11
The Murderer and the Man of God
BECKETT PULLED UP TO the meeting spot in the Hummer. He emerged from his vehicle in an expensive suit, sans tie, with exquisitely costly Italian shoes cradling his feet. Cole was already there, dressed like he was ready to do yard work. He sat on the hood of the church’s boring tan sedan, which Beckett had hated since the first time he saw it.
“Still driving around in the dead man’s car?” Beckett said by way of greeting.
Cole hopped off the hood and walked toward Beckett until they could wrap their forearms together. The men stood closely for a moment. Someone watching might have guessed they were going to kiss.
Cole stepped back. “The dead man donated this fabulous piece of machinery with his dying breath. So, yes, I’m still driving it.”
“This is probably the only twenty-year-old car in existence with fourteen miles on the odometer. That guy really went nowhere but church. It should be in a fucking museum.” Beckett hopped onto the sedan’s hood, and the car creaked in protest.
Cole said nothing. The men scanned the woods. Today was cloudy, so they could expect to meet Blake here, where they’d parked, rather than traveling into the cover of trees.
“He ain’t comin’,” Beckett said. “Not by a long shot.”
But neither man moved. They would wait for the hour they promised, just as they had for the past seven years. This wouldn’t be the first time Blake hadn’t shown up.
Beckett took a closer look at Cole. “You look like crap on a pile of crap. What the hell have you been doing, self-flagellating instead of whacking off?”
“Did someone steal a Word-a-Day calendar recently?” Cole retorted.
Beckett leaned over and gave an exaggerated sniff. “You smell like pussy! Did you get pussy? Are you nailing an old chick?”
“You make me sick.” Cole turned, doing his best to ignore Beckett.
But Beckett never gave up. “Did you put on a muumuu, grab some Bengay, and head to that glorified Denny’s like Don Juan? You da man!” Beckett pounded Cole on the back.
Cole looked at him, face wreathed in despair, and the pounding stopped.
“What? What happened?” Beckett lost his swagger, and his voice softened.
Cole grabbed a fistful of his own hair. “Beckett, I met the most amazing girl this morning. I can’t think straight.”
“Now that right there is some soap opera bullshit, and I feel for you, little bro. Aren’t you supposed to be Jesus’ bitch?” Beckett studied Cole’s face.
“I’m not going to let down the people who’ve fed me and clothed me and gave me a chance when they didn’t have to.” Cole had actually pulled out some of his hair and now picked it from between his fingers.
“Not to be a bastard, but, dude, aren’t all the people who were there when you started dead now?”
Beckett waited for Cole’s wrath. He hated when anyone disparaged his congregation.
“It’s the spirit of the thing. And no, some of them are still alive. Father Callahan is definitely still alive.” Cole scanned the woods again.
“A woman can make you want to change your ways.” Beckett touched the small scar Eve’s knife had left on his neck. “Speaking of which, did Livia come to see you?”
Cole’s eyes shut. “Yes, we’ve met.”
“That’s not who you’re talking about, is it?” Beckett said, suddenly alarmed. Cole gave him a withering look. “I want her to be right for Blake so bad.”
Cole nodded, but then shook his head. “No, it’s not her. Beck, Livia’s a regular girl. How can a regular girl handle it?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s braver than most. Did you know she came to see me in the middle of the night? Tssk. I almost watched Dentist kill her and her little sister in my parking lot.”
In an instant Cole threw Beckett on his back and squeezed his throat for all he was worth on the hood of the donated car.
Beckett lay quietly and refused to fight back. He’d never lay a hand on Cole in violence, ever.
Cole shook his head, seeming to come back to himself, and released Beckett’s neck. “You almost watched Kyle die? What kind of monster are you?”
Beckett absorbed the verbal blow as he sat up. “I’m the worst kind, Cole. The worst kind.”
The brothers sat in silence again, scanning the woods for prodigal Blake.
After about ten minutes of awkward silence, Beckett tried again. “So, Fairy Princess is the lady who has you all jacked up. Livia’s sister.”
Cole nodded.
Beckett resumed telling his story as if Cole had not just tried to choke him. “Livia came to my office and managed to ask me about Blake, even after witnessing some serious shit in the parking lot.” Beckett watched as Cole’s jaw tightened. “She’s braver than she needs to be,” he continued. “Maybe, just maybe, she could be the one.”
Cole stood and dusted off his pants as if they were as expensive as Beckett’s. “I hope he shows up today to check out the organ.”
