Rush

by Wozencraft, Kim

  All that winter, I sat before the fire. I saw the way Jim looked at me. I didn’t say much. I put food in front of us and listened to him tell me I had to eat. I spent my afternoons massaging his leg, trying to get some feeling back into it and hoping to prevent the cramps that seized him in the middle of the night. I sat in front of the fireplace, cooking my back until I couldn’t bear the heat, then turning to face it.

  I ate my pills and took care of Jim when I could manage it and I waited for shotguns.

  It was that way until April, and still there was no word of any trial. No constables came to the door waving subpoenas. Then Jim was able to walk without the brace, with a decided limp, but still able to walk, and he was starting to use his damaged arm again.

  We thanked Mr. Berthe and traded our cars in on a used Blazer.

  21

  I opened the freezer to Jim’s latest haul. The chill air cooled my ankles, swirling like heavy white smoke in the afternoon heat. Catfish fillets were stacked three deep and six high on all four shelves.

  He walked up and hung his chin over my shoulder.

  “We could give some away,” he said.

  “I don’t care what you do with it,” I said. “I’m burnt out. No more catfish for me.”

  Jim’s retirement held us over, paid the rent on a wood-frame home a few miles from Canyon Reservoir, not quite halfway between Austin and San Antonio. We went fishing and trimmed the yard. We had candlelit dinners on the screened-in back porch. He stopped getting mad at himself when he had to ask me to help him with something he could no longer manage alone. But he fought it, he tested his body every time he got the chance. He painted the garage. He built bookcases in the small second bedroom. We went fishing often, trying to pass time while we waited for the subpoena. Gaines had walked on the cocaine case, hung jury, but the D.A. said he would pursue the attempted murder charges. He would reach us through Mr. Berthe.

  * * *

  “That’s it,” Jim said, “lob it out there easy, land it there in the deeper water, where the big ones are hiding.”

  We’d left Beaumont late in the morning, right after the closing arguments. Mr. Berthe’s men had delivered us safely to Houston Hobby and we managed to catch a one-thirty flight to Austin. We kept the radio on while we drove to San Marcos, on the chance that there might be news of a verdict.

  When we got home, we were too tired to do anything but sit down in the front porch swing. I was wondering what would happen to Gaines when Jim said, “Let’s go fishing.”

  “Again?”

  We sat on the grassy bank of Canyon Reservoir, wearing cutoffs and T-shirts, holding cane poles and waiting for a nibble. I was almost lulled into sleep by the red-and-white plastic bobbers floating on the murky green surface of the lake. It was one of those hazy May days when the air seems to match exactly the temperature of the human body. I felt as if I could close my eyes and evaporate into the afternoon. Across the lake, on the side that fronted FM306, a lone skier was hot-dogging behind a long, low-slung speedboat.

  “He won’t walk on this one,” Jim said.

  I pulled my pole up and let the bobber slap the water.

  “Topwater floater,” Jim said. “Attempted murder. He’s not gonna slide.”

  “Righteous case,” I said. “He might.”

  “No way.” He pulled his own pole up and flipped the line farther out in the water.

  “Even if he goes down, he’ll get out eventually.”

  Jim was quiet for a long time. Then he turned and looked at me and said, “The bastard better hope they find him guilty and send him somewhere for a long, long time.”

  When we got home from the lake, Rob was sitting in the rocker on our front porch, smoking reefer in his corncob pipe. I watched him take a lungful of smoke and hold it while he took another mouthful, and then he blew smoke rings toward the wooden porch canopy, his blue eyes following the languid rings as they floated through the still afternoon air.

  “Where you been?” he called, jumping up and bounding off the porch when he saw us.

  “Trying to catch the big one,” Jim said.

  I pulled the ice chest from the back of the Blazer and Rob took it from me.

  “Sure is an ugly ride,” he said. “What color is that, puce?”

  “It motors,” Jim said. “It motors.” We walked across the lawn to the porch and sat in the swing.

