They drove down Route 5 and then 242, through the towns of Clements and Dynard and onto back roads skirting the western shore of Clements Bay, an offshoot of the lower Potomac. A hard dirt road led them through woods to a clearing opening to two hundred feet of brackish creek. Walters parked the truck next to his pop-up trailer, and Karras pulled in beside him. Walters had a beer in his hand as Karras met him by the truck.
“Care for one?” said Walters, holding up the can.
“No, thanks, I’m good.” Karras zipped up his coat.
“A little cold,” said Walters, who wore only a down vest over a denim shirt, blue jeans, and his Orioles cap. He shaded his eyes from the sun and studied the clear sky. “But not bad.”
Karras looked around the property. “Nice, Bern.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty fine. When the weather breaks and these trees fill out, you’re really alone back here. Which is how I like it. I don’t even have a phone line.”
“You’re gonna stay down here all week without a phone?”
“What do I need it for? And if I do need to make a call, I’ll just drive up the road to town.”
“What are you going to eat?”
“I’ve got a generator, but I cook with propane and I rarely use the electricity.” Walters nodded at the Jiffy John set back from the trailer. “I put that in for my guests. Me, I just pee in the grass and shit in the woods.”
“That’s mighty natural, pardner. But you won’t think I’m a pussy if I use the toilet, will ya?”
“Do anything you like, Dimitri. I won’t think a thing.”
Walters killed his beer and tossed the empty into a box filled with empties that was lying in the bed of his truck. He grabbed a fresh beer from the cab.
“Feel like takin’ a walk in the woods?” said Walters.
“Sure. Maybe we could do that thing we talked about.”
“Okay. Shotgun or handgun? I got both.”
“Handgun.”
“Be right back,” said Walters, heading for the trailer.
Bernie Walters emerged from the trailer with a day pack slung over his shoulder. He got the box of rounds he had purchased from out of the pickup and put that and some of the empty beer cans, plus one unopened can, into the pack.
They walked into the woods. Walters pointed to a deer blind he had built in the branches of a tall oak as they crossed a dry creek bed. Karras followed him up a rise and into a clearing where an ancient, rusted tractor sat in tall brown grass. There was a row of upended logs along the far side of the tree line.
“We’ll set up the cans over there,” said Walters.
“You shoot out here yourself?” said Karras as they crossed the clearing.
“With my pistols, yeah.”
“What about your shotguns?”
“I used to hunt deer with ’em.”
“What did you do with the deer after you killed it?”
“Well, I used to clean it and take it home. Lynne would freeze the meat, and we’d eat venison stew all winter. Vance, he hated it. But I haven’t killed a deer in a couple of seasons. Mostly I just sit up in that blind I showed you. Sitting up there, listening to the woods… it’s peaceful. Like being in God’s natural church.” Walters’s eyes shot over to Karras. “You ought to try it sometime.”
Walters set the cans up on the logs. He and Karras walked back thirty yards, and Walters reached into the pack.
“Here’s the Colt,” said Walters. He handed Karras a .45 automatic in a leather holster, along with the box of shells.
“Go ahead,” said Walters. “Release the magazine and load it.”
The magazine slid out into Karras’s palm. He got down on one knee and thumbed the rounds into the empty magazine. It took some time; his dexterity was hampered by the cold.
“This thing full?” he said.
“One more,” said Walters, watching closely. “Give it a little pressure now and feel the tension on that spring. That’s it. Now replace the magazine.”
Karras stood. “Just aim and fire, right?”
“Pull back on the receiver and put one in the chamber. Check your safety. There you go.”
Karras bent his knees deeply, steadying the butt of the gun with his left hand.
“You don’t need to crouch down like that, Starsky. This ain’t no TV show. But use both hands like you’re doing. And if you’re going to shoot more than one round, remember to space for the recoil. Otherwise, with that gun kicking, you’re just gonna be firing wild. That’s it, that’s my lesson. Go ahead.”
