by Lee Thompson
He pulled the pistol from his glove box. It was a snub-nosed .38 he’d taken off a punk years ago, when he’d still felt young and invincible, before he started packing on weight from worrying about giving Barbra everything she’d ever wanted. A woman could do that to you, make you stop take caring of yourself as you sacrificed your flesh and blood and brainpower to read her mind, set your sacrifices before her feet as if she were a goddess. He never imagined he’d want to do that again, but he did. That woman in the house there, Geneva, she was truly special. She’d saved him, too, as much as he hated to admit that to himself. The husband might have picked up something—a chair, a lamp—and beaten Nathan to death before he could catch his breath. Seemed like a horrible way to die, your last breath a minute before somebody else sent you to the great beyond. He didn’t deserve her either, Geneva, he knew that, but he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anybody, even more than he’d wanted Barb when he’d first seen her when most people were still calling her a kid, although he could see what others didn’t—she’d already had the equipment of a woman. Curves, sultry and playful eyes, pillowy breasts as fine and smooth as carved marble, an ass and legs that about drove him out of his mind. But she was gone now, and for good reason. And he thought it might be part of fate’s plan, some returned good karma, that plopped this new woman into his life. It didn’t take a genius to see Geneva and her husband lacked the ingredients for a happy marriage. He tightened his fingers around the pistol grip and thought, Just remove the husband from the picture. How hard is that?
It wasn’t hard. He could open the Buick’s door, walk twenty feet to the entrance of the house, turn the doorknob—he was sure they hadn’t locked it—and go inside the house, park a bullet right in the husband’s foul mouth, take the wife by the arm, drag her out to the car, keep the gun on her, drive away. She’d learn to love him. Who couldn’t? A woman like that knew men who had it and men who didn’t. He cleared his throat, thinking about it. He might have to shoot the other man too, which he didn’t want to do because the man had done nothing to him, or as far as he knew, to Geneva.
There were other things he’d have to take care of first though, same with his new woman. She had a funeral to attend, a past to bury, and if he truly cared about her, or had the potential to love her so, she was deserving of his patience then, wasn’t she? And he had to drop his uniforms at the dry cleaner’s and then go to the address he’d written down last night after burying Barbra. The driver of the car was named Luther Anderson. He’d been out there last night on the lake. Maybe by himself, maybe with some other people (Nathan had suspected other people, which is why he hadn’t hung around, just looked over the registration and insurance papers). He had no choice but to pay this Luther guy a visit. Find out if he’d heard or even seen anything. Wasn’t any question that the man had seen Hazzard’s Buick.
His palms grew sweaty. The pistol felt nice and light, not half as deadly as it could be at point-blank range. Give her time, he thought. She doesn’t need you messing up right now. She needs you to be patient. Maybe you can help it along though. You’ll find a way. You always do, don’t you?
He set the pistol next to him on the seat and covered it with the handkerchief dotted with his blood. So, drop the uniforms off at the cleaners. Then we’ll go visit this Luther fella, put a little pressure on him. No, it was better to take care of it now. Dropping his uniforms off could wait.
Three minutes later he pulled into the Andersons’ driveway with the slip of paper in his hand. This was it. This was the address. The maroon Impala wasn’t in the driveway. There wasn’t a garage, just the frozen lawn, the small yellow house. It looked dead inside as it did outside. No light, no movement. The rest of the block resembled it. He checked the revolver. It was fully loaded. He didn’t think he would use it; this was a reconnaissance mission, find out if Luther knew anything, if he’d heard Nathan digging silently up there in the woods.
There was that bullshit with the psych exam to think about too, and he kept trying to push it from his mind, but it wasn’t easy. Maybe Captain Philips had already sent a car by his house. Hazzard hadn’t been home all day, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. This Luther guy could have made an anonymous call, told them what he saw or heard, the location, the description of Hazzard’s car, maybe the plate number even, if the man had been intelligent enough to write it down. Maybe this Luther character was at the police station right now, giving his statement. Only one way to find out.
He exited the vehicle and went to the front door. There was a doorbell, but it was broken, its guts exposed. He rapped the door three times. Watched. Listened. He heard someone inside say something—not to him, instead, calling out for someone else. And he knocked again, good to let them know you weren’t going away. Best to speed them along. Movement and speed were a powerful force.
There was a strange sound in the hall, muffled by the thick wood. They didn’t build houses like this anymore, although this one had gone to rot and ruin. The door opened a foot and it took Hazzard a moment, gaze locked at eye level, where he expected a face to appear, before he realized there was a face, a white, spooked-looking young man, maybe twenty years old, staring at him through the gap, the kid kneeling in the hall. It was a strange way to answer the door to a stranger—all Hazzard had to do was lift his leg and kick, and the edge of the door would put a crease in that face.
He said, “Luther?”
“I’m Herman.”
“Is Luther home?”
“Who are you?”
Deeper in the house, Hazzard heard a woman call out, “Who is it?”
Herman hollered back, “He won’t say. He’s looking for Luther.”
“Who’s here with you?” Hazzard asked.
Herman turned back to him. “That’s my grandma.”
