Stokes had exited the stream, lugged Jenkins’s corpse up the slope on the other side, and carried him another minute or two until he found a dense growth of evergreens, where, finally, he was able to dump the body and the Altima’s license plates. Then he headed toward his trailer park. He’d intended to run there, but someone seemed to have replaced the blood in his legs with cement. So he walked for a while, trotted a little when he could, walked again, and trotted some more. Soon enough, he came to a chain-link fence, which he climbed over, into the rear part of Forest View Trailer Park.
He looked at his watch: 6:51 p.m.
He cut through properties as needed, wending his way past giant tin can after giant tin can, each of them somebody’s home. He had just reached the back of his trailer when he caught a muffled squawk from out front. He knew that sound. He hated that sound. It made him turn and start back the way he’d come. Then he heard the goddamn door of the goddamn trailer behind his bang open, and Charlie Daniels, Stokes’s goddamn neighbor—no relation to the singer—stepped around his trailer with a full Hefty bag in each hand. He dropped one of the bags, noisily tipped the metal lid off a metal trash can, letting it bang off the side of the metal trailer and clang to the ground. He dropped the bag into the can and looked up.
“That you, Stokes?” Daniels said far too loudly. He wasn’t too bad a guy—he asked for a little too much now and then as a neighbor, a favor here or there, but all in all he was OK. Still, Stokes just didn’t need this right now.
“Yeah, Charlie, it’s me.”
Stokes hurried back over to his trailer, peeked around the side, lifted the lid off his own trash can out of sight of Charlie, and placed the backpack in quietly. He replaced the lid even more quietly.
“What are you doing sneaking around out here, Stokes?” Daniels asked.
Stokes ignored him, moved quickly along the back of his trailer, and walked around the other end. He nearly bumped into a cop coming the other way, as he suspected he would after hearing the radio squawk in front of his trailer, and after his neighbor had banged the hell out of his trash can and had spoken to him, calling him by name, loudly enough for everyone in the park to hear.
Stokes tried to look surprised to see Sergeant Millett, who had questioned him at the police station last night and that morning.
“Officer,” Stokes said.
“Sergeant,” Millett corrected.
Millett was a big guy, Stokes’s height, probably a few pounds heavier, those pounds looking like nothing but muscle. He was two years older than Stokes, which Stokes knew because they were both local boys, with Millett two years ahead of him in school. Of course, Millett finished high school, got into the academy, and became a cop, while Stokes dropped out, got into trouble, and would never be a cop.
“Right,” Stokes said. “Sergeant. Sorry. Guess you’re looking for me.”
“That’s right.”
“How come your shirt’s unbuttoned like that? Can’t you get into trouble for being out of uniform or something?”
“I’m off duty.”
“Oh.” Stokes knew that wasn’t good. If he was giving Stokes a hard time off the clock, he must have been really invested in his case.
“Whose blood is that?” Millett asked.
“Blood?”
After stashing Jenkins’s body in the trees, Stokes had trotted back to the stream, dipped his hands into the frigid water, and rinsed Jenkins’s blood and other gory stuff off his face and his leather jacket. But, he now saw, he’d gotten some on his shirt.
“It’s mine. My blood.”
Millett’s hard eyes appraised him for a moment, looking him up and down.
“You don’t look injured.”
“Bloody nose. I’m fine now. Thanks for your concern, though.”
Millett fell silent. Stared Stokes down. Stokes knew what he was doing. He was trying to be intimidating. He wasn’t saying anything, hoping Stokes would get nervous and try to fill the silence and, in the process, say something stupid and incriminating. But Stokes merely stared silently back until Millett finally spoke again.
“Thought you might want to know that the guy whose house you robbed last night, the guy whose head you bashed in with a brass bookend that’s now missing, the guy who spent the rest of last night and all day today in critical condition, well, the doctors aren’t sure he’s going to make it.”
“Thanks for coming all the way here to tell me this, but it’s got nothing to do with me. I’m sorry some guy got his head dented, but it’s not my problem. I didn’t have anything to do with that, like I spent most of last night and all of this morning telling you.”
Millett stared at him for a moment. “Looks like you might have killed the guy.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You smashed his skull in last night and he might die any minute now.”
“Or he might recover. Whatever. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
Stokes didn’t like the look on Millett’s face. He really did seem to be taking this personally, like the injured guy was his father or something. Maybe it was because Stokes had wised off a bit during the interrogation. Who knew? Stokes should have been smarter than that, but Millett had pissed him off. Nothing Stokes could do about that now. But no goddamn way was he going down for this one. They were pretty sure he’d broken into a couple of houses over the past few weeks—and they were right, he had, trying to raise enough money to keep Frank Nickerson and his psycho sons off his back—but he absolutely was not going to let them lay this one on him, especially not if the homeowner ended up dying. Shit, there were other people in this town who could have pulled that job. Why were they picking on him? They had nothing but a suspicion. If they had more, they never would have let him go, not with the guy clinging to his life by a thread. And Millett wouldn’t be here right now, in a desperate attempt to make Stokes say something stupid. Or maybe he hoped his steely glare would make Stokes crumble and confess. Well, he was going to be disappointed. He’d have to find someone else to pin this on.
