by Todd Young
The judge nodded and then turned to Rafe’s lawyer, to McIntyre.
He began by pointing to Rafe’s school career, to the fact that he’d been a good student, and then went on to impress upon the judge his good standing in the community. He was an upright young man; he’d never been charged with an offense, let alone convicted; he was from a good family; the motive the prosecution outlined was ephemeral; the locket was immaterial; there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t cooperate on his own recognizance, and “for those reasons I ask you to grant him bail, your honor.”
The judge nodded, and then began. He summarized what the prosecution had said, and presented one or two arguments in their favor. He understood that they were not yet in possession of a warrant to search the grounds. But on the other hand, no body had been found. There was no certainty that any crime had been committed. He had to work on the assumption that the accused was innocent, and had no reason to believe he would fail to cooperate. “I see no reason to oppose bail,” he concluded, and granted it in the order of one million dollars.
Jack reeled backward, but Rafe looked up and momentarily brightened.
They led him away, and Jack hastened out of the courtroom.
38
In the waiting room, there was a magazine titled Texas Farmhand. It had a photograph of a grinning young man on the cover, and Jack couldn’t help smiling when he saw it. He reached for it, figuring everything suddenly seemed so much brighter, but was forestalled by the guy on the desk, who said, “Mr Carter’s coming out now.”
Jack stood up.
“Jack!”
“Rafe. How you doing?”
“Oh, good now. Good.”
Rafe had to sign a form for property, and he was then handed his cheque book. They walked toward the front door.
“Don’t come back now,” the officer said.
Rafe grinned.
They stepped onto the street. The day was bright and hot, and it looked as though it would storm again this afternoon. A large bank of dark cloud was hanging on the horizon to the west.
Rafe winced. “Hey, you didn’t take a cheque out of this cheque book did you?”
“No.”
“There’s one missing,” Rafe said. “An empty stub.” He opened it, leaned against Jack’s shoulder and thumbed the empty stub.
A passing man whistled at Rafe.
“You think they’d give you something else to wear,” Jack said.
Rafe colored. He tugged at his shirt tails. “That means Mike, I guess.”
“Mike?”
“Taking a cheque out.”
“Oh—I see. But …” he said, “I …” He didn’t see when Mike could have done it.
“Where is your car?” Rafe said.
“I had to park it a couple of streets over.”
“Right,” Rafe said. “I really need to go into the bank.”
They walked up onto Main Street and down a block to the West Texas First. A waft of air conditioning lifted Rafe’s shirt as they walked through the door. “Fuck that,” he said, tugging at his shirt tails again.
A woman with pink hair, an elderly woman with a rinse, frowned at Rafe. “Stop that talk,” she said. “And put some clothes on, young man.”
“Yes, Mrs McArdle.”
Jack frowned.
The manager stepped out of his office and approached Rafe with a faux smile. “Good afternoon, Mr Carter,” he said. “Glad to see you again.”
Rafe nodded. “I want to stop a cheque,” he said. He opened his cheque book and thumbed the stub. “I didn’t write this one.”
“Sure. I’ll take care of it.”
Rafe handed him the cheque book.
“You want a coffee while you wait?”
“That’d be great,” said Rafe. “I haven’t had one all day.” He glanced at Jack. “I’m thirsting for one.”
Jack nodded.
“Would you like one, sir,” the manager said.
“I’m fine.”
“You want to step into the office with me, Mr Carter?”
“Sure,” Rafe said.
Jack hesitated.
Rafe tugged on his fingers. “Come on.”
They took seats in the office.
“Can you tell me if it’s been paid?” Rafe said to the manager, speaking of the cheque. “It can only have been written yesterday.”
“Then I’d say no.” He began tapping at his computer. “No,” he said a moment later. “Nothing’s gone out of your account today.”
Rafe relaxed.
A few moments later a secretary entered, a young woman with blond hair. She carried a coffee on a tray along with a plate of biscuits.
“Hi, Rafe,” she said.
“Hi, Jennifer.”
Was this the same Jennifer, Jack wondered, the Jennifer who was going to take over the drug dealing? He eyed her for a moment. He supposed working in a bank wasn’t the quickest way to make money.
“I tried to call you last night,” she said.
“I was in the courthouse.”
“I really need to speak to you.”
Rafe nodded. “I’ll call you later.”
She smiled and left, with a glance at the manager, who looked up and said, “There. It’s stopped. The cheque, I mean.”
39
Jack’s car had chalk on the wheels and a ticket beneath the windshield wiper.
“Fuck that!” he said.
“A ticket?”
Jack nodded grimly. It was fifty-seven dollars. He’d spent so much money today. But what about Rafe? A million for bail? Had he simply written a cheque?
Jack shook his head and climbed into the car. Rafe could really help him out with money. He really only needed a million to be secure. But why would Rafe do that? If they were lovers, then he supposed he might not have to work again, but were they likely to become lovers?
He threw a sidelong glance at Rafe, at his white-blond hair and smiling face. He was so young and tender, his thighs so golden. The tip of his penis was just visible.
“What?” Rafe said.
