At 6:30 p.m., I heard a pair of slippers shuffling across the parking lot. Hurried. Purposeful. I poked my head around and found Sam walking at me in her robe and wet hair. Still dripping.
I stood up, snapped up my shirt, and started tucking it in.
She walked right up to me, totally invading my personal space. She held her finger in the air and then her eyebrows sort of leaned in toward one another, then one lifted slightly higher than the other. She looked around my truck, stepped back, and pursed her lips. She had taken my advice and had a drink. “You’re not actually staying down here, are you?”
A deep breath. “Look, I’m tempted to lie so you don’t feel bad but me and this truck have a history. I’ve spent many a night right here and I’m just as comfortable down here as you’ll be up there.”
“But Marleena said she could get you a room.”
“And she offered, but I’m fine right here.”
Her shoulders sunk even further. “Ours is costing too much, isn’t it?”
“This place, normally, is real expensive, yes. But I used to work down here a lot and Marleena’s giving me the same rate.”
“Which is?”
“Ninety-nine dollars.”
She frowned. Hands on her hips. “You’re paying a hundred dollars for that palace in the sky? That room probably sells for six or seven hundred dollars a night.” She paused. “I didn’t always have nothing.”
“No kidding. I wouldn’t lie to you. Besides, if your friend Billy comes looking for you my guess is that this would be one of the last places he would look.”
The sight of me here and not in some opulent room upstairs took the wind out of her sails. She regrouped, stepping back into my personal space, and crossed her arms. Water from the shower still rested on her chest and the lobes of her ears. She smelled clean and fresh. “I need to know something.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want out?”
“Not sure I follow you.”
She wrapped her robe tighter about her. Doing so gave me a flash of what lay covered on the inside. I’ll admit, my eyes were drawn. She tied her belt. “Come on, we’re both adults. I’m a big girl. You can leave now, we’ll slip out early tomorrow morning and nobody is the worse for wear. I’ll send you some money—”
“Have you got any other option?”
“Other than?”
“Me. If I leave here, what other option do you have?”
Her lips grew tight. She looked toward the light of the entrance to the garage. “I’ll figure something.”
“Okay, then what are you figuring between?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m trying to give you an out. If I were you, I’d want it. If I were you, I’d take it.”
“Yeah, well… you’re not me.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“ ’Course I’ve thought about it. Every few seconds. But every time I walk through what it looks like, I see some bad things.”
“Like what?”
“Things I’ve seen before.”
“But you don’t even know me.”
“You’re right. But what I’ve seen has told me you need a break. Now, I can’t offer you much but I can drive you back west, back home, which is where I was headed when all this business started. It’d give you some space. You could regroup. Look at some options. Go from there.”
Both eyebrows raised. “You’d do that?”
“It’s a small town. One of those places where everybody knows everybody’s business but they mean well. Mostly.”
“Why?”
“Well, they just do, I mean—”
“No, not them. You. Why?”
I sat down, checked my watch, and began rolling a cigarette. “I watched the soul of a woman crack in half one time. Not a”—I licked the paper—“pretty sight. Rather not see it again. I’m not the best judge of souls, ’specially when it comes to women. Matter of fact, I’m right horrible. But best I can tell, yours is close to doing the same. The fact that I just met you really doesn’t matter much.” I shrugged. “A soul is a soul.”
She stood, arms folded, studying me. Her left leg showed through the slit of her robe. I tried not to notice but it was tough to miss. My wife and I had not slept in the same bed in about three years. I’m a man. Not an idiot.
She stepped closer, eyeing my cigarette. “Why do you do that?”
“It reminds me of my father.”
“How so?”
“He did it whenever he was thinking or about to say something meaningful. It usually marked a moment of importance.”
“Are you about to say something real important?”
“He also did it when he was facing a tough decision with no easy answer and he didn’t quite know what to do.”
“Did he smoke them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It ain’t about the smoking.”