“Look, Sergeant, you know me. Knew me growing up, maybe heard a few things about me around town since then. We both know I’m no angel, but I’ve never hurt anybody who didn’t try to hurt me first. Check my sheet, ask around about me, you’ll find that’s true.”
“First time for everything.”
“You’re trying to sweat the wrong guy. Meanwhile, the right guy’s out there laughing his ass off at you. Now, you guys kicked me loose, so leave me alone.”
“The guy you put in the hospital?” Millett said. “I’ve known him all my life. He and my father were best friends. He’s my godfather. So you picked the wrong house last night, Stokes.”
Well, that explained a few things.
“I didn’t pick any house last night, Sergeant.”
Millett tried the tough-guy-glare thing for a few more seconds. He actually wasn’t bad at it. But when Stokes didn’t wither under it, the cop sneered and looked Stokes up and down again. His eyes landed on Stokes’s boots, which were still wet from his trudge through the stream. And his feet were still freezing.
“Where you coming from?” Millett asked.
“Sorry, but that’s not your business.”
Millett’s jaw muscles twitched. Stokes stared back at him. At that moment, the cell phone, Paul Jenkins’s goddamn cell phone, rang in Stokes’s pocket. Had it really been an hour already? The phone rang again and Stokes must have reacted in some way, shown his anxiety, because Millett raised his eyebrows, smiled a little, and said, “You gonna answer that?”
“Up to me whether I do or not.”
“Guess it is.”
The phone rang a third time. Millett just stood there. Stokes looked at his watch. Straight up seven o’clock. Another ring. Stokes stepped to his left to move around Millett. Millett slid to his right to block his path. Stokes didn’t both
er trying to go back the other way. The phone rang a fifth time. Millett waited. Stokes took the phone from his pocket and flipped it open.
“Hello,” he said, turning his back to the cop.
“Your hourly call, Jenkins,” the kidnapper said.
“Thanks.”
“Got the money yet?”
“I will soon.”
“I know you will, because you got a pretty good idea what happens if you don’t. Wanna talk to the kid?”
“Of course.”
Stokes turned away again and started walking. He could hear Millett following him around the corner of his trailer. He could feel the cop’s eyes on his back. Knew he was listening to every word Stokes said. When Stokes reached the other corner of his trailer, Millett sped up and stopped in front of him.
“Daddy?” the little girl said on the phone, her voice tinged with faint hope.
“No, it’s still me,” Stokes said, “but remember, you have to pretend I’m your daddy.”
A brief pause. “OK . . . Daddy.” Her voice was different from a moment ago, sadder. She’d hoped she’d be speaking with her father again. But she was smart enough to play along. He only hoped the kidnappers hadn’t noticed her change in tone.
“Good girl,” Stokes said, and Millett’s eyebrows knitted. “Keep it up. This will all be over soon. I promise. Are you . . . OK?”
A sniffle. “I guess, Daddy. My hand hurts a lot, though.”
“I’m sorry—”
Stokes heard a fumbling on the other end of the line, then the kidnapper said, “OK, Paul, are we—”
“What will all be over soon?” Millett asked.
“Who’s that?” the kidnapper snapped.
“Nobody,” Stokes said quickly. “Just some guy standing nearby. I’m in public right now.”
“Who’s that on the phone, Stokes?” Millett asked, too loudly.
“What’d he say?” the kidnapper asked. “Who the fuck is with you, Paul?”
“Jesus, nobody, all right, nobody.” He was addressing both of them. “I’m just in public is all,” he said into the phone.
The kidnapper was silent for a moment. “Just get the money. We’ll be heading into the home stretch soon. Then you’ll have your little girl back, almost as good as new. Talk to you in an hour.”
Stokes closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket. Millett leaned back against the side of the trailer. “What’s gonna be over soon?” he asked as he absently reached down and began drumming softly, steadily on the metal lid of the trash can beside him—the trash can where Stokes had stashed the money.
“Not your business, Sergeant.”
“Who’s the ‘good girl’ you were talking to?”
“What?”
“You said ‘good girl.’ ” Millett noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the ground at his feet. He picked it up, uncrumpled it, and gave it a quick scan with his eyes. Stokes wasn’t worried about what was on the paper. Probably a bill. More likely an overdue notice. Either way, he wasn’t worried about what was on the paper. What he was worried about was what Millett was going to do with the paper, which he was crumpling again.
