Bullet Point

by Peter Abrahams

  “You trying to be funny?” the chief said.

  “About what? Wyatt? What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know.” His heart was pounding. He noticed for the first time a blue vein in the almost translucent skin at Greer’s temple: it was pounding, too.

  The cops pushed past Greer and entered the house. Wyatt, Greer, the chief, and a uniformed cop waited in the doorway, out of the rain. Wyatt heard doors opening and closing, heavy footsteps on a staircase and down in the basement, nightsticks tapping on walls. One by one the cops came back, shaking their heads. They got in the cruisers and took off, lights flashing but sirens off. Only the chief and his driver stayed behind.

  The chief turned to Wyatt. “You spent the night here?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  “Then went out for coffee?”

  He nodded again.

  “When was the last time you saw Sonny Racine?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “Where? In the visitors’ room at the prison, of course. Has something happened to him?”

  “You wrote ‘family friend’ on the visitor form,” the chief said. “Elaborate.”

  So that was it. “It’s not a lie,” Wyatt said. “I just didn’t know what to put.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it turns out he’s my biological father-I’d never met him in my life before I came here.”

  The chief nodded. “Not as uncommon a situation as you might think-lots of the inmates are that way, like animals,” he said. “Any reason why you decided to look him up at this point?”

  Greer spoke first. “Why shouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you be curious?”

  The chief looked at her. “Maybe,” he said. “At that age. Which is kind of what I’m getting at here. At your age it’s easy to make mistakes that change your whole life. Wouldn’t want to see that happen. You follow?”

  “No,” Greer said. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “First, I was talking to young Wyatt here,” the chief said. “Second, I believe you. If I didn’t, the two of you’d be in a cell right now.”

  “Why?” Wyatt said.

  “Because,” the chief said, “Sonny Racine’s on the loose.”

  “Oh my God,” Greer said.

  “On the loose?” Wyatt said. “He escaped?”

  “Not from the prison,” said the chief. “That’s never happened yet. But they were taking him to the hospital and he broke out of the van. Called for help and when they stopped and opened up he just sprang. Apparently wasn’t cuffed-totally against procedure-on account of his injuries and long peaceable record.”

  “What injuries?” Wyatt said.

  “He took a beating of some sort-don’t have the details as yet. But the point I’m making-if he tries to contact you, get in touch with us right away. You’ll be doing him a favor. Escapees never get away, but they often die trying, if you see what I mean.” His eyes went to Greer, back to Wyatt. “I’ll take that for a yes,” he said. “Aiding and abetting are felonies, probably so obvious it’s a waste of breath to mention.” He turned and walked away, the driver following. They got in the cruiser and rode off, the chief glancing back just before they turned a corner.

  The wind picked up, whipped a curtain of rain into the house. Greer closed the door. They stepped into each other’s arms. Wyatt had a bad, bad feeling inside, and her embrace didn’t take it away.

  “This is horrible,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would he do it, after all these years?”

  “Haven’t got a clue,” Greer said. “Let’s find out.”

  “Find out? How?”

  She took him by the hand, led him up the stairs. The cops had left their damp footprints on the bare treads. “There used to be a nice soft carpet,” Greer said. “I loved sitting on these stairs when I was a kid, seeing the tops of people’s heads. Lots of parties in those days.”

  At the top they turned right, walked down a hall. The wall had light rectangular patches at picture-hanging level. They entered a room at the end of the hall.

  “My dad’s bedroom,” Greer said. “Mom and Dad’s, in ancient times; then he moved to the couch, then she moved out and he moved back.” The closet door was open; she walked toward it. “I used to search the house from top to bottom before my birthday,” she said, “trying to find the presents.” She went into the closet, a completely empty cedar closet with a bare rail for hanging clothes and three brass hooks on the back wall. “I never did find my dad’s hidey-hole-he ended up telling me where it was after they put him away, on account of some papers he needed.” Greer reached for the top right-hand hook. “Some papers he needed burned, actually.”

