by Julia Keller
Tyler waited a long time before he said, “Okay.”
As soon as Steve left, Jake had wheeled down the hall to show Tyler where he’d be sleeping.
Now he waited for the kid in the living room. He had a little speech of his own to make.
Tyler slouched his way in from the hall. He plopped down on the couch, immediately slinging his feet up on the coffee table.
“Get your feet off the furniture,” Jake snapped.
Tyler took his time, first lifting one foot, then the other. He made a snickering noise in the back of his throat.
“What’s that?” Jake said.
“What’s what?”
“That sound you just made. Like you’ve got a joke you want to tell. You got something to say to me, you say it. Don’t make your funny little sounds.”
“Okay.” Tyler laced his fingers and propped them on his belly. “I will. I think it’s pretty damned funny that you’re so particular about your coffee table here. Making me keep my feet off. Hell—it’s a piece of crap.”
“You’re right. It’s definitely a piece of crap. Only thing I could afford.”
“So why can’t I put my feet on it?”
“Because I told you not to. My house—my rules.” Jake moved his chair. He didn’t like looking at the kid at an angle. He wanted to face him head-on. The symbolism was right. “That’s rule number one. Number two? I drink beer. But you can’t. You know why you can’t. Because you’re a drug addict. You’re not going to be touching anything that messes with your brain chemistry. No drugs, no booze. I catch you with anything like that, your ass is out of here. But just so you know—the Rolling Rocks in the fridge are counted. Which brings me,” Jake said, moving his chair again, just an inch, making sure he still had the kid’s attention, “to my final point. You said something earlier about me ‘protecting’ you. I’m not doing that.” His palms smacked the wheels. “Obviously. Thing is—you’re protecting yourself. I’m just giving you a place to stay. Same thing with your recovery. You do it yourself. Other people can help—but the work’s up to you, my man. Nobody else.”
Tyler looked a little stunned. Finally he nodded. But there was no sarcastic subtext to the nod this time.
It was just a nod.
“I gotta go pee,” Tyler said, standing up.
“Wait—that reminds me. I forgot a rule,” Jake said. “Random drug tests. Just so you know. No postponing them, no ducking them. When the doc comes by, you’ll be here and you’ll cooperate.”
“I still gotta pee.” Tyler shuffled away.
While he was out of the room, Jake dialed the sheriff’s cell. Watching this kid was going to be a thankless job, filled with annoyances both trivial and momentous, and more than a slight chance of danger. Nobody else would want to do it. So Jake figured he had some leverage. Time to wield it.
“Everything okay?” Harrison said.
“Fine. He’s settling in. But I want a favor.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to make Bell Elkins a special consultant, too.”
“Why?”
“I might need backup. And we’ve got a real good track record of working together.”
“I don’t know, Jake.”
“Come on. You’re paying me shit wages. Paying two people shit wages isn’t appreciably different from paying one person shit wages. Right?”
“I’ll check with Rhonda. And the budget. Get back to you.”
“Taking that as a yes.”
* * *
Jake had made his special snack for late-night TV viewing, one that required little effort or creativity but yielded large dividends—because it was his absolute favorite: He dumped a bag of Wavy Lay’s in a clear plastic bowl, put the bowl on his lap, and wheeled himself back into the living room.
Tyler sat on the couch in a slouch, the kind that made his bony knees stick up in front of him like two fence posts and lowered his neck almost to the level of his hips. His eyes moved lazily around the room. Occasionally he’d reach up and pluck at his bottom lip.
He had gotten settled in the spare bedroom in what seemed like seconds, a process that consisted of sitting on the bed and then standing up again, opening the closet door and then closing it.
And now the remainder of his first night in Jake’s home was unspooling slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. He knew he’d have trouble sleeping tonight, which was a common junkie problem. That, and nausea. And chills. And sweats. And a deep craving that felt like his body was turning itself inside-out every few minutes.
He didn’t want to read a book—Jake’s offer of a few paperbacks, all mysteries, all by Michael Connelly, was rebuffed with almost comic abruptness—and he didn’t want to watch TV and he didn’t want to call or text a friend because his friends were all out getting high and he didn’t want to hear about it. Jake had suggested all of those things, the reading or the TV-watching or the friend-contacting. No-go.
So what did he like to do?
He liked to do drugs. Period.
Tyler didn’t say that out loud, but Jake knew all about the tunnel vision of your average junkie. Drugs did a lot of lousy things, but one of the lousiest things they did was to erase the pleasure of everything else in life. All Tyler wanted right now was something that would make him feel other than the way he felt. He was, Jake saw, nervous and jumpy, and at the same time, listless and lazy. Classic combo.
Suddenly Tyler jerked, as if somebody had poked him with a stick. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That.” Tyler cocked his head.
“Nope.” Jake wheeled his chair back into a spot beside the couch. From here, he had an optimum angle for watching TV. “Toss me the remote, willya?”
“Hold on.” Tyler’s head was still tilted to one side, in an exaggerated I’m listening pose. “There it is again.”
“You’re paranoid, brother.” Jake scooted forward. He retrieved the remote himself and clicked on the set.
