From Away

by David Carkeet

  Denny looked at him in disbelief. “Why didn’t they just take off after the accident? What’s the point of dumping the car?”

  “Fingerprints?”

  Denny suddenly realized something else. “All that stuff I took out of the back seat—when you packed the car, you must have put it in the trunk originally.”

  “Right. They took it out of the trunk to make room for me.”

  Denny didn’t speak his next thought. The back seat was packed solidly and tightly for the clear purpose of pinning the seat closed so that the captive in the trunk could not kick his way out. This meant that Sarah knew he was alive when she had stuffed him into the trunk. He thought of Sarah’s grief—her ostensible grief—when she discovered Denny at the kitchen table and realized she had killed the wrong man. She had seemed stricken, overwhelmed. And yet she had shown no interest in returning to the lake to try to save Homer.

  Denny wondered what to say when Homer asked him how he happened to come to the lake. But Homer seemed content to sit and stare out the windshield—not content, exactly. Stunned into silence. He did ask whose car he was riding in. Denny said it was Marge’s, and that threw him into silence again.

  Finally, Denny spoke the words: “It was Sarah who ran you down, Homer. She thought you were me.”

  “Why would she do that?” Homer showed a lopsided smile. Denny couldn’t assign an emotion to it, but he was pleased that Homer had questioned only Sarah’s motive, not her ability to kill.

  “She found me out and thought I did away with you as part of a plan to take over your life. She thought she was next.” Denny didn’t like drawing from Lance’s Sarah-justifying summary, but this part of it could actually have been true.

  “That would have been an unpleasant way to go.” Homer cast his gaze back toward the lake, though it was now well out of view.

  “She needs to be brought to justice,” Denny said.

  After a long silence, Homer said, “I wish you well with that.”

  Denny looked at him. “You’re not going to help me?”

  “What I’m going to do is return to Austin and sell the farm from there.”

  “But—”

  “I’m wet and cold and tired, and all I want right now is some dry clothes. A few miles ahead is a town with an old department store. It’s at the traffic light. I guess I don’t have to tell you what sizes to buy.” With that, Homer leaned his head against the window and fell asleep almost immediately.

  Denny swallowed his protest. What about Sarah and Lance? Would they just go on with their lives after what they had done? What would happen when Homer tried to sell the house from Austin? Sarah would think it was Denny orchestrating it, up to his old tricks as Homer, only this time in Texas. She might even track him down and attempt the same mistaken murder again. He looked at Homer, who had collapsed against the door and window. He wanted to kick him awake and insist on his help.

  Instead, he went shopping—a surreal interlude under the circumstances—and tracked down clothing that he hoped would satisfy Homer, who was hardly a clothes horse in any case. Denny found him still deep in sleep when he returned to the car, and he didn’t wake him until he had pulled into a gas station. Homer changed in the restroom and fell asleep again as soon as he was back in the car.

  As they approached the Burlington exit, Denny woke Homer again and suggested they go to the hospital.

  “Why would I want to do that?” Homer said.

  “So that you can be examined for a concussion and carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I want to go home.”

  Denny tensed. “By ‘home’ you mean . . .”

  “Austin.” Homer looked at him. “What’s wrong with you? Take me to the airport.”

  Denny drove him there. When he passed Marvin’s French Fries, he could almost see himself, back when this all began, agitating at the booth next to the window. Who was that man? Meanwhile, Homer had sprung to life. He had pulled a pencil and a blank sheet of paper from Marge’s glove compartment and had quickly drawn several parallel lines across the sheet, and now he was writing musical notes and humming to himself. Denny guessed he was recording the changes in the waltz that had occurred to him on the ice. Lance was right about one thing: two oddballs.

  Denny pulled into the drop-off lane and stopped at the curb. After a pause, Homer said, “I’m certainly traveling light.” He said it in a dimwitted way. He took out his wallet, checked his credit cards, and riffled his bills. This, at least, was a sign of lucidity.

