Last Call for a Dead Man

CW: Substance abuse, domestic violence, murder

The first thing Russell Blevins ordered was a beer. The second was another beer. The third was a question.

“You ever have one of those mornings where you wake up thinking things couldn't possibly get worse, then God decides to take that personally?”

The bartender glanced at the clock above the liquor shelves. It was 11:37am on a Tuesday morning. “Usually not before lunch.”

Russell, 46, smelled of gasoline. His knuckles were swollen and his left eye bruised. “Lady, I've had a whole damn week before lunch.”

“Ruth.”

“What?”

“My name's Ruth. Not lady.”

“Russell.”

“Didn't ask.”

“Fair enough.”

Ruth Puckett had owned the Broken Spur outside Elk City for 19 years. After burying two husbands, she thought marriage ought to require a renewable license. She slid him another beer. “You driving?”

“Not anymore.”

“License suspended?”

“Truck's totaled.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Insurance ought to cover it.”

“Ought to?”

Russell scratched his chin. “Depends how particular they get about the circumstances.”

Ruth examined him. “You look like somebody who needs coffee.”

“I look like somebody who needs a lawyer.”

“Then you definitely need coffee.” She poured him a cup anyway.

The bar was nearly empty. Otis, a retired farmer, watched muted television while two workers ate near the pool table. October wind swept dust across the parking lot. Russell studied his phone. Seventeen missed calls. All from his wife. He turned it facedown. “Know what the worst part of marriage is?” he asked.

“The part where you get married?”

“That's pretty good.”

“I've had practice.”

Russell raised his bottle. “To terrible decisions.” Ruth didn't join him. “My wife caught me drinking Friday,” he continued. “Said she was tired of it. Said I had a problem. Told me I needed help.”

“Did you?”

“Probably.”

“That's unusually honest.”

“I'm full of surprises.”

“What happened?”

“Saturday, she tells me she's leaving. Sunday, my boss fires me. Monday, I discover she's been seeing somebody.”

Ruth stopped wiping the counter. “That's a rough weekend.”

“Gets better.”

“I doubt that.”

“I borrowed her car.”

“Borrowed?”

“She wasn't using it.”

“Did she know?”

“Eventually.” He grinned.

Ruth didn't.

“I drove out to the lake. Had myself a little conversation with the Almighty. Told Him I appreciated the attention, but He could maybe spread some of the misery around.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Apparently, He was busy.” Otis chuckled without turning around. Russell took another drink. “Then I went home.”

Ruth waited. “And?”

“And things got complicated.” His phone vibrated against the counter. He looked at it. His smile disappeared.

“You can answer that,” Ruth said.

“I'd rather not.”

“Wife?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe she's worried.”

Russell stared at the screen until it went dark. “She should be.”

Ruth set down her rag. “About what?”

Russell took a long drink. “About what happens when a man finally runs out of reasons to behave himself.”

Ruth had heard that from men who considered themselves good because they hadn't acted on their worst impulses. Russell sounded dangerously close. “Maybe you ought to slow down,” she said.

“Drinking?”

“Talking.”

He laughed again, but this time the sound was brittle. For several minutes, neither spoke. Then Russell said, “You ever want to hurt somebody?”

Ruth looked at him. “Everybody has.”

“I mean really hurt them.”

“Depends what you mean.”

“I mean think about it. Picture it. Wonder how easy it'd be.”

Ruth folded the rag. “Thinking isn't doing.”

“That's what I keep telling myself.” His phone vibrated again. He picked it up, read something, and put it down. “Problem is, sometimes thinking gets exhausting.”

By 1:00pm, the workers had left and Otis slept. After four beers, Ruth cut Russell off. He didn't complain. He talked about oilfield jobs and meeting his wife at a county fair. “Prettiest woman I ever saw,” he said. “Still is.”

“What's her name?”

“Dana.”

“Children?”

“One boy. Tyler. He's 19. Goes to school in Weatherford.”

“You close?”

“Used to be.”

“What happened?”

Russell looked into his coffee. “Same thing that happened to everything else.” He described their house, his garage, and the useless pecan tree. He had worked hard, provided, never cheated. He repeated that last point three times. “Then I find out she's sleeping with some asshole from the dealership.”

“How'd you find out?”

“Messages.”

“You looked through her phone?”

“Wasn't hard. She left it on the kitchen counter.”

“And what did you do?”

“Asked her about it.”

“Asked?”

