Rebecca closed the door to the room with a soft click and walked out of the nursing home. She ignored the woman’s greeting from the front desk, incapable of small talk or questions, and kept walking until the front door had shut behind her. As she stepped outside into the thick afternoon heat, her breath caught in her chest. She didn’t make it halfway to the car before she dropped to the ground, sobbing. Hard asphalt dug through her jeans and scratched her knees. Hands splayed on the pavement of the sidewalk, she closed her eyes as tightly as she could, hoping to shut off the tears at the source. There was no one to share this with, to draw comfort from. Unless they found Jon soon, she didn’t know if she could make it. She didn’t know if she wanted to.
9
The cop’s unmarked Ford Crown Vic was two blocks from James, weaving around parked cars and puttering down the street towards the house he shared with Tommy. James always could spot a uniform a mile away. Something in the way they drove, that quiet tip-toe down a street. Or, it could be that all the cops in their damn town drove Crown Vics.
It was a summer weekend, so the beach was overflowing into his neighborhood. Trucks, cars, and scooters lined the avenue around him, their owners abandoning the idea of finding a parking spot on the sand and just grabbing the first available curb they could find. He stood on his balcony, cigarette in one hand and coffee cup in the other, watching vehicles vomit families and beach gear all morning. He leaned on the railing and wondered if any of them had left their doors unlocked. Out of towners were usually easy pickings but there were too many of them around today to wiggle any door handles.
The car that was trying really hard not to look like a police car (but you knew it was from the tentative way it weaved around the cars and the long antennae sticking out from the roof) was almost to his house. James twisted his cigarette out on the railing and flicked it over the edge where it fell to the ground, joining the pile of previously discarded butts that lay scattered beneath the balcony. He slid the patio door open and went back into the living room, closing it shut behind him. That hadn’t taken long. He was actually a little surprised at how quickly the cops had found him and Tommy. Tommy probably snitched to someone at work. The little shit couldn’t keep a secret to save his life and he’d been all twisted up since that kid died.
James lit another cigarette and sat down on the faded blue couch. It would take the detective a minute to park, then a few more minutes to walk up the stairs to the front door. Theirs was one of many stilt houses on the beach. The porch view was great, and you could be in the water within five minutes of closing your front door behind you, but the place itself was falling apart.
When he and Tommy answered the ad, they expected to see what was promised... a cheap but decent two-bedroom, one bath beach house, fully furnished. It did have two bedrooms, and it did technically have one bathroom if you counted the small tiled nook upstairs and the outdoor shower downstairs. The shower did have four walls so there was privacy, but it was missing a roof and had a clumsily poured, uneven concrete floor to stand on. It was a dump. James didn’t consider a chipped flea market coffee table, two wicker chairs that looked like they survived the flooding from Hurricane Ike, and a table in the kitchen that had to have a stack of sugar packets shoved underneath one leg to stay steady, to be ‘furnished’. Still, it was cheaper than the others they had looked at that day and they needed a place fast. James had grown tired of living with his mama; it was putting a real dent in his time with the ladies, and Tommy had just caught his boyfriend Albert cheating on him. You’d think Tommy would have been the one to keep the house since he was innocent in the whole matter, but Albert’s cousin owned the place so what could you do? Tommy was out on his ass. James was never one to let a friend go without if he could help, so he moved in with him. Not that he had really helped much with rent and bills since he got fired by that prick Trey, but he was going to as soon as he had some cash.
James heaved himself up from the couch and crossed the living room into the kitchen. The whole place shook anytime you walked somewhere, so he knew the cop could tell someone was home. If he had parked already and started up the stairs, that is. James figured it was only a matter of time before the whole place came tumbling down. But until that happened, he and Tommy were gonna sit pretty and pay the rent until they could save up for something nicer. Or, he would sit pretty while Tommy paid the rent. James opened the fridge, sniffed the expired carton of milk, and chugged a few gulps before he placed it back on the shelf. He wiped milk dribble off his chin with his sleeve and hoped that would be enough to cover up the smell of alcohol he knew was on his breath. Not that there was a law against drinking in your own damn house at one in the afternoon, but he didn’t want to give the detective any reason to take special notice of him. He did just kill a man after all, he and Tommy. Oh yeah, his little snot-nosed kid too. But James figured that didn’t really count. They didn’t actually kill the kid. They sure didn’t stop the car from going into the water, even after they saw his face pop up in that back window, but they didn’t fucking kill him.