“This is my personal life, Sergeant.”
He held out his hand for the ball of paper. Millett looked at the hand, then reached down and lifted the lid off the trash can. Stokes focused all of his energy on not letting his eyes stray to the bag of money that he knew was fully visible now.
“In fact,” he continued, willing Millett’s eyes to stay locked on his own, “this is my property you’re standing on, not yours, so I’ll have to ask you to get off it. My feet are cold and wet. I need to put on some dry socks. Have a good night.”
He moved past the cop, hoping Millett’s eyes would follow him. An agonizingly long moment later, he heard the clang of the lid dropping back onto the can, followed by Millett’s footsteps behind him. As Stokes stepped up into his trailer, he expected to hear the cop say something like “I’ll be watching you,” but he said nothing. Probably thought it would sound like a cheesy line from a bad movie, which it would have. Stokes closed the door. When he parted the little curtain on the little window in his kitchen, he saw Millett walk over to his cruiser and lean against it, his eyes on the trailer.
Man, Stokes did not need this.
TWELVE
7:06 P.M.
STOKES FORCED HIMSELF NOT TO look out through the trailer’s curtains again. He didn’t want Millett to see him looking. Didn’t want to seem anxious. He was anxious as hell, of course. Anxious that Millett wouldn’t leave soon, because Stokes still had a lot to do to help the kid. Anxious that the cop would get bored simply standing out there staring at the trailer, and might start poking around, eventually looking in the trash can where Stokes had hastily dumped the backpack stuffed with money. That probably would have been an illegal search, as the cans were on Stokes’s property and not set out at a curb for pickup, but Stokes didn’t think that little inconvenience would stop Millett. Anyway, Stokes didn’t want to make Millett more suspicious than he already was, so he stayed away from the window, slipped into a pair of warm, dry socks, and popped the top of a Budweiser. Then he figured he should keep a clear head, so he finished only half of the beer—the first time he remembered ever doing that. While he puttered around, growing more anxious with every passing second, he listened intently for anything that sounded like Millett was rooting through his garbage. After fifteen minutes, he heard the powerful engine of the police cruiser as it roared to life, then listened as it grew fainter. Stokes peeked out the window and watched until the car’s taillights disappeared around a bend in the dirt road. The second it was gone, he burst from the trailer and hurried around the corner to his trash cans. He tore off the lid of one can, panicked when he saw nothing but his garbage inside, then realized he’d dropped the bag in the other can, where he found it safe and sound.
Stokes shouldered the backpack and walked up the dirt road, past a few of his neighbors’ places, and knocked on the metal door of one of the more dilapidated trailers in the park.
“Who’s that?” a man inside asked, his voice deep and gruff.
“Since when am I psychic?” a woman responded.
The trailer’s door opened. A woman stood in the doorway in dark-gray sweatpants and a light-gray sweatshirt that Stokes knew had once been white. She was in her early thirties and not too unattractive, despite the fact that her looks had passed their expiration date, which had come earlier for her than for a lot of women who didn’t live life as hard and fast as she did. When she saw who had knocked on her door, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped.
“Who’s there?” the man repeated.
She hesitated before blurting, “A neighbor.”
“What’s she want?”
“It’s a he, and why don’t you gimme a second so I can find out?” The look of surprise on her face was replaced by anger and confusion. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” she said, keeping her voice low. “My husband’s home, for Christ’s sake.”
“Relax, Joyce,” Stokes said quietly. “I’m not here for that. I need a car.”
“What?” Her face screwed up in greater confusion. Her eyes were squinted, and her mouth distorted into a squashed oval. Looking at that mouth, Stokes felt a moment of revulsion at the things he’d let it do.
“I need to borrow your car, OK? I’ll have it back by morning.”
“My husband’s here, you moron.”
Had she been this charming around lunchtime last Wednesday, while her husband was at work? If she had been, he hadn’t noticed.
“Look,” Stokes said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
The husband spoke again, his bass voice rumbling. “Joyce, who the hell is at the door and what does he want during my dinnertime?”
Looking at Joyce, listening t
o her talk, listening to her husband talk, Stokes realized that they should be on a poster somewhere for trailer trash. Most of the residents of the park were nice, decent people, people who had good, steady jobs, kept their homes neat, their little patches of lawn tidy, people who were just like most other people in their little neighborhoods full of houses—the main difference being that these people’s homes could be hitched to a truck and driven away. But Joyce and her husband were walking punch lines of a hundred different trailer park jokes. Actually, that was why Stokes had taken up with Joyce in the first place. He couldn’t have gone to any of the other reasonably attractive residents of the park for what he went to Joyce for. Stokes now saw a hard truth staring him down—he was far more like Joyce and her husband than he was like the more decent people in the park.
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