  Homer got out of the car. Before closing the door, he leaned down and thanked Denny. He glanced into the back seat and grimaced with guilt at what he saw there. “Be sure to return Warren’s horn to him, will you?”

  TWENTY-SIX

  ALTHOUGH HOMER WASN’T ALL THAT CLEAR IN THE HEAD, Denny envied him the clarity of his destination. As long as Denny was a suspect in Marge’s death, he couldn’t go back to his apartment in Downer’s Grove. Nor, for the same reason, could he report for work. He didn’t even have a workplace to report to. Not wanting to be a dead pig, he had ruled out a return to Little Dumpling Farm.

  Sarah and Lance. How could he prove they were killers without a body? There could be no justice without a body. He remembered Lance telling him that there were two people who had died because their paths had crossed Denny’s. Homer was one, and luckily Lance had been wrong about that. Denny thought about the other one as he pulled away from the airport curb and grinded into second gear. He had an idea. By the time he had covered the short distance from the airport to Marvin’s French Fries, he had a plan. He pulled into the lot, took out his cell phone, and punched the numbers.

  “Sparky,” he said, “it’s Homer. I need you to do something for me.”

  “You name it.”

  “That night at the hotel, when you saw Marge—”

  “Yeah?”

  “—and she told you she was a winner—”

  “Yep.”

  “—and she headed for the elevator—”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I need you to say that someone else was there in the lobby.”

  “Well, let’s see. Betsy was behind the counter. She’s no fan of yours truly, so I creeped in on the QT, but then when Marge belted out, ‘Hey, Sparky, I’m a winner,’ Betsy yanked her head around and give me the fish eye. Sort of.”

  “Besides Betsy, I mean. I need you to say someone else was in the lobby. I need you to say that Sarah was there, and that she heard Marge tell you she was a winner, and that she followed Marge to the elevator.”

  Sparky breathed noisily for some time.

  “I need you to say all that.”

  “Sarah come out of the bar with Marge.”

  “Well, you could say that if you want to, yes. That’s consistent.”

  “They were talkin’ as they come down the hall from the bar.”

  “Yes, that’s fine.” Denny was struck by Sparky’s eagerness to please. But a born liar was born to lie.

  “Then Sarah shut up quick when she reached the lobby because her and Betsy ain’t too chummy neither. We got that in common, you might say.”

  “That’s perfect. So Betsy wouldn’t have known Sarah was there. That would explain why she never reported it.”

  “Sure, I can say all that. Sarah give you the go-ahead?”

  “The go-ahead?”

  “You know, did she give you the okay for me to say it? She told me she never wants Betsy to know when she’s in the hotel.”

  Denny was puzzled, but he figured it was safe to affirm whatever Sparky was saying. “Yes, that’s what she did. She gave me the go-ahead.”

  “Huh. Maybe her and Betsy patched things up. Hard to see that though. Do I say I saw her later, too? When I was leavin’?”

  Denny hesitated. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “She come out of the alley from the back of the hotel, and she run across the street. I was next to my rig—still sweet-talkin’ the Macalesters, t
ryin’ to close the deal, and they were gettin’ into their truck. I hollered to Sarah but she kept goin’. Didn’t hear me, I guess.”

  Denny was more puzzled than ever. Sparky seemed to be leaving out some necessary verbs or something. Why was he talking about these hypothetical events as if they were real?

  Because they were.

  “Oh, my God,” Denny said. “She was there.”

  “Do I include that part or not? And who am I supposed to say all this to, exactly?”

  “She was there. And she told you not to tell anyone.”

  “Homer, focus, man. Who do I say it to?”

  “The police.”

  “Nick? No fuckin’ way.”

  “You’ve got to. Listen to me. When Sarah told you not to tell anyone that she was in the hotel, it wasn’t because of Betsy. It was because she went up with Marge. She wanted that lottery ticket. She watched her go into that room, and she waited and went after her when she had the chance. There was probably a struggle on the balcony. That’s how Marge ended up in your truck.”

