He took the pill bottle and weighed it in his hand, he was beginning to change his mind again, right there it was all you needed, go out with a smile on your face. There's your choice, he thought. One way or the other you will lose them. It seemed so obvious, he had never thought of it that way before. He had been fighting a battle that he would never win. Dragging them all down with you.
He held the bottle in his hand. No, it would just be from shame. That would not be the right way. They would go down much too easy. You can bear the burden yourself for once, that is not too much to ask, bear your own burden. Well? He put the container back into his pocket. How many did I take? Three I think. Not enough to kill me. Except any minute now you'll be feeling pretty good. Wrap that blanket around you so you don't freeze.
He looked out over the dark woods and the river in the distance, it was a good spot he had chosen, you could see all the way down the Valley. Many good years, more than anyone deserved, it was time to do what was best for the others. For his family. As he thought this the land seemed to fall away, he was on a high ledge, there was a wall of stars and sky in front of him. He had never seen anything like it. The air was so clear. With his last bit of energy, before he fell asleep, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders and began to feel warm.
4. Harris
He parked his truck around the corner from the first address. The grass in the small front yard was cut but in the rear of the house the lot was badly overgrown. A large willow tree hung over the yard and there was the shell of an ancient Oldsmobile and a wheelless farm tractor, strangely out of place in the small backyard. A refrigerator sat on the back porch, humming noisily, and the roof of the porch sagged so low it nearly blocked the door to the house. Harris discerned only one person inside and he stayed in the shadows and made his way through the waist-high brush trying to avoid debris that was hidden in the grass. He went through the back door. In the living room an old woman was lying on a narrow bed with an oxygen tank stood up next to her. He put his gun away.
“Where's Murray,” he said to her.
“He ain't here,” she said. “He don't have any money, neither.”
They looked at each other.
“Been laid off three years,” she said. “You ain't gonna get nothing from him.”
— — —
Several hours after dark he was in a different neighborhood, sitting on an empty bucket in an abandoned house. As far as he could tell, the houses on this end of the street were all empty—the grass was tall in all the yards, except for a clear path beaten through that led from the street to the porch of the house he had his eye on. At the far end of the block there were two houses with their porch lights on, but aside from that there was no sign of habitation. At midnight a few deer strolled down the street, it was strange to see them walking on pavement, browsing on bushes, then they filed between the house he was sitting in and the house he was watching. They didn't spook or notice his presence and he took it for a good omen.
He was wearing gloves and a watch cap but he was beginning to get cold and hungry. Around three A.M., a pair of men went into the house he'd been watching and he was pretty sure one of them was Murray. The electricity must have been off because they were lighting candles and building up a fire in a fireplace. Shortly after that, one of the men went into another room and lay down. It wasn't the best situation, two men being there, he wondered if he should wait until he could get Murray alone but there was no telling what would happen, Murray Clark might up and disappear at any minute, come back for the trial.
He watched for another half hour and decided the second man was asleep.
He opened and closed the revolver's cylinder and checked his .45 to make sure there was a round chambered, there was a faint glow from the night sights. At least you can see your sights, he thought, it was comforting, he was happy he'd gotten those sights installed, it was Ho who'd made him do it, gun's no good if you can't see your sights, those were not things Harris worried about. It had always seemed like bad luck to think about those things too much, about the particulars of your weapons, it was like looking for an excuse to use the weapon. The best way into this house was from the back, past the bedroom where the second man was sleeping now.
The steps creaked slightly but he froze for a long time and didn't hear anything. He opened the back door very slowly and made his way inside, through a kitchen, there was junk and boxes piled everywhere, construction debris, a long hallway to the front room. As he made his way down the hallway, someone said, “That you, Jesús?”
He took a few quick steps and he was into the living room holding on to the gun in his coat pocket, there were two old couches and candles stuck in beer bottles.
There was a man in his forties sitting on the sofa. There were circles under his eyes and he hadn't shaved in a long time.
“Murray,” said Harris.
“You look familiar,” said Murray. He peered at Harris's face under the watch cap. “Chief Harris?”
Harris took the revolver from his pocket and pointed it at Murray. Murray put his hands up.
“Whoa,” he said. “You got the wrong guy, Chief.”
“You need to leave this valley,” Harris heard himself say. He had a distant awareness that his finger had come to rest on the trigger.
“Sure,” said Murray. “Anything you say.”
“If anyone tells me they even saw you in this state they're gonna find you in the river. I find out you've been talking to that DA in Uniontown anymore, same thing.”
