My hair, too, had begun to fall out. Not in clumps, but in strands, as if decaying slowly but steadily, like termites ravaging a home. There would be strands on my pillow when I woke, and when I brushed my hair, I would have to use my fingers to clear the bristles before I finished or the brush would slide without catching. I would flush the hair down the toilet, watching it swirl downward, and once it was gone, I would flush again for no other reason than to postpone the reality of my life.
That night, as I was climbing through a hole in the fence, I cut my palm on a jagged nail. It hurt and it bled, but instead of turning around, I simply squeezed my hand into a fist and felt the blood seeping between my fingers, thick and sticky. I did not care about the pain that night, just as I do not care about the scar today.
I had to go. In the last week, I had gone to the site of Missy's accident and had also visited Missy's grave. At the grave, I remember, the headstone had been placed and there were still remnants of fresh earth, where the grass had yet to grow, almost like a small hole. It bothered me for a reason I couldn't quite explain, and that was where I set the flowers. Then, not knowing what else to do, I sat down and simply stared at the granite. The cemetery was mostly empty; in the distance, I could see a few people here and there, tending to their own business. I turned away, not caring if they saw me.
In the moonlight, I opened my hand. The blood was black and shone like oil. I closed my eyes, remembering Missy, then moved forward again. It took half an hour to get there. Mosquitoes buzzed around my face. Toward the end of my trek, I had to cut across yards to stay off the road. The yards here are wide, the houses set far from the road, and it was easier going. My eyes were locked on my destination, and as I approached, I slowed down, careful not to make any sound. I could see light streaming from the windows. I saw a car parked in the driveway.
I knew where they'd lived; everyone did. This was a small town, after all. I had seen their house in the daytime, too; like the scene of the accident and Missy's grave, I'd been there before, though I'd never been this close. My breathing slowed as I reached the side of the house. I could smell the scent of freshly mowed grass.
I stopped, my hand pressed against the brick. I listened for squeaky floorboards, a movement toward the door, shadows flickering over the porch. No one seemed to realize I was there.
I inched my way to the living room window, then crept onto the porch, where I wedged myself into a corner, my body hidden from those who might pass on the road by an ivy-covered trellis. In the distance, I heard a dog begin to bark, then pause, then finally bark again to see if anything would stir. Curiously, I peeked in.
I saw nothing.
But I was unable to turn away. This is how they lived, I thought. Missy and Miles sat on that couch, they set their cups on that end table. Those are their pictures on the wall. Those are their books. As I looked around, I noticed that the television was on, the sounds of conversation running together. The room was tidy, uncluttered, and for some reason, that made me feel better.
It was then that I saw Jonah enter the living room. I held my breath as he approached the television, since he was nearing me as well, but he never looked my way. Instead he sat, crossing his legs, and stared at the program without moving, as if hypnotized.
I pressed a little closer against the glass to see him better. He had grown in the past two months, not much, but noticeable. Though it was late, he was still in jeans and his shirt, not in his pajamas. I heard him laugh, and my heart nearly burst in my chest.
That was when Miles came into the room. I pulled back into the shadows, but still I watched him. He stood there for a long moment, watching his son, saying nothing. His expression was void, unreadable . . . hypnotized. He held a manila file in his hands, and a moment later, I saw him glance at his watch. His hair on one side was puffed out, as if he'd been running his hands through it.
I knew what would happen next, and I waited. He'd start talking to his son. He'd ask what Jonah was watching. Or, because it was a school night, he'd say something about Jonah having to go to bed or putting his pajamas on. He'd ask if he wanted a cup of milk or a snack.
But he didn't.
Instead, Miles simply passed through the living room and vanished into a darkened hallway, almost as if he'd never been there at all.
A minute later I crept away.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night.
Chapter 24
Miles made it home at the same time Charlie was pulling up at Hailey State Prison, and the first thing he did was head to his bedroom.
Not to sleep. Instead, from the closet where he'd hidden it, he retrieved the manila file.
There, he spent the next few hours flipping and turning the pages, studying the information. There was nothing new, nothing he'd overlooked in the past, but still, he found it impossible to put down.
Now, he knew what to look for.
Sometime later, he heard the phone ring; he didn't answer it. It rang again twenty minutes later, with the same result. At his usual time, Jonah got off the bus, and seeing his father's car, he went home instead of to Mrs. Knowlson's. He scrambled into the bedroom excitedly because he hadn't expected to see his father until later and thought they could do something together before he went out with Mark. But he saw the file and knew immediately what that meant. Though they talked for a few moments, Jonah sensed his father's need to be alone and didn't bother asking for anything. He wandered back to the living room and turned on the television.
The afternoon sun began to sink; at dusk, Christmas lights throughout the neighborhood began twinkling. Jonah checked on his father, even spoke from the doorway, but Miles never looked up.
Jonah had a bowl of cereal for dinner.
