A Bend in the Road

  Sims had spent time in prison: once in his early twenties for petty theft and twice in his thirties for possession of marijuana. The third time behind bars, however, changed him. By then, his alcoholism was full-blown, and he spent the first week suffering from the most severe case of withdrawal imaginable. He shook, he vomited, and when he closed his eyes, he saw monsters. He nearly died, too, though not from withdrawal. After a few days of listening to Sims scream and moan, the other man in the cell beat him until he was unconscious, so he could get some sleep. Sims spent three weeks in the infirmary and was released by a parole board sympathetic to what he'd been through. Instead of finishing the year he still had to serve, he was placed on probation and told to report to a parole officer. He was warned, however, that if he drank or used drugs, his sentence would be reinstated.

  The possibility of going through withdrawal, coupled with the beating, left Sims with a deathly fear of going back to jail.

  But for Sims it wasn't possible to face life sober. In the beginning, he was careful to drink only in the privacy of his home. In time, however, he began to resent the impingement on his freedom. He began meeting a few buddies for drinks again while maintaining a low profile. In time, he began taking his luck for granted. He began drinking on his way to see them, his bottle covered with the traditional brown paper bag. Soon enough, he was drunk wherever he went, and though there might have been a little warning signal in his brain, telling him to be careful, he was too blasted out of his mind to listen to it.

  Still, everything might have been okay, had he not borrowed his mother's car for a night out. He didn't have a license, but he nonetheless drove to meet some friends at a dingy bar, located on a gravel road outside the town limits. There, he drank more than he should have and sometime after two A.M. staggered out to his car. He barely made it out of the parking area without hitting any other cars, but somehow he managed to head in the direction of home. A few miles later, he spotted the flashing red lights behind him.

  It was Miles Ryan who stepped out of the car.

  "Is that you, Sims?" Miles called out, approaching slowly. Like most of the deputies, he knew Sims on a first-name basis. Nonetheless, he had the flashlight out and was shining it inside the car, scanning quickly for any sign of danger.

  "Oh, hey, Deputy." The words came out slurred.

  "Have you been drinking?" Miles asked.

  "No... no. Not at all." Sims eyed him unsteadily. "Just visiting with some friends."

  "You sure about that? Not even a beer?"

  "No, sir."

  "Maybe a glass of wine with dinner or something?"

  "No, sir. Not me."

  "You were swerving all over the road."

  "Just tired." As if to make his point, he brought one hand to his mouth and yawned. Miles could smell the booze on his breath as he exhaled.

  "Aw, come on ... not even one little drink? All night long?"

  "No, sir."

  "I need to see your license and registration."

  "Well...um...I don't exactly have my license with me. Must have left it at home."

  Miles stepped back from the car, keeping his flashlight pointed at Sims. "I need you to step out of the car."

  Sims looked surprised that Miles didn't believe him. "For what?"

  "Just step out, please."

  "You're not going to arrest me, are you?"

  "C'mon, don't make this any harder than you have to."

  Sims seemed to debate what to do, though even for Sims, he was more drunk than usual. Instead of moving, he stared through the front windshield until Miles finally opened the door.

  "C'mon."

  Though Miles held a hand out, Sims simply shook his head, as if trying to tell Miles that he was fine, that he could do this on his own.

  Getting out, though, proved more difficult than Sims anticipated. Instead of finding himself eye to eye with Miles Ryan, where he could plead for mercy, Sims found himself on the ground and passed out almost immediately.

  Sims woke shivering the following morning, completely lost in his surroundings. All he knew was that he was behind bars, and the realization sent his mind spinning with a paralyzing fear. In bits and pieces, parts of the evening came back to him slowly. He remembered heading to the bar and drinking with friends . . . after that, everything was fairly foggy until he saw images of flashing lights. From the deep recesses of his mind, he also dragged out the fact that Miles Ryan had brought him in.

