Gone ’Til November (2 page)

“From what I saw,” she said, “it looks like it played out the way he told it. I responded as soon as I got the call. There wasn’t a whole lot of time between the stop and when I got there.”

He took an unsharpened pencil off the desk and leaned back in his chair. His desktop was cluttered, a bundle of papers held down by a dummy hand grenade he’d brought home from Vietnam, wire IN and OUT baskets, a framed photo of his daughter as a teenager.

On a credenza behind him was a computer, shut down for the night. Beside it, in a plastic liner, was his sheriff’s campaign hat, which he wore only on formal occasions. When he’d taken over the Sheriff’s Office, he’d discontinued the use of their Smokey the Bear hats, opted for black baseball caps instead, and then made those optional as well, a change Sara had always been grateful for.

He scratched his jaw, tapped the pencil on the edge of the desk. She could sense his awkwardness.

“The lawyer from the Fraternal Order of Police is on his way,” he said. “Boone from the state attorney’s office in La Belle is still at the scene, but he’ll roll back here soon. He’ll be talking with you as well. That might be a little uncomfortable.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’ll have to know about you two.”

Doesn’t everybody already?

She cracked the cap on the bottle, drank, replaced it.

“I understand that, Sheriff. But just for the record, that was over two years ago.”

“I know. I’m just saying. Small county like this, small town, small department. If we don’t tell him, someone else will. It’s better it come from us.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“You’re a woman in an otherwise all-male department, Sara. That puts you in a unique position. It’s not fair, and I know it, but sometimes you have to be realistic about what other people might be thinking.”

“I understand.”

“This your first overnight in what, eight months?”

“Nine.”

“Your first shift with him that entire time?”

She nodded, sipped more water, set the bottle on the floor. He pulled a yellow legal pad across the desk toward him.

“They ID the driver yet?” she said. She was feeling 4:00
A.M.
fatigue, a slight dislocation from everything around her. The adrenaline was fading, and she wanted sleep.

He tilted the pad to read it.

“Derek Willis,” he said. “Twenty-two. Had a current driver’s license on him. A resident of Newark, New Jersey, and only one arrest, a misdemeanor joyriding charge. Ran him through NCIS. No hits.”

“That the name on the registration?”

“No. Car’s registered to a Wendell Abernathy, also of Newark. No hits on him either.”

“FDLE involved?”

“Not yet.”

“Good,” she said.

“That could change, based on what Boone finds. If he feels he needs to bring them in, he will.”

“Whatever the situation, this Willis wasn’t a tourist, out there in the middle of the night, weapons in the trunk.”

“I expect not.”

“And what was he doing on that road in the first place? There’s nothing out there for miles. If you’re just passing through, heading south, interstate’s easier, safer.”

“Hopefully, all questions which will be answered.”

She drank more water, put the bottle down, rubbed her left temple.

“Who’s watching the little guy?” he said.

“JoBeth. She’s at my house.”

“JoBeth Ryan?”

“She’s driving now, so it’s easier for her.”

“JoBeth’s a good kid. And her father’s a good man. She babysit for you a lot?”

“She’s good with Danny. He likes her.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He has good days, bad days. The chemo’s been rough.”

“You ever hear from his father?”

She shook her head, looked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay. There’s just not much to say. We’re getting on with our lives, you know? We have to.”

“Don’t we all.”

“They find anything else in the car?”

“Not so far. Howie’s got it at the garage. We’ll take it apart tomorrow, see what we find. I’m sorry, Sara, I was out of line there.”

“It’s all right. What’s the ME say?”

“Not much yet.” He tapped the pencil on his knee, relieved the subject had changed. “Three rounds, all from Flynn’s Glock. Two in the chest”—he touched himself there—“one on the left side. One exit wound through the back. Looks like they were definitely facing each other when the first shots were fired, which is good news. He spun as he went down, which is how he caught the third round. His weapon hadn’t been fired. Loaded, though. We’re trying to track down next of kin. I’ve got a call in to someone I know at the state police up there as well.”