“Do you know where Luther went? Are you his little brother?”
“Big brother. I don’t know where he’s gone. She might.”
Hazzard nodded and said, “Do you mind if I come in for a moment and speak to her?”
“Is Luther in trouble?”
“I really can’t talk about it with you. Why are you down on the ground like that?”
“I’m not on the ground. I’m in my chair.”
“You sit in a chair after answering the door?”
“I’m always sitting in my chair, unless I’m lying down. What did Luther do?”
Hazzard thought about the lake. He said, “Is your brother a fisherman?”
“He’s okay,” Herman said. “I catch more.”
“Yeah? I can believe that. You have the look of a pro. You boys know any good spots around here?”
Herman grinned. “I do.”
“Where at?”
“It’s my spot,” Herman said. “You’ll have to find your own.”
“When was the last time you’ve been to your spot?”
“Last night. You still want in or what?”
Hazzard grinned and nodded.
The young man let him in and then closed the door behind them. The heat was stifling in the entryway. Being that Herman was a cripple, Hazzard imagined the young man did not comprehend things the way a normal person would. He seemed a bit slow on top of his physical malady, too, and it was frustrating to talk to someone like that. Too awkward. He coughed into his hand, stalling, wanting to hang out at the Anderson house for as long as he could. He said, “What happened to your legs?”
“Who are you again?”
“Someone trying to look out for your little brother, like I’m sure you’ve had to do all your life.”
“Luther stays out of trouble all on his own.”
Then she was there. She looked to be in her seventies, maybe eighties. Once people hit a certain age, Hazzard was always off in bracketing them successfully. She smiled, but it was forced, mostly common courtesy. She looked like a nice woman, despite her apprehension over a stranger standing on her stoop. She said, “Go back to your room, Herman.” Then she stared at
Hazzard and said, “How can I help you?”
Those who go out of their way to be helpful were the good ones, he thought. And their numbers had been shrinking gradually since he’d graduated from the academy. He smiled, which only caused her to grimace. She recovered quickly. Herman hadn’t moved, he just glanced back and forth at them. Nathan said, “I’m a police officer, ma ‘am. I’m looking for Luther Anderson. Do you happen to know where he is?”
“Luther doesn’t get into trouble with the law. He’s planning on becoming a policeman himself.”
“Where is he working now?”
“You should already know where he works, shouldn’t you? Why aren’t you dressed like you’re on duty?”
“My uniform’s in the car. Take a look if you want.”
“What questions do you have for my grandson?”
“I thought you were going to be helpful.”
“I don’t know you,” she said. “Show me your badge.”
He patted his pockets. “I don’t have it on me.”
“If it’s in your car, go get it. Bring your uniform in too.”
“It’s in a desk drawer at the precinct.”
She grimaced again and said, “I’d like you to leave, sir.”
“I’m only here to help.”
“I don’t know what you want with Luther, but you aren’t out to help him. I don’t like liars. You leave now or I’ll call the real police. You want that?”
He nodded. “Forget I ever stopped by.” He turned toward the door. Herman already had it open. The wind was cold, bit of ice caught in it, stinging unprotected skin. He walked back to his car, laughed at himself as he sat in the seat and closed the door and felt the chill ease out of him. He really bumbled that talk and he knew it. Now Luther would be on alert, he’d know someone was looking for him. The guy’s grandmother was in the living room window, shooing him away with a quick gesture, her eyes as cold and intense as mid-December. He could park down the street, wait for Luther to return, catch him on the street. Make it quick. The guy could be working though, might not be home for six, seven, eight hours. Hazzard wasn’t that patient. He’d come back later, after he ran some errands. Luther’s grandmother wasn’t in the window when he backed out onto the road. It was almost 2 p.m. A few hours of daylight left.
19
Raul had never been much of a fighter. Maybe in his imagination, when he was a child, when he’d loved shows like The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and movies like Lone Wolf McQuade. He’d never known hitting another human being could feel so good. He was still nursing his sore knuckles when he got the text from Regina:
Genny knows about us, Raul.
Geneva was in the bedroom then. He was sitting on the couch. He didn’t know where Isaac was and didn’t care, other than he’d have liked to ask her brother some questions about what you do with this powerful feeling after you beat the snot out of somebody. Where do you direct it when you could keep swinging and there’s not anybody there you want to hurt anymore? How do you shut it off?
He’d found some of the cop’s blood on the cuff of his shirt. He smelled it. Such a strange smell, fresh blood. All his life he’d only ever smelled blood long gone still in a cadaver as they set up the procedure to pump it out and inject formaldehyde into the lifeless veins. He looked at the screen of his iPhone again. She knows. Great. And why do you think that? he wondered. She would have said something to me the moment I came in the door. She would have attacked me. But that wasn’t what happened. She was calm and collected, introducing me to the man who drove over our son and killed him.
Then, a second later, his breath catching in his throat, he considered the possibility that maybe she had told him immediately who the man was so that they would fight. Maybe she had thought with Raul being so passive and small that the cop would beat him! It could have happened too if Raul had not been filled with such madness, and if he had not swung first, and landed that clumsy punch.
