Gone ’Til November

by Wallace Stroby

  He set the Beretta on the bulldozer seat, looked back toward the house. Light in the windows still. No car out front.

  He rubbed his legs until feeling returned. The next time he checked his watch, it was two.

  He started back, the Beretta at his side. His knees and hips ached, but the stomach pain had subsided. He crossed through backyards and empty lots until he was opposite the house. No sound or movement from inside.

  No body in the street, just a glistening on the pavement where it had been. He went across fast, then along the side of the garage. The Navigator was still there.

  He went around back and onto the deck, listened for a moment, and then stepped through the shattered door and twisted blinds. The living room was empty. He checked the other rooms quickly. No one.

  The gun and cell were gone from the kitchen counter. The cellar door was closed. He’d left it open when he’d checked it earlier.

  He raised the Beretta, twisted the doorknob, pushed. He pointed the gun down the steps into blackness. No sound below, no movement.

  He felt for the light switch, tripped it, illuminated wooden steps, a concrete floor. Went down slowly, gun up, the steps creaking.

  Delva was in the center of the basement. They’d brought the chair down, tied him to it, clothesline knotted around his chest. He was slumped forward, naked, dreadlocks hanging over his knees. His jeans lay on the floor a few feet away. Below the chair, a pool of dark and drying blood. Morgan could smell the copper tang of it.

  He pointed the Beretta at him, moved closer, knew what he’d find. There was an entry wound behind his left ear, the dreads there matted with blood.

  Near the chair, a set of bloody pruning shears. Delva’s left arm dangled almost to the floor, but the pinkie and ring fingers were stumped, blood spatter on the concrete beneath them. The blue bandana was tied tight around his wrist, a makeshift tourniquet to keep him from bleeding out while they worked on him.

  Morgan put a gloved finger on his forehead, gently pushed. The mouth sagged open and something fell out, bounced from a naked thigh to clatter on the floor. A black domino with six white circles.

  Morgan went back up the steps, turned the light off, closed the door.

  He’d parked the Toyota in a stand of scrub pine three blocks away, hidden from the street. The night was quiet around him. As he neared the car, he raised the Beretta, in case they’d found it, were waiting for him. No one.

  He got in, touched wires to restart the engine. Then he reversed out of the trees, cut the wheel hard, started back.

  He was shirtless in front of the mirror, wiping sweat with a towel, when the cramp hit him.

  It bent him, a stabbing pain followed by a burning surge through his bowels. He tore at his belt, got the pants down and made it onto the toilet just in time. The waste exploded out of him, hot and fluid and painful, spasm following spasm. He put his elbows on his knees, rested his head in his hands. He felt dizzy, flush.

  After a while, the pain lessened. He sat there until the nausea subsided, then cleaned himself off and turned on the shower. He stood in the lukewarm spray, holding on to the showerhead for balance.

  When he was done, he dried off as best he could, drank a glass of cool water from the sink, splashed more on his face. He got a full Vicodin down, then checked the door locks and lay across the bed, feeling the room start to spin around him. It was five minutes before he had the energy to crawl under the sheet.

  The last thing he did was take the Beretta from the nightstand and set it on the bed beside him, the grip cool in his sweating hand. Then he closed his eyes.

  NINETEEN

  Sara spun the wheel and turned into Billy’s driveway, dust kicking up around the Blazer. The Camaro and truck were both in the carport.

  She braked, leaned on the horn. Eight thirty in the morning, but she’d been up most of the night. She hit the horn again, held it, saw curtains pushed aside in the kitchen window. Woke them up. Good.

  The door opened, and Billy came out. Jeans, white T-shirt, flip-flops. Lee-Anne in the doorway behind him in cutoffs and Jack Daniel’s T-shirt.

  Sara opened her door, stepped down. He tried to smile as he got closer, his face still puffy from sleep, eyes bloodshot.

  “Jesus, Sara,” he said. “A little early for a Saturday, isn’t it?”

  She stepped to him, swung with her right hand, putting her hip into it as she’d been taught. Her fist cracked into his left cheekbone, snapped his head to the side. She felt the impact all the way to her shoulder. He stagger-stepped, recovered.

  “What the fuck, Sara?”

  She heard the screen door slam, turned to see Lee-Anne coming toward them.

  “Keep your hands off him, bitch!”

  Sara turned to face her, got ready.

  Billy stepped between them, caught Lee-Anne’s arm. “Whoah,” he said.

  She tried to push past him. Sara held her ground, waiting for her to close the distance. Billy used his body to turn Lee-Anne back toward the house. She twisted out of his grip.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Spittle flew from her mouth. “Don’t you ever fucking touch him!”

  He caught her arm again, tried to steer her away. “It’s okay,” he said. “Enough. It’s okay.”

  She lunged, her face bright red, and Sara took an involuntary step back. Billy held her tight.

