“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“You here for an intervention? You by yourself?”
Wyatt took a sip of water, looked around for a coaster. Since there weren’t any, he held his glass on his knee. “I probably shouldn’t have come. I mean—”
“But now you’ve come, so get on with it. I promise, I’ll listen politely.”
“You don’t get it. I come bearing gifts.”
“Of gab?”
Wyatt leaned forward, reached for his back pocket and pulled out a block of folded papers, tossed them on the end table on top of all the water rings from Rome’s whiskey glasses. Son of a bitch could’ve set down his glass at any time if he’d been paying attention. Bugged the shit out of Rome. But he kept his tongue still and picked up the papers, unfolded them. They were printouts of digital photos, terrible quality. But they didn’t need to be great to capture the images of a bathroom wall, three-foot tall letters smeared onto it, shouting WELCOME HOME LAFITTE.
“Well, fuck me. Is that shit?”
“Yessir. Written in shit. Yes indeed. This one was going around Instagram last night, and it got flagged by my Google search for Lafitte. Hattiesburg, Mississippi truck-stop. Some truckers took pics on their phones and posted them. But keep going.”
A photo of Lafitte in a delivery truck. Sure as shit it was him.
Next one, Lafitte delivering boxes marked MUSCLE MAX to a strip-mall store.
Another. Another.
The alcohol in Rome’s blood swirled down an imaginary drain. “What the goddamn—”
“That’s him, ain’t it?”
“That’s him.” Rome flipped back to the first one, the shit letter. “Someone thinks they’ve got a line on him, someone from his past, or they wouldn’t be bothering.”
Wyatt nodded. “I’ve heard some stories this past week, some sightings. This last one, the shit-writing, was a surprise.”
Rome sat back in the chair. Tension, released. He took a deep breath.
Wyatt said, “You’re dying to know.”
“I am.”
“No, they haven’t got him yet.”
Rome rubbed his hand across his mouth, his stubble, his chin. “But he’s there. Holy shit, he’s there. Motherfucker.”
“So, should we call? Give the police a heads up?”
Rome cut his eyes at Wyatt. “Shit.”
“I’m just saying, we’re kind of far away, you know.”
Rome looked at his watch. “When’s the next flight to Mobile?”
“I thought you might want to know. Out of Minneapolis, six in the morning.”
Rome rolled his head on the back of the chair. “I wish I could still fly whenever I wanted.”
“So, what did you think of my intervention?”
“You’re coming with me, right?”
A nod. “Told my wife I need about five days. Fishing trip. But the moment it starts to look dangerous, we call for back-up. Agreed?”
“Goddamn. I mean, goddamn.” Rome started laughing. “Nobody ever said he was smart. Lucky, but never smart.”
“Let’s get moving. Two hours back to the Cities, some time to get you coffeed up, couple of tacos in you. Not sure what we’ll do for sidearms yet, but I’ll make some calls.”
It sounded too good to be true. Convenient, too. Now? As Rome had settled on fading away? As soon as he had decided to let down the guard in his head? The one chanting, Avoid drinking and driving. Avoid solo walks along the shore. Avoid hitting deer with your car.
“Tell me something, then. This is you and me? Vigilante style? Nothing official?”
Wyatt cleared his throat. Scrunched his eyebrows. “You need this. Even if it’s a goose chase, you need this. Could be we don’t find him.”
That was what the man was counting on, Rome could tell. A good ol’ road trip, fueled by righteous anger. It could turn out to be absolute horseshit. Still, nothing better to do these days. Rome could die alone later.
He pushed himself out of the chair. “Let’s go.”
He reached for Wyatt’s hand, latched on hard. He really meant it this time. “Good to see you.”
CHAPTER TEN
By the time anyone figured out something was wrong, Lafitte was gone and Ginny was dead.
*
The nurse, Tabitha, spent too much time in the drunk’s room. Giggling, posing, responding to his filthy innuendoes with pretend shock. “My my my! Sir!” It wasn’t until Loretta gave her a warning ding that she realized how much time she’d wasted. Even worse when she stepped out into the hall to find Loretta running towards her.