Cole got back in the miraculous tan sedan and started the perfectly maintained engine with Beckett still sitting on the hood. Beckett jumped off and went to the driver’s side window. He smirked at the manual crank as Cole rolled down the window.
“Shut it,” Cole snarled.
Beckett held up his knuckles for a bump. “If I watched your church burn down, would you kill me?”
Cole looked suspicious. “No, and that’s a bizarre question.”
Beckett looked toward the woods one more time. “If I watched Kyle die, would you kill me?”
Cole’s eyes practically glowed red.
Beckett nodded. “You might already have the answer to what’s hurting you.”
Cole let out a giant sigh. “I’ll text you if he shows up.”
Beckett smiled crookedly. “Text me when he shows up. I know my boy. He’ll be there for a keyboard.”
Cole pulled away carefully, but he still left a cloud of dust that covered Beckett.
Beckett wasn’t ready to leave. His brothers might never understand how much he hungered for their monthly meetings. He loved feeling like he had a family. He was so used to watching his back and striking first. The easy camaraderie they shared was a balm on his frazzled nerves.
Beckett’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out while he brushed off his clothes. Eve’s text gave him peace:
Chaos reported Blake sighting, gave him tat. Meeting go ok?
Eve hated to talk on the phone. Calling her was like conversing with someone who didn’t speak his language. Most of the time she just hung up without saying goodbye after she got the information she wanted.
Beckett’s huge fingers hated texting, and he sent horribly misspelled messages back to Eve:
GooiD NEWWS. Meeti%ng Fine. Shipment on Tuess.
UR an excellent fuck.
She returned the text so quickly, Beckett laughed out loud:
U will know when u have been fucked.
Beckett put the phone in his pocket. He kept messing with her, trying to get her to sleep with him, but Eve had yet to do anything but tease him. In a world full of whores and junkies, not getting laid was a huge turn-on.
Beckett scanned the trees again and felt a twinge of jealousy that Blake had gotten another tat. It was their thing, the brothers. Their matching tattoos had been the only ones any of them had. Fuck him, it’s his body.
Beckett pulled himself up into the Hummer. He’d wait a little longer, just in case. There were a lot of illegal, deadly things stored in Beckett’s car, but the only thing he kept hidden was the CD he now pulled out from under the driver’s seat. He slipped it in the player and turned on the power, letting the classical music sweep over him like a cool breeze. It was the soundtrack of his boys. The music that saved them. Blake’s music.
Fueled by the melody, Beckett’s mind drifted over his past as he waited in the Hummer. After the botched cat rescue, Beckett had had to give Blake a beatdown to get him to stop with the goddamn hose. The cat scratches hurt so fucking much, but he kept hitting the new kid through the sting. Beckett’s balls had actually crawled inside his body like fucking ostriches from the pain.
When he had finally seen Blake’s passive green eyes, he’d had the sick feeling he was beating on Jesus Fucking Christ. Beckett got up off the new kid and stormed into the house.
New kid had followed him in, carrying a pathetic box of useless crap. He spoke in a ridiculous, cultured voice. “Where do they keep medicines and such in this house?”
Beckett pointed with one of his thick fingers. “Up there, above the stove, so the kids don’t fucking eat ’em.”
New kid had rooted around in the messy cabinet like a goddamn truffle pig finding mushrooms. He came back holding a tube of cream and stood behind Beckett.
“Listen, I plan on being an ass virgin until prison, so you may back the fuck up. Now.” Beckett could feel the blood sticking to his shirt.
“Well, unless you’re circus-style double jointed, there’s no way you’ll be able to reach these scratches on your back,” the new kid had astutely observed.
Beckett had grumbled, but pulled off his shirt. In as masculine a way as they could, the two cleaned his back and smeared some salve on the long red scratches. Beckett went to get a clean shirt from his bedroom, and the new kid followed him.
“That’s your bed right there,” Beckett said, pointing to one of two worn-looking twin beds in the room.
New kid had retrieved his beat-up box from downstairs and hefted it onto his bed.
He’d turned and given Beckett a formal greeting. “I’m pleased to meet you. My name’s Blake Hartt.”
Beckett had looked for a moment at the outstretched hand and finally accepted it. “I’m Beckett Taylor, and we’ve already been as fucking intimate as we’re ever going to get.” He’d put some extra testosterone in his handshake.
“Beckett, I hope I never have to rub you with anything again. It might help if you let ugly kittens get themselves out of trees.”