“Nothing.”
Jack started the car and pulled onto Main Street. He travelled along behind a Mercedes that was following a Winnebago. They seemed to be going along quickly enough, perhaps too quickly, and then suddenly, everything came to a crashing halt. The Winnebago’s tires squealed and it keeled sidewards. He heard a sickening thud, and only just managed to stop his car, screeching to a halt behind the Mercedes.
“What was that?” Rafe said.
Jack blinked rapidly. He didn’t know, but it hadn’t sounded like metal. They got out and walked cautiously toward the Winnebago, which was slewed across the street, all but wedged between the traffic calming barriers. A woman screamed, and people came running from every direction.
Then Jack saw her. It was Susan. She’d been struck by the Winnebago. She was lying in an awkward position, half on her back and half on her side, and a rose of blood the shape of a cauliflower was outlining her head on the stark white paint of a pedestrian crossing.
“Oh, fuck,” Rafe said.
“Susan?”
Jack bent down and lifted her hand.
“Don’t touch her,” a man said. “She might have spinal injuries.”
Jack ignored this, though he later thought it unwise. He pressed Susan’s hand. “Susan!” he said. But she was dead.
“Is she dead?” Rafe said.
Jack nodded.
“What are you wearing, young man?” someone said to Rafe.
“Oh, would you shut up,” Jack said. “She’s dead.”
He looked up and saw Carol, her mouth open wide. She’d been running to the spot and had just seen Susan. She collapsed onto her knees and fell forward. Em was behind her.
“Oh, shit!” Jack said. He got up.
A moment later, he was helping Carol to her feet. She was wearing a white dress and had badly hurt her knees. Now there was more blood.
“We need to get this traffic moving
,” an officer said. “The ambulance won’t be able to get in here.”
“But she’s dead!” a man cried.
A large crowd had formed and the officer was fighting to hold them back from the body. Carol simply had to see, however. Jack supported her on one side, Em on the other.
“This is her sister,” Jack said to the officer, and he stood aside.
“Oh, Susan,” Carol said. “How on Earth has this happened?” She glanced at Rafe, frowned, and turned to Susan again. “Is she really dead?”
Jack nodded.
Em said, “Check her pulse.”
Jack reached for her neck with two fingers, but already the skin felt cold.
Thunder sounded in the distance. Then it began to rain, large drops like coins spattering onto the blood on the pedestrian crossing. The crowd thinned, and then the people in the Winnebago were trying to drive around the body, directed by the officer. They skirted Susan’s hand narrowly, missing her fingers by half an inch. The Mercedes came by, a boy maybe four or five staring out of the window at Susan, his mouth agape. Jack felt like vomiting. He wretched.
“Whose is the Lincoln?” the officer said.
Jack stood up. “I’ll have to go.”
Em nodded, but Carol was blank-faced, her mouth a grim line, her eyes fixed on Susan’s body. She glanced at Rafe again, frowned, and then turned to Em. “Why is he wearing a dress?” she said.
40
On the drive home the rain eased up, yet the clouds darkened and rolled in overhead.
“I have to ask you something,” Rafe said.
“What is that?”
“When we get home, can you help me with the body?”
“The body?”
“With Sissy.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It’s in the barn. I buried it beneath some hay bales, beneath the soil, but they might come back to search the grounds.”
“Shit!”
“I know.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Put her in the river.”
Jack nodded. He tightened his grip on the wheel and pressed the accelerator a little. The Lincoln roared ahead. Jack passed the stretch of forest that had been burned out and then turned off. As they passed the few houses in Sebring Lane, Jack glanced at them. He thought of the people inside and then thought of Rafe and he burying a body together.
He pulled into the drive so quickly he almost collided with Rafe’s Volvo. They came to a rocking halt. Rafe sat for a moment with his eyes closed, and then nodded slowly.
“You mind helping me with this?”
“No.”
“You’re the only one who knows.”
“Good.”
“You never will tell, will you?”
“I’m in love with you, Rafe. Why would I tell?”
Inside, the house was dark, and after having been locked all day, stiflingly hot. He had the impression he’d had in old houses before, of the house sitting silently, aware now of him, and of Rafe. In the kitchen, the tap was dripping.
“I need another coffee,” Rafe said.
“I could use one too.”
Rafe nodded.
Jack wandered into the family room and opened the wide, glass doors. Rafe reached for the windows. It was so hot, the air so humid, the clouds so dark and ominous.
They stood at the counter and drank the coffee quickly. Jack guessed the police might come, and wondered if five minutes would make the difference in the end. He imagined being down by the river with the body as they approached, when five minutes earlier they would have been safe.
Rafe downed his cup, and Jack said, “Come on!”
Then a car horn sounded.
“Shit!” Rafe said.
“Who’s that?”
“Mike.”
Jack glanced at the table. “Sit down,” he said.
Rafe nodded.
They took a seat and waited.
A few moments later Mike called out from the hall. “Rafe!”
“In here,” Rafe cried.
“There you are!” He took a breath and gulped. It looked as though he’d been crying. “I need to talk to you about those photos.”
