Nerve Damage (13 page)

They went to the parking lot, opened the truck doors. Jerry's kitchen chair still lay on the passenger seat. “I'll put that in back,” Roy said.

But Skippy said, “No, um, that's…” and climbed in the back himself, sitting in the heaped-up snow in his light jacket, torn jeans, and sneakers, now laceless.

 

Roy made coffee.
They sat at the kitchen counter. Skippy's right leg kept jiggling. Roy had no kids, didn't know where to start. Clichés piled up inside him. Skippy stared at the counter.

“Drink the coffee,” Roy said.

Skippy took a sip.

“I thought you liked sugar.” Roy slid the sugar bowl closer. Skippy stirred in three spoonfuls, took another sip, longer this time; the tips of his fingernails were blue black with dirt. “Drinking's one thing,” Roy said. “This is different.”

Skippy's leg jiggled.

“You agree?”

Skippy was silent.

“If you disagree, tell me why.”

“It doesn't matter,” Skippy said, his hair falling in his eyes. “What I say.”

“Take a swing at it.”

“Why? You won't believe me.”

“About what?” Roy said.

“The, um, gun and stuff,” Skippy said. “I didn't know it was there.” Roy tried to picture a less-believable-looking person.

“Where did you think it was?” he said.

“See?” said Skippy. His leg jiggled, faster and faster. “You don't believe me.” He tried drinking more coffee, but his hand was unsteady and it dripped down his chin.

“You want me to believe you didn't know the gun was in your glove box,” Roy said.

“Like why would it even make sense?” Skippy said, wiping his chin on his sleeve.

“Why would what make sense?”

“Me saying that stupid cop could look in the glove box,” Skippy said. “How come would I do it?”

“Maybe your judgment was off at that moment,” Roy said.

“Huh?”

“From something in your system, say.”

Skippy gave his head a helpless shake.

“You're saying there was nothing in your system,” Roy said. “No drugs, no alcohol.”

“I'd practically just wokened up,” Skippy said. “It was maybe eleven in the morning. I heard the knocking.”

“What knocking?”

“At the front door.”

“The front door here?”

“Yeah,” said Skippy. “I was sleeping in the spare bedroom, taking care of the place, like you said.”

“And who was at the door?”

“The lady from the insurance.”

“What insurance?”

“Said she had to take some measurements for a rebate or something.”

“Measurements of what?”

“Dunno,” said Skippy. “I told her to try back when you were here.”

“So she didn't come in?”

“Nothing about insurance was on the list you gave me,” Skippy said, glancing at the sheet of paper, still on the counter. “She was like, okay, some other time. Then I got dressed and drove down to Dunkin' Donuts. I was on my way back when I got pulled over.”

“For the taillights,” Roy said.

“Uh-unh,” said Skippy. “I went down to Auto Zone the day before and fixed 'em.”

“He stopped you for no reason?” Roy said.

“Happens all the time in this town, Mr., um…”

“With Freddy?”

“Who's Freddy?”

“The cop who arrested you.”

“He's one of the worst,” Skippy said. His eyes were livelier now; he looked a lot more believable.

“Did he ask to search the car?” Roy said.

“Yeah.”

“You could've said no.”

“But there was nothin' in it—that's what I'm trying to tell you,” Skippy said. “I thought, you wanna waste your time, go ahead.”

“Then he opened the glove box.”

“And I couldn't believe it. I thought it was one of those practical jokes.” Skippy's eyes met Roy's. “I hate practical jokes.”

“Me too,” Roy said.

“And Mr., um, Roy? I've never messed with guns and never would. What if something bad happens? You're a loser forever.”

“So whose was it?” Roy said.

“No clue.”

“And how did it get there?”

Skippy shrugged. His leg, which had stopped jiggling, started up again.

“Turk?”

“Hey, Roy. You're back? How'd it go?”

“Good.” He thought about it. “Very good.”

“Yeah?”

“The guy's a genius. Dr. Chu.”

“What'd he do?”

“Gave me his cocktail.”

“How'd it taste?”

“Turk. It's not a real cocktail. You take it from an IV.”

“Oh.”

“But I'm calling about Skippy.”

“Skippy?”

“Murph's nephew—who I left in charge of the house.”

“What about him?”

Roy told Turk Skippy's story.

“Lots of guns in the valley,” Turk said.

“There are?”

“This is a well-armed corner of the country.”

“I don't believe it.”

“That's you, Roy. You live in a rarefied world.”

“The hell I do.”

Silence. “Sorry. I just meant—”

“I want you to take this case,” Roy said.

“What case?”

“This gun bust, or whatever the hell it is.”

“C'mon, Roy,” Turk said. “It's open-and-shut.”

“I admire your fighting spirit.”

Another silence.

“They've got some kind of vendetta against the kid,” Roy said. “He fixed his goddamn brake lights and they still pulled him over.”

“With a revolver in the glove box.”

