A Bend in the Road (18 page)

“Is Joe Hendricks
still the warden up at Hailey?”

“I think it’s Tom
Vernon, now.”

“That’s right,”
Charlie said, nodding, remembering he’d read about it somewhere.

“Can you look up
the number for me?”

“Sure. Let me get
it. It’s in the Rolodex on my desk.”

She was back in
less than a minute, and when Charlie took the slip, she stood for a moment, not
liking the look in his eyes. She waited to see if he wanted to talk about it.

He didn’t.

• • •

It took almost
ten minutes to get Tom Vernon on the phone.

“Earl Getlin?
Yeah, he’s still here,” Vernon answered.

Charlie was
doodling on the paper in front of him. “I need to talk to him.”

“Official
business?”

“You could say
that.”

“No problem from
this end. When are you planning to come up?”

“Would it be
possible this afternoon?”

“That fast, huh?
Must be serious.”

“It is.”

“All right. I’ll
send word down that you’re coming. What time do you think you’ll make it?”

Charlie checked
his watch. A little after eleven. If he skipped lunch, he could be there by
midafternoon.

“How about two
o’clock?”

“You got it. I
assume you’ll need someplace to talk to him alone.”

“If that’s
possible.”

“It’s no problem.
See you then.”

Charlie hung up
the phone, and as he was reaching for his jacket, Madge peeked in.

“Are you heading
up there?”

“Have to,”
Charlie said.

“Listen, while
you were on the phone, Thurman Jones called. He needs to talk to you.”

Otis Timson’s
attorney.

Charlie shook
his head. “If he calls again, tell him that I’ll be back around six or so. He
can reach me then.”

Madge shuffled
her feet. “He said it was important. That it couldn’t wait.” Lawyers. If they
wanted to talk, it was important. If he needed to reach them, it was another
story.

“Did he say what
it was about?”

“Not to me. But
he sounded angry.”

Of course he did.
His client was behind bars and hadn’t been charged yet. No matter—Charlie had the
right to hold him for now, anyway. The clock was ticking, though.

“I don’t have
time to deal with him now. Tell him to call later.”

Madge nodded, her
lips together. There was more she seemed to want to say.

“Anything else?”

“A few minutes
later, Harvey called, too. He needs to talk to you as well. He says it’s
urgent.”

Charlie slipped
into his jacket, thinking, Of course he did. On a day like today, what else
could I have expected?

“If he calls
back, give him the same message.”

“But—”

“Just do it,
Madge. I don’t have time to argue.” Then, after a moment: “Have Harris come in
here for a second. I’ve got something for him to take care of.” Madge’s
expression made it clear she didn’t like his decision, but she did as she was
told. Harris Young, a deputy, came into the office.  “I need you to find Sims Addison for me. And I need you to watch
him.” Harris looked a little uncertain of what he was being asked to do. “Do
you want me to bring him in?”

“No,” Charlie
said. “Just find him for me. And baby-sit him. But don’t let him know you’re
there.”

“For how long?”

“I’ll be back
around six, so at least until then.”

“That’s almost my
whole shift.”

“I know.”

“What do I do if
I get a call and have to leave?”

“Don’t. Your job
today is Sims. I’ll call and get another deputy in here today to cover for
you.”

“All day?”

Charlie winked,
knowing that Harris would be bored out of his mind. “You got it, Deputy. Ain’t
working law enforcement grand?”

• • •

Miles didn’t go
home after leaving Charlie’s office. Instead he drove around town, drifting
from one turn to the next, making a haphazard circuit through New Bern. He
didn’t concentrate on his route, but propelled by instinct, he soon found
himself approaching the marlstone archway of Cedar Grove Cemetery.  He parked the car and got out, then wove his
way among the headstones, toward Missy’s grave. Set against the small marble
marker there was a batch of flowers, dried and withered, as if they’d been
placed there a few weeks back. But there were always flowers here, no matter when
he seemed to visit. They were never left with a card, but Miles understood that
no card was necessary.  Missy, even in
death, was still loved.

