She pointed, and Beckett looked past the bar to a dark car on the verge and a group of men beside it. “It’s the warden—”
“Yes.” Beckett cut her off. “I see that.” The warden was in a suit, the guards in uniforms sharp enough to cut paper. Beckett pointed at the cruiser. “Watch Liz. Make sure she’s okay.”
“Sir?”
“Just … watch her.”
Beckett crossed the lot, felt heat under his shoes and a fist of emotion in his chest. He’d known the warden for a long time, but the relationship was complicated. He stopped by the car and felt the warden’s stare.
“Detective.” The warden was sweating in the heat, his smile overly bright.
Beckett ignored the guards and spoke quietly. “What the hell are you doing here?”
* * *
The police cruiser was in the shade at the back of the lot. Elizabeth kept her chin down and her eyes sideways as she cleared the hood and circled to the rear door. She saw the top of Adrian’s head first; and he was looking down, so deathly still she had the wild thought he was actually dead, that he’d drifted off, alone in the back of the car. Then he showed a scarred face, and eyes that were utterly unchanged. For that second the entire world shrank to a black hole that stripped away all the years of her adulthood. She saw how he’d saved her life and never known it, his gentle manner as he’d stopped on a chill day to ask if she was all right. In that second Elizabeth was seventeen again, alone at the edge of a two-hundred-foot drop, a child looking for the courage to take one more step.
Are you okay, miss?
His shoulders were square, the badge on his belt bright gold. She hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him.
I just … She wore tall shoes that laced above her ankles, a secondhand dress that flapped against her skin. Her gaze settled on the thirty acres of black water that filled the quarry below. I was just counting.
It was a stupid thing to say, but he didn’t act as if it were. Counting what?
The seconds it would take to fall, she thought, but said nothing.
Are you sure you’re okay?
She stared at the badge on his belt and couldn’t look away. His fingers, beside it, were still.
Are your parents here?
Down the trail, she lied.
What’s your name?
She offered it in a broken voice, and he studied the trailhead at the edge of the woods. It was late and cold and almost dark. The water beneath them looked as hard as metal.
Parents tend to worry about children up here, especially with dark coming on.
His gesture took in the mountaintop, the quarry below. She looked at the sucking blackness of all that water, then at the strip of stone at her feet. His face, when she finally looked at it, was beautiful.
You’re sure they’re waiting?
Yes, sir.
Off you go, then.
He smiled a final time, and she left on legs that were cold and weak and shaking. He didn’t follow, but was watching when she glanced back, his eyes lost in the fading light. She waited until trees surrounded her, then ran as she’d never run before. She ran until her body burned and her breath was gone, then she curled up in dry leaves and wondered if God had sent the policeman to pull her back from the thing she’d meant to do. Her father would say yes, that God is in all things; but God could no longer be trusted, not God or her father or boys who said, Trust me. That’s what she thought as she lay in the leaves, shaking: that the world was bad, but maybe not all of it. That maybe she’d try to live another day. That maybe she could.
Elizabeth didn’t believe in God anymore, but looking at Adrian through patrol-car glass, she thought that fate might be real. She’d almost died the day they first met, and here he was again. She wasn’t suicidal, but still …
“Hello, Adrian.”
“Liz.”
The door pressed against her hip, but she had no memory of opening it. The world seemed to be his voice, his eyes, the unexpected thumping in her chest. The scars on his face were pale and thin, a half diamond on one cheek and a six-inch line that ran top to bottom beside his left eye. Even with Beckett’s warning, the starkness of the scars surprised her, as did the thinness that made the bones of his face sharper than she remembered. He was older and hard, with an animal stillness that disconcerted her. She’d expected something else, furtiveness maybe, or shame.
“May I?”
She gestured at the seat, and he shifted sideways to make room for her to sit. She slipped into the car, felt his warmth in the leather. She studied his face and did not look away when his hand moved to cover the worst of the scars.
“It’s only skin,” she said.
“On the outside, maybe.”
“How about the rest of you?”
“Tell me about Gideon.”
It surprised her that he knew Gideon’s name. “You recognized him?”
“How many fourteen-year-old boys want me dead?”
“So, he did try to hurt you.”
“Just tell me if he’s okay.”
Elizabeth leaned against the door and didn’t speak for long seconds. “Why do you care?”
“How can you ask me that?”
“I can ask you that because he came here to kill you, and because people are not normally so concerned about those intent on doing that kind of harm. I can ask you that because he was fifteen months old the last time you saw him, because he’s not your family or your friend. I can ask that because he’s an innocent kid who’s never hurt a fly in all the days of his life, because he weighs a hundred and fifteen pounds and has a bullet where no bullet should ever be. I can ask you that because I more or less raised him, and because he looks just like the woman you were convicted of killing. So, until I know for sure you’re not the one who shot him, we’ll do this my way.”
Her voice was loud by the time she finished, and both of them were surprised by the outburst of emotion. Elizabeth couldn’t hide her feelings when it came to the boy. She was overprotective, and Adrian saw it.
“I just want to know he’s okay. That’s all. He lost his mother and thinks it’s my fault. I just want to know he’s alive, that he hasn’t lost everything.”
