by Rachel Rust
I stared at the hallway behind Rollins. The visitation center was back there somewhere, and my feet were standing under the same roof as Nathan.
“Lydia,” Rollins said, “is there anything else I can help you with?”
I literally scratched my head, trying to think of something beneficial to say. The trip already seemed like a wasted effort. I was there, so figured I might as well try to get something out of it. “Can you tell me anything about his charges?” I asked. “I know his bail was denied. Was it because of the gun thing? Did the bullets match or—”
Rollins’s hand went up. “I can’t discuss an ongoing case, and I won’t. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, then I need you to leave.”
I sucked in my bottom lip, the same way I used to when I was little and my parents would yell at me for something I was guilty of doing. I spun on my heel and flew back out the door without a good-bye. The stupid prick cop didn’t deserve one.
Theo White Eagle turned his head to exhale his cigarette smoke as I walked by, but the wind still sent it flying in my face.
I stopped in front of him. “You used to be friends with Nathan, didn’t you?”
He flicked his cigarette on the ground, then pressed his heel down onto it.
“He’s innocent,” I said. “Someone is setting him up.”
Theo exhaled slowly, barely keeping his eyes from rolling. “A set up? And who do you think is setting him up?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, could be someone from school, or maybe someone at the ranch doesn’t like him or—”
“Or anyone,” Theo said. “A lot of people don’t like Nathan. But if you’re gonna accuse someone of framing him, you need a little something called proof.”
“Isn’t motive proof?”
He shook his head. “Motive is only one piece of the puzzle.”
“What about knowing too much about the crime scene or the evidence? Is that proof?”
“Could be. Why do you ask?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from speaking too hastily. Lance had known about the bullets, but how? I forced my mouth open, not wanting to say my next words. Not wanting to point a finger at my friend.
“Lance Two Bulls knows the bullets match,” I said quietly, as though the softness of my voice equaled a lesser accusation. “How could he know that?”
Theo shrugged. “That kid’s got his nose in everyone’s business.” He picked up his smashed cigarette butt and then dropped it into the ashtray near the door. “He writes for the school paper, right?”
I nodded.
“The kid’s probably got a source. Hell, he might even know more than the police some days.”
I forced a quick smile, but it still didn’t make sense. What kind of source would give crime lab evidence to a teenage reporter? And what about everyone else who hated Nathan? My mind spun with names, faces, stories—people Nathan had pissed off in the past. My brain tore through the heap of chaos, only to find more chaos. But there was a solid truth waiting to be found, and someone needed to find it before Sergeant Rollins could put Nathan away for good.
“Lydia.” Theo’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “If you really want to help Nathan, think back to the night of the shooting. Think about anyone you saw there, anything out of the ordinary. Anything at all, even if it seemed inconsequential. I suggest writing things down. Make lists, talk to people, bug them till they give you answers”— he grinned —“just don’t tell them I sent you.”
“Deal.”
“I also suggest getting back to school.” He opened the door and disappeared inside.
I sat down in Frankie, thinking about what Theo said. Thinking about that night. Nothing jumped out at me. It had been a boring Wednesday night. The faces hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, except the teenage guy I didn’t know.
From my school bag I pulled out a notebook and pen. I jotted down the names of the people I saw that night: Chris DeMarco, teenage guy with black hair, old guy from The Shack.
I threw Frankie into reverse, backed out far too recklessly, not caring that I most likely had police officers watching me drive. I put Frankie into first gear and headed down the road, past the high school, directly to the bank.
****
The waiting area of the Dakota Central Bank was far nicer than the police station. Dark wood floors ran the length of the large room, enclosed by taupe walls featuring a matching set of abstract art work with blues, oranges, and reds. The teller asked me to have a seat on the leather sofa while she fetched “Mr. DeMarco.” The dark brown sofa looked like it belonged in a shrink’s office. I was tempted to lie down and start bitching about my lost dance dreams.
But my ass barely touched leather before a man walked out of a nearby office, dressed in a navy suit. His blue eyes looked strikingly similar to his son’s. Although he had dark brown hair, parted on the side—not a bleached mohawk.
“Lydia?” he asked, extending a hand. “I’m Chris. Pleased to meet you.”
I shook it, smiling back at his salesman smile—ultra-white teeth paired with unsmiling eyes.
“Come on into my office.” He led me into a corner office with a window overlooking the parking lot. I sat down in one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk. “What can I do for you?” he asked, taking a seat in his large, leather chair. “You need to start an account?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not here to do any banking. I was wondering if I could ask you about the night of The Pit Stop shooting. I was working there that night.”
His eyes latched onto mine and he slowly nodded. “Alex told me one of his friends worked there. You’re alright, I assume?”
“I’m fine, but I’m wondering if you remember seeing anything weird that night or if you saw anyone else hanging out around there?”
Chris shook his head. “No, I got gas and left.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back. “The police already asked me all about that night. What brings you here asking?”
