“We don’t have anything back yet on the blood on your son’s shoe, but we’re assuming it’s going to be Adam Langley’s. Your son admits he had to step over him to get out of the house, and must have stepped in some blood. He left a small trail of it, heading in the direction of your house. They’ve also taken a DNA sample from Derek, which isn’t exactly surprising.”
She gave us a more detailed account of Derek’s version of the events. How he’d hid out in the Langley home in the hopes that he and Penny could rendezvous there all week. How Derek was trapped inside the house when the Langleys returned unexpectedly, how he hid in the basement, how not long after that someone else came to the house and shot Albert and Donna Langley, and then Adam as he tried to escape by way of the back door.
Derek told his lawyer that someone came down to the basement while he hid behind a couch, holding his breath, fearing for his life. Derek slipped out once he was confident the killer or killers were gone.
“I can’t believe he kept all this to himself,” Ellen said.
“He’s a teenager,” Natalie said. “Scared of whoever murdered the Langleys, maybe even more scared of you two, and the trouble he’d get into by admitting he was in the house, how he came to be there. He said you’d told him”—she was looking at me now—“that after the incident at the school, when he was jumping from roof to roof, that the next time he did something dumb, you’d throw him out on his ass.”
I remembered that.
“Still,” said Ellen, “for something like this, he should have known he could come to us.”
Natalie paused, then said, “There’s something else that might be a problem.” Neither Ellen nor I said anything. We weren’t up for even more bad news. “The police are looking at links between the Langley killings and two others in the Promise Falls area in recent weeks.”
“How?” Ellen asked. “What do you mean?”
“The police say the gun used to kill the Langleys is the same one that was used to kill a man named Edgar Winsome out back of the Trenton bar, nearly a month ago, and another man, Peter Knight, about a week before that.”
“I don’t know either of those people,” I said. I did have a vague recollection, however, of Barry Duckworth mentioning these cases to me on Sunday.
“But you said the police don’t have the gun,” Ellen said. “How can they know the same gun was used?”
“You’re right, they don’t have the weapon,” Natalie Bondurant said. “But they have the bullets. And the ones taken from the Langleys match these other two cases. Do you know of any connection between your son and these two men?”
“Nothing,” I said, at almost the same moment Ellen did. “They want to blame those murders on Derek, too?”
“They’re not saying that. But the cases are linked by the ballistics reports. It’s a part of the investigation and you need to be aware of it. I want to keep you informed. That’s the way I do things.” She must have judged, by the looks on our faces, that we needed a pep talk. “Look,” she said. “The whole rah-rah thing is not my specialty. I’m not going to tell you there’s nothing to worry about. There is. But the case against your son is far from perfect. It has holes, and I think Barry knows it. The motive, as it’s been laid out so far, is weak. And as far as how you’re bearing up, you have to know that this is the worst time. You’re still in shock. Your world feels as though it’s falling apart. But hold it together. Your son needs you. And believe it or not, there’s actually some good news.”
Ellen and I both blinked. “What?” I asked.
“Well, if we accept Derek’s story as gospel, that he was in the house at the time of the murders, that he actually heard these executions take place, and that he slipped out of the house without being seen by the perpetrator or perpetrators, the good news is, your son is alive.”
Ellen and I exchanged looks and held each other. I’m sure neither of us had looked at it that way yet, that Derek was fortunate not to have ended up like the Langleys. I said, “And do you accept Derek’s story?”
Natalie Bondurant waited a moment, looked me in the eye, and said, “I was going to say it doesn’t matter. My clients don’t have to be innocent for me to defend them. But I think Derek’s giving it to me straight.”
“Shouldn’t Derek be telling all this to Barry?” I said. “What he heard? I mean, maybe Derek heard something, anything, that might help Barry find out who really did this. Because there’s still someone out there, someone who killed the Langleys.”
“Barry’s aware of all of this,” Natalie said. “But right now he figures he’s nailed this one.” She paused. “Derek did say he heard one thing.”
“What?” Ellen asked.
“ ‘Shame,’” Natalie said. “He heard a man say ‘shame.’”
Ellen and I looked at each other, not knowing what to make of that.
I reached into my pocket for something I’d brought along with me from home. I handed the disc, the one Derek had used to make a copy of A Missing Part, or as Brett Stockwell had called it, Nicholas Dickless, to Natalie Bondurant.
“What’s this?” she asked, Ellen watching as I placed the disc in her hand.
“Just hang on to it for me,” I said. “For safekeeping.”
TWENTY-TWO
I ASKED NATALIE BONDURANT whether she could join us for a coffee to talk about things, but she had another pressing court appearance. So I suggested to Ellen we hit a diner a block down from the courthouse for something to eat. We’d not had breakfast. It was nearly noon, and as bad as I felt, emotionally and physically, I was hungry.
“I can’t eat,” Ellen said.
“I feel the same,” I said. “But we need to keep our strength up if we’re going to help Derek.”
But I abandoned the plan when we came out of the building and found half a dozen photographers and three camera crews waiting for us. They shouted their questions all at once, so they became a jumble of “Did we believe our son was innocent why would he do this was a guilty plea forthcoming.” I held on to Ellen’s arm and kept us moving forward, looking straight ahead, not responding to anything anyone asked us.