“Maybe.”

“Where's the maybe?” Turk said.

“Will you talk to him?”

“I'm not seeing the maybe.”

“That's all I'm asking,” Roy said. “On my tab.”

“It's not the money,” said Turk. “It's the waste of money. I hear this kind of bullshit story every day. They always turn out the exact same—”

“Yes or no?”

A sigh. “Send the little peckerhead in.”

 

Skippy
went on foot to see Turk. While he was gone, Roy brought in the chair, set it up in the corner of the big room where light flowed in from two angles. It shone on all the gluey parts—Roy had used enough to cause overflows at every joint—rendering the rest, the original chair, almost invisible. The title came to him:
Autopsy.
He gazed at it for a minute or two, feeling pleased with himself until a thought hit him:
Got to start working faster, boy.

Silence.
Where was he with that?
Silence
didn't exist yet, the blurry attenuated image in his mind and the long silver cone lying on the floor of the big room, still far apart, almost unrelated. Roy found his pad, lying on the kitchen counter, brought the tip of the soft pencil down on the blank page. At that moment, he remembered the last time he'd tried sketching ideas for
Silence
and how he'd ended up with the facade of the
Hobbes Institute. A sketch that should still be there: but the top page was blank. Had he taken it with him on the trip? No.

But not a certain no. Roy dumped out his travel bag, still unpacked. No sketch. He held the pad to the window, angled it, saw faint vertical indentations from the pilasters on the top page.

 

“I've got
an interview next week,” Delia said.

“What kind of interview?”

“With a think tank.” She flipped through her appointment book. “Called the Hobbes Institute—ever heard of it?”

Roy shook his head. “I thought you liked your job.”

“I do,” she said. “They came to me—a guy named Tom Parish. Very bright. It sounds like they do interesting work.”

“Like what?”

“The same kind of things I'm doing now,” Delia said. “But more hands-on.”

“No harm in hearing what they have to say.”

 

Roy was
still sitting there, on a stool in the light-filled corner, when Skippy returned.

“How did it go?”

Skippy came over, hands red from the cold. “Okay, I guess.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. He wants you to call.”

“But about the case,” Roy said. “What did he tell you?”

“I could, um, go to jail.”

“That's not going to happen,” Roy said.

Skippy just stood there. He didn't argue, didn't disagree, but he didn't believe Roy, not for a second. If he'd ever had fight in him, there wasn't much left.

Roy picked up the sketch pad. “I had a drawing on this,” he said. “The front of a building. Did you see it anywhere?”

“You think I stole it?” Skippy said, but without indignation in his voice; flat, detached, beaten.

“Of course not,” Roy said. “It's not even worth anything. I'm just asking if you saw it.”

Skippy shook his head. “Can I go now?”

“Go where?”

“Upstairs. Unless you want me to leave.”

“Skippy,” Roy said, “what's happened to you?”

“Huh?”

Roy could still see himself at Skippy's age, at least dimly. Had he ever been like this, so defeated? He'd had hockey; and his mom. “At home. At school. With your friends.”

“Nothin',” Skippy said. “Can I go upstairs?”

Roy nodded. Skippy trudged out of the big room and up the stairs. Then came the muffled thump of him falling on the spare-room bed. Among other differences, some probably unknowable, they had different kinds of moms.

 

“Turk?
What's the story?”

“The usual,” Turk said.

“You told him he was going to jail?”

“No point in sugarcoating. Not with the clients—I learned that long ago.”

“But he's a kid.”

“Lucky for him,” Turk said. “That means juvie up in Colchester and he'll be out in three years, max.”

“Can't you make a deal?” Roy said.

“Only if he cooperates,” Turk said.

“Cooperates how?”

“By giving up his source—where he got the gun,” said Turk. “And he flat-out refuses. End of story.”

“Refuses why?”

“His reason or the real reason?”

“His reason,” Roy said.

“He claims ignorance of how it got in his car,” Turk said.

“What if it's the truth?”

“Never is,” Turk said. “I touched base with Freddy. Looks like the kid got himself caught in the middle of a turf war.”

“What turf war?”

“Seems we've got two separate drug gangs in the valley, both dabbling in stolen guns,” Turk said. “The kid bought from one gang. The other gang called it in.”

“Lost me,” Roy said.

“With the idea of making happen precisely what did happen,” Turk said.

“I still don't get it.”

“An anonymous call came into the station, Roy. That's why they pulled the kid over.”

“Anonymous call?”

“Five minutes before they busted him,” Turk said. “A total setup, with the expectation he'd cough up his source in a plea deal, of course. Using the cops as a cat's-paw, if you get the idea, take all the business for themselves. Kind of clever for these parts.”

“But if the call was anonymous,” Roy said, “what makes Freddy so sure?”

“He's a smart cop, believe it or not,” Turk said. “And a tough one.”

