Chapter 11 #2
Perhaps if Hayes been another kind of boyfriend, or even just his work partner, he’d have questioned Beckett’s resolve.
Maybe pried and pushed to make sure he understood the weight of what they were about to witness, but he didn’t.
Partly because Beckett was too stubborn to change his mind, but mostly because Hayes understood him.
Hell—he’d have wanted to do exactly the same thing if he’d been in Beckett’s shoes, no matter how haunting the sight.
The door opened and Officer Carrier walked in with her partner in tow. They sat down across the table from Hayes and Beckett. Officer Lowery placed his laptop on the table gently and carefully.
“Before we proceed,” Officer Carrier began, looking over at Officer Lowery as if seeking support for what she was about to say, “we must—we insist—that you both understand our position on your viewing the film footage we have in this case. We really think you shouldn’t see this.
It’s not—the video is very graphic—I really don’t recommend—”
“If I wanted your Yelp review of my brother’s suicide, I would have already asked for it,” Beckett interrupted impatiently. “Now, I promise not to faint or sue—can you just fucking press play—” As if suddenly realizing how short he’d been, said, “Please, s’il vous plait.”
Officer Carrier took a deep breath and then nodded at her partner, who then reluctantly opened the laptop and queued up the file. He turned the screen towards them, the video set on pause.
“This is the footage retrieved from the closest traffic camera and a camera from the store across the street from where your brother—landed,” Officer Lowery said.
His English was better than Officer Carrier’s in explaining things, but he didn’t look any more convinced than she did that they should be allowed to watch it.
“Across the street?” Hayes asked, surprised to learn of this new twist in the story. “I thought you mentioned a bridge?”
“Perhaps the translation wasn’t correct—Dr. Thérault jumped off a—viaduct—” Officer Carrier said, trying to illustrate what she meant by using her hands. “Those bridges that go over other roads—I don’t—” she turned to her partner for help in choosing the right word.
“Overpass,” Beckett provided, looking stoic as his gaze stayed riveted to the screen. “He jumped off an overpass,” he repeated, in case they needed to hear how the word was used in a grammatically correct sentence.
Then, because the world wasn’t quite tilted enough, he snorted. “How unromantic,” he remarked sarcastically, like it was the greatest tragedy of all time. “Fucker couldn’t even find a real bridge,” he muttered to himself, before hitting the space bar rather forcefully to start the video.
Hayes held his breath as he watched the tape that captured the moment of Franklin’s death.
In the dim glow of a nearby streetlight, Hayes could barely see a man—one he’d have readily agreed looked just like Franklin—walk up to the railing of the overpass.
He stood for a few seconds, as if gazing out at the world.
At first, the scene looked peaceful and perfectly innocent.
The man stood on the sidewalk, and while there was no one else around at the time, it was a very public location, so there could have been other people in the vicinity.
Nothing looked out of place or extraordinary in any way.
Then, Franklin put both hands on the railing, put one of his feet on it, and suddenly pushed up and off the railing.
He didn’t even try to stand on top of the railing. He just—he fucking hopped over it.
The angle of the next shot changed abruptly.
Now the view was from a nearby street corner, showing them a nearly deserted street lit only by the dim light emanating from nearby store fronts.
At first there was no movement, so Hayes thought they might not see anything that would be helpful.
That the footage would be blank and verify what Beckett had said. Franklin wasn’t dead—he’d jumped and—
But suddenly there he was. The camera recorded his body plummeting from a frightening height, the speed increasing as he headed towards unyielding concrete.
Hayes couldn’t look away—but his entire body squirmed as he watched the soft flesh of Beckett’s brother connect with the pavement like a mosquito on the windshield of his car.
There was no sound. Thank fucking God for that.
Hayes wasn’t sure he’d have ever forgotten the sound of bones breaking, and the wet thud of tissues and organs imploding all at once.
The video tape showed no other movement whatsoever. Not even a hint of breeze lifting strands of blood-streaked hair. This tape proved there was no hope at all that he’d survived. Just—
“Well,” Beckett said, his voice rough as sandpaper in the silent room. “That’s a hell-of-a-lot more entertaining than his baptism video,” he observed casually.
And God—God!—Hayes wanted to say he didn’t recognize the person sitting next to him.