Russell rubbed his injured knuckles. “At first.”

Ruth watched his hand. “Did you hit her?”

His expression hardened. “I never hit my wife.”

“Didn't say you did.”

“Wouldn't.”

“All right.”

He leaned closer. “That's important.”

“Why?”

“Because there's a difference between wanting to do something and actually doing it.”

Ruth nodded slowly. “Usually a pretty important difference.”

Russell looked toward the front windows. Outside, a grocery bag caught against the fence, struggling in the wind. “I went to see the boyfriend,” Russell said. Ruth remained silent.

“Name's Travis Bell. Thirty-one years old. Sells used cars and thinks a beard makes him interesting.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“He wasn't home.”

“Lucky man.”

Russell smiled. “That's what I thought.” He unfolded a photograph of himself, Dana, and Tyler before a Christmas tree. Tyler wore an Oklahoma State sweatshirt. “That's them,” he said.

Ruth studied the picture. “Nice-looking family.”

“Was.” He returned it to his jacket pocket. “I was sitting in my truck outside Travis's house when I started thinking about all the ways a person could ruin somebody else's life.”

Ruth felt something cold settle behind her ribs. “What ways?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Then why bring it up?”

Russell looked at her. “Because I didn't do any of them.” He sounded proud.

“Good.”

“That's what I thought, too.” He looked at his phone again. “Until last night.”

At 2:16pm, someone knocked on the front window. Three sharp taps. Russell dropped his mug. It shattered. Otis woke. Ruth turned toward the window. Nobody stood outside.

“Damn wind,” Otis muttered.

Russell was on his feet. His face had gone pale. “Who was that?”

Ruth stepped around the counter. “Probably something blowing against the glass.”

“Something?”

“Branch. Trash. Whatever.”

“Three times?”

Outside stood only Otis's pickup and a white sedan.

Russell's breathing quickened. “Did you see somebody?”

“I didn't.”

“Look again.”

Ruth turned toward him. “Sit down, Russell.”

“Just look.”

She approached the window and peered through it. Nothing. When she returned, Russell was gripping the edge of the counter. “That's how Dana knocks,” he whispered.

Ruth stopped. “What?”

“Three times. Always three. When she'd come home without her keys. When she wanted me to open the garage. Three damn knocks.”

“Coincidence.”

Russell shook his head. “You don't understand.”

“Then explain.”

He looked at Otis. The old man had returned to his television. “Not here.”

Ruth fetched a broom. “Help me clean this up.”

Russell crouched beside her. A shard sliced his trembling thumb. “Jesus.”

Ruth offered a towel. “Accidents happen.”

Russell looked up. “That's what I keep saying.”

At 3:02pm, Otis left. Ruth locked the door, hours before closing.

Russell noticed the deadbolt. “Why'd you do that?”

“Because I don't want anybody interrupting us.”

He laughed nervously. “Sounds ominous.”

“Tell me about the truck.”

Russell sat back down. “Not much to tell.”

“Try.”

He rubbed his face. “After I left Travis's place, I drove home. Dana was packing. Suitcases everywhere. Said she'd already talked to a lawyer.”

“And?”

“We argued.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Did you threaten her?”

Russell looked offended. “Of course not.”

Ruth said nothing.

He sighed. “Fine. I said some things.”

“What things?”

“Things people say when they're angry.”

“Such as?”

He stared at the bottles behind her. “I told her she wasn't leaving me for him. Not after everything I'd done.”

“And what did she say?”

“She laughed.” “Twenty-two years together, and she laughed right in my face.” He swallowed. “I picked up a glass.” Ruth waited. “Threw it against the wall.”

“Near her?”

“Not at her.”

“Near her?”

Russell nodded. “She screamed. Told me to get out. Said she'd call the police.”

“What happened next?”

“I left.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Ruth studied his bruised face. “And the truck?”

“I was driving too fast. Missed a turn. Hit a ditch.”

“Where?”

“County road south of town.”

“Anybody else involved?”

“No one.”

He answered too quickly. Ruth noticed. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then why are the police looking for you?”

Russell's head snapped toward her. “Who said they're looking for me?”

“You said you needed a lawyer. Seems reasonable.”

He looked away. “Driving drunk.”

“That's all?”

“Isn't that enough?”

Ruth considered him. “Sometimes.”

His phone began ringing again. Dana. Russell pressed the button to silence it.

“Why won't you answer?” Ruth asked.

“Because I know what she'll say.”