  Rob struck a match on the sole of his boot and leaned against the wall, puffing quietly.

  “They gave him forty years,” he said, holding the pipe in his clenched teeth. “Came back with the verdict in fifty-five minutes.”

  “Almost enough,” I said.

  “Happens real quick when you say it.” Rob smiled. “Serving it’s another matter entirely.”

  “I hope they have that bastard on his knees in the cotton field first thing tomorrow morning,” Jim said.

  “So.” Rob shifted away from the wall and stepped over to lean on the porch rail. “Catch anything?”

  “Three,” Jim said. “Kris caught the big one.”

  “She only thinks so,” Rob said.

  “If you’d like to stay,” I said, “I can show you what a lousy cook I am.”

  “Be kind to yourself, baby,” Rob said. “It’s hard to ruin catfish. Maybe I’ll drive into town and get some wine. I don’t have to be back in Houston until late tomorrow afternoon. What goes with catfish? A sweet white, some Piesporter maybe?”

  “A man ought to spring for champagne on special occasions,” Jim said. “Get some of that stuff they use at presidential inaugurations.”

  Rob drove off in his state Plymouth and Jim went around to the back porch to clean the fish. I sat with him while he sharpened his knife.

  “I think you got a four-pounder here,” he said, staring at the lone catfish I’d pulled in. “Not bad.”

  “I think I’m still not real keen on fishing,”

  “Give it up,” he said. “You’ve been threatening to quit since the first day I took you.”

  “I’m not much on baiting hooks.”

  “Hell, baby, it’s the worm that gets the fish. Besides, didn’t you hear Rob? He says you only think you got the big one. Better stay with it.”

  “He’s stoned, for a change. You really think it’s four pounds?”

  “Easy.”

  I looked at the catfish, on ice now with the two smaller ones Jim had caught. Its smooth blue-gray skin was slick and shiny. Somewhere off in the woods, a dirt bike buzzed harshly in the dusk. Other than that, the only sound was the rhythmic rasping of Jim’s knife blade against the whetstone, and the locusts whirring in the trees.

  I picked up the fish and held it with both hands at arm’s length.

  “Could be,” I said. “Might be four pounds.”

  “Yeah,” Jim said, holding his knife silently for a moment.

  I laid the fish back in the ice chest and slumped into a lawn chair.

  “Forty years,” I said. “They give a little freak like Douglas life for selling a few grams of speed and Gaines gets forty years for trying to kill cops. Go figure it.”

  “The jury system, babe. Throw them bones.”

  I brought a pan out and Jim laid the fillets in and wiped his knife.

  “Forty,” he said. “He might do seven on that. I can wait.”

  * * *

  It was about a month later, I think, when Rob dropped by again, this time with his new partner. Jim’s catfish stash was on the verge of overflowing the freezer.

  Rob didn’t introduce anyone; he pulled a computer printout from his pocket and shoved it at me as soon as I answered the door.

  “It’s for real,” he said. “The snitch on this deal ain’t never done me wrong. Says the dude’s got some kind of exploding bullets that even the goddamn FBI can’t get ballistics on.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Jim asked.

  “Take a look,” Rob said. “Came in this morning.”

  Jim looked on as I read.

/>   azav 0111 16.17

  all stations texas

  wanted for bond jumping, consider armed and extremely dangerous

  wanted for bond jumping capias 407296 and 407297

  taylor county sheriff office abilene texas

  richard boyd foxwell aka dick w/m dob/12/04/40 6/2”

  200# lt. bro hair br eyes

  last seen driving a black vnyl top/black cadillac el dorado

  txlic/tlc556

  subject has been previously convicted of murder and has been questioned by a federal grand jury regarding the murder of a federal judge in san antonio. subject is reportedly armed with a .44 mag revolver and should be considered extremely dangerous

  auth agent bob keagon unit 830

  txdps houston kbh 10-817cdt

  “I got a snitch who says the dude’s holding a paper on Kristen,” Rob said.