Two weeks after
Missy Ryan’s funeral, I was lying in bed one morning when I heard a bird begin
to chirp outside the window. I’d left it open the night before, hoping for a
break in the heat and humidity. My sleep had been fitful since the accident;
more than once, I awoke to find my body covered in sweat, the sheets damp and
oily, the pillow soaked through. That morning was no different, and as I
listened to the bird, the odor of perspiration, sweet ammonia, surrounded me.

I tried to
ignore the bird, the fact that it was in the tree, the fact that I was still
alive and Missy Ryan wasn’t. But I wasn’t able to. It was right outside my
window, on a branch that overlooked my room, its call shrill and piercing.I
know who you are,it seemed to say, and I know what you did.  I wondered when the police would come for
me.

It didn’t
matter if it was an accident or not; the bird knew they would come, and it was
telling me that they would be here soon. They would find out what kind of car
had been driven that night; they would find out who owned it. There would be a
knock at the door and they would come in; they would hear the bird and know I
was guilty. It was ludicrous, I know, but in my half-crazed state, I believed
it.

I knew they
would come.

In my room,
wedged between the pages of a book I kept in the drawer, I kept the obituary
from the paper. I’d also saved the clippings about the accident, and they were
folded neatly beside it. It was dangerous to have kept them. Anyone who
happened to open the book would find them and would know what I had done, but I
kept them because I needed to. I was drawn to the words, not for comfort, but
to better understand what I had taken away. There was life in the words that
were written, there was life in the photographs. In this room, on that morning
with the bird outside my window, there was only death.  I’d had nightmares since the funeral. Once I
dreamed that I’d been singled out by the preacher, who knew what I had done. In
the middle of the service, I’d dreamed that he suddenly stopped talking and
looked over the pews, then slowly raised his finger in my direction. “There,”
he said, “is the man who did this.” I saw faces turn toward me, one after the
other, like a wave in a crowded stadium, each focusing on me with looks of
astonishment and anger. But neither Miles nor Jonah turned to look at me. The
church was silent and eyes were wide;

I sat without
moving, waiting to see if Miles and Jonah would finally turn to see who had
killed her. But they did not.

In the other
nightmare, I dreamed that Missy was still alive in the ditch when I’d found her,
that she was breathing raggedly and moaning, but that I turned and walked away,
leaving her to die. I awoke nearly hyperventilating. I bounded from the bed and
paced around the room as I talked to myself, until I was finally convinced it
had been only a dream.

Missy had died
of head trauma. I learned that in the article as well. A cerebral hemorrhage.
As I said, I hadn’t been driving fast, but the reports said she had somehow
landed in a way that slammed her head against a protruding rock in the ditch.
They called it a fluke, a one in a million occurrence.  I wasn’t sure I believed it.

I wondered if
Miles would suspect me on sight, whether, in some flash of divine inspiration,
he would guess it was me. I wondered what I would say to him, if he confronted
me. Would he care that I like to watch baseball games, or that my favorite
color is blue, or that when I was seven, I used to sneak outside and study the
stars, even though nobody would have guessed that about me? Would he like to
know that until the moment I hit Missy with my car, I felt sure that I would
eventually make something of myself?

No, he wouldn’t
care about those things. What he’d want to know was the obvious:

He would want
to know that the killer’s hair is brown, that his eyes are green, that he’s six
feet tall. He would want to know where he could find me. And he would want to
know how it happened.

Would he,
though, like to hear that it was an accident? That if anything, it was more her
fault than my own? That had she not been running at night on a dangerous road,
more than likely she would have made it home? That she jumped right in front of
my car?

Outside, I
noticed that the bird stopped chirping. The trees were still, and I could hear
the faint hum of a passing car. Already, it was getting hot again.  Somewhere, I knew that Miles Ryan was awake,
and I imagined him sitting in his kitchen. I imagined Jonah beside him, eating
a bowl of cereal. I tried to imagine what they were saying to each other. But
the only thing I could imagine was steady breathing, punctuated by the sounds
of spoons clanking against the bowl.

