The Life We Bury (23 page)

The sun had dropped low in the west, leaving the avenues and alleys of Mason City lit with a mixture of street lamps and Christmas lights. Our plan was simple: we would drive down the alley behind Lockwood's house one time with our lights off, our eyes scanning the windows and doors. If we saw the least hint of movement in the house, we would keep driving, head back to Minnesota, and report what we'd found to Max Rupert. If, however, the night stayed silent, and we saw no sign of Lockwood, Lila would park the car behind the neighbor's garage. I would slip out, sneak up the path using my best ninja stealth, and steal the top garbage bag.

I unlocked my door as we entered the mouth of the alley, Lila's little car struggling against the dips and traps of the snow and ice. We passed behind his neighbor's garage to view the back yard of the Lockwood house, the darkness broken only by a thin light falling from the kitchen window. I strained to see any movement behind the shadows cast by the ambient glow of the neighbor's Christmas lights.

We passed the property, and seeing nothing to stop our folly, Lila stopped her car behind the next garage and covered the dome light with her palm. I clicked open my door, slid out, and crept back up the alley to the path Mrs. Lockwood had shoveled between the house and the alley. I paused one last time at the beginning of the path and listened. I heard nothing beyond the slight whistle of wind.

I stepped onto Lockwood's property, a thin layer of fresh snow crunching under my feet. My pace remained slow and cautious, as if I were walking a tightrope. Thirty feet…twenty feet…ten feet. I could almost touch it. Suddenly, the blast of a car horn cut through the cold December air about a block away and stopped my heart for a beat or two. I didn't move—I couldn't move. I stood perfectly still, expecting a face to appear at the window. I prepared myself to run back to the car, envisioning a footrace with a murderer. But nobody came; nobody peeked out.

I gathered my wits and took that last step. The lid of the can sat off kilter on top of the top trash bag. I lifted the lid carefully and laid it in the snow. Enough light filtered from the window above me to see the neck of a garbage bag. I raised it slowly, like a jewel thief avoiding motion sensors, my reflexes sharp, my balance steady, and my eye sight…well, a bit lacking.

I didn't see the beer bottle leaning against the top of the bag until it glinted in the thin light as it tumbled from the top of the trash can. It spun end over end, hit the bottom wooden porch step, bounced, spun some more, and fell to the sidewalk. It smashed into a thousand tiny bits, announcing my presence with authority.

I turned and ran down the walkway, clutching the bag of rubbish with a death grip in my right hand, glass and tin clanking inside the bag like a junkyard wind chime. I reached the junction of the path and alleyway just as the back porch light burst to life. I hit the ice in full stride, my feet shooting out from under me, sending me sprawling across the alley, my hip and elbow exploding in pain from the fall. I stood up and ran the short sprint to the car, the garbage bag held tight in my hand.

Lila hit the gas as soon as my ass hit the seat, not even waiting for the door to close. Her tires spun on the ice and the back end of the car slid back and forth, nearly hitting the nearby garage. A shadowy figure, silhouetted against the floodlight above Lockwood's back door, ran down the walkway toward us. Lila's tires caught a thin strip of gravel, breaking the spin and moving us down the alley and onto the street, leaving the shadow of Dan Lockwood behind us.

Neither of us spoke until we passed beyond the city limits. I kept watch behind us, expecting to see the headlights of Lockwood's truck closing in. They never appeared. By the time we reached the interstate and headed north, I had relaxed enough to peek into the garbage bag. There, on the very top, next to an old ketchup bottle and a greasy pizza box, were at least twenty Marlboro cigarette butts.

“We got him,” I said.

We had Lockwood's cigarette butts, his DNA, the last piece of an ever-changing puzzle. The DNA from one of those butts would match the DNA on Crystal Hagen's fingernail. Everything was coming together to prove that Daniel Lockwood—Danny Junior, DJ—was the man who killed Crystal Hagen all those years ago. It all fit.