“Have you ever seen such an ugly damn cat?” Beckett had said with a wry smile. “Aren’t kittens supposed to be all cute and shit?” He liked this kid.
“It was nice of you to help that ungrateful little girl out.” Blake unloaded his belongings onto his bed.
“Ah, I’ve got a soft spot for kids. They’re so fucking little.”
Beckett had turned to go, but thought better of it. Something in Blake spoke to him, maybe it was the Jesus eyes. “Dude, do yourself a favor and don’t go into the woods after dinner—at least until you see me back in this house.”
Blake had looked at Beckett suspiciously and nodded.
It wasn’t long after that when Beckett had figured out Blake was different. He avoided the sun at all costs and had more pill bottles than an AIDS patient. But Beckett wasn’t a bully. He didn’t pick on somebody just because he didn’t fit the fuck in. He only spoke with his fists when he was attacked, verbally or physically. Granted, the definition of “attacked” had a sliding scale.
By the time they’d finished dinner that first night, Blake had made his formal introduction to his new foster parents and the assortment of other kids who lived in the house. After the meal, Beckett rose and went out the back door. His foster father, Rick, was close on his heels.
Beckett stopped at the oak tree that was their meeting place. He stood, as requested, with his hands clasped in front of him. Each night, Rick geared up and beat Beckett repeatedly. With punches, cracks, slams, and grunts, Rick unleashed a fury he kept hidden just for Beckett.
Beckett had had no idea Blake was as tricky as fog in the woods, and that he watched the scene unfold night after night with his clear green eyes.
“Why aren’t you fighting back?” Blake finally asked one night as Beckett lay on his bed.
“I told you not to come the fuck out there, didn’t I?” Beckett hissed.
“I like the woods,” Blake said. “I don’t like knowing what he does to you.”
“Rick’s a beater. He likes it. When I first got here, he beat all the kids. I told him I wanted to take it for everybody.” Beckett had shrugged like he’d just eaten the last cookie. “I’m a big fucking bastard. I can handle it.”
“What about letting your social worker know?” Blake countered.
Beckett shook his head. “No, she’s cool as hell and all, but I have to get through this on my own. I have this worked out. I have a plan. Don’t worry about me. I got this.” Beckett sucked at school, but he knew he could take few beatings.
The next evening, Beckett had waited for Rick in his usual spot, head down and hands clasped in front like a condemned army cadet. As Rick approached, the sound of a solid punch suddenly snapped Beckett to attention. Blake stood in front Beckett with his arm in obvious recoil from the blow he’d landed on Rick.
Beckett groaned silently. Stupid fucker. This’ll ruin the plan.
But instead of starting a brawl, Blake had assumed Beckett’s position, hands holding one another in submission. “I’d like to take Beckett’s beatings for tonight, if that would be acceptable,” he said.
It was obvious Rick agreed when Blake’s body buckled with the force of a blow. Beckett knew from experience that the kidney jab Blake had absorbed hurt like a bitch. Rick proceeded with extra vigor, leaving only after he was exhausted. He’d done his typical masterful job, leaving marks only where they could be covered.
“Dude, that’s the last fucking time you set foot out here.” Beckett was furious.
“Beckett, you’re doing this for people who don’t even know you’re protecting them. We’re in the shade here. I can do this. Let me do this. I can’t stand by and watch.”
Beckett thought for a moment, saying nothing. Blake had taken the beating like a pro. Too good to be his first time.
Beckett had had a moment of weakness. He selfishly wanted to take Blake up on his offer, so he did. Every night after that, Blake would show up and stand next to Beckett, head down, hands still.
Beckett now got half the beating he used to get. Rick didn’t know that with every punch he was pounding his own coffin closed, but Beckett knew.
Sometime later, Cole entered the situation. The quiet, thoughtful kid came with a rap sheet that belied his peaceful, Bible-carrying persona. Beckett wasn’t sure if Blake had confided in Cole or if Cole just stumbled upon the ritual, but one night he joined Blake and Beckett. And then there were three.
Now just one third of the punches fell on Beckett. When Rick’s hands began to hurt, he switched to tree branches and his belt. Beckett felt like a big moron taking a beating from this twisted little fucker. He’d stood there motionless with two other guys, when together they could easily take him. But there would be ramifications.
If Beckett had learned anything from his washed-out childhood, he learned he had to pick his battles. Rick was a respected retired music teacher. He’d promised Beckett he’d written down a very believable statement that Beckett had abused the younger kids. If Beckett ratted the beater out, he’d get stuck with a stigma he’d never be able to shake. Wouldn’t even matter that it wasn’t true.