“What?”

“That she's sorry.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

He shook his head. “You don't understand. She'll say she didn't mean it. She'll say we can work things out. She'll say anything to make me come home.”

“Would you?”

“That's the problem.”

His eyes filled with tears. “I want to.”

Ruth pulled up a stool. “Then why don't you?”

Russell looked at his hands. “Because I know what I'll do when I get there.” The refrigerator clicked on. Russell flinched. Finally, he said, “You ever hear about people having thoughts they don't want?”

“Intrusive thoughts?”

“Yeah. Those.”

“Sure.”

“Mine started a couple years ago. Little things. Somebody cuts me off in traffic, I imagine running them off the road. Guy at work mouths off, I picture smashing his face into a toolbox.”

“Did you ever?”

“Never.”

“Then you had thoughts.”

“That's what the counselor said.”

“You saw a counselor?”

“Twice. Dana made me. I quit because he kept asking questions I didn't want to answer.”

“Like what?”

“Whether I enjoyed thinking about it.”

Ruth felt her stomach tighten. “Did you?”

Russell didn't answer at first. He touched the pocket that held the photograph. “Sometimes.” Outside, the wind rattled the building. Russell continued. “Last night, after the wreck, I walked home. Took almost two hours. All I could think about was Dana and Travis. What they'd done. How everybody would laugh when they found out.”

“Did you go inside?”

“Nope. I sat in the garage.”

“For how long?”

“Until morning.”

“What were you doing?”

“Trying not to.”

“Trying not to what?”

He met her eyes. “Go into the house.”

Ruth glanced toward the telephone mounted beside the cash register.

Russell followed her gaze. “Don't.”

“I haven't touched it.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I love her,” he said.

Ruth believed him. That frightened her more than if she hadn't. At 4:08pm, the phone rang. Ruth reached for it.

Russell caught her wrist. “Don't.”

She looked down at his hand. “Let go.”

He released her immediately. “Sorry.”

The phone stopped. Ruth moved away from him. “There's something you haven't told me.”

“A lot of things.”

“About the wreck.”

Russell closed his eyes. “Please.”

“Who was in the truck?”

He whispered, “How did you know?”

“Because people who wreck their own vehicles don't usually spend all afternoon trying to convince strangers nobody got hurt.”

Russell began shaking. “It wasn't supposed to happen.”

“What wasn't?”

He pressed his palms against his eyes. “Travis came out of his house. Saw me sitting there. Started laughing. Asked if I wanted an autograph.” Ruth waited. “I got out. We argued. He pushed me.”

“And?”

“I hit him.”

“Once?”

“Three times. Maybe four.”

“What happened?”

“He fell. Hit his head on the driveway.” Russell stared at the floor. “There was blood everywhere.”

“Was he alive?”

“Yes. Breathing. Making this awful noise.”

“Did you call an ambulance?”

Russell shook his head. “I panicked. Put him in the truck. Thought I'd take him to the hospital.”

“But you didn't.”

“I drove toward the lake.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Ruth didn't believe him.

“I was scared they'd arrest me. I didn't know what to do.”

“So, you drove to the lake.”

“Yes.”

“And wrecked?”

He nodded. “Hit the ditch. Truck rolled.”

“What happened to Travis?”

Russell covered his mouth.

“Russell.”

“He was still alive.”

Ruth felt her heart pounding. “After the wreck?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

He began sobbing. “I could hear him calling for help. I crawled out. He was trapped. Kept saying he couldn't feel his legs.”

“And?”

“I tried the door. It wouldn't open.”

“Then what?”

Russell stared at her. “I walked away.”

Ruth's expression changed. “Where is he?”

“Still there.”

“Where?”

“South of town. Old quarry road.”

“How long ago?”

“Last night.”

Ruth reached for the telephone. Russell didn't stop her. She dialed 911. He watched silently as she gave the dispatcher the location. When she finished, she remained behind the counter. “They'll send somebody.”

Russell nodded. “Good.”

“You should have called last night.”

“I know.”

“He might still be alive.”

Russell stared at his hands. “I know.”

Ruth felt an unexpected surge of pity. Then Russell said something that destroyed it.

“That's why I didn't go back.”

At 4:31pm, the knocking came again. Three taps against the front window. Russell screamed. A woman stood outside in a blue sweater and jeans, her dark hair moving in the wind. Dana. Ruth recognized her from the photograph.

Russell scrambled backward, knocking his stool over. “Don't let her in!”

