Grieve? Another way of saying “Fail”.
Tordsen said, “Seems awful curious, you two out there running into Billy. It’s a big county.”
“Seems small sometimes.”
“Yeah, sometimes it does, true. But you have to wonder when lightning strikes twice. Billy had stopped by the station before coming out to see me, and he talked to Nate for a few minutes. Then, barely an hour later, Billy comes after you both. What’re the odds?”
Oh, that son of a bitch. “It’s all a blur. Can I please go home? Maybe I’ll remember it better tomorrow.”
“You shouldn’t sleep with a concussion, you know. How about you come stay with me and the missus tonight?”
She slumped, feeling tired but no way she’d sleep. “I’ll make some coffee and get some friends to come over. I want to go home.”
“Are you sure? All his stuff’s there.”
“I need his stuff around me. Feels better than nothing at all.”
The sheriff hummed a few times, stretched his legs out. He watched Colleen’s face. If he was waiting for her to break down, that wasn’t going to hack it. The Sheriff’s fault in the first place. All she and Nate had done was try to finish the job right. That’s all. At least they had tried. Tordsen couldn’t blame her for anything. He didn’t deserve to.
The big guy in the wheelchair lurched again and hocked something into his mouth. He spit it on the floor. Colleen wrapped her hands around her stomach.
“Please, Sheriff. Take me home.”
*
Tordsen walked her inside the house she and Nate rented, a tiny old affair on a residential street, but fine until they were able to save up for one in the country. No, wait, no more of that. She was on her own.
The living room smelled like him. She couldn’t explain it and she hadn’t noticed it before, but he was all over. She had left the TV on when she left after his call. The sweats she had worn were tossed on the couch since she had taken them off the second they’d hung up. Asked if she wanted to have some fun chasing a wanted man. As soon as she heard who, like she was going to say no, right?
Her half-eaten bowl of ice cream, melted. Nate’s new wireless Playstation controller on his recliner, a cheat book for some crazy sci-fi game she never paid any attention to. Some of their CD’s stacked on the coffee table, stuff she’d brought in from the car after weeks of listening to the same things—Toby Keith, Nickelback, and of course Gretchen Wilson, which Colleen had listened to so much that the first one got scratched real bad and she had to buy a replacement. Nate knew how much his woman loved music. He’d bought her an MP3 player for her birthday a few months ago, and she’d already filled it up. Sometimes spent two hours straight looking for new tunes online.
Remembering the everyday stuff, the typical boring stuff. The times they were so comfortable being in the same house together that they didn’t mind how boring it was in Pale Falls. Didn’t feel the need to hit the Cities. They made up for it on the job and in the bedroom.
The sheriff stood right behind her, said, “How about I wait here until your friends make it over?”
Shook Colleen out of those cozy thoughts, brought her back to reality—I’ve always hated that Playstation, but now no one’s going to use it anyway. What am I going to do?
She turned to Tordsen. “Why?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, watched the ground. “I don’t know.”
“You think I’ll hurt myself.”
Tordsen’s chin raised right quick. “Now wait a minute—”
“Think I’m not right in the head, like I’d be dumb enough to eat my gun, is that it?”
He held out his hands, pushing them, calm down calm down. “Look, I’ve lost people real close to me, so all I’m saying—”
Colleen stepped around Tordsen, walked to the door and swung it open hard. It slammed into the wall and shook the TV stand. “Leave, Sheriff. I’ve got a funeral to get ready for.”
Tordsen took one of his famous deep breaths, slipped those hands right back into his pockets, and nodded. “You’re right, you’re right. Okay. But if you need us, give us a call.”
“I won’t need you.”
“I understand, but you will later. And don’t worry about work. It’ll be there for you when you’re ready.”
Colleen thinking If I didn’t need the money, I’d throw my shield at you right now. She stood, hand on door knob, looking back into the house, avoiding Tordsen’s eyes.
Right before he stepped over the threshold, Tordsen said, “But you’d better remember something, missy.”
