Bullet Point

by Peter Abrahams

  Wyatt climbed the stairs, walked down the hall to Bert Torrance’s old bedroom. Light from the same streetlamp came through the window, somewhat brighter than downstairs. Sonny lay on the floor in the corner, curled in the fetal position, the undamaged side of his face showing. As Wyatt watched, Sonny shifted slightly and let out a sound very close to the whimper of a dog.

  Wyatt, standing in the doorway, said, “It’s getting late.” Sonny showed no reaction; his chest rose and fell with his breathing.

  Wyatt went closer, stood over him. A small pool of dried blood had formed on the floor, under the bad side of his face. He made the whimpering sound again. “Dad?” said Wyatt. The word came out all by itself, shocked him. Sonny slept on, chest rising and falling, a sleep so deep and intense it was almost palpable, a thickness in the air.

  Wyatt bent, reached down, touched Sonny’s arm. And got his second shock: before he realized what was happening, Sonny had sat up and grabbed him by the wrist-a grip so hard it hurt-and was cocking his other hand into a fist, a wild look in his good eye. Then, at the last moment, recognition dawned in that eye, and he seemed to deflate, his grip on Wyatt’s wrist relaxing, his other hand opening, sinking to his side.

  “Christ,” he said. “Sorry.” He gave himself a little shake. “Force of habit,” he said. “Bad, bad habit. I’m not used to…to…” He extended his hand. Wyatt took it and helped him up. He felt his father’s physical strength renewing as he came to his feet.

  There was hardly any traffic on the Millerville highway. The rain still fell, perhaps no harder than before, but the wind had picked up, driving it sideways across their path, almost horizontal.

  “You’re a hell of a driver,” Sonny said. He sat beside Wyatt, his hands folded in his lap, the bad side of his face showing.

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it-a natural.”

  Wyatt sped up a bit.

  “But let’s not get crazy,” Sonny said.

  Wyatt laughed, came off the pedal an eighth of an inch or so. Sonny laughed, too. Their laughter sounded-to Wyatt’s ears-much the same. It petered out together in a comfortable way.

  “No craziness tonight,” Sonny said, his voice going quiet. Headlights appeared-in the distance, but coming fast. Sonny shrank down in his seat. The headlights came closer, with a reflector strip glowing up above: a truck. It flashed by, buffeting the Mustang and sending a wave of water across the windshield, but doing nothing to disturb Wyatt’s sense of complete control. “Hell of a driver,” Sonny said, sitting up.

  A wild night outside; inside, a small zone of warmth and quiet. “When are you going to tell me what happened at thirty-two Cain Street?” Wyatt said.

  “How’s never?”

  Wyatt whipped around to stare at him.

  “Just kidding,” Sonny said, touching Wyatt’s knee.

  In the green light from the dashboard indicators, Wyatt saw that Sonny’s hand was damaged, the knuckles skinned and swollen and one fingernail snapped right off, the flesh beneath dark with congealed blood. Sonny must have put up a fight against Hector and his boys after all, although Wyatt didn’t remember seeing these wounds before, must not have looked closely enough.

  Sonny removed his hand, sat back. “In all this research you’ve been doing-Wertz, the newspaper guy, all that-did the money come up?”

  “What money?” A road sign flashed by, blurred by the rain.

  MILLERVILLE -10 MILES.

  “The drug money-whole point of the exercise. Turned out to be thirty grand, more or less. No time for a careful count, but I had it in my hand, outside that window. A small fortune, I realize now, or maybe no fortune at all, but at the time it was like striking it rich.” He gazed through the windshield, where the wipers could barely keep up with the rain. “So what’s your next question? Maybe what happened to the money?”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said, thinking: Outside the window. Mr. Rentner had been right.

  “My guess is it got used for a down payment,” Sonny said.

  “On what?”

  “A bar, but that’s not what bothers me.”

  “What bothers you?”

  “Nothing. Shouldn’t have said that. What would I have done in the same place? Who’s to judge?” He went silent. The dim glow of a midsize town rose in the distance.

  “The same place as the person who got away, is that what you’re saying?” Wyatt said. “The one you protected?”