  Greer twisted the hook. Wyatt heard a faint click. A portion of the wall swung open. This was a cleverly concealed door, its edges hidden in the grooves between the cedar planks, the hinges on the inside, and also padded so tapping wouldn’t produce a hollow sound. On the other side of the cleverly concealed door was a space big enough for a man to stand in. The man standing in it was Sonny Racine.

  29

  All at once, the room, a normal-size bedroom, seemed too small, hardly big enough to hold the three of them. Wyatt had never experienced this sensation before, people overwhelming their physical space, obliterating it. Wyatt could feel danger, like a toxic contaminant escaping from the walls. He backed away from Sonny. What was Sonny doing here? That thought was quickly pushed aside by the sight of Sonny’s messed-up face. Both times Wyatt had seen him-the only times he’d seen him in his life-Sonny had looked good, but he didn’t look good now.

  “What happened to you?” Wyatt said.

  Sonny smiled. One of his two front teeth was gone; the other was chipped in half. “Not as bad as it looks,” he said.

  But it looked bad. Sonny’s left eye was swollen almost shut and his left cheek, under the eye, seemed hollower than the right one, as though the bone around the eye had caved in; Wyatt had seen that happen to a kid who’d been hit by a pitch. His upper lip was swollen, too, and there was lots of blood on his khaki inmate shirt, now torn and missing buttons.

  He stepped out of the closet, wincing slightly.

  “Were you in a fight?” Wyatt said.

  “Hector and his boys went a little overboard,” Sonny said.

  “Oh my God,” Greer said. “That guy with the Jesus tattoo?”

  “He’s actually quite religious,” Sonny said. “Just one of those misunderstandings.”

  “About what?” Greer said.

  “Nothing. The wrong look, the wrong word, the wrong stance-inmate stuff. What would be nothing in the outside world, is I guess how to put it.” He looked around the empty room, went toward the edge of the window, shot a quick sidelong glance outside. “Cops gone?”

  “Yes,” Greer said.

  “Good job,” Sonny said. “Both of you.”

  Wyatt hadn’t done any job at all, hadn’t known Sonny was in the house. But Greer had. He turned to her.

  She seemed to know what he was thinking. “He came to the window maybe two minutes after you left. I hid him as soon as I heard the sirens. What did you want me to do? Turn him in?”

  “Of course not.” But almost at once Wyatt had second thoughts about that-what had the police chief said? Escapees never get away, but they often die trying. So what was the right thing to do?

  “No need to give that a second thought, either of you,” Sonny said. “I’m planning to turn myself in.”

  “You are?” Greer said.

  “After I take care of business.” Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. “This sure feels good, can’t tell you-first time outside those walls in seventeen years.”

  “What kind of business?” Wyatt said.

  “Funny question coming from you,” Sonny said. “You’re the one who unsettled me. I told you-I was content. Now I’m not. I intend to prove my innocence.”

  “But how will this help?” Wyatt said.
“Don’t you need a lawyer?”

  “We’re long past the lawyer stage,” Sonny said.

  “So what are you going to do?” Wyatt said. He was aware of his voice cracking, like a pubescent kid’s.

  “What I should have done long ago,” Sonny said. More blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth; he felt there with his fingertips. Wyatt noticed again how strong and well shaped his hands were. And something else: they were completely unmarked, unscratched, unswollen. Hector and his boys must have jumped him, overwhelmed him; he hadn’t landed a single blow.

  “What do you want us to do?” Greer said.

  Sonny smiled at her, a once-nice smile now made ugly; with the blood and swelling, there was even something animal about it. “You, sweetheart?” he said. “I want nothing from you. And from Wyatt-I’d just like to borrow that sweet pony for a short time. The two Cs might come in handy as well.”

  “Uh,” said Wyatt, “I spent twenty.”

  “Yeah?” Sonny sounded surprised. “On what?”

  “Gas.”

  “A necessity,” Sonny said. He paused, as though waiting for something. Wyatt took out his wallet and handed over the $180. Sonny tucked it away in his waistband. Wyatt saw that his khaki inmate pants-now wrinkled and bloodstained-had no pockets. “You’ll get it back, I promise,” Sonny said. “With interest.”