Still, Miles scoured the file. He jotted questions and notes in the margins, beginning with Sims and Earl and the need to get them to testify. Then he turned to the pages that dealt with the investigation of Otis Timson, wishing he'd been there in the first place. More questions, more notes. Did they check every car on the property for damage--even the junked ones? Could he have borrowed one, and from where? Would someone at an auto parts shop remember if Otis ever bought an emergency kit? Where would they have disposed of the car if it had been damaged? Call other departments--see if any illegal chop shops had been closed down within the last couple of years. Interview, if possible. Cut a deal if they can recall something.
A little before eight o'clock, Jonah came back into the bedroom, dressed and ready to go to the movies with Mark. Miles had forgotten about the outing completely. Jonah kissed him goodbye and headed out; Miles went straight back to the file without asking when he'd be back.
He didn't hear Sarah come in until she called his name from the living room.
"Hello?... Miles? Are you here?"
A moment later she appeared in the doorway, and Miles suddenly remembered that they were supposed to have a date.
"Didn't you hear me knock?" she asked. "I was freezing out there, waiting for you to answer, and I finally just gave up. Did you forget that I was coming over?"
When he looked up, she saw the distracted, distant look in his eyes. His hair looked as if he'd been running his hand through it for hours.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
Miles started shuffling the papers back together. "Yeah...I'm fine. I've just been working...I'm sorry...I lost track of time."
She recognized the file and her brow arched up. "What's going on?" she asked.
Seeing Sarah made him realize how exhausted he felt. His neck and back were stiff, and he felt as if he were coated in a thin layer of dust. He closed the file and set it aside, his mind still on the contents. He rubbed his face with both hands, then looked at her over his fingers.
"Otis Timson was arrested today," he said.
"Otis? What for?"
Before she'd finished her question, she suddenly realized the answer, and she inhaled sharply.
"Oh... Miles," she said, moving toward him instinctively. Miles, ac
hing everywhere, stood up and she slipped her arms around him. "Are you sure you're okay?" she whispered, holding him tight.
As he embraced her, everything he'd felt during the day came rushing back. The mixture of disbelief, anger, frustration, rage, fear, and exhaustion magnified the renewed feelings of loss, and for the first time that day, Miles gave in to them all. Standing in the room with Sarah's arms around him, Miles broke down, the tears coming as though he'd never cried before.
Madge was waiting for Charlie when he got back to the station. Normally off at five, she stayed for an extra hour and a half waiting for him. She was standing in the parking lot, her arms crossed, hugging her long wool jacket against her.
Charlie stepped out of the car and brushed the crumbs from his pants. He'd grabbed a burger and fries on the way home, washing it all down with a cup of coffee.
"Madge? What are you still doing here?"
"Waiting for you," she answered. "I saw you pull up and I wanted to talk to you out of earshot."
Charlie reached into the car and grabbed his hat. In the chill, he needed one. He didn't have enough hair anymore to keep his head warm.
"So what's up?"
Before she answered, a deputy pushed through the door and Madge looked over her shoulder. Buying time, she said simply, "Brenda called."
"Is she okay?" Charlie asked, playing along.
"Fine, as far as I can tell. She wants you to give her a call, though."
The deputy nodded at Charlie as he strode past. Once he was near his car, Madge moved a little closer.
"I think there's a problem," Madge said quietly.
"With what?"
She motioned over her shoulder. "Thurman Jones is waiting for you inside. So is Harvey Wellman."
Charlie looked at her, knowing there was more.
"They both want to talk to you," she said.
"And?"
Again she looked around, making sure they were alone. "They're here together, Charlie. They want to talk to you together."
Charlie simply stared at her, trying to anticipate what she was going to say, knowing he wouldn't like it. Prosecutors and defense attorneys got together only under the most dire circumstances.
"It's about Miles," she said. "I think he might have done something out there. Something that he shouldn't have."
Thurman Jones was fifty-three, of average height and weight, with wavy brown hair that always looked windblown. He wore navy suits, dark knit ties, and black running shoes while in court, which gave him a sort of country bumpkin appearance. When in court, he spoke slowly and clearly and never lost his cool, and that combination, along with his appearance, played extremely well to a jury. Why he represented the likes of Otis Timson and his family was beyond Charlie, but he did and he had for years.
Harvey Wellman, on the other hand, dressed in tailored suits and Cole-Haan shoes and always looked as if he were heading off to a wedding. At thirty, he had begun to go gray at the temples; now, at forty, his hair was nearly silver, giving him a distinguished appearance. In another life, he could have been a news anchor. Or maybe a funeral director.
Neither one of them looked happy as they waited outside Charlie's office.
"You two wanted to see me?" Charlie asked.
They both stood.
"It's important, Charlie," Harvey answered.
Charlie led them into the office and closed the door. He motioned to a couple of seats, but neither of them accepted. Charlie moved behind his desk, putting a little space between him and the visitors.
"So what can I do for you?"
"We've got a problem, Charlie," Harvey said simply. "It concerns the arrest this morning. I tried to talk to you earlier, but you were already out."
"Sorry about that. I had to take care of some business out of town. What's this problem you're referring to?"
Harvey Wellman met Charlie's gaze directly. "It seems that Miles Ryan went a little too far."
"Oh?"
