The Wright Way

Chapter 24 - The Wright Way

"You'll call them tomorrow," says Uncle, "and tell them that you quit."

It's an instruction, not a suggestion, yet the thought of speaking to Lagana sends my mind scrambling for a way out. He's almost as good as Uncle in reading people. He'll know it wasn't my idea.

"They'll ask questions."

"They won't." Uncle's hands rest on the wheel, turning it slightly right and left to avoid the bumps and the cracks of the old road. "If they make trouble, Jeremiah will take care of it."

I nod. Jeremiah, being the police commissioner, can take care of many things. Also, I don't have a choice. Once they've decided I must return, it has to be done. They allowed me play on my own for a while, watching from a distance, but now the game is over, and even though Lagana will understand that it wasn't my decision to leave, it won't change a thing.

Ahead of us, darkness surrounds the moving island of visibility created by our headlights. Occasional farm buildings pop into view, separated by long stretches of fields. Tall, dark forest looms to our left like a wall.

"About the boy," says Uncle. "Will you do it yourself?"

I know what he means—probably knew the moment I woke up with the six of them standing around the bed. Yet I've been avoiding thinking about the person who now sits to the other side of the partition that separates the front and the back of the van, a pillowcase on his head.

To earn my way back, I'll need to be an active participant and not a bystander.

Uncle slows down and makes a left turn, sending the van rolling into a narrow forest road. It's close to Bethlehem, yet I don't think I've been here before. As a kid, we explored the areas of the forest that lied across from our farms. There was a wide dirt road that led to the river where we spent many good hours, and a net of little trails that allowed access to deeper parts of the forest. Those were mostly used by women picking herbs and mushrooms, but we boys wandered there, too. We even built a little house in the forest one summer, from branches and sticks. Set away from the road and the trails, we had thought it our secret—until Uncle mentioned it casually to me during a Sunday family meal.

This road is barely wide enough for our vehicle to pass. Branches scratch its sides as we progress slowly, negotiating the irregularities of the road. If an oncoming car appeared, the situation would be tricky, but that's unlikely to happen. There's grass growing on the road, enough to indicate that it's not been used much lately. The headlights snatch out brief snapshots of bushes and the earth littered with dry leaves and branches.

As unfamiliar as this road is to me, I can still tell the direction. The river must be to the left from us, somewhere close. The pines and the cedars hide the beginning of a slope that goes down to the water, making it inapproachable by a car. Yet, apparently, reaching the river by the car is not what Uncle has in mind. He slows down to a crawl before rolling off the road onto a flat spot under the wide hands of an old fir three. The way the spot perfectly fits us, like a natural-made garage, makes me suspect he'd been here before.

He pulls up the arm brake and turns the key in the ignition. We sit there for a moment, the forest outside dark and expectant. Then, he turns to me.

"You don't have to do it," he says, his tone decisive. "It's not for everyone. Barnaby will take care of it."

As on command, the door slides open in the back of the van, and then come shuffling sounds and muffled voices. A moment later, I distinguish two figures heading across the road, towards the trees. Barnaby's huge shape is unmistakable, and the figure stumbling next to him looks almost child-sized in comparison. Still bearing the pillowcase over his head, Joshua follows Barnaby's pulling hand without any visible objections. Perhaps he's hoping that, if he plays along, it'll help him. I wonder if he knows we're in a forest. He must smell it. He must suspect what's coming.

The two of them step under the trees and begin to descend the slope, gradually disappearing from view.

"I'll do it," I say, and Uncle turns to me again, frowning.

"Are you sure?" He squints, as if trying to read my expression, but, apparently, in this darkness, even his abilities are limited.

"Yes," I say. "I owe him that much."

He looks at me a little longer, and then he nods.

The roots provide a crooked, uneven stairwell for me to descend the steep slope. The bark on the trees I grasp to steady myself feels wet, or maybe it's just cold. White spots of moonlight mingle on the ground with the dry leaves and the roots and the patches of grass, and I can hardly see where I place my feet. I should take it slowly, but I don't think I have much time.

At last, I see them. They stand below me, near the edge. Apparently, the forest-covered slopes don't come all the way to the river here, but end with a steep eroded riverbank. I can hear the water down below—a quiet, steady, distant noise. Too distant. It's probably quite a drop.

"Hey," I say, quietly for some reason—as if anyone unwanted could hear me here, in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the night. "Barnaby?"

He looks over his shoulder, not exactly startled but clearly not happy with the interruption. Next to him, Joshua turns around, too. During the ride, they must have tied his hands in front of him, which probably accounts for some of his compliance. The pillowcase has been removed, and, with his hair ruffled and his eyes wide with fear, he reminds me of an owl, awakened during the day and completely lost.

"What?" says Barnaby.

"Uncle said I should do it." I finish my descent and stop a couple of steps from him.

"Huh? He didn't mention that to me."

"It was a last-minute decision."

He frowns. "But you're not even one of us anymore. You left."

"I'm coming back now, am I not?"

He shifts from foot to foot, still frowning, then glances at Joshua. He wants to do it himself. Yet Uncle is his saviors who plucked him out of his street gang and showed him the light, so he won't disrespect his decision. He's the only one in the inner circle of Uncle's most trusted followers who haven't been born and raised on the farm and is not connected by blood to our family. He doesn't take that kind of trust lightly. He'd do anything for Uncle.

"Fine," he says at last. "Go ahead. Remove the rope, break his neck and kick him off the cliff."

I wince, his matter-of-fact tone catching me off guard.

"Why neck?" I say, trying to match his businesslike tone. "Shouldn't it look natural?"

He shrugs. "As natural as a suicide can look. Nobody could tell what happened first, the neck or the fall."

"Why not just push him?"

"Are you serious?" Joshua gapes at me, then at Barnaby. "You're seriously just going to stand there and discuss how to kill me?" His peers at me. "Why did you save me from the fire? To kill me now?"

"It wasn't planned," I say, avoiding his gaze. "None of this was planned."

"I could've gone to Victor!" His eyes fill with tears. "Why did you even offer me to stay with you?"

"He might survive if you just push him." Barnaby says, ignoring him, keeping his eyes on me. "We don't want that, do we?"

I move past him to avoid his prying eyes and look over the edge. As I expected, the vertical clay banks have barely any vegetation growing on them. Nothing to obstruct the fall. The powerful torrent moves steadily below us, glittering in the moonlight.

"The fall is enough," I say. "He'll break his neck on the rocks."

Barnaby rolls his eyes. "Where do you see rocks?" He comes over and stands next to me, pointing down. "It's too deep here to hit the bottom hard enough."

"Hope so," I say, and then I grab the back of his jacket and shove him forward.