by John Hart
“You can.”
His eyes moved across my face and scalp. He made a small gesture, pointing at my head. “You should have left the bandage on.”
“I shouldn’t have needed it in the first place.”
“You’re angry.”
“Because it should have been the cops.”
He nodded as if some suspicion had been confirmed. “You were there for Jason. You were asking about Tyra.”
“Someone should believe him, evidence or not.”
“You’re right…”
“Prison or not, Vietnam or not, drugs or not—”
“Stop, just stop.” He reached for my shoulders, and when I stepped back, he followed, both hands up as if to gentle a horse. “You’re right, son. I’m trying to tell you that. It’s why I’m here. Just listen to me, please.”
But the anger was simple and clean. I understood it. “He’s all alone.”
“I understand that.”
“It could have been me.”
That stopped him cold, but truth could be like that.
“I knew Tyra, too. She was in my car. I’ve been to her house. I’ve seen her angry and drunk and bleeding. What if the evidence said I’d killed her? Would you treat me like Jason? Let them send me off to prison?” My father stepped closer, and I said, “Don’t touch me.”
He looked away, out of embarrassment or decency. “I should have been there for your brother. I see that now. From the first moment, I should have been there. But I was also in shock. Son, look at me.” He waited until I did. “Tyra’s murder was the worst I’ve ever seen, so horrible I’ll never forget it, not a bit of it. And the evidence against Jason is overwhelming.”
He looked lost, but gathered up the threads of his conviction. “When Robert died, it killed me. It killed us all, I know. But then I lost Jason, too, not in the same way, but the boy I’d raised was gone, just…” He opened an empty hand. “But I still had you. I had you and your mother and this chest full of fear, this mountain, Gibby, this mountain of fear that if I slipped or made a mistake, I might lose you, too. An accident. The war.
“A few hours ago, I learned some things about your brother’s past that help me understand the man he’s become, not just the anger and the quiet but that maddening inflexibility of his. He’s not the son I remember—not even close—but parts of him are still there, buried maybe, but not gone and not imagined.” He rolled his heavy shoulders, all but begging. “I needed answers, son, and decided to go looking. Maybe I should have done it sooner. Maybe it would have made a difference.”
“What kind of answers?”
“Things he won’t talk about. His training and the war, the things he did there.” He held up a hand, forestalling my questions. “It’s classified, son, stolen information. I could go to prison for knowing what I know.”
“I have a right to know, same as you.”
“I can’t allow you to take that risk.”
“I’m eighteen years old. That’s not for you to decide.”
“You live under my roof. So yes, it is.”
My hands clenched. His were fisted, too. “Is that your final word?”
“It has to be.”
“Then I would like to be alone.”
He searched my eyes, but I kept them cold and unforgiving. Even so, he lingered as if the rift between us was a wound that time alone could heal.
There weren’t enough hours in the day.
I made sure he saw that, too.
* * *
Chance was outside when his mother stepped onto the porch. She had coffee in one hand, but looked tired. The sun was barely up. “Have you fixed it yet?”
Chance considered the bicycle in the dirt where he knelt. He’d gone over the curb too hard, and blown a tube, damaged some spokes. “The tube is patched, but a couple of the spokes are broken through.”
“Well, leave it for now. You have a phone call. It’s Gibby’s dad.” She shrugged as if the world rarely made sense and she’d long ago stopped trying to understand it. “Take the call, then come eat your breakfast.”
They had a single phone, so Chance crossed old, brown carpet and sat on the old, brown sofa. “Hello.”
“Chance, good morning. It’s Bill French. I’m sorry to call so early, but I need to talk about Gibby.”
The call was brief but troubling. In the kitchen, Chance’s mother spoke from the stove. “What was that all about?”
“It was strange.”
“Here. You can eat while you talk.” She put a plate on the table. “Go on. Before it gets cold.”
Chance ate some corn muffin; picked at the eggs. “He wants me to come over. He said Gibby needs me.”
“It’s a school day.”
“He’s not going to school. I think something might be really wrong.” Chance waited until she lit a cigarette, and crossed her arms. “Can you give me a ride?”
* * *
The drive was out of her way and would make her late to work, but Chance’s mother didn’t complain. And when she parked and looked at her son, the smile came as easily as always. “You tell that Gibby I love him.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And this one’s for you.” Chance leaned close to take the kiss on his cheek. “You be a good boy.”
He climbed from the car, watched her go, then mounted the broad staircase. A note was on the door.
Hi, Chance. Go on in. I had to leave for work, but Gibby’s in his room.
Thanks for this.
Opening the door, Chance stepped into a familiar space that seemed eerily quiet. He and Gibby went way back, so he remembered the Christmas parties and the lively kitchen, the thunder of steps as Jason and Robert chased each other up one stairwell and down another. His envies had been simpler then. Brothers. A father. Even now, it was not about the money or the house. Nor was it a dark kind of envy. Maybe it wasn’t envy at all. But there was a steadiness to his friend.
