Gone ’Til November (7 page)

“I know it.”

“He gonna call ahead, get a room for you. You go there, park around the back. Manager gonna give you the key, ain’t gonna say anything else. You hang there till one of us call you back. You need anything?”

Morgan thought about what he’d left in the room. Some clothes, his pills, the boom box, about half his tapes. The others were in the car. The cash he’d taken from Rohan and the thousand Mikey had given him were in a safe deposit box at his bank, with the rest of his money. He had nothing else.

He looked at the BMW.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”

“See you there, then,” C-Love said and ended the call.

Morgan closed the cell, then started the engine, U-turned away from the curb. He watched the BMW in his rearview. It didn’t move.

He switched on the stereo, the cassette player clicking on. Walter Jackson singing that his ship was coming in. He turned it louder. Drove with one hand on the gun.

The sheriff was at the coffee station, with a mug that bore the eagle, globe, and anchor of the Marine Corps. Sara had just come on duty, hadn’t picked up her keys yet.

“Who was that?” she said.

He looked at her. “Who?”

“That woman yesterday.”

He sipped coffee.

“Need to talk to you about that,” he said. “Come on in.”

She followed him into the office.

“Close the door.”

He stood at the window, sipped from the steaming mug, looked out. The flag was popping in the wind, the metal lanyard clanging against the pole.

“I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised,” he said.

“About what?”

He gestured at the chair across from his desk. She sat.

“That woman’s name is Simone James,” he said, “and she claims to be Derek Willis’s wife, if not in a strictly legal manner. She says they have a child together. A three-year-old boy. She showed me pictures.”

“What’s she doing here?”

He put the mug down, sat. “Collect the body, when it’s ready to be released. Ostensibly at least. Raise hell, most likely, is what I think.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That we were conducting a full investigation. That it appeared to be a case of justifiable use of lethal force. She says Willis never carried a gun in his life. Wouldn’t know what to do with one.”

“He had one that night. More than one.”

“That’s what I told her. And his prints were on the .38. She didn’t seem to buy it. I gave her Boone’s number, the ME’s, too. She’ll call them, I expect. Get a lawyer, too, if she hasn’t already. Being as you were a witness, you should be prepared.”

“Everything I saw is in that report.”

“I know, but she might want to talk to you. That’s my read on her, at least, from my brief exposure. And you’re not going to do that, right?”

“Of course not.”

“If it comes down to a suit, lawyers and a deposition, we’ll talk to the FOP attorney, see what he says. Until then, we don’t do anything. I’ve promised her access to the basic reports, but that’s it. She’s a cool customer, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I expected her to come in here with guns blazing, call us all a bunch of racists at least. Instead she asked her questions, and when I gave her answers, she asked more. Wasn’t too forthcoming when it came to my own questions, though.”

“Like what?”

“The car that Willis was driving was registered to a Wendell Abernathy, remember? Turns out Mr. Abernathy is seventy-five years old and hasn’t renewed his driver’s license in six years.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She said it doesn’t matter. She’s right.”

“Anything else turn up in the car?”

He shook his head, sipped coffee.

“What was in the overnight bag I saw?”

“Clothes. We put a drug dog on the car, too. No hits.”

“Doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re right.”

“So she asks around a little bit, maybe blows off some steam, then goes back to New Jersey.”

Or stays here and causes trouble for all of us.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “We’ll see. I’ve been going over those reports again, though.”

“And?”

“There are a couple things that bother me. Boone and Elwood didn’t think they were an issue, but I’m not so sure.”

“What?”

“Billy says Willis was speeding, driving erratically, that he pulled him over because of that.”

“So?”

“So he’s already maybe a little nervous, doesn’t know what
he’s getting into. New Jersey plates, that road, that time of night, no one else around. He knew something was up when he pulled that car over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Unusual situation. Remote location. SOP would have been to call it in, sit there and wait for backup before approaching the car. Instead, he calls it in and then gets out, engages the driver. And things get crazy.”