“What photos?”
“Those photos you took last night.”
Rafe closed his eyes.
“I want you to delete them. I thought about it, and if anybody saw those … what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Really?”
Rafe nodded.
“Well, can you delete the photos?”
“If I have to, but that wasn’t what you said. You said I could have you in that sense. You said I had the rights to your body on film. You signed a contract.”
“Yeah, but … can you delete them?”
Rafe nodded. Jack handed him his phone. Rafe frowned, tapped the screen a few times, and then appeared to be doing something rather complex.
“Have you deleted them?” Mike said.
“Hang on.”
“What are you doing?”
“Emailing them to myself.”
“Can you just delete them, please?”
“But you signed a contract.”
“Well, I want out of the contract.” He wiped the back of his hand across his nose.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
Mike sighed. He glanced at Rafe’s thighs with what appeared to be sexual interest. “Don’t let anyone see them.”
“I won’t—unless I want to sell them.”
“Is that part of it?”
“You know it is.”
Mike nodded. “Rafe. You know, I like you a lot, but you really confuse me. I thought you killed Sissy—but now, you’re home again.”
Rafe remained silent.
“What did they say today? That you weren’t guilty?”
Again, Rafe remained silent.
“I guess you want me to go.”
Silence.
“I’ll get going then.”
41
“Shit! He’s gone,” Rafe said from behind a window in the hall.
“Come on, then,” Jack said. If they were going to do this, they had to get moving.
“Right,” Rafe said. He turned away from the window and smiled a gentle smile at Jack. “We have to go out to the barn.”
Jack nodded.
Rafe led them out of the house and across a darkened backyard. The clouds had a green tinge to them now. Hail, Jack figured. Rafe unlatched the barn and pulled back the door for Jack, and then, once they were inside, closed the door again. It was dark and dusty, the last of the afternoon sun spilling through the boards at oblique angles. The hay smelled fresh, and Jack wondered if Rafe had recently bought any. Perhaps he’d bought some for the party. Several bales sat in a large pile to one side of the tractor. Rafe moved towards these.
“She’s under here,” he said.”
Jack nodded.
Rafe gripped the topmost bale and hefted it onto the ground, twisting his body, and throwing it behind him. It hit the wall of the barn with a resounding thud and the boards rattled. He reached for a second, said, “Come on,” and then hefted it, too.
Jack reached for a bale and hefted it aside, then a second. There were fifteen bales on the spot, and though Jack hadn’t puzzled over them when Rafe showed him the barn, he supposed someone easily might. It took less than ten minutes to move them and reveal the bare earth, and then it was easy for Jack to see that the earth had been disturbed, that something had been buried here, or that at some point there’d been a fire on the spot.
He stood back and put his hands on his hips, breathing heavily. He glanced down at his suit. It was covered in hay and hay dust. He was too hot anyway, so he took the jacket off and removed his tie. He put them on the seat of the tractor and wished Rafe had offered him clothes to wear. He should perhaps have asked, and should perhaps even now ask, but they were pressed for time. He wiped
the back of his hand across his brow.
“Well, that’s it,” Rafe said, nodding at the spot. All this time he hadn’t moved.
“Is there a shovel or a spade?”
“Both.”
Jack nodded.
Rafe collected them from the corner, bringing with them a hoe and a rake. “We’re going to have to put the bales back when we’ve finished.”
“Perhaps if you put some loose hay underneath them it won’t be so noticeable.”
Rafe considered this, or seemed to, but it was a problem.
Jack gripped a shovel and ploughed into the earth. He hit something hard and tried again, but with the same result.
“She’s right there,” Rafe said, and grimaced.
Oh, Jack thought.
“If I use the rake,” Rafe said, “and maybe a broom.” He disappeared in search of a broom, found one in the corner and reached for it, his ass once more on display. He returned to the spot, handed Jack the broom, and then picked up the rake. “I didn’t bury her deep. It was too hard.”
Jack nodded.
Rafe began raking with the rake. He moved a layer or two of soil aside and then got caught on some clothing, something yellow, a T-shirt it seemed to be. He raked further, revealed some blue jeans, and then went on, raking around the outline of a body.
Jack watched on in horror.
Rafe nodded at him. “The broom,” he said.
Jack stepped forward and began to sweep, starting at the lower end where Sissy’s jeans had been revealed. Soon he could see the outline of her legs. She was very thin, and was wearing a pair of Asics trainers. He avoided her head, straightened up, and then grimaced at Rafe.
“I’ll do it.”
He took the broom, and began to sweep around where her head must be, but not over her actual face. In time, a gritty body began to emerge, the outline of legs and arms and head, though the face had a mass of soil covering it. One of her hands emerged, the fingers earthy, and Jack sucked back a breath.
Rafe stepped away.
Jack picked up the hoe and figured he’d loose the earth around her. He struck it gently, and dragged scrapings of it aside. Then Sissy was there, everything but her face. Jack stood looking at her in silence. They both did. Then it occurred it to him that when he’d struck the earth with the shovel he must have hit her in the head.
