“Are you cold?” Fiona said. She was beside him now, tugging the covers up and over them.
“No, are you?”
“You’re kind of shaking.”
“Then I guess I am cold,” he said.
“Here,” she said. She pulled him closer, then closer still, and wrapped them tighter in the sheets. His head was on her chest now, her chin on his scalp. She started pulling her fingers through his hair. She said, “Just come here, you poor thing.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Try,” she said. Her fingers were still in his hair, tangling it into a nest.
Then, before he realized he’d ever thought such a thing, he said, “If you’re not in front of me, I feel like I’ve lost you.”
“I know,” she said.
“I feel like you’re going to leave me or find someone else when school starts or your parents are going to get jobs in a different state and you’ll disappear.”
“What can I say? What will make you feel better?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’ve never been more wrong, which is saying something because you’re wrong a lot.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” she said.
“Tell me again.”
“I love you,” she said, pulling him closer. “I love you so stupid much.”
LAURA WOKE DRENCHED IN SWEAT AND WENT FAST TO THE FRONT door, feeling faint and terrified and alive. She fumbled for her keys. Her hope wasn’t to catch Eric before he left. Her hope was to bring him home.
When she opened the door and stepped into the thick early-morning dark, he was still sitting on the porch. He was holding his phone with both hands, staring across the street toward Ronnie Dawes’s house. The pistol grip jutted out from the back of his pants. She thought to say something, but instead sat beside him without a word.
Eric said, “Do you think it’s easier for someone like Ronnie? Do you think not knowing everything we know, not understanding or worrying about things the way we do, makes life easier?”
“I don’t think it’s easy for anyone,” Laura said.
“I’d like to think he’s happy,” Eric said. “I’d like to think his mind is quiet, and he’s dreaming of pleasant things.”
“I bet he is. I bet that’s exactly what’s happening.”
Overhead, tight gray clouds lined the sky like long bolts of cloth. Moonlight permeated them in places, but the glow was dusty and distant.
Eric said, “Cecil shut it down. He said we had too much to lose. I’ve been sitting here trying to decide if I should go alone.”
“And?”
“And I figure I’ve got about fifteen minutes left before they’re on the water.”
“I meant what I said. Say the word and we’ll load up the cars and be gone before there’s light in the trees.”
“I wouldn’t take him to Mexico,” Eric said. “I’d just kill him at the marina.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.
“I’m trying to figure how that would affect everyone, especially Justin. I’m trying to weigh what’s worse.”
Wind rustled in the trees. She wondered who else was awake at that hour. She wondered who was watching Alice and what she was doing. Laura’s hands weren’t trembling at the moment, but they’d likely start up again soon. Until then, she lay her head on her husband’s shoulder.
HEADLIGHTS SWUNG INTO CECIL’S MIRRORS AN HOUR AFTER he’d hung up with Eric. Briefly, he worried it was Eric. The beams were long and bright, tipping and rocking as the Mercedes passed the car wash and pulled into the marina. They swept right through the cab of the truck, illuminating everything to the degree that Cecil had to squint, then the cab was dark again as the car moved on and parked a few spots away. Okay, Cecil thought. Okay now. He closed his eyes and conjured an image of Connie, and thought, Forgive me. Then he leaned across the seat to take the pistol from the glove box. He clicked off the safety, opened his door, and stepped out into the thick night.
Mayne was already walking toward him. Cecil looked to see that his hands were empty. Mayne said, “I figured you’d be here. Honestly, I’m not displeased.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone,” Mayne said. “All day I’ve been telling myself that if you were here tonight, then you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Cecil stood where he was. The pistol felt heavy. He didn’t know what he was hearing. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
“Since yesterday morning. Or the night before. When I woke up, he wasn’t there.”
Cecil studied him. Mayne looked wrung out, like he’d been up for days. He wore a wrinkled button-down shirt, shorts, and loafers with no socks. A wash of possibilities ran through Cecil’s mind—that Mayne had driven Dwight somewhere and was just now getting back, that Dwight had absconded on his own, that he was still at home or already in the boat and Mayne had come to buy time, or that Dwight and his mother were in the Mercedes right now, watching from behind the blackened windows, eager to hit the road. For an instant, Cecil felt akin to Mayne. He recognized himself in him, the longing to protect your son, to do the hard thing on his behalf, regardless of right or wrong. He understood the pain this man was enduring before him, the fear and desperation, and with the understanding, Cecil’s anger left him.
Then he raised the pistol and aimed at Mayne’s forehead.
“I wish you would,” Mayne said.
Cecil drew back the hammer.
“He was a good boy. He liked to collect baseball cards and to ride his bike down hills and—”
“Where is he, Mayne?”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking off and sniffling. “I just don’t know. He was looking forward to today. He’d agreed to plead guilty. He was repentant. He knew this was the last—”
“I’ll come to your house. I’ll drop you in the water right now and drive there and if I find him—”
“He’s gone. I don’t know where or who with, but I don’t think we’re going to see him again. God help me, but he’s my son and I still love him and he’s just gone away.”
