The Long and Faraway Gone

by Lou Berney

  Maybe, maybe, maybe. If, if, if.

  Julianna could hear DeMars’s voice. Juli. You squeezing it too hard, trying to make the pieces fit when they don’t.

  And she could hear Genevieve’s voice. She could really hear Genevieve’s voice as if her sister were right there behind her, looking over Julianna’s shoulder at her laptop and making that face she made. Genevieve could roll her eyes without rolling her eyes. Julianna had watched that face drop guys dead in their tracks when they tried to hit on Genevieve without what Genevieve considered sufficient creativity.

  You dork! I’m gone! I’m dead! Don’t you have anything better to do with your life?

  Guess not, Julianna thought.

  Don’t be mad at me, Juli.

  Why in the world would I be mad at you, Genni? Except for . . . you know, everything?

  Julianna closed her laptop. Outside Starbucks dusk was falling. She looked at her watch. Where did the time go?

  Julianna had pretended to be oblivious, but she’d known about the coke for a long time. There were days and nights when Genevieve came home so high, so flying, so manic and glittering, that Julianna didn’t even recognize her.

  “Let’s dance!” Genevieve said one time. She put a cassette in her boom box and turned the volume up. Sheila E. She dragged Julianna up onto the bed with her. Julianna wrenched her wrists free and turned the music off so their mother wouldn’t come down to the basement and see Genevieve like this. It was after midnight.

  Genevieve danced and bounced without the music and then flopped onto her back, cracking up. She flung an arm out toward Julianna, a hand, fingers wriggling, searching for Julianna in the space between them.

  “I love you,” she said. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  Julianna went upstairs to her room and shut her door.

  When Genevieve was high, the part of her that made her Genevieve—­mean and funny and curious and generous and stubborn and selfish and ferociously loyal—­disappeared. Cocaine was magical, but it was like the worst kind of magic trick.

  For a long time, Julianna had known that Genevieve liked coke better than she liked her. But she hadn’t realized that Genevieve loved coke more than she loved Julianna. Not until that day at the fair, that dusk, when Genevieve—­without thinking twice about it, without a single glance backward—­left Julianna alone and terrified so she could go get high.

  Genevieve knew how dangerous the fair could be. Everyone knew it. How could she leave her little sister behind on that curb, the sky turning from blood orange to black? Genevieve knew what could have happened to her. What happened to Genevieve could have happened to Julianna.

  Julianna had selected pink cotton candy, not blue, because pink matched her new Pink Panther. Genevieve should have realized this and gone for the kill. She should have made fun of Julianna until Julianna could stand no more. Genevieve should have helped herself to a giant handful of cotton candy without asking and warned Julianna that if she got her grubby paws all over the upholstery of her Cutlass on the way home, there would be hell to pay.

  Instead, though, she left Julianna behind and went off to find the carny. Because she thought he was sexy, because she thought he would have drugs.

  Don’t be mad, Juli. Don’t stay mad.

  Julianna’s phone rang. DeMars. She sent the call to voice mail and tucked her phone back into her purse. She took out her car keys.

  CROWLEY’S HOUSE WAS dark. Julianna, parked down at the other end of the block, couldn’t be sure if the lights were off inside or if the light inside was just blocked by the bedsheets covering the windows. She thought about pulling closer or getting out of her car and strolling past. But she’d made up her mind—­if she was going to be here, if she was going to do this, she had to be careful.

  If she was going to do what, exactly? Julianna wasn’t sure, not really. Now, before she could decide, the door to the house opened: a wink of bluish light as Crowley stepped out and onto the porch.

  She watched him. He moved heavily as he walked to the pickup truck in the driveway—­each step an effort, like a man climbing a hill. But also heavily in the way a boulder rumbles down a hill. Out of my way or else.

  He heaved himself up into the cab of the pickup. His old Ford was a total piece of shit. The driver’s door was just primer, no paint, and the tailgate was missing completely. The truck shuddered when Crowley started it up. Julianna could hear the near-­death rattle from a block away.