Out of breath. “When was the...the last...checked on Ginny?”
She pointed at the room behind her. “Right before—”
“Her camera. Her camera is out. Come on.”
Tabitha, kicking herself, literally.
Then, “There was a delivery man. It was for the wrong floor.”
Loretta’s eyes went wide. “Hurry.”
*
Lafitte took the stairs hard and fast. He was filled with, fuck, couldn’t put words to it. Hate? Pity? Grief? Grief? Was it grief? How could he do what he’d done? Why didn’t he try to talk her out of it? Because it wasn’t Ginny. It was a shell of Ginny. She would never be the same. It was all his fault.
But more to the point, she had asked him to. Those letters, week after week. No idea how she had found out where he was. No mention of their children. No mention of their past together. Just the request.
Help me die, Billy.
Out the doors. Keep up the walk, don’t falter yet. He needed to get back to the bike. He’d abandoned the old couple, alive and well, in the woods north of D’Iberville, slashed their tires. He’d kept on driving. He’d got here and found Mrs. Hoeck’s car, same one Ginny had told him about, and parked far enough away to watch for when she left. He had to keep going until he got to the bike. Tight chest, the pain in his arm and jaw ratcheting up. Breathing through his nose, mouth clamped shut.
He hoped she failed.
Did he really? Didn’t he want her happy? Didn’t he want what was best for her?
No, he hoped she failed. But he wasn’t about to stick around and find out because he was too sure she’d get it right this time.
*
Tabitha and Loretta couldn’t get her door open. Blocked. They pounded on it, “Ginny! Ginny! Is someone in there? Do you need help! Ginny, we’re right here! Ginny!”
Some of the patients roamed into the hall, and some of them tried to help get the door open. The chair had been wedged against it, a devastating angle. Loretta called security. The guards tried to muscle it open.
“Jesus!” One of the guards. “Why can’t they open outward?”
Tabitha got on the phone to the police. The facility went into lockdown.
*
Lafitte’s head in her lap. Years since the last time. Her fingers brushing through his hair. Warm skin. A low hum in the air, a noise she made without thinking about it. They didn’t need to talk, not much. They didn’t need to catch up. They’d never had that problem. They got each other. Billy was terrible for her. Terrible, terrible, terrible. But still, in all that terribleness, there was some sort of connection, right?
They both knew there wasn’t a lot of time.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I can never say it enough.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Forgive me.”
“Never.” She kept stroking his hair. “That’s not how this works.”
He lifted his face. Clenched his jaw. Killing him. “It’s my fault, I know, I know, but she shouldn’t have brought him to see me. I told her to never bring him to see me but she did it anyway.”
“Brought who?”
“Ham.”
“Who?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Brought who? Who brought who? Who are you talking about?”
“Ham?”
“Who’s Ham?”
“Yo
u don’t know who Ham is? Hamilton? You know Ham. Our Ham.”
Ginny bit her lip. Shook her head.
“Savannah?”
Shrugged.
He looked into her eyes and saw nothing there. Nothing. Not an act, not repression, not...anything. Nothing.
“You and me. We have a couple of, had, a couple of kids. A son and a daughter.”
She said “Mm hm?” Still nothing.
“Would you change your mind about this? For your daughter?”
She placed her palm on his cheek, kissed his forehead. “Don’t say anything else. I don’t want to be here anymore. No one should have to live if they don’t want to.”
He pushed himself off the floor. Could barely stand to look at her.
She said, “You promised.”
“How do you know? I never answered your letters.”
“You’re here.”
Stupid question. “Jesus, Ginny.” Throat gone dry.
She inched forward in the chair, her knees against his chest. “You promised.”
“Not until you tell me you know who our kids are.”
A twitch? A sigh? Anything? The pain crept down his left arm. He tried to breathe the pain away through his nose. He knew it would be a losing battle.