“I'm gone,” said Murray, but then he made a strange gesture and Harris felt someone behind him and he knew it was either turn around or pull the trigger. He pulled the trigger. The gun went off and Murray knuckled over on the couch. Someone tackled Harris from behind, sending them both crashing into the wall. He tried to roll the man off but he was pinned on his stomach with the man on top of him, there was a peculiar feeling, he was being punched in the ribs but it hurt more; the man was stabbing him but having a hard time getting through his vest. Then he dropped his knife and went for Harris's gun. Both of his hands were pinning the revolver to the floor and working it out of Harris's right hand. Harris's other gun was in his rear waistband and he was arching his back trying to get at it left- handed, the grip was facing the wrong way, the man broke something in Harris's hand, Harris heard the noise but barely noticed, he was focusing on getting each finger of his left hand closed around the grip of his automatic, the man got control of the revolver just as Harris got the .45 free and cleared the safety with his index finger and crammed the muzzle into the tangle of hair behind the man's ear. He was faintly aware of the gun going off, saw the shell casing bounce off the wall next to him. Murray stumbled past and Harris shot him through the pelvis; Murray made it through the door and was gone.
The room was dark with only the flickering light from the candle; he rolled out from under the dead man and ran out onto the porch after Murray half deaf; the .45 had gone off right next to his head. He couldn't hear his own footsteps, it felt like his ears were clogged.
The street was pitch black and his heart sank—there was nothing. He raised the gun in his left hand and scanned closely fumbling in his pocket for the flashlight, looking for anything moving, there—something there in the brush at twenty or twenty- five yards, he got his light out and worked it with his mostly broken hand and saw Murray, crouched over and limping through the undergrowth; when the light hit him he froze. Harris made a small adjustment to his sights and shot him between the shoulderblades. Then he fired a second careful shot.
When Harris caught up to him Murray was on his hands and knees, as if praying to someone Harris couldn't see. He seemed to have no idea he wasn't alone and after a few seconds he sank slowly into the tall grass, not moving again. Harris's hands were shaking; he tried to reholster his gun, but couldn't.
He stayed in the shadows on the way back to his truck, a two- block walk. He couldn't get his head clear, all he could think was Keep Moving. Should
have gotten their wallets, make this look like something else. Too late. His right hand was broken and throbbing. There was one shell casing in the house or maybe it was two and then a few more on the porch—he couldn't remember how many shots he'd fired. It was too dark to find the shell casings. The revolver was still in there as well—had his gloves come off? No. Is your hat still on? He checked. Yes.
Before getting into his truck he shucked off his hat, coat, and gloves because of the blood and powder residue, threw them in the bed of the pickup, and pulled out as quietly as he could, driving without headlights until he reached the main road. As he drove he tried to inspect himself but his hands were shaking badly, under his vest he could feel blood trickling down his side but he didn't want to stop to see how bad it was. He was still breathing easily so it couldn't be all that bad, the Kevlar had done its job. Two miles away and counting. He watched the odometer. Three miles.
Shortly after that he killed the lights and stopped at a turnaround next to the river to throw the .45 far out into the water. He pulled out and was driving down the road again when he realized he'd forgotten to get rid of the coat and hat in the back of the truck. Everything else, too, he thought. He stopped at the next pullout and changed into his spare clothes and running shoes and threw everything he'd been wearing, including the Kevlar, into the river.
He got to the office as the sun was coming up. He wondered who would take care of his dog.
5. Poe
The rushing came back to his head, so loud he couldn't stand it but he couldn't make it stop and there was a feeling of motion, I am in the river, he thought, I am going over the falls. Ninety over sixty, he heard. The feeling didn't so much stop as slowly fade and he could see again and it was bright. I fell. I am in the dirt by the house under the tree. The light was very bright. They were trying to cram something in his mouth, they were choking him, he was going to throw up. He's back, someone said. Get the tube out. Mr. Poe stay with us. There were ceiling tiles and bright lights. The rushing was back in his ears and he was seeing things, he was moving again, the falling feeling in his stomach, he was going over, he wanted to get away from the sounds. Stay with us Mr. Poe. They are touching me, he thought. He reached a hand down to cover his nakedness, they had taken his clothes. Squeeze my hand William. William can you hear me?
He tried to sit up, there wasn't enough air.
“No no no,” they all said. There were strong hands holding him.
“Mr. Poe do you know where you are?”
He did remember but it seemed like if he didn't answer them he might make it untrue. There were other things he worried he might say, about Isaac. I won't say anything, he thought, they are trying to make me talk.
“You may have hurt your neck. You can't move until we get the pictures back.”
Crippled, he thought. He felt tears coming into his eyes. He was having trouble breathing, he couldn't get enough air in.
“Do you know where you are,” they said. “William. William can you hear me?”
“You've got holes in your lungs. We're going to get the fluid out so you can breathe. It's going to hurt a little bit.”
He tried to speak but nothing came out. He wanted to go back to sleep.
“Hold him,” they said.
They stabbed him in the side with something and then it went deeper and then they were putting something so deep in him that the pain was coming right from the center of him, he was rushing again, moving, and then he was awake, he could hear himself screaming.
“Hold him,” he heard someone shouting and he knew they were talking about him, don't he told them don't don't don't don't and then he felt himself go down and under.
