Down River

by John Hart

  Jamie twitched and Grantham saw it. “Why?” I asked.

  “You’ve been sitting on it for six hours. In the sun. Unmoving. Your brother has looked at it nine times in the past hour. I’d like to see what’s inside.”

  I studied the detective. He’d put on a bold air, but it was all bluff. I’d watched him, too. In six hours he’d made at least a dozen calls. If he could have secured a search warrant for the trunk, he’d have it in hand right now.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Don’t make me ask again.”

  “That’s really the word, isn’t it? Ask. As in permission.” His features compressed, and I continued. “You need permission or probable cause. If you had cause, you’d have a warrant. I won’t give you permission.”

  I remained calm as his composure slipped. I watched him fight for the kind of control he normally took for granted. Robin hovered at a distance. I risked a glance and saw a warning in her eyes. Grantham stepped closer, and when he spoke, the words came in a low, dangerous voice. “People are lying to me, Mr. Chase. You. Mr. Shepherd. Others, undoubtedly. I don’t like it and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

  I stood and looked down on the detective. “Do you have questions for me?”

  “You know that I do.”

  “Then ask them.”

  He straightened, and fought to regain his composure. It did not take long. He separated us and started with Jamie. He led him across the clearing, and I watched, guessing that Jamie was made of sterner stuff than Grantham anticipated. It took a while. Jamie looked scared, but in control of himself. He’d tell it just like it happened, only no gun. The detective was pale and grim when he came back for me. His questions came fast and hard. He scoured for weak spots in the story. Why were we here? How did we find this place? What happened? What did we touch?

  “You didn’t touch the body?”

  “Just the paper in his hand. The newspaper next to him.”

  “Did you touch the handgun?”

  “No.”

  “Did Mr. Faith tell you to come inside?”

  “The door was open. The screen door was cracked. I nudged it, saw him with the gun against his head.”

  “There was a fire. You thought Faith set it. Why did you think that?”

  I told him.

  “And you were angry?”

  “I was upset. Yes.”

  “Did you come here to harm Mr. Faith?”

  “I came to ask a few questions.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No.”

  He continued, firing questions with speed, backtracking, probing for inconsistencies. Jamie paced thirty feet away and gnawed at his fingernails. I sat on the warm metal of my car’s trunk. I looked occasionally at narrow blue sky, and I told the truth about almost everything. Grantham’s frustration grew, but no law barred us from coming here as we did, and we crossed no line when Faith pulled the trigger. None, at least, that Grantham could find. So I took what he had to give. I answered his questions and I covered my ass. I thought I saw the end, but I was wrong.

  He saved the best for last.

  “You quit your job three weeks ago.”

  It was not a question. He stared so hard at my face, that I could almost feel the touch of his eyes. He waited for me to speak, but I had no response. I knew where he would go.

  “You worked at McClellan’s Gym on Front Street in Brooklyn. N.Y.P.D. checked it out. I talked to the manager myself. He says you were dependable, good with the young fighters. Everybody liked you. But three weeks ago you dropped off the radar. Right about the time that Danny Faith called you. In fact, nobody saw much of you after that. Not your neighbors. Not your landlord. I know that Dolf Shepherd is lying to me. I assumed that was to protect your father. Now, I’m not so sure.” He paused, refused to blink. “Maybe he’s protecting you.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Where were you three weeks ago?”

  “I was in New York.”

  His chin dipped. “You sure about that?”

  I stared at him, knowing what was already in motion. They’d pull my credit card records, A.T.M. records, check for traffic citations. Anything that could put me in North Carolina three weeks ago.

  “You’re wasting your time,” I said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then we’re done.”

  I turned and walked away, half-expecting to feel his hand on my shoulder. Jamie looked shot. I put a hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  We went back to my car. Grantham had moved from the trunk to the hood. One of his fingers brushed the word carved into the paint. Killer, it said, and Grantham smiled when he saw me looking at him. He rubbed his fingers together, then turned back to the trailer and the blood-stained floor.

  Robin approached, expressionless, as I opened the car door. “You going back to town?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  I closed the door, and Jamie got in next to me. The engine turned over and I drove us out of there. “Any trouble?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I kept waiting for them to search the car.”

  “He couldn’t. Not without permission or probable cause.”

  “But what if he had?”

  I smiled tightly. “No law against having a gun in the trunk.”

  “Still . . . small miracles, man.”

  I looked at him. He was clearly upset. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Jamie.”

  He flexed, but his voice was weak. “Guns, baby.”

  He fooled nobody.

  We drove for ten minutes, both of us dealing with the morning in our own way. When he spoke, he didn’t sound any better. “That was scary stuff,” he said.

  “What part?”

  “All of it.”

  He was pale, glassy-eyed, and I knew that he was reliving another human being’s last second in this world. Violence and hate. Hopelessness and red mist. He needed something.

  “Hey, Jamie,” I said. “About the fire and all. What happened in the field . . .” I held out until he looked at me, waited for the eyes to focus. “I’m sorry I had to kick your ass like that. That was probably the scariest part, huh?”