She held her jaw tight.
Tordsen said, “I have to get ready for that same funeral.”
He was out. She slammed the door. Shouted, “Nate! Goddamn you, Nate!” over and over and cried and kicked the wall until she crumpled to the floor hugging her knees to her chest.
*
She didn’t call her friends. She didn’t even call her Mom, in spite of several messages on the machine. One from Nate’s mom. Sounded like they hadn’t told her yet. What she did was sit for a while, mentally reliving the last year of her life. That night she met Nate in the middle of a slushy cornfield where two college students had been found decapitated. How Nate even told her later it was Lafitte who had encouraged him to talk to her. Ridiculous.
Tomorrow there would be more questions. Things about her story didn’t add up, obviously. No matter how delicate the interrogation was, it would be too much. Fucking people would charge her with something even though she’d already lost more than she ever imagined. They’d talked about it, what if one of them was shot in the line of duty, that sort of thing, but she never thought she’d actually see it happen. The smell, the heat, the anguish as he screamed. The flesh melting away. The smell. She pinched her nose. It was still there. That same sharp charred—
“Enough! Enough! Enough!”
Up from the floor, moving fast. Most of their guns were lost in the fire, but she knew where Nate kept his most precious one. The back of the bedroom closet, under his shoeboxes full of photos—the ones of ex-girlfriends he refused to throw out, said they were just good memories—in a heavier shoebox.
Colleen walked into the bedroom, got down on her knees and started digging through the mess on the closet floor, shirt and pants that had fallen off hangers, and summer clothes that had been kicked off after getting in from the shooting range or dirt track, left behind as October moved in nice and chilly. She dug, tossed the photo boxes over her shoulder. Time to burn those fuckers. The box was right where it always was, tied close with an old shoe lace. Colleen untied the knot, lifted the lid. The pistol was wrapped in an oil-rag. She lifted it out, let the rag fall to the ground. Nate’s grandfather’s .45, which he’d used in Korea. Battle-tested and bruised, it was still a stellar piece of work. Made to withstand rain, mud, and incompetence. She smoothed her fingers down the side of it. She told herself I’m going to kill Billy Lafitte with this gun.
She noticed something else in the box, too, besides the two clips and box of ammo that were always there. A tiny maroon box, the kind jewelry stores used.
Oh no, he didn’t. Did he?
Colleen took it, opened it. Dropped her hands to her lap. He’d bought her the fucking ring after all. A beauty—solitaire engagement ring. All the talk they’d had about “not enough cash right now” and “you deserve better”, and look at what Nate had gone and done. She saw the receipt and first three statements, smudged with gun oil, lining the bottom of the box. He had opened an account and was paying it off in installments. It was a third of a carat. More than she expected. She would’ve been happy with spray painted tin foil, she thought. No, that’s a damned lie.
At least she was laughing, bringing the ring box closer to her face for a better look. He’d picked out a nice one, Emerald cut, with a white-gold band.
She whispered, “You asshole.”
Her eyes watered, blurred the diamond. She wiped them with the back of her hand.
Fuck it. Not that it mattered before God or the State or anything. She took the ring out of the box and shoved it onto her finger. Perfect fit. Nate must’ve sneaked around and figured out her ring size. Sweet boy. A couple of minutes of admiring it, imagining how he would’ve proposed. Most likely on patrol. He would’ve rigged a fake call for her out to the river park or gun range, something romantic like that, and he would be in full uniform, too. Exactly.
Goddamned Billy Lafitte.
