What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy

by James Sallis

Pretty much what she did, at that point.

  The kids were down below, sifting through the rubble. For all my best intentions I couldn’t help but think of them that way. Smoke curled from the remains of the cabin and crossed the moon. They’d come straggling in not long after we arrived—all but Stillman, who after sending the rest off into the woods had stayed behind to confront the interlopers.

  We didn’t hear Nathan until he was almost beside us.

  “Missing someone?”

  He carried his shotgun in the crook of an arm, barrel broken. My father and grandfather always did the same.

  “Boy’s back in about a mile.”

  “He okay?”

  Nathan looked down at what was left of the camp. “Will be. Have to splint that leg ’fore we move him.”

  J. T. and I exchanged glances. “You saw who did this?” she said.

  Nathan nodded.

  “Three of ’em. Watched the others head off and knew they’d be all right. The boy, one that sorta runs things—”

  “Isaiah.”

  “Him and the ones did this, I followed them. Figured, push came to shove . . .” He lifted a shoulder, raising the gunstock an inch or two, then, without saying more, turned and stepped off into trees. We followed.

  “No way you’re out hunting in the middle of the night.”

  “Not usually.”

  I stopped, putting a hand on Nathan’s shoulder. I doubt anyone had touched him for years. He looked down at my hand, probably as surprised as I was, but none of it showing on his face.

  “I been watching out for them,” he said. “One way or the other, you knew they’d be having some trouble.”

  “Watching them, huh.” We went on up a steep slope and down into a hollow. I saw Isaiah Stillman ahead, propped against a fallen maple. Another body lay a few paces away. “Because of your dog. Killing that boy.”

  “Just started me thinking, all the trouble could come their way up here.”

  “Like this,” J. T. said.

  “Or worse. Yes, ma’am.”

  “Sheriff,” Stillman said as we approached. “Are the rest okay?” I nodded.

  “That old fucker shot me,” the other one said. It looked bad, but it wasn’t. Nathan knew his distance and how much buckshot would disperse. The boy’s pants were shredded and his lower body well bloodied and someone at the ER was going to be picking out shot with tweezers for a couple of hours, but the boy’d be back on his feet soon enough.

  “Shut up,” J. T. told him.

  “There was three of them,” Nathan said, “all of them youngsters. Figure his friends’ll be on the way to hiding under their beds by now.”

  J. T. looked at me. “Not another message from Memphis, then.” Which is what we’d both been thinking, though neither of us had said it.

  “Guess not.”

  “They tried to make me fight them,” Stillman said. “When I wouldn’t, that enraged them.”

  “Took to beatin’ on the boy some fierce. Mainly that one there.”

  As Nathan nodded his direction, the boy started to say something. J. T. kicked his foot.

  “So you stopped them,” I said.

  Nathan nodded. Pulling his knife, he peeled a thick slice of bark from the fallen tree, then hacked some vines from a bush nearby. Three minutes later he had Isaiah’s leg splinted. “Other one, I figure we just throw him in the truck.”

  “Or in one of the ravines,” J. T. said.

  Girl was definitely catching on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WE TOOK ISAIAH and the boy called Sammy to Cahoma County Hospital, then picked up the other two and put them away in the cells for the night. Tomorrow they’d either be headed to Cahoma County detention themselves, or up to Memphis, depending on what Judge Gray decided. Both of them stank of old beer and a kind of fear they’d never known before. One set of parents came in, listened to what we told them, shook their heads, and left. The other, a single mother, asked what she needed to do. You could tell by the way she said it that she’d been asking herself the same question for a long time.

  From over by Jefferson, the boys said. Been drinking at the game and after, just having fun, you know? You remember what that was like. Someone had told them about these weirdos playing Tarzan up in the hills and they decided to go check it out.

  “Be a long time before they get their lives unbent again,” J. T. said.

  Maybe. Always amazing, though, how resilient human beings can be.

  It was Moira who, as they all quit camp, grabbed the laptop and took it along. She sent an e-mail, “an IM” as J. T. explained to me, to an old friend back in Boston, who then placed a “land-line” call to the office.