Not even “How does it feel to have a son who’s a murderer?”
I felt Ellen stiffen, and thought maybe she was going to stop and answer that, but I whispered to her, “Come on.”
We got to her Mazda, and once we were closeted inside, the photographers swarmed the car. They had the good sense to step out of the way as I eased it forward. Try not to run anyone down, I told myself. We had enough on our plate without adding a vehicular manslaughter charge. And engaging the services of a lawyer for just one case was likely to bankrupt us, not that financial worries were our primary concern at the moment.
Once we were away from the courthouse and back on the road out of town to our place, I thought we’d escaped them. But as our lane came into view, we could also see a couple of TV news vans and some other cars parked along the shoulder.
“Motherfuckers,” I said.
I hit the blinker and turned, slowly, into our lane, edging past more people shouting out questions to us. There was still yellow tape around the Langley property, and once we passed the cop who was babysitting the house, he got out of his cruiser and stood in the path of the reporters, preventing them from getting any closer to our home.
We’d bring him some lemonade later.
Once home, Ellen put on some coffee and took out some bread slices and peanut butter. As she began to spread the peanut butter onto the bread, she stopped and began to sob. Loud, wracking sobs that shook her entire body.
I took her in my arms, held on to her, thought if I held her tighter the shaking and the sobbing would stop. And I was right. Except it took half an hour.
ELLEN STEPPED OFF THE DECK, where we’d both sat down for a few minutes, and walked out onto our gravel drive, near the shed. From there, you could see past the Langley home and get a pretty good view of the highway.
“It looks like they finally gave up,” sh
e said, coming back onto the deck. “They’re gone. The reporters are gone.”
I was still in my chair, wondering if I had the energy to get up. We’d been home a couple of hours. Although the coast looked clear, I suspected a few hangers-on might be camped just down the road a ways, waiting to see if we’d show ourselves.
“We don’t have anywhere to go right now,” I said. “Let’s not reward any who might still be hiding.”
Ellen sat down, took a long breath, and looked at me. “I want to tell you something,” she said.
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“I couldn’t do this without you. There’s no way I could get through something like this if I didn’t have you by my side.”
It seemed dumb to say thank you. And I could have thrown the same kind of comment back at her, but given the timing, it might not have seemed genuine. So I nodded.
“I know, sometimes, I accuse you of not getting over it,” she said. “That it’s been ten years. That it’s time you forgave me for the mistake I made, time you buried the hatchet with Conrad. But the truth of the matter is, I still haven’t forgiven myself. I wasn’t thinking about anyone but me when I did what I did. I wasn’t thinking about you, or Derek. Not about us, as a family. And there’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about what I nearly threw away, and how lucky I am that you stayed by me, even though I wasn’t worthy.”
“Ellen.”
“When something as terrible as this—this thing with Derek—happens, I think, how would I ever be able to handle all of this on my own? I wouldn’t be able to. You’re my rock, Jim. You’re my rock. And I nearly let you slip out of my hands, right to the bottom of the ocean. I love you, you know.”
“I love you, too,” I said.
“It’s not the only mistake I’ve made,” she said. “Maybe more than you have the capacity to forgive.”
“Ellen, what—”
But she got up and went into the house. “I have stuff to do,” she said. “Like figure out how we’re going to pay for Derek’s lawyer.”
* * *
I WANDERED OVER to the shed.
I checked the gas levels in the lawn mowers and the tractor and the weed trimmer, oiled the hedge trimmer, which had been squeaking a bit last time we’d used it, cleaned out the truck, tidied the shed, stared at my stack of canvases and debated whether to cut them to shreds.
There were half a dozen properties that Derek and I would typically do this day of the week. I hadn’t exactly had a chance to call anyone and tell them we wouldn’t be making it. If they watched or listened to the news, they might be able to figure out we had more pressing matters than their overgrown lawns and dandelions.
My son was in jail. My son was in jail, charged with three murders.
I picked up the closest thing that was handy. A lawn edger, with a small semicircular blade at the end of a three-foot-long handle. I held it in my hand, then swung it, like an ax, into the shed wall. It whipped through the air and lodged itself in the wood. I pried it free, swung again wildly, took a chip out of the wall, swung again, and this time when the blade hit the wall it snapped off and flew back, right at me, right for my face. I spun out of the way, just in time, figured if I’d been a millisecond slower, I’d have lost an eye.
I needed to get a grip. I needed to work. I needed to do something with all this pent-up anger.
I leaned up against the workbench, took in the tools and lawn mower parts scattered about. It was time to clean the place up.
There was a cutting blade on the bench, an older one that came from the housing under the John Deere lawn tractor. It was so badly battered it wasn’t worth the effort to sharpen it, so I took it with me for reference as I went back to the house, thinking I could look up the part online and order a new one.
I thought I’d find Ellen at the kitchen table reviewing bank statements and retirement forms, figuring out what we’d have to cash in to pay Natalie Bondurant, but instead she was standing at the living room window, by the bookcase, looking up the lane. Just staring.
