Nick of Time

by John Gilstrap

  “An argument or a fight?” Darla remembered the flash of rage.

  “Do not think badly of him, please. It is not his fault. He is just a boy.”

  Darla was confused. “Don’t think badly of Jeremy?”

  “He is a good boy. Used to get good grades, but that Peter Banks, he is a bad influence. I don’t know why he insists on hanging out with such trash. He knows what it must look like. He knows that his father must win elections to have a job.”

  Darla’s jaw dropped without her realizing it. “Mrs. Hines, perhaps—”

  “Call me Gisela, please.”

  “Gisela, are you aware of how close Sheriff Hines came to striking Jeremy yesterday?”

  Gisela waved it off as if it were unimportant. “That’s what I am telling you. That is the influence of Peter Banks. That is not Jeremy’s fault.”

  “I’m not suggesting that it’s Jeremy’s fault, Gisela. I’m not even sure you and I are talking about the same things. Jeremy is only a boy.”

  Now it was Gisela’s turn to look confused. She scoffed, “Jeremy is a young man. He is strong. There is no little boy left.”

  “Of course there is,” Darla said, and then she lowered her voice. “He’s only eighteen. Emotionally, he’ll be a boy for another five years.”

  “But he knows right from wrong. He should know right from wrong, yet he smokes drugs with his friend. I’m telling you, before Peter Banks came into his life, Jeremy had no problems at all. Good grades, nothing but bright prospects for his baseball scholarship.”

  Darla opened her mouth to say something more, but stopped herself. “Mrs. Hines—Gisela—why did you ask me to meet you here?”

  The other woman’s gaze broke away from Darla’s. Apparently, they had gotten to the part she wasn’t comfortable with. She took a deep breath and talked to her hands. “Essex is a small town,” she said. “People talk, and this thing that happened yesterday at the park, that is the kind of thing that can be very damaging.” She raised her eyes. “Damaging to Frank, damaging to Jeremy, and even damaging to you.”

  An alarm went off in the back of Darla’s head. Was it possible that this little woman with the charming accent was threatening her? She rattled her head, as if to fix a loose connection. “I don’t think I follow what you’re saying.”

  Gisela leaned into the table, lowering her voice even more. “I know how cops talk among themselves, how rumors spread a little at a time. You mention something to another deputy, and then he tells his wife, and pretty soon, everybody knows what is happening.”

  “You’re afraid that I’m going to tell people about Jeremy?” Darla asked. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  “It is interesting to talk about, no? It is the kind of thing that might come up in the squad room. Certainly, it’s the kind of thing that the newspapers would like to hear: Sheriff’s son caught in drug ring. I would ask you not to spread that kind of rumor.”

  Darla allowed herself a wry chuckle, even though none of this was remotely funny. She leaned back in her seat, away from the table, and ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said. “First of all, none of what happened yesterday could possibly be turned into a rumor, because it’s all true. Jeremy did in fact get caught smoking pot—though I would hesitate to call that a drug ring—and he did in fact get a pass, courtesy of your husband. I presume that’s what you’re worried about, right? The fact that the people of Essex might draw the conclusion that there are different legal standards, depending on who you are?”

  Gisela looked ashamed that she had ever brought it up.

  “Okay, well, it’s true,” Darla said. “I’ve always known it’s true within the department, but now I know that it’s true on the streets, as well.”

  “It is the influence of that other boy,” Gisela said again.

  “Who cares, Mrs. Hines? I mean really, at the end of the day, who gives a flying shit why a teenager does something stupid? They all do stupid things. It’s their job. No one cares.”

  The other woman looked around and lowered her voice. “My husband has enemies. They will care. They will try to ruin his job.”

  Darla wanted to argue the point, but sensed the fruitlessness of it. It had been her experience over the years that parents in power think that their kids are under far more scrutiny than they truly are. “Let’s not forget about the baseball scholarship,” Darla baited. “That’s very important, too.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Gisela missed the irony completely.