  “Why can’t you just leave us alone?” Lee-Anne said. “What’s your fucking problem?”

  Billy squeezed her arm, turned her gently.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re just going to talk. Go back inside.”

  She pulled away from him, turned back to Sara, but didn’t come closer. Sara could feel her heart pumping, her face warm.

  “Stay away from here. You come back again, deputy or no, I’ll beat your dyke ass.”

  “Inside, Lee-Anne.” He put a hand on her lower back to guide her. She pushed it away, and he slipped an arm around her waist, whispered in her ear, turned her back toward the house again.

  They watched as she went up the stairs and inside, the screen door slamming behind her.

  “I think you should leave,” he said. “She means it.”

  “No chance. What were you doing outside my house last night?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “No? Then who was driving your truck?”

  He slipped his hands in his back pockets, turned to look at the house, then back at her. There was a red blotch on his cheek.

  “Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” he said.

  “What’s wrong with here?”

  “Not a good idea.”

  She looked past him, saw Lee-Anne standing behind the screen, watching them.

  “Okay,” Sara said. “Get in.”

  She K-turned and headed back down the driveway, trembling with adrenaline. When they reached the main road, she said, “Where are we going?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  She turned left.

  He touched his cheek, the redness already darkening into a bruise. “You still hit solid. Guess I deserved that, all I’ve put you through lately.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  He looked out his window. They reached the highway intersection, turned toward town, neither of them speaking. Ahead on the right was the old Hopedale Diner, sign long gone, windows plywooded over. She pulled into the cracked lot. A rusted newspaper honor box lay on its side near the entrance.

  She killed the engine, looked at him. He angled the rearview toward him, examined his cheek, the spreading bruise.

  “I know about the Taurus,” she said.

  He pushed the mirror back, looked out the window.

  “And?” he said.

  “And it’s time you start talking to me. What were you doing at my house?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “Worried about what?”

  “A lot of things.”

  “Like how much I know?”

 
“Maybe.”

  “You need to tell me what’s going on, Billy, before all this gets out of hand.”

  He powered down his window, looked at the diner’s boarded-up entrance. “Would you believe me if I told you there was an explanation?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What do you know about the gun?”

  “That it came from the evidence room at the SO. That you planted it on Willis.”

  “You’re right.” He met her eyes. “I did.”

  There it is. So why are you not surprised?

  “Christ, Billy. Why?”

  “Why do you think? I got scared.”

  “What happened out there? Really.”

  He took a breath.

  “It was pretty much like I told it,” he said. “He was speeding, wandering all over the road. I pulled him over, looked at his documents. He was nervous, so I asked him if there were any drugs or weapons in the car, anything I should know about. He said no, so I asked him to open the trunk. That’s when he bolted.”

  “He was already out of the car?”

  “He said the trunk release up front didn’t work, he had to use the key. He went around back, as if he were getting ready to open it, then tossed the keys at my face, took off down the slope. I told him to stop, and when he turned around I saw a gun in his hand. At least I thought it was a gun. I drew and fired.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. When I got down there I couldn’t find anything. I hunted around. I was sure I saw it, you know? But there was nothing. That’s when I started to panic.”

  “You had the Taurus with you?”

  “In a wheel well in the cruiser. I’d been carrying it for about a year, I guess. I’d heard it was what the old-timers used to do. Keep a throwdown handy, just in case.”

  “Thirty years ago maybe. If the sheriff had found out about it, you would have been fired.”

  “I know. I never thought I’d have to use it. I’d almost forgotten it was there.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I could tell he was dead, or close to it. The Taurus was already wiped clean, and I’d taken the numbers off it a long time ago. I climbed back down there, fit his hand around it, got his prints on it. Then I went back up to the cruiser and called it in, found the keys and opened the trunk, saw the bag there. That’s when you came along.”

  “You should have told me the truth. You owed it to me.”

  “And if I had? Told you I’d used a throwdown, planted evidence? What would you have done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Kept it to yourself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. You wouldn’t have. You’re too good a deputy for that. You would have told Elwood or the sheriff. If not that night, then the next day, when you thought about it some more. I know you, Sara. You would have, and you know it.”

  “Maybe it would have been better off that way.”

  “Better off? He was black, Sara, and I’m white. You think I would have gotten a fair hearing, shooting an unarmed black man? FDLE would have been involved, the state attorney, the governor before it was over. Every minister in Libertyville would have been screaming for my head.”

  “You would have been cleared. They would have understood.”

  “You’re dreaming. I would have been fired, at least. Criminal charges, more than likely. Maybe prison. And how do you think I’d make out there?”

  “There had to be another way.”

  “Burned that bridge, Sara. There’s no other way. Not now.”

  She watched a semi rumble past, raising dust.

  “How long have you known about the gun?” he said.

  “Since yesterday.”

  “You tell anyone about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked at him. “Why do you think?”

