Gone ’Til November

by Wallace Stroby

  “Go ahead. Pick it up, look at it.”

  “I can see it.”

  “Derek never hurt anyone in his life. He never carried a gun in his life, either. We met at college. Rutgers. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “I graduated last year. Derek had a year to go for his degree. He wasn’t no corner boy. There was no reason for you to shoot him down like that.”

  “Those weren’t schoolbooks in that car.”

  “You don’t listen, do you? Whatever was in that car, it wasn’t his. Derek didn’t have anything to do with guns. He was different from those boys he grew up with. He had a future.”

  Sara looked at the photo. The little boy’s eyes. Derek Willis, young and alive, love for the child in his arms lighting up his face. She saw the gold ring in his right ear, the same ring she’d seen by the beam of the flashlight.

  “I’m sorry,” she said and meant it.

  “He was a good man, and you people killed him like some animal.”

  Sara shifted in her seat. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Derek was twenty-two years old. Our baby is three now. Who’s going to tell him what happened to his father? How am I ever going to explain that to him?”

  “Where is he? Your son.”

  She replaced the photo in the wallet. “With my parents. I couldn’t bring him down here. Not with what I have to do.” Her voice almost broke then, lost some of its edge. “They won’t give Derek back to me until they’re done with him,” she said. “With their ‘investigation.’ He’s all alone down here. You people murdered him, then cut him up, put him on a slab somewhere. Now I can’t take him home until they say I can.”

  There was wetness in her eyes. Sara looked away, out at the parking lot, the heat haze rising off the blacktop.

  “I have a little boy, too,” she said. “He’s six.”

  “He have a daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where at?”

  “I don’t know. We’re on our own.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sara said. “I guess I just wanted you to know.”

  “Is he coming back? His daddy?”

  “Maybe someday. I don’t know.”

  “But he might. He might show up at your door tomorrow, to see you, see his son.”

  “He might.”

  “Derek won’t. He told me he’d be gone a week, maybe a little longer, but he’s not ever coming back.”

  The cell phone hummed on the table.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you.” Sara said and eased out of the booth. “And I’m sorry for what happened.”

  The phone hummed again.

  “You may not be now,” Simone James said, “but you will be.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  The woman looked at her, waiting, and Sara knew she was being dismissed. Her face felt hot.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your husband,” she said. “That’s all I came out here to tell you.”

  Sara held her eyes for a moment, then turned away, headed for the door. She nodded at Shirley, not trusting herself to speak, then pushed open the door and went out into the heat.

  TEN

  When Sara ended her shift, Hammond’s office was already dark, the door closed. Still in uniform, she drove out to his house on the far west side of the county, the road winding through shimmering cane fields. The air was filled with the harsh, sweet smell of a distant burn-off.

  When she pulled up the driveway, he was out on the porch steps, tying flies, a tackle box open beside him. His cruiser and pickup were parked in the side yard. She pulled the Blazer up behind them, cut the engine.

  He watched as she came across the lawn. He was out of uniform already, wore jeans and a blue workshirt.

  “Figured I’d find you out here,” she said. A wind chime on the porch sounded in the breeze.

  “Knocked off early,” he said. “Don’t tell the taxpayers.”

  He set the fly in the box, stood, took a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his hands.

  “Something wrong?” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “Then come on up. Get out of that heat.”

  He held the screen door for her. She went into the coolness of the hallway, a ceiling fan turning above.

  “I made some sweet tea a little while ago,” he said.

  She followed him into the kitchen. Through the doorway into the living room, she could see a TV table set up in front of a recliner. The television was on, the sound turned down.

  “I leave it on sometimes,” he said. “Company, I guess.”

  He opened the refrigerator, took out a pitcher. “Glasses up there,” he said.

  There was a sideboard against the wall, a shelf holding white china with blue rims. On it were two framed photographs. One was a studio portrait of his daughter, Laura, a young woman with Asian features, long black hair. The other was of his wife, Lien-Thi, who’d died of cervical cancer the year before Sara joined the Sheriff’s Office. In the photo, she stood at the railing of a cruise ship in a Hawaiian dress, wearing a lei. She looked slightly embarrassed and impossibly happy.

  Sara got glasses down from the cabinet.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  He poured tea, set the pitcher on the table, sat across from her.

  “You hear from Laura?” she said.

  He shook his head. “She’s got her own life. She doesn’t like coming back here unless she has to. Too many bad memories.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Another year and she’ll take the bar. I thought she might get out here for Thanksgiving, but she says she’s got too much going on. She’s seeing a fellow, too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they end up getting married.”

  “You must be proud of her.”

  “I got pretty lucky, is the way I look at it. The Good Lord watches over drunks and fools, I guess, especially if they’re fathers. She didn’t have an easy time of it, growing up here. Between my issues and her mother getting sick . . .”

  “Sounds like you did a pretty good job of it anyway.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she got where she is in spite of, rather than because of. That would be my bet. Only reason I kept this house after Lin died was I thought Laura might want it someday. Doesn’t seem too likely now, though.”