He came up in a different room. Very bright lights. Someone was right over him. They were doing something to his head. Stop, he said, but no sound came out. Stop, he said, but his lips wouldn't move and there was something over his face. He tried to move it but he couldn't. His arm wouldn't move. They were doing something to him. He could smell something, it was burning hair, they were doing something to him. He's awake, said someone. I see it, someone else said, and then he felt the tingling rush up his arm. I have felt this before, he thought, and then he was under the water again.
— — —
When he came up the third time it was dark. He remembered not to sit up. He looked down at himself and tried not to move too much. In a bed. Blankets on me. There was an IV bag hanging on one side of him and a window on the other with yellow light coming through it, he thought there might be houses outside. There was another bed in the room and someone was snoring. Quiet, he said, and then he felt guilty. There were machines beeping and chirping. Quiet, he whispered. He couldn't see the machines. I will sit up. They can't stop me. He moved and the pain came back everywhere and then he slipped under it.
Stay down. Stay down, he thought. Move your toes. He couldn't see his feet. He tried to move his arm but it wouldn't go anywhere, he looked and saw it was handcuffed to the bedrail. There was a deep pain in his chest and sides but he could breathe now. They got my head all wrapped up. He touched it. Something sticking out of my head. There was a tube, a plastic tube coming out of the back of his skull. Stay down. After a minute it occurred to him: I am alive.
6. Isaac
When he walked into the door there was a cop behind the desk, the short Asian one from the night he and Poe had been caught at the machine shop. He was drinking coffee and looked like he'd been up for days.
“I need to talk to Chief Harris,” said Isaac.
Ho looked at him. “He isn't available.”
There's your excuse, thought Isaac. But then he said, “I see his truck out there. Tell him it's Isaac English.”
Ho got up reluctantly and disappeared down a hallway. Isaac watched: your last chance. But he knew he was not going to leave. There was not another way to do it.
Then Ho came back. “Door at the end.”
Isaac went down the hall alone and knocked on the metal door and then, he didn't know why, opened it before he heard an answer. It was a big room and something was strange about it, the same cinderblock walls and fluorescent lights as the rest of the building, but the furniture was all wood and leather and there were paintings hanging on the walls. Harris was sitting up on a couch, a blanket around his shoulders. He was pale and disheveled and one of his hands was taped with a splint.
“You're back in town.”
“I'm turning myself in.”
“Whoa,” said Harris. He put his hand up to stop Isaac's speech, stood up slowly, clearly in some pain, and walked to the door. He checked outside and then closed and locked it. “Come sit.” He motioned to the couch. Isaac sat down on one side, Harris on the other.
“Billy Poe didn't kill that homeless guy,” Isaac said.
Harris looked stricken. He sagged back against the cushion and closed his eyes. “Please don't say anything else,” he asked quietly.
“I'm telling you the truth.”
“No, you're not.”
“Billy and I were—”
But Harris leaned over suddenly and took him by the shirt, as an older brother might, and put his hand so as to nearly cover Isaac's mouth. His skin was pale and damp- looking and Isaac could smell his sour breath.
“The district attorney just called to tell me that those two men you were in that factory with were found dead.” He let go of Isaac and sat back toward his side of the couch. “All three of those men are gone now, Isaac. The only people from that night who are still here are you and Billy Poe. You understand?”
“What happened to them?”
“It could have been anything,” said Harris.
They sat in silence for a long time, it might have been minutes, until Harris got up slowly and went to his desk and opened a wooden box, taking a long time to peer into it before removing a cigar. “You don't smoke these, do you?”
“No.”
“I need one.” He cut the end off and lit it and stood by the open window. He seemed to b
e collecting himself.
“I don't know if you know this, because when I went to your house to talk to you, you had already taken off. They charged Billy with killing that man but it now appears they'll have to let him go. And you they've never heard of and I'm guessing that since Billy hasn't given you up yet, he probably won't ever, especially once his lawyer hears about these new developments. Which I'll call her as soon as we're done here.”
“When did he get locked up?”
“I don't remember exactly. Last week sometime?”
“What was he charged with?”
“He was charged with killing that man,” said Harris. “With murder.”
“He didn't say anything?”
Harris shook his head.
Isaac was quiet a minute. “I'm going to leave here,” he said. “I should probably go live with my sister in Connecticut.” He was surprised to hear himself say it. But it felt right.
“That's a good idea,” Harris told him.
“So what happens to Billy?”
“Probably after a month, give or take, they'll have no choice but to release him.” He walked away from the window and took a pen and a notepad from his desk. “Listen, you start feeling bad about something, you come see me. I'm going to give you my cell number and my home number, too, just call me and I'll meet you.”
“I don't think that'll be necessary,” said Isaac. “I think I feel fine.”
“You did the right thing, you know that? I wish I could give you something for coming down here, because I don't think I've known many people who would have done it. But now …” He shrugged. “Time for you to go home.”
— — —
Isaac felt himself walk out of the office, down the steps, and onto the road toward town. The clouds were beginning to move. He was halfway through town and nearly to the river when it occurred to him that he'd decided to trust Harris. The others as well. He would try that and see how it turned out.