by Jeff Abbott
I rapped gently. No answer. Again. The rain began a sharper patter on the roof and the thunder cried out against the wind.
“Trey? It’s Jordan. And Mark.” I knocked harder. Mark looked like he was going to wet his britches.
“Maybe it takes him longer to get around in his wheelchair,” Mark ventured. From our phone conversation, I expected Trey in the front yard, rain-drenched and waiting for us.
I tried the doorknob. The door eased open. “Trey?” I called, sticking my head into the Kinnard living room. It was unkempt, newspapers in an untidy heap by the door, a pizza box and crushed beer cans tottering on the coffee table, a Winnie the Pooh cartoon playing mutely on the ancient TV set, the couch made up for sleeping with rumpled sheets.
“Daddy?” Mark called, the word sounding unfamiliar in his throat. It wasn’t much more than a whisper.
I’m not sure what impelled me forward; the slightest sound of a groan, or maybe the faintest smell of blood or gunpowder. Some atavistic sense kicked in and I hurried across the living room, into the kitchen.
Trey had dragged himself across the floor, smearing a dark red trail on the dirty tiles. He was pulling himself toward the open back door, and his eyes, dimming of life, looked up at me. Blood streaked his face and his beard. Breath faintly gurgled in his throat.
Mark collapsed by his father. “Dad! Dad!”
“My God, Trey, who did this?” My legs gave way and I knelt by him. I saw three terrible red splashes on his back. The stench of gunfire hung thick in the air. A colored stain caught my eye on the faded striped wallpaper of the hallway. Written in blood were the words: 2 DOWN.
“He’s shot, he’s shot!” Mark moaned. I stood and grabbed the phone. I barked the address to the 911 dispatcher, telling them we had a man shot and needed an ambulance immediately. The operator asked me to stay on the line. I knew that the emergency headquarters was roughly fifteen feet away from Junebug’s office and I wished that my friend were here.
Cradling the phone against my shoulder, I hunched down by Trey. He rolled on his back, his thin chest moving in ragged dance as he tried to draw air. I swallowed when I saw the wounds; maybe a lung, maybe the stomach. Oh, God, where was the ambulance?
Mark sobbed, clutching one of his father’s bloodied hands in his. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” he mewled, like a small child would, rocking back and forth on his heels. I leaned in close over Trey; his eyes sought mine, pulling away from Mark’s for a moment.
“Trey! Who shot you? Who?” I yelled into his face. “Can you hear me? Who shot you?”
His eyes, flecked with blood, tore away from mine and found Mark’s. One hand closed around his son’s; the other touched the tears on Mark’s cheek.
“Muh—muh,” he tried, the spittle and blood foaming on his lips.
“Who?” I cried again. Oh, God, this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t going to die in front of us. A distant siren grew closer.
“Mull—my boy,” Trey coughed raggedly, squeezing Mark’s hand.
“Yes, I’m here, Daddy, please, please hang on. Please.” Mark wept, trying to wipe the blood from his father’s cheek, chin, throat.
“Luh—love you, Mark,” Trey grunted. “Love you.” His head, raised to look into the face so much like his own, dropped to the cold kitchen floor.
And with those words, he died.
MAMA SOMETIMES SAID I DIDN’T HAVE SENSE enough to come in from the rain. I was glad she didn’t see her grandson and me standing out in the easing mist that morning. I couldn’t leave Mark, not for one second, and I wasn’t about to ask him to go back into that house of death.
The paramedics had arrived, attempted their useless rituals, and pronounced Trey dead. We waited on the scraggly, unkempt front lawn. A fine veil of uncertain rain kissed our skins. Mark stared at his hands, his fingers daubed with his father’s blood. My daddy always kept a handkerchief in his pocket and I wished I’d picked up the habit. I tried wiping the blood off with the corner of my jacket, thinking: I must get Trey’s blood off him. I can’t leave his hands like this. Mark looked up at me from his gory palms, dark eyes welling with trembling tears.
“Why? Why?” he screamed. I hugged him hard to me and let him weep, feeling his heart pound through the thin fabric of his windbreaker. Trey told Mark he loved him instead of telling me who killed him. Did Trey even know who shot him?