“Turn it off!” Tyler yelled. He sat up.
“Chill.”
“Don’t tell me to chill—and turn off that damned TV! There’s somebody out there. In the backyard.”
Jake hit the button. “Fine. I’ll listen. See if I hear anything.” A few seconds later, he said, “Nope. Nothing.”
Tyler’s face was strained with the effort of vigilance. He still hadn’t leaned back against the couch cushion again. The slouch was forgotten.
“Let’s talk for a sec,” Jake said mildly. “Take your mind off the backyard. Want some chips?”
“No.”
“Tell me about your dad.”
A shrug, followed by: “He was a good guy. Good father.”
“You didn’t resent him? Hate him, even?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Because you were happy to self-destruct right in front of him. Day after day. I just figured you must’ve hated him.”
“You figured wrong.”
“So—why?”
“Why what?”
“Why’d you start using drugs? And why do you keep on doing it?”
Anger moved into Tyler’s face. “Don’t start. Okay? Just don’t. I’ve already been to a bunch of shrinks. They always have them at those rehab places. I don’t need you and your friggin’ questions. Answered too many of ’em as it is.”
“Okay. Settle down. Tell me about the rehab places, then.”
Tyler ran his hands down the sides of his thighs. “Worthless. You come out worse than when you went in.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. My parents had real good insurance, so it was easy to sign me up. The last one was down in Florida. Went a whole bunch of times.” He shivered. “God, the staff there was a joke. I swear—half of the counselors were dealing themselves.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Naw. Just a nasty suspicion.”
“You? Suspicious? I’m shocked.” Jake leaned over and bumped Tyler’s arm with a fist, as
if they were teammates in a huddle. “Anyway, you survived it, right? And so you come back up here and you—”
“And I relapse.” The self-loathing in Tyler’s voice had the thickness of sludge.
“From what I hear, that’s pretty standard. Most people do. Dozens of times, before they finally kick it for good.”
“Unless they’re smart enough not to start in the first place.” Tyler kicked at the carpet with the heel of his shoe. “Like my buddy Alex.”
“He didn’t go down the same road, I take it.”
“Shit, no. He’s got a life. A future. Goes to WVU.”
“So—why did you start?”
“Jesus Christ. There you go again.” Tyler grimaced, shook his head. “You got a license to be a therapist, mister? Or are you just a nosy SOB?”
“Let’s go with ‘nosy SOB.’” Jake popped a chip in his mouth. “Just wondered if you had a theory. I mean, your buddy—what was his name?”
“Alex.”
“Yeah. Alex. So maybe it’s not like he’s a better person. Maybe it’s something inside you that’s not inside him. Some kind of switch. Certain people—they use drugs one time, and the hooks are in. Part of how your body works.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point? My point is—life’s a bitch. Nothing fair about it. I can tell you all about how unfair it really is, dude.” He rolled forward and back in his chair. “You can get lost in that.”
“Lost in what?”
“In the unfairness. It’ll always be there. Anytime you need an excuse to use—there it is. Just waiting for you. Eager to serve. Anyway, it’s like they say—the whole secret of life comes down to one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Jake grinned. “Low expectations.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The lights inside the Raythune County Public Library were still on. At this hour—it was two minutes until 9 P.M.—the bright orange glow constituted the only illumination in the heart of downtown Acker’s Gap.
Yes! Bell thought, offering up a mental fist-pump as she tried the front door and it swung open. She knew she was cutting it close.
Can’t count on Libby staying late every night. She’s got Virginia Woof to think about.
Bell had been here several more times over the past few days, always sitting at the same table, working her way through the documents that Libby dug out for her: Utley’s annual reports. Speeches given by McMurdo. Complaints filed with the FDA. News reports.
During yesterday’s visit, Libby had explained why her husband, Levi, couldn’t take care of Virginia Woof when she had to stay late at the library.
Levi Royster had moved out three months ago. They’d be getting a divorce as soon as they could afford it.
“Lots of things caused it,” Libby had told her, even though Bell didn’t ask. “Main thing is—Levi says I’m stuck. Says I can’t move on. Can’t get past my grief.” She had gone on to describe how her brother’s death had taken over her life. How the bitterness burned inside her. How the desire for vengeance filled every square inch of her, absorbing her attention, distracting her. Levi had had the nerve—the gall—to tell her that she had to let it go. That it was destroying their marriage. That it was an unhealthy obsession. That not every wrong thing in the world could be righted.
That—sometimes—there was nothing you could do.
“Can you believe he said that?” Libby had said. She’d crossed her arms, gathering herself in. Shuddering as she spoke. “So guess what I told him back? I said, ‘Levi, you’re right. I can’t get past it. I don’t want to get past it. I want somebody to pay—big time—for what happened to Howie.’” Then she had looked intently at Bell, her eyes filled with hope. “That’s why I’m so glad you’re working on this. We can finally—finally—make those bastards at Utley admit what they did. Hanging’s too good for them. You know?”
Bell did know. She knew a lot of things. But there were also a lot of things she didn’t know. And for those things, she relied upon Nick Fogelsong.