“The way it happens sometimes.”

“I know. But most deputies in a shooting situation—especially if they’ve never been in one before—will end up emptying their magazines, out of panic, instinct. They fire at the threat until it’s eliminated. Billy only fired three times—just enough to do the job—and all of them in center body mass. Pretty good shooting for a man in fear of his life.”

“You’re blaming him because he didn’t panic?”

“Not at all. Just another wrinkle in this thing. Something else to keep it from being as simple as it should.”

“What else?”

He put the cup down.

“Why’d Willis run?” he said.

“Because he didn’t want to go to jail.”

“He’d be facing a gun charge, sure, but he’d be out on bail in a day or so. With a decent lawyer he might even beat the case, being as it wasn’t his car in the first place. But he had no warrants, wasn’t a fugitive. Why get into a gun battle with a deputy?”

“Maybe he was the one that panicked.”

“Maybe. I just wish the whole thing made more sense.”

She thought about what she’d told Billy at his house, how the sheriff was convinced it was a clean shoot. The relief in his face.

“I need to get out on the road,” she said.

“I know. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Sara, but don’t talk to anyone about this—
anyone
—without a lawyer from the county or the FOP present. That includes Billy.”

“He’s a fellow deputy. He’s having a hard time with all this. How can you say—”

“Trust me, it’s for the best. Now, I know you feel bad about what he’s going through, you want to support him. I understand that. I do, too. But you need to be careful.”

“It sounds like you’re expecting the worst.”

“I always expect the worst. It might be a good idea to stay away from him in general until all this gets cleared up.”

There it is. What you were waiting for.

“I don’t—”

He raised his hand. “I’m just saying. You need to keep in mind, someday you may be sitting in this chair instead of me.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do, and that may come sooner than you think. If you want it, that is. In the meantime, you need to stay clear of things that could come back to haunt you later on.”

“What do you mean?”

He sat back, looked at her. “This is going to sound cold,” he said. “And maybe it is. But if things go bad on this, I don’t want you catching any of it. You might be in an awkward position, because of that past situation—and because you were out there the night of the shooting. If someone has to
take the hit on this, I want you well clear of it, for your own sake.”

She watched him, waited for more.

“I tell you about when I was with the Rough Riders?” he said. “Running supplies into Khe Sanh?”

“Some of it.”

“When I got there in ’sixty-seven, there was only one road in and out. Highway Nine all the way from Ca Lu. One lane, through some of the worst territory you can imagine. NVA everywhere. From midnight to noon the road went in, from noon to midnight it went out. They’d have one of us in a tanker truck, driving five thousand gallons of JP-4, sandbags on the floor, an M-16, and that’s it. One man. I made that run about a dozen times. Saying every prayer I knew along the way.”

“Maybe it helped.”

“Maybe it did. But what I didn’t find out until later was the philosophy behind it, the way it operated. Our guys were getting blown up all the time, mines, snipers, RPGs. There was no way to hold and control the jungle around the road. The logistics officers figured we were losing an average of three to five percent of everything that tried to get through. No matter what they did. Three to five percent of the supplies lost, three to five percent of the men killed.”

“That must have been tough.”

“You know what solution they came up with?”

She shook her head.

“Add five percent more men, supplies, trucks. Make your losses sustainable. Get more trucks, more men out on that road so you can lose five percent without impacting the efficiency
of the base. It made sense, unless you were one of those guys that didn’t get through, or their families.”

“Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Fair or not, it worked. You know what that’s called?”

“What?”

“Management. Take it easy out there, Sara. Be safe.”

She found herself out on CR-23 almost without realizing it, headed south, the window down. Cooler today, with a breeze blowing through the sugarcane. In the canal to her left, she saw a gator sunning itself on the bank, as they always did when the water temperature dropped. It was her first time out here since the shooting.

When she came over the rise, she saw the white cross ahead on the shoulder, at the top of the incline that led down to the swamp.
What the hell is that?