I saw some of the Kinnards’ neighbors venturing out onto the lawns, drawn by the shrill siren of the ambulance and the police.
I don’t know how long I held Mark. Eventually his weeping subsided and he just took long, slow breaths. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t know what to do. Where is the survival manual for this sort of horror? Sister, I thought. Mark needed Sister.
I heard the pang-pang of a bouncing basketball and looked up from Mark’s shoulder. Scott Kinnard stood there, holding a basketball and staring at us in the fine rain.
“What’s happened? Why are you here?” Scott asked me, glancing at the whirling lights atop the ambulance. “Where’s Trey?”
Mark pulled his face from my shoulder. The two boys looked blankly at each other. Scott whispered, “Are you Mark?” Mark just kept staring.
I tried. “Listen to me, Scott, you can’t go in there. Trey is—”
The basketball fell from Scott’s fingers, rolling on the rain-splattered pebble driveway. He blinked at me and ran for the house.
“Scott! Don’t!” I yelled, but he paid me no heed. He yanked open the screen door and barreled inside. I bit my lip; surely the police would escort him back out, and then I’d have two traumatized boys to deal with. I took a long, fortifying breath.
After a moment Junebug brought Scott outside. Where Mark had given a primal scream, Scott seemed choked into silence. He pressed his hands into his face, pushing his eyeglasses askew. Junebug gently guided him to the porch steps.
“That’s the boy he was living with, ain’t it?” Mark asked me in a dead voice.
“Yes. His name is Scott Kinnard.”
“He’s stupid looking,” Mark observed, watching the other boy begin to cry in short, staccato heaves. Junebug glanced over at me, a helpless look on his broad, unshaven face.
“I want to go home. Please, let’s go home,” Mark begged.
I didn’t like the tone of his voice—tentative, breathy, like a small child who’s just learned the words. I knelt by him and turned his face to mine. Blood decorated his cheek, like a swath of war paint, and I remembered Trey stroking his son’s face in those final awful moments.
Mark’s dark eyes were horribly vacant, retreating from death, looking inward for solace.
“Mark. Listen to me, son. We’ll go home, okay? But I think that, if you can, you should help me and tell Junebug everything we saw. So we can catch whoever—whoever did this to your daddy.”
Mark gaped at me as if I were speaking Finnish. I repeated myself and this time the words took hold.
“Okay, talk to the police,” he said, dragging the back of his hand across teary cheeks. “Just like on TV, right?”
“That’s right, Mark, just like on TV.” I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be there, and your mom’ll be there. Okay? It’ll be all right.” I was babbling, I knew I couldn’t possibly be comforting to him, but I didn’t know what else to say. Jordan Poteet, he of the vaunted quick wit and sharp tongue, and I was as dulled as a rusty old potato knife. His hand closed on mine and I felt, sickeningly, the wetness of blood pressing between our palms.
I could see a garden hose entwined by the side steps that led from the house to the driveway. I stood and started to ease him toward the house. We’d just rinse the redness from our hands. The first step, I thought. The first step.
He refused to budge. His grip tightened, and his rain-cool fingers dug into mine. “No! No!”
“Okay,” I said. “Wait here. I’m just going to get the garden hose. I’m not leaving your sight.”
He nodded miserably. I turned and jogged to the coiled hose, turning it
on, splashing my bloodstained hands underneath the cool cascade of water and rain. I watched the traces of Trey wash off my skin, staining the gray stones of the driveway. I pulled a length of hose to take over to Mark. That’s when I saw it and my heart really stopped beating for the day.
A nail stood slightly askew on the rickety bottom step, not driven quite home by a sloppy carpenter. A shred of fabric, a long triangle of thin colored cotton in a muted brown-and-green batik print, was tangled on the crooked nail, dangling like a flag of the defeated. It was just like a print on a pair of pants I’d given Sister a month ago for her birthday. She said they were the most comfortable britches she’d ever owned. I remembered her walking around the living room in delight, modeling them for an amused me and an indifferent Mama.
Before my mind could calculate all the terrible implications, my hand shot out, pulled the scrap free, and shoved it into my pocket. I got up and glanced over at Junebug; he was still trying to comfort Scott. I brought the gurgling water hose over to Mark and made him rinse his hands.