  Sara drank her tea. It tasted of honey and mint.

  “I was up at the Starlite today,” she said.

  “Just for lunch, I hope.”

  “I saw that woman.”

  He sipped the tea.

  “I went out there,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  “And?”

  “She thinks her husband was murdered. That Billy shot him without provocation.”

  He looked at his glass, swirled his tea. “She would, though, wouldn’t she?”

  “I guess.”

  “What else she say?”

  “That I might not be sorry now about what happened, but I would be.”

  He frowned. “She say how—or why?”

  “No.”

  “Did you take that as a threat?” he said.

  “I wasn’t sure how to take it.”

  “Well, she hasn’t gotten a lawyer yet, far as I know. All her inquiries have been on her own. That bothers me, though, her bracing you like that.”

  “She didn’t come to me. I went to her.”

  “Either way, it bothers me.”

  “She showed me a picture of her little boy. He’s three.”

  “I know. I saw it. What’s on your mind, Sara? I mean exactly?”

  She looked past him, out the kitchen window. The sun hung dark and red over the tree line.

  “I met Elwood the other night,” she said. “At Tiger’s. Unusual to see him there.”

  “Sam likes a beer every once in a while.”

  “That’s what he told me, but I got the impression he was keeping an eye on Billy.”<
br />
  “That might be the case.”

  “Then you don’t buy his story? Our story?”

  He put the glass down. “I told you I had some concerns,” he said, “but not much more to go on than that.”

  “More than you let on, though.”

  He crossed his arms. “Nothing I’m about to say leaves this house. You know that, Sara, right?”

  She nodded. Here it comes.

  “Turns out Elwood had his own concerns, after the fact,” he said. “He and Boone did the interview, but Boone wrote it, wanted to. Sam let him.”

  “And?”

  “On paper, it all matches up. And everything that happened after you got there was strictly by the book, no worries there. Sam’s like a dog with a bone, though. Once he gets to chewing on something, he won’t let it be.”

  “You told me it was a clean shoot, that’s what they decided.”

  “There’s not a single piece of evidence that says otherwise.”

  “Except Elwood’s gut? And yours?”

  “Sam came to me, told me he was ruling it in policy. Boone and the state attorney’s office agreed. Then this Simone James set us both to thinking.”

  “You’d believe her over one of your own deputies?”

  “Not at all. That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know what Willis was down here for.”

  “That’s possible. Likely even. But let me make this clear, Sara. None of what Sam and I discussed is on paper, anywhere, and this department never has and never will be in the practice of airing its dirty laundry in public or to other agencies.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I signed off on the papers this morning. Flynn’s free and clear. No charges of any kind. If there’s a legal issue, a suit, that’s something else, but as far as this department, this county, and the State of Florida are concerned, that shooting was one hundred percent justified.”

  “But you’ve asked Elwood to keep his eyes open.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. And if it turns out there was more to that shooting than Flynn told us, I’m going to make sure he leaves this department with the kind of recommendation that’ll keep him from getting another law enforcement job his entire life.”

  “You sound like you’re already convinced something’s wrong.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I just want you to know where we stand, and that all of this is in-house at the moment—you, me, and Sam Elwood. For the immediate future, that’s how it’s going to stay.”

  “I understand.”

  “How much do you know about Flynn’s girlfriend?”

  “Lee-Anne? Not much. She used to dance at the Sugar Shack out on Seventeen before they closed it down. That’s how she and Billy met. He couldn’t stay away from that place.”

  “I can see how you two wouldn’t exactly be friends.”

  “She doesn’t bother me.”

  “Brings into question his judgment, though, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s none of my business anymore what he does,” she said.

  “Sam ran her through the computer, just for the hell of it. Turns out she had a couple minor arrests in Orlando back in the nineties—possession, shoplifting. Nothing much. But she did show up as a person of interest in a pending case. Seems that a couple days before the shooting, she went down to the West Palm area. That’s where she was when it happened.”

  “I knew that. Billy told me.”

  “Sam’s got a friend at the Palm Beach County SO, so he chased it down. She showed up during a surveillance down there. They ran the car tag, got her name.”

  “What kind of surveillance?”

  “Narcotics case. Haitian gang. They’re taking up where the Jamaicans left off, moving a lot of weed, coke. Got a big old house down there near Belle Glade, apparently all they do is party. Task force is working it—PBSO, FDLE, DEA. No arrests yet, but they’re building a case.”

  “They sure it was her?”

  “For the record, no, but the car was hers, St. Charles County plates and all. Sam got on the horn to Orlando PD. They found an old booking photo, faxed it down to West Palm.”

  “Sam’s been busy.”

  “He has. An FDLE agent looked at the photo, was pretty sure it was her. White woman hanging out with all those gangstas couldn’t help but catch their attention. She hasn’t been back, though, as far as they know.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “Who knows? Just partying, maybe. She popped up on their radar, but they can’t tie her to anything else. Maybe she just likes Haitians. You say Flynn knew she was down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He know who she was with, what she was doing?”