  All Denny heard, for an excruciatingly long period, was the sound of Sparky’s breathing. Then: “Huh.”

  “And when you saw her later, coming out of the alley—”

  “Yeah, she kind of rounded the corner like she was beelinin’ for the front of the hotel.”

  “But she saw you and the Macalesters, and she took off.”

  Sparky was silent.

  “Sarah killed Marge for the lottery ticket.” Denny would say no more. Justice came down to an unmappable network of Sparky’s neurons. Denny held his breath.

  “That ain’t right.”

  Denny exhaled. “And that’s why you’ve got to tell Nick.”

  Sparky grunted. “Hell, Nick ain’t so bad. It’s that other pencil-neck. I hope he ain’t gonna be there.”

  “He’s been neutralized.”

  Sparky fell silent again. Denny, hearing only his breathing, feared he might be having second thoughts.

  “Sarah,” Sparky said. “Hmph. June always did say that side of the family was trash.”

  After his call to Sparky, Denny sat for a time in his car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Then he dialed Nick’s number. He owed him a goodbye, but, more important, he didn’t want to leave the initiative to Sparky. Before pressing “Send,” he worked to overcome the sudden dizzying, godlike feeling his latest discovery had given him. He had fabricated a story implicating Sarah, but it wasn’t a fabrication at all. It was as if he had created reality by having an idea. It was like setting a plastic figure on the balcony of a miniature hotel, with her arms stretched straight out in a pushing posture. Hey, what’s she doing up there? Did she just shove somebody?

  As for plastic Lance, Denny hadn’t put him anywhere. He would let fate deal with him, just as Lance had let fate determine what would happen with Denny on the chain ladder. Sarah would probably prove to be a surprise agent of justice, taking Lance down with her, claiming she didn’t steal Marge’s lottery ticket, he did. Sparky could confirm that. The trial would be interesting. Denny would follow it online. Homer would, too, he was sure.

  Nick was home, nursing a cold from the sound of it. Denny asked him to call Sparky in the next day or two if he didn’t hear from him, because Sparky had just called him saying there was something he needed to get off his chest.

  “Did he say what it was?” Nick said. The cold made him sound grumpy. Maybe he was grumpy.

  “No, he didn’t. Listen, Nick, I’ve got something to tell you. I’m leaving. I’m going back to Austin.”

  “Yeah, I . . . what do you mean Austin? Austin, Texas?”

  “That’s where I was all this time. Not Florida.”

  Nick laughed. “I’m glad you finally got around to telling me.”

  “I’m going back.”

  “Hell, I know that. I knew it when you gave me that hug the other day. Nearly broke my back. I understand, Homer.”

  “You do?”

  “This place isn’t really your home.” Nick made a strange noise. “I can’t believe I’m saying that. You of all people. The original wood-chuck, eighth-generation and all. But it’s true. You’re not happy here, and I know why. I watched you at the party, when you were standing at the railing. I couldn’t believe it. Here you’d been away three years, and you were there all by yourself. People don’t treat you right.” Nick cleared his throat. “I hope I treat you right—”

  “You treat me fine, Nick.”

  “—and I hope I’m not out of line saying all this. I just want you to know I understand. But, man, stay in touch this time, will you?”

  “You bet.”

  “Listen, I just learned something interesting.” Nick’s tone was different, suddenly enthusiastic. “You’ll like it. I know you’ll like it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s got, like, human interest.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Braintree.”

  Denny flinched to hear his name.

  “The train buff. Marge’s killer. Or not. Whatever. Remember him?”

  Denny said, “How could I forget?”

  “A coupla hours ago I got a call back from some old-timer in Georgia who was in the circus with Braintree’s parents. Remember, the kid grew up in the circus. The old-timer remembered him well. We had quite a chat.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The guy doesn’t know where Braintree is or anything. But he gave me some background. Prolly has no bearing on the case, but it’s got, you know, human interest.”

  “Right.”

