by Neliza Drew
I walked to an open box and squatted, examining the contents. I’d shot everything in it, a couple in small tournaments, most just on Phil’s wilderness property since competitions for tweens and teens largely focused on small-bore rifles or Wild West exhibition things with little revolvers that made other parents coo and clap. I pulled out the cases one by one, opening them and pulling out the guns. None had been used recently. All had been meticulously cleaned before being put away. Uncle Phil had always taught me that. He’d taught me a lot of things.
And then, he was gone.
I noticed all three .45-caliber guns were missing. I wondered why the cops hadn’t confiscated all the others, too, but figured maybe they’d decided removing the minor solved the problem, too. Personally, I’d have thought Charley was more of a danger to the citizenry, but maybe they weren’t into preventative measures.
I avoided the black case at the bottom, empty except for a sheet of paper. The paper explained what became of the weapon, but not why. The longer letter, the one written in Uncle Phil’s hand and splattered with Uncle Phil’s tears had burned away in a fire the year Jackie died. Gone. The hollow feeling remained. I didn’t have to fight back tears. Anger and resentment had long since settled into the place where sadness had once reigned.
I heard footsteps in the hallway behind me and jumped up to meet the glass guy, pulling the door shut behind me.
• • • • •
I had decided I’d rather get shot again than finish cleaning up the mess, even if it would improve the resale value when Charley finally managed to off herself, when Nik called.
“All right, what’s happening? Charley called me from the hospital.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now who needs phone etiquette?”
“What’s wrong?”
I registered the change in her voice, but didn’t answer.
She waited. Always the patient one.
“You know I…” I gave up. “Charley tried to commit suicide this morning. Again.”
“Damn.” She paused. “Drugs or razors?”
“She was high as that proverbial kite when I got here. Talking to voices. She slit her wrists. Flooded half the house. Broke the glass door to the balcony.”
“And Lane?”
“I’ve been busy cleaning up, getting stitched up — you know, all the fun stuff. But, yeah, Lane’s fucked. And…different.” I described the Lane I’d met at the jail.
“You sure it’s not just a teenage thing? You think that’s what set Charley off?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t seem quite dialed into this reality.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.” I glanced at my watch.
“I can fly out if you need me to.”
“Some things should be left to me.”
“I hate it when you act like that. I’m stronger than you think I am.”
“I know that, Nik. But she was worse than I’ve seen her in a long time. Maybe ever.” I pictured Nik trying to calm Charley in the past, saw her trying to stop her today. “If she’d called you instead of me… She could’ve killed you, Nik. Or at least managed to kill herself.”
“I’m sorry, Davis.”
“Don’t. No one’s bleeding anymore. It’s fine.”
“She was that bad?”
“Yeah.”
“Worse than Daytona?”
I thought about that one. In Daytona she’d been curled up in the fetal position — half dressed in an old vinyl child’s-sized Halloween costume and covered in boozy vomit — on the landing of a cheap motel. She’d had an empty bottle of pills in one hand and some bloody, cocaine-dusted cash in the other, her face pulpy. “Let’s call it a draw.”
“What are you gonna do? What if it’s her mess that got Lane in trouble? You’re going to check it out, right?”
“My name is not Nancy Drew, you know. In real life, people don’t go around snooping in murder cases with a magnifying glass, spunk, and a never-ending supply of daddy-purchased cars.”
“Smartass.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“Davis?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it was you again and not me.”
Chapter nine
For lack of better ideas, I called Tom, who expressed more concern over Charley than Nik had because…well, because he hadn’t grown up Groves.
I pulled out my notes. “Got a few names of Guthrie’s friends.” I rattled off the people Sally had mentioned. He told me he’d call me back in half an hour with something.
Half an hour seemed like a long time. Nik was good at doing nothing. Nik could sit for hours thinking about what we should do and where we should go and how to solve a problem. I sucked at doing nothing. I was good at beating things up, running away from things, and making snap decisions that tended to run the gamut from not-bad to stupid-crazy, with a much higher percentage on the crazy end. Problem was, I’d run out of things to do.
I hadn’t come close to running out of crazy, yet. Evidence suggested I probably wouldn’t run out of that until about fifteen-to-twenty minutes after I died for good. The fact that I’d already died once, for almost two minutes, was just more evidence of my bad decision making. Maybe it was the genes.
Luckily, Tom called fifteen minutes later with an address. I had been expecting it would be at least an hour away since Wright’s main plant was on the other end of the county. Instead, it turned out to be on the other side of Newport, down a road that was more of a suggested hunting path, the driveway a muddy rut in the woods with piles of pine straw over the biggest holes.
The truck at the end was a rusted-out pickup with a flat rear tire. Beside it sat a small boat on a trailer, a tiny sailboat that didn’t really look like it had done much sailing, and the chassis of an ATV with a splotchy neon and camo paint job. Overall, the toys didn’t seem beyond the range of possibilities for whoever lived in the single-wide since it was a fair guess he didn’t have Nik’s student loans, but I was a little curious about what might be in the semi-attached wooden garage.