*
Out in the garage, Colleen tightened the last lug on the front right tire. She lowered the jack. She added a couple quarts of oil. Nate had left the car tireless in the front, hood up, trying to finish another upgrade but never quite getting there. It would run fine. It would suck gas and make a lot of noise, and the shifter felt a bit loose, but this was what she had and it wasn’t a bad choice at all. Another couple of years and Nate would’ve had his little hobby all pimped-out and ready for the track. It was a ’74 Chevelle Laguna. Nate had restored the gold paintjob, found a replacement for the missing backseat, new steering wheel. The engine was mostly fine but needed some parts here and there, and Nate had gone after those first to make sure it would run before he tackled the rest. He told Colleen he’d bought the car from his uncle three years ago and was slowly bringing it back. She thought it was an eyesore, but after a while it grew on her. He’d taught her a few things, too. Colleen’s dad had shown her how to change the oil and brake pads, but Nate went step-by-step through the engine restoration, the exhaust system, the transmission. Saved them some cash on maintenance. Helped buy things like, oh, engagement rings.
Colleen ran her thumb over the bottom of the ring again as she sat in the driver’s seat and cranked her up. Caught instantly. Roared like it had been hibernating and was really damned hungry for some fucking pic-a-nic baskets. Barely enough gas to get out of town, though. She let it run while she went inside. Picked up the .45, a box of ammo, one of Nate’s hunting knives, and a couple of cans of Starbuck’s DoubleShot, dropped them all into a plastic Wal-Mart bag.
She picked up the phone and called her Mom.
Took until the machine picked up, and Colleen waited while her mom figured out how to turn the thing off.
Her mom said, “Where have you been?”
“Mom, Nate’s dead.”
“Oh, god, no. No. Oh my god, Colleen, baby, I’m so sorry—”
“Mom, listen. I need to borrow your credit card.”
SIXTEEN
Desiree hadn’t been fucked like that since…Jeeeeesus. Since last night? But better? She had come to think several years ago that marriage kind of dulled things and you had to ride the peaks and valleys, make your own joy when possible. When she was horny for whatever reason—some actor on TV, some song on the radio, some sweet memory of Franklin or that doctor she had been flirty with back in Washington or the men from college—she had grabbed Franklin and hoped he was up for it. Maybe less so for most of the past year, part of her payback, but even then she had needs.
These two days, though, this was something different. Desiree had never been a passive little kitten in bed, liked it a bit on the hard side, but their lovemaking was still probably what any onlookers might call “average”. Once she turned on her inner dominatrix, Franklin started working extra hard to please her. And, goddamn, she thought while stretching her arms over her head and pointing her toes right to the edge of the bed, he was succeeding.
Her “twenty minutes of pain” stretched to twice that, since something about Franklin not fighting back both enraged and titillated Desiree. She was snarling at him to toss it right back at her and she watched his skin rise where the whip struck. Not like she was out to hurt him, but even when she slapped the leather strap a little harder against his ass and thighs to get his attention, he cried out but never complained. Never even hinted at wanting it to stop.
What the hell was going on with him, anyway? Had he been too ashamed before to tell her this was what he liked in the bedroom? Worried she would think he was a freak or something? Was he suddenly snorting coke or having a mental breakdown?
Didn’t seem like it. After the marathon foreplay or beating or whatever, he’d been hard as the fucking Washington monument. Desiree got on her knees and let him enter from behind. Nearly a half-hour later, she was aching and exhausted and he still hadn’t come, but she had three times already and as the forth time washed over her and made her think she might have a stroke, Franklin finally let out a howl and she felt him go. It was hot. She thought about lava. She grabbed the sheets with her fists, her teeth. When he finally collapsed beside her on the bed, they caught their breaths and then just started laughing. He leaned over for a light kiss on the cheek, and she teared up some, snuggled against his chest, and they really talked. Like, a good talk, a real good one. About the sex, his surprise at seeing her all dommed out, her apologizing and him telling her there was no need. More laughing. Desiree telling him where she’d found the outfit, asked what else she should pick up there. Franklin said, “Surprise me.” Then he said, “You feel like hitting that new restaurant tomorrow, the one you saw in the paper?” Yeah, a real good talk.
Her skin felt good. Her muscles ached down there but in a good way. The stretching led to humming. The sheets were twisted, the corners pulled off the mattress, their sweat and come spreading into wet oval stains, and she giggled when she rolled against the spots. Franklin had gotten up to take a piss. He’d been singing: “Give me that stuff, that funk, that sweet, that funky stuff.” Made her laugh. When was the last time she’d heard that? Had to be at least ten years ago, or on the oldies shows—how can that be an oldie already? She felt too young.