  It took him a moment, then the tension bled out of his face, and I thought he might actually smile. “Fuck you,” he said, and punched me on the arm so hard it hurt.

  The rest of the drive was gravy.

  Almost.

  Robin hit the lights seconds after we crossed the city limits. I wasn’t surprised. Her turf. Made sense. I pulled into a convenience store parking lot and killed the engine. It was going to get ugly and I didn’t blame her. We met on the tarmac by the front of her car. She was a small package of hard lines and displeasure. She kept her hands down until she was close enough, then she slapped me, hard.

  I rolled with it, and she did it again. I could have dodged the second one, but did not. Her face was full of fierce anger and the hint of tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but was too keyed up. She walked away and stopped, her body leaning away from me. When she turned, the emotion was back under armored glass. I saw hints of it, dark swirls, but her voice was immaculate. “I thought we’d settled this. You and me. A team. I made the choice. We talked about that.” She came closer and I saw where anger faded to hurt. “What were you thinking, Adam?”

  “I was trying to protect you, Robin. I didn’t know how it would go down and I didn’t want you involved.”

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Anything could have happened.”

  “Do not insult me, Adam. And do not think for a minute that Grantham is an idiot, either. No one believes you were out there for a friendly chat.” She lowered her hands. “They’ll take a hard look. If they find anything to incriminate you, then God himself won’t be able to help you.”

  “He torched the farm,” I said. “He attacked Gr
ace, tried to kill me.”

  “Did he kill his own son?” The words came, cold. “There are other elements in play. Things we don’t understand.”

  I refused to back down. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “He deserved it!” I yelled, stunned by the force of my reaction. “That bastard deserved to die for what he did. That he did it himself makes the justice that much more perfect.”

  “Damn it!” She paced, turned back, and I saw black mist where the armored glass had buckled. “What gives you the right to claim anger like you’re the only one that’s ever been hurt? What’s so special about you, Adam? You’ve lived your whole life this way, like the rules don’t apply to you. You cherish the anger like it makes you special. Well, let me tell you something—”

  “Robin—”

  She raised a fist between us. Her face was drawn tight.

  “Everybody suffers.”

  That was it. She left in disgust, left me with nothing but the anger she held in such contempt. Jamie looked a question at me when I got back in the car. I felt heat on my face, the hard twist in my stomach. “Nothing,” I said, and took him home. We sat in the car for a long minute. He was in no hurry to get out.

  “We okay?” he asked. “You and me?”

  “I was wrong. You tell me.”

  He did not look at me. Color, I saw, had returned to his face. When he turned, he held up a fist, kept it there until I tapped my knuckles on his. “Solid,” he said, and got out of the car.

  When I got to Dolf’s house, I found it empty. Grace was gone. No note. I took a shower, sluiced off dirt, sweat, and the smell of fire. When I got out, I pulled on clean jeans and a T-shirt. There were a million things to do, but not one that was in my power. I pulled two beers out of the refrigerator and took the phone onto the porch. The first beer disappeared in about a minute. Then I called my father’s house. Miriam answered.

  “He’s not here,” she said when I asked for my father.

  “Where is he?”

  “Out with Grace.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking for dogs.” Her voice was bleak. “It’s what he does when he feels helpless.”

  “And Grace is with him?”

  “She’s good with a gun. You know that.”

  “Tell him that I’d like to see him when he gets back.” Silence. “Miriam?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell him.”

  The day moved around me. I watched the light stretch long and the low places fill. Two hours. Five beers.

  Nothing to do.

  Mind on overdrive.

  I heard the truck before I saw it. Grace was driving. They were both in high color, not smiling exactly, but refreshed, as if they’d managed to dodge the worst parts for a few hours. They climbed onto the porch and the sight of me killed the light in them. Reality check.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “Nope.” He sat next to me.

  “Do you want dinner?” Grace asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “How about you?”

  My father shook his head. “Janice is cooking.” He raised his palms. I would not be invited.

  Grace looked at me. “I need to go to the store. Take your car?”

  “You lost your license,” my father said.

  “I won’t get caught.”

  I looked at my father, who shrugged. I gave her the keys. As soon as the car engine started, my father turned. His question cut. “Did you kill Zebulon Faith?”

  “Robin called you.”

  “She thought I should know. Did you kill him?”

  “No,” I said. “He did it himself, just like I told the cops.”

  The old man rocked in the chair. “He’s the one that burned my vines?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “All right.”

  “Just like that?” I asked.

  “I never liked him anyway.”

  “Grantham thinks Dolf’s confession is bullshit.”

  “It is.”

  “He thinks that Dolf is protecting someone. Maybe you.”

  My father faced me. He spoke slowly. “Grantham’s a cop. Thinking up paranoid, bullshit theories is what he does.”

  I rose from the chair and leaned against the rail. I wanted to see his face. “Does he have a reason to?”

  “To what?”

  “Protect you.”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  My father was rough-and-tumble, salt of the earth, but he was also the most honest man I’d ever known. If he lied to me now, I’d know it. “Do you have any reason to want Danny Faith dead?”