  She ducked beneath her dash. The truck rattled and roared past. Julianna dug for her keys. Stupidly, she’d put them back in her purse. Finally she found them and started her car and made a hard U in the middle of the street. She managed to spot the flare of Crowley’s taillights just before they disappeared. Left on Robinson.

  Julianna followed, staying as far back as she could without losing him. Crowley drove fast, cutting between lanes, shooting through intersections when the yellow light turned red. Julianna got trapped behind one red light, but Crowley stayed on Robinson, flat and straight, so she was able to catch up.

  They passed blocks of run-­down buildings, taquerias and liquor stores and pawnshops. Crowley turned onto Reno, and Julianna followed. After a few miles, he stopped at a bar, a big wooden barn of a place, lots of cars and motorcycles in the parking lot. THE DOUBLE R RANCH. Julianna circled the block twice, to give Crowley time, and then parked.

  She waited. She wanted to go inside and sit invisibly in a dark corner and observe Crowley. See what he ordered, how he ordered it. Did he sit at the bar or at a table? If he sat at the bar, he would be watching the door in the mirror behind it. He would see her the instant she stepped inside.

  Maybe that was fine. Slide onto the stool next to him and say, again, I just want to talk to you. Say to him, I’m going to talk to you if it kills me.

  Julianna could hear DeMars’s voice. She ignored it.

  She waited until the next group of ­people entered the bar, three bearded biker dudes and a woman too old for the tight leather miniskirt she was wearing. Julianna slipped in behind them.

  Inside, the place was dim and crowded and the smoke hung heavy, struggling to rise all the way to the wooden rafters. Music pounded: Led Zeppelin, maybe? Julianna looked for Crowley. He was sitting at the end of the bar. Not watching the mirror behind the bar but instead the shot glass in front of him. He turned it, lifted it, tipped back his head, let the booze roll down his throat. Not rushing anything, a committed drinker. He tapped the glass on the bar. The bartender brought the bottle over and poured Crowley another shot. Crowley watched the glass fill.

  Julianna moved away from the bar. A few tables were empty, but she’d be too conspicuous by herself. Toward the back was a table with two women in their forties or fifties. Or maybe just their hard late thirties. Their faces were leathery and collapsed, like they were dragging deep on Marlboro Reds even though they weren’t smoking.

  One of the women, the redhead, glanced up. Julianna was wearing jeans and a V-­neck sweater. She looked out of place in this place, but not too terribly.

  “Let me sit here a minute and I’ll buy you a round,” she said.

  One of the women, the redhead, swept a hand at the empty chair. The other woman just stared at Julianna, drunk, her eyes glassy. Julianna motioned for the waitress.

  “Another round here,” she said. “And a beer for me.”

  “What kind?”

  “I don’t care.”

  The waitress left.

  “You got a cigarette?” the drunk woman asked Julianna.

  “No.”

  Julianna watched Crowley pour down another shot. He was too far away, too many tables and ­people and smoke between her and him, for Julianna to make out his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She couldn’t make out the blurred blue tattoo of a snake on his forearm or the diamond stud in his ear.

  The bars
tool next to Crowley was empty. Julianna watched him lean over, heavily, and say something to the woman sitting on the other side of it.

  The waitress brought the drinks. Julianna gave her a twenty and told her to bring another round of drinks when these were finished.

  The drunk woman lifted her drink. It looked like a mojito. “Whooo!” she said. And then, “Whooo.”

  Julianna took a sip of her beer. Bud Light? It tasted like something you’d wring out of a dirty rag.

  The redhead was smirking. “Boyfriend or husband?” she asked Julianna.

  “Boyfriend,” Julianna said. “If he’s meeting that bitch here again, I’m going to kill ’em both.”

  The redhead smirked. “Which one is he?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Do you have a cigarette?” the drunk woman asked again.

  The redhead lifted her big purse off the floor. Turquoise leather, trimmed with rhinestones. She opened it and showed Julianna its contents: a small black gun in a turquoise leather holster that matched the purse.

