‘So now you and your friends think you should kill me?’
‘You’ve had it coming for eight years.’
‘Have you been paying attention? The court says someone else did it. Someone else’s DNA—’
‘We know what we know,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but what’s that?’
‘You confessed to the police. We saw the videotape.’
If kicking him would have put sense into his head, I would have done it. ‘No more middle-of-the-night visits. Do you understand?’
He glared.
‘If you or your friends come after me, I’ll hunt you down.’ I learned in prison that if I talked hard enough, I might convince myself. ‘Do Phil and Darrell live in the neighborhood too?’
‘I’m not telling you how to find them.’
‘Then you can give them my message. And you can tell them I also don’t want any more bloody underwear hanging from my door handle. If I find another pair, I’ll cram it down your throat.’
His eyes lost some of the anger. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Underwear – like Steven was wearing that night.’ He looked confused. ‘Hanging on my door handle at the motel? Stained with blood?’
He shook his head.
‘You didn’t do that?’
‘Uh-uh.’
I read his face for a lie. ‘Your friends?’
A mean smile cracked at his lips as if he saw that he had – and always would have – the upper hand. He said, ‘You have a lot of enemies.’
SIXTEEN
That afternoon, I made the video for Thomas LaFlora. I said, ‘The judge who sentenced me to death committed an act as brutal as the rape and murder of Steven and Duane Bronson,’ but I was thinking, Who is Lynn Melsyn? Was she really Duane Bronson’s girlfriend or is she just a creation of Felicia Bronson’s grief? Who is this mysterious man – real or fantasy? What did Duane and Steven steal from him, if anything?
Then I said, ‘The judges, who for eight years refused to listen to my appeals with an open mind and a willingness to correct an injustice, treated me with less humane concern than they would show an already dead man,’ but I was thinking, If the guy at Felicia Bronson’s house really didn’t hang the underwear from my door handle, then who did?
I said, ‘Any judge who fails to listen to Thomas LaFlora’s appeals with the respect for his life that four judges failed to show for mine – five, if you count the judge who first sentenced me—’
Hank sighed and said, ‘I’ll edit together the best parts.’
First, though, we needed to go back to Callahan to talk to Kim Jenkins about the testimony she would give at the hearing. Jane and Hank believed we’d convinced her to tell the judge that LaFlora didn’t kill the two crackheads. Now, they said, we needed to do the hard work. We needed to convince her to name the real killer. If she refused to offer an alternative to LaFlora, the judge would laugh at her for changing her testimony.
‘She’ll never do it,’ I said.
‘You’ve earned that cynicism,’ Jane said, loading papers into a briefcase, ‘but, as you know better than anyone, if we stopped every time we faced bad odds, you would still be in prison.’
‘Kim Jenkins wants to do it,’ I said. ‘But she can’t.’
Hank looked at me for an explanation.
But downstairs, the street door banged open. Footsteps came up, and a woman barged into the office – the same woman who’d come to the Cardinal Motel and warned me to stay away from Bill Higby’s property, threatening to stomp me like a locust if I ignored her. Again, she wore the heavy cotton pants and solid shoes of a cop. But now, she also wore a hip holster.
She stared at each of us and said, ‘Jesus Christ!’ – as if we all disgusted her equally – and then came at me. She was eight or ten inches shorter than I was, but I backed away. ‘What the hell are you thinking?’ she said. ‘You go back to Detective Higby’s house. And now you go to Felicia Bronson’s. You’re out of your fucking mind.’
Jane got in front of her. ‘Ma’am, you need to leave. This is a private office.’
Keeping her eyes on me, the woman reached for a badge and flashed it.
But the badge meant little to Jane. ‘If you don’t have a warrant to arrest Mr Dast or to be in this office, then I respectfully ask you to go back down—’
But I said to the woman, ‘Who are you?’
‘Lieutenant Detective Deborah Holt,’ she said. ‘I’m Bill Higby’s goddamned partner. And you – you are—’ She decided against whatever she planned to call me and instead said, ‘I’m arresting you for assaulting Cory Nussbaum.’
‘Who is Cory Nussbaum?’ Jane asked.
‘He’s a young man who helps Felicia Bronson with housework,’ the cop said.
‘Does Cory Nussbaum say I assaulted him?’ I asked.
‘A neighbor saw you beat him up.’
‘But does Cory Nussbaum say I did it?’
Hank stepped into the mix. ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Detective Holt.’
‘You’re damn right,’ she said, and she pointed at me as if she would jab a hole in my chest. ‘This man misunderstands where he belongs.’ Then, to me, ‘We never did arrest anyone else, did we? That’s because we arrested the right man the first time. You’re like an insect. You leave a trail wherever you go.’
‘Are you speaking for yourself or for Higby?’ I asked.
‘A misunderstanding,’ Hank said again.
‘I understand a lot too,’ I said. ‘When all of the guards and half of the other men want to kill you, you understand what a killer looks like and how he behaves. For instance, I can look at Higby and—’
‘Watch it,’ the cop said. ‘You leave him alone.’ She glared as if I might challenge her. When I didn’t, she added, ‘And if you ever hassle Felicia Bronson again, I’ll—’
Jane asked, ‘Are you making an arrest?’
