"It'll be the typical defense," Charlie responded wearily. "Jones will argue that Otis wasn't even there that night and find others who will verify it. Then he'll argue that even if Otis was there, he didn't say what's attributed to him. And even if he did say it, he'll say it was taken out of context."
"Will that work?"
Charlie sipped his coffee, knowing he still had more work to do. "No one can ever predict what a jury will do. You know that."
Brenda put her hand on Charlie's arm. "But what do you think?" she asked. "Honestly."
"Honestly?"
She nodded, thinking he looked a dozen years older than when he'd left for work that morning.
"Unless we find something else, Otis is gonna walk."
"Even if he did it?"
"Yeah," he said, no energy in his voice, "even if he did it."
"Would Miles accept that?"
Charlie closed his eyes. "No. Not a chance."
"What would he do?"
He finished the cup of coffee and reached for the file. "I have no idea."
Chapter 25
I began stalking them regularly, carefully, so that no one would know what I was up to.
I would wait for Jonah at school, I would visit Missy's grave, I went to their house at night. My lies were convincing; no one suspected a thing.
I knew it was wrong, but it didn't seem as if I could control my actions anymore. As with any compulsion, I couldn't stop. When I did these things, I wondered about my state of mind. Was I a masochist, who wanted to relieve the agony I'd inflicted? Or was I a sadist, someone who secretly enjoyed their torment and wanted to witness it firsthand? Was I both? I didn't know. All I knew was that I didn't seem to have a choice.
I could not escape the image I'd seen the first night, when Miles walked past his son without speaking to him, as if oblivious to his presence. After all that had happened, it wasn't supposed to be that way. Yes, I knew that Missy had been taken from their lives ... but didn't people grow closer after a traumatic event? Didn't they look to each other for support? Especially family?
This was what I had wanted to believe. This was how I had made it through the first six weeks. It became my mantra. They would survive. They would heal. They would turn to each other and become even closer. It was the singsong chant of a tortured fool, but it had become real in my mind.
But that night, they had not been doing okay. Not that night.
I am not naive enough now, nor was I naive enough then, to believe that a single snapshot of a family at home reveals the truth. I told myself after that night that I was mistaken in what I saw, or even if I was correct, that it didn't mean anything. Nothing can be read into isolated instances. By the time I got to my car, I almost believed it.
But I had to make certain.
There is a path one takes when moving toward destruction. Like someone who has one drink on a Friday night, and two the next, only to gradually and completely lose control, I found myself proceeding more boldly. Two days after my nighttime visit, I needed to know about Jonah. I can still remember the train of thought I used to justify my action. It went like this: I'll watch for Jonah today, and if he's smiling, then I'll know I was wrong. So I went to the school. I sat in the parking lot, a stranger sitting behind the wheel in a place I had no right to be, staring out the windshield. The first time I went, I barely caught a glimpse of him, so I returned the following day.
A few days later, I went again.
And again.
It got to the point where I recognized his teacher, his class, and I was soon able to pick him out immediately, just as he left the building. And I watched. Sometimes he would smile, sometimes he wouldn't, and for the rest of the afternoon, I would wonder what it meant. Either way, I was never satisfied.
And night would come. Like an itch I couldn't reach, the compulsion to spy nagged at me, growing stronger as the hours rolled on. I would lie down, eyes wide open, then get out of bed. I'd pace back and forth. I'd sit, then lie down again. And even though I knew it was wrong, I'd make the decision to go. I'd talk to myself, whispering the reasons I should ignore the feeling inside me, even as I reached for the car keys. I would drive the darkened stretch, urging myself to turn around and head back home, even as I parked the car. And I would make my way through the bushes surrounding their house, one step after the next, not understanding what had driven me there.
I watched them through the windows.
For a year, I saw their life unfold in little bits and pieces, filling in what I didn't know already. I learned that Miles continued to work at night sometimes, and I wondered who was taking care of Jonah. So I charted Miles's schedule, knowing when he'd be gone, and one day I followed Jonah's bus home from school. I learned that he stayed with a neighbor. A peek at the mailbox told me who she was.
Other times, I watched them eating dinner. I learned what Jonah liked to eat, and I learned what shows he liked to watch afterward. I learned that he liked to play soccer but didn't like reading. I watched him grow.
I saw good things and bad things, and always, I looked for a smile. Something, anything, that might lead me to stop this insanity.
I watched Miles, too.
I saw him pick up around the house, sliding items into drawers. I saw him cook dinner. I watched him drink beer and smoke cigarettes on the back porch, when he thought no one was around. But most of all, I watched him as he sat in the kitchen.
There, concentrating, one hand moving through his hair, he stared at the file. At first I assumed he brought his work home with him, but gradually I came to the conclusion that I was wrong. It wasn't different cases that he was studying, it was a single case, since the file never seemed to change. It was then, with a sudden jolt of comprehension, that I knew what the file was about. I knew that he was looking for me, this person who watched him through the windows.
Again, after that, I justified what I was doing. I started coming to see him, to study his features as he peered at the file, to look for an "aha," followed by a frantic phone call that would portend a visit to my home. To know when the end would come.