  “I don’t want it,” Wyatt said.

  “We’ll call it a down payment on all the birthday presents you never got.” He approached the window again, took another sidelong glance. “What a beautiful day.” It was raining harder than ever now, the sky a solid roof of low, dark cloud. “Hear that sound? Rain on the roof? You forget there are sounds like that.”

  The three of them stood silent in Greer’s father’s old bedroom, listening to the rain. Sonny dabbed with his sleeve at the corner of his mouth.

  “Maybe you want to take a shower or something,” Wyatt said.

  “No water,” said Greer.

  “How about some ice?” Wyatt said.

  “No fridge.”

  Sonny laughed, a strange sight with his teeth the way they were, hard to get used to. “I’m all right, kids.”

  “I could go out for ice,” Wyatt said.

  “I’ll do it,” said Greer.

  “No,” Sonny said, his voice suddenly sharp. Then, softer, he went on, “I’m all right, really. We’ll just lie low here until dark, nice and quiet.”

  “And then?” Greer said.

  “Then I’ll hit the road in that borrowed pony.”

  “Hit the road for where?” Wyatt said.

  “Probably best if we stay away from the specifics.”

  But there was one thing Wyatt absolutely had to know. “Are you going to see my mother?”

  “No.”

  “Is she the person you’re protecting?”

  “No, for the millionth time.”

  They gazed at each other, an uncomfortable second or two for Wyatt; he couldn’t help focusing on the swollen eye and bashed-in cheek.

  Sonny put his hand to his heart. “I swear. Your mother had nothing to do with this. It’s just not in her. She’s a good person, through and through.”

  “Then who is it?” Wyatt said. “Who are you protecting?”

  “No one anymore,” Sonny said. “Took me a long time to learn, but it’s true what they say-you can’t protect people from themselves.” He put his hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, the first time they’d touched. Wyatt felt a tremor, very slight, pulsing inside Sonny. “I want to prove my innocence and that’s all.”

  “How?” Wyatt said.

  “Still got time to think about exact measures.” A little more blood leaked from his mouth.

  “I’ll go get some ice,” Wyatt said.

  Sonny paused for a moment, then nodded and said, “And maybe some paper towels.” Wyatt turned to go. “Don’t be too long.”

  A remark that first struck Wyatt as almost parental, the kind of thing his mom might say: but as he drove away from the foreclosed house another possibility-that Sonny didn’t quite trust him-rose in his mind.

  He found a convenience store about a mile down the cross street. There were no other customers. The clerk was watching a TV mounted above the scratch tickets. An onscreen reporter stood in front of the visitors’ entrance at Sweetwater State Penitentiary, the volume too low to be heard. Wyatt took a five-pound bag of ice from the freezer, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and went to the counter.

  “Got any sandwiches?” Wyatt said.

  “No more sandwiches,” the clerk said. “New policy. You could try the Lunch Box.” He pointed down the street.

  Wyatt drove a few blocks farther, bought three turkey sandwiches and a six-pack of soda. The TV at the Lunch Box was tuned to a business show; numbers and symbols streamed across the top and bottom of the screen. Wyatt went back to Greer’s old house. No one was on the street or at any of the windows in the nearby houses, two of which also had bank-sale signs on the front lawns. Wyatt parked, walked to the front door, and knocked.

  The door opened, whoever was doing the opening staying out of sight behind it. Wyatt went in. “That was quick,” Sonny said, closing the door. If anything, he now looked worse than before, a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

  Wyatt handed over the bag of ice. “I’ve got sandwiches, too.”

  “Great,” said Sonny.

  They went into the kitchen. No appliances, but the sink was still in place. Sonny pounded the ice bag in the metal basin, wrapped a few chunks in paper towel, pressed them lightly against the bashed-in side of his face and his swollen eyelid.

  “Ah,” he said. He leaned against the wall, closed his good eye, took a deep breath.