  “Yeah.”

  So that was that: absolutely no way Linda had anything to do with this. She had no interest in bars, didn’t go to bars, hardly ever even had a drink.

  “But,” said Sonny.

  “But what?”

  “But even in that person’s place,” Sonny said, holding up one finger, not quite steady, “there’s one thing I’d never have done.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hook up with a rat.” Another sign: WELCOME TO MILLERVILLE, A KIDS-COME-FIRST COMMUNITY. Several of the letters were missing; that reminded Wyatt of the current state of Sonny’s mouth, a crazy thought. “Let’s go pay a call on the rat,” Sonny said.

  “We’re talking about Doc Vitti?”

  “You’re a real smart kid. Can you get me to where he lives?”

  “What are you going to do there?”

  “What you’ve been asking me to do-prove my innocence.”

  “And hurting him wouldn’t do that,” Wyatt said, glancing at Sonny, the bad side of his face unreadable.

  “Right you are-wouldn’t help the slightest goddamn bit, would only hurt my chances, if you want the truth. But he’s the key to getting the statement we need.”

  “From the other person, the one you protected?”

  “You’re way ahead of me.”

  “But I still don’t have the name.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Sonny said. “Don’t want you involved in any legal ramifications.”

  “I don’t understand.” Wyatt came to an ill-lit street lined by shabby houses, the street that led to the trailer park, and turned onto it.

  “Even though I’m innocent and will prove it,” Sonny said, “the fact is I’m kind of AWOL right now, in a legal sense.”

  Wyatt thought about that as they came to the entrance to the trailer park. “What would have happened if you hadn’t gotten into the fight with Hector? You’d just have stayed there, getting old in jail?”

  “No idea. But seize the day.”

  Wyatt didn’t quite buy that explanation, but the time for questions was running out. He slowed down as they entered the trailer park. “He lives somewhere in here.”

  “What’s he drive?” Sonny said.

  “An old pickup, Dodge Ram, black.” The pickup appeared in the headlights, parked in front of a silver trailer on wheels, the kind that could actually be towed.

  “Cut the lights,” Sonny said. “Stop the car.”

  Wyatt cut the lights and stopped the car. They gazed through the rain at the trailer, a glow showing in a side window.

  “Pop the trunk,” Sonny said.

  “What for?”

  “I’d like to borrow your tire iron. Just for deterrence-never hurts to be prudent. Doc, at least in the old days, had pigheaded tendencies.”

  The trunk didn’t open from the inside. They got out, into the pelting rain, and walked around to the trunk. Wyatt unlocked it, raised the hood.

  “Well, well,” Sonny said, peering inside. He reached in and took out Wyatt’s bat. “What a beauty.” He assumed a batting stance-a very good one, balanced and comfortable-and swung the bat gently two or three times. “You’ll get it back, I promise,” he said. He lowered the bat, held it loosely in his left hand, extended his right. “This is good-bye,” he said, “at least for now.”

  “Good-bye?”

  “Shh. Can’t have you implicated-in case anything goes wrong. You haven’t seen me, know nothing about this.”

  Wyatt hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” Sonny said. “If all goes well, I
’ll be down at the police station in an hour, presenting my evidence.”

  “The police station here? In Millerville?”

  “Sure.” Sonny smiled his broken smile. His lips were wet with a mixture of rain and blood.

  “Your evidence meaning the twenty-two that was never found?” Wyatt said. “Is that why we’re here?”

  Sonny laughed. “My kid the genius,” he said. “Take good care of yourself. I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  “But-”

  Sonny’s smile vanished. “Hey, Wyatt-please don’t mess this up. I’m trying to get my life back here.”

  Wyatt nodded. They shook hands. Sonny’s grip was strong and warm-almost hot, in fact. Then, as Wyatt stepped around the car, a powerful light flashed on from a point ten or fifteen feet from the trailer, framing Sonny in a white circle. Doc-his rough voice instantly recognizable to Wyatt-called out: “Don’t fuckin’ move, Sonny. Got a twelve-gauge pointed at your head.”

