Street. He’d missed three stops already. He took another deep breath. Two more until he could get off. Two more until he could go to the police and explain what happened.
He shouldn’t have been out there. John should have never followed Frank. What the hell was he thinking?
Tremors ran up his wrists. John held his breath.
None of this would have happened if he hadn’t danced with Michelle at that wedding. He’d still be with Ashley. She wouldn’t have dumped him. He could still be going along, pretending everything was fine. Ashley wouldn’t have started to act weird.
Tucking his hand under his armpits and squeezing, he tried to stop the shaking. No luck.
The wedding was when everything started to go wrong, wasn’t it? One of Michelle and John’s work friends was getting married. The groom dressed in a kilt, the bride had a plaid trailer. Bagpipes played as she walked down the aisle. Frank was off working again, backing out of a date with Michelle at the last minute. She went anyway, riding with John and Ashley, and making third wheel jokes the entire night.
At one point Ashley went to the bathroom, and “You Are So Beautiful” started up. The dance floor filled with couples as John and Michelle sat there. John asked her to dance, and Michelle said she didn’t know if she should. Ashley would be back any minute.
On the train, John gritted his teeth. You’re so stupid.
“Come on,” he’d said. “We’re friends. It’s fine. We’re not dating anymore. You set me up with her. I don’t want you to go the whole night without one dance.”
Michelle nodded, and John thought about Ashley. Her brown hair falling around her shoulders. Her bright smile. The late night conversations. The way she listened and never told him he was lost while driving. The smell of tulips on her long neck. And for most of the night, he could picture exactly what she’d look like in a long, white, strapless wedding dress.
But, as he held Michelle, swaying to the slow rhythm of the song, he remembered the smoothness of her skin. The hint of strawberry in her lipstick when he’d kissed her. The wry crooked smile when he made a corny joke.
The memory must have been plastered all over his face. Ashley came back from the bathroom, made eye contact with him and froze. A week later, she didn’t pick up when he called. She didn’t call back as much. They only hung out once a week, instead of three or four times.
When he would ask what was wrong, she’d tell him not to worry. She was just busy at work. A new assignment.
And now he sat on a PATH train pulling into the Pavonia/Newport station, hands trembling like a Parkinson’s victim, with images of men lying in puddles of their own blood flashing before his eyes.
The doors of the PATH opened and John got off. The escalator to the surface was moving slowly, and the people riding in front of him were quietly opening their bags. It reminded John of waiting in line at an airport. These people were waiting to be searched.
The escalator crested and he saw two uniforms sorting through bags. Behind them, standing against the glass doors, two cops scanned the crowd. Between them sat a brown dog. They all looked very patient, almost bored. John couldn’t wait to talk to them. He started to step past the people who were standing, taking the steps two at a time.
“Officer,” John said. “Officer, I need to talk to you. My name’s John Brighton and I—”
One of the cops made eye contact with him.
The dog must have sensed something as well, because it stood up and started barking. The two cops against the wall stepped forward, pulling their weapons. Their quickness surprised John, and he nearly fell backwards down the escalator, but managed to steady himself against the railing again. Some people in the crowd in front of him screamed and some hit the deck.
“Freeze!” the cops yelled, and John instinctively raised his hands above his head and stepped on to solid ground at the end of the stairs.
The two cops who were previously searching the bags, pulled his arms down behind him and cuffed him.
“John Brighton, you are under arrest.”
Arrest?
“I just need to talk. I need to tell you what happened tonight,” John said. He heard the thunder of blood pumping through his ears.
The other cop said, “Do you think he’s waiving his right to remain silent?”
They read him his rights, stuffed him in the back of the car, and took him to the Jersey City police station.
He wasn’t going to get out tonight. He was pretty sure of that. The judges were all asleep in their beds, so he couldn’t be arraigned, or whatever they called it. And if they weren’t going to come down tonight, they wouldn’t be coming in for the rest of the weekend. He was going to have to sit here with the drunks and druggies, waiting until Monday morning.
They did, at least, give him one phone call.
He called Michelle, after fighting the urge to dial Ashley. No matter what had happened to him tonight, his mind still flashed to Ashley.
“Are you all right? Where are you?” Michelle asked.
“I’m in the Jersey City Police Station.”
“What happened?”
“Coming out of the PATH train. I went to the police for help, and they arrested me.”
“You went right to the police? John, your face is all over the news. They have a picture of you.”
That damn cell phone camera. John’s hand squeezed tighter around the receiver.
“I haven’t seen a judge yet. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to see a judge. The only thing I know about being arrested is that whole ‘right to remain silent’ stuff. There were, there were dead people everywhere. Blood and—and—Fff—”
“I know, I know,” she said, cutting him off. “Okay. I’m going to talk to my dad again. We’ll get you a good lawyer, and be down there as soon as possible. You need a lawyer. If my dad doesn’t help, Frank will. He knows people too. Sit tight.”
“Wait,” he said, his shoulders tightening at the mention of Frank’s name. “Frank was there. It was all him. He killed them all.”
No response. She’d hung up. As soon as he finished talking, he heard the dialtone.
John put the phone down and let the officer cuff him and direct him to a door.
****
They dragged him into a room with only a table, two chairs, and a streaked mirror. The room smelled like rancid coffee. One of the uniformed cops pulled out the chair facing the mirror and pushed John into it. As he sat, he had to angle his arms backward so he didn’t sit on the handcuffs.
A tall cop with almond skin and a shaved head entered. His badge was