As we drove north on Interstate 35, making for the Iowa-Minnesota border, we remained vigilant, exiting the interstate twice just to make sure no one was following us. We would wait and watch as the headlights passed us. Only then would we merge back onto the interstate. Soon we crossed into Minnesota, pulling over in Albert Lea to get some gas and food. We switched seats to give Lila a break from driving. As we pulled back onto the interstate, my cell phone rang with the theme from
Pirates of the Caribbean
, the ringtone I had assigned to Jeremy's number. This was the first time that Jeremy had ever called me, other than when we were practicing. A shiver ran up my back.

“Hey, Buddy, what's up?” I answered.

There was no response. I could hear him breathing on the other end, so I spoke again.

“Jeremy, you okay?”

“Maybe do you remember what you told me to do?” Jeremy spoke with more than his normal hesitation.

“I remember,” I said, my voice dropping into a deep valley. “I told you to call me if anyone tries to hurt you.” I felt my hand grow tight around my phone. “Jeremy, what happened?”

He did not respond.

“Did someone hit you?” I asked.

Still no response.

“Was it Mom?”

Silence.

“Did Larry hit you?” I asked.

“Maybe…maybe Larry hit me.”

“God dammit!” I held the phone away from my mouth as I cursed through clenched teeth. “I'll kill that son of a bitch.” I took a deep breath and placed the phone back against my ear. “Now listen to me, Jeremy. I want you to go to your room and lock the door. Can you do that for me?”

“Maybe I can,” he said.

“Tell me when you've locked the door.”

“Maybe the door is locked now,” he said.

“Okay, now take the pillowcases off your pillows and fill them with your clothes. Can you do that for me?”

“Maybe I can,” he said.

“I'm on my way there now. You wait in your room until I get there. Okay?”

“Maybe you're coming from the college?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I'm almost there already. I'll be there in no time.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Pack your clothes.”

“Okay.”

“I'll see you in a bit.”

I hung up my phone just in time to catch the interchange from Interstate 35 to Interstate 90. I would be in Austin in twenty minutes.

I skidded to a stop in front of my mother's apartment, throwing Lila's car into park and leaping out the door in a single motion. I covered the twenty feet between the street and the porch in a sprint of five steps, bursting through the front door and catching Larry and my mother off guard as they sat on the couch, beers in hand, watching television.

“What'd you do to him?” I yelled.

Larry jumped to his feet, throwing his beer can at my face. I swatted it away without breaking stride. He drew his fist up as I shoved my palms into his chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him sprawling over the back of the couch. Mom started screaming at me, but I walked past her and went to Jeremy's room, gently knocking on the door as if I were simply stopping by to wish him goodnight.

“Jeremy, it's me, Joe,” I said. The lock clicked open. Jeremy stood next to his bed, his left eye a spectrum of red, blue, and black, nearly swollen shut. He had his pillowcases stuffed with his clothes on the bed beside him. Larry was a lucky man to be beyond my reach at that moment.

“Hey, Jeremy,” I said, picking up the pillowcases, feeling their heft. “You done good,” I said, handing them back to him. “You remember Lila, don't you?”

Jeremy nodded.

“She's by her car in front of the house.” I put my hand on his back, leading him from his bedroom. “Take these to her. You're coming to live with me.”

“The hell he is,” Mom screeched.

“Go on, Jeremy,” I said. “It's okay.”

Jeremy walked past my mother without looking at her, moving quickly across the living room and out the door.

“What d'ya think you're doing?” Mom said in her best scolding tongue.

“What happened to his eye, Mother?” I said.

“That was…that was nothing,” she said.

“Your piece-of-shit boyfriend beat him up. That's not nothing; that's assault.”

“Larry just gets frustrated. He—”

“Then you should kick Larry out, shouldn't you?” I said.

“Jeremy pushes Larry's buttons.”