  Sims, though, had more important things on his mind than what had happened the night before, and his thoughts centered primarily on the best way to avoid going back to jail. The very thought brought beads of perspiration to his forehead and upper lip.

  He couldn't go back. No way. He'd die there. He knew it with an absolute certainty.

  But he was going back. Fear cleared his mind further, and for the next few minutes, all he could think about were the things he simply couldn't face again.

  Jail.

  Beatings.

  Nightmares.

  Shaking and vomiting.

  Death.

  He stood shakily from the bed and used the wall for balance. He staggered over to the bars, looking down the corridor. Three of the other cells were occupied, but no one seemed to know if Deputy Ryan was around. When he asked, he was told to shut up twice; the third person didn't answer at all.

  This is your life for the next two years.

  He wasn't naive enough to believe that they'd let him off, nor was he under any illusions that the public defender would do any good at all. His probation had been quite clear on the fact that any violation would result in mandatory reincarceration, and because of his previous record and the fact that he was driving, there wasn't any way this would slide. Not a chance. Pleading for mercy wouldn't work, pleading for forgiveness would be like spitting in the wind. He'd rot away in prison until his case came up, and then, when he lost, they'd throw away the key.

  He brought his hand up to wipe his forehead and knew then he had to do something. Anything to avoid the fate that certainly awaited him.

  His mind began to click faster, hobbled and broken, but faster nonetheless. His only hope, the only thing that could help him, was to turn back the clock somehow and undo the arrest from the night before.

  How the hell, though, was he going to do that?

  You have information, a little voice answered.

  Miles had just stepped out of the shower when he heard the phone ringing. Earlier, he'd made Jonah breakfast and seen him off to school, but instead of picking up around the house, he'd crawled back into bed, hoping to get another couple of hours of sleep. Though he hadn't gotten much, he'd been able to doze for a little while. He would work from noon to eight, and he was looking forward to a relaxing evening after that. Jonah would be gone--he was going to the movies with Mark--and Sarah had offered to come by so they could spend some time together.

  The phone call would change all that.

  Miles grabbed a towel and fastened it around his waist, answering the phone just before the recorder picked up. Charlie was on the other end. After exchanging pleasantries, Charlie got right to the point.

  "You better head on in now," he said.

  "Why? What's up?"

  "You brought Sims Addison in last night, didn't you?"

  "Yea, I did."

  "I can't find the report."

  "Oh . . . about that. Another call came in and I had to rush back out again. I was coming in early anyway to finish it up. Is there a problem?"

  "I'm not sure yet. How soon can you be here?"

  Miles wasn't sure what to make of that, nor did he really understand the tone Charlie was using.

  "I just got out of the shower. Half an hour, maybe?"

  "When you get in, make sure you come and talk to me. I'll be waiting."

  "Can't you at least tell me what the rush is all about?"

  There was a long pause on the other end.

  "Just get here as quick as you can. We'll talk then.
"

  "So what's all this about?" Miles asked. As soon as he'd arrived, Charlie had pulled him into the office and closed the door behind him.

  "Tell me about last night."

  "With Sims Addison, you mean?"

  "Start from the beginning."

  "Um . . . it was a little after midnight, and I was parked down the road from Beckers--you know, the bar out near Vanceboro?"

  Charlie nodded, crossing his arms.

  "Just waiting around. It had been quiet, and I knew that the place was closing. A little after two in the morning, I saw someone leave the bar and I followed the car on a hunch, and it was a good thing I did. The car was weaving all over the road, so I pulled him over to give him a sobriety test. That's when I found out it was Sims Addison. I could smell the booze on his breath as soon as I got close to the window. When I asked him to get out of the car, he fell. He passed out, so I put him in the back of the car and brought him here. By then, he'd revived enough so that I didn't have to carry him to the cell, but I had to support him. I was going to do the paperwork, but I got another call and had to go out immediately. I didn't get back until after my shift was over, and since I'm filling in for Tommie today, I figured I'd do the paperwork before my shift started."

  Charlie said nothing, but his eyes never left Miles. "Anything else?"