  “I know him,” Jim said. “Dick Foxwell, yeah, I met him years ago when I was working cases in the old Rancho Milagro Hotel down off 45 in Houston. Old-time character. Hell of a gambler.”

  “Man, you got that, Rob said. “And I’ll bet you a nickel he did that judge.”

  Rob’s partner was staring at me like I was already dead. I introduced myself and reached to shake hands.

  “Bill Watson,” he said.

  In the living room, Bill sat on what remained of the sectional we’d had in Beaumont, the part that had no armrest on the left end. He looked about thirty, tall and slender with curly red hair just going gray at the temples. His beard was coming in almost solid gray.

  “I’m telling you,” Rob said, “snitch says the dude’s been hired to kill the chick cop.”

  “Who’s behind it?” I asked.

  “Who the fuck knows,” Rob answered.

  “I’d wager a guess.” Jim eased himself onto the couch, absently rubbing his leg.

  I went to the kitchen and mixed a batch of margaritas, toying with the blender while I pictured Dick cruising north from Houston in his big black Caddy, his .44 under the front seat and my description in his shirt pocket. He would have the center console pulled down between the front seats in the El Dorado to accommodate his gangster lean. He might smoke a tiny cigar. He would drive the speed limit and avoid drinking while he was on the road, though it was perfectly legal. Who the fuck knew.

  Finding me would not be easy. The house, the phone, the car, everything was under an alias, courtesy of Mr. Berthe.

  Rob came into the kitchen while I was pouring the drinks.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Never better.”

  “Listen, my rookie out there, he’s really green. I mean I think the dude’s cool and all, but, you know. Haven’t taken him on a deal yet.”

  “Not sure he’ll come up for it?”

  “I got some jam-up blow here. Be good to find out where his head’s at.”

  “So we should do some.”

  “It’s cool?”

  “Everything is cool,” I said. “Nothing is not cool.”

  “Hey. We’ll find him. He won’t even get close.”

  “I’m not worried.” I wasn’t. At least now there was a name.

  He dug into his pocket. “You want a bump?”

  “It’s been awhile. Trade you a margarita.”

  By five the next morning, Bill Watson, assigned to narcotics for six whole days, was lying in the back yard puking happily, too wired to know he was drunk.

  I sat next to him, shivering in the cool predawn air. When he’d stopped retching, I turned on the spigot next to the back porch and brought the garden hose to him.

  “Drink,” I said.

  He raised himself on all fours and took the hose, gulping convulsively.

  “Damn,” he said, “this sure beats pulling dead bodies out of car wrecks.”

  The sky was starting to streak pink against the gray of morning, revealing tiny drops of moisture on the flat green blades of St Augustine grass that covered the back lawn.

  “Rob’s been around,” I said. “He can show you what’s happening.”

  “I can’t believe some of the shit he tells me.”

  “Believe it.”

  “You’re out for good?”

  “Forever and ever.”

  “Rob said you two pissed a few people off.”

  “They needed it.”

  “Well me and Rob will be looking for him.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, Rob will have the whole office out after the guy. You know he’s the senior agent-in-charge now. He’ll have the whole section out. Most of them’s new.”

  “The beat goes on,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing that wouldn’t sound pretty damn stupid, pretty damn naïve.”

  “Ya’ll took some nasty dealers off the street.”

  “Ha,” I said. “We didn’t do shit. We kept the numbers rolling through the D.A.’s office. We helped a genuine bastard secure his future as chief of police. That’s all we did.”

  “You put dealers in prison. You got to do what you can.”

  “No question about it. So you get out there and bust dope dealers. Take down some genuine fuckups. Just try to take care of yourself. Try not to get hurt.”

  “I can’t afford to,” he said. “Get hurt. I’ve got a family.”

  “Well, darling,” I said, “if that’s the case, you are in the wrong line of work.”

  He stood up and tucked his shirttails into his jeans before he suggested we go back inside.

