This is what happened the night of the collision. The night the roller coaster came screaming down the hill. The night the cotton candy was almost complete. There will still be a few strands left to wind after I tell you.
This is what happened the night Bob Sullivan died.
Charlotte had lied to me. I know why and it is not important. She was not able to go home and sit with her pain after she quit Bob. She had his words in her head. “Fuck you.” She had the strong suspicion that he had raped her daughter in her head. That was my doing, but also a consequence of the shock that comes when you learn the truth about your lover. When “I love you” becomes “fuck you,” the mind mitigates the pain by casting the lover as the most despicable villain. None of this could be swallowed down. That pill had been too bitter, and she’d found herself choking on it that night.
She cannot claim innocence. Just like me with my box of matches, Charlotte knew Tom was at the end of his wits about finding Jenny’s rapist. She knew that he did not sleep. She knew that he could barely manage to eat. That he had stopped doing anything enjoyable, of feeling anything joyous. Even with Lucas and Jenny. It was all an act, a ruse. His halfhearted cheers at a lacrosse game. His smiles when he greeted them in the morning. He was in a state of acute discomfort.
It had been my plan for him that if he could survive this discomfort, he could come out the other side a changed man. A man accepting of the demons that lived inside him. That is the process. That is the road to being well. It was the same road for Charlotte, now that she had given up Bob. But Charlotte had revenge at her fingertips, and she had chosen to employ it.
She left my office and went home that day. This was before she knew Bob was innocent. Before Fran Sullivan sat in her car and played those foul tapes for her. She was angry at Bob and, more important, had been wondering if he had raped Jenny. She waited until the kids went to bed. And then she told him.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That Bob Sullivan, my boss, a friend to my family all these years, was a suspect in my daughter’s rape. You had put the idea about a new suspect in my head, Alan. It made sense that a new suspect was the reason they weren’t interested in the photograph from the yearbook. I tried to find out from Parsons, but he wouldn’t tell me. But Charlotte did. She told me about the girl years ago. And about his missing alibi, his lie to the police. But it was the part about Jenny hearing his voice—that’s what made me believe. I could have killed him that night. I sat in bed fantasizing about killing him. About taking a baseball bat from the garage and crushing his skull.
I went to Jenny’s room after she was asleep. I went on her phone and I read her messages, texts to and from that soldier she’s been friends with. The one from the group who had this dreadful treatment in Iraq. And I saw it. The words. “I think it was him … I hear his voice in my head.” There are dozens of texts from the past two weeks. No one told me. I guess now I know why. Still, everyone knew except me, didn’t they? You, Jenny, Parsons, Charlotte. Everyone but me.
Tom sat with his anger the whole next day. But that was all he could take.
I knew he would be at the Jag showroom that night with a client. I ate dinner with the family. I ate my entire plate. Steak. Potatoes. Green beans. I ate everything, and I was hungry for more. It was the first time I’d had an appetite since my daughter was violated. I told them I had to finish some paperwork at the showroom. I kissed my wife on the lips, a long kiss. Long enough to surprise her. I kissed my children on their heads. I hugged them tight. I knew it was the last time I would see them like this, in our home. I walked down the stairs, as clearheaded as I’ve ever been. I got the bat. I put it in my car. And I drove.
Tom was not the only man on the road that night.
I had not seen Sean Logan since he told me how he felt about Bob Sullivan. How he, too, believed that Bob had raped Jenny and how he had come to view him with the same hatred he held for the enemies in Iraq. Bob was the terrorist. Jenny was Valancia, the rookie he was supposed to protect. He had been so very frustrated by our lack of progress. We were stuck at that red door, and he needed to know—did he cause the death of his colleague, the man in his care? That torment was now directed at Bob Sullivan.
I see it now. How I had taken that rage and placed it on another man, another situation that I could do over again. I couldn’t protect Valancia. But I could protect Jenny. I had been feeling better. You remember, how I was able to feel love for my child because of the power I had to help Jenny? You made me understand that. But that power, it was ignited by the thing with Sullivan. The thought had been building in me for days. This power had exploded. I didn’t come to our sessions, because I knew you would see it in my eyes and try to stop me. The only thing I wanted to stop was the agony—Jenny’s and mine. One way or another, it had to stop. I loaded my gun. I left a note for my wife in the bottom of a drawer. I figured she would find it eventually, but not that night. I spent the day looking for him, following him, until it was dark. I watched the showroom for hours, waiting.
Tom stopped his car a few blocks from the showroom.
My heart was beating wildly. I thought it would burst—or it would bust out of my chest. I was hyperventilating. Air was coming in, but I couldn’t feel it. I was suffocating on my own breath. Thoughts were jumping out at me. Do it! Voices screaming. Images of my baby girl in those woods. Images of Bob fucking that young girl on the car. Everything was melding together. But I didn’t move. I heard my parents talking about me. My wife chiming right along. “He won’t do it. He doesn’t have the courage.… Not everyone can be a soldier.… We all have to accept our limitations.…”
Sean watched the client leave. When his car was out of sight, the headlights fading away, Sean got out of the car, released the safety on the gun, and began walking with conviction toward the showroom.
