Blindness

by Ginger Scott

  The gun falls to the floor, and my dad kicks it to the side, away from the man as he pulls his arms behind his body, holding them together. Mac’s yelling something to the clerk, pointing his head to the phone, but the clerk still isn’t moving. He’s just standing there, and he still looks scared. He’s in shock, I think.

  Then I see him.

  The shots fire, and my dad falls to the ground.

  Blood is everywhere.

  The man in the shirt runs through the doors first, ripping the door open for the car next to me and cranking the engine loudly. His wheels are spinning so fast they’re smoking, and he’s backing out, backing away from me. I look at him, right in the eyes, and then I duck out of instinct. He’s pulled sideways behind me, blocking the truck in, and I start to shake with fear.

  They’re going to shoot me next.

  I look back into the store, looking for Mac. But instead I see him—my father’s killer. He runs at the truck so fast that he smashes into the front bumper, slamming his knee into it. He looks up, right at me, and his face is ghost white, void of any emotion but fear, and I memorize every last feature of him.

  He’s by me seconds later, jumping through the window of the car, and I watch as it pulls away, no license plate on the back to read.

  I can hear the wailing sounds of the store clerk inside. He’s racing around the counter, trying to wake up my dad, feeling his pulse and shaking his body.

  I leave the car running, the door open behind me, and I race into the store, sliding on my knees at his side.

  “Daddy!” I cry. “Daddy, can you hear me? Stay with me, oh god, Daddy please!”

  The store clerk is dialing 911, and I hear him give the address.

  “Tell them he’s a police officer! Officer down!” I yell loudly enough for the operator to hear.

  Within minutes, I see the lights flashing behind me, and I know everyone’s here. I feel Brian pulling at my shoulders, urging me off of the ground, away from him. But I can’t leave his side. I won’t.

  “Charlie, you have to let them work,” he says, finally lifting me from under my arms. I drag my feet, reluctantly.

  I watch from outside, standing next to Brian, my arm tucked in his for support, while the paramedics work on Mac. I see bag after bag come out from the fire truck and watch as officers swarm the area, pull tape from the camera, talk to the clerk. I’ve seen it all so many times, usually well after the tragedy, while my dad worked a scene.

  “I saw him,” I say, my voice flat and lifeless. I know in that instant Mac is gone—he’s left me. I can tell, because my fire is gone, too.

  “Charlie, we need to know what you saw. I know it’s hard, and now’s not the time…” Brian starts, but I turn to him, letting the tears drip endlessly down my chin.

  “He’s gone. Mac’s gone. He shot him…in the head, Brian. But I saw it…” I swallow hard, and I start to hyperventilate, so I lean forward, holding my hands on my knees. “I saw the entire thing. I saw his face,” I say, “and I’ll never forget it.”

  Chapter 18: Welcome to Louisville

  Trevor only bought two seats to Louisville, but Cody wasn’t going to let me be there alone, so he drove, all through the night and part of the morning. We got to Caroline’s late. I warned Trevor, but I don’t think anything could have done justice to the craziness he found inside her house—inside Mac’s old house.

  The rows of boxes, newspapers, old letters, magazines, soda cartons—you name it, if it’s made of paper, Caroline’s saved it and turned it into a building block for the maze she now lives in. The smell is worse than when I left. She says she doesn’t have any cats, but I’ve seen at least two since we arrived late last night.

  We slept in my old room, Trevor on a sleeping bag on the floor, and me in my small childhood bed. Though, I really didn’t sleep at all. Instead, I stared out my window, at the stars outside, and did my best to talk to Mac silently.

  When Cody called me this morning, I told Trevor I was meeting him for breakfast, and he insisted he come as well. For the last hour, the three of us have been sitting in the same booth at the Sunday Diner, drinking refill after refill of coffee while I wait for my phone to ring.

  Caroline isn’t coming out of the house today. She said the ozone report made her nervous. I don’t fight it any more; I know my aunt needs help, but I don’t know where to begin. I’m not sure I’ll even survive the next hour of things before me, so who am I to judge her and how she copes.