  But Sonny did move-so fast Wyatt wasn’t clear exactly what was happening-diving out of the white circle and at the same time hurling the bat at the source of the light. Wyatt caught the gleam of the spinning bat, and then came a thud and a cry of pain, and next the beam pointed wildly in several directions and finally went still, aimed straight up at the sky. Sonny was already on the move, running toward the light and the dark form beside it, shaped like a man on his knees. The man on his knees was reaching for something on the ground, but before he could get it, Sonny was on him. Another thud, another cry of pain, and then Sonny rose. Wyatt went closer, close enough to see Doc lying on his back, bleeding from the side of his head, blood and mud clotting in his long graying hair; and Sonny standing over him, one foot resting on Doc’s throat, the shotgun in his hand.

  “Can’t say the years have been kind to you, Doc,” Sonny said. “You look like shit.”

  Doc gazed up at him, eyes full of hate. “Seen yourself lately?”

  Sonny flashed his messed-up smile. “All fixable,” he said. “Just part of the plan-a disguise, you could call it.” He took his foot off Doc’s throat and said, “Up.”

  Doc rolled over, got back on his knees, then suddenly bent forward and puked.

  “That’s just the fear talking,” Sonny said. “You’re not hurt that bad.” He grabbed Doc by the collar and pulled him up. “Let’s get out of the rain,” he said.

  At that moment, Doc noticed Wyatt. He blinked. “You?”

  Sonny glanced at Wyatt. “Weren’t you on your way, son?”

  “But-”

  “Doc and I need to go inside and straighten things out, and there’s only so much time. I’ll be in touch, like I said.” Sonny smiled. His face was hard, and shiny with rain.

  31

  Wyatt got into the Mustang, turned, and drove out of the trailer park. In the rearview mirror he saw Sonny stomp on Doc’s searchlight, bringing back the darkness with a quiet smash, and then two shadowy forms were moving toward the trailer.

  Wyatt pulled over, not far from the entrance, and parked by the side of the road. He tried to make sense of what he’d just seen, tried to make it fit with everything he’d already learned about that night at 32 Cain Street; and was still trying when headlights appeared down the street. A car came nearer, a small sedan. As it passed under a streetlamp-the only one on the block that was working-Wyatt caught a glimpse of the driver, a middle-aged woman with copper-red hair: Charlene. Charlene of Good Time Charlene’s bar, married to Bob Waters with whom she lived in that well-kept bungalow, at the same time having a secret affair with Doc Vitti. She drove by, gaze straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel, and turned into the trailer park. Wyatt got out of the Mustang and followed on foot.

  The rain began to let up. Wyatt ran down the lane that led to the silver trailer, saw Charlene getting out of the sedan, fumbling with an umbrella. She walked to the trailer, adjusting a small purse she carried on her shoulder, and knocked on the door. Wyatt moved closer, staying in the shadows.

  The door opened and Sonny looked out; he had the bat in his hand, now reddened at the end.

  “Oh my God,” Charlene said.

  “Surprise,” said Sonny.

  Charlene backed away. Sonny grabbed her wrist. She dropped the umbrella, tried to get to her purse. Sonny yanked her close with one hand-his other still held the bat-and kissed her mouth. She squirmed and struggled, but couldn’t get away. Finally he let go. Charlene wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “You used to kiss better than that,” Sonny said. “Maybe you don’t love me anymore.”

  “What have you done to him?” Charlene said.

  “See,” Sonny said, “that’s where we reached the tipping point. Covering for you-no problem, I was cooked anyway. Heard you got married to some little fellow. Well, life goes on. But spreading your legs for Doc, who was always sniffing after you and you wouldn’t give him the time of day? When I heard that”-he shook his head-“it had a big effect on me, let’s put it that way. Do I have to explain why? Doc fucked me over big-time, and now again he’s fucking me right through you, if you see what I mean.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Charlene said.

  Sonny gave her a good one with the back of his hand. Charlene’s head snapped back but she didn’t fall. Instead she said, “Fuck you,” opened her purse, and took out a gun.

  “Same goddamn twenty-two?” Sonny said, showing no fear at all. “But you’re a lousy shot, Charlene-proved that a long time ago, outside the window at thirty-two Cain.”

