He kept the painting LaSalle bought from Tracy. It reminded him of a warm friendly night that seemed a century ago.
As to the rest of what they found, Garrett didn’t personally go down there, but he saw hardened State Troopers who had stood over human paste at bad traffic accidents come out of that hole looking like scared little boys whose parents lied to them about the Boogie Man. The contents of Smiley’s trophy room hit Artemis like a sucker punch from a friend who suddenly turned into a mean drunk.
“Hey, Revenuer.”
Melvin Davis, Earl Hunsacker, and Poor Boy Willis sat rooted to their usual spots on the bench outside Davis Hardware. No one said anything. Poor Boy peeled his old carcass off the bench and limped over to Garrett with his cane. He held out a gnarled hand.
Emotions still sometimes blindsided Garrett. It wasn’t like there would ever be a miracle cure for it. He blinked a few times as he took Poor Boy’s hand.
“You done what needed doin’,” Poor Boy said. And that was that. He took his place on the bench again and the old boys nodded their goodbyes.
Inside May’s Diner, plenty of eyes still followed him. He’d called in the order and Misty had it waiting in the service window. She brought it over with a haunted look.
“Here you go, Garrett. That’ll be twenty-five even.”
He gave her thirty and they shared a wan smile. Angela peeked out of the kitchen and Garrett grinned at her. “What are you doing here, girl?”
Angela glared at him in silence.
Misty said, “Eunice let me bring her to work with me. You know, until we get our daycare situation figured out.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” Garrett said.
Angela’s hollow eyes tilted up at him and he felt the hatred boiling off her. Quiet, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it, she said, “You’re a mean man. You hurt Smiley.”
She spun on her heel and went back into the kitchen.
“Angela!” Misty said. She turned back to Garrett. “I’m so sorry. She has no idea, and I can’t even begin to explain...”
“And you shouldn’t,” Garrett said. “Ever. It’s bad enough she’ll find out when she’s older. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
He drove back out to Tracy’s with Angela’s voice in his head. She only knew the mask Smiley wore, so he couldn’t blame her. We all wear one, and someone loves us for it somewhere. Not everyone will always find out what’s behind it.
The house was dark when he rolled up. He knew where she would be. He left the food in the car and went out to the barn studio.
The fact Smiley chose Dad’s old Colt had saved Tracy’s life. The lower muzzle velocity of the .45 Colt coupled with a pure lead bullet allowed the doorframe to break Smiley’s shot up just enough. It still cut her scalp from her temple to the back of her head and gave her one hell of a concussion.
Within two weeks she picked up a brush again.
He stood in silence, watching her paint. She wore the snazzy blue beanie he bought her to cover the “Frankenstein Procedure scar,” as she named it. She was stronger than any man he’d ever met.
She reminded him every day to take his pills and made sure to post the dates of his therapy sessions on the calendar. She’d convinced him to at least check in with his LA counselor by phone once a month.
Tracy noticed him watching. She put down her brush and came to him, smelling of oil paints and turpentine, the curls of her hair caressing his face in the wind. LaSalle once told him people didn’t need things to be perfect, just all right. They could work with that.
Garrett cupped Tracy’s chin and kissed her.
He knew things would never be perfect, but they were a long way toward being all right.
Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed going on this adventure with me, please leave a review on Amazon.com.
You can find my other work at https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Ezell/e/B00YCXKD6C and follow me on Twitter @SinisterEZ.
Smiley Page 24