Karras fired out the clip, slowly and deliberately. The shots silenced the bird and animal sounds that had been there moments before. A steady tone sounded in Karras’s ears, and both hands were numb with vibration.
Walters squinted and wiped beer from his chin. “You hit exactly one.”
“I need more practice.”
“Go ahead,” said Walters, dropping the empty can to the ground and reaching into his pack for a fresh one. “I got nothin’ but time.”
Karras loaded the magazine more quickly than he had on his first attempt.
Walters watched him and said, “Why you want to learn to shoot all of the sudden?”
“You never know when you’ll need it, right?”
Walters regarded him closely. “You ever kill a man, Dimitri?”
“No,” lied Karras. A round slipped from his hand, and he stooped to pick it up.
“I have,” said Walters, feeling the start of a daytime drunk. “Course, you know that, seein’ as how I’m one of those Vietnam veteran, killin’-machine soldiers you’ve heard so much about.”
Karras palmed the magazine into the butt of the automatic. “Think you could ever kill again?”
“No,” said Walters. “I’ll never kill again.”
Karras turned to face him. “Not even if you came face-to-face with the men who killed your son?”
“No,” said Walters, “not even then. I do hate those men, Dimitri, I’m not gonna lie to you. But I’ve forgiven them. Only the Lord can decide their fates.”
Karras turned back to the targets. He closed one eye, extended his gun arm, and aimed. “Well, you’re a better man than I am, I guess.”
Karras squeezed off a round. He fired again and again, spacing the shots. He lowered the gun when it was empty.
“You got two that time,” said Bernie.
“I’m improving.”
“Course, you wouldn’t be firing at a little old beer can for real. I mean, you’d be aiming for a bigger target. We’re talking about a man here, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” said Karras.
“Always aim for the body,” said Walters. “Never the head. You’re not that good. Most men aren’t, no matter what they think.”
“Right.”
“Lead that body just a little if it’s moving.”
“Okay.”
“And keep firing your weapon until you’ve accomplished what you set out to do.”
Karras nodded. “Thanks, Bernie.”
“You about done?”
“I’d like to try it a few more times, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine with me.” Walters looked sadly into his beer can and made a swirling motion with his hand. “After that, maybe we’ll catch a little lunch.”
They drove up to Leonardtown in the pickup and had crab-salad sandwiches and chowder at a local dive. Walters drank beer, and Karras drank ginger ale. They returned to the property in the afternoon.
Walters and Karras went down to the dock with fishing rods, folding chairs, bait, and beer. A plastic owl had been nailed to the top of one of the pilings, but it had scared away no birds. Gull shit was splattered on the owl and nearly covered the planks of the dock. Walters and Karras put the chairs out facing the water and baited their hooks with bloodworms. Karras cast his line out into the creek as Walters cracked a beer.
“I’ll have one of those now,” said Karras.
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Walters.
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Karras drank down a healthy swallow. “We just jerking off here?”
“Probably. You might snag a few perch. But it’s mostly therapy.”
Karras nodded at the water. “This part of the bay?”
“They call it a creek.”
“It’s wide as some rivers I’ve seen.”
“I know. And it’s a good fifteen feet deep out there in the middle. But they still call it a creek.”
Karras felt a chill and zipped his jacket to the neck. He looked at Walters. “You’re not cold?”
“Hell, no. I sleep out here on this dock some nights, Dimitri. I’m talking about this time of year, too.”
“You shittin’ me?”
“Nah. It’s been a mild winter, anyway; most nights have stayed in the forties the times I been down. I get out here in a sleeping bag, lay on my back, and look up at the stars.… I sleep like a baby, man. I don’t come down here to lay up in some stuffy trailer.”
“What’re you, part bear?”
“I just like it here, that’s all.”
Walters used his Zippo to light a cigarette. They kept their lines out in the water, and after a while Karras noticed the bow of a wooden boat peeking out of the water in the middle of the creek.
