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He leaves. That is the last time I see him alive.
I’m not the one who physically killed Agent Joshua Corwin, though it might as
well have been me. It is my fault just the same. Had I not called him, he might not have found a reason to come back to Roseland. He might have escaped the pattern, even if it seems to have been calling to him. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have been freed from it? Had I not involved him, he might be with his family instead of lying in a morgue a hundred miles away in the coastal town of Bandon, his bloated body having washed up on a rocky beach four days after we met in the grimy diner.
The what ifs haunt me almost as much as my own memories do. I lost my father to something I still don’t quite understand. He was taken from me, yes, and even if I believe more and more that his death was not an accident, a small part of me still questions whether it could be true. What I can’t question is the fact that I helped to take Corwin away from his family. His daughters will not have their father because of me. His wife will not have a husband because of me.
I don’t know much about Corwin’s last hours. I didn’t see him around Roseland in the days that followed our meeting. All I know is that Abe came in, his hands shaking slightly as he grabbed a newspaper off the stack near the front door. He flipped the paper over and showed me the story in the bottom right-hand corner with the headline: Body in Bandon Identified as FBI Agent. Even as those words blurred and my head started to pound, I read on, and Cal came up behind me and wrapped his big arms around me, holding me close. Agent Corwin had been found facedown on a beach outside Bandon, Oregon, by an older gentleman out for his morning walk. He told police he first thought it was a large sack washed ashore, and that he was going to pick it up and throw it away. He hated litter on the beaches, he said. But when he’d gotten closer, he’d seen white hands, which went to arms and a torso, the face down and turned away. The older gentleman said he froze for a moment, that he could not believe what he was seeing. That he hadn’t seen a dead body since he’d fought in World War II, and that he realized not enough time had passed between the last time and now. Not having his cell phone on him, he stumbled back and headed for the nearest set of stairs, where he flagged a passing motorist who called the police.
Since Corwin was found naked, he had no form of identification. All of his
teeth had been pulled from his head. His fingers had been cut off, as were his toes. An obvious attempt to keep him from being identified quickly. I haven’t been able to work up the courage to find out if these atrocious things were done before or after he was killed. I don’t think my sanity could take knowing.
A sketch of his face had been plastered all over the coastal news, and word quickly spread of the John Doe. I heard vague talk of this dead man but didn’t make the connection. Why would I? Even before the FBI could be called in to help with the investigation, one of Corwin’s colleagues saw the sketch. There was no question as to the John Doe’s identity. Agent Joshua Corwin had been murdered, they said. Shot through the back of his head. Based upon the angle of the bullet wound, he would have most likely been on his knees at the time. Hearing that only made the news worse.
Did he beg? Did he plead for his life? Did he tell the shooter he had a family waiting for him, he didn’t want to die, he just wanted to go home? Did he cry out his daughters’ names? Did he whisper that he loved his wife?
Did he pray?
That’s the one that gets me the most, especially as I watch my own angel as he cups my face, as he brushes the tears from my cheeks, never recoiling from the anger in my eyes. Did Joshua Corwin pray for release? Did he ask God to save him? If he did, why was the prayer not answered? Where was Corwin’s guardian angel? Where was the guardian angel of Bandon? Why was Corwin’s thread not seen? I’d met the man. I saw his strength. His thread would have been as bright as the sun.
These are questions Calliel can’t answer. Or maybe he won’t, I don’t know. He says he still can’t remember a lot of what happened before he fell from On High. I want desperately to believe him. I think part of me even does believe him.
“God has a plan,” he says quietly, later that night. He’s curled around me as I shake in the dark. He strokes my back gently. “I know it may not seem like it at times, and it’s hard to understand and it always seems unfair, but my Father has a plan, Benji. I’ve seen it in the shapes. In the patterns. The design. This is nothing you did. This is not your fault. If anything, it’s my Father’s. And I think I can truly understand anger now. I hurt for you, Benji. Oh, how I hurt for you. I don’t want you to be sad. I don’t want you to cry. You’ve done so much of that, and I don’t want to see it anymore. I’d do anything not to see it anymore. I’d do anything if I could just see you smile at me. I understand anger, yes. I’m angry at what I’ve seen in the shapes. That damn pattern. That bastard design. But most of all, I am angry with my Father for hurting you. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I don’t want you to hurt ever again. I would take all of it from you if I could. You are mine, and I would take it all.”
His words soothe me, even if they cause my chest to hitch.
I think about going to the funeral, but in the end I don’t, unsure if it’s my place. I don’t know if I could stand to see the grief-stricken faces of his family. I don’t know if I would be welcome, even if I would be unknown. I don’t know if I’m already being watched somehow. It doesn’t seem possible that an agent with the Bureau could have driven out to a diner to meet with me without leaving some kind of trail behind. Thoughts of phones pinging off cell towers and recorded conversations bounce around my mind. I don’t know how possible it is or if I’ve seen too many movies. At the very least, I expect the FBI to question me. I did call Corwin at his office one time. Surely they will check the call log. Surely they will wonder why he was so far away from home when he died.
The media began to speculate, helping to spread rumors like wildfire. After all, a big thing did happen in a small town. A mystery occurred, one that had no answers, so of course there was speculation. It was discovered (leaked?) that Corwin worked on a drug task force. Surely that was related somehow? He’d gotten caught up in something related to his work and had paid the ultimate price. Maybe, some thought, he’d been dirty and had been double-crossed. Maybe he was undercover and had been found out. The FBI didn’t release much information, aside from saying they believed someone out there had to know what happened. Anyone with any information was urged to step forward. The FBI didn’t take kindly to their own agents getting gunned down. They had some leads, though they declined to reveal what those leads were.
Corwin’s funeral was held on a bright sunny day in Eugene. Abe didn’t want me to go, the fear in his eyes palpable. Cal didn’t want me to go, the anger in his eyes like fire. We didn’t tell my mother. Much went unsaid, though I am sure we all thought it. Traynor. Or Walken. Or Griggs. Or one of their people. Someone had forced Corwin to his knees, stripped him of his clothing and shot him through the back of his head. Did he say anything about me to his killers before he died? Did he tell them I was the one who had called him? Did he tell them what he knew? Did they force it out of him?
Again, so many questions with no answers. I didn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t show my face. I didn’t step forward as they had asked. It wasn’t out of fear for myself, not completely. It was out of fear for my family. If I’d shown up to Corwin’s funeral and someone was watching to see who would go, then I ran the risk of endangering everyone I loved. I couldn’t take that chance. I had to protect my family.
Roseland was in the claws of the men who ran it. I could feel the grip tightening around us, and soon there would be no way to struggle for release. There was something coming on the horizon. It felt like things were building, though I couldn’t say to what point that might be. All I knew was that I was stuck in that grip. I couldn’t get out, not anymore. I thought about struggling, but I refused to pull anyone into it with me.
This was the life and death of Joshua Corwin. He lived until I killed him.
these flickering lights
I am in the river, chest-deep. Shadow of a figure up on the road, hidden by rain.
Flashes of crosses and feathers. The current is rough against my skin. “Benji.” My name is uttered. It’s as loud as I’ve heard it. Is it the river? Is it my
father? Is it a guardian angel who I—
need can’t live without must have love love oh god i love
—know will wrap a strong arm around me and pull me from this place? I don’t
know. I don’t care. Whatever the whisper is, it says my name like a caress and I
lower my head beneath the surface of the river because that’s where it is, that’s what
it wants. Who am I to fight it? Who am I to deny it?
The sound of the rain thundering down from above is muffled underneath the