Franklin segued into another one but she couldn’t tell what it was over the sound of his stream. Talking a massive piss. Her man must’ve had an SUV tank for a bladder. Oh, that was dirty. Desiree was giggling so much by then that she almost didn’t catch the ringtone on Franklin’s work phone. Muffled. Probably in his pants, which came off and went flying out the bedroom door.
Desiree sat up. Her husband obviously hadn’t heard it. She started to crawl out of bed and dig it out, then stopped as the sheets fell away. It was work. She didn’t want the job butting in right now. The job was what got them in the hole they were still climbing out of. So maybe just one missed call? One nice evening without the “security of the nation” being in the palm of Franklin’s hand?
She stood naked, sweat-slicked skin growing bumpy in the chilly room, between the ball of pants in the hallway and her husband in the bathroom now doing the “Bow Wow Wow” from “Atomic Dog”, his stream still going.
If she pretended she hadn’t heard it, maybe that would work. He could buy that. She could pretend to be dozing off when he came back, conveniently waking when his body slid against hers under the sheet. That would be nice.
And if it was a really important call, missing it might have consequences. Desiree couldn’t bear moving again, not so soon. Not until it was on the right way up.
“…Yippee yo yippee yay…”
Well…shit.
She could answer it, see if it was important or not. If so, pass it on to Franklin. If not, then say he wasn’t feeling so well, something he ate, and he’d get back to them tomorrow, easy like that.
Or leave it alone. If it was important, they would call back.
She had a couple of more rings to decide. It sounded like Franklin was finishing up. If he heard it and got to it before she did, then the point was moot, evening was ruined, because even with a minor call, off he’d run to the office to pace around and ask tedious questions. He was much more impressive back in law school before he decided to go the government route, wanted a gun and a badge and some authority. Shit, if he’d gone for the money instead, then he would have even more authority, so it must’ve really been about the gun. Not that he was compensating for shortcomings. No indeed.
Desiree knelt, found the ringing pocket, and pulled out the cell phone. Caller ID said it was from a hotel i
n the Quarter she remembered passing almost every time they were down there. Always made the same joke to Franklin: “If I didn’t already live here, I’d tell you to take me there.”
Why were they calling his work cell?
Desiree opened the phone, held it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Yes, could I speak to Agent Rome, please?”
“Well,” she glanced over her shoulder at the bathroom door, then back at Franklin’s pants. “He’s not available at the moment. This is his wife. I could take a message.”
The man on the other end stuttered a little before saying, “It really is urgent. It’s about his guest.”
“My husband has a guest?”
“Well…yes, the lady who’s staying here under his protection. She’s had an accident.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Please, tell him it’s very important. I need an ambulance.”
“Because of his guest?”
Franklin’s hand scared her a little as it descended before her eyes, gently lifted the cell out of her hand. She went slack, still staring at his pants as he took over.
“Rome here…” and walked out into the hallway, disappearing into the living room.
Desiree felt through his pants, found Franklin’s boxers. She took a sniff. It was all her man. Nothing out of the ordinary, and after all these years, Desiree was sure she would know. But he couldn’t deny something weird was going on. She checked them for dried come. Didn’t see any. Motherfucker. Keeping some whore in that fancy hotel Desiree herself had never gotten a chance to even peek inside. That son of a bitch.
She imagined asking him, “Who’s the woman? Who is she? So, sounds like a very special witness. Uh huh.”
Whoever she was, she’d had an accident, the man said. That didn’t sound so good. Put the hotel manager in a bad spot, sounded like. Serious, too. An ambulance?
Franklin wasn’t long on the phone. Slapping it shut on his way back into the bedroom, Desiree still on the floor holding his shorts. He reached out for them. She handed them over and he slid them on.
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