  “Why am I here? What do you want from me? Is it just to be quiet about what I saw yesterday?”

  Gisela nodded triumphantly. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I want you to be quiet. To not tell anyone what you saw.”

  “What did Sheriff Hines do to Jeremy last night?” Darla intended the question to catch Gisela off balance and it worked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how badly did he beat him?”

  Gisela squirmed in her seat. “My husband does not beat my son,” she said.

  “I don’t believe you. I saw for myself how terrified Jeremy was of getting caught yesterday. I saw the fury in his father’s eyes. Does he beat you as well?”

  Gisela’s jaw dropped, her face a mask of horror. “How dare you?”

  “Tell you what,” Darla said. “I’ll keep quiet about what happened yesterday if you promise to go public about what happened afterward. Is that a deal?”

  “I will do no such thing. You have no right to ask such a thing. What happens in our home is private business.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Yet, here we are in a public place, talking about it.”

  Gisela took a few beats to gather herself. “Look,” she said, “my husband wants you to know that there are no hard feelings about yesterday.”

  Darla’s eyebrows scaled her forehead. “Oh, he does.”

  “He wants you to know that there will be no, um, what’s the word?”

  “Retaliation?” Darla helped.

  “Repercussions. He asked me to talk to you because he thought it would be, um—”

  “Inappropriate? Morally wrong?”

  “Embarrassing, to say so himself. He reminded me to remind you that he would do the same for you. He calls it professional courtesy.”

  “Oh, is that what he calls it?”

  Gisela looked confused. “Why are you being so difficult about this?”

  “I’m not being difficult,” she said. “I’m being surprised. Aghast. I understand the part about professional courtesy, but to have you do his dirty work for him is appalling.”

  Gisela grew even more uncomfortable. “He has a favor to ask of you, also. You are free to say no if you wish—he made that very clear—but he would feel most indebted to you if you would think about it.”

  This should be interesting, Darla thought.

  Gisela beckoned Darla to lean in closer to the center of the table. “He would appreciate it if you would keep an eye out for this Peter Banks boy. Watch him and wait for him to break the law.”

  Darla nodded, feigning a serious expression. “And then shoot him, right?”

  There was that horrified look again. “Heavens no! Just arrest him. Take him off the streets, away from Jeremy. Away from other good boys he might lead astray.”

  Darla rattled her head again. “Isn’t that a little over the top? Why not just tell Jeremy to stay away from him?”

  “We have,” Gisela said. The frustration raised her voice louder than she wanted. “We have told him a thousand times, but he does not listen.”

  This was the moment when Darla should have gotten up and walked out of the Dairy Queen, but something drove her to stay. There was a point to be made here, and for whatever reason, she wasn’t able to make the other woman understand. “Suppose I catch Jeremy breaking the law? Do you want me to arrest him, too?”

  “That will not be a problem. He has promised.”

  “But you told me that he’s promised a thousand
times. What makes you think this time is any better?”

  Gisela sat back in her bench and fiddled with a napkin, twisting it around her finger. “This time, he is frightened. This time, he understands what he faces if he breaks the law again.”

  At one level, this had started to become amusing, even while it remained largely tragic. “Why does it fall to me?” she asked. “There are a lot of deputies here who would do anything to kiss your husband’s ass. Why does it come to Darling Sweetcheeks?”

  From the smile, she could tell that Gisela had heard the epithet before. “They are not as loyal as you think,” she said. “They talk too much about too many things. Many do not like my husband. Some might like to run against him one day. The less they know about this, the better.”

  “I see. And since I already know the details, I’m the natural choice to terrorize the young man who did nothing more than spend an afternoon with your son.”

  Gisela bristled. “He is a bad one, that Peter.”