  “But I’d use me a knife,” the redhead said. She set the purse back on the floor and laughed. Her laugh was sandpaper and ground glass. “A big old butcher’s knife.”

  The woman that Crowley was talking to had moved over onto the empty barstool between them. She had one thick brown braid that fell almost to her waist and wore a denim vest, nothing on beneath it.

  She leaned into Crowley now, to hear what he was saying. When she turned her head, or shook it, or bobbed it to the music, her heavy braid barely moved. Crowley watched the woman like he’d watched the shot glass fill. Julianna felt a shiver move through her.

  “He’s the one at the table by the door,” she told the redhead, picking a table at random.

  “Hmm,” the redhead said. “The squirrelly one or the—­ No. Girl like you, bet you go for the big boys, don’t you? The strong, silent type.”

  “That’s him.”

  “He’s a cutie. How’s he measure up in the cock department?”

  “Why?” Julianna said. “You the last slut in Oklahoma City hasn’t gone down on him yet?”

  The redhead laughed.

  A biker dude with a giant walrus mustache had made his way over. His buddies at another table observed.

  “Ladies. Buy y’all a drank?”

  His mustache moved, but you couldn’t see his mouth underneath. It was like watching a sock puppet talk.

  “Can’t you see we’re having a weighty discussion here?” the redhead said. “I mean.”

  Walrus Man chuckled. “I can get weighty.”

  “I bet you can,” the redhead said. “Now, go away. I’ll let you know if you’re needed.”

  He chuckled again, hesitated, and then returned to his table. Julianna thought the redhead could do better tonight than Walrus Man. She was hard-­looking, but more attractive than Julianna had noticed at first glance. Probably the redhead agreed she could do better than Walrus Man but wasn’t yet positive about it.

  “I need a fucking cigarette.”

  “Damn,” the redhead said. She lifted her purse back up, pawed around, came up with a single broken cigarette. She handed it to her friend and lit it for her with a turquoise Bic. The flame wavered. The tip of the cigarette wavered. “Hold still, Carla May.”

  Crowley paid his tab, cash, without taking his eyes off the woman on the barstool next to him.

  Where had he been for those fifteen years since he was released from prison? What had he been doing? Julianna didn’t really care. She wanted to know what he’d been doing for fifty-­five minutes in September of 1986. Did he see Genevieve? What did he say to her? What did she say to him? Was there someone else in the trailer with them? The man with the cowboy hat?

  “That guy at the end of the bar,” Julianna asked the redhead. “With the long hair and the goatee. Have you ever seen him in here before?”

  “You do go for the big boys,” the redhead said. She squinted. “No. Never have.”

  “Mr. Blue Eyes,” the drunk friend said.

  Julianna and the redhead looked at her. She grinned.

  “Carla May,” the redhead said. “Did that man romance you and I didn’t hear the juicy details?”

  “He wanted to romance me, all right. He bought me a drink is all, the other day.”

  “Did he say anything?” Julianna asked.

  The drunk friend frowned at Julianna. “Like what?”

  “Like anything.”

  “I don’t recall.” She looked at the cigarette between her fingers and mourned the spreading ash. “Mr. Blue Eyes. I had to go pee, then I don’t know where he went.”

  Julianna watched Crowley stand. He held out a hand, the gentleman, and helped the woman with the braid off the barstool. He followed her toward the door, close behind and towering over her, his big hand on her shoulder now. Julianna felt another shiver.

  If she hurried, she could head them off at the door. Maybe Crowley would talk to her for five minutes, just to get rid of her. And he wouldn’t want Julianna to tell the woman with the braid that he was an ex-­con, that he’d been the primary suspect in the kidnapping and murder of a teenage girl. Or would he care? Would the woman? This wasn’t the Starbucks in Nichols Hills.

  Julianna stayed seated. When Crowley and the woman reached the door, he stopped and glanced back across the big room, a quick scan. For an instant, Julianna was certain he’d seen her. But his eyes skimmed past, no drag or hesitation.

  He put both hands on the woman’s shoulders and steered her out the door.