Cecil thought to check the Mercedes, to throw the doors and trunk open, but knew he wouldn’t find anything. He knew Mayne was saying what he knew to be true. Behind him, light threaded the horizon. Soon the morning would come up and the workers and volunteers would descend upon the Shrimporee. Cecil kept the gun on Mayne for a time, then he lowered his arm and moved past him. Walking toward the marina with the sky high and wide and already brighter, with the road leading out of town in two directions and the bay extending beyond itself, he felt tiny and weak and old. He felt too slow to do any good, outmatched by a long sight.
The gun kicked in his hand and the sound cracked in his ears and one of the windows in the Oil-n-Water exploded. Then another. Then he unloaded the remaining rounds into the boat’s hull. The shots were close enough to open a hole the size of a child’s hand. He didn’t know if it was big enough to sink the vessel, but he knew the hole would require patching and every time Mayne saw it he’d think of this night, of what Cecil would do to his son if he ever had the chance.
GRIFF WAS SKATING ALONG THE SEAWALL NEAR THE MARINA, trying to make it home before the sun came up, when he heard gunshots. They sounded like fireworks exploding in rapid succession. His insides went shaky, and though he hadn’t actually seen the fired shots, there were flashes of brilliant yellow light in his eyes, the sound producing phantom visions that he would think were real for years. He kicked his board into his hand and ran into one of the stalls at the car wash. He flattened himself against the brick wall. His breath came in fits. His lungs felt as thin as paper sacks on the verge of tearing. Stay calm, he thought. Stay calm right now. The sky was brightening outside the stall, and Griff worried he’d be trapped by the coming light, worried that as soon as he took
his leave whoever had the gun would spot him. It was hard to think that someone hadn’t seen him duck into the stall, hard to think there wasn’t someone waiting for him out there. He counted to ten. Then to fifty. Then to a hundred. He tried to catalog every skate trick he could do, but his mind kept drawing in on itself, as if it were curling into the fetal position. He summoned thoughts of Fiona, the long curve of her body and the sound of her voice, and he tried to guess how long it would be before his parents woke up, how scared they’d be to find his room empty. Run, he thought. Just run. He was rallying to bolt from the stall when he heard an engine start and a transmission drop into gear. He pressed himself flat against the wall again, trying to disappear, trying to keep composed and believe nothing like this could happen, not tonight, and then it wasn’t long before his grandfather’s truck came into view as it left the marina. Papaw was halfway down Station Street before he clicked on his lights.
35
DWIGHT BUFORD COULD HAVE BEEN DEAD FOR TWO DAYS. Maybe three. It was impossible to tell, given the salt water. When the Coast Guard crew pulled his body out of the ship channel, it was bloated and broken. Small fish and crabs had fed on him in places—his lips, eyes, and fingers.
Garcia called and relayed this to Eric and Laura just as they were about to leave for the Shrimporee. They were on different extensions, Laura in the kitchen and Eric in their bedroom. Laura wore makeup and a dress she’d gotten when she spent all that money at the mall, and Eric was in pressed jeans and shined boots, and to hear the news in their nice clothes felt fortuitous, like they’d gotten dressed up for the occasion. Garcia said only Buford’s parents had been notified so far. His office planned to keep the news under wraps until tomorrow.
“But I thought you should get word right away,” Garcia said. “I wanted you to go to the Shrimporee knowing there’s nothing to worry about.”
“How did he die?” Laura asked.
“We’ll have to get official word from the medical examiner, but nothing about the body points to anything other than suicide. My gut says he jumped off the bridge.”
“The coward,” Eric said. Laura could hear him pacing in the bedroom. He said, “That fucking coward.”
“Will there definitely be an autopsy?” she asked.
“The state requires that all unattended deaths be examined by a coroner. If the family disputes an autopsy for religious reasons, exceptions can be made.”
“He knew he’d be found guilty,” Eric said. “He gave up. The coward didn’t have the sand for a trial.”
“So what’s next? What do you need from us?” Laura asked.
“Go to the Shrimporee and let everyone welcome Justin back,” Garcia said. “If you want help sharing the news with him, don’t hesitate to call Mrs. Villarreal.”
“Okay,” Laura and Eric said in unison.
“If the news leaks and anyone asks, just say today is about Justin and you have no interest in discussing Mr. Buford.”
“Do you die on impact?” Laura asked. “If you jump from that high, is it the fall that kills you or do you drown?”
“Could go either direction,” Garcia said.
“I hope it wasn’t instant,” she said. “I hope he got smashed up when he hit and then tried to swim. I hope it took him a long time to drown.”
“Thank you for telling us,” Eric said. “Thank you for everything.”
