either. But I’ve already opened my mouth, so I spill the rest of the story about the night I stood under the sheriff’s window. I get to the part about Walken threatening Traynor, and Corwin lets out a low whistle. “That guy’s got some balls if he tries to bully Traynor. That is not a man I would want to f*ck with.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumble. Corwin arches an eyebrow at me and I show him my arm, the bruises still identifiable as fingers wrapped around my wrist. Cal lets out another growl as Corwin touches my hand gingerly. Corwin pulls out his phone and says, “May I?” I nod and he snaps some photos, first one side and then the other.

“You didn’t tell me any of this,” Cal says through gritted teeth. “Why couldn’t I see it? The thread? What is going on here?”

“What?” Corwin asks, bewildered.

I panic for a moment and shake my head at Corwin. “We’ll talk about this later,” I say to Cal.

“Planning on it,” he snaps at me.

“You think my father was murdered too, don’t you?” I ask Corwin. It feels odd, this certainty I feel. Having validation, after so long wondering on my own, is surreal.

He sits back against the booth and drums his fingers on the table with one hand, looking at the photo of my wrist on his phone with the other. “I talked to him three more times,” he finally says, “over a period of two months. Tried to trace the number each time he called, but he was smart. The numbers were for disposable cell phones. Couldn’t even ping them on any cell tower. He was quick with the phone calls.”

“I looked at his cell phone records after he died,” I say, wondering just how I missed all of this, how I could have been so blind. My father must have gone to great lengths to keep this hidden from us. I can’t help but feel anger toward him, that he could have kept this to himself, that he was making secret phone calls to the FBI without saying a damn thing about it. “The one for the store phone too. Never found anything that wasn’t supposed to be there. He made sure of that.”

“Hey,” Corwin says with alarm. “That’s not why I’m here, Benji. I’m not trying to dig at old wounds or say anything disparaging against your father. What he did was a brave thing, contacting us like he did. He didn’t have to. He could have kept on going with his life and not said a word. He spoke up.”

“And he died,” I snap. “He f*cking died for it. What the f*ck does that do for me?”

Corwin looks sympathetic when he says, “Sometimes we have to risk everything for the chance to do one thing right. I’d like to think your father knew that.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“You convinced him to meet with you,” I say coldly. “That’s where he was going that morning. Not to see any friends. He was going to meet with you. He didn’t want to. He told you he didn’t. But you made him go anyway.”

Corwin flinches as if I’ve raised my hand to him. “The last time he called, I told him it was important for my case that he come in and meet me face to face. I told him that unless he was a material witness, nothing he’d told me would mean a damn thing. I couldn’t find enough proof to support the claims. I’d tried to convince him the other times he’d called, but… I pushed him this time. Hard.” Corwin looks away. “I told him to think about his son. Did he want his son to grow up in a place where he could be exposed to this bullshit? What if they found out he was speaking to me? Wouldn’t that put his family in danger?”

“You used us against him? What the f*ck is wrong with you?”

“You have to understand,” Corwin pleads. “I thought I was about to lose this case. I had a witness who wouldn’t even give me his name, and a bunch of loose information that wasn’t connecting. I couldn’t find a damn thing about Walken or Griggs to support this. No evidence of money laundering, no embezzlement. The town books were in order. Hell, Roseland was audited in 2005 and passed with flying colors. There was nothing.”

“What I understand,” I grind out, “is that you killed my father.”

Corwin closes his eyes. “He finally relented. We set up a meeting. I offered to meet him halfway, but he wanted to come to Eugene. Said he wanted to get as far away as he could before he would meet me. We were supposed to meet at a park. Still wouldn’t tell me his name. Told me he was a big guy. That he’d be wearing a John Deere hat.”

“Oh, God,” I whisper.