  “He said she was with friends.”

  “I guess she was.”

  A breeze moved through the house, bringing with it the smell of cane smoke. The chimes on the front porch rang softly.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know about any of this.”

  “You don’t need to worry on it. But you asked, so I needed to tell you.”

  But there’s more you’re not telling me. And you’re not telling me because you’re not sure you can trust me.

  “I should get going. Thanks for the tea.”

  They walked together back through the house and onto the front porch.

  “I appreciate what you’re going through,” he said, “and I know none of this makes it any easier. You’ve got enough on your hands as it is.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “I know you will.”

  They walked toward the Blazer. To the west, the sun was slipping behind the trees in a dirty haze of smoke. She got her keys out.

  “Been a while since I’ve been out here,” she said. “I forgot how peaceful it is, quiet.”

  “Too quiet sometimes, with no one around. But it doesn’t bother me that much. My life is pretty simple these days. I get up at six every morning, seven days a week, and I always have my Rule for Today.”

  “What’s today’s rule?”

  “Don’t drink. I can do anything else I want, but I can’t drink. You know what the Rule for Tomorrow is?”

  “What?”

  “There is no Rule for Tomorrow. There’s only today. And when I wake up tomorrow morning—if I wake up tomorrow morning—then the only thing I have to worry about is the Rule for Today.”

  “And that is?”

  “Don’t drink.”

  She opened the door, and he slapped her lightly on the elbow. She got behind the wheel and started the engine, and he stood there, watching, as she turned around and headed back down the driveway.

  Whatever you’ve done, Billy Boy, you’ve screwed us both.

  Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she drove. She missed the turnoff that would take her home, realized she was headed toward CR-23. She remembered what the woman had said. You may not be now. But you will be.

  Heading south on 23, she topped the rise, saw the cross in the distance. Thought of what she should have said to her. Why can’t you just leave us alone? Why did you have to come down here and start all this? That boy’s dead, he’s never coming back, no matter what you do or who you hurt.

  When the cross loomed ahead, she braked hard, steered onto the shoulder. She got out of the Blazer, left the door open. The air reeked of burnt cane and, under it, the sulfur stench of swamp.

  The plastic vase was overturned, the flowers gone, the photo sun-faded. The teddy bear tilted loosely, a single strand of wire holding it to the cross, its fur soiled by dust and rain.

  She kicked at the cross, missed, lost her balance, almost fell. Then she reached down, pulled it from the ground. Just leave us alone.

  She twisted, threw it. The cross sailed awkwardly through the air, landed in the wet grass, the bear a few feet away, face down. Where Willis’s body had been.

  She almost started down the slope to pick them up, throw them deeper into the swamp, out of sight f
orever. Caught herself, walked back to the Blazer.

  She started the engine, U-turned off the shoulder, spraying gravel. A half mile later, she braked, pulled to the side of the empty road, and began to cry.

  ELEVEN

  The Indian woman behind the counter didn’t greet him, watched him as he made his way down the aisles. Basic foods, brands he’d never heard of, cans with faded labels. Stretches of dusty shelf with no product at all. Morgan remembered the A&P on West Market Street when he was a boy. A city block long, it had seemed. Endless rows of fluorescent lights, everything clean and bright. A store a boy could get lost in.

  He picked up two overpriced quarts of motor oil, a handful of chocolate bars. There were no baskets, so he carried it all in the crook of his arm.

  On a shelf near the counter, he saw a turn-rack of cassettes with sun-faded labels. A handwritten sign read 3 FOR $5.

  Stock left from the previous owners, he guessed. Nobody bought them anymore.

  He scanned the titles, remembering what he’d left behind at the hotel. He chose a Sam Cooke collection, O. V. Wright, the Impressions’ greatest hits. The tape cases were covered with a thin film of dust. He found six he wanted, brought them to the counter.

  The prepaid cells were on the wall behind the register, between hanging sheets of scratch-off lottery cards.

  He pointed. “Two of those.”

  She scanned the items without a word. He pulled a roll of bills from the pocket of his leather, handed over three fifties. She frowned, unfolded them on the counter one by one, and passed a counterfeit detection pen over each. Then she opened the register, gave him his change, put everything in a single thin plastic bag.

  He went out into the fading daylight, started across Elizabeth Avenue to where the Monte Carlo was parked. He’d taken the chance on driving. With the stops he had to make, a cab would be too much trouble. The bag dangled from his left hand, his right hand free. His coat was open, the Beretta in back. He put the bag in the trunk, got behind the wheel.

  His next stop was three blocks away, a hardware store tucked between a fast-food chicken place and a shuttered shoe repair shop. He went up a flight of narrow stairs, through a glass door with an old-fashioned OPEN sign.

  Otis was behind the counter, grinding a key. His hair had gone solid gray in the months since Morgan had last seen him. Reading glasses hung from a cord around his neck.