  "No. Is this about him being hurt or something? Like I said, I didn't touch him--he fell. He was blasted, Charlie. Absolutely hammered--"

  "No, it's not about that."

  "Then what is it?"

  "Let me make certain first--he didn't say anything to you at all last night."

  Miles thought for a moment. "Not really. He knew who I was, so he called me by name. . . ." He trailed off, trying to recall if there was anything else.

  "Was he acting strange?"

  "It didn't seem like it ...just sort of out of it, you know?"

  "Huh ... ," Charlie mumbled, and he seemed lost in thought again.

  "C'mon, Charlie, tell me what's going on."

  Charlie sighed. "He says he wants to talk to you."

  Miles waited, knowing there was more coming.

  "Only to you. He says he has information."

  Miles knew Sims's history as well. "And?"

  "He won't talk to me. But he says that it's a matter of life and death."

  Miles stared at Sims through the bars, thinking the man looked almost on the verge of death. Like other chronic alcoholics, his skin was a sickly yellow. His hands were shaking, and sweat poured from his forehead. Sitting on the cot, he'd been absently scratching at his arms for hours, and Miles could see the red trails, tinged with blood, like streaks of lipstick applied by a child.

  Miles pulled up a chair and sat forward, his elbows propped on his knees.

  "You wanted to talk to me?"

  Sims turned at the sound of his voice. He hadn't noticed that Miles had arrived, and it seemed to take a moment for him to focus. He wiped his upper lip and nodded.

  "Deputy."

  Miles leaned forward. "What do you have to say, Sims? You've got my boss pretty nervous upstairs. He said you told him that you have information for me."

  "Why'd you bring me in last night?" Sims asked. "I didn't hurt nobody."

  "You were drunk, Sims. And you were driving. That's a crime."

  "Then why haven't you charged me yet?"

  Miles debated his answer, trying to figure out where Sims was going with all this.

  "I didn't have the time," he said honestly. "But according to the laws of this state, it doesn't matter if I did it last night or not. And if that's what you wanted to talk to me about, then I've things to do."

  Miles made a show of standing from his chair and took a step down the corridor.

  "Wait," Sims said.

  Miles stopped and turned. "Yes?"

  "I've got something important to tell you."

  "You told Charlie it was a matter of life and death."

  Sims wiped his lips again. "I can't go back to jail. If you charge me, that's where I'll go. I'm on probation."

  "That's the way it goes. You break the law, you go to jail. Didn't you ever learn that?"

  "I can't go back," he repeated.

  "You should have thought of that last night."

  Miles turned again and Sims rose from the cot, a panicked look on his face. "Don't do this."

  Miles hesitated. "I'm sorry, Sims. I can't help you."

  "You could let me go. I didn't hurt nobody. And if I go back to jail, I'll die for sure. I know that as sure as I know the sky is blue."

  "I can't do that."

  "Sure you can. You can say you was mistaken, say I fell asleep at the wheel and that's why I was swerving...."

  Miles couldn't help but feel a little pity for the man, but his duty was clear. "I'm sorry," he said again, and he started down the corridor. Sims moved to the bars, grasping them.

  "I got information...."

  "Tell me later, once I get you upstairs to do the paperwork."

  "Wait!"

  There was something in his tone that made Miles stop once more.

  "Yes?"

  Sims cleared his throat. The other three men who'd been in the adjoining cells had been brought upstairs, but he looked around to make absolutely certain he hadn't overlooked anyone else. He motioned with his finger for Miles to come closer, but Miles stayed where he was and crossed his arms.

  "If I got important information, would you drop the charges?"

  Miles suppressed a smile. Now we're talking.

  "That's not up to just me, you know that. I'd have to talk to the district attorney."

  "No. Not that kind. You know how I work. I don't testify, and I remain anonymous."

  Miles said nothing.

  Sims looked around, making sure he was still alone.