I brought my
hands to my temples, trying to rub the pain away. It seemed to throb from
somewhere deep inside, stabbing me with fury, matching every heartbeat. In my
mind’s eye, I saw Missy in the road, her eyes open, staring up at me.

Staring at
nothing at all.

Charlie made it
to Hailey State Prison a little before two, his stomach growling, his eyes
tired, and his legs feeling as if the blood had stopped flowing sometime about
an hour ago. He was getting too old to sit for three hours without moving.

He should have
retired last year, when Brenda told him to, so he could spend his time doing
something productive. Like fishing.

Tom Vernon met
him at the gates.

Dressed in a suit,
he looked more like a banker than the warden of one of the toughest prisons in
the state. His hair was parted neatly on the side and streaked with gray. He
stood ramrod straight, and when he extended his hand, Charlie couldn’t help but
notice that his fingernails looked manicured. 
Vernon led the way inside.

Like all
prisons, it was drab, cold . . . concrete and steel everywhere, all bathed in
fluorescent light. They made their way down a long hallway, past a small
reception area, and finally into Vernon’s office.

At first
glance, it was as cold and drab as the rest of the place. Everything was
government issue, from the desk to the lamps to the file cabinets in the
corner. A small, barred window overlooked the yard. Outside, Charlie could see
the prisoners milling about; some were lifting weights, others were sitting
around or clustered in groups. Every other person, it seemed, was smoking.  Why on earth would Vernon wear a suit to a
place like this?

“I just need
you to fill out some forms,” Vernon said. “You know how it is.” “Sure enough.”
Charlie tapped his chest, feeling for a pen. Vernon handed him one before he
found it.

“Did you tell
Earl Getlin that I was coming?”

“I assumed you
didn’t want me to.”

“Is he ready for
me yet?”

“Once we have you
set up in the room, we’ll bring him in.”

“Thanks.”

“I did want to
talk to you for a second about the prisoner. Just so you’re not surprised.”

“Oh?”

“There’s
something you should know.”

“And what’s
that?”

“Earl was in a
scuffle last spring. Couldn’t really get to the bottom of it—you know how
things work in here. No one sees anything, no one knows anything.  Anyway . . .”

Charlie looked
up when Vernon sighed.

“Earl Getlin
lost an eye. Had it gouged out in a brawl down in the yard. He’s filed half a dozen
lawsuits alleging that we were at fault somehow.” Vernon paused.

Why is he
telling me this? Charlie wondered.

“The point is,
he’s been saying all along that he didn’t belong here in the first place. That
he was set up.” Vernon raised his hands. “I know, I know—everyone in here says
they’re innocent. That’s an old song, and we’ve all heard it a million times.
But the point is, if you’re here to get information from him, I wouldn’t get
your hopes up, unless he thinks you can get him out of here. And even then, he
might be lying.”

Charlie looked
at Vernon in a new light. For such a natty dresser, he sure as hell seemed to
know a lot about what went on in his prison. Vernon handed him the forms, and
Charlie scanned them for a moment. Same ones as always.  “Any idea who he says set him up?” he asked.

“Hold on,”
Vernon said, raising a finger. “I’ll get that for you.” He went to the phone on
his desk, dialed a number, and waited until someone came on. He asked the
question, listened, then thanked the person.

“From what we’ve
heard, he says it was some guy named Otis Timson.”

Charlie didn’t
know whether to laugh or cry.

Of course Earl
blamed Otis.

That made one
part of his job a whole lot easier.

But the other
part suddenly became that much harder.

• • •

Even if he
hadn’t lost an eye, prison had been less kind to Earl Getlin than most people.
His hair looked hacked off in places, longer in others, as if he did it himself
with a pair of rusty scissors, and his skin had taken on a sallow color. Always
on the thin side, he’d lost weight and Charlie could see the bones under the
skin of his hands.

But most of
all, he noticed the patch. Black, like a pirate, like a bad guy in the old war
movies.

Earl was
manacled in the typical way, his wrists chained together and connected further
to his ankles. He shuffled into the room, stopped for a moment as soon as he
saw Charlie, then proceeded to take his seat. He sat across from him, a wooden
table separating them.