And then there was the war …
Chance lived in such fear of it! It’s why he flirted shamelessly and picked fights and never backed down, because none of those things would kill him, or blind him or take his face. He’d seen that at the airport, once: a soldier with his skin melted from the hairline down. Since then, Chance had lived in dread of his eighteenth birthday, dreaming of all the ways to die in Vietnam, not shot cleanly like Robert, but disemboweled or impaled or tortured to death in Hỏa Lò Prison. He hadn’t registered for the draft, and if he ever did, he wouldn’t go if they called him. He was afraid and Gibby was not, a simple truth too painful to look at straight on.
So was it envy Chance felt?
It felt more like resentment.
That was impossible, though, and way too dark, so Chance made his way to Gibby’s door, ignoring an unusual desire to turn and leave. Opening the door, he said, “Dude, you okay?”
“Chance, hey. I’m glad it’s you.” Gibby stood at the window with his back turned. “I thought you were my dad.”
“Yeah, he asked me to come, believe it or not.”
“Did he tell you why?”
Chance opened his mouth to answer, but Gibby turned so the light caught his face. “Oh shit, you did it.” Chance covered his mouth, shaking his head. “Where’d you go? The Carriage Room?”
“Yeah.”
“Bikers?”
“A few of ’em, I guess.”
Chance moved closer. His friend’s face was a wreck. “I told you not to do it.”
“I know you did.”
“You should have taken me.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”
Gibby limped across the room, and Chance got a better look at his face. “Man, I am so sorry. I should have tried harder to talk you out of it. When I saw how serious you were, I should have gone with you. But damn, you really are an idiot.”
Gibby rocked his palm side to side. A little of this, a little of the other …
“You’re not going back there, are you?”
&nbs
p; “They’d kill me if I did.”
The certainty in his voice made Chance realize how close it must have been.
“Did you learn anything?”
“They knew Jason and Tyra. I’m pretty sure that they’re the ones Jason fought last week.” Gibby dragged a faded sweatshirt over his head, then eased a ball cap onto his head. “How do I look?”
“Depends on where we’re going.”
“To see a girl.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“My mother does.”
“She won’t let you take it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Gibby slipped dark glasses over his eyes. “I’m not asking for permission.”
* * *
For French, the morning was about compartmentalization.
Lock down the personal.
Do the job.
First thing he did was go to the station and check the call logs for his son’s car. Uniforms had discovered it outside an abandoned warehouse at 4:47 in the morning. French pictured the address, and worked the math in his head. Nine or ten miles from the Carriage Room. Too far for Gibby to walk.
Ditched, then.
From there, it was a short drive to the municipal impound yard. The shield got him through the gate. Finding the car was not so easy.
“Sixty-six Mustang?” The mechanic was grease-stained and bored.
“That’s right.”
“Color?”
“Maroon. It came in early.”
“Well, now.” The mechanic sipped from a Dr Pepper can. “I didn’t get here ’til seven, and it’s not on the clipboard.”
“Check again, please.”
He took his time, pages turning with the same slow, licked-finger rhythm. “Wait, yep. Here it is.” He pressed a damp finger onto a single page, twelve sheets down. “Problem is, you said Mustang. The paperwork says Ford. You also said maroon, and this says dark red.”
“Are you screwing with me?”
“Why would anyone screw with a cop?”
The smile showed in his eyes, but city employees with a bitter streak were hardly rare, so French gave him the win. Working through the bay, he opened a door on to an acre and a half of parked vehicles, and found the car where he’d been told to look.
Registration in the glove box.
Plenty of gas.
French pulled on rubber gloves, and searched it front to back. Nothing. Returning to the small office, he found the same mechanic sipping on the same can of soda. “I want that car moved to deep impound.”
“Huh? It was just a tow.”
“I’ll have a forensics crew here in thirty minutes.” French reached across the desk, snatched up the phone, and spoke as he dialed. “In the meantime, move the car. Do it now. I’ll need your fingerprints, too.”
“Huh?”
“You and whoever hooked up the tow.”
* * *
When French returned to the station, he went to see the captain. David Martin was a fair man, but a stickler for the rules. French didn’t care. He barged into the office.
“I want in on the Tyra Norris case.”
“There’s this new thing.” Captain Martin leaned away from the desk. “It’s called knocking.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
The captain regarded him carefully, twisting a pen between his fingers. “So your son, at last.”
“I should have done this sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Shock. Disbelief. I don’t know. Too much cop and not enough father. I thought like the rest of you.”
That was about recovered photographs and the murder weapon, a slab of evidence thick enough to bury Jason alive.
“Kathy,” the captain called out, and his assistant appeared around the door. “Two coffees, please. Cream for the detective.” She left, and he gestured at a chair. “Let’s talk about Gibby first.”
“You heard?”
“A cop’s son found half-dead in a ditch? Yeah, I heard.”
“This is not about Gibby. War or no war, I don’t think Jason is a killer.”