Beckett couldn’t have people think he was what Rick insinuated. Not with little fucking kids.
In the woods the three broken boys had bonded, bound together by punches they could not return. They survived together.
Then one night Blake had saved them all. The evening’s beating had been over for about an hour when the three decided to check out their foster parents’ cluttered basement. Under an old, dusty sheet, Blake found a Hammond organ. He plugged it in and looked like a kid who found a fucking present under the Christmas tree.
When Blake sat down at the organ, his whole demeanor changed. Cole and Beckett stopped throwing an old baseball to each other so they could listen.
Blake made the old organ into a tool. You could see right into his soul through the notes he played. Beckett knew why Blake had Jesus’ eyes. Kindness, hope, and light filled the music he played.
In an instant, Rick came down the stairs like a new husband to his virgin bride. He was drawn to Blake like a moth to flame. Blake stopped playing and looked Rick up and down. The boys recognized an addict when they saw one.
“Play more, Blake. That was wonderful,” Rick begged as if he’d never thrown a punch.
So Blake had played, trapping Rick like a geisha with an opium pipe. After a week, he gave Rick an ultimatum. He would only perform after dinner. No beatings bought Rick a ticket to Blake’s nightly organ concert. Rick preferred Ave Maria, and eventually, as the boys’ wounds healed and cracked bones knit, that was the only song Blake played, over and over again.
Beckett’s plan had commenced before he left the foster home, and now he had two accomplices. Blake’s quick, careful eyes located the key to the safety deposit box that contained the slanderous letter. Cole’s relentless patience led to a bank statement that included a yearly payment to the bank for the box. Beckett sold a boatload of pot to a teenaged teller at the bank, while videoing the transaction in secret. Then Beckett aged out first, Cole six months later, and Blake two weeks after that.
The day Blake aged out, his jeans pocket had contained a small manila envelope with a shiny silver key. With the video providing needed motivation, the bank teller helped Beckett enter the vault to extract the miserable letter from Rick’s safety deposit box.
The day the three boys met with Chaos—just before his sentencing for yet another felonious journey—they discussed Rick and his current lack of musician. As Chaos and his needles worked, Beckett assured them he’d take care of it as soon as he could. Neither brother asked what he meant, but there were only young children left in Rick’s house now.
One sunny Saturday a few months later, almost precisely a year after he’d aged out, Beckett went back to see Rick. He knocked on the door and played the part of a happy-go-lucky friend. As Beckett looked past Rick into the house, he saw one of the foster kids nursing his left side. Just as Beckett had known he would be, Rick was beating again. Hurting helpless children.
When Beckett suggested a trip back to the oak tree, Rick eagerly agreed. When they arrived and Beckett pulled the snub-nosed pistol out of his waistband, Rick began to apologize for everything he’d done, for anything he’d ever do.
Beckett ignored Rick’s pleas and pulled out the pathetic, lying letter that had kept him and his brothers still for Rick’s fists. Rick paled when he saw his blackmail in Beckett’s hand.
“Rick, you sick, ass-sucking fuck, I want you to know I’m not here because you beat me. I’m not even here just because you beat children. There are lots of ways I could get you for that. But you’re going to die like the gasping pussy you are because…” Beckett advanced until he was nose to nose with Rick.
“You.” Beckett pushed on Rick’s shoulder until he kneeled.
“Touched.” Beckett leveled the pistol between Rick’s eyes.
“My.” Beckett cocked the hammer with a quiet click.
“Brothers.” Beckett smiled as he pulled the trigger.
Beckett had rolled his head on his neck. He didn’t feel the release he had longed for. Killing this bastard wasn’t enough.
So Beckett had beaten Rick’s body like he was killing him again. Then, one quick phone call later, Mouse had helped him bury the body. Beckett had set things right. He’d made Rick pay.
Taking a deep breath, remembering how he’d stood up for Blake and Cole, Beckett smiled in satisfaction once again. He opened his eyes to scan the woods for Blake one last time. Nothing. It would be up to the organ to flush this guy out.
Beckett started the Hummer and texted Eve:
Tak4e Ur Cloth3s OFF Im on my qway
Her reply came back quick as lightning:
Take ur clothes off and fuck yourself.
“One way or another, this chick is gonna kill me,” Beckett growled as the Hummer roared away.