When I would finally leave the window to return to my car, I would feel weak, completely spent. I would swear that it was over, that I'd never do it again. That I would let them lead their lives without intrusion. The urge to watch them would be satiated and guilt would set in, and on those evenings, I would despise what I had done. I would pray for forgiveness, and there were times I wanted to kill myself.
From someone who once had dreams of proving myself to the world, I now hated who I had become.
But then, no matter how much I wanted to stop, no matter how much I wanted to die, the urge would come again. I'd fight it until I could fight no longer, then I'd say to myself that this would be the last time. The very last.
And then, like a vampire, I would creep out into the night.
Chapter 26
That night, while Miles studied the file in the kitchen, Jonah had his first nightmare in weeks.
It took Miles a moment to register the sound. He'd studied the file until nearly two in the morning; that, coupled with the all-night shift the evening before and everything that had happened during the day, had drained him completely, and his body seemed to rebel when he heard Jonah's cries. Like being forced to move through a room filled with wet cotton, consciousness returned slowly, and even as he moved toward Jonah's room, it was more of a Pavlovian response than a desire to comfort his son.
It was early in the morning, a few minutes before dawn. Miles carried Jonah to the porch; by the time his cries finally stopped, the sun was already up. Because it was Saturday and he didn't have to go to school, Miles carried Jonah back to the bedroom and started a pot of coffee. His head was pounding, so he took two aspirin and washed them down with orange juice.
He felt as if he had a hangover.
While the coffee was brewing, Miles retrieved the file and the notes he'd made the night before; he wanted to go over them one more time bef
ore heading into work. Jonah surprised him, however, by returning to the kitchen before he had a chance to do so. He padded in, his eyes puffy as he rubbed them, then sat at the table.
"Why are you up?" Miles asked. "It's still early."
"I'm not tired," Jonah answered.
"You look tired."
"I had a bad dream."
Jonah's words caught Miles off-guard. Jonah never remembered having the dreams before.
"You did?"
Jonah nodded. "I dreamed you were in an accident. Like Mommy was."
Miles went to Jonah's side. "It was just a dream," he said. "Nothing happened, okay?"
Jonah wiped his nose with the back of his hand. In his race car pajamas, he looked younger than he was.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you mad at me?"
"No, not at all. Why would you think I'm mad?"
"You didn't talk to me at all yesterday."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't mad at you. I was just trying to figure out some stuff."
"About Mommy?"
Miles was caught off-guard again. "Why do you think it's about Mommy?" he asked.
"Because you were looking at those papers again." Jonah pointed to the file on the table. "They're about Mommy, aren't they?"
After a moment, Miles nodded. "Kind of."
"I don't like those papers."
"Why not?"
"Because," he said, "they make you sad."
"They don't make me sad."
"Yeah, they do," Jonah said. "And they make me sad, too."
"Because you miss Mommy?"
"No," he said, shaking his head, "because they make you forget about me."
The words made Miles's throat constrict. "That's not true."
"Then why didn't you talk to me yesterday?"
He sounded almost on the verge of tears, and Miles pulled Jonah closer. "I'm sorry, Jonah. It won't happen again."
Jonah looked up at him. "Do you promise?"
Miles made an X over his chest and smiled. "Cross my heart."
"And hope to die?"
With Jonah's wide eyes piercing him, that was exactly what Miles felt like doing.
After having breakfast with Jonah, Miles called Sarah to apologize to her as well. Sarah interrupted before he had a chance to finish.
"Miles, you don't have to say you're sorry. After all that happened, it was pretty obvious that you needed to be alone. How are you feeling this morning?"
"I'm not sure. About the same, I guess."
"Are you going in to work?"
"I have to. Charlie called. He wants me to meet him in a little while."
"Will you call me later?"
"If I get the chance. I'll probably be pretty tied up today."
"With the investigation, you mean?"
When Miles didn't answer, Sarah twirled a few strands of hair. "Well, if you need to talk and can't reach me, I'll be at my mom's house."
"Okay."
Even after hanging up the phone, Sarah couldn't escape the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.
By nine in the morning, Charlie was working on his fourth cup of coffee and told Madge to keep them coming. He'd slept only a couple of hours and had made it back to the station before the sun had risen.
He'd been busy ever since. He'd met with Harvey, interviewed Otis in his cell, and spent some time with Thurman Jones. He'd also called in extra deputies to look for Sims Addison. So far, nothing.
He had, though, come to some decisions.
Miles arrived twenty minutes later and found Charlie waiting for him outside his office.
"You doing okay?" Charlie asked, thinking Miles looked no better than he did.
"Tough night."
"Tough day, too. Need some coffee?"
"Had plenty at the house."
He motioned over his shoulder. "C'mon in, then--we have to talk."
After Miles entered, Charlie closed the door behind him and Miles sat in the chair. Charlie leaned against the desk.
"Listen, before we begin," Miles started, "I guess you should know that I've been working on this since yesterday, and I think I might have some ideas--"
Charlie shook his head, not letting him finish. "Look, Miles, that's not why I wanted to see you. Right now, I need you to listen, okay?"