James was just glad Tommy wasn’t home. He would blow their cover for sure. The chicken shit was terrible at lying and had already been freaking out about the whole business. Two minutes with Tommy, and the detective would arrest the both of them.
There were three hard raps on the door. James supposed one wasn’t enough to be heard and two was for friendly visits. Three was for business.
He opened the front door and sure as shit, there was a man holding out a detective’s badge. He was a big one. Ain’t no way James could take down a man like that. He wasn’t ugly, even with his pathetic porn ‘stache holding crumbs from what James guessed were donuts, but he wasn’t a pretty boy neither. He looked arrogant, like he had all the answers to a test you didn’t know you were about to take.
“Hello, I’m Detective Barnes with the Galveston County Sheriff’s Office and I’m looking for a James Porter. Are you him?”
“Well that depends. Is he in trouble?”
“No, of course not. We’re just tracking down some information. Did you ever or do you currently own a...” He pulled a small notebook out of his front pocket and flipped it open, checking his notes. “... 1984 white Chevy van?”
“Yeah, that’s what I drive. What happened? Did someone steal my shit?” James poked his head out of the front door to try to see around the detective and into the street in front of his house. There was his van all right, parked halfway up on the curb. So why the hell did the dumb ass come up there with his questions if he could see the damn thing sitting right there?
Shit.
Maybe someone saw him that night down by the bridge. James’ mind reeled. He needed to come up with something before the detective asked what he knew was probably coming next... where was he that night? He pulled his head back into the doorway but not before seeing Tommy round the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Fuck. He must have just gotten off work. Figures the one damn day he got off early to be the one time James didn’t want him around.
“Sir, so that is your van sitting out front?” The detective moved aside and nodded a greeting as Tommy went into the house.
“Hey, Tommy! Uh yeah, that’s my van.” He put his arm around Tommy, gripping him tighter than he needed to, hoping he would get the hint. “This here’s Tommy, Tommy, meet Detective Burns.”
“Barnes, Detective Barnes.”
“Yeah that’s what I said. Tommy, Detective Burns was asking about my van down there but he didn’t say why yet...” James looked at Barnes with wide eyes, “Detective, what’s going on?”
The detective’s eyes narrowed as he watched Tommy’s face twitch in obvious distress. “We’re just tracking down all older model van owners in the area. One was involved in an incident a few weeks ago.”
“Oh shit, did I not pay the parking meter over on South Avenue? I was just popping in to Mikel’s Pub for a quick beer, I was only parked there like five minutes.”
“No sir, th
is was a bit more serious than that.”
“What day was this ‘incident’, ‘cause I was probably working or with Tommy here, we do everything together, ain’t that right, Tommy?”
“Sure, I mean yeah... yeah we do everything together.” Tommy gulped and avoided eye contact with the detective.
Barnes swatted a mosquito off his neck and looked down at his notebook. “Let’s see now... June 8th, afternoon. It was a Friday.” He looked back up at James and Tommy, “Where were you, Mr. Porter?”
“Hmm...” James rubbed his chin and looked past the detective. “Let’s see, June 8th... wasn’t that the day you and I went fishing, Tommy? Yeah, we was down on North Jetty, but the Rays kept taking all our bait. You remember, Tommy, you got that hook caught in your ear remember? See detective, there’s still a scar right there on his ear.”
The detective looked at Tommy who promptly held his shaggy blond hair back so he could see his ear. It wasn’t a hook, but a damn cat that had ripped into the top of Tommy’s ear. Mrs Donaldson’s old black tomcat down at 240B, that fucking thing was always in their yard. Tommy was trying to pet it, the dumb ass, when he got the bright idea to pick it up and cuddle it. James was checking the mail when he heard the scream and looked up to see Tommy drop the cat and run to the house, blood trickling between the fingers clutching his ear. James waited until Mrs Donaldson was at her bingo game and shot the cat the next day. He threw the limp body into her trash can and covered it up with a pizza box. A few days later Mrs. Donaldson knocked on their door asking if they had seen the cat. James had laughed at her and said “Hell no, I hate cats,” before slamming the door in her face. Tommy knew it wasn’t a hook, but James caught his eye when the detective shuffled through that little notebook of his. Tommy knew when to shut up and listen and he was listening real good right then.