I had the first vision when my feet hit the ground. It was clear as day. That street. An old man with a pipe. Three kids with a ball, still now as they stare at me. The street is frozen. No one moves. No one runs. I saw them. And not just from the things you read to me. I saw new things, different things from that day. From that street with the red door. I stopped walking and shook it off. I looked at the lights in the showroom. I made my plan for an ambush. I saw a way in. A door on the side that was cocked open. Maybe from a mechanic earlier. I focused on the mission.
Sean was having a recall. The emotions, the gun in his hand, the focus on the mission, the intent to kill—these were the things we could not simulate in our sessions. And now that they had arisen, they were leading him back to the memories from that day, that last mission.
As Sean continued to walk, Tom tried to drive. He put the car in gear and pulled back onto the street. He made it another block, then stopped again.
I can’t describe the anger I felt then. Hearing my parents disparaging me. Calling me a coward because I was freezing up. I was about to kill a man! I think that is worthy of some trepidation, some consideration. I would be leaving my children. There would be no source of income. They would be fatherless. And for what? Jenny would still be a victim. Killing her attacker would not change that. She would still be without her memory and her ability to heal. Killing Sullivan would not bring them back. And then I considered the justice I had been so obsessed with. The stories of other victims and how justice had helped them heal. And how Jenny would never have justice any other way. We had taken that from her. I stared at the dashboard and calmed my nerves.
Sean walked, step by step, toward the open door. And as he did, the memories, little flashes, kept coming.
I thought I was losing my mind. I couldn’t focus on the mission. I had to keep stopping, shaking off the flashes like little gnats. I would not fail this time. I lifted a foot, moved it, placed it back on the ground. There was Valancia suddenly in front of me where my foot was. I took another step and looked behind, but he wasn’t there, he was in front, he had moved ahead of me! I saw Sullivan’s shadow through the window. I picked up the other foot and dragged it forward. “What the fuck, man!” Those were my words. “It’s no good. It’s no good!” My words! Valancia had pushed ahead of me. He had tears streaming down his face, carving through the dust on his skin. It was fear. He had been so ravaged by fear. Fuck! He was gonna do it! “I’m not afraid!” I think that’s what he said! That’s what I remembered as I was walking to kill Bob Sullivan! I remembered!
A car drove wildly past Tom as he sat parked on the side of the road. He would remember it later, though he paid no attention at the time.
What does it mean to be a man? What does it mean to be strong? Those were the questions in my head. Was I stronger if I swallowed this anger and followed the rules? Or was I stronger if I made things right for my daughter? Can you believe that? At forty-five years of age, I still didn’t know. I had no idea what it was to be a man.
Sean fell to his knees. It was not voluntary. His emotions had taken the wheel.
That stupid little fuck. I felt the pavement against my kneecaps. I set my gun down at my feet and held my head in my hands. I closed my eyes. I wanted it all to come. Everything, once and for all. He turned his face away and started to run like a bat out of hell for that red door. I reached for his arm, but he slipped out of my grasp. The people all stood still. They knew what was happening. They knew what was at that door. I ran after him. “It’s no good, rookie! Stand down!” I’m almost there. Almost to the door. And that’s where it all stopped.
Sean cried out into the night. I have wondered if Bob Sullivan heard his cry, if it alarmed him at all. That’s one question we will never have answered.
I opened my eyes. I grabbed the gun and I ran back to my car. I drove home to my family. I couldn’t do it. Just like I couldn’t lead Valancia to his death. Don’t you see, Doc? I didn’t do it. He wasn’t following me into some suicide mission. I was following him. I was following him!
Tom pulled back onto the road. He had made his decision. He did not stop again. I imagine Sean passed right by him.
I thought I would at least go there and confront him, make him confess. I could at least do that. It was a compromise. That’s what I told myself. I got to the showroom. The lights were on in the back office. I left the bat in the car. I did not trust myself. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe I didn’t have it in me. And maybe I didn’t want to find out. I unlocked the door and went inside. I had the words in my head that I would say, and I was mumbling them to myself as I walked into the showroom. That’s when I heard the sound. It was a man crying.
I stepped around the corner, the same way I had done that night Bob was with Lila. Only what I saw on this night … good Lord.
The car that had sped past Tom belonged to the father of the girl Bob Sullivan had been with the night Jenny Kramer was raped. Lila from the showroom. Her father played golf with Bob. That was the man Tom found crying on the showroom floor, next to the bloodied body of Bob Sullivan.
He had a crowbar in his hand. Bob was lying on the hood of the silver XK, blood pouring from his skull. “My baby girl!” the man cried. I ran to Bob, pulled him to the floor, felt for a pulse. It was weak but it was there. Still, the wound to his head—I could see brain matter oozing out. I was in such a state of shock, I can’t even describe it. It was surreal. I managed to get my phone and call 911. I told them where we were, that a man had been struck. That he was dead.
“Tom,” I said. “Why did you tell them that if he had a pulse?”
I’m not proud of this. Or maybe I am. I still don’t know. But I did not do a thing to save Bob Sullivan. I laid him on the ground and I let him bleed to death. I sat beside this man, this father. He kept saying over and over how Bob had raped his little girl, and I had no idea who he was at the time. The alibi had not come out. But those words, it was like this man was me, the other me who wanted to kill Bob Sullivan. Who wanted justice. I put my arms around this man and I held him, rocking him back and forth as he cried in despair. I can’t explain it but to say that he was crying my tears. And that I was feeling his justice.
And there it is. That is the collision. Wasn’t it something? But that is not the end of the story.