“I would have liked to take him down in court, I’ll be honest about that, but I’m glad y’all will get some peace out of this.”
“I hope he almost made it to shore,” Laura said. “I hope that’s what the coroner finds out when he cuts him open—that he’d changed his mind and wanted to live. I hope he could feel the crabs eating his eyes.”
THEY LEFT THE HOUSE WITHOUT TELLING THE BOYS ANYTHING and went to pick up Cecil. Laura gave him the passenger seat and moved to the back with Justin and Griff. They were both wearing bright T-shirts and shorts, and they smelled of soap and shampoo. Their hair was still wet from their showers. The backseat was tight with the three of them, but she loved feeling Griff pressed against her. He looked tired and preoccupied, but not unhappy, and Justin only seemed a little anxious, which was understandable. She wished she had sat between her sons, so she could feel both of them beside her. On the way back, she thought.
Laura felt as if she might float away. She wanted to laugh and scream and cry. She wanted to sprint for a mile. She wanted to dance. It wasn’t just relief she felt, nor was the feeling as simple as happiness or hope or retribution, but rather something like acquittal. Like emancipation. It was, she realized in the backseat, what she hoped Justin had felt months ago when he’d first been found. A feeling of having thrown herself against a door again and again and again, and now, at last, the lock had given way and the hinges were cracked and she was breaking free. A feeling of finding the ones she loved, the ones she believed she’d lost, waiting for her when she emerged. She knew there would be other doors, some that would never open and others that would reveal truths all but impossible to bear. For now, though, her family was safe. And they were together in the car, breathing the same air. Laura closed her eyes and inhaled.
“Who’s going to eat the most shrimp today?” Cecil asked. There was whimsy in his voice, a playfulness that none of them were used to hearing. He said, “I’ve got five dollars saying I can eat any two of the Campbells under the table.”
Traffic was slow and dense, putting Eric in the mind of hurricane evacuations, when cars moved only half a mile an hour despite all of the lanes having been rerouted to flow inland. The closest parking space he could find was Nueces Street, still a good ten-minute walk from the festival.
On the sidewalk, Justin said, “You’d think they’d give the kidnap victim front-door service.”
Cecil cuffed him on the head, then pulled him close.
Other people filed in, walking ahead and behind, families and couples and kids eager to ride the rides and play the games. Men wore guayaberas and cowboy hats. Women shaded themselves with umbrellas. Everyone in sunglasses, everyone smelling of sunscreen and insect repellent. A few of the people glanced at Justin. Some waved while others just proceeded toward the marina and looked over their shoulders. Griff expected kids to approach his brother and ask for autographs, but none did. His parents seemed a nervous kind of happy, and he could only figure that they were worried the Bufords would show at the event. Papaw was in a good mood, too, not at all sketchy or guarded or suspicious like Griff had been expecting. It helped. His demeanor made it easy for Griff to believe he’d been mistaken about the truck he’d seen last night. He didn’t want to think—could hardly think—about anything except Fiona. The way she bit his thumbs. The smell of the candles. He wondered if she was already inside the festival gates. He wondered when her parents would leave the house again.
The line to buy tickets stretched down Station Street. Waiting, they could see the carnival rides and tops of the booths and the scaffolding for the stage. The smell of the bay and shrimp frying and cotton candy and roasted turkey legs was spreading on the wind, and the lively music of a Tejano band came through old and enormous speakers. Seagulls hovered, their heads swiveling to find dropped or tossed food. There was children’s high-pitched laughter and the warbling tone of calliope music and a man talking through a bullhorn. Inching closer to the ticket booths, women started rummaging in their purses and men pulled out their wallets. Parents turned to count heads, as if they’d forgotten how many kids they’d brought. A man wore alligator boots with shorts and no shirt. Women in swimsuits and flip-flops. Boys and girls jumping in place, trying to peek inside, trying to get their parents to hoist them onto their shoulders. (Watching the children bounce around, Laura thought: That’s how I feel inside.) A girl with ropes of curly hair blew bubbles from a pink wand. The bubbles floated up and around the crowd, and people tilted their heads to watch them rise and disappear. One of the bubbles landed on Cecil’s hair and everyone around him clapped. Laura made him stand perfectly sti
ll—he felt like he had a wasp on his head and he’d do well not to disturb it—and she got her camera and snapped a picture. Then she had the boys and Eric pose beside him. Then a woman stepped forward and offered to take a picture with Laura in the frame too. Her name was Wanda Freeman, and though none of the Campbells recognized her, she’d volunteered at a good many searches. Seeing Justin up close was, for her, like seeing an angel. She wanted to cross herself and kiss her Holy Mother medallion, but didn’t want to draw any more attention to the poor child. She took two pictures of the family, claiming the first one hadn’t come out good, though it had. She wanted them to have two.
When they reached the ticket booth, Eric opened his eel-skin wallet and said, “Five adults, please.”
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