“Dad, Dad,” he whispered.
There was nothing to dry him with and I just let him sop his hands against my jacket. I needed to get him out of here. I needed to get out of here myself. I took a long, steadying breath, trying to calm myself. I couldn’t crack now; Mark needed me.
I steered him toward my Blazer. “Let’s go sit in the car.
He followed me without a backward glance at the house. I got him into the passenger side and shut the door. When Junebug came up behind me, I nearly hollered. My hand, still damp, automatically went into my pocket, shoving the scrap of cloth as far down as possible. Junebug gestured at Mark, who didn’t seem to notice us on the other side of the window.
“Can you get him to the station? Can y’all talk to us now while the details are still fresh?”
“Yes.” I turned to face my friend.
Junebug’s mouth thinned. “Good. I know it’s hard, Jordy. I’m so, so sorry.”
I looked past his shoulder. Scott Kinnard lay in a fetal position, still crying, his Dallas Cowboys windbreaker looking too small on even his slight frame. My heart ached for him, but I could only handle one devastated boy at a time. Mark had to be my priority. Later I’d call and check on Scott. One of the Kinnards’ neighbors, a kind-faced old woman in a quilted nightdress who’d been watching the proceedings from her porch, hurried over to Scott, talking to him softly, rubbing his back.
“What about Scott? Can you find Nola?” I asked.
“I’ll get hold of his mama somehow. We’ll take care of him.” Junebug glanced back at the huddled boy, still sobbing on the wooden porch. “God, if this ain’t a real sow’s nest. Shit.”
“What in hell’s going on, Junebug?” My voice, usually strong, direct, and a shade raspy, quavered. I’d kept it under steely control with Mark, but Mark was in the car, where he couldn’t hear me. Anger and fear and sadness rose up in me, hard and uncompromising. “Someone shot him. Someone shot Clevey. Why don’t you know what’s going on here? Why is this happening?” I suddenly remembered the blood-smeared wallpaper. “‘Two down.’ What the hell did that mean?”
“Can you drive?” Junebug asked, ignoring my question. “Or do you need me to drive you to the station?”
“Can’t you take our statements at home?” I pleaded. I suddenly wanted the warm comfort of my house, a cup of coffee with a jolt of brandy in it, and my armchair. I wanted to talk to my sister, not just because her boy needed her, but because I wanted to ask her why material from her pants was stuck on a nail outside the house where her ex-husband died.
Of course she couldn’t commit murder, I told myself. She’s your sister, for God’s sake. But at the same time I gave myself that scant reassurance, I realized I did indeed presume she could have killed Trey. Otherwise, I would have left that tatter on the nail. Wouldn’t I?
The selfish part of me wanted to hand Mark over to Sister so I could be alone with my grief. Grief! my mind cried out. I had to be kidding myself. Mourning over a man who I wanted out of town yesterday. A man I felt was worthless. A man who had cruelly abandoned my sister and my nephew. A man who’d once been my best friend.
I sagged against the car. Life plays you some odd hands, doesn’t it? I wasn’t going to grieve over someone as rotten as Trey Slocum. Not when Mark needed me to be strong.
“Jordan, are you listening to me?” Junebug’s voice was steel authority and I raised my head, submissive for once. “This is a murder investigation. I’d surely appreciate it if you and Mark would come down to the station. I’ll get Scott squared away, get my people started on this case, and we’ll leave in a few minutes. Please, get in the car and wait.”
I nodded. “Mark said he would talk to you, but I don’t know if he’s gonna be able to help—”
“He will. ’Cause I’m gonna find the son of a bitch who’s killing my friends.” He turned and stomped back toward Scott, who’d pulled himself up to a sitting position. I saw the boy fix me with an expression of utter misery, as if a specter of death had brushed his heart in taking its leave.
People should be where they’re supposed to be in times of great crisis. It’s only considerate.
Phoning Sister made my throat dry. I imagined the conversation: Hi, Sister, got some news for you. Your ex-husband is dead. Yes, shot to death, how did you know? Hope you don’t mind, but I ignored your wishes and took your son over to visit Trey. Mark got there just in time to see his father die. It’ll probably warp him for life. Oh, that’s okay, no need to thank me. Perhaps you’d care to tell me which pants you wore this morning? I made myself dial the phone, my finger trembling.