She slowed, pulled over, heard gravel under the tires. She killed the engine and got out, slipping the handheld into her belt.

In the distance, she could see the hulk of the old High-field sugar refinery, sun glinting off what was left of its windows. Beyond it, acres and acres of scrub pine, dead fields. To her left, sugarcane bent in the soft wind.

The cross was white Styrofoam, about a foot high. A spot had been cleared in the gravel, the spiked base driven into the dirt. A teddy bear was wired to its shaft, a handful of flowers in a small plastic vase in front of it. They moved gently in the breeze.

A wallet-sized photo had been thumbtacked to the center of the cross. A young black man in a cap and gown, gold-rimmed glasses. A posed shot, high school graduation. She thought about Derek Willis lying facedown in the wet grass, his clothes soaked through with blood, his eyes open.

She stood there for a while, alone by the side of the road, looking down at the cross, hearing nothing but the wind.

There was only one real motel in town, the Starlite, on Saw-grass Road. It had a fifties-era red neon sign that advertised
FREE TV
and
LO RATES
. A smaller sign over the office said
AMERICAN-OWNED
.

Sara parked the cruiser in the lot, left the engine on. There were half a dozen cars outside the adjoining coffee shop, a cab. If the woman was staying in town, she was here.

She considered going into the office, asking if a Simone James was registered. Then waiting out here for her to show up, however long it took, to get a better look at her.

After a while she got her cell out, called Billy’s home number. It rang six times and the machine picked up. Lee-Anne’s voice. Sara ended the call.

The lot at Tiger Tail’s was nearly full, mostly pickups, at least two with Confederate flag bumper stickers. In the back window of one was a decal that read
TERRORIST HUNTING PERMIT
.

Billy’s truck was parked alongside the fence. She pulled the
Blazer in behind it. She’d gone home, showered, made dinner for her and Danny, waited for JoBeth to show up.

Crowded for a Tuesday night, eight o’clock and the after-work crowd still hanging in. Sara went in to a blare of smoke and noise, Johnny Cash’s “I Still Miss Someone” on the jukebox, Billy at it again.

He and Lee-Anne were at the bar, their backs to the door.

You surprised by that? Turn around, walk out. Smartest thing you could do.

Althea waved from the bar. Billy turned, saw her. Lee-Anne turned then, too. Sara lifted her chin at them, went to the far end of the bar, found a spot. Althea brought her a pint of Guinness.

“Sam’s here,” she said.

“Where?”

“Over there.” She gestured toward the back alcove. Elwood was at the pool table alone, stretched over the felt, sizing up a shot, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a red Western shirt with pearl snaps.

“Want me to start a tab?” Althea said.

“No.” Sara got bills from her pocket, put a five on the bar. “I’m not staying long.”

She picked up the Guinness, walked back to the alcove. She heard the click of balls, the thump of the shot going in.

“Who’s winning?” she said.

Elwood turned, squinted at her through smoke. “Hi, Sara.” He tapped the cigarette into an ashtray on a shelf, picked up the bottle of Coors Light next to it.

“Surprised to see you here,” she said.

“Old Luke lets me off the leash every once in a while. Figured I’d come by, grab a beer.”

“Loose definition of beer.”

He gave a short laugh. “I guess. Rack ’em up.”

She put her Guinness on the shelf, got the rack from the wall peg. He squatted, fed quarters into the slot. The balls clacked, rolled out.

She set the rack, put the balls in, the one ball in the top position, eight ball in the center, lifted the rack away. He chalked his stick.

“Eight ball?” he said.

“Good enough. Calling shots?”

“Might as well.”

She got a cue down from the rack, tested its weight, chose another, heavier one.

“Shoot for the break?” she said.

“No, you go ahead.”

She chalked, placed the cue ball, leaned over the table, her weight equally distributed, knees slightly bent. She shot to the right of the one ball, hard and fast, the way her father had shown her. The balls flew apart. The fourteen ball spun, dropped into a corner pocket.