  Darla suppressed a smile. “I keep forgetting. And why doesn’t Sheriff Hines keep his own eye out for Peter?” The question was rhetorical; she already knew the answer. “Under the circumstances, he couldn’t very well be the one to arrest him, could he? In fact, Peter Banks could commit just about any crime he wanted in this town, right under the sheriff’s nose, and not have a problem, isn’t that right? All Peter would have to do is open his mouth to one judge, and any charge would be thrown out. Is that what your husband was thinking?”

  Gisela squirmed. “Something like that.”

  “But I was there, too.”

  “You wanted to arrest them,” Gisela explained. “You do not have the same conflict of—What is the term?”

  “Conflict of interest,” Darla said. “And over the course of the last ten minutes, you’ve handed me one hell of a big one.”

  June 9

  Once I showed them how scared I was they knew they owned me. I’m Chaney’s bitch now. A slave.

  I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill all of them.

  I’ve got to get out of here. One way or the other. I tried to hang myself night before last. Got the sheet tied up high around the bars, got the other end tied around my throat. Couldn’t take the big step. I pussied out.

  I don’t know how Chaney has the run of the place at night, but he does when Georgen is on duty. I don’t know how he pays him, or what he pays him, but my cell door slides open and then he’s got me. When he’s done, he walks away and the door closes behind him and then I’m alone. Unless he’s loaned me out.

  I’m disgusting.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By one-thirty, they were deep into North Carolina, feeling their way east and south, obeying every speed limit. They had the top down, and as the wind blew her hair into knots, Nicki thought for sure that she could feel her strength returning, nature’s remedies taking care of nature’s ills.

  “I can smell the ocean,” she said.

  Brad craned his neck to look at the thickening sky. “Doesn’t look like it’s going to be much of a beach day.”

  “Did I ever tell you that I’ve never been to the beach?”

  Brad laughed. “About a thousand times.”

  “Actually, I knew that,” Nicki said. “That was my hint. Let’s go to the beach.”

  “Don’t you think we should get a few more miles behind us?”

  “I’m seventeen years old and I’ve never once felt sand between my toes.”

  Brad rolled his eyes. “No sandboxes in upstate New York?”

  “It’s not the same. Or so I’ve heard. Wouldn’t know myself, because I’ve never been to the beach.”

  He looked at her and made his dimples erupt in a smirk. “I can’t believe you’ve never been. Didn’t your friends just hop in a car and go?”

  “You’re kidding, right? My ‘friends’”—finger quotes—“are all mindless idiots, and even if they weren’t, there’s no way my father would let me drive that far with other kids.”

  Brad regarded her with a scowl, as if he were confused. Then the smile returned. “Hey,” he said. “Let’s grab lunch at the beach.”

  “What a great idea!”

  “Are we close to Nags Head? Kids at school used to go to Nags Head on spring break.”

  Brad shook his head. “We’re close, but I don’t want to go there. That’s actually a pretty busy place. Too many cops. Besides, it’s behind us, and this is a one-way trip.”

  “Where, then?”

  “The beach is three thousand miles long, Nicki. I think we’ll be able to find a place. There’s a town called Sail Fish, where I went a hundred years ago. It’s not touristy. Got a little drawbridge you’ve got to go over to get into the place. I think it’s got maybe four restaurants altogether, and the people there don’t particularly like visitors.”

  “That means they won’t like us,” Nicki said.

  Brad laughed. “Nah, we don’t look like visitors.” He lifted one bare foot away from the clutch and showed it to her. “See? No sandals and knee socks. Oh, yeah, and no cameras. We definitely don’t look like visitors.”

  Nicki laughed along with him. “How far is Sail Fish?”

  He calculated. “Maybe an hour and a half. It’s nearly at the South Carolina border.”

  “I’ve got to eat before then,” she said. “Seriously, I’m starving. At least a snack.”

  “You okay?” His tone took on a note of concern.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “But until I get the meds thing worked out, food and fluids become even more important.” It’s amazing, she thought, how an illness like hers can make even a layman talk like a doctor.