“Is he alive?”
“No.”
“Did he die of lung cancer?”
“No.”
“What then?”
A pause. “Lead poisoning.”
“I’m sorry. Was it something he ate?”
“Sort of.” I paused. Turned toward her. “I was just wondering whether or not this Billy Simmons will try to find you. I mean, how motivated is he?”
She looked at the floor and chewed on one side of her mouth. “Real.” I told you there was more the second and third time around.
“What makes you say that?”
“When I came home and found Hope on his bed, naked and shaking, I heard the water running, which told me that Billy was in the shower and I didn’t know how long he’d be there. The only thing I could think of was getting Hope out of there. But then I saw the screen. Off to the side, on his desk, a computer screen was lit up and Hope was staring at it. The one he worked on. We never messed with it. Anyway, when I looked closer I found a screen full of files. Videos mostly.” She paused. “They were saved by date so I clicked on one of the more recent.” She shook her head. “It was a video of him and me. I didn’t know he had a camera set up. I’d have never…” She trailed off. “The last video was dated that day. Last Thursday. It had been modified, or saved, about ten minutes before I arrived.” She broke off again, rubbing her hands together. “It was him with Hope. You can hear her… so… he had this thumb drive and the light was flashing. I guessed he was saving video onto the thumb drive. I grabbed it, wrapped her up in her blanket, carried her out back to our little place to grab whatever I could find and then we heard the water cut off. We had to pass back through the house to get out so we crept in and hid in the front room while he was getting out of the shower. I heard his electric razor cut on, which told me I had a few minutes. Or so I thought. I had a lot going on, I was scared. I was holding Hope, and I dropped the thumb drive on the hardwood floor behind the sofa. You know those A/C vents that come up through the floor?”
I nodded.
“It fell in one of those. I could feel the top of it with my finger, but couldn’t lift it up. I needed pliers or something. We didn’t have time. When we heard his bathroom door squeak open, we snuck out the front door, across the street, and I stole that old woman’s car.” She shook her head and tried to laugh. “I imagine he found us gone, went to his computer, found the thumb drive missing, and, here we are.” I considered this. Her eyes narrowed. There was fear behind them. “You think he’ll find us?”
“If he’s any kind of lawman, he’ll get his hands on the surveillance tapes from the truck stop. He’ll see my truck drive in, fill up, then drive off with you in it. While I covered the tags on the drive out, he’ll be able to identify us from when we drove in.” I nodded. “Yes, I think he will look.” We were quiet a minute. I turned to her. “Is Hope… okay? I mean…”
“Physically, yes.”
“She need anything?”
She shook her head. S
he continued, “When I left, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I just knew I had to get out and I didn’t want pictures of me and my daughter broadcast, or sold, over the Internet. But… can the authorities help me? I mean, if we went and talked to them, like right now, do you think they’d, I realize it’s all hearsay, my word against his, but if I told them about the drive. Better yet, if they saw it.”
I nodded. “I think it’d be a good idea. I know some folks. Let me make some calls. You all have been through enough for one day. Let’s tackle tomorrow’s trouble, tomorrow.”
She turned. I could hear her stomach growl. “You still want to take us to dinner?”
I handed her the prescriptions and she tucked them under her arm. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And would you please stop doing that?”
“What?”
“Calling me ‘ma’am.’ I’m not your mother.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” I gestured toward the bag. “I got her a new dictionary. That other one is sort of worn out.”
She tried to smile, turned, and walked away.
“Ma’am?”
She stopped but didn’t turn around.
“Sam?”
She turned. I took one step toward her and turned my hat in my hand. “I should have told you earlier, but—well, I read a few pages of Hope’s journal.”
This sunk in, as did the unspoken admission that I’d been suspicious of her when I gave it back.
“You might hold on to it. It could be used as evidence.”
“Why tell me now?”
“Because not to feels like lying.”