“See that?” said Karras, pointing to the area marked by a small red buoy.
“Yep,” said Walters. “When you see that bow, it means the tide’s going out. You’re gonna see more of it the rest of the afternoon.”
“Who sunk that boat out there?”
Walters smiled. “Vance.”
“You must have been pissed off.”
“Not really. It was an old piece-of-shit rowboat that came with the property. Never was seaworthy, anyway. Vance liked to go out in the boat by himself. He’d float out there and think. He always was, what do you call that, introverted.”
“You mean introspective?”
“Sure, Professor. Whatever. Anyway, that day he was taking in water. Vance was like, ten years old, and he wasn’t much of a swimmer. I sat out here on this dock and watched him sink that boat. He never even looked at me, sitting here. He was afraid I’d think he was a sissy or something if he asked for my help. I guess I waited too long to go out there, because when that boat finally went under, it went under fast. And then Vance was just floundering out there in the water. He was wearing blue jeans and sneakers, and the weight was taking him down.”
Walters pinched the bridge of his nose. Tears gathered in his closed eyes, and Karras put a hand on his shoulder.
“Vance screamed, ‘Daddy!’” said Walters, his voice cracking. “I can remember the sound he made, the fear in it, even now.”
“It’s okay, Bernie.”
“Lord,” said Walters in a quiet way. “I am drunk.”
“It’s okay, man.”
Walters wiped his eyes and swallowed hard. “Well, anyway. I jumped off this dock and got out there. He had gone down a couple of times, but he was all right and I got him back in. I hugged him tight when we were on dry land again. It felt strange because I never did hug him all that much as a child. Strange, but good. Yeah, that was a good day. The two of us had something together that day.”
“Why’d you leave the boat out there?”
“We just decided to leave it so we could read the tides. I marked it with that buoy to protect the other boats running back on this creek. Now snapping turtles and water moccasins live around that boat. You can see their heads coming up there all the time.”
“That’s some story,” said Karras. “Yes, it is.”
Karras and Walters sat there quietly for another hour, listening to the water lap at the pilings as barn swallows dove and drifted through the sunlight. Karras checked his watch and stood from his chair.
“I better be taking off. I’ve got that party tonight back in town.”
“Go ahead, buddy. Oh, and that handgun?”
“The Colt?”
“Take it with you.”
“You serious?”
“I have my shotguns. They’re beautiful pieces of work, and I enjoy owning them. But I have no use for a handgun anymore.”
“All right. And, Bernie… thanks for the day.”
“My pleasure. I enjoyed the company, pal. Now get goin’, so you don’t miss your city bash.”
“Okay. Stay warm.”
Karras left Walters on the dock. Karras worried about his being down here, drunk and alone, for an entire week. But he figured that Bernie was in his element. Bernie would be okay.
Marcus Clay had moved from Mount Pleasant to the Crestwood area of D.C. when a chain had come to town and bought out Real Right Records, his four-store operation, back in 1986. Clay had taken the windfall and moved his family uptown to this quietly affluent neighborhood situated between 16th Street and Rock Creek Park. It was a long way from his childhood apartment off 13th and Upshur. Only his closest friends knew just how far he’d come.
Karras parked on Blagden Terrace, a few houses down from Clay’s modest split-level. He walked to the house and was met by Clay at the front door.
“Hey, buddy,” said Clay. “Knew it was you. Heard the muffler rattlin’ on that three twenty-five of yours.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. How long we been knowing each other?”
“Damn near forty years.”
“Happy birthday, man. And it is a good day. Gotta understand, though, it’s a little bittersweet for me, seeing you turn fifty years old. It’s weird to see a friend age right before your eyes —”
“Uh-huh. Well, you can just wipe away those sympathy tears. ’Cause you’re right behind me, man. So don’t be talkin’ about that fifty stuff like it’s just me.”
Karras laughed. They hugged and patted each other’s backs.
“Come on in,” said Clay.
