Love Has No Direction

by Kim Fielding

  “She screamed. It was a terrible scream—really loud. Then came the gunshots. Four of them.” That’s what the detectives concluded later. Three bullets in Ms. Shaw and one in her husband. At the time, though, Wes wasn’t able to count them.

  “Oh no,” Parker moaned. His palm still lay on Wes’s knee, warm and comforting. “Someone shot her?”

  “Her husband. Then he shot himself. I finally called for backup, but it was too late for her. Too late.”

  “You didn’t kill her, Wes. He did.”

  “If I had handled the situation properly, there’s a very good chance she’d be alive today. She had two children, Parker. They’d possibly still have parents.” The only good thing was that the kids had been in school that morning, so they hadn’t been physically endangered. Emotionally, though… the damage must have been unimaginable.

  “You don’t know that. The entire bureau could’ve showed up and things could’ve turned out the same.”

  Wes shook his head. “Don’t take my side on this, Parker. I don’t deserve it. Facts: I was careless and arrogant, I failed to follow procedures or give appropriate credence to the witness’s story, and a person died. Two people. Maybe the son of a bitch who pulled the trigger could have been salvageable as a human being, given the proper intervention.”

  Frowning, Parker gnawed a fingernail. “So… you screwed up. But there was nothing evil about it—just a dumb mistake. I make those all the time. God, look what happened to Logan because of me.”

  “Not because of you. Because of him. And everyone screws up now and then. That’s human. But people who choose to enter certain professions have to be held to a higher standard because the consequences of errors are so awful. Surgeons. Soldiers. Police officers. None of them are allowed the luxury of making dumb mistakes.”

  When Parker looked as if he might argue, Wes held up a hand to stop him. “I mess things up now and then as a carpenter. I’ve wasted nice pieces of wood by cutting them wrong. I’ve spilled paint and drilled in the wrong spot. A couple years ago I miscalculated measurements on a fancy bar cabinet and had to tear the whole thing up and start from scratch. Lost a couple days of work. But nobody died.”

  Parker regarded him gravely. “That’s a lot of guilt to be carrying.”

  “I’ve earned it.”

  “What… what happened to you afterward?”

  “I resigned. They would have fired me anyway. I was lucky I hadn’t fucked up badly enough to face criminal charges. I didn’t have many friends, not even then, but the ones I did have were cops, and they all turned away from me.”

  Parker nodded. “Like Jeremy and Nevin.”

  “I’d have done the same in their shoes. Anyway, after all the legal things were settled, I moved down here. My dad sent a letter telling me what an embarrassment I was—first time I’d heard from him in I don’t know how long. Grandpa let me stay with him, though. Let me work with him in his workshop.” The old man had never said a word about what had transpired in Portland, but he wasn’t the chatty type anyway. Most of his conversation consisted of curt advice on how to build furniture.

  “Why did you tell me this now, Wes?”

  “Because you need to know the truth of who I am.”

  “The truth of you is bigger than that one day.” Parker said it with conviction. But he was young, and he didn’t know Wes well. His rosy outlook could be forgiven.

  Parker looked out the passenger window, maybe watching the lady on the bench, who was eating something out of a paper bag on her lap. Then he faced Wes again. “Will you tell me one more thing?”

  Wes shrugged. Why not? He was open and bleeding anyway.

  “Why did you go to P-Town the other day?”

  Oh. That. Was there a way to explain this that didn’t sound ridiculous? Nope.

  “I was watching TV a few weeks ago. I hardly ever do, but… I don’t know. I was just surfing from one channel to another without really focusing on anything.”

  Parker nodded. “I do that sometimes, with YouTube videos and stuff on Netflix. A couple minutes here, a couple minutes there. I kind of space out over it.”

  “Right. So I happened on a religious show. I don’t do religion, never have, but the preacher man had on such weird clothing, I thought it was a parody of some kind. Red-and-blue plaid suit and an oversized bolo tie.” He chuckled. “Turned out he was for real. I only watched him for a few minutes, I guess, but something he said caught my attention: everyone should try to die without regrets. He said that makes salvation easier. Salvation doesn’t matter to me, but the no-regrets part stuck. I lost sleep over it. And I realized I was really sorry I’d never apologized to Jeremy and Nevin for letting them down. They’d been really nice to me when I was new in the bureau.”