  The waitress brought two more mojitos. The two guys at the closest table were getting ready to make their move. Julianna could see it. The redhead could see it.

  “Have fun tonight,” Julianna told her. She stood up.

  The redhead shook her head and laughed. “Well, hell if I know what you’re up to.”

  “Hell if I know either,” Julianna said.

  The drunk friend lifted her fresh mojito. “Whooo.”

  Julianna

  CHAPTER 11

  Julianna followed Crowley’s truck back to his house. She parked down the block again, closer this time. There were a lot of other cars parked on the street, both sides, and the streetlight on the corner was out. Julianna didn’t think Crowley would notice her even if he was looking.

  He wasn’t looking. He unlocked the front door of his house and opened it but then wheeled around and pushed the woman with the braid up against the doorframe. He closed a fist around her braid and yanked it, like a bellpull. The woman’s head tilted up and back. Julianna could see the white of her throat, the white of her smile.

  Julianna watched them make out: Crowley’s fist tight on the braid, the woman pinned against the doorframe, her body pushing and moving against his. He was so much bigger than she was, taller and heavier. She was probably five-­five or five-­six, Julianna’s height. Julianna couldn’t see Crowley’s other hand until the woman suddenly bucked, buckled, and Julianna realized that he had his other hand between her legs.

  The woman had lost one of her spike-­heeled shoes. Her bare foot stroked his calf.

  Crowley knew what he was doing, apparently. After a minute or two, they moved inside. The door banged shut behind them.

  Julianna pictured the groping stumble to the bed. Or the sofa? The mother-­of-­pearl snaps on the woman’s denim vest popping open, Crowley’s hands on her breasts, his mouth, the weight of him pressing down on her.

  Julianna remembered one time, at almost the very beginning of the investigation, when the two detectives had been standing around in the driveway eating a late lunch or an early dinner. One of the detectives, the older one, shared his fries with Julianna—­crinkle-­cut fries from a white Braum’s bag. He was asking Julianna how she liked school, what her favorite classes were, when a cop in a uniform interru
pted to report that Schmidt and the others were on it—­Schmidt and all them—­checking the Cutlass for blood and semen.

  Julianna had felt the detectives go rigid. The young, grim one grabbed the patrol cop by the elbow and marched him off. The older detective asked Julianna, quickly, which one she would pick, french fries or Tater Tots, if she had to eat one and only one for the rest of her life.

  “Now, give it some thought,” he said. “Only fools rush in.”

  The thought of blood in Genevieve’s car didn’t freak Julianna out. No, yes, of course it did, but Julianna had seen blood. She was familiar with blood. When she was nine, she’d opened a peel-­top can of chocolate pudding and sliced her finger on the sharp edge of the lid. Another time, in kindergarten, Julianna had seen a little boy fall off the top of a slide. His teeth were red when he cried.

  Blood was everywhere, part of life. But: semen. Semen. Julianna, at twelve years old, was young for her age. The baby of the family, sheltered by her mother and, yes, to some degree even by Genevieve. So Julianna had only the vaguest notion of what semen was. She just knew it was gross and filthy and scary and it happened during sex, which was gross and filthy and scary.

  Blood and semen. The combination created a new, exponential horror. Julianna had nightmares for weeks, months. Some nights she would wake up in the middle of the night and just wish she were dead.

  Crowley and the woman with the braid had been inside the house for forty minutes. Still going at it? Going at it again? Julianna wondered what would happen if she knocked on Crowley’s door now. He’d be pissed, standing there with his dick swinging in the wind, but he might also be . . . spent. Julianna, if she were lucky, would catch him in that brief moment when a man can do nothing but surrender.

  I just want to talk to you.

  Julianna told herself she’d wait five more minutes and then drive home. After those five minutes ticked by, she told herself she’d wait five more. After an hour the door to the house opened. The woman with the braid picked up the spike-­heeled shoe she’d abandoned and slipped it back on. Crowley was already halfway to his truck. The woman had to hurry to catch up and climb in. Her braid, Julianna could see in the glare of Crowley’s headlights, had begun to fray.