I stepped around a pile of firewood and followed a worn path up to the front door. It opened before I’d reached the cinderblock steps and the brownish-gray hair of a man who looked to be in his mid-to-upper thirties appeared. The rest of him hid behind the door, but his head hovered roughly six-feet from the ground.
“You Ricky Gillikin?”
“What’re you sellin’?” He moved to fill the doorframe, wearing an old navy blue tee shirt with jeans, bare feet, and his weathered face. He cocked his head at me slightly. “You kind of look like someone.”
“Lane and Charley Groves?” I extended a hand. “I’m Davis.”
The cocked head grew a frown. “Ain’t you dead?”
I looked down at my upright frame. “Not yet.”
“Hmm.” He stroked his graying brown beard. “You sure you ain’t some cousin trying to fuck with me?”
“Pretty sure.” I reached for my purse. “I could pull out my license and check.”
He waved a calloused, meaty paw. “Nah. What’s up? Ain’t seen the girls around for a few days.”
“You spend a lot of time with them?” I asked, trying to figure out why a man maybe a decade younger than Charley would be hanging out with the two of them.
He nodded and rubbed the back of his bedhead. “Well, um…this is kind of embarrassing, I guess. I was kind of…” His face turned pink behind the leathery tan.
My face settled into my this-figures look. “You were paying Charley for sex.”
The pink deepened. “Kinda.”
“You paid her in drugs.”
He nodded like he’d been caught diddling my mom or something. Guess he thought he was the first. “I mean, I threw a few bucks her way.” It came out like he was trying to justify himself. “She didn’t really ask for more.”
My expression turned to wry. “That sounds about right. She think you two were dating?”
“Hey, I cared about her.”
<
br /> “As a hooker.”
“As a friend. We have similar interests.” Defensive. He’d fallen for her. Great.
“Look, she can get a little clingy. She think this was something more?”
He shrugged and looked vaguely sad. “I think the new wore off things. Saw her stalking younger prey, you know what I mean.”
“You know who?”
“Some widowed do-gooder out to Mill Creek. Still came around to me to get wild, if you know what I mean.” He gave me his best lewd smile.
“So, did you notice her getting a little extra crazy lately?”
He rubbed his beard and stared at the doorframe. Smoke may have risen off his brain. “I don’t know. We were always kinda…busy. Besides, she’d shoot up and mellow, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” I sighed because it seemed like the right thing to do. “So, you shoot up, too?”
“No way, man. That ain’t my thing. I stick with the grass.” He nodded like this made him freaking spiritual.
“So, why aren’t you high now?”
“Gotta get to work.”
“Yeah, about that. Were you buddies with William Guthrie at work?”
“Kinda.” He shrugged. “Hey, it always helps to make nice with the boss.”
“You guys used to go get beers or whatever?”
“Look, lady, I don’t know what your deal is, but I ain’t no nark. I talked to the guy a little, to get better schedules.”
“His mom thought you two were friends.”
He started to shut the door. “His mother’s nuts.”
I put my foot in the door. “Lane friends with him?”
He stopped. “What’d you hear?”
“I heard they were friends up until she shot him.”
He chewed his lip. “Where you been anyway? Why’re you back now?”
“Lane got arrested.”
His mouth twisted. “You didn’t care what happened to her before.”
“What did happen to her before?”
“Ain’t talkin’ about nothin’ ain’t my business. She hates you, you know.”
“That’s not going to stop me from trying to do what I can for her.”
He glanced around the yard, like he suddenly thought he was being watched. “I just ain’t comfortable talkin’ about it, okay?” He tried to close the door again.
I pulled my foot out of the way and looked around, but I didn’t see anything.
Chapter ten
In theory, Charley should have known something, at the very least, about Lane’s arrest, even if she’d had to consult with Ramona Wilkerson.
She was stable, physically. The nurses refused to pass judgment on her mental state, but she wasn’t in the running for patient of the day.
I wasn’t going to win anything, either. I turned her TV off.
“Hey! What’d you do that for?” She squinted at me. “Who are you anyway?”
I sat down on an orange plastic chair. “I hear they sedated you nicely, so maybe you won’t stab me with anything.”
She looked mildly apologetic. “I didn’t do that. Don’t be silly.” She gave a tiny soap opera laugh. “Don’t blame me for your problems. Not every little thing is my fault.”
“Lane’s pretty much fucked. Unless someone is completely overcome with guilt and confesses, I’d say you should count on visiting her in prison.”
She burst into tears and I wondered if they were genuine or an act.
“Charley?” I waited as she reached a crescendo.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Definitely fake.
“I needed custody of Lane. You made me her guardian earlier today.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re going to say you’re kind of nuts due to the whole trying to kill yourself thing and that’s bad if it leaves her without a guardian when she goes on trial for murder. If she’s a ward of the state, they’ll find it much easier to just lock her up and throw away the key.”
“Why would I give you my daughter? What are you talking about? Lanie’s at home studying. I don’t even know you.”
I unbuttoned my jacket and laid it across the back of the chair. Rolled up the sleeves of my blouse and tried not to glance at the scars on my hand or think about the surgeries or the physical therapy or the lies. I leaned forward, trying to figure out the best way to approach such an obvious departure from reality. “Do you remember Davis Groves?”