He inhaled and set his phone aside. Okay, that was what she wanted. He could feel it in his gut. She thought the cop would hurt her husband a bit, and then Isaac would take control, not let it go too far; is that why she’d told Isaac to escort the policeman from their house? Because Isaac was her great fulcrum. But what was so great about him? He hadn’t even been around, hadn’t even called since Geneva’s wedding. Raul felt like punching Isaac too, but he knew it wouldn’t end as well for him.
Regina, he thought. What was going through her head? What, if anything, had Geneva said to her?
He called her and walked out onto the porch, and waited for her to answer. The call went to voice mail. He wasn’t sure what he should, or could, say. He spoke from the heart after he heard the beep.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this. Maybe if I try to talk to her tonight, she’ll get over it quickly. I’m assuming you talked to her this morning. We can’t blame her for being mad. None of this is her fault. It’s mine. All mine.”
He ended the call and saw Isaac standing in the window. Geneva’s brother grinned and shook his head. Raul went into the house and found him in the living room. “What’s your problem?” Raul said.
“You’re a joke, that’s my problem.”
“A joke?”
“That’s what I said. Figure it out.”
“What’s to figure out?”
“Exactly,” Isaac said. His smile was gone now. “I saw your face. You weren’t angry because that guy killed Dom. You were mad because he had his arms around Genny. Pathetic, don’t you think, considering you’re a fucking punk for cheating on my sister. Think about how you’d feel if the two people you were closest to, one of whom you claimed to love, treated you like that. Do you think it’d feel great?”
“Don’t call my son Dom.”
“That’s all you took from that?”
“I don’t want you here.”
“I don’t give a shit. I’m not leaving. Have you looked at Genny? She needs someone right now, even if she has a hard time admitting it.”
“She has me.”
“Barely.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
“Big deal. You ripped my sister apart. I was going to stay out of it, I thought maybe you’d have the sense to stay away from that bitch of a friend, but you called her. I heard you.”
“I called to—”
“You called to ease her conscience. Very noble. You’ll earn some extra points with her, I’m sure of that. You guys will get to discuss it and cry over it the next chance you have to be alone.”
Raul felt himself softening. He hated to admit Isaac was right, but how could he deny it? The person he most wanted to see and talk to right now was Regina. He sat down in his chair and said, “How am I supposed to change how I feel?”
“You can’t.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I am right. And you look like you hate it, like you want to fight about it. But I’m not some fat, unprepared cop. Take a swing at me and I will sweep the floor with your head.”
Raul didn’t move. He did want to take a swing at him. A giant, looping swing with his whole body behind it, a swing powerful enough, he hoped, that could remove Isaac’s head from his shoulders. But he couldn’t move a muscle. His wife’s brother wasn’t playing some game, he wasn’t talking theoretically. Raul had enough going on, enough trouble, some of it his own fault, some of it not, and getting hurt wouldn’t help him salve his conscience.
Okay, he said, fine, and he turned and left the room and went back out on the porch like a dog with its tail between its legs. It was like he’d been driven from his own home by his wife and her brother. They didn’t want him there, didn’t need him, and yet he needed somebody. Did they think this was an easy day for him? He’d seen Dominic’s corpse on a sterile metal tray, pulled the white sheet back, almost sobbed in relief when he found his son’s eyes had been closed. The wounds to his shoulders and the side of his face still looked fresh, but in a garish, unreal way, as if they were nothing more
than stage makeup.
He told himself, “Fuck it,” and climbed in his car and drove toward Regina’s duplex.
20
Luther followed the trampled and broken weeds, now and then a footprint, to the grave. It was easy to spot with the frost still in the ground. Whoever had assaulted her had not really buried her. Just dumped her in a shallow depression and hacked away debris and covered her with it, and what earth he could scrape off the surface of the forest floor. The crown of her head was visible; dark hair parted down the middle, the alabaster forehead, the twigs around her brow like a crown of thorns.
Suspicion confirmed.
He knew he should call the police immediately, but he didn’t. He moved closer to the body, curious how old she was, how abused, how pretty. There were still rings on her fingers, a necklace, a tattoo visible from the neckline of her dirty white blouse. Her mascara had run like war paint down her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, her lips plump. Luther wondered what last words those lips had uttered. Was it a scream of terror, a plea, or a whimper? Or was it worse than that? Was she not able to make any sound at all?
If she had been beautiful, then death had robbed her of it.
Why murder her? What grievance could she have committed to have caused the man to shoot her or beat the back of her head in or for him to break her neck? Luther hadn’t been on Earth as long as a lot of people, but he couldn’t see how one person could justify killing another person, except in self-defense. How anybody could lose it so absolutely or premeditate murder was beyond him.
He sucked in a cold breath, thought he could be dealing with a mass murderer here; the nonchalance, the boldness of the guy seemed to indicate that, didn’t it? He had treated her corpse like trash. It was possible there were other bodies buried in similar fashion, close by. In a way, Luther wished there were, that the lone woman he could see should not lie here alone. He looked at her again and whispered, “I’m going to get you out of here.”