After checking
with Charlie, the guard backed quietly out of the room.  Earl stared with his one good eye. It seemed
as if he had been practicing the stare, knowing that most people would be
forced to look away. Charlie pretended not to notice the patch.

“Why are you
here?” Earl growled. If his body looked weaker, his voice had lost none of its
edge. He was wounded but wasn’t about to give up. Charlie would have to keep an
eye on him after he was released.

“I came to talk
to you,” Charlie said.

“About what?”

“About Otis
Timson.”

Earl stiffened at
the name. “What about Otis?” he asked warily.

“I need to know
about a conversation you had with him a couple of years back.  You were waiting for him at the Rebel, and
Otis and his brothers sat at your booth. Remember that?”

It wasn’t what
Earl seemed to have been expecting. He took a few seconds to process Charlie’s
words, then blinked.

“Refresh me,” he
said. “That was a long time ago.”

“It concerned
Missy Ryan. Does that help?”

Earl raised his
chin slightly, looking down his nose. He glanced from one side to the other.

“That depends.”

“On what?”
Charlie asked innocently.

“On what’s in it
for me.”

“What do you
want?”

“Come on,
Sheriff—don’t play stupid. You know what I want.”

He didn’t have to
say it. It was obvious to both of them.

“I can’t make any
promises unless I’ve listened to what you have to say.” Earl leaned back in his
chair, playing it cool. “Then I guess we’re in a bit of a bind, aren’t we?”

Charlie looked
at him. “Maybe,” he said. “But I figure you’ll tell me in the end.”

“Why do you
think that?”

“Because Otis
set you up, right? You tell me what was said back then, and I’ll listen to your
side of events later. And when I get back to town, I promise to look into your
story. If Otis set you up, we’ll find out. And in the end, you two just might
find yourselves trading places.”

It was all Earl
needed to talk.

• • •

“I owed him money,”
Earl said. “But I was a little short, you know?”

“How short?”
Charlie asked.

Earl sniffed. “A
few thousand.”

Charlie knew
the situation was illegal, most probably drug money. But he simply nodded, as
if he knew this already and weren’t concerned about it.  “And the Timsons come in. All of ’em. And
they start telling me that I gotta pay up, that it’s making ’em look bad, that
they can’t keep carrying me. I kept telling them that I’d give them the money
as soon as I got it. Meanwhile, while all this is going on, Otis is real quiet,
you know, like he’s really listening to what I have to say. He had this sort of
cool expression, but he was the only one who seemed to care about anything I
was saying. So I start kind of explaining the situation to him and he starts
nodding and the others pipe down.  Right
after I finished, I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t say anything
for a long while. Then he leans forward and he says that if I don’t pay up, the
same thing is gonna happen to me that happened to Missy Ryan. Except that this
time, they’d run me over again.”

Bingo.

So Sims was
telling the truth. Interesting.

Charlie’s face,
though, showed nothing.

Either way, he
knew that was the easy part. Getting him to talk about it wasn’t what he was
worried about anyway. He knew the hard part was still coming.  “When was this?”

Earl thought
about it. “January, I guess. It was cold out.” “So you’re there, sitting across
from him, and he says this to you. How did you react when he said it?”

“I didn’t know
what to think. I know I didn’t say anything.”

“Did you believe
him?”

“Of course.” Big
nod, as if emphasizing his point.

Too big?

Charlie glanced
toward his hand, examining his nails. “Why?” Earl leaned forward, the chain
clinking against the table. “Why else would he say something like that?
Besides, you know what kind of guy he is. He’d do something like that in a
heartbeat.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

“Again, why do
you think that?”

“You’re the
sheriff—you tell me.”

“What I think
isn’t important. It’s what you think that matters.”

“I told you what
I thought.”

“You believed
him.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And you thought
he’d do the same to you?”

“He said it,
didn’t he?”

“So you were
frightened, right?”

“Yes,” he
snapped.

Getting
impatient?

“When did you get
arrested? For stealing the car, I mean.”

The change of
subject threw Earl for a moment.