Outside the window, it was almost dawn.

“You should sign out, get some sleep,” he said.

She picked up the bottle, stood, felt the stiffness in her knees. She looked out into the station, saw Angie, the bighaired bottle-blond dispatcher, watching her. Sara met her eyes until she looked away.

“You’re on Monday to Friday, right?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Good. So you’ve got the weekend in front of you. Come Monday, you go back on regular day shift?”

She nodded.

“Then take another twenty-four if you need to. We can cover. Just call Laurel, let her know.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“You can decide that Sunday night. Boone’s going to be calling you tomorrow, and you’ll need to come in for the interview.”

“I know.”

She pressed her lower back, stretched. Through an open door she could see Billy talking to Sam Elwood, their chief deputy and internal affairs officer. He sat in a chair alongside Elwood’s desk, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, staring at the floor. The real interview would start when Boone and the FOP lawyer got there.

“He’s coasting on adrenaline right now,” Hammond said, “but when all this hits home, it’ll hit hard. We’ll keep him out for a while, with pay, until this gets sorted, then bring him back on the desk, ease him into it. I’ve seen what this can do to men. Some can handle it. Some can’t.”

She watched Billy run a hand through his hair. He looked like a little boy waiting to be punished, bent over in his chair. She felt a sudden surge of affection for him, wanted to go in there, touch him, tell him everything would be okay. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t.

When she left the office, she saw him look up, meeting her eyes from across the room. Elwood looked, too, saw her, turned back to Billy and spoke. Billy held eye contact with her for a moment, then turned to answer.

She went out past the dispatcher’s desk. Angie nodded at her without speaking. Sara pushed through the big glass door and out into the new morning.

•  •  •

She pulled the Blazer into the driveway, parked alongside JoBeth’s Escort, shut off the engine. The sun was up, birds singing, and every muscle in her body felt stiff and sore.

She got out, locked the car with the keypad, slung her tactical bag over her shoulder, and went up the slate walk to the house. Danny’s Big Wheel was on the lawn where he’d left it yesterday. She picked it up by a handlebar, the plastic wet with dew, and moved it alongside the steps so no one would trip on it.

JoBeth was asleep on the living room couch, a blanket over her. She lay on her right side, left arm dangling almost to the carpet, the TV remote inches away on the rug, a cell phone alongside it. A science textbook and spiral notebook were on the coffee table.

The house was cool, the central air thrumming softly. She left her tac bag in the living room and went down the hall to Danny’s room, the door half open. He slept facing the wall, his NASCAR comforter wrapped around him, a green stuffed dinosaur in his arms. Winnie-the-Pooh wallpaper in here, but she would have to change that soon. He’d grown out of it. On one wall they’d pinned a star map of constellations, on another a science timeline with dinosaur drawings that seemed to march across the wall in single file.

He was six, small for his age, hair cropped close but uneven where it had fallen out. She leaned against the doorjamb, watched his steady breathing. She often found herself doing this at night, coming in as quietly as she could, watching him to make sure he was still breathing, still here.

It’s not fair, what you’ve had to go through. But buddy,
sometimes I love you so much I feel like my heart’s going to explode. And I’m not going to let anything take you away from me.

After a while she went down the hall to her bedroom. She locked the Glock and extra magazine in the strongbox on the closet shelf, pulled the hunter green uniform shirt off, and undid the Velcro snaps of the vest. The white T-shirt she wore beneath was soaked with sweat. She dropped the vest on the floor, the T-shirt atop it. She got the rest of her clothes off, left them where they lay.

In the bathroom, she undid her hair and ran the shower until it was hot. She climbed in and let the needles pound her neck and back where the muscles were stiffest, feeling some of the tension slip away. When she was done, she toweled off and put on sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair still loose and wet. She took two Aleve, washed them down with a glass of water from the sink.

In the kitchen, she got two twenties from the flour canister. She found an envelope, put the bills inside, and wrote on the front of it:
JoBeth, short shift tonight, but I may need to go out for a while later today. I’ll call. Thanks again, S.