  Wyatt snapped two sodas from the six-pack. “Greer upstairs?” he said.

  Sonny’s good eye opened. “Actually, no,” he said. He pushed himself off the wall, stood straight. “She left.”

  Wyatt, almost at the door, turned back. “Left?”

  “She got a call,” Sonny said, “and two minutes later she was out the door.”

  “A call from who?”

  “Don’t know. But, uh…”

  “What?” said Wyatt. “Tell me.”

  Sonny exhaled a long, slow breath. “I peeked out through the window upstairs. Some guy came to pick her up.”

  “What guy?”

  “Didn’t get a good look at him,” Sonny said. “He stayed in the car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A Lexus, I think, something fancy like that. Haven’t kept up with cars all that well. But I caught the plate number, one of those vanity plates, easy to remember- VAN 1. I didn’t get the impression she was coming back.”

  Wyatt set the two soda cans on the counter, very gently, as though they were fragile. He just stood there, feeling hollowed out inside. Either Greer had been outright lying to him or she’d been going back and forth in her own mind, playing fair with nobody. Was there a third possibility? None that he could see.

  He felt Sonny’s hand on his shoulder. “There’ll be other girls, son. Maybe with a more honest approach, if you don’t mind my opinion.”

  Wyatt turned, stepped away. “What does that mean?”

  Sonny sighed. “Take the arson, for example-that was her.”

  “But you told me it wasn’t.”

  “Probably a mistake, in retrospect. But I didn’t see myself as the bad-news messenger, not when we were just getting to know each other, you and me. Plus she pretty much begged me not to tell, one time in the visitors’ room. The truth is she might have been a little impulsive, but she was only trying to help her old man.”

  “What about Freddie Helms?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The firefighter who got his face practically burned off.”

  “I didn’t know about that,” Sonny said.

  There was a long silence. The ice in the paper-towel ice pack melted and water ran down Sonny’s face.

  Wyatt had a sudden thought. “What if
she tells Van you’re here?”

  “She won’t do that,” Sonny said. He went to the sink, prepared another ice pack, held it to his head. “Do I smell turkey?” he said. He went to the counter, opened the bag. “Is one for me?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Sonny took out a sandwich and unwrapped it. “Real food.” He picked it up. Wyatt wondered: how was he going to eat it with his teeth like that? But he managed, no problem. “How about you?” Sonny said between mouthfuls.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Sonny cracked open a soda, drank it down in two swallows. “You okay with lending me the car? I’ll bring it back, promise.”

  “Before you turn yourself in?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What if you get spotted?”

  “A risk I’ll have to take,” Sonny said.

  “I’ll drive,” Wyatt said. “I want to help.”

  Sonny bowed his head. “Thank you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Millerville.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll explain on the way,” Sonny said. “Right now I’m going to grab a little shut-eye. You should, too.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Sonny turned, went upstairs. Wyatt heard him moving down the hall toward Bert Torrance’s old bedroom.

  A few minutes later, Wyatt realized that in fact he was very tired. He entered Greer’s old bedroom, gazed at the mattress on the floor, finally lay down on it. After a while he took out his cell phone and called her, without the slightest idea of what he would say. He got sent straight to voice mail, and left no message. Rain hammered on the roof.

  30

  Wyatt smelled Greer, opened his eyes. It was dark, and for a moment he had no idea where he was. Then it came back: Greer’s old bedroom, no Greer.

  He got up, rubbed his eyes, looked out the window. Dim lights shone in the windows of a neighboring house or two; other than that, nothing but darkness and the rain falling steadily. He flicked a light switch and nothing happened.

  Wyatt left the bedroom, moved carefully down the dark hall and into the kitchen, slightly lit by a streetlamp halfway down the block. The bag of ice, split down the middle, still lay in the sink, most of the ice melted. He dipped his cupped fingers in the bag, splashed cold water on his face. The rain slanted past the streetlamp in black streaks. Wyatt flipped open his phone, checked the time: 7:13. He was hungry. He opened the sandwich bag and found it empty.