  He’d been right. His explanation sounded even more laughable than he’d feared. And his jaw hurt. He’d yammered more this morning than he had in years, as if a word spigot had opened in his brain. It was time to close it now, though.

  “Are you glad you did it? Apologized, I mean?”

  As Wes considered the question, a tiny grin flickered at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. I met you.”

  “I’m really glad of that.” Parker squeezed Wes’s knee.

  The bus lumbered up the street and parked in front of the station, dwarfing the little building and obscuring their view of the woman on the bench.

  Parker leaned over and planted a quick kiss on Wes’s cheek. This was nothing like the previous night’s heated exchange; it was entirely chaste. But it still made Wes’s heart race and his skin flush.

  “Good luck, Parker. You deserve it.”

  Clutching his plastic bag, Parker got out and turned to flash a brief smile. “You too.”

  WITH PARKER gone, Morrison felt empty. Which was bad enough, but Wes suspected that his bus would feel empty too. His entire property would likely have a forlorn air—ducks and all. So although he returned to the freeway after filling the gas tank, he didn’t head north toward home. He went south instead, through Ashland, into the mountains, and over the border into California. On the other side of the range, he dropped through forest and into the Central Valley with its dry farmland, through Redding, all the way to Williams, where he had to stop to refill the tank and buy some bottled water. By then his body felt cramped from sitting too long. The sun shone, though, and that was nice.

  Instead of turning north on I-5 to head home, he decided to go west. More farmland, then rolling hills scarred by fires. There was a big lake ringed by tiny communities, most of which appeared hardscrabble at best. Then steeper mountains, a devilishly twisty road beneath towering redwoods, and… the ocean. Somehow Wes had made it to the Pacific, where fog hung in the brine-scented air and seagulls perched on rooftops. His own home wasn’t a very long drive from the coast, yet he couldn’t recall the last time he’d driven that way. A shame. He liked the ocean.

  He seriously considered parking Morrison somewhere near a beach and spending the night in the back. But running water and a hot meal held too much appeal, so he checked in to a budget motel a few blocks from the water in Fort Bragg. He grabbed the spare clothes and basic toiletries he always kept in the van.

  The sun was setting when he arrived at the cliff overlooking Glass Beach. The fog hung too heavily to allow the sunset its visual spectacle, and Wes shivered in his old denim jacket. But he remained standing there anyway because he liked listening to the waves crash and tasting sea salt on his lips. He speculated on what secrets lay hidden beneath the water’s surface and what adventures might lie over the horizon. Maybe such close exposure to things aquatic would give him inspiration as he completed the sea-monster coffee table. And maybe in the morning he’d find some shells or interesting little stones he could work into the table somehow. Very quietly he sang “Sloop John B.” Twice.

  It was long after dark when he headed inland. He strolled around the small downtown before settling on Thai. Lemongrass-and-coconut-scented soup warmed him up, pad see ew filled
his belly, and a couple of bottles of locally brewed stout mellowed him out.

  He didn’t think about Parker—not more than every two minutes, anyway. And he tried to rein in those thoughts. Their time together had been a momentary blip. A fascinating little detour in his otherwise quiet, predictable life. He hoped he’d done a good deed by giving Parker respite and a peaceful haven when he needed them. Now Parker could put his own life back together, and Wes would return to making pretty furniture and enjoying his serene existence. An existence in which he had nobody to hurt or disappoint. And one where he was free of regrets, now that he’d apologized as best as he was able.

  Except he realized, as he nursed his third beer, that he’d acquired a new regret: the kiss. Not the one at the bus station, but the one last night. The one where Parker was draped—warm and solid and oh so sweet—over Wes’s nearly naked body. Where they thrust against each other despite the layers of clothing, and where Wes almost came. That kiss.