“End of June.”

Charlie nodded as
if this made sense, as if he’d checked it out beforehand.

“What do you like
to drink? When you’re not in prison, I mean.”

“What does that
matter?”

“Beer, wine,
liquor. I’m just curious.”

“Beer mainly.”

“Were you
drinking that night?”

“Just a couple.
Not enough to be drunk.”

“Before you got
there? Maybe you were a little buzzed. . . .”

Earl shook his
head. “No, I had them while I was there.”

“How long did you
stay at the table with the Timsons?”

“What do you
mean?”

“It’s an easy
question. Were you there for five minutes? Ten? Half an hour?”

“I can’t
remember.”

“But long enough
for a couple beers.”

“Yeah.”

“Even though you
were afraid.”

He finally saw
what Charlie was getting at. Charlie waited patiently, his expression bland.

“Yeah,” Earl
said. “They’re not the type of people you just walk away from.” “Oh,” Charlie said.
He seemed to accept that, and he brought his fingers to his chin. “Okay . . .
so let me make sure I understand. Otis told you—no, suggested—that they killed
Missy, and you thought they’d do the same to you because you owed them a bunch
of money. So far, so good?” Earl nodded warily. Charlie reminded him of that
damn prosecutor who’d put him away.

“And you knew
what they were talking about, right? With Missy, I mean. You knew she’d died,
right?”

“Everyone knew.”

“Did you read
about it in the papers?”

“Yeah.”

Charlie opened
his palms. “So, why didn’t you tell the police about it?”

“Yeah, right,” he
sneered. “Like you guys would have believed me.”

“But we should
believe you now.”

“He said it. I
was there. He said he killed Missy.”

“Will you testify
to that?”

“Depends on the
deal I get.”

Charlie cleared
his throat. “Okay, let’s change gears for a second. You got caught stealing a
car, right?”

Earl nodded
again.

“And Otis was
responsible—you say—for you getting caught.” “Yeah. They were supposed to meet
me out by the old Falls Mill, but they never showed. I ended up taking the
fall.”

Charlie nodded.
He remembered that from the trial.

“Did you still
owe him money?”

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

Earl shifted in
his seat. “A couple thousand.”

“Isn’t that what
you owed before?”

“About the same.”

“Were you still
afraid they’d kill you? Even after six months?”

“It was all I
could think about.”

“And you wouldn’t
be here if it wasn’t for them, right?”

“I told you that
already.”

Charlie leaned
forward. “Then why,” he asked, “didn’t you try to use this information to
lighten your sentence? Or put Otis away? And why, in all this time here when
you were complaining that Otis set you up, did you never mention that he’d
killed Missy Ryan?”

Earl sniffed again
and glanced toward the wall.

“No one would
have believed me,” he finally answered.

I wonder why.

• • •

In the car,
Charlie ran through the information again.

Sims was
telling the truth about hearing what he’d heard. But Sims was a known alcoholic
and was boozing that night.

He’d heard the
words, but had he heard the tone?

Was Otis joking?
Or serious?

Or lying?

And what had the
Timsons talked about with Earl for the next thirty minutes?  Earl hadn’t really cleared any of that up.
It was obvious he didn’t even remember the conversation until Charlie brought
it up, and his account pretty much fell apart after that. He’d believed they
would kill him, but he’d stayed for a few beers afterward. He’d been terrified
for months, but not enough to scrounge up the money he owed, even though he
stole cars and could have gotten the money. He’d said nothing when he’d been
arrested. He blamed Otis for setting him up and blabbed to people in the prison
about it, but he didn’t mention the fact that Otis had confessed to killing
someone. He’d lost an eye and still had said nothing. The reward had meant
nothing to him.

A boozing
alcoholic, providing information to get off free. A convict with a grudge,
suddenly remembering critical information, but with serious holes and flaws in
the story.

Any defense
lawyer worth his salt would have a field day with both Sims Addison and Earl
Getlin. And Thurman Jones was good. Real good. 
Charlie hadn’t stopped frowning since he’d been in the car.

He didn’t like
it.

Not at all.