There was something in his expression that told Miles he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear, and he stiffened.
Charlie glanced at the tile floor, then back at Miles again.
"I'm not going to beat around the bush here. We've known each other too long for that." He paused.
"What is it?"
"I'm going to release Otis Timson today."
Miles's mouth opened, but before he said anything, Charlie raised his hands.
"Now before you think I'm jumping to conclusions, hear me out. I didn't have a choice, not based on the information that I have so far. Yesterday, after you left, I went up to visit with Earl Getlin."
He told Miles what Getlin had said.
"Then you have the proof you need," Miles shot back.
"Now hold on. Let me also say I think there are some serious questions about his possible testimony. From what I heard, Thurman Jones would eat him alive, and there's not a jury that would believe a word he said."
"So leave that up to the jury," Miles protested. "You can't just let him go."
"My hands are tied. Believe me, I stayed up all night, looking over the case. As it stands, we don't have enough to hold him. Especially now that Sims has flown the coop."
"What are you talking about?"
"Sims. I had deputies looking for him yesterday, last night, and this morning. After he left here, he just vanished. No one's been able to find him, and Harvey isn't willing to let any of this go on unless he can talk to Sims."
"For God's sake, Otis admitted it."
"I don't have a choice," Charlie said.
"He killed my wife." Miles spoke through clenched teeth.
Charlie hated the fact that he had to do this.
"This isn't just my decision. Right now, without Sims, we don't have a case and you know it. Harvey Wellman said there was no way that the DA's office would file charges as things stand now."
"Harvey's making you do this?"
"I spent the morning with him," Charlie answered, "and I also talked to him yesterday. Believe it when I say he's been more than fair. It's nothing personal--he's just doing his job."
"That's crap."
"Put yourself in his position, Miles."
"I don't want to put myself in his position. I want Otis charged with murder."
"I know you're upset--"
"I'm not upset, Charlie. I'm pissed off like you wouldn't believe."
"I know you are, but this isn't the end. You've got to understand that even if we let Otis go, that doesn't mean he won't be charged in the future. It just means that we don't have enough to hold him now. And you should also know the highway patrol is reopening the investigation. This isn't over yet."
Miles glared. "But until then, Otis is free to go."
"He'd be free on bail, anyway. Even if we did charge him with hit-and-run, he'd walk out of here. You know that."
"Then charge him with murder."
"Without Sims? Without other evidence? There's no way that would fly."
There were times when Miles despised the criminal justice system. His eyes darted around the room before settling on Charlie again.
"Did you talk to Otis?" he finally asked.
"Tried to this morning. His lawyer was there and advised him not to answer most of my questions. Didn't get any information that would help."
"Would it help if I tried to talk to him?"
Charlie shook his head. "There's no chance of that, Miles."
"Why not?"
"I can't allow that."
"Because it's about Missy?"
"No, because of the stunt you pulled yesterday."
"What are you talking
about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Charlie stared at Miles, watching for his reaction. Miles seemed to have none, and Charlie got up from behind the desk.
"Let me be frank, okay? Even though Otis wouldn't answer any questions about Missy, he did volunteer information about your behavior yesterday. So now I'm going to ask you about it." He paused. "What happened in the car?"
Miles shifted in his chair. "I saw a raccoon in the road and had to hit the brakes."
"Do you think I'm stupid enough to believe that?"
Miles shrugged. "It's what happened."
"And if Otis tells me that you did it simply to hurt him?"
"Then he's lying."
Charlie leaned forward. "Is he also lying when he tells me that you pointed your gun at his head, even though he was on his knees with his hands up? And that you held it there?"
Miles squirmed uncomfortably. "I had to keep the situation under control," he said evasively.
"And you think that was the way to go?"
"Look, Charlie, no one was hurt."
"So in your mind, it was completely justified?"
"Yes."
"Well, Otis's lawyer didn't think so. And neither did Clyde. They're threatening to file a civil lawsuit against you."
"A lawsuit?"
"Sure--excessive force, intimidation, police brutality, the whole works. Thurman has some friends at the ACLU and they're thinking of joining the lawsuit as well."
"But nothing happened!"
"It doesn't matter, Miles. They have a right to file whatever they want. But you should know that they've also asked Harvey to file criminal charges."
"Criminal charges?"
"That's what they say."
"And let me guess--Harvey's going to go along with that, right?"
Charlie shook his head. "I know you and Harvey don't get along, but I've worked with Harvey for years and I think he's fair most of the time. He was pretty hot about the whole thing last night, but when we met this morning, he said he didn't think he was going to go forward with it--"
"So there's no problem, then," Miles interrupted.
"You didn't let me finish," Charlie said. He met Miles's gaze. "Even though he may not go forward, that's not set in stone. He knows how caught up you are in this, and even though he doesn't think you had the right to let Sims go or take it on yourself to arrest Otis, he knows you're human. He understands the way you felt, but that doesn't change the fact that you acted inappropriately, to say the least. And because of that, he told me that he thinks it would be best if you're placed on suspension--with pay, of course--until all this works itself out."