“Yep, sorry detective,” Tommy touched the scar on his ear and straightened up as tall as he could. “We was fishin’ all day together.”
James clapped the detective on the shoulder, “See there, Detective Burns, it couldn’t of been us. What happened anyway? Tommy and I love a juicy story. Was it in the papers? Tommy, I bet it was someone ran over that Mrs Donaldson’s cat that she’s been looking for.”
The detective moved out from under James’ hand, closed his notebook, and slowly put it back in his breast pocket. “Thanks for your cooperation, you boys have a good day.” He turned and started back down the stairs before stopping. He swiveled around to face James and Tommy, still standing in the doorway. He cocked his head to the side, holding eye contact with James.
James winked and closed the door. He turned to face Tommy and whispered, “Now listen here, that’s the story and you’re fucking sticking to it okay? I don’t want to hear any of your whiny bullshit.”
“But James!” Tommy’s face was turning red and his eyes darted around, looking for his inhaler. “James, he knows! Oh my god, we’re gonna go to jail! My mom’s gonna kill me! What are we gonna do?”
James grabbed the inhaler from the kitchen counter and tossed it to Tommy. “Damnit, breathe before you pass out. We’re not gonna do shit, I told you. Stick to the damn story. He don’t know shit. He’s gonna go back to eating his donuts and banging the girls that give him free coffee over by the putt putt, and you’re gonna do nothing. Do you hear me, Tommy? Besides, we used fake names. Even if someone was there and heard something... they’ll be looking for other people that ain’t us.”
“But James, he knows! Did you see his face? He knows we was lyin’! Shit, why’d I let you get me involved in this?” Tommy took a deep breath and pressed the inhaler down into its case, pumping the mist of medicine into his lungs.
“Because if I go down, you’re going down with me. We were both there that night, or did you forget?”
“I wasn’t the one that shot him!”
James took a step closer to Tommy, his voice low and level. “You’re in this with me, Tommy. Now quit being a little bitch and just let it go. That fucker can’t prove nothing, or we’d have left with him in the back of his fucking car. I’m telling you, we’re golden.”
10
Detective Barnes kept telling Rebecca they were doing everything they could, but she knew it wasn’t enough. They still hadn’t found Jon or found out anything else about what had happened that night. It was a busy road, but no one saw anything, or hadn’t come forward if they did. All they knew was an old van had stopped, a car was washed clean of any evidence by the water, and a child was dead. Barnes was patient with her every time she called, when he did answer the phone. Lately it went straight to his voicemail. Of course he had to focus on the cases he could solve, and the people that he could catch. But it was her entire life. She had nothing to move on to.
She knew it was hopeless. In their eyes, anyway. Not worth the time spent tracking down dead ends. But Rebecca had all the time in the world. When she tried to go back to work, a few weeks earlier than planned, Paula had refused to allow it. It was a bitch move, Paula knew how much comfort Rebecca took from her work. But apparently everyone else knew what was best for her.
“You need more time, Becky,” Paula had explained. “I’ll call you in a few days to check on you. We’re all praying for you.”
Rebecca mumbled her goodbyes and slammed the phone down. She liked to work. She needed to work. She needed to think about something besides the thing that consumed her every minute of every day. At work, she knew what to do, what to focus on. At home it was another story. It wasn’t fair. They knew how much she thrived on getting her work done, she had moved up in the company faster than anyone. That was Paula’s problem, she realized. Paula was worried about her own job. Rebecca could take it, of course, if she wanted to. If they’d let her come back. If she was gone much longer, her projects would be finished by that shit-head David and he’d take all the credit for her hard work. But Paula wasn’t budging.
So she took the time. In that empty house, with echoes of Oliver and Jon screaming at her, all she had was time. She wasn’t sure what she should do with it, but she took it nonetheless. She spent most of her days sleeping late, then trudging to the coffee pot around noon. She would stand at the sink in the kitchen and look out the small window above it, staring at the backyard with its overgrown weeds and dirty jungle gym. After a few cups of coffee, she would land on the couch and binge episodes of old TV shows, not really listening to any of them.