It was a good answer, Elizabeth thought. Honest. Fair. “He’s in surgery. I don’t know more than that.” She paused. “Beckett says Conroy is the one who shot him. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Was it self-defense?”
“The boy came to kill me. Conroy did what he had to do.”
“Would Gideon have done it?”
“Pulled the trigger? Yes.”
“You sound certain.”
“He said it’s what a man would do. He seemed convinced.”
She studied his fingers, which looked as if they’d been broken and poorly set. “All right. I believe you.”
“You’ll tell Beckett?”
“Beckett. Dyer. I’ll make sure everyone understands.”
“Thank you.”
“Adrian, listen—”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Look, it’s nice to see you. It’s been a long time, and you were good to me, once. But don’t pretend to be my friend.”
They were difficult words, but she understood. How many times had she driven past the prison since his conviction? How many times had she stopped? Gone inside? Not once. Not ever.
“Can I do anything for you? Do you need money? A ride?”
“You can get out of the car.” He was looking at Beckett and a group of men standing by a dark sedan on the edge of the road. Suddenly pale and sweating, he looked as if he might be sick.
“Adrian?”
“Just get out of the car. Please.”
She thought about arguing, but to what end? “Okay, Adrian.” She swung her legs into the heat. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
* * *
Elizabeth walked away from Adrian and met Beckett halfway across the lot. Behind him, men slipped into the sedan, which turned
across traffic and accelerated toward the prison. She recognized a face in the window, a flash of profile, quickly gone. “That was the warden.”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
Beckett watched the car for long seconds, eyes narrowed. “He heard about the shooting and knew it involved one of his prisoners.”
“Were you arguing?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“The fact he has no business on my goddamn crime scene.”
“Take it easy, Charlie. I’m just asking.”
“Yeah. ’Course. Sorry. Did you get anything from Adrian?”
“He confirms the bartender’s story. Gideon came looking for revenge. Conroy shot the boy to save Adrian’s life.”
“Damn. That’s brutal. I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Adrian? Take a statement. Cut him loose.”
“Does Gideon’s father know?”
“We haven’t found him yet.”
“I’ll do it.”
“He’s a deadbeat drunk in a county full of shit-heel bars. Who knows what rock he’s crawled under for the day?”
“I can track him down.”
“Tell me where you think he might be, and I’ll send some uniforms.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “We’re talking about Gideon. His father should be with him when he wakes.”
“His father is an asshole who hasn’t done two good things for that boy in his whole life.”
“Nevertheless, I’d rather find him myself. It’s personal, Charlie. You understand.”
“Your interview with the state police is in three hours.”
“I said I’d do it.”
“Okay. Fine. Sure. Whatever.” He was angry, but it seemed everyone was. “Three hours.”
“Yep.”
“Don’t be late.”
Late? Maybe. Elizabeth wasn’t even sure she’d show up.
Dropping into the car, she thought she was out clean. But Beckett filled the open window before she could put the car in gear. He leaned in, looking swollen in a tight suit. She saw scratches on his wedding ring; smelled shampoo that was probably his wife’s. Everything about him was earnest and heavy. The stare. The sound of his voice. “You’re in a strange place,” he said. “And I get that. Channing and the basement, state cops and Adrian. Hell, the boy’s blood’s not even dry.”
“I know all these things, Charlie.”
“I know you do.”
“Then what are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying people don’t think straight when they get twisted up. That’s normal, even for cops. I just don’t want you to do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Bad men. Dark houses.”
He was trying to help, but that was the hard edge of Elizabeth’s world: bad men and the things that happen in dark houses.
* * *
Putting the prison in her rearview mirror, Elizabeth took her time driving back to the city. She wanted a moment’s quiet, but thoughts of Gideon in surgery made that impossible. A .32 was a small bullet, but he was a small boy. Did she blame Nathan Conroy for shooting him? No. Not really. Did she blame Adrian? What about herself?
Elizabeth pictured Gideon’s mother, as she’d been—tall and clear-eyed and elegant—then pictured her son in the dark, lying in wait with a loaded weapon in his pocket. Where did he get the revolver, and how did he get to Nathan’s? Did he walk? Hitchhike? Was it his father’s gun? Jesus, did he really plan to kill a man? The line of thought made her nauseous, but maybe it was a delayed reaction to sight of the boy’s blood, or that she’d had three cups of coffee after two days without food, or that she’d barely slept six hours out of the last sixty. Slowing at the river, she pulled onto the verge and called the hospital to check on Gideon’s status.
“Are you family?” she was asked.
“Police.”
“Hold for surgery.”
Elizabeth held, and as she did, she watched the water. She’d grown up near the river and knew its moods: the gentle slide in August, the hard rush that followed winter storms. She’d taken Gideon fishing at times, and it was their place, their thing. But today the river felt different. She didn’t see the sycamores or the willows or the ripples in the current. She saw red banks carved away, wounds in the earth.
“You’re asking about Gideon Strange?”
Elizabeth played the cop card again and got all the information available. Still in surgery. Too early for a prognosis.
“Thank you,” she said, then crossed the river without once looking down.