She nodded and looked away. “Yes, it does.”
I watched her go and I was pretty sure she knew I was watching. Most women do. I was about to ask myself what my father would do in this situation, but he gave me that answer a long time ago.
She disappeared and my phone rang. It was Debbie. “Hey, honey, you got a second?”
“Sure.”
“Billy Simmons is a decorated lawman out of San Antone. Pictures in all the local papers. You’re right, he runs the SWAT unit. Evidently he’s a pretty good softball player, too. Coaches both boys and girls. Took his girls team to a few championships.”
“And the license number?”
“Samantha Dyson. Female. Nothing. No outstanding warrants, parking tickets. Nothing. Thirty-three-year-old female from Cordele, Georgia. Model citizen far as I can tell.”
Figured as much. That decided a few things for me. “Is he in tomorrow?”
She checked his calendar. “No appointments that I can see but you know him… he’ll find any reason to get out of here.”
“Ask him to meet me at my house, tomorrow night. Will you?”
“Sure thing. He’ll be there.”
“Thanks, Debbie.”
“Oh, and Cowboy?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Seconds passed. I stared through the glass as Sam stepped into the elevator and the doors closed. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks again.” I clicked the phone off and scratched my head. I’d never understood how people worked their whole life, or part of it, retired, and then—for no reason that was apparent to the rest of us—came out of retirement.
Until now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Somewhere back in my childhood.
The second hand rounded past the six. Thirty seconds and counting. I double-knotted my Converse, tucked my books under my arm, and scooted to the edge of my seat. If I got out the door, down the hall, and past the lockers, I had a chance. I felt eyes over my shoulder. Some laughter. A spitball hit me in the neck. Three… two…
The bell sounded and I shot from the classroom, weaving through the kids pouring out the doors. First one out, I bounded off the steps, sprinted the sidewalk, and turned alongside the line of buses. I climbed onto the second, and chose my seat in the front row. I rode the bus after school to my grandmother’s where I’d stay until my dad picked me up and took me home to the Bar S. If he was working nights, then I just spent the night. Ms. Webster, the bus driver, lowered her paper, eyeing me over the top of her glasses. “Well… good afternoon, Tyler.”
My knees were bouncy. Eyes darting left and right. “Ma’am.”
The four of them loaded a few minutes later, each popping me in the ear or smacking me in the back of the head. Ms. Webster watched them in the rearview mirror above her head. Sitting up front meant they got their licks in when they got on, rather than at random throughout the ride. Last week, my teacher asked me to take out the trash. The Dumpster was behind the school. The buses lined up in front. That put me last on the bus. Didn’t take a genius to know they had me.
They’d saved me a seat in the middle. Of them.
There were four and most all had nicknames. The nickname thing started in school. Last summer, they’d made us read The Outsiders for summer reading and after that, everybody in school had a nickname, like it or not. A fat kid nicknamed “Knuckles.” A skinny kid who wore Coke-bottle glasses, we called him “Eyes.” An eighth-grade scrapper named Stacey, which probably explained why he was called “Scrapper.” And the fourth kid was known as “Holes,” because he was big, like a black hole. He was a foot and a half taller than every other kid in fifth grade and he wore a size eleven shoe.
Ms. Webster hadn’t even shifted into second when Scrapper reached over and grabbed the top of my underwear while Holes turned around and pushed down on my shoulders. Scrapper pulled so hard it tore the elastic band off my shorts and caused my underwear to cut into the skin at the top of my crack. Throughout the ride, he kept holding up his prize. Once he hung it around my neck. When I teared up, the taunting grew worse.
I’d become a lot wiser since then, but it wasn’t enough.
The bus stopped, door swung open, I tucked both my books under my arm and bounded off, washed in a wave of spent diesel and West Texas dust. The shuffling grew louder behind me. So did the footsteps. I knew better than to turn around. I took off. My Converse high-tops were a white blur. One block. Then two. A third and I was out of breath with a cramp in my stomach. I stopped, pinched my side, caught my breath, crossed the street, and glanced over my shoulder.