Her clothes began to hang loosely on her small frame. What a diet plan, depression and grief. They should market that to the masses, she thought, as she wandered around the empty house. In the late evening moments between dinner and failed attempts at sleep, she wondered if she would ever find her ‘normal’ again.
It wasn’t a large home by anyone’s standards, but it felt enormous to Rebecca. Everywhere she turned, memories of a stolen life assaulted her. Some days it took her thirty minutes to walk down the hallway past Oliver’s room. She would pause there at his door, a smile threatening to grab the corner of her mouth as she thought of the day she helped him make the sign still taped there. He wanted to do the writing himself, and he was only four, so it was a slow process. But when he finished, there was his name in three-inch-tall bold blue crayon letters. But that small sliver of hope that it was all a bad dream faded as soon as she opened the door to an empty room. Dust would stir up with the gentle push of air from the hallway, floating around in the beam of sunlight coming in through his large window, before settling onto the toys that lay scattered on his floor. They lay there, waiting for him to come back and finish playing with them. The bed, soft blankets in the race car frame, screamed at her to bring him back. His pillow case, halfway off the pillow, still carried the scent of bubble gum shampoo. Pale blue walls adorned with cartoon posters glared at her. His closet, the door halfway open revealing dirty clothes in a heap on the floor, blamed her. She tried to stay out of his room, but she was torn between wanting to remember every moment, and not wanting to drown in the pain of missing him. Most
days she went in, lay on his bed with her head on his pillow, and closed her eyes. With the scent of his shampoo wafting around her, she pretended he was just down the hall, taking a bath. Any minute he would come barreling down the hallway and jump onto the bed with her, wanting a bedtime story. Jon was usually the one who did that, but she would give anything to go back in time and just read him one. But every day the bubble gum faded a little more, and she knew she was losing him.
And Jon… she knew Jon was gone. She knew the same way she knew he was the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, after that second date. But those were happier times, before mortgages and jobs got in the way. Back when they could talk for hours and couldn’t wait to see each other every day after work. They had lost a lot of who they were, in trying to have Ollie. Years of taking her temperature and peeing on strips to see when she was ovulating. Endless doctor appointments explaining why, even if Jon’s sperm count was high enough, her uterus was an inhospitable environment and their chances were slim. They pinned their happiness and their future on that small sliver of hope. Sex became a means to an end, and there was a palpable tension as each one blamed the other for their inability to have children. They had just started adoption paperwork when she discovered she was pregnant with Oliver. He was all they focused on or talked to each other about. He was the only thing holding them together. It was a big burden to carry for a child, but he held it up. She wondered what would happen if... when... they found Jon. With their glue gone, left at the bottom of that canal, would they fall apart? She wasn’t sure.
Days passed with more headlines and more pressing issues. Rebecca understood, as her phone calls to Detective Barnes trickled to a stop. A sixteen-year-old girl over in Texas City had disappeared into the night, but they were leaning towards her being a runaway. It was the parents’ fault, Rebecca knew. They should have watched her closer, should have seen the signs. In Pearland, an eighth grader brought a hand gun to school. He didn’t shoot anyone, just wanted to show his friends, look cool. The parents should have locked it up tighter where he couldn’t get to it. Then, just a few neighborhoods over from her, a pregnant woman was crossing the street and a Ford Escort came out of nowhere, plowed right over her, and kept going. She didn’t make it. Rebecca knew there were more urgent matters, ones that might have better outcomes that the media and police needed to focus on. It was how the world worked. Police prioritized their cases, and every day Jon and Oliver slipped lower on that list. But she needed to find Jon, in whatever condition. It was the not knowing that hurt the most. Not knowing if he was alive, or out there hurting. She knew the detective thought Jon was gone, a lost cause. They’d found blood on the ground. They were waiting for forensics to be sure it was Jon’s. It wasn’t a lot, anyway, not enough for him to have bled to death, but he had been attacked. And that was enough for them to slow the search, to assume the worst. She lived her life in limbo, unable to move on. And she needed to know what happened to Oliver, because that was the part that was so impossible to imagine. Why would anyone kill a child? What led to that moment, when they decided her sweet little boy didn’t deserve to live?
Come Join The Murder Page 7