  “Between the death records I’ve been looking at and what this old trouper told me, I’ve pieced it together. Now, listen up. Little Braintree—his parents were clowns, remember—when he was just a tyke, a trapeze artist fell on his mother in the middle of a show in Salt Lake City.”

  Denny jerked with surprise. Nick was certainly making progress. But it was actually equipment that fell on her—trapeze rigging. “Yeah?”

  “She went to the hospital.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Two days later, she died in the hospital.”

  No she didn’t, Denny thought. “Yeah?” he said uncertainly.

  “You remember we were looking for Braintree’s aunt to get a lead on him? We never found her. The reason is she dropped off the face of the earth—exactly at the time this accident happened. The boss of her old circus—remember, she was a clown, too, but in a different circus—her old boss said she disappeared and he never heard from her again. We got the same story from an old roommate, a flight attendant she shared a place with in Memphis. The aunt just disappeared. Now, I have the death record for the woman who died in the circus accident that night. It gives the aunt’s name, not the mother’s name.”

  Denny relaxed a bit. “So . . . the aunt was the one who performed that night.” This made little sense to him even as he said it. “She substituted for the mother, and she died.”

  “No, no. The aunt did perform that night, but in Oklahoma City. These two women were identical twins, Homer. I think Lance mentioned that, but I forgot. Who listens when he talks anyway? The mother definitely died, and someone—her husband, must have been, Braintree’s father—lied about her identity. He gave the aunt’s name instead. He must have gotten in touch with the aunt during those two days when his wife was in the hospital in Salt Lake City—maybe he knew she was a goner—and he must have convinced the aunt to move in with him and his son and take the place of the mother. The aunt’s old roommate told me the aunt never married and always wanted to have kids, so she would have been game for it. A hell of a thing. When I told Lance about it, his first reaction was that the father and the aunt were having an affair all along, and the father was only too glad—”

  “They did it for the boy!” Denny cried out. “Oh, God, they did it for the boy!”

  “That’s what I figured,” Nick said. “I knew you’d see it the way I did.”

  “What an act of love!”

  �
�It gets you, doesn’t it? Of course, they might have had a regular-type marriage from that point on. Maybe Lance was partly right. Maybe they—”

  “No,” Denny said softly. “They did it for the boy.”

  “I knew you’d be interested, Homer. Hell, anybody with any humanity in them would be, and you’ve got tons. Millie had an interesting take on it. She says there’s no way the kid didn’t know the woman wasn’t his mother. At some level, she said he’d have to know. What do you think?”

  Denny pretended to consider the question abstractly while his entire brain seized it. “It’s hard to say, Nick.”

  “Yeah. But it’s something, isn’t it? Listen, when are you going back?”

  “Right now.”

  “Wow. No time for a goodbye visit, I guess. But me and Millie are gonna come see you, okay? Next mud season.”

  “You bet.” As an afterthought, Denny added, “I’m hoping to have my old voice back by then.”

  “You think so? Well, either way.”

  Denny said goodbye and clicked his phone shut. For an instant, he was a seven-year-old boy again—a boy who had lost his mother. He expected to feel a wave of sudden grief, but he didn’t. He could not do what was required to feel grief. He could not remove his mother from his young life because he had continuously had a mother until she died two years ago—after buying him a pint of Wavy Gravy. He could not feel otherwise. What he felt sweeping over him now, replacing the attempt to feel sad, was gratitude. His father and his aunt had spared him from the pain that no child should ever have. Yes, she had seemed different afterward, but he had blamed it on the accident, and better different than dead. He had had a mother for all those years, from age zero to age seven, and then again from age seven to just two years ago—no, not again, but still.

  With these thoughts Denny drove back to Montpelier. At one point on the interstate, he sensed a friendly presence far to his right, and he turned to look. It was the Vermonter, heading south, rolling along at a speed slightly faster than his. He watched it overtake him, car by car. He loved watching trains because he wanted to be inside them. It wasn’t true of any other kind of transportation. He wanted to be there instead of here. But it was a pleasant wish, not an itchy one.