‘I’m giving a warning,’ the cop said. ‘A last warning.’
Jane moved close to her. ‘If you aren’t arresting Mr Dast, you need to leave. We understand your concerns and we’ve heard your warning. In turn, we need to warn you against harassing a man the court has released with no supervision or legal obligations.’
The cop stared at me a moment longer, as if thinking through her options. ‘No more warnings,’ she said, and she turned and went down the stairs.
We listened to the street door as it opened and then closed. When we heard only silence, Hank spun on me. ‘You went to Felicia Bronson’s house?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Why?’
‘Unfinished business.’
He exchanged a look with Jane. ‘The detective is right,’ he said. ‘You’re out of your mind.’
Jane said, ‘You do know you’re walking a line here, don’t you? If the State Attorney’s Office sees you threatening the mother of the victims, they’ll absolutely refile charges.’
‘You’re out of control,’ Hank said. He picked up his briefcase. ‘Jane and I will talk to Kim Jenkins on our own. You stay here. I recommend that you avoid acting on whatever idiotic impulse occurs to you next.’
Jane must have agreed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘You’re wasting your time with Kim Jenkins.’
Hank said, ‘You might want to rethink your sense of what’s worthy of your time. You lost a lot of it in prison. Don’t blow the rest of it now.’
I felt like punching him in the throat.
Jane said, ‘Hank has your best interests at heart.’
‘Your interests and others’,’ he said. ‘Thomas LaFlora needs you. Others do too. Your selfishness—’
He stopped when I lunged at him. He never flinched, though. He would fight me if I kept coming.
I said, ‘In prison, my friends and my enemies wore the same uniforms. Seems like the same thing here.’
Jane said, ‘Careful now.’
Hank gathered a pile of papers from his desk and stu
ffed them into his briefcase, keeping an eye on me. ‘You’ve got to decide what really matters,’ he said, and he and Jane went down the stairs to the street.
So I did decide. After they left, I drove back to Higby’s house. Going places I didn’t belong – and demanding to be heard by people who’d stopped listening – had gotten me out of prison. If I stopped now, I was afraid I would lose myself.
The last of the news vans was gone. There were two cars in the driveway. Next door, in front of Judge Skooner’s house, two men on lawn tractors cut the grass. Overhead, heavy clouds were stacking toward the sun.
I parked behind the cars in Higby’s driveway, crossed to the front porch, and knocked on the door.
Higby answered before I could knock a second time. He’d shaved and combed his hair, and he wore gray slacks and a white buttoned shirt, as if he’d just come from church or court. He said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
I said, ‘I’m sorry for bothering you again.’
‘But here you are.’
I asked, ‘Can I come inside and talk to you?’
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘No, you cannot.’
‘Because I’m confused,’ I said. ‘Really messed-up. Just a few minutes? I have some questions—’
I guessed he wanted to hit me as badly as I’d wanted to hit Hank Cury. But then his wife appeared beside him, resting her fingers on his big arm. He said, ‘I’ve got this, Jenny,’ but if he meant his words to send her away, the attempt failed. She stared at me with cold, unmoving eyes.
‘Just five minutes,’ I said.
‘I can’t touch you,’ he said. ‘Not right now. I regret that. But I’m going to call some officers who can. I suggest that you put yourself as far away from my house as you can before they show up.’
Then he shut the door.
I went down the front path. The air smelled of newly cut grass. Although wedges of blue sky remained between the stacks of clouds, a raindrop spattered on my shoulder.
Instead of getting into my car, I walked back to Higby’s house and around the side to the backyard. A fishing dock stuck out into Black Creek. An American flag hung from a length of PVC bracketed to the gray wood at the end of the dock. The lawn rose to a little patio made of concrete pavers and decorated with pots of geraniums. A sliding glass door led from the patio into the house. I walked to the patio and tried the handle. The door glided open.
I went through a family room, where a TV was on, and through a short hallway. Higby and his wife were talking in the kitchen.
They jumped when I stepped into the doorway.
‘I really want to talk with you,’ I said.
Higby said, ‘What’s wrong with you? You’ve got to be out of your head—’
‘Everyone keeps saying that,’ I said. ‘But I’m feeling a little more in it every day. I have setbacks, but I’m making progress.’
‘If I shot you right here, I would be completely within my rights. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But going places I haven’t belonged and—’
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Talking to people who—’
‘Get out,’ he said.
‘I have two questions.’
‘Out.’
I said, ‘Felicia Bronson says a man threatened her sons before they died.’
‘Out!’ But he stood still.
‘She says she only learned about this man during my trial. But you’re smart. You knew about him before, didn’t you? I need to know who the man was. You owe me that much.’
‘I owe you nothing.’
I went to the kitchen table and sat down.
That did it. He jerked toward me as if he would crush me. But I’d promised myself never to back away or beg, and so I stared up at him as he came. ‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘Add my blood to Josh Skooner’s.’
He grabbed my shirt and pulled me to my feet. He was a huge man, and he dragged me up the front hall to the door. He yanked it open and threw me out on to the porch.