“Jeremy's autistic,” I yelled. “He doesn't push buttons. He doesn't know how to push buttons.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” she said.

“You're supposed to protect him. You're supposed to be his mother.”

“So I can't have a life. Is that what you're saying?”

“You made your choice,” I said. “You chose Larry, so Jeremy's coming to live with me.”

“You're not getting his social-security money,” she hissed.

I shook with rage, clenching my fists, waiting to calm down a little before I spoke again. “I don't want the money. He's not a meal ticket. He's your son.”

“What about your precious college?” Her voice pitched with sarcasm as she spoke.

For a brief second, I saw my future plans withering on a vine. I drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Well,” I said, “I guess I made my choice, too.”

I started for the front door only to find Larry standing in my way, his hands balled up into fists in front of him. “Let's see how tough you are when you're not blindsiding me,” he said.

Larry stood sideways in an awkward boxer's stance with his feet growing roots parallel to one another, his left fist poking out in front of him, his right tucked up against his chest. He couldn't have made himself a better target if he'd tried. With his left foot planted sideways, he exposed the side of his left knee to attack. The thing about knees is that they're made to bend front to back. If you kick the back of a knee it will buckle; if you kick the front of a knee it will remain strong. But the side of the knee is a whole different story. Knees are as fragile as dried twigs from the side.

“Okay, Larry,” I said, smiling. “Let's have a go.”

I walked at him as though I were going to charge face first into the right hook he had planned for me. But I stopped short, turned, cocked my leg back, and drove the heel of my foot into the side of his knee as hard as I could. I heard the bone crack, and Larry screamed as he fell into a heap on the floor.

I turned, looked at my mother one last time, and then walked out the door.

I leaned my forehead against the passenger window of Lila's car, staring off beyond the lights of the gas stations and towns we drove by. I could see my future dissolving, melting away, my vision blurred by the speed of the car, by the drops of water on the window, and by the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes. I would never go back to Austin, Minnesota. I would be responsible for Jeremy from now on. What had I done? I whispered the words out loud that had been banging on the doors of my brain since I'd left my mom's apartment. “I can't go to school next semester. I can't take care of Jeremy and also go to school.” I wiped my eyes before turning back toward Lila. “I'll have to get a serious job.”

Lila reached across to my seat, rubbing the back of my still-clenched fist until I let it fall open so she could hold my hand. “It may not be that bad,” she said. “I can help take care of Jeremy.”

“Jeremy's not your responsibility. It was my decision.”

“He's not my responsibility,” she said, “but he is my friend.” She turned and looked at Jeremy, who'd curled up and fallen asleep in the back seat, his cell phone still grasped in his hands. “Look at him.” Lila nodded toward Jeremy. “He's sleeping so soundly. It's like he's been awake for days. He knows he's safe now. You should feel good about that. You're a good brother.”

I smiled at Lila, kissed the back of her hand, and turned toward the window to watch the miles go by and think. It was then that I remembered something my grandfather once told me, something he'd said the day he died while we were eating sandwiches on the river, something I had blocked out of my memory for all these years. “You're Jeremy's big brother,” he'd said. “It's your job to take care of him. There's going to come a day when I won't be here to help out, and Jeremy's going to need you. Promise me that you'll take care of him.” I was eleven. I didn't know what my grandfather was talking about. But he knew. Somehow he knew that this day would come. And with that thought, a caress of serenity untied the knots in my shoulders.

As we neared the apartment, the shift from interstate highway to city streets changed the musical tone of the tires, causing Jeremy to stir. He sat up, unsure at first of where he was, looking around at the unfamiliar buildings, his brow furrowed, his eyes blinking hard.

“We're almost home, Buddy,” I said. He cast his eyes down to think. “We're going to my apartment. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, a slight smile building on his face.

“We'll get you tucked into bed in a couple minutes, and you can go back to sleep.”

His eyes furrowed again. “Um…maybe I need a toothbrush.”