  Brad squinted as he tried to make out the writing on the sign up ahead. “Can you read that?”

  Nicki squinted, too. It was a green highway sign with white letters on it. “It says, ‘Essex, one mile.’”

  Brad could see it now, too. “Let’s find something to eat in Essex.”

  * * *

  The scent of the ocean grew stronger as they turned left at the stop sign, but there was no sign of water. Dense woods surrounded them—mostly towering, skinny pines growing out of the sandy soil. What few houses they saw looked gloomy and unkempt.

  Essex was the land of billboard advertising. Nothing particularly eye-catching or original—although she did get a giggle out of the sign for Dirty Dick’s House of Crabs—most of the boards hawked mid-range motels.

  “This is a charming community,” Nicki said.

  “Anything not built of steel and concrete looks right homey to me,” Brad replied. “I guess this is all people can afford when they make money only five months out of the year.” Brad kept the speedometer hovering around forty-five, just to be safe.

  After another three miles, they found themselves approaching a T intersection with Shore Road. Directly in front, just beyond the dunes that frustrated any panoramic view, lay the ocean.

  “You want to eat first or see the beach first?” Brad asked.

  “Food,” Nicki said. It wasn’t even close.

  Brad yanked the steering wheel, and then they were in the parking lot of a Quik Mart store.

  “What are you doing?” Nicki asked.

  “Stopping for a snack.”

  “But this isn’t a restaurant.”

  “Because this isn’t a meal.” He perfectly mimicked her tone. He pulled the Sebring around the far corner of the store and stopped on the other side of a Dumpster, out of sight of the road. He wrenched the transmission lever into Park and turned sideways in his seat, drawing one foot under the opposite thigh, forming the figure 4. “And let’s talk about a big problem we have.” He recapped his concerns about losing their new identities, and worse yet, their credit card. “From now on,” he continued, “we’re strictly on a cash basis, and we don’t have a whole hell of a lot of that. Things are likely to be austere for a while until I can come up with more folding money.”

  “We’re not stealing in here,
” Nicki said. “Okay? Promise that we’re not shoplifting.”

  The comment startled a laugh out of Brad. “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked that of me before.”

  He opened his door, pausing to slip his sandals back on. “You’re something else, Nicolette,” he said. “You are something else.”

  She got out of the car, too, a little more slowly than he. Concern darkened Brad’s face. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. And I’ll kick your ass if you ever ask me that again. You’re sounding like my father.”

  He clapped a hand over his heart and staggered back a step. He stopped her just as they got to the door. “Remember, no conversation with the clerk. Minimize eye contact, but always act normal.”

  Her scowl mocked his serious tone.

  Brad smacked her on the backside and then walked through the glass door.

  Funny how being a fugitive changes you. The first thing Nicki noticed as she stepped into the Quik Mart were the two security cameras, one behind the counter, where the clerk was no more interested in eye contact than she was, and one opposite the door. Maybe eighteen years old with a complexion that would benefit from more soap, the clerk was buried chin-deep in a Star Wars novel. He wouldn’t have noticed if Tony Soprano himself walked through those doors. (Yet another thing her father didn’t know was her obsession with the new HBO show about the mafia.)

  The cameras unnerved her. That unblinking eye watched everything they did. She hurried to catch up with Brad, who’d gone straight to the refrigerated cases in the back of the store.

  “Lunch meats,” he explained, answering her look of curiosity. “Good nutritional value, quick, and cheap. That’s my three basic food groups.”

  “Do you see the cameras up there?”

  He didn’t look up at them. “Don’t stare.”

  “People will see us here.”

  “Not if they don’t go looking for us,” he said. “Nobody monitors cameras. They only look at the tapes if there’s a problem and they want to see what happened. In a place this size, they probably record over the same tape day after day. After tomorrow, there won’t even be a record.”