  He didn’t regret the kiss itself. It hadn’t been his idea to begin with, and it had been far too wonderful to be sorry about. Besides, he had the impression that the kiss had helped settle Parker’s mood—or at least had directed that mood in a more positive direction.

  But he’d pushed Parker away, and that he regretted.

  It was the right thing to do.

  Yeah, it was, from an ethical point of view. Even from a practical one since it had been clear that their short time together was nearly over. But from an emotional perspective, pushing Parker away was wrong, wrong, wrong. Now Wes would spend the rest of his life thinking about that night and wondering what it would have been like if he’d allowed matters to proceed. As wonderful as he imagined, based on the evidence of the kiss? Who the hell knew.

  “Dammit!”

  The waitress took a hasty step back. “Sorry! I didn’t—”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. I was stuck in my own head. Was swearing at myself, not you.”

  She relaxed, flashing a broad smile. “Oh, I get you. I talk to myself all the time. Sometimes I get in arguments with myself.”

  “Probably not in public, though.”

  She just laughed. “Can I get you another bottle?”

  “If I have another I might start doing worse than thinking out loud. I think I’ll just take the bill, please.”

  He slowly strolled back to the motel, arms wrapped around himself as if to keep in the warmth. Nobody else was out except for a homeless man watching him from the doorway of a vacant business. Wes walked a half block past the guy, stopped, and turned back. “Here,” he said, holding out a crisp hundred. “Maybe this will keep you warm and fed for a night or two.”

  The man had a thick beard and multiple layers of clothing, including a long yellow skirt and a pair of tattered ski pants. His shoes were mismatched—one a battered red-and-white Nike, the other a tan hiking boot. He stared at the bill. “That’s a lotta money.”

  “I’ve had some good luck lately. Feeling a little flush. Don’t mind sharing.”

  Looking doubtful, the man took the money. “You sure, buddy?”

  “Yeah. Maybe if you get a chance someday, you can pay it forward.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks. Have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  Wes continued on his way. At least he wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night mentally kicking himself for ignoring someone who needed a hand.

  Soon after returning to his motel room, Wes took a shower. A nice long one, using way too much hot water. It was a treat not to have to deal with the somewhat makeshift setup he had at home. Plus he stepped out into a steamy, warm little bathroom instead of the great outdoors—which was neither steamy nor warm at this time of year. Although he had the spare clothes in the van, he washed his underwear and socks in the sink and gave them a few passes with the blow dryer before draping them over a chair near the heating vent. Maybe they’d be dry by morning.

  He crawled between the sheets—which smelled of bleach instead of Parker—switched off the light, and tried to clear his mind and fall asleep. It wasn’t particularly late, but the drive, emotional upheaval, and three bottles of stout had tired him. Nonetheless, despite varied sleeping positions and rearrangements of pillows and blankets, he remained awake. He considered jerking off for the lulling effect of postorgasmic hormones, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he’d inevitably end up thinking about Parker, and that felt wrong.

  “Argh!” He threw himself out of bed and, wrapped in a makeshift blanket toga, shuffled to the window. He couldn’t see the ocean, just the parking lot with its scattered yellowish lights, but staring at that was better than glaring at the dark ceiling. Or turning on the light and confronting the poorly rendered lighthouse painting that hung opposite the bed.

  No waitresses nearby to overhear and freak out, so he asked out loud, “How did I get here?” And by here, he didn’t mean Fort Bragg, because he could have recited that route completely. This was an existential here, as in pretty much alone in the world, living in a school bus, surviving more or less hand-to-mouth. Pining over a kid he hardly knew.

  “I should get out more often. Meet more people.” Next time he made a furniture delivery to Miri, he’d go to a bar or a club. Spend a night or two in town. At the very least he’d use an app and find someone to hook up with. Right. As if that would magically improve his life. “Big deal, Wanker. Big fucking deal.”

  As a kid he pictured a very different future. He was bounced around like a pinball between his parents and his grandfather, so he imagined that when he grew up, he’d fall in love and marry a girl, have kids, and stay put in a nice little town or suburb, going to Little League games and taxiing children to orthodontist appointments. He’d have a date night with his wife every couple of weeks, putter around the house on weekends, teach woodworking to his sons and daughters in a garage workshop, and go on vacations to Disneyland.