“You didn't bring your toothbrush?” I said.

“To be fair,” Lila said, “you didn't tell him he was moving. You just said to pack his clothes.” I rubbed my temples where a slight headache was starting to build. Lila pulled the car over to the curb in front of the apartment.

“Can you go one night without brushing your teeth?” I asked.

Jeremy started rubbing his thumb across his knuckles and gritting his teeth, causing the muscles beside his jaw to pop like a frog's gullet. “Maybe I need a toothbrush,” he said again.

“Calm down, Buddy,” I said. “We'll figure something out.”

Lila spoke again in her soft, calming voice. “Jeremy, how about if I take you up to Joe's apartment and get you situated, and Joe can go get you a new toothbrush. Will that be okay?”

Jeremy stopped rubbing his hands, the emergency abated. “Okay,” he said.

“Is that okay, Joe?” Lila smiled at me. I smiled back.

There was a small corner store about eight blocks away, just one more detour in a long day of detours. I liked how Lila talked to Jeremy, her soothing demeanor, her genuine affection for him. And I liked how Jeremy returned those feelings, or at least his version of those feelings, almost as though he had a crush on Lila, an emotion I knew to be beyond Jeremy's palate. It made me feel a little better about all that had happened. I was no longer Joe Talbert the college student or Joe the bouncer, or even Joe the runaway. I would, from that day forward be Joe Talbert, Jeremy's big brother. My life would be defined by the chain of small emergencies in my brother's world like this forgotten toothbrush.

Lila took Jeremy upstairs to help him prepare for bed and I hopped behind the wheel to go buy a toothbrush. I found one at the first convenience store I went to. The toothbrush was green, the same color as Jeremy's old toothbrush, which was the same color as every toothbrush Jeremy had ever owned. If I hadn't found a green toothbrush at that store, I would have had to find another store. I bought some additional supplies, paid for everything, and headed back to the apartment.

My apartment was quiet and dark when I got back, the only light being a small bulb over the kitchen sink. I could hear Jeremy sleeping in the bedroom, his muffled snore signaling that his anxiety over the lost toothbrush had given way to his exhaustion. I placed the toothbrush on the bedside table and backed out of the room, letting him sleep. I decided that I would sneak next door to give Lila a kiss goodnight. I knocked lightly on her door, a single knuckle tap, and waited. No answer. I raised my hand to knock again, paused, and then let my hand fall. It had been a long day; she'd earned a good night's sleep.

I returned to my apartment and sat down on my couch. On the coffee table in front of me I spied Max Rupert's card, the one with his personal cell number on it. I picked it up and contemplated calling him. The clock was about to strike midnight. Surely the evidence Lila and I had gathered—the bombshell information about the real DJ—was important enough to warrant the late-night call. I put my thumb on the first button to call Rupert then backed off, deciding instead to get Lila's opinion. Besides, that would give me the perfect excuse to go to her apartment and wake her up.

I took Rupert's card and my phone and headed next door. As I was about to knock, my phone rang, causing me to jump. I looked at the number, a 515 area code—Iowa. I lifted the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“You have something of mine,” a low, raspy voice whispered.

Jesus. It couldn't be. “Who is this?” I said.

“Don't play games with me, Joe,” the voice barked the words. He was pissed. “You know who this is.”

“DJ,” I said. I tapped on Lila's door, holding the phone to my cheek so that he couldn't hear my tapping.

“I prefer to be called Dan,” he said.

Then it hit me. “How do you know my name?” I asked.

“I know your name because your little girlfriend here told me.”

Waves of hot and cold panic convulsed in my chest. I turned the door knob; Lila's door was unlocked. I pushed it open to find her kitchen table tipped on its side, her books scattered, her homework papers strewn across the linoleum floor. I struggled to make sense of what I saw.

“Like I said, Joe, you have something of mine…” Dan paused as if to lick his lips. “And I have something of yours.”