* * *
It took twenty minutes to reach the derelict side of things, a seven-mile stretch that began with empty storefronts and ended with shuttered factories and mill houses in their second century. The textile industry had left even before the downturn, same with furniture and the bottling plant and big tobacco. Now, the east side of town was paved with empty factories and broken dreams. As a young cop, Elizabeth had cut her teeth on the east side, but it was worse now. Gangs had moved north from Atlanta, down from DC. Drugs ran up and down the interstate, and bad things multiplied with the trade. Much of the violence happened on the seven-mile stretch, and a lot of poor but decent people were caught in the middle.
That included Gideon.
Turning onto a narrow street, she worked the car between cast-off furniture and old cars until a chalk-yellow house slid past and the hill steepened. Shadows crept out the deeper she went. Cars got rustier; grass disappeared. By the time she bottomed out, the road was in full shade, a ribbon of asphalt running beside a cold stream that broke white over gray stone and bits of shattered concrete. Gideon hadn’t always lived in such a desolate place, but when his mother died, Robert Strange started drinking, and the whirl of it took him down. A good job became an occasional job. The drinking got worse. There were drugs. The only mystery was how he managed to keep Gideon in his life at all. But that, in the end, was no mystery. The system was stretched, and Elizabeth loved the boy too much to break the last bit of his heart. Every time she got social services involved, Gideon would beg her to leave him with his father.
It’s my father, he’d say. He’s all I have left.
Other than a few months in foster care, he’d gotten his wish. In exchange, Elizabeth stayed involved. She made sure his clothes were clean, that food was on the table. That worked until it didn’t. Now, Gideon was fighting for his life, and she had to face the hard question.
How much of that was her fault?
Twisting along the valley floor, she found the boy’s house on a stony patch beside the creek. It was smaller than most, a faded cube beneath a streaked, metal roof. Piled firewood made the porch sag on one side, and the cinder-block chimney leaned ten degrees out of true; but the stream was what made everything so stark in comparison, all that cold, clean water rushing off to better places.
Stepping from the car, she studied the slash of sky, the stream, the pale, pink house across the street. It was quiet in the shade, and hot. An old car rusted on flat tires. The yard was red dirt.
On the porch, Elizabeth knocked twice, but knew already that no one was home. The house had that empty feel. Inside, she stepped over liquor bottles and engine parts and old mail. She checked the boy’s room first. The bed was made, shoes lined against the wall. A single shelf was rowed with books and framed photographs. Elizabeth lifted a picture of Gideon’s mother taken on her wedding day. She wore a simple dress and a ring of flowers in her hair. She stood in front of the old church, her new husband young and clean-cut and handsome. The next two pictures were of Elizabeth and Gideon: a picnic in the park, one at the river. There were no other pictures of his father, and that felt about right. The last was of Gideon and Elizabeth’s parents. The boy enjoyed church and sang in the choir. Elizabeth would pick him up on Sundays and take him. She never went in herself—that was an old promise—but her parents loved the boy almost as muc
h as she did. They’d have him for dinner once a month; ask after his grades; watch him in school plays. The reverend was determined to see Gideon through his childhood, and to remind the boy that his father had, once, been a fine man.
Moving through Gideon’s room, Elizabeth touched schoolbooks, a turtle shell, a jar of pennies. Nothing had changed, she thought, then she considered the outcome should Gideon die.
Nothing ever would.
Closing the boy’s bedroom door, she checked the rest of the house, then went looking for his father. Beckett was right about Robert Strange. He drank and was undependable, an otherwise broken man who loved the boy as best he could. He worked part-time for a shade-tree garage far out in the county. The owner was a drunk, which meant Robert could drink, too. He worked off the books, mostly on American cars, mostly for cash. That’s where he would be, she thought, at the garage and useless and drunk.
It took eighteen miles of country road to get there, the route twisting past the quarry, the gun range, the ruins of an old theater. She drove past dairy farms and plowed-under fields, turned left, and ran under heavy trees that swayed with the breeze. Two miles into the last stretch of gravel road, she turned onto raw dirt and followed the track to a corrugated shed that sat on a high bank in the last bend of the river. She turned off the engine and stared for long seconds through the glass. Hot cars and stolen tires weren’t the only illegal things this far out in the county. There were meth labs and cockfights and trailer-park brothels run by large men with long hair and swastika tattoos. People went missing this far out, and not too many years passed without hunters finding the remains of one poor soul or another. So, Elizabeth took a good, long look around and checked the gun at her back before she stepped from the car.
Even then, she didn’t like it. Dogs lolled in the shade. Beyond them, the river hissed along the bank, then flattened and slowed as it spilled across the county line. Elizabeth watched the dogs as she walked. Two of them stayed down, but one found his feet, his head low, a pink tongue hanging out as he panted in the heat. Elizabeth kept one eye on him and one on the shed. Ten feet from the bay door, she smelled grease and gasoline and cigarette smoke.
“Can I help you?”
A man stepped from beneath a truck on a hydraulic lift. He was in his late fifties with close hair and grease-stained shoulders. Six-four, she guessed. Two-thirty. He wiped thick hands on a dirty handkerchief and guarded his expression.