  The moment drew out. “That’s an absurd question, son.”

  He was angry and offended—I knew how it felt—so I let the question go. I’d said it before. My father was no killer. I had to believe that. If not, then I was no better than him. I sat back down, but the tension grew. The question still hung between us. My father made a disgusted sound and went inside for five long minutes. When he finally came out, he had two more beers. He handed one to me. He spoke as if the question had never happened. “They’re going to bury Danny tomorrow,” he said.

  “Who made the arrangements?” I asked.

  “Some aunt from Charlotte. The service is at noon. Graveside.”

  “Did you know that he was in love with Grace?” I asked.

  “I think we should go.”

  “Did you know?” I repeated, louder.

  My father stood and walked to the rail. He showed me his back. “She’s too good for him. She was always too good for him.” He turned, lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not interested in her, are you?”

  “Not like that,” I said.

  He nodded. “She has precious little in this world. Losing Dolf will kill her.”

  “She’s tough.”

  “She’s coming apart.”

  He was right, but neither one of us knew what to do about it, so we watched the shadows pool and waited for the sun to detonate behind the trees. It occurred to me that he had not answered my second question, either.

  When the phone rang, I answered. “He’s here,” I said, and handed it to my father. “Miriam.”

  He took the phone and listened. His mouth firmed into an uncompromising line. “Thanks,” he said. “No. Nothing you can do for me.” More listening. “Jesus, Miriam. Like what? There’s nothing you can do for me. Nothing anyone can do. Yes. Okay. Goodbye.”

  He handed me the phone, drained his beer. “Parks called,” he said.

  I waited.

  “They indicted Dolf today.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Dinner was painful. I fought for words that meant something while Grace tried to pretend that the indictment didn’t cut the world out from under her. We ate in silence because we could not discuss the next step, the rule twenty-four hearing. Arguments would be made and it would be decided. Life or death. Literally. The night pressed down and we could not get drunk enough, forgetful enough. I told her to not give up hope, and she walked outside for most of an hour. When we went to bed, a blackness hung over the house, and hope, I knew, had abandoned us.

  I lay in the guest room and put my hand on the wall. Grace was awake. I thought that Dolf probably was, too. My father. Robin. I wondered, just then, if anybody slept. How anyone possibly could. Sleep did eventually come, but it was a restless one. I woke at two o’clock and again at four. I remembered no dreams, but woke each time to churning thoughts and a sense of mounting dread. At five o’clock, I rose, head pounding, no chance of sleep. I dressed and slipped outside. It was dark, but I knew the paths and fields. I walked until the sun came up. I looked for answers, and failing that, I scrounged for hope. If something did not break soon, I would be forced onto another path. I would have to find some way to convince Dolf to recant his confession. I would need to meet with the lawyers. We’d have to start planning some kind of defense.

  I did not want to go through something
like that again.

  As I crossed the last field, I planned my assault on the day. Candy’s brothers were still out there and somebody needed to talk to them. I’d try to see Dolf again. Maybe they’d let me in. Maybe he’d come to his senses. I did not have names for the bookmakers in Charlotte, but I had an address and descriptions. I could identify the two who had attacked Danny four months earlier. Maybe Robin could talk to somebody at Charlotte P.D. I needed to talk to Jamie. Check on Grace.

  The funeral was at noon.

  The house was empty when I returned. No note. The phone rang as I was about to leave. It was Margaret Yates, Sarah’s mother.

  “I called your father’s house,” she explained. “A young woman told me I might find you at this number. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I pictured the old lady in her grand mansion: the withered skin and small hands, the hate-filled words she pushed out with such conviction. “I don’t mind,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  She spoke smoothly, but I sensed great hesitation. “Did you find my daughter?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “I wondered if I could prevail upon you to come see me today. I know it’s an unusual request. . . .”

  “May I ask why?”

  Her breath was heavy over the line. Something clattered in the background. “I didn’t sleep last night. I haven’t slept since you came to my house.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I tried to stop thinking about her, but then I saw your picture in the paper; and I asked myself if you’d seen her. What you’d talked about.” She paused. “I asked myself what might be good in the life of my only daughter.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “I believe that you were sent to me, Mr. Chase. I believe that you are a sign from God.” I hesitated. “Please, don’t make me beg.”

  “What time did you have in mind?”

  “Now would be ideal.”

  “I’m very tired, Mrs. Yates, and I have a great many things to do.”

  “I’ll put on coffee.”

  I looked at my watch. “I can give you five minutes,” I said. “Then I’ll really have to go.”

  The house was as I’d last seen it, a great white jewel on a bed of green velvet. I paused on the porch, and the tall doors split as the right side swung open. Mrs. Yates stood in the dim space, bent at the neck, somber in crisp gray flannel and a lace collar. The smell of dried orange peels wafted out, and I wondered if anything ever changed in this place. She held out a hand that felt dry and hollow-boned. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said. “Please.” She stepped aside and swept an arm toward the dim interior. I walked past her and the door settled into its frame.