Ten days ago, I’d walked into the bathroom and found the four of them surrounding a stall. They were giggling like hyenas. Ginny Prater stood against the far wall, no skirt, no panties. She was crying, knees together and trying to pull her sweater down over her privates. Sunlight reflected off her glasses, which were lying on the ground across the bathroom.
Scrapper had turned, held out his palm and said, “Get out. Ain’t no affair of yours.”
I didn’t want any part of Scrapper. Nor did I want to take on all four of them. So, to Ginny’s great dismay, I simply nodded, shut the door, and yanked down hard on the fire alarm. Then I casually walked down the hallway while Mr. Turner ran from his empty class and began checking all the rooms between his and the exit—the first being the bathroom. Each boy got two weeks after-school detention and a phone call home. The detention was no big deal. The calls home were. Each boy got blistered.
I was about to pay for the blistering.
I learned later that Ginny had been a willing participant in a “you-show-me-I’ll-show-you” sort of deal. It turned sour when the guys wanted to see more than she wanted to show and add the element of touch.
I turned the last corner and saw my grandmother’s house in the distance. I sprinted past the last few driveways gasping for air, turned into my garage and pushed on the garage door. It didn’t budge. I leaned hard. It was locked.
Our back door was never locked.
I banged on the door. “Grandma! Grandma!”
Beyond the door, I heard slow footsteps, felt her hand turn the doorknob. Behind me, heavy feet pounded the sidewalk. She cracked open the door. Fresh coffee wafted from inside. I heard the percolator gurgling on the stove. I could see her nose and lips. “Tyler… I’m not letting you in this door.”
“What!” I he
ard an evil giggle just outside the garage. I pushed on the door but the chain held it fast. My voice rose. “Why?”
She stood back, looking down at me. “Sooner or later, you got to face what’s facing you.” With that, she shut the door and thumbed the bolt across.
I turned slowly. I was scared and starting to cry. I wanted to throw up. I peed a little bit. Scrapper mocked me, “Look at the crybaby. Mommy can’t help him ’cause he ain’t got no mommy.”
Scrapper was the first kid I knew to shave and I didn’t want any part of him but he had just said the wrong thing. And something in the way he said it dislodged something in me. More than that, it made me forget that I was afraid. I came off the concrete step and nailed Scrapper with a wild hook. Blood shot across the garage like an exploding balloon. Scrapper hit his knees and started shaking his head and blowing tomato puree from his nose. Holes and Eyes were momentarily stunned by the sight but Knuckles came at me so I kicked him as hard as I could in the gut. That brought him to his knees. He started making noises like he was about to blow chunks. Holes made some loud noise letting me know I was about to get it. I picked up my granddaddy’s anvil, the one he used to beat bent plows and sharpen knives. I could only lift it about a foot off the ground. Holes stepped in, and I let go. The tip of the anvil caught the top of Holes’s foot and he screamed like a girl.
Scrapper recovered, jumped on me, put me in a headlock, and rushed me toward the wall. Just before my face hit the two-by-four stud, I squirted loose and kicked backward with my foot. That sent Scrapper flying like Superman into his own target. If his nose wasn’t broken before, it was now. He lay on the floor screaming.
Eyes had bolted, leaving his glasses, splattered with Scrapper’s blood, on the garage floor. I picked them up and set them on my granddaddy’s worktable so they wouldn’t get crushed. I took a few deep breaths, stepped over Holes and knocked on the back door. I was shaking so I hooked my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans. My voice quivered. “Granny…”
The dead bolt clicked and the door swung open. She stood, a cup of coffee in her hands. “Can I come in now?” She raised an eyebrow and stared around me into the garage. Knuckles was retching; Holes was holding his foot, crying; Scrapper was a soaking red mess.