  I can’t look at either of them—Trevor keeps bouncing his gaze nervously between Cody and me, and Cody refuses to look up from his cup of coffee. I can feel him only a few feet away from me, and it’s almost like we’re touching. I want to reach out and hold his hand, but he’s purposely sitting as far away from me in the booth as he can—out of respect for Trevor.

  The table shakes with the nervous bouncing of Trevor’s knee, and I question quietly the fifth cup of coffee he pours. When he downs it, he smacks his cup down loudly on the table and starts to slide from his seat.

  “Fuck this, man,” Trevor says, like a volcano erupting. I wince, embarrassed from the looks we’ve gotten from his little outburst.

  “Trevor,” I whisper to him, hoping he’ll find his decorum.

  “Sorry, Charlotte…or, I’m sorry, is it Charlie now? Or is that just for him?” Trevor says, bite to his tone.

  I look into his eyes, trying to let my regret show. Not that I would change my mind, but I just wish I could have settled all of this sooner, confessed how I felt, been upfront before anything happened with Cody.

  “Just…just don’t, okay?” he says, flipping open his wallet to pull out a couple bucks to throw on the table.

  My phone buzzes, and I jump in my seat.

  “Hello?” I ask, recognizing the 502 area code, but somehow frightened of it.

  “Hey, Charlie,” Brian says, his voice heavy, older, and tired. “We’re ready for you, if you can come in?”

  I tap my spoon on the table in front of my cup, biting my tongue. I have to do this, but I don’t want to. I’m scared—no matter how irrational I know it is. I’m frightened that the suspect, this man, is going to be the man. I’m also afraid he’s not.

  “Charlie?” Brian says, and I can tell he’s worried. He’s afraid I’m going to chicken out.

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I say, hanging up on him without a goodbye. I’m short with him, and I feel awful about it, but talking to Brian hurts. I’ve talked to him every six months for the last three years, always rehashing my story, what I saw, anything new I remember. I know he’s just doing his job. I know he’s more dedicated to finding Mac’s killer than most—Brian and Mac were best friends, and partners. But talking to him makes everything inside hurt, and I guess I’m just growing tired of hurting, and then fighting to bury it back down.

  Trevor hasn’t left, and I know it’s because he heard Brian call. I’m glad he’s still here. He knows the law, and he understands everything I’m about to do, go through, say and see—and there’s something comforting in that. But what I want more than anything, right now, is to crawl up in Cody’s lap and hide, hide for hours.

  “It’s time,” I say, sliding out and walking up front to pay our bill.

  “I’ll drive,” Cody says, his fingers grazing my shoulder and arms as he walks by, and for just a few seconds I forget it all and feel good.

  The parking lot is full of weeds and cracks—it’s not the best part of town. But it’s the place Mac and I ate, so I wanted to come here. It seemed fitting before I went in to send his killer behind bars for what I hoped would be forever.

  Trevor rented a car from the airport, and I can tell he’s a little nervous about leaving it here unattended. “I’ll just follow you guys,” he says, mumbling to himself as he walks away. I know he’s loath to leave Cody and me alone, but I’m so grateful for these few minutes I have with him.

  We get in the truck, and I buckle my belt and reach over to touch his leg
, right where I saw his scar. I lay my hand flat on it, letting it fall heavy onto him, and he looks at it, sucking in his bottom lip, before he puts his hand on top and strings his fingers through mine, locking us together. He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses the palm.

  “I’m so sorry, Charlie,” he says, and I know he is. Cody may be the only other person on earth who can understand what I’m feeling right now. We both lost our fathers—our idols, the molds for these adults we’ve become.

  I take a deep breath and hold it in, closing my eyes and searching for my bravery.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I admit, my throat shaking with my fear.

  “You can. And I’ll be right here,” Cody says, squeezing my hand tightly.

  Trevor’s honking behind us now, his arm rested along the wheel, and his face disgusted. I scoot a few inches away from Cody so Trevor sees the distance between us from his view through our back window, but I keep his hand in mine, my grip tight.