Or that his voice belonged to someone else, or that he was too far out in left field mentally to be aware of what he was saying.
But Hayes couldn’t do that. First, he’d always been a terrible liar.
Second, Beckett sounded exactly like himself.
Before Hayes could even begin to formulate an adequate defense for his boyfriend’s terrible remark, Beckett stood up and took a deep breath.
“Thank you for letting me see the film footage. But if my mother asks—I took that laptop right out of your hands, smashed it, burned it, and there are no copies, got it?” he asked the two officers, like he was somehow the one in charge.
Officer Lowery’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
Officer Carrier nodded her assent.
“Agreed,” she said.
“Good—” he gave a firm nod. “Best she doesn’t see her favourite kid implode like a watermelon,” he muttered under his breath, but Hayes heard every word perfectly.
“Welp—” he added, a little awkwardly. “Thanks for—” he left it open ended, as he shot Hayes a look that clearly meant they needed to leave.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Hayes said as he stepped away from the table, mind still reeling from watching the film footage.
Both officers smiled pleasantly, although Officer Carrier kept her gaze focused on Hayes.
“If we can do anything else—” she said, looking at Hayes with a noticeable spark of interest.
“Yeah, yeah,” Beckett said, rolling his eyes, and grabbing Hayes’ shoulder to shove him forward. “Keep it in your pants, Samantha—the man’s taken, spoken for, and well fucked—” he said, in lieu of a proper goodbye as he forced Hayes to move forward and leave the building.
Hayes was shocked speechless by Beckett’s words and behavior in front of the officers. He didn’t recover until after they’d climbed back into their rental car.
Foolishly, perhaps, Hayes had anticipated some kind of breakdown.
Surely, once they were alone, Beckett would—drop the act?
Hell, Hayes wasn’t sure what he’d thought would happen, but something should, right?
That video was horrifying, and no one could watch that and come away unscathed.
No one. So, what the hell was going on with Beckett? Hayes was flummoxed.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened after they got in the car. Beckett sat back in the driver’s seat, buckled his seatbelt, and drove down the fucking road as if they were on their way to the grocery store.
“It’s—” Hayes attempted to start a conversation, but couldn’t find the right words.
Every time he blinked, he saw Franklin’s body collide with the pavement, and it was incredibly difficult to get past that.
In fact, it was damned near impossible. “Did you—” But he faltered again.
He searched Beckett’s profile for any clues as to his state of mind, but the man looked perfectly normal.
That in and of itself made abso-fucking-lutely no sense whatsoever.
How in the world was he going to get Beckett to talk about what he was thinking and feeling?
Hayes tolerated the silence for a few more minutes. Then he couldn’t stand it any longer. He just snapped.
“Stop the car,” he ordered abruptly, as cold as the ice apparently running through Beckett’s veins.
Beckett shot him an odd look—as though trying to guess whether Hayes was about to puke or not—but immediately pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. Hayes opened the door without speaking and stepped out.
Hayes had noticed that in Quebec, every road sign was bilingual.
Hell—every sign, whether a restaurant, an advertisement, or a roadblock, was in both French and English.
Ever since they’d arrived in the province, Hayes had made a game out of trying to pronounce all the French words on the signs.
As he stood there on the side of the road, arms crossed and staring off at a small, wooded area, he read the “keep out” sign aloud over and over.
“Entrée interdite,” he muttered under his breath, trying to calm his whirling, confusing thoughts. Repetitive actions and words were naturally soothing to him, so he just needed to get in the zone and he’d be fine. He was sure of it.
“Never seen you get carsick before—” Beckett said, as he walked up to stand next to Hayes. “Was it my mother’s cooking? Or my brother’s brain splatter?”
That was Hayes’ breaking point. So much for being in the zone.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Hayes snarled as he whirled around to glare at Beckett. A part of him was shocked by the intensity of his anger as he stared down the man he loved.
If Beckett was surprised by his outburst, he didn’t show any sign of it. That lack of reaction only added fuel to the fire.
“Don’t bother answering,” Hayes commanded harshly before Beckett could mouth off. “I expect it’ll be nothing but bullshit anyway.” Shaking his head, he turned to walk back to the SUV.
“Nice to know you’re on my side,” Beckett huffed, like Hayes had thrown him under a bus.