She shook her head. “Rotten bitch. Always in trouble. Man-stealing whore. Got herself killed.”
I did? “When?”
She shrugged. “Hit by a car or something. Lane was supposed to take care of it.” She looked at me and wrinkled her nose. “Why would you ask me such a thing? I don’t like you.”
I rubbed the scar under my ear and decided not to remind her that when I’d left, Lane had been twelve.
“Lane’s not like her. Lane’s a good girl. Home studying.”
I stared at her.
“It’s too bad no one could straighten Davis out. She was such a handful.”
The smell of death and decay, the taste of mud and blood, hit me hard and fast. Panic coursed through me and it took several seconds of even breathing to push it away, along with the image of people from my past.
“Stupid girl.”
I bit down on the last of my pain and let some of the anger out. “Get a grip, Charley. Lane was arrested Monday morning. You were notified not long after that.” I crossed my arms. “You want to tell me why you waited until Tuesday afternoon to call me?”
“Why would I call you? They’re kidding. It’s not very funny. I mean, Lane?” She pooh-poohed that idea.
“You thought they were kidding? You thought the police department — in another town — routinely picked residences at random and told the parents their child was homicidal? For kicks?” My head hurt. More specifically, my sinuses hurt from holding back tears I refused to let her see.
“You wouldn’t understand.” She acted mildly incredulous.
“Because I’m not high! Charley, this isn’t some stranger you’re talking to here. Why didn’t you call me sooner?” A sure sign I’d lost it: trying to reason with Charley.
“You? I don’t even know you!”
I glanced at the scars on my hand. “You know, I need to make a phone call.”
I left my jacket and closed the door behind me. I pulled my phone out of my purse and dialed Nik’s number, double-checking the time.
She answered on the third ring. “What’s wrong?”
“She thinks I’m dead.”
“What? Who? Huh?”
“Charley. Our mother thinks I’m dead. She thinks I was hit by a car.”
“You were.” Her tone said she didn’t like to think about it, much less talk about it.
“She thinks Lane’s at home studying.” Several people walked by, pretending not to eavesdrop.
“The nurse I talked to said she’s going to be okay.”
“Maybe the nurse doesn’t know I’m not dead.”
“Davis, you’re not really upset about this. She’s always said stuff like this.”
“Stuff like this. Not this.” I had my answer for why she hadn’t been calling me by name. “She’s happy I’m dead.”
“Davis—”
“Look, I just…” I looked around at the people busy living their own lives.
“Davis, she didn’t mean it.”
“She meant it, Nik. And I know I should be okay with it because I know she’s who she is.” I felt a tear form and wiped it away with my thumb knuckle.
“I know.” Her voice was soft, like when we were kids. Comforting. “You sure you don’t need me?”
“No, you said it yourself. She’s fine. Right?”
“Right.” She didn’t sound convinced.
I hung up and went back in the room, trying to block out all the stuff my brain was dredging up involuntarily. I stood at the end of her bed.
“I don’t like you.”
Her voice became hard. “No one got killed. It’s just a phase. Kids today. What do you expect?”
“Are you really that out of your mind? I mean, you’ve never had a great grasp on veracity, or Earth even, but dead is not a phase. Dead is dead. Dead is Daddy. Dead is Uncle Phil. Dead is Jackie, Ryan, William Guthrie. Dead is…” It suddenly occurred to me that I lost people like everyone else lost socks.
“You really think I’m so stupid I don’t know what dead is?”
I hung my head. “Dead like you tried to make yourself this morning.”
“I never did any such thing. People make mistakes. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” The family mantra.
“Yeah. Right.”
Her tone shifted. “And where’s Lane? She should be out of school by now. She can’t come see her mother in the hospital? What’s wrong with her?”
I chose to ignore her outburst, as per our usual arrangement. “The police took her into custody for killing Billy Guthrie.”
“Liar! I just saw him at the grocery store last week.” She smiled. “He and Amber make a cute couple.”
I wasn’t sure what to do, so I picked at a sparring scab on my knuckle.
“She hates me.” This time the tears were real. Maybe. “She’s hated me since Davis died. She thinks I did it. Davis did it to herself. It’s all her fault. She turned Lane against me.”
I quietly watched her tantrum build.
“This is all her fault. Left me with this mess.” She sobbed and smeared snot around her face. “Left me with this kid who hates me. Left me to do everything.”
I pulled the scab off and watched the blood re-clot.
“Got what she deserved.” She balled up her fists.
I rubbed my forehead and hung my head. I wondered what else she’d think I deserved if she only knew.
I picked up my head, asked, “Who’s Ricky Gillikin?”
She smiled. “He’s hot, right? Wait, you’re not trying to steal my man, right?”
“No. I was just wondering. I heard he was friends with Lane.”
“He’s mine, honey.” Her voice took on an edge.
I thought about the first man I supposedly stole. “Did you hate Davis in Virginia? The day you called the police on her? Told them you never wanted to see her again?”