  “Hey, Bill,” I said as we walked across the lawn, “do you like catfish?”

  * * *

  We slept in shifts. Jim at night, I during the day. I sat on the sectional, backed into the corner of the room, holding my pistol and listening for the click of a door latch, staring into the shadows of our home, waiting for someone, maybe Foxwell, maybe just some pissed-off speed freaks, to come after us. For the rest of summer, and on into the fall, I sat up nights, waiting.

  * * *

  Jim hung up the phone, walked to the refrigerator and took out a beer. I was still groggy from the three or so hours of sleep I’d managed that afternoon. The phone had woken me.

  “Dodd’s in town,” he said. “Wants to come visit.”

  I asked him what for.

  “Said he’s on vacation, just wants to say hello.”

  “He could do that on the phone, now, couldn’t he?”

  “I told him to come by.”

  I stood in the shower trying to make sense of things. I couldn’t know why Dodd had suddenly decided he wanted to see us. Couldn’t even imagine it and didn’t want to.

  When I stepped from the stall, I heard his baritone drawl floating through the house. I eased into the hallway.

  “So how’s she doing,” he said. “Hell, I can see you’re fucked up.”

  “I got scars. I hurt sometimes. But Kristen, she’s plenty messed up herself. She wanted to get dogs. Dobermans. Hell, we don’t need them. She hears things nobody else can.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like last week Rob and a friend are over and she’s just sitting there in that chair and all of sudden she whispers, “There’s someone at the door,” and a few minutes later there was someone at the door. A couple of Mormons. Hell, there was music on and Rob was going on about some bust or other and you couldn’t hear anything outside the room. But she did.”

  “Nothing wrong with paying attention,” Dodd said. “She’s got a pretty good reason.”

  “I’m not getting down on her,” Jim said, “Jesus, she’s hainty and it’s a blessing. I’m thankful. I’m just saying it’s a little strange.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dodd answered. “It sounds perfectly normal to me.”

  I tiptoed back to the bedroom to dress. What was he doing? Why was he in our home? I made some noise in the hallway as I walked back out.

  He hadn’t changed much. Put on a few more pounds in his belly. His hair was longer, but still curly and pa
le blond, the color women pay money for. He was standing in front of the fireplace, one boot resting on the hearth.

  I said hello and curled up in the corner of the couch.

  “How you doing, girl?” he asked.

  I wanted to know why he was there.

  “I’m doing,” I said.

  “Looking good,” he said.

  “Considering what.”

  “No, really,” he said. “Retirement’s agreeing with you.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but it’s my time to sleep. Don’t be offended if I nap off on you.”

  I stretched out on the couch and slipped my pistol down in the cushions. There was something hard inside one of them. I turned it over and reached inside, probing into a two-inch rip that had been there since the night of the shooting. Whatever was in there was tube-shaped, like a half-inch piece of a nickel roll. I unzipped the cover and scooped out a couple of handfuls of shredded foam.

  Jim and Dodd stopped talking and watched. I pulled a chunk of white plastic from inside the cushion and handed it to Jim.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “What is it?” Dodd leaned in for a look.

  “Shotgun wadding. Must have been there since the shooting.”

  It explained my wound. A simple piece of plastic, stuffed into the base of a shotgun shell to propel the pellets out. That was what had hit my arm, ripped into the flesh and left such an odd, rectangular scar.

  “That Ranger,” I said. “Cash, he drove around with these cushions in his trunk for the better part of two months.”

  “Well that makes him a dumb-ass then, don’t it,” Dodd said eagerly. “Proves you told the truth about the shooting. I’ll be happy to run it back to the D.A. for you.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “We’ll hang on to it.” I didn’t see where it proved anything. It matched the scar on my arm, was one more piece of corroboration for my story, but Cash wasn’t looking for that kind of evidence, and I had the feeling that if I gave it to Dodd it would quietly disappear. Anyway, it was done. The trial was over. I straightened the cushion and lay back down, closed my eyes.