Nothing in her empty eyes, nothing on her empty face. Nothing. Nothing. He remembered both nights they had to go to the hospital. Or, one was night, the other was five in the morning. He remembered the times she told him she was pregnant. Remembered angry sleepless walks from his bed to the crib only to have the anger dissolve like sugar as he picked up his boy, picked up his girl, and they paced until they stopped crying.
How come she could just...forget? Or not even forget, but believe it never happened. How come he couldn’t do that? He would love to forget what he had seen...he would give anything...
She whispered, “You promised.”
He nodded. No time left. “I can’t.”
“You promised.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, squeezed her hands. “You and me. We can leave right now, you know. I can show you what you’re missing.”
Tight lips, petulant warble. “I don’t need you. I need you to do what you promised. You are over. You are why I’m here. But you’re also the only one who can do this.”
“I’ve got enough guilt on my mind.” Thinking, What next? I take out Savannah, too?
Ginny’s breath grew faster, heavier. “You. Promised.”
“I lied. I do that a lot. I won’t help you, you know, finish up. I came all this way to tell you, Gin. As long as I’m alive, I need you to know that.”
She wasn’t listening. She pushed him back, unbuckled his belt, slid it through the loops of his shorts. He tried to hold her hands still before she could get it out. “Not now. We don’t have time. Come with me.”
She kept tugging the belt, her breath sharper, turning into grunts. Against his better judgement, Lafitte felt his throat go thick. His cock, swelling. This was what she wanted? Suppose there were worse ways to be apprehended than in the middle of fucking your ex-wife.
Lafitte let go of her hands and she slid the belt all the way out. But then she carefully curled it up, set it in her lap and stroked it like a kitty.
So that’s what she had wanted.
“You promised.” Stern.
He exhaled a shaky one and pushed up off his knees, looked down at her one more time. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.”
He turned his back on her and slipped out the door.
*
Three shoulders to dislodge the chair. They fell into the room. The door, something behind it, bouncing back, hitting one of the men in the face. Tabitha was right behind him, determined to get in there. It was on her watch, it was her mistake to fix.
Her scream and the injured man’s “Motherfuck!” hit simultaneously.
The coat hook behind the door.
Ginny, swinging from it, a belt around her neck. Already gone. The men pushed Tabitha out of the way, lifted Ginny off the ground. One unlooped the belt from the hook.
“Room! Give us room!”
Tabitha backed away until she hit the foot of the bed, stumbled but righted herself. She should be the one giving CPR. These guys—two security guards and one she didn’t know who he was—jumped into action while Tabitha froze. Loretta was on the room’s phone, shouting the emergency code again and again.
Taibitha didn’t have much of a view, but when the men shifted she could see Ginny’s face, pale, eyes too wide. Her neck, a deep cut from the belt. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. She should be okay.
Chest compression, one, two, three, four, Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive.
Loretta raided the emergency bin, came out with a bag—a resuscitation mask—and threw it over. The third man placed it over Ginny’s face and started pumping.
Tabitha felt helpless. At first she was thinking, then whispering, and then shouting, “What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” And then, “What did I do?”
*
What did I do?
Lafitte was on his knees beside the motorcycle, his whole left side tensed, his arm tight against his chest, withering. An old man. A mummy.
He wished he could puke, but he didn’t have anything in him. He didn’t have time. He didn’t have time for this bullshit pain, either. Fuck it, he should’ve looked for drugs—nitro, pain pills, fucking morphine—but he had beelined for Ginny. Fucking Ginny. Fucking...
Maybe if she’d shown the slightest bit of...what? Fucking. Just, what?
In those letters, she said she would keep trying to kill herself if she could, but they wouldn’t let her. Her mother didn’t want to talk about the “deeper” issues. They had tried, oh Lord, had they tried. But Mrs. Hoeck would shut down any such talk and threaten to take her daughter elsewhere, someplace more “spiritual”, which, knowing about Mrs. Hoeck’s brand of spirituality, was enough to make the therapists back off. It was a sick cycle to watch—mother wanted to keep daughter from killing herself, but had no self-awareness she was part of the problem. The ex-husband, obviously, but the mother made things much, much worse.