  He looked out the windshield.

  “If you want all this to go away, you need to face some things,” she said. “You need to start telling the truth.”

  “It has gone away. At least that’s what they’re telling me.” He looked at her. “The only one that can say different is you.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes, felt her anger, her momentum, slipping away. Somehow she’d lost the advantage, could feel it, knew he felt it, too.

  “There were guns in the trunk, Sara. You saw them. He was no college kid.”

  “He was unarmed.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry you got involved in all this. Sorry you had to be there. I never meant for any of this to happen. You have to believe that.”

  “I’m not sure what I believe anymore.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She shook her head, watched cars go past.

  “You know me better than anyone, Sara. What I had with you I never had with anyone else. Probably never will again.”

  “Don’t.”

  “It’s true. Whether you want to believe it or not.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “It doesn’t? I’ve told you everything, Sara. And only you. You want me in Raiford? Get out your phone, call the sheriff. I’ll be in custody before the hour’s over. Is that what you want?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Or maybe you’re wearing a wire,” he said, “and that’s what this is all about.”

  She started the engine.

  “You should get back,” she said. “Lee-Anne will be waiting for you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not good enough, Sara.”

  “It’ll have to be.”

  He looked at her. “I can imagine the way you feel,” he said. “The position I put you in.”

  “Can you?”

  “If I could go back and change what happened that night, I would. But I can’t bring him back. My going to prison won’t change that. I can’t undo what was done. No one can.”

  “You’re right about that. Go on, get out.”

  “What?”

  “It’s only about a mile back. You can walk it.”

  “I’m wearing sandals.”

  “I know.” She looked at him. “Go on.”

  He opened the door, met her eyes for a moment, then climbed down.

  “Tell me something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Have you ever told me the truth? Ever?”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “About anything?”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Then he shut the door.

  “Billy.”

  He turned to face her through the open window.

  “If I ever see you around my house again,” she said. “If you come around me or Danny or anyone I know outside duty hours. . . .”

  “You’ll shoot me?”

  She looked at him.

  “I would never hurt you, Sara. You know that. Never could, never will. Danny either. But I’m wondering if you feel the same way.”

  After a moment, he turned and started for the highway. In the rearview she saw him standing on the shoulder, waiting for a break in traffic.

  She took out her cell, opened it, scrolled to Sheriff Hammond’s home number. Her thumb lingered over the SEND button.

  In the mirror, she saw Billy cross the highway to the opposite shoulder, start to walk along the grass there, heading home.

  She closed the phone, tossed it on the passenger seat. Then she shifted into drive, pulled out of the lot.

  For lunch, she made cold chicken sandwiches, reheated mashed potatoes. She took Danny’s temperature while he sat at the table. When the thermometer beeped, he took it from his mouth, held it out to her. Ninety-nine point two. She felt his forehead.

  “You feel all right?” she said.

  “I’m okay. Just tired.”

  She gave him a baby Motrin to chew, poured him another glass of grape juice. After they ate, JoBeth cleared th
e table, and Sara went into the bathroom, closed the door, and ran the shower.

  When the room filled with steam, she undressed and climbed into the too-hot stream, wincing at first. She closed her eyes, turned her face into the spray. Her hand was sore, the first two knuckles slightly swollen. She flexed her hand, eased some of the stiffness out, remembered what Billy has said.

  I can’t undo what was done. No one can.

  They’d closed the case, made their findings public. Reopening it would mean trouble for everyone. Charges for Billy, prison likely. It would cost the sheriff his job, his pension. Maybe her job as well. Once the state was involved, it would be too late for damage control. It would be about scalps.

  She sat in the tub, let the water wash over her and swirl down the drain, taking the morning with it. She pushed her hair back with both hands, closed her eyes.

  If she did nothing, said nothing, it all ended right here. Right now. Their lives would go on.

  All you have to do is nothing. What could be easier than that?

  TWENTY

  Morgan woke tangled in sodden sheets. Bright light was coming in around the curtain edges. The nightstand clock told him it was three. He’d slept almost eleven hours.

  Pushing the sheets away, he sat naked on the edge of the bed. His joints ached and his throat was swollen, his forehead warm to the touch. He realized he was shaking.

  When he had the energy, he made his way into the bathroom, stood under the hot shower until the trembling stopped. Then he toweled dry, put the toilet seat down and sat there, head in his hands. You have to get up, he thought. You have to keep moving.

  After a while, he went back into the room and got dressed. He stripped the sheets from the bed and pushed them into a pillowcase, along with the clothes from last night. He’d take them to the laundry room later, wash away the stale metallic smell that seemed to linger on everything he touched.

  He opened the door, looked out. The sky was cloudless, the sun flashing off the Monte Carlo’s windshield. He’d left the Toyota beside a collapsed barn off a rural road two towns away, out of sight, then walked to where he’d parked his car and driven back.