I came up behind her, set the blade on top of a row of books, and said, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said as I rested my hands on her shoulders. “I just . . . need some space.”
I took my hands away and said, “Sure, okay.” I could give her what she wanted, and get what I needed, at the same time. “You know what? I’m going to go to work,” I said, then slipped out of the house and got into my truck.
I STARTED WITH THE FLEMING HOUSE. Normally, our first stop on a Wednesday. Average-sized yard, not a lot of fiddly tidying around flower beds, but you had to be sure not to leave any grass clippings on the driveway or Ned Fleming would have a shit fit. There usually was no one home when we came in the morning, and there was no one here in the afternoon, which was fine. The fewer people I had to talk to, the better.
The job took a lot longer than usual, of course. And not just because there was only one of us to do the work.
As a team, Derek and I could knock off a place like the Flemings’ in half an hour. One of us on the tractor doing the big, easy-to-reach areas, the other with the lawn mower doing the narrow spots. Then one of us would grab the weed whacker and trim up along the sides of the house and next to the driveway and along the sidewalk while the other got the blower and swept all the clippings to the street.
The gods, who’d already been fucking me over of late, decided to keep it up at the Flemings’. First, the belt that drives the three blades under the Deere slipped off, and it took me ten minutes of lying on my side to get it back onto the pulleys, and not without jamming my fingers in there twice.
Then, the weed whacker ran out of line, and when I had the sucker upended and the housing off to take out the old spool and put in a new spool, the little spring that sits under there fell out and disappeared into the uncut lawn. Lost another five minutes finding it.
If I’d had Derek with me, either one of us could have been dealing with these setbacks while the other kept on with the job.
The gods weren’t finished. I was using the mower in the backyard when the blade caught the edge of a piece of sod Derek and I had laid in a couple of weeks earlier to fix up some dead patches. I thought the grass had stitched its way into its new home, but it came up like a bad rug off a bald guy. The mower chewed up the sod and sprayed it across the rest of the yard.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted. Sweat was trickling down my forehead and into my eyes and stinging like all get-out.
I went back to the truck, opened the passenger door, then the glove box, and found the crumpled flyer Derek had shoved in there a few days earlier. I dialed the number on it with my cell.
A woman answered. “Hello?”
“Is Stuart Yost there?” I asked. The kid who’d asked if we were hiring.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s about a job,” I said.
“Oh!” she said, and shouted, “Stuart! Telephone! It’s about a job!”
I waited twenty seconds or more, then heard an extension pick up. “Yeah?”
“Stuart?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Jim Cutter. You came up to our truck the other day, looking for work. We cut grass.”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re interested, I’ve got work.” I paused. “My son’s not able to help me at the moment. Ten bucks an hour.”
“I guess,” Stuart said.
“Great,” I said. “You just aced the interview.” I found out where he lived and said I’d pick him up at eight the following morning.
“Could you make it eight-thirty?” he asked. “I usually sleep till eight.”
In the background, the woman who’d answered, presumably his mother, said sharply, “Stuart!”
He said, “Eight’s okay.”
WE WERE IN KIND OF A HOLDING pattern for the next day. Ellen was going to see if she could get in to see Derek in jail, check in with Natalie Bondurant, deal with our financial situation, even m
ake a couple of calls to Thackeray concerning the literary festival, even though Conrad had already indicated to her that she could take whatever time she needed to deal with the events of the past week. “I might as well have something else to take my mind off things, if only for a little while,” she said.
I left the house about a quarter to eight, found Stuart Yost’s place in a subdivision built sometime in the sixties, when developers, influenced by The Jetsons, thought carports with slanted roofs looked cutting edge. He wasn’t out front when I got there, so I sat at the curb a moment, waiting for him to appear. When it got to be 8:05, I got out of the truck and was heading up the walk when he blew out the front door like there’d been an explosion inside the house.
“Sorry,” he said, and got into the truck.
I laid it out for him. I’d take the tractor, he could do the hand-mowing and trimming.
“Can’t I do the tractor?” he asked. “I like riding around on stuff.”
“Maybe later,” I said. I wanted an idea of how bright he was before I turned him loose on a piece of machinery that could lay waste to someone’s garden in three seconds if you weren’t careful. So far, I wasn’t particularly hopeful.
We were on our second house of the morning, and I was doing loops in the backyard with the Deere when it occurred to me that I’d not caught any recent glimpses of Stuart with the mower or weed trimmer. He hadn’t exactly distinguished himself at the first house, telling me when we got into the truck that he was getting a heat rash on the insides of his elbows.
I drove the tractor back around the house and into the front yard and still didn’t see him anyplace, then noticed someone sitting in the truck.
Stuart was in the front seat, with the windows up. When I killed the Deere, I could hear that the truck was running. I walked over to Stuart’s window and rapped on it lightly with my knuckle. His fingers were busy with a Game Boy or something, and I’d startled him.
He powered down the window and a blast of A/C came out. “Yeah?” he said.
“What are you doing?”
Too Close to Home Page 20