  By his late teens he realized girls didn’t get his wheels turning. Ethan Hawke made far too many starring appearances in Wes’s crank-shanking fantasies for him to believe otherwise. But he’d stubbornly refused to admit that his future self should change to reflect that reality. No, somehow, magically, Future Wes was straight as an arrow and living in a four/two ranch with a wife who taught high-school science classes and dragged him to line-dancing lessons every Thursday evening.

  In community college Wes fucked around with a couple of guys but wasn’t out to his small circle of friends. He remained closeted when he joined the bureau—and felt awful about it every time Jeremy casually mentioned a boyfriend or Nevin boasted about some stud he’d screwed the night before.

  Wes never officially came out of the closet, in fact. After the leaving the bureau, he had nobody to come out to—except his grandfather, who never asked about Wes’s perpetual lack of girlfriends. And Wes never told.

  That childhood version of Future Wes deserved to be scrapped long ago. And since Wes was comfortable with his orientation, shouldn’t he have replaced that guy with a different Future Wes? One who loved and was loved by a remarkable man, one who created his own family in his own way?

  Wes stared through the window at the parking lot until his eyelids drooped, and then he dragged himself to bed.

  HE WOKE up with an idea.

  This wasn’t uncommon for him. At least once a month, he opened his eyes in the morning to a fantastic plan for that gorgeous slab of olive wood with the cracked heartwood or that vintage cast-iron latch he’d picked up at an antique store. He liked to believe a cabinetry muse occasionally visited him in the night, gifting him with enough clever notions to pay the bills.

  But this morning’s idea had nothing to do with furniture.

  Wes woke up with the deep conviction there was something off about Logan’s suicide. He tried to push the idea away since it was really none of his business, and besides, what could he possibly know about the fate of Parker’s deceased ex-boyfriend?

  Still, the idea niggled at him while he brushed his
teeth and hair; put on his dry underwear, slightly damp socks, and other clothing; and gathered his few things before checking out of the motel. With no better options around, he grabbed a quick coffee and breakfast at McDonald’s and filled Morrison’s tank, then headed north on Highway 101. It was a gorgeous drive, especially the parts that hugged the coastline, but he couldn’t concentrate on the scenery or on the music Morrison blasted obligingly.

  After leaving Crescent City, where he stopped to gas up, Wes toyed with the problem some more. Thinking out loud seemed to help a little. “The thing with Logan just doesn’t add up. First off, why would Logan kill himself? Parker said he hadn’t shown signs of depression, and their relationship didn’t sound like it was the love affair of the century. Logan was stealing from Parker—is that how you treat the guy you can’t live without?”

  Morrison chugged along as if in agreement.

  “Maybe the breakup isn’t why Logan committed suicide. He’d lost his job and his roommate and was obviously having some kind of money issues. But even assuming that was enough to make him want to end it all, why would he address his suicide note to Parker, who’d already moved out? If he really wanted to say something final, wouldn’t it have made more sense for him to text instead?”

  He took the turnoff for Highway 199, a snakelike route through the mountains of Klamath National Forest. Pines, firs, and cedars seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction, and Wes rolled down the window a little because he liked the way the air smelled. Unfortunately the resulting chill didn’t chase away his new obsession with Logan.

  “Why would he commit suicide by OD’ing? Assuming Parker was right, Logan didn’t use hard drugs, so he wouldn’t have had them just lying around. And there are cheaper and easier ways to kill yourself than tracking down a dealer and scoring enough shit to kill you.” Wes had taken a couple of psych classes at the community college before training as a cop. Unless patterns had changed drastically in the past few years, which he doubted, men usually shot themselves, hung themselves, jumped off something high, or did something fatal with a car. They were much less likely than women to use poisons or drugs. Which didn’t mean a man couldn’t OD on purpose. But if you put that together with the other odd things about Logan’s death, something just felt… off.