  “I’ve been practicing,” Charlene said, stepping back.

  Sonny came out of the trailer, moved toward her.

  “Not another step,” Charlene said.

  Sonny took another step. The gun went off, the orange flash bright, the sound enormous. Sonny rocked back, a red stain appearing on his left shoulder at once. The expression on his face turned from fearless to murderous with nothing in between. Charlene tried to take another step back, stumbled a bit, and before she could squeeze the trigger again, Sonny swung the bat-with just his right hand, but so fast Wyatt could hear the whoosh of air-and struck her on the side of the head. The sound was sickening, and so was the sight. Charlene toppled over and lay still. Sonny dropped the bat, picked up the gun, and went back into the trailer. Wyatt turned and puked, just like Doc.

  Sonny came out of the trailer almost at once, keys in one hand, a towel pressed to his shoulder. Wyatt stood motionless in the shadows. Sonny climbed into Doc’s pickup and drove out of the trailer park.

  Wyatt didn’t take another glance at Charlene or what was left of her head, didn’t even think of going into the trailer. He just panicked, running to his car as fast as he could, jumping in, turning the key. But at that moment, before he’d had a single coherent thought, a cell phone rang. Not his, but Greer’s: he recognized that Dobro ringtone. Greer’s? How was that possible? It rang again and stopped, just before he found it in the glove box.

  Wyatt held Greer’s phone in his hand. Van had come to the foreclosed house, taken her away while Wyatt was getting ice and sandwiches. He could see her not waiting for his return just so she could retrieve her phone-not worth the potential scene-but why not leave a note about sending it along, or a message with Sonny? And then came another thought, a thought that chilled his whole body: If Greer’s phone had been in the car the whole time, how had Van called her at all?

  Wyatt checked the screen on Greer’s phone: two new messages. He went into her voice mail: 7777#.

  Message one: “Hi, honey, this is Dad.” Bert Torrance was speaking fast and sounded scared. “Sonny Racine’s escaped. Hector beat him up-but it’s a complete scam: Sonny actually paid him, just so he could get past the walls. Don’t go anywhere near him-and warn Wyatt, too.”

  Message two, the one that had just come in: “Greer? Van here. I’m terminating your lease at the end of the week. Better get back here and clean out your things if you don’t want to lose them.”

  Wyatt started shaking, so bad he could
hardly hold on to the phone. He took a deep breath, and another, then jammed the car into gear, spun it around in a shrieking one-eighty, and tore off in the direction Doc’s pickup had gone.

  A half mile or so later, he came to a highway, a right turn leading east, toward East Canton, a left heading west, out of state. He saw nothing to the east; a single set of far-off taillights was just visible in the west. Wyatt swung left and put the pedal to the floor. Somewhere behind him a siren started up.

  The rain had stopped now and so had the wind. The road was almost dry, a straight highway, no traffic: Wyatt hit 105 and kept it there, reeling in those red taillights. Soon he was just a few hundred yards behind; black Dodge Ram pickup, no doubt about it. He flashed his high beams. The pickup didn’t slow down; sped up, if anything. Wyatt flashed his lights again, then crossed the yellow line and roared up alongside the pickup. He looked over, saw Sonny looking over at him. Wyatt held up his hand in the stop sign.

  Sonny didn’t stop. Instead he swerved slightly, just enough to bump the side of the Mustang. Wyatt felt the Mustang’s rear end sliding out from under him, threatening to fishtail. He backed off the gas, went with the slide, let it take him farther to the left, almost to the edge of the shoulder-the night flashing by-before traction returned, the Mustang again grabbing hold of the road. And when it did, he steered back across the road and clipped the pickup behind the left rear wheel, just hard enough.

  Sonny lost control immediately. The pickup shot sideways off the highway, spun round and round, flipped, and skidded to a stop in a bare field, lying on its roof, one headlight shining up at a forty-five-degree angle. Wyatt came to a stop a few hundred feet down the road, turned, and drove back. He parked on the shoulder, got out of the Mustang, pocketing the keys, and walked into the field. The howl of many sirens was in the air, and the clouds glowed with a pulsing blue reflection.