Barefoot, she went back into the living room. JoBeth was still asleep, snoring softly. Sara tucked the envelope into the spiral notebook, then checked the front door locks. The exhaustion was on her now, bone deep.

She went back to Danny’s room, saw he hadn’t moved. Then she went to her own, leaving the door open so she could hear him when he woke. She climbed under a single sheet, the room already bright, sunlight coming through the blinds. She
thought about getting up to draw the curtains, but her body would not move.

When she closed her eyes she saw flashing red and blue lights, a dark form splayed out on wet grass. The head rose up, eyes fixed on her. Derek Willis looked at her and said,
Why?

She rolled over, willed the vision away, pulled a second pillow close. She held it tight to her, arms wrapped around it. She slept and did not dream.

Snow was swirling in the air—just flecks of it, only October still—when Morgan steered the old Monte Carlo onto Lyons Avenue. Rows of burned-out brownstones on both sides, abandoned and stripped cars. He passed an empty lot, saw two men standing around a fire in a fifty-five gallon drum. They watched as he drove past.

At the next corner, there was a makeshift shrine against a telephone pole. Flickering votive candles, a stuffed bear, a white T-shirt pinned to the pole. Something written on it, too far away to read.

He had the stereo on—Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes’ “I Miss You,” the long version—and he turned the sound down now, swung a right onto a side street. He slowed, watched the houses, the car’s exhaust rumbling. The brownstone he wanted
was ahead on the left; broken-down porch, weathered plywood over the big front windows.

He drove past slowly, taking in the barren front yard, the gang tags on the plywood. Hoped they didn’t have a dog.

He went up a block, made a U-turn, and parked in front of an empty storefront. He switched the engine off, the big V8 quivering for a moment with pre-ignition, then going silent.

Watching the brownstone, he got the bottle of Vicodin from the pocket of his leather car coat. He was feeling the pain again, on his right side just below his ribs. It always came with stress. He shook a pill into his palm, broke it in two, put half on his tongue, and dry-swallowed it. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview, not liking what he saw. His face thinner, his hair grayer, the color of ash.

Time to get on with it. He put the half pill back, the bottle in his pocket, opened the door.

When he got out of the car, he felt the deep arthritic ache in his hips. This cold this early, it would be a rough winter. He locked the door, looked up and down the street, saw no one. The houses were all condemned, an urban renewal project that never happened. The only people in them would be squatters—fiends and smokehounds looking to get off the street as the weather turned.

Early afternoon and the sky a hard gray, his breath frosting in the air. He wore cotton work gloves, but his hands were still cold. As he walked toward the house, bits of glass crunched under his boots: crack vials, broken bottles. This part of the city was paved with them.

He stopped outside the brownstone. Three stories, a wealthy white man’s house back in the day. The front yard was small and sloped, the stone steps that led up to the boarded-over door chipped and discolored. An extension cord ran from a second-floor window into the house next door.

He got the cell out, speed-dialed the number. Rohan answered on the first ring.

“Yo.”

“It’s Morgan. How do I get up in this place?”

“You early. Come around the side, man.”

Morgan closed the phone, went around the house to the small side yard. A toppled birdbath lay broken in the weeds. There was a door there, and it opened as he approached. Standing inside was a chubby teenager—fourteen, fifteen—with a red North Face jacket, baggy jeans. Under the jacket was a black T-shirt with red letters that said STOP
SNITCHING
. Morgan towered over him.

“You got a dog in there?”

“What?”

“Dog,” Morgan said. “You got a pit in there or something?”

“No, man. No dog in here.”

Morgan went past him into a big, bare kitchen, all the fixtures ripped out. The ceiling was sagging plaster, water-stained, ready to drop.

The boy locked the door behind them. Two dead bolts, a police bar that fit into a slot on the floor, all new.

“Hold on,” the boy said.

Morgan turned, raised his arms. The boy reached under his coat, touched his sides, then around to the small of his
back, knelt, patted his ankles. He ran his hands down the sides of the coat, felt the bottle of pills, took it out.

“What are these?”