But Mrs. Hoeck knew better than all the doctors, all the therapists, all the theories, all the science, and one nurse had whispered, “More than Jesus himself, I bet.”
Ginny wanted to die. Period. She had for a long, long time. Being forced to stay alive was the worst thing that could happen to her. Lafitte regretted it already. He had planned to come and take her with him. Pick her up and carry her outside to the bike, then run away and hide together. One day, when she was back to normal, they would come back for Savannah.
But in the room with her, the empty shell of a woman who didn’t even remember they had children together, he let her take the belt. Fine. He hoped she would fail or someone would get to her before she could get it over with and it wouldn’t be him who had broken the promise.
Fuck Ginny. Fuck Ginny. Jesus.
The alarms, sudden but faint. They had found her.
Fuck Ginny. Fuck Ginny. Fuck her. Fuck this. Fuck Ginny. Fuck Ginny.
The sirens—police, not ambulances. Faint but stronger by the second.
Fuck her fuck her fuck her fuck her—
Behind him, across the street, he heard someone shout, “Hey, you! You with the bike!”
Time to go.
*
Emergency docs took the place of security guys. How long had it been? How many minutes? Tabitha heard ribs crack.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. We’ve got to go, go, go!”
Pretty soon Ginny was gone, rolling down the hallway surrounded by damned good emergency medics, doing all they could for her, while Tabitha slid to the floor of Ginny’s room. Was it worth it? The flirting with her psychotic drunk on a shift that depressed the fuck out of her? The fun of someone, anyone, wanting her sober?
The delivery man.
The administration had told the staff a long time ago to be on the l
ookout...
But, no, it had been years. No one really expected...
The ex-husband.
But, goddamn it...
She scuttled across the tile until she was back on her feet, running behind the lifesavers in the hallway. “The husband! He was here! He was here!”
*
Lafitte had gotten up to speed, zipping in and out of traffic, heading back to I-10, wanting to go west again. Really, no idea where to go, but the Mississippi Gulf Coast was a magnet for him. Gulfport, Biloxi, Ocean Springs, his old stomping grounds. He grew up here. Lost his Mom here, a drowning. Got arrested here as a teenager, shit, how many times? Loved cops. Goddamn, cops were cool. Became one himself.
Weaving through tree-lined side streets and parking lots, trying to remember the quickest way back. He came to a four-way stop a block off Mobile Street, which could get him onto 98, maybe. Just him and a Cadillac. Lafitte’s turn to go.
Not even halfway through the intersection when the Caddy gunned it and slammed into him. Not fast enough to knock him too far, but it got the bike all tangled up under the bumper and front wheels. Lafitte’s leg, bruised but not pinned in. Lucky. Goddamn.
He tugged his leg free, swung it over. The exhaust pipe had burned his other leg but he’d had worse. He was off and rolling away, Trying to feel all the places it hurt. Nothing but bruises, cuts. He was good to go. He sat up, turned back to the wreck.
A fat girl in a pretty dress got out of the Caddy’s passenger side. Glossy lips. Familiar, maybe? And then DeVaughn Rose climbed out of the driver’s seat with a pistol pointed at Lafitte.
Fuck.
The girl was almost giddy. “Kill that asshole. Get him, baby. Quick and easy.”
“Motherfucker. What he did to my brother, seriously.”
Pistol was shaking. Left hand.
“Dead is dead. Do him now. Get it done.”
The gun bucked and went blam and Lafitte had been ready, ducked and rolled right, then on his feet before the second shot, behind him. He ran straight towards the girl’s door and slammed into it with his shoulder. Made her fall back. Got her calf between the door and the frame. Her head bounced off the roof. Fucker wasn’t going to fire the gun towards her, was he? She was letting it loose, too. Howling. Goddamn. Look around, Billy.
Holy Death Page 7