  "There ain't no proof of what I'm saying, but it's true and you'll want to know it." He lowered his voice, as if confiding a secret. "I know who did it that night. I know."

  The tone he used and the obvious implications made the hairs on the back of Miles's neck suddenly stand on end.

  "What are you talking about?"

  Sims wiped his lip again, knowing he had Miles's full attention now.

  "I can't tell you no more unless you let me go."

  Miles moved toward the cell, feeling off-balance. He stared at Sims until Sims stepped back from the bars.

  "Tell me what?"

  "I need a deal first. You gotta promise me you'll get me out of here. Just say that because I didn't take the Breathalyzer, you don't have any proof I was drinking."

  "I told you--I can't make deals."

  "No deal, no information. Like I said, I can't go back to prison."

  They stood facing each other, neither of them looking away.

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?" Sims said finally. "Don't you want to know who did it?"

  Miles's heart began to race, and his hands clenched involuntarily at his side. His mind was spinning.

  "I'll tell you if you let me go," Sims added.

  Miles's mouth opened, then closed as everything--all the memories--rushed back, spilling over him like the water from an overflowing sink. It seemed unbelievable, preposterous. Yet... what if Sims was telling the truth?

  What if he knew who killed Missy?

  "You'll have to testify," was all he could think to say.

  Sims raised his hands. "No way. I didn't see nothing, but I overheard people talking. And if they find out that I'm the one who told, I'm as good as dead. So I can't testify. I won't. I'll swear that I don't remember telling you nothing. And you can't tell 'em where you learned it from, either. This is just between us-- you and me. But..."

  Sims shrugged, his eyes narrowing, playing Miles perfectly.

  "You don't really care about that now, do you? You just want to know who did it, and I can do that. And may God strike me dead if I ain't telling the truth."

  Miles grabbed the bars, his knuckles turning white.
"Tell me!" he shouted.

  "Get me out of here," Sims responded, somehow keeping his cool in spite of Miles's outburst, "and I will."

  For a long time, Miles simply stared at him.

  "I was at the Rebel," Sims finally began, after Miles had agreed to his demands. "You know the place, right?"

  Sims didn't wait for an answer. He swiped his greasy hair with the back of his hand. "This was a couple of years back or so--I can't really recall when it was, exactly--and I was having a few drinks, you know? Behind me, in one of the booths, I saw Earl Getlin. You know him?"

  Miles nodded. Another in a long line of people well-known in the department. Tall and thin, pockmarked face, tattoos up both arms--one that showed a lynching, the other a skull with a knife driven through it. Had been arrested for assault, breaking and entering, dealing in stolen goods. Suspected drug dealer. A year and a half ago, after being caught stealing a car, he'd been sent up to Hailey State Prison. Not due for release for another four years.

  "He was kind of antsy, fidgeting with his drink, like he was waiting for someone. That's when I saw them come in. The Timsons. They stood in the door for just a second, looking around until they found him. They ain't the kind of people I like being around, so I didn't draw no attention to myself. Next thing I know, they were sitting across from Earl. And they were talking real low, almost whispering, but from where I was, I could hear every word they were saying."

  Miles's back had gone rigid with Sims's story. His mouth was dry, as though he'd been outside in the heat for hours.

  "They were threatening Earl, but he kept saying that he didn't have it yet. That's when I heard Otis speak up--until then, he'd let his brothers do the talking. He told Earl that if he didn't have the money by the weekend, he'd better watch out, because nobody screwed with him."

  He blinked. Blood had drained from his face.

  "He said the same thing would happen to Earl that had happened to Missy Ryan. Only this time, they'd back up and run him over again."

  Chapter 18

  I remember that I was screaming even before I brought the car to a halt.

  I recall the impact, of course--the slight shudder of the wheel and the nauseating thud. But what I remember most are my own screams from inside the car. They were ear-shattering, echoing off the closed windows, and they went on until I turned the ignition off and was finally able to push open the door. My screams then turned into panicked prayer. "No, no, no . . ." is all I remember saying.