  The drive to the precinct is short, and we’re inside asking the front security officer for Brian. I’m a little surprised when he rounds the corner—his hair is white, and his belly is fat. I haven’t seen him in a little over three years, but he seems a decade older. His smile warms the closer he gets to me, and I can’t help but feel a little joy in seeing him.

  “Kiddo,” he says, his usual toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth, dusting the bottom of his thick mustache.

  I fold into his arms naturally, hugging him tightly and holding on.

  “You can do this,” he whispers in my ear, and I squeeze him a little tighter, not sure that I can.

  “I hope so,” I say, my throat closing as my nerves creep up on me.

  I pull away from him, but keep my arm wrapped around his back while I stand at his side. “Brian, this is Trevor and Cody…” I say, trailing off a little unnaturally, not sure what to call either of them at this point. I realize at that moment Trevor’s ring is still tucked in my pocket.

  “We’re here to offer our support,” Cody says, stepping in to shake Brian’s hand. I see Trevor stiffen defensively when Cody speaks, and he’s reaching his hand in now, too.

  “Yes, sir. I’m a clerk at federal court in Washington, so please let me know if there’s anything I can do…to help Charlie,” he says, trying to show off his credentials. I shrink a little, embarrassed for him when I see how amused Brian is by him. Trevor’s so out of his element in Louisville—Brian’s from a camp of guys who take care of business by shooting cans out behind old man Wheeler’s barn. But he’s nice to Trevor, smiling and thanking him for his assistance before turning to me and rolling his eyes.

  I follow Brian up a flight of stairs, and we go down a narrow hall to a small room with the lights off. I know this room—I’ve been in here before. And every time, I’ve failed. I haven’t been here since high school, but the chairs are the same. The posters on the wall, with clever safety messages—all the same. And I know the protective glass in front of me is the same, too—but I let Brian explain it all again anyhow, because I like hearing it, and it calms my nerves.

  Another officer comes in to get Trevor and Cody, to take them into a side office across the hall. I know the drill—there will be a team of officers in here, along with the chief, who again, is a longtime friend of Mac’s. The prosecutor’s office will send someone down, too, just to witness and make notes, shoring up their case. From this point forward, I know I have to be careful of my words—and I have to be sure…of everything!

  The men walk in slowly. I start at their feet—I always do. Jeans, slacks, sweats, all on top of white tennis shoes. Dirty sweatshirts, jerseys, and sometimes an over-sized button down—it all feels the same, like I’m replaying this scenario, over and over. I suck in my top lip and breathe in the stale air, which almost makes me gag.

  I move to their faces; I’ll know if this entire trip is pointless in seconds. I start at the left and work my way through them all. The first one is almost comical, his cheeks round and rosy—I can tell they just grabbed him off the streets or from the local pub. Number two is about 30 years too old, and the guy next to him is about 15 years too young.

  He’s next.

  I can almost sense it before I get to him, like I’m purposely avoiding looking, like I’m saving him for last. I swear he can see me through the glass, his eyes forward and lacking focus, but directed at me. He looks fucking high off his ass, just like he did the night he shot Mac. The right side of his face is covered in pockmarks, and his lips are pink and puffy. His blonde hair is shaved—it was longer then—but I can see the earring, the same small silver hoop he wore that night. There’s a cross tattoo on the left side of his neck and marks all over his arms. His T-shirt drapes on his skinny body, and his jeans are sagging below his butt, held up by a belt that he has to tie.

  My fingers are digging into the wood grain of the table, and I want to bust through the glass and choke the life from him, feel him slip away at my hands, make him pay for taking my father away from me.

  “Is there anyone you see that you think might fit your description, that you think might be the guy you saw at the convenience store that night?” Brian says, looking up at the camera to make sure it’s capturing everything, and then looking around the room at the faces of his fellow officers. They all know—they’re all on the edge of their seats, just waiting for me to say it.

  “It’s him,” I say, my voice hiccupping as I start to shake. “Number four; that’s him. I can see it all, everything from that night. It’s him, Brian. That’s him!”