With my eyes on my lap, I spoke. “A friend of mine was arrested for the crime, and I have reason to believe he didn’t do it.”
“You’re friends with Nathan Stone?”
I nodded.
“What makes you think he didn’t do it?”
“He was moving back from Denver when the shooting occurred, and he didn’t even have his gun at the time.”
Chris’s eyebrows rose. “Well, then, I guess the cops have the wrong guy.” The condescension rolling off his tongue oozed onto his lap like verbal marmalade. “Tell me…”
“Lydia.”
“Right, Lydia … what do you know about Nathan? Do you know he has a criminal record?”
“I know people think he blew up your bank.”
Chris’s eyes widened. “You know that and yet you choose to be friends with him? Why?”
“He’s a good person,” I said.
“Is that so?” He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, staring me down with his crystal blues. “Well, now let me tell you what I think. I think right now Nathan Stone is exactly where Nathan Stone belongs. I don’t care why he’s in jail, I’m just happy he is. And you should be, too. The entire town should be relieved.”
“And what if someone framed him for the shooting?” I asked. “And also for all the recent vandalism?”
Chris’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Then that person’s done us all a favor, hasn’t he?”
A hot flash pulsed through my body. I stood on impulse, needing to get out of the office before I screamed. Or puked. Or both. How anyone could be so callous about another human being—even one who had pissed him off in years past—was totally beyond me.
“So…” I forced a deep breath. “You don’t remember anything unusual from the night of the shooting?” I was unsure what else to say.
He gave me another salesman smile. “Nope. Sorry.”
I turned to leave.
“Here, take this,” he said, holding something out across his desk.
He flashed a smile. “Never too late to add to your college savings.”
Consciously, I let my fingers go slack. The pamphlet hit the corner of his desk and then floated to the plush tan carpet. “No thanks.”
I left the bank with only one awful thought: If I had been his wife, I’d have choked down some pills, too.
Down the road was The Shack. The post-lunch crowd was non-existent as I entered through the main doors. A short woman with long black hair streaked with blonde grabbed a menu from behind the host counter. “Table for one?”
“Actually,” I said, spotting a familiar old guy in a green army jacket bellied up to the bar. “I’m going to sit over there.” I walked past her to the far side of the restaurant, ignoring the good girl voice in my head questioning whether a seventeen-year-old was even allowed to sit at a restaurant bar.
I hoisted myself up onto a bar stool right next to the old guy with a cup of coffee in front of him. Every time I saw him around town—usually at The Shack—he always had on the same Army jacket, which made me wonder if it ever got washed. When he had stumbled into The Pit Stop the night of the shooting, he was wearing the jacket with a hot pink stocking cap. It really hadn’t been that cold of a night, but he struck me as a bit eccentric. If the man wanted to wear a hot pink hat, no one was going to stop him it seemed.
ESPN was on the TV behind the bar, analysts discussing the upcoming sixth game of the World Series between the Yankees and the Giants.
“You like baseball?” I asked him.
He looked at me and broke out into a smile. The teeth he had left were gray. “You hittin’ on me, little lady?”
I laughed. “No. But I like baseball.” I hated baseball. “You want the Yankees or Giants to win?”
“I want the Twins to win.”
“That’s not going to happen this year.”
“No shit,” he grumbled, then took a sip of his coffee.
“My name is Lydia, by the way.”
“Saul,” he said, turning to shake my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Saul. I don’t know if you recognize me, but I worked at The Pit Stop. I was there the night it got shot up.”
Saul nodded a little. “Heard all about that.”
“You were there that night,” I reminded him. “Do you remember seeing anyone else there? Or seeing anything unusual?”
“No,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “But to tell ya the truth, little lady, I was a little inebriated that night.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m a little inebriated every night, but don’t repeat that.”
I smiled, despite the fact that he was not helping me in any way.
“Ya know,” he continued, “I’ve lived in this town my whole life. My family’s from here. My grandpa helped build the post office back in 1917. Hell, I raised my own kids in the very house I was born.” He took a gulp of coffee and then went back to watching the TV.
I waited, unsure if that was his entire story or if he was going to continue. Eventually, I figured that he needed prompting.
“How many kids do you have?”
“Three. Two are decent. The other one’s a son of a bitch who don’t call or write. Moved to San Francisco twenty years ago, barely seen him since.”
“So you want the Yankees to win then.”
Saul laughed. “Guess I do.” He looked over at me. “Sorry, I can’t help you about that night at the Pit Stop. Memory’s not what it used to be.”
“It’s okay,” I said, getting off the stool. “It was nice to meet you.”
“You too, little lady.”
I slipped out the door of The Shack before Nina’s mom could question me about not being in school. Having nowhere else to go, I went home.
From the top shelf of my closet, I grabbed last year’s yearbook. Nestling into my bed, I flipped through the class photos one page at a time, one face at a time, looking for the teenage guy from the night of the shooting. I was positive I had never seen his face in the hallways at school, and my trip down yearbook lane confirmed it. He wasn’t there. Not a Thorn Creek High student.