Dana knocked again. Ruth approached the window. The woman pressed her palm against the glass. “Please,” she mouthed. Dana's face was bruised, her hairline bloody, her sleeve torn. Ruth reached for the deadbolt.

Russell lunged toward her. “Don't!”

She stepped aside. He struck the door with both hands. “Go away!”

Dana mouthed something Ruth couldn't hear. Russell staggered backward. “That's impossible.”

Ruth looked at Dana. The woman raised one hand. Three fingers. Then she pointed toward the road. Headlights appeared beyond the parking lot. A sheriff's cruiser. Russell turned toward the back door. Ruth stepped into his path. “Stay.”

He looked at her with an expression of pure hatred. “You don't know what she did.”

Ruth's voice remained steady. “I know what you did.”

“She's lying!”

“About what?”

Russell stopped.

Ruth moved closer. “About Travis?”

He shook his head.

“About the wreck?”

Another shake.

Ruth felt the pieces settling into place. “About why you went to the quarry?”

Russell's face collapsed.

The sheriff's cruiser stopped outside. A deputy emerged. Dana was gone. Ruth looked toward the window. Empty. The deputy knocked. Ruth opened the door.

“Ma'am, we got a call about an accident.”

“Yes.”

The deputy glanced at Russell. “Sir, are you Russell Blevins?” Russell said nothing. “We need you to come with us.”

“Is Travis alive?” Ruth asked.

The deputy hesitated. “We found the truck.”

“And?”

“There's nobody inside.”

Russell looked up.

Ruth frowned. “Nobody?”

“Vehicle's burned. Been that way for several hours. We're still investigating.”

Russell began laughing. A thin, terrible sound. “See?”

The deputy reached for his handcuffs. “Sir, turn around.”

Russell continued laughing. “Told you. Nobody got hurt.”

“Where's Dana?”

The deputy stopped. “What?”

“His wife. She was standing right there.”

The deputy's expression changed. “Ma'am, Dana Blevins was found dead at her residence this morning.” Russell stopped laughing. The deputy continued. “Her son discovered her. We're treating it as a homicide.”

Ruth looked at Russell.

His lips trembled. “I didn't mean to.”

The deputy seized his wrist. Russell pulled away. “I didn't mean to kill her!”

Ruth felt sick. “You said you never hit her.”

“I didn't!” He was shouting now. “I never hit her! I only pushed her!” The deputy forced him against the counter. Russell began sobbing again. “She fell! Hit the fireplace! I tried to wake her up!”

Ruth watched the deputy secure the handcuffs. “Then why did you tell me about Travis?”

Russell looked at her. “Because I wanted it to be him.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I wanted it to be anybody but her.”

After the deputy took Russell away, the sheriff called. Travis Bell was alive, unharmed, and hadn't seen Russell. The truck contained no passenger. Ruth found Russell's family photograph on the counter. Blue ink marked its back.

Please stop him.

Ruth frowned. She had watched Russell put the photograph into his jacket. He had never taken it out again.

Three taps sounded against the front window. Dana stood outside. Her sweater was dark with blood. Ruth approached the glass. “It's over, honey. They've got him.”

Dana shook her head.

Behind Ruth, the television switched on. The screen showed a security camera recording of the bar. Ruth watched herself pouring Russell's first beer. But the stool across from her was empty. She watched herself laughing and pouring coffee for nobody. The recording accelerated. Hours passed in seconds. Then the picture stopped. 4:08pm Ruth watched herself pick up the telephone. Instead of dialing, she held the receiver against her ear and listened. The empty stool slowly turned. Ruth backed away.

Outside, Dana pressed her bloody hand against the glass. “He's still trying,” she whispered.

“Trying what?”

“To convince somebody he's a good man.”

The television went black. Ruth heard footsteps behind her. Then Russell's voice. “Hell of a day, wasn't it?”

She turned. He sat at the counter, smiling. His hand rested beside an unopened beer. Ruth reached beneath the counter for her shotgun.

Russell glanced at it. “Now, Ruth. I'm trying real hard not to hurt anybody.” He pushed the beer toward her. “Don't make it difficult.”

Outside, Dana began pounding on the glass. Russell looked at the window, then back at Ruth. For a moment, he seemed almost ashamed. Then he smiled. “Know what the worst part of being a good man is?”

Ruth raised the shotgun.

Russell leaned forward. “Eventually, somebody makes you prove it.”