"We've got witnesses. A lot of witnesses. And they're all saying the same thing."
Charlie said nothing, and Harvey cleared his throat before going on. Thurman Jones stood off to the side, his expression blank. Charlie knew he was taking in every word.
"He put his gun to Otis Timson's head."
Later, in the living room, Miles was nursing a beer and absently peeling the label as he told Sarah everything that had happened. Like his own feelings, the story came out jumbled at times. He jumped from one point in the story to another, then backtracked, repeating himself more than once. Sarah never interrupted, never looked away, and though there were moments in which he was unclear, she didn't press him to clarify for the simple reason that she wasn't sure he could.
Unlike with Charlie, however, Miles went further.
"You know, for the past two years, I've wondered what would happen when I came face-to-face with the guy who did it. And when I found out it was Otis...I don't know.. ." He paused. "I wanted to pull the trigger. I wanted to kill him."
Sarah shifted, not knowing what to say. It was understandable, at least on some level, but...a little frightening, too.
"But you didn't," she finally said.
Miles didn't notice the tentativeness of her answer. His mind was back there, with Otis.
"So now what happens?" she asked.
His hand went to the back of his neck and he squeezed. Despite how emotionally caught up he was in this, the logical side of him knew they'd need more than they had now. "There's got to be an investigation--witnesses to interview, places to check out. It's a lot of work, and it's harder now that time has passed. I'm gonna be busy for I don't know how long. Lot of late nights, lot of weekends. It's back to where it was a couple of years ago."
"Didn't Charlie say he was going to handle this?"
"Yeah, but not like I would."
"Are you allowed to do that?"
"I don't have a choice."
It wasn't the time or place to discuss his role, and she let it go.
"Are you hungry?" she asked instead. "I can throw something together in the kitchen for us. Or we can order a pizza?"
"No. I'm fine."
"You want to go for a walk?"
He shook his head. "Not really."
"You up for a movie? I grabbed a video on my way over."
"Yeah...sure."
"Don't you want to know what it is?"
"It doesn't really matter. Whatever you picked up is fine."
She rose from the couch and found the movie. A comedy, it succeeded in making Sarah laugh a couple of times, and she glanced over at Miles to see his reaction. There wasn't one. After an hour, Miles excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he didn't come back in a few minutes, Sarah went to make sure he was okay.
She found him in the bedroom, the manila folder open beside him.
"I just have to check something," he said. "It'll only take a minute."
"Okay," she answered.
He didn't come back.
Long before it was over, Sarah stopped the movie and ejected it, then found her jacket. She peeked in on him once more--not knowing that Jonah had done the same thing--then slipped quietly from the house. Miles didn't realize she'd left until Jonah got back from the movies.
Charlie was in the office until almost midnight. Like Miles, he was looking over the case file and wondering what he was going to do.
It had taken quite a bit of cajoling to cool Harvey down, especially after he threw in the incident in Miles's car as well. Not surprisingly, Thurman Jones remained fairly quiet throughout it all. Charlie guessed that he thought it would be better if Harvey did the talking for him. He did, however, flash the tiniest of smiles when Harvey said that he was seriously considering bringing Miles up on charges.
That was when Charlie told them why Otis had been arrested in the first place.
Seemed that Miles hadn't bothered to tell Otis what the charge was. They were going to have a serious heart-to-heart the following day--if Charlie didn't wri
ng his neck first.
But in the presence of Harvey and Thurman, Charlie acted as if he'd known all along.
"No reason to start flinging accusations when I wasn't sure they were even warranted."
As expected, both Harvey and Thurman had problems with that. They had further problems with Sims's story, until Charlie told them he'd met with Earl Getlin.
"And he confirmed the whole thing" was how he phrased it.
He wasn't about to tell Thurman about his doubts, nor was he willing to share them with Harvey just yet. As soon as he'd finished, Harvey gave him a look that meant they should meet later to talk in private. Charlie, knowing he needed more time to digest things, pretended not to notice.
They did spend a great deal of time talking about Miles after Charlie finished. Charlie had no doubts that Miles had done exactly what was described, and though he was... upset, to put it mildly, he'd known Miles long enough to know that it wasn't out of character in a situation like this. But Charlie hid his anger, even as he kept his defense of Miles to a minimum.
In the end, Harvey recommended that Miles be placed on suspension for the time being, while they sorted everything out.
Thurman Jones asked that Otis either be released or charged right away, without further delays.
Charlie told them that Miles was already gone for the day, but that he would make a decision on both counts first thing in the morning.
Somehow, he hoped things would be clearer by then.
But they wouldn't be, as he discovered when he finally headed home.
Before he left the office, he got in touch with Harris at his house, asking how it went.
Turned out he hadn't been able to find Sims all day.
"How hard did you look?" Charlie snapped.
"I looked everywhere," Harris answered groggily. "His house, his mom's place, his hangouts. I went to every bar and liquor store in the county. He's gone."
Brenda, wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas, was waiting up for him when he got home. He recounted most of what had happened, and she asked what would happen if Otis was actually brought to trial.
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