I stared at my alarm clock. 2:34.
My parents would be home anytime in the next few hours. And there was no doubt that Jackson had placed a truancy phone call to one of them by now.
Chapter Thirty
He’s Vanishing
The fog set in sometime around six o’clock, as thirty-six hours of no sleep descended over my mind like a hazy blanket. Thoughts would start somewhat coherent—an idea of someone with the motive or means to put me in jail—but then the thoughts ventured off into a fucked-up daze of confusion. Like a dream state. Except instead of being tucked into my warm bed, I was once again seated on the black plastic chair in the interrogation room. And instead of being asleep, I was painfully awake, living a nightmare.
I had tried to sleep, spending all night and most of the day lying on the cot in my jail cell. But relaxation never came. Worst-case scenarios kept my mind reeling.
Rollins didn’t make me wait as long today, entering mere seconds after a guard escorted me into the room.
Rollins sat across from me and placed a manila folder on the table between us.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Interesting information,” Rollins replied. “But before we get to that, tell me again the last time your gun was fired.”
“Like I said, over a year ago. Before I moved down to Denver.”
Rollins stared at me for a moment before finally opening the folder. On the table in front of me he placed a printed document, and up-close, colored pictures of two bullets and two cartridges.
The printed-out document didn’t make much sense, filled with a lot of numbers and sloppy handwriting. The pictures, however, were more recognizable. Nine millimeter bullets and casings.
“And all of this means what?” I asked.
“It means your gun’s been fired much more recently than a year ago,” Rollins said.
“When?” I asked, dreading the answer I knew was coming.
“Wednesday night.”
I shook my head frantically, looking from picture to picture. “No. No way.”
Rollins placed an index finger on each bullet picture. “This one on the right is a bullet recovered from the Pit Stop—the one that nearly killed your girlfriend. And this one on the left is a bullet fired from your gun this morning at the state crime lab in Pierre.” He paused to point at the darkened lines along each bullet. “The striations match.”
The words were clear, but their meaning clogged in my brain as it tried to manage the influx of impossible information.
Rollins placed the photos of the cartridges in front of me. “Breech markings match … firing pin, ejection pattern, the—”
“This is bullshit,” I said. The bullets and casings stared back at me. The glossy pictures reflected the overhead lights back into my tired eyes. It was all a mistake. Someone, somewhere had done something wrong. Someone was fucking with me. I shoved the papers and pictures Rollins’s direction. “No goddamn way!”
“It’s the official crime lab report,” Rollins said, his voice unwavering. “Your gun fired the bullets last Wednesday night at the Pit Stop.”
“I don’t give a damn what that report says, I did not shoot anything.”
Rollins gathered up the photos and papers, placing them back into the folder. “We have proof your gun was there, you have no alibi to say that you were not there, and let’s face it, you have plenty of angry motive to wreak havoc on the town that doesn’t care much for you.” Rollins’s little eyes stared straight into mine, and his mouth twisted into his ball-grabbing smile. “What do you have to say about that, Mr. Stone?”
Every muscle in my body tensed.
“I want a lawyer.”
****
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The jail cell had bars on three sides, ensuring no privacy for jailbirds. Maybe I was innocent until proven guilty, but the cold metal bars and constant eyes of the guard screamed the opposite.
I lay back on my cot, staring at the cement ceiling. The small TV on the desk of the guard was turned to CNN. A small plane had crashed near an interstate in Ohio. Eyewitnesses were providing a variety of accounts. One said the plane hit a car on the interstate. Another said the plane burst into flames before even hitting the ground.
I crossed my arms over my face, listening to the voice of the reporter. The world outside was moving without me. It didn’t care I was in jail. I was one in seven billion. If I was never released, nothing would change.
The world would go on. The town would go on. My family would eventually get used to my absence and adjust to a new normal. And Lydia … she would go on. She’d find someone without a rap sheet, probably in a better town with better prospects. Someone who could offer her so much more than I ever could.
The muscles in my jaw clenched. Some bullshit lab report from Pierre was trying to strip me of what little I had in life.
“Dammit,” I half-shouted.
I commanded myself to stand up, to break through the insurgence of self-pity. Back and forth I paced. Wall to bars. Bars to wall. Over and over again I strode, clenching and unclenching my fists.
No fucking way was Chet Rollins going to win so easily. Maybe Rollins had succeeded in getting me behind bars, but I wasn’t about to let the douchebag cop break me completely.
I walked to the bars. “Can I write a letter?”
The guard looked up from the TV. “Yep.” A minute later, he approached the bars with a small sheet of paper and a pencil without an eraser. “All correspondence in and out is monitored. So don’t write anything you don’t want Chet reading.”
I grabbed the paper and pencil and then stared at the blank white sheet most of the evening before words finally came. They were far from lyrical, just simple and kind. And kindness was the only thing I could offer her at that point.