Freddy was neither of those things on the ice. “I just don't see why—”

“Roy? Freddy doesn't want to screw this kid. He names a name and the whole mess goes away.”

Roy went upstairs. Skippy was lying on the bed in the spare room. He sat up when Roy came in.

“You want me to split?” he said.

“No,” said Roy. “I want to get to the bottom of this.”

“All I know is what I said.”

“So there's no name you can give up?”

“Think I wouldn't if I could?” said Skippy.

“I actually think you might not,” Roy said. His legs felt tired all of a sudden, like he'd been on snowshoes the whole day; he leaned against the desk. Skippy lay back down, gazed at the ceiling.

“Sorry about the shoveling,” Skippy said. “Didn't get it done.”

“Hard to,” said Roy, “from inside a cell.”

Skippy flinched, just a little—if Roy hadn't been watching closely he'd have missed it—but the meaning was clear: the reality of Skippy's future had hit him, maybe for the first time.

“We know their theory,” Roy said. “What's yours?”

“My theory? Of like what happened?”

Roy nodded.

Skippy's eyes met his. “Somebody put the thing in the glove box. Must of.”

“Like who?”

Skippy shrugged.

“Do you have any enemies?” Roy said.

“Enemies?”

“Anyone you've been in a fight with, owe money to, that kind of thing.”

“I got in a fight with Billy Cordero a couple months ago.”

“Yeah?”

“But he beat the crap out of me,” Skippy said. Long pause. Then he said, “So that's no help.”

Roy laughed. After a moment or two, Skippy started laughing, too.

“I should have beaten the crap out of him instead,” Skippy said. “Then we'd have a good theory.”

They laughed together, long and hard, like something hilarious had just happened.

“Um, Roy?” Skippy said. “Your nose is bleeding again.”

 

They went outside.
Skippy showed Roy where his car had been parked, right in front of the garage.

“Locked?” Roy said.

Skippy shook his head. “Locks were already busted when I bought it.”

They got in the truck, drove to Dunkin' Donuts and then back as far as the spot where Freddy had pulled Skippy over, just past Dee Dee's Beauty Salon.

“Wish that insurance lady had come by sooner,” Skippy said.

“Why?”

“'Cause the call came in five minutes before I got busted, right?” Skippy said. “So if the insurance lady had like woke me up even ten minutes earlier, I'd of been home safe with my doughnut.”

“True,” Roy said, just catching that
home safe,
“but that's not really…”

“Not really what?”

But Roy wasn't listening, had already started scrolling through the numbers on his phone. He came to his insurance agent.

“Hi, Mr. Valois,” said the insurance agent. “How can I help you?”

“What's this rebate about?” he said.

“Rebate?”

“The one that involves taking measurements,” Roy said. “A woman came out the other day.”

“First I've heard of it. Can you hang on? I'll check with the underwriter.” Ten or twenty seconds went by. The agent came back on the line. “Nope,” he said. “Nothing like that's going on. Did you let her in?”

“No.”

“Whew, thank goodness,” he said. “So many scam artists nowadays, can't be too careful.”

Roy clicked off, turned to Skippy. “What did this insurance lady look like?”

“I should of let her in?”

Roy got impatient, couldn't help himself. “Just what did she look like?”

Skippy bit his lip. “Um,” he said, “well, she was black for one thing.”

“Black?”

“Not dark black, more light-skinned—kind of like the Corderos.”

“She was one of the Corderos?”

“Oh, no,” Skippy said. “Nothing like the Corderos. Just that kind of skin. But she talked like you.”

“Like me?”

“Educated,” Skippy said. “Like from college. And she was tall, with straight hair, real shiny.”

“What did you say?” Roy's voice rose.

“The part about tall and straight hair?” said Skippy. “Real shiny?”

Roy tried to bring his voice back to normal range. “Could you draw her face for me?” He had to be sure, and that meant something visual.

“Draw?” said Skippy. He looked confused, almost shocked. “I don't know how.”

“Just give it a try,” Roy said.

“How come?” said Skippy. “You think this has something to do with, like…”

 

They drove back
to the barn. Roy handed Skippy the sketch pad and the soft pencil. Skippy, tongue between his lips, hunched over the page, made a few tentative marks. Skippy was right: he didn't know how to draw. But in the end he did the job anyway—Roy wasn't surprised—and so accurately around the high forehead and elegant neck that his attempt at glossy straight hair wasn't necessary. It was Lenore from Wine, Inc., beyond doubt; the woman who'd somehow hurt him with her grip.

Lenore? In Ethan Valley? Trying to get into his house? Trying and succeeding, even if that meant setting up a sixteen-year-old kid: What could possibly justify that?

Roy searched his house, quickly, but from top to bottom. He found no sign that anyone had been searching ahead of him, and nothing was missing except that unfinished sketch of the Hobbes Institute. A miniaturist's version of the real situation, Roy thought: the Institute itself was missing, too.

“Roy? Are you feeling okay?”