“Sit-a-Spell Cafe, what can I do you for?” The hoarse voice of Suzie Tumpfer, one of the waitresses, blasted in my ear.
I asked to speak to Sister.
“Arlene ain’t been in this morning, Jordy.”
My throat felt coated with coarseness. I coughed. “Is Candace there?”
“Naw, she’s run over to the restaurant supply store in Bavary. You wanna leave a message for either one?”
“There’s—” What could I say? “Would you have them phone the police station if they get back in the next hour or so?”
“You’re at the police station?” Suzie’s voice softened. “You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, and so is Mark. But they need to come down to the station, all right? Please don’t forget, Suzie.”
“Naw, I won’t.” I didn’t think she would, since she’d be broadcasting it to the rest of the Sit-a-Spell staff in short order. I hung up the phone and went into the men’s room.
I washed my hands and my face. I returned to Junebug’s office. Mark hadn’t asked for his mother; he faced Junebug like he was a plague to be suffered. I did not mention that Sister wasn’t at the Sit-a-Spell. My heart stumbled again at thoughts I couldn’t permit myself to have. You cannot think this of her. You cannot think this of her … but you are. Admit that you’re wondering where she is and why she’s not at work.
Children have an uncommon bravery that we adults don’t always appreciate. Mark, although still shocked and savaged by what he’d witnessed, managed to answer Junebug’s questions completely. I wondered if it was because, once the initial shock was over, Trey was still a stranger to him. Or perhaps maybe because Mark was such an extraordinary young man.
Watching him holding up his head, keeping his voice steady, I suddenly came aware, with a surprising tightness in my heart, of how much I loved this boy. Before I returned to Mirabeau, I probably loved Mark in an abstract way; he was my sister’s child, so of course I loved him. You’re supposed to. But when you share a house, share the terrible responsibility and knowledge of a loved one losing her mind, share the struggle of barely getting by without fraying each other’s nerves, those abstractions turn into solids.
Mark bowed his head when Junebug asked if he’d seen his father before today, and for the first time since we got to the station, tears brimmed in his night-dark eyes. I swore
to myself right then, right there, that nothing else was going to ever harm this boy, not while I drew breath.
“No, I hadn’t seen my father. I knew he was in town, but my mom didn’t want me near him. I asked Uncle Jordy to take me over to see him, if he would. I mean, if Dad was willing to see me.”
“And was your father willing?”
“Yes. I didn’t talk to him, but Uncle Jordy did. He asked us over to that house he—he was staying in.”
Junebug glanced at me with cop’s eyes. “But you yourself, Mark, you didn’t speak to your dad.”
Mark shook his head. “I thought I would when we got there. Talking on the phone seemed kind of funny. We never did that before.”
The questioning went on in the same vein. Another police officer stuck his head in the door to say that they’d found Nola and her uncle, Dwight Kinnard.
“You want her? She’s mighty upset right now.”
“I’m sure she is. Show her into the interrogation room and I’ll be there presently.” The officer nodded and withdrew.
A moment later I could hear Nola’s voice coming down the hall, shrill and ragged: “I can tell you stupid bastards who you need to go after! His goddamned whore of an ex-wife! She’s crazy! You gotta—” And the noise died as a door was slammed. Mark’s face might have been made of marble. I felt an itch on my thigh, right where a ribbon of batik rested.
“Can we please go home? Mark needs some rest.”
Junebug nodded. “Listen, Mark, could you wait in the dispatcher’s office for a minute? I know you want to get home, son, but I need to talk a second with your uncle Jordan. Is that okay, buddy?”
Mark stood. “Yeah.” He moved slowly, like a puppet on guided strings. I could not believe that he was so calm, not after the violent surge of emotion he’d shown. It made me uneasy. What was normal for Mark under these circumstances? The door clicked shut behind him.
“Jordy, where the hell is Arlene?” Junebug didn’t waste time on preliminaries.
My tongue dabbed at my dry lips. All I had to say was what I knew for sure, and even that wasn’t appealing. “I don’t know. Suzie at the caff said she hadn’t been in.”