Karras entered the party. “We People Who Are Darker than Blue,” from Curtis, was on the stereo. Karras might have predicted it — Clay was the ultimate Mayfield freak.
Elaine Clay came over and embraced him. “Hey, Dimitri.”
“Hey, beautiful.”
Marcus Jr. walked by and double-bucked Karras’s hand. M. J. was already tall and strong like his old man, with his mother’s intelligent eyes.
Karras grabbed a beer. He talked with Clarence Tate and his daughter, Denice, now at Howard Law. Tate’s face glowed unashamedly with pride for Denice. Karras hugged them both and drifted. The music had gone from Mayfield to Innervisions-era Wonder, and now to Michael Henderson’s Solid. Karras saw a woman he’d known from the late seventies, and she asked him to dance. They slow-dragged to Henderson’s “Be My Girl.” Motor-Booty Affair got played after that, and they stayed on the floor. He noticed George Dozier, a retired cop and friend of Marcus’s, dancing beside him with his wife. Karras broke a sweat, and after the dance took off his sweater, revealing an old Hawaiian shirt underneath. He ran into Al Adamson, tough as ever, who pointed at Karras’s shirt and laughed. Karras went and got another beer. In the kitchen he talked with Kevin Murphy and his quiet wife, Wanda, both of them gone gray. Murphy’s shirt was pinned up where his arm was missing; Karras patted him on the shoulder before walking away. Then someone dimmed the lights, and the party partnered up and slow-danced to “That’s the Way of the World.” Karras stood alone, quietly sipping his beer, the EWF tune reminding him of hope, and how it had once been in this city that was his home. But he wasn’t sad. He was with his friends. He hadn’t felt this good in a long while.
Clay, dancing with Elaine, his chin resting on her shoulder, winked at Karras from across the room. Karras raised his beer and smiled.
TWENTY-THREE
ON THE OPPOSITE shoreline, the sun fell behind the forest of pine, and dusk settled on the creek. Bernie Walters had another beer, watching the clouds reflected on the water. The creek was calm and smooth this time of day. Looking at the creek like this, with the clouds painted on its flat surface, it was like he was looking down on the sky. If you looked at it long enough, thought Walter
s, you’d come to believe that you could jump off the dock and never hit water. If you jumped you would just fall out, into the sky.
“Jeez,” said Walters, looking at the beer can in his hand, “I better slow down.” He set the beer on the dock, rested his hands on his belly, and leaned his head back against the chair.
He woke in darkness. The clouds had cleared, revealing a ceiling of bright stars and a bright half-moon in the black sky. The air was cool but not bitter. It would be another mild winter night. He’d sleep right out here on the dock; it would be nice.
Walters reached into the cooler for a beer and lit a cigarette. It was too late to think about cooking supper. Walters decided he would just drink.
He drank another beer, and then he was out of beer and got up from his chair. The dock seemed to move beneath his feet. He peed off the side of the dock and tottered up to his pickup, parked beside the trailer. He grabbed a six-pack from the bed and a fresh pack of smokes off the dash of his truck, and his sleeping bag from the back of the cab. He stumbled and fell to one knee on the way back down to the dock. He gathered the things he had dropped and squinted, looking toward the water. The dock was clearly defined in the moonlight. Soon he was on the dock and back in his chair.
He cracked a beer and lit a cigarette. Looking out across the water he thought of his wife and son, and he began to cry. He wiped tears off his cheeks and beer from his chin. The tobacco burned down to his fingers, and he flipped the butt into the creek. He sat in the stillness of the night, listening to the quiet run of water beneath the dock and around its pilings. He killed his beer and decided to call it a night.
Walters spread his sleeping bag between his chair, his cooler, and his fishing rods and the edge of the dock. He was too drunk to move everything back now. He would be all right.
He removed his Orioles cap, set it on the dock, got into the bag, and zipped it to his neck. He lay on his back, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at the stars, the last wisps of clouds, the moon. His eyes grew heavy and he fell to sleep.
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