I sat there, sheltered by an overhang, as the clouds closed over the sky and a hard rain started to slap the ground. A wind blew through, bending the trees, cooling the air, and then it was gone, and the air was all thunder and water. I leaned against a wall and waited.
If Higby and his wife looked out the front window, they would see my car still in the driveway. If they looked through the door peephole, they would see me sitting – patiently. If Higby called his cop friends, reporters would also come in vans, and then we would dance together on the evening news.
After ten minutes, the door opened. Higby stepped outside and closed it behind him.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.
‘What do I have to lose?’
He seemed ready to laugh. ‘Everything you’ve gained. Your freedom.’
‘I’m not free,’ I said. ‘Not yet. I don’t feel it. I don’t know if I ever will.’
He scuffed the toes of his shoes on the porch tile, as if he might boot me on to the lawn. ‘You would rather be dead or in jail?’
‘No.’
‘Because those are real possibilities for you.’
‘I know.’
He considered me. Then he looked out at the rain. ‘We heard about this man you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘We checked into him. He was nothing.’
‘How hard did you check?’
‘We checked,’ he said. ‘Hard enough.’
I stared at him.
‘We didn’t need to,’ he said. ‘We had you.’
‘What was his name?’
‘No name,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t real.’ When I said nothing, he asked, ‘Is that all?’
I shook my head. ‘Do you really think I did it?’
He looked at me straight. ‘Yes.’
His confidence chipped at me. ‘You’ve always been convinced of it?’
‘Never a doubt.’ He reached for the front door, as if we were done.
But I said, ‘Your partner – Deborah Holt – came to talk to me. Twice. She says you’re telling the truth about Josh Skooner.’
‘Deborah is a good cop,’ he said. ‘And a good friend.’
I nodded at the street. ‘What really happened out there? Did Josh Skooner have a gun? Did he really shoot at you?’
‘You’ve seen the news,’ he said. ‘You must have read the stories. Make up your own mind.’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, and anger tinged his voice. ‘I’m never going to put myself where you’ve been. Never.’
‘I’m not asking you to,’ I said.
‘Yes, you are,’ he said, and again he reached for the door.
I said, ‘One news report – only one – said Josh’s brother, Andrew, got close enough to him to get bloody. The same report said Andrew went back to his house when the paramedics put Josh in the ambulance. I’m guessing no one searched him for Josh’s gun.’
Higby screwed his eyes. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘What?’
‘Why do you care?’
I said, ‘I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone. I guess that’s why I need to know.’
Again he stared down at me. ‘I can’t help you there. But I’ll tell you this. What you did to the Bronson boys has nothing to do with what I did to Josh Skooner. Whatever you’ve gone through in the past – and whatever you’re going through now – has nothing to do with what I’m going through. I see nothing of myself in you and nothing of you in me.’ Then he went back inside.
Three hours later, I drove to the Cineplex. All day, I’d loaded and overloaded myself, and the buzzing in my head had turned into a sharp headache. I probably should’ve stayed in my room.
Cynthia stood behind the concession counter when I went in, and I waved to her from beyond the cordon where a kid was taking tickets. Ten minutes later, she joined me. Her eyes were tired and the smile she gave me as she gripped my hand see
med forced. She probably should’ve stayed home too.
We walked across the parking lot and got into my car, then drove back to the Cardinal Motel and went into my room. As I unbuttoned her shirt, I felt that I was doing more than stripping off her clothes – that I was peeling back layers of skin – and when she pulled my T-shirt over my head, her fingers felt hot and electric. I had filled and overfilled, and as she unzipped my pants I wondered if I would get sick, but I clenched my stomach and I unzipped her pants too. Her fire-scarred legs glistened in the light from the window shade – like living marble, mottled, congealing fat, shining ice. Although I knew that her nerves remained raw and that pleasure fell hard into pain, I touched her scars, lifted her to me, and carried her to the bed.
Tears stung my eyes that night, and blood pounded in my aching head. If I had exploded – body and soul – the doctors would have said, No wonder.
Sometime late, after we’d slept and awakened and slept again, Cynthia looked in my eyes and said, ‘I love you.’
SEVENTEEN
The next morning when I went into the JNI office, Jane handed me a key to the office and a plastic bag with a telephone in it. ‘Hank and I talked on our way to Callahan,’ she said. ‘We think we might have overreacted. We know you’re adjusting. You need to work things out for yourself.’
Thelma had come in early, and she watched me like a paid witness.
‘What did Kim Jenkins tell you yesterday?’ I asked.
‘She’d gone out,’ Jane said. ‘We didn’t see her.’
‘Her husband?’ I asked.
‘Out too.’
I eyed her.
‘What?’ she said.
‘You see any moving vans?’
‘People go out,’ she said. ‘It’s what people do.’
‘Sure,’ I said, and I held up the key. ‘So, what’s this about?’
‘We trust you,’ she said. ‘And sometimes we may need you to open the office.’
‘Fair enough.’ I took the phone from the bag. ‘And this?’
‘We thought that by now you would’ve gotten one for yourself. We want to respect your need for privacy. But we also want you to be answerable. To yourself and to the world around you.’
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