She could have endured the disapproval of Sam Elkins. She could even have fought back against Rhonda. But there was one person she couldn’t ignore: Nick Fogelsong. He had meant too much to her, for too many years, for her to be able to shrug off his judgment.
And he’d said, in effect: Wait.
So Bell had decided to come by and talk to Libby. She needed to let her know that, for now, the campaign against Utley Pharmaceuticals would have to be put on hold.
“I’m not giving up,” Bell said. “I just need to take some time and think about what’s going to be the most effective strategy to get Utley to acknowledge their responsibilities. I don’t want this to just be some lame Twitter campaign. Something that comes and goes in twenty-four hours.”
Bell had finally acknowledged to herself why Utley’s behavior so galvanized her. She’d need more time to think about that, too. In private.
Libby listened. There was one other customer in the library, a young woman with heavy spectacles and a shapeless gray wool coat and flyaway brown hair. She had already checked out her books—they were, Bell saw from the stack of spines, all self-help books—and was ready to go. Libby waited until the woman had cleared the door before she replied.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “All the work we’ve done, totally wasted—”
“It’s not wasted. I just have to figure out another way to approach the problem.”
“Justice delayed is justice denied,” Libby muttered.
That’ll teach me to debate a library science major, Bell thought. They’ve got all the right historical quotations.
“Sometimes, yes,” Bell said out loud, “but not always. Sometimes, you need to take a step back.”
“A step back.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Libby pointed to the wall clock. “I have to lock up. You need to leave.”
“Look, I’d still like us to be frien—”
“It’s after nine. That’s closing time.” Libby turned her back on Bell and walked away. Her brisk steps carried their own reproach.
She’s me, Bell thought ruefully. That’s how I used to behave. It was my way or the highway.
Was she more mature now? Or was she simply losing her edge, losing her passion for justice, losing the thing that had brought her back to Acker’s Gap in the first place and kept her going through all the crap and disaster?
Bell zipped up her jacket. It was cold outside and getting colder; frigid air had dropped in between the mountains and lodged there like an ax blade in the meat of the tree, refusing to budge.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The next morning, Tyler asked Jake if he could go back to his house and pick up some of his stuff.
“Not part of the plan,” Jake said. “Steve’ll swing by and get you what you need.”
“Okay, so it’s not about my stuff.”
“What, then?”
“My mom. We haven’t really talked since Dad died. Everything happened so fast. I mean—she was in the hospital, and you guys brought me over here. We had a phone call, but that lasted, like, a minute. She couldn’t really talk. Too upset. Cried the whole time. I wasn’t much better.” He rubbed an eye. “I’m sure she blames me for my dad getting shot. Why wouldn’t she?”
“Did she say that?”
Tyler shook his head.
“Well,” Jake said, “I guess I’d wait until she says it outright before I’d start feeling sorry for myself. Although you do seem to enjoy wallowing in self-pity. I can understand why you’d like to get a head start.”
“You’re a real shit, you know that?” Tyler said, but he didn’t say it meanly. “So can I go?”
“I’ll call Steve. See if he’s free to take you over there. Hang out ’til you’re done.”
“How about you taking me? There’s a van in your driveway, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Jake grinned. “I noticed. I also noticed that it needs a new transmissi
on. You buyin’?”
“Okay, fine. Call him.”
Steve wasn’t available until the afternoon. He picked up Tyler a few minutes after three. A short while later, the county-issued black Chevy Blazer pulled into the long driveway of the big house with the mailbox that had TOPPING painted on it.
Tyler didn’t get out right away.
“This is the place, right?” Brinksneader said. His voice was as playful as it ever got. “I mean, mailboxes don’t lie, do they?” When Tyler still didn’t move, the deputy added, “You do remember where you live?”
“It’s the place.” Somberly, Tyler added, “And no—sometimes I didn’t remember where I lived. When I was high. Sometimes it was like a fog rolling over me. Things would happen—and then I couldn’t tell you, two minutes later, what they were. I’d just forget. Everything.”
Another thirty seconds passed.
“Well,” the deputy said, “I need to make sure everything’s cool. If you don’t mind, you’d better go on inside and get started, while I check around.”
Tyler still didn’t budge.
“You okay?”
“My dad died right at the end of this driveway,” Tyler said, the words coming in a husky rush. He rubbed his sleeve roughly over his nose. He was trying hard to keep the tears from surging. “You know what? After all I did to him, after all the trouble I caused and all the crap I brought to his life—my dad still loved me. My mom, too. And guess how I repaid them? I got him killed. That’s what I did.” Tyler thrust his face in his hands.
“Go on inside, kid,” Brinksneader said gently. “Go be with your mom. You guys need to stick together now.”
Ellie met him at the door. She couldn’t speak right away. At first she just stared at him. Then she led Tyler into the living room.
Now it was his turn to look at her. His expression said that he was ready to take whatever came next: a slap or a kiss.
She folded him up in her arms. They held on to each other, mother and son, both crying soundlessly, both trembling from the massive sadness that shook them.
Finally she moved back a step. She searched his eyes.
“You’re—”
“Yeah. I’m clean, Mom. I’m fine. I’m not high.”