  Brian puts his arm around me, just bracing me to keep me from shaking more. “Okay, Charlie. I need you to be sure,” he says, and a woman leans forward and requests the men to stand to their side. Then she asks numbers two, four and six to step forward—she wants me to get a better look at him.

  He moves close to the glass, and I stand up and walk around the table, right up to the glass before him—we’re eye-to-eye, my reflection masking his. “You swear he can’t see me?” I say, forcing my hands to stay down at my sides, my fists balling.

  “He can’t see you, Charlie. He can’t hear you, either,” Brian says, giving me permission.

  “You mother fucker! I hope you rot in hell!” I scream, and I actually spit at the window. I feel Brain’s arm around me again, and he backs me around the table and then leads me out of the office.

  Cody rushes up to me as soon as he sees me, and I’m quivering, barely able to stand. I tumble to the sofa in the small office, and Cody runs out into the hall. Trevor is leaning along the wall opposite of me, his hand covering his mouth, but his eyes full of sympathy.

  “You saw him?” he finally asks, his voice quiet and calming.

  I only nod yes, and I keep my eyes focused on the small ink stain on the carpet in front of me. I don’t stop nodding, and when Cody comes in, I’m rocking myself back and forth in my chair.

  “Charlie, here…drink this,” he says, pulling the lid from a bottle of water. I grasp it in both hands and start chugging—like I’m dehydrated from a walk through the desert. I finally pull my eyes from the stain to meet Cody’s, and I can see the water pooling in them. He reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear and smiles softly, nodding.

  “They got him, Cody. They actually fucking caught him,” I whisper and then turn back to watch the carpet some more.

  I’m catatonic.

  I haven’t moved since we got back to Caroline’s house. I know Brian gave me a million bits of information after the identification. What happens next, how long until we can expect a trial—he talked for almost an hour. I didn’t hear a single word. Instead, I just replayed the sounds of that night—the light sound of the radio in Mac’s truck, the quiet just before the gunshots, the screaming of the tires as the car sped away.

  Trevor refused to stay another night at Caroline’s. He didn’t say goodbye when he left, just said he’d be at the hotel in town. Caroline attempted to make Cody and me dinner. I think she was h
oping it would bring me out. She’s actually a decent cook, if you can get past the disgusting condition of the kitchen. But I wasn’t hungry.

  I can hear Cody helping to clean up down the hall. I’m lying in here with my tiny pink lamp illuminating the room of a teenaged girl I can’t remember being. Cody’s shutting down everything in the front room, and I’m embarrassed that he’s winding through boxes of trash everywhere he turns. He didn’t even flinch when he walked in and saw the conditions my aunt was living in.

  The door creaks as Cody slides it open, and my lips hurt as I try to smile. I’m so happy to see him, but every movement feels impossible. He pulls his shirt from his body and kicks his shoes and jeans off in the corner by my chair—by the blank space where my desk used to sit when I lived here. He turns the lamp off as he slides into bed next to me, and in seconds, his arms are around me, like a warm blanket that keeps me safe. It’s the first time he’s held me like this since we made love, and I hate that it’s here, in this house, on the night I faced the murderer.

  “I’m so proud of you, Charlie,” he whispers, his breath hot against the wisps of hair along my neck.

  I don’t know how to respond, so I squeeze his hands and pull his hug tighter around me. We lay in silence for almost an hour, listening to the whistle of the wind through the cracks in my window. And he never makes me talk.

  “I hate him,” I finally say.

  “I know you do. And that’s okay,” Cody says, brushing my hair from my face repeatedly, soothing me.

  “I want him to die,” I say, and I let a tear finally hit my pillow. I feel ugly wishing that for someone, but I hate him so much. His name is Michael Croft, and he’s only three years older than me. He has a mother and a sister—all here in Louisville. He’s a big dealer downtown. Brian says they have enough on him to put him away for years, even without getting the murder conviction. But he’s pretty sure they’ll get it. They traced the gun back to him and matched a few prints.