“I still can’t let you near the case.”
“Unofficially. Off the books…”
“Not even that.”
“Then dark. Just the two of us.”
For an instant, the captain’s conviction seemed to waver, but the door opened, and Kathy appeared with coffees. “Cream for the detective, and black for you.”
“Thank you, Kathy. You can close the door.” She did as he’d asked. The captain left his coffee untouched. “One question, Bill, and I want an honest answer. Did you recognize Tyra Norris at the crime scene? Did you know then who she was, that she’d been sleeping with Jason?”
French opened his mouth, but had no words.
Surprisingly, the captain’s eyes softened. He nodded gently; his voice was soft, too. “Go see your son, Bill. Go be a father.”
* * *
The warden was in his office when the call came from the front gate. “You’re sure of that ID?”
“Detective William French. I’m holding his credentials right now.”
“Hold on a second.”
Bruce Wilson lowered the phone as if a few extra seconds would make the problem go away. He was not a bad warden or a bad man. He’d done the best he could in difficult circumstances. Of course, there was always the risk a moment like this would come, the first domino that would bring the rest down.
“Are you there?” the guard asked.
“Tell him he has to wait.”
Dropping the phone onto its cradle, the warden left the office at a fast walk. His secretary tried to stop him with a question, but he said, “Not now,” and left her looking hurt. At death row, he cleared security and took the stairs down. X was painting, his back to the cell door. The painting looked like Jason French. “We have a problem.”
X declined to turn. “I suspect what you mean is that you have a problem.”
“Jason’s father is at the gate.”
“Not much of a problem.”
“He’s a city detective who wants to see his son. If I say no, he’ll want to know why. That means questions I’m not prepared to answer. Jason would not be here without my involvement. His father knows that.”
“So let the man see his son.”
“What if he talks?”
“He won’t.”
“You can’t know that!”
X turned, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m very sorry.” The warden showed his hands, and lowered his voice. “What if this cop pulls on the wrong thread? What happens then?”
“Jason knows what is expected of him. There will be no threads. I assure you.”
“Okay, okay.” A nervous nod. “What else can I do?”
“You can remember, Warden Wilson.” X dabbed his brush into bloodred paint, and touched it to the canvas. “You can remember your hard-learned lessons, and act accordingly.”
* * *
French didn’t know what to expect from his son, but this cold and distant emptiness was not it. His eyes looked vacuumed out, his voice monotone, as a guard secured his cuffs to the table. “I don’t want you here. You shouldn’t have come.”
French struggled to understand. He’d expected something, anger, at least. “I came to talk. To apologize.”
“Apologize? Really?”
“If you’ll hear me out—”
“Why now and not before?”
French had no idea what to say. A moment earlier his thoughts had been clear—so clear.
“Just go,” Jason said. “Go home.”
“Not this time, son. There are too many things to say, and too many years between us.”
“Oh, you came to talk years.”
“Mistakes made. Things I wish I’d done differently.”
“Family history,” Jason said.
“That’s part of it.”
“Okay.” Jason blinked once, and slowly. “Let’s talk about why I went to war.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
“Isn’t it the truth?”
“Do you really want to talk about mistakes?”
“It’s why I’m here.”
“I heard her that night.” Jason studied his father with those empty eyes. “The night we learned that Robert died, I heard what she said. That’s the reason I went to war.”
French thought, Gabrielle, dear God …
“Son, she was distraught.”
“Distraught or not, she wished it was me instead of Robert, me with a bullet in the heart. How could I stay in the house after that? Or look at her? Or even at myself? Vietnam was all I had left.”
French looked for the right words, but there were no right words. How could there be? Gabrielle had always loved Robert the most. He was the first and the gentlest, the closest to her heart of all their sons. Jason, in contrast, had always been sharp, sardonic, and quick, a needle to handle with care. It was a difficult truth to admit, but there it was. Gabrielle had a favorite; she’d always had a favorite. “Do you hate us, then?”
Jason shook his head. “I have no feelings for you at all.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“Believe it or not. I don’t really care. Just stay away from this place, and keep Gibby away, too.”
“Son, please. Let’s talk about this.”
“You may not remember, but I tried that once.” Jason stood, moving in such silence not even the chains made a sound. “Guard,” he said. “We’re finished here.”
26
Chance rode shotgun in the big Cadillac, and looked for signs of the best friend he’d known for most of his life. This one seemed quieter, edgy, and unforgiving. He squinted as he drove, lines at the corners of his eyes. It seemed wrong to be in a “borrowed” car, but Gibby didn’t seem to care about that, either. He spun the wheel with ease, like it was not his mother’s car. When he nodded, the lines on his face seemed to deepen. “Last time I saw Sara, she wouldn’t talk to me. This time will be different. Watch and see.”
Chance knew little of what Gibby intended, only that Tyra was the dead girl, and Sara the roommate. “What do you think she’ll tell you? I mean, best-case scenario, what are you hoping for?”