  I was thinking about that later in the morning, about Moira and about people’s resilience, when Eldon stopped by and asked me if I felt like taking a walk. J. T. was home trying to get some sleep. June was off at lunch with Lonnie, their lunches having gotten to be a regular weekly thing. I signed out on the board and grabbed the beeper. We headed crosstown, out past the old Methodist church into what used to be the Meador family’s rich pastureland and was now mostly scrub.

  “You okay with this?” Eldon said after a while.

  “Val and you, you mean.”

  “What we’re doing, yeah.”

  “I think it’s great.”

  “Most people think we’re crazy.”

  “That’s because you are.”

  “Well . . .”

  We stopped to watch a woodpecker worrying away at a sapling the size of a broomstick.

  “No way there’s anything in there worth all that work,” Eldon said. “We’ll be back, you know.”

  “Sure you will. But it will never be the same.”

  “No. It won’t.”

  He bent down and pulled a blade of grass, held it between his thumbs and blew across it. Making music even with that.

  “Hard to pick up and go, harder than I thought. Never would have suspected it. All these years, all these places, this is the only place that’s ever felt like home.”

  “Like you say, you’ll be back.”

  “What about those others—think they’ll be back?”

  “Memphis?”

  He nodded.

  “Not much doubt about it.”

  At wood’s edge a young bird staggered about, flapping its wings.

  “Trying them on for size,” Eldon said. “Like he has this feeling, he’s capable of something amazing, even if he doesn’t know what it is yet.”

  We started back towards town.

  “Good you’re okay with it, then.”

  “You and Val? Sure. The other . . .”

  “That’s the way of it. Violence is a lonesome thing, it gets inside you and sits in there calling out for more. But they had no right bringing it here.”

  “And there should be an end to it. A natural end, an unnatural one—some kind of end. How long does it have to go on?”

  “You’re asking a black man?”

  “Good point.”

  As we walked back, he talked about his and Val’s plans, such as they were. An old-time music festival up around Hot Springs, this big campout that got thrown every year down in Texas, a solid string of bluegrass and folk festivals running from California up to Seattle.

  “That’s where all the VW microbuses go to die,” Eldon told me. “Regular elephant’s graveyard of them, all along the coast. VW buses, plaid shirts, and old guys with straggly gray ponytails everywhere you look.”

  We stopped outside the office. June waved from inside. Eldon looked in.

  “She doing okay?”

  I nodded.

  “And Don Lee?”

  “Not quite so good.”

  “Yeah.” He started away, then turned. “All that stuff about giving something back? I always thought that was crap.”

  “Mostly it is.”

  “Yeah. Well . . . Mostly, everything is.”

  Lonnie had come back to the office with June. The two of
them plus Don Lee were all sitting with coffee. Don Lee nodded. Lonnie raised his cup in invitation.

  “Who made it?” I asked.

  June smiled.

  Safe, then.

  “Don’t worry, Turner,” Lonnie said. “Happens to all of us as we grow older, that getting cautious thing. Starts off with the coffee, say, then before you know it you’re wearing double shirts on a windy day and stuffing newspapers around your door.”

  “Maybe even have a silly little hat you wear to bed when you take your afternoon naps,” June said, Lonnie giving his best “Who, me?” look in response.

  They’d heard about most of what had taken place out at the camp. The rest, I filled them in on.

  “So why the hell’d they trash the place?” Lonnie asked.

  “Who knows? But it’s pretty much destroyed.”

  “We should get a bunch of people together,” June said. “Go up there and help them rebuild.”

  We all looked at her. She was right. Sympathy had been gathering in the town for some time, since the day of the funeral for the boy Nathan’s dog had killed. The camp’s destruction, along with June’s urging, put that sympathy over the top. In ensuing months, furniture, lumber, clothing, household goods, and a lot of time and effort would go up into those hills, all of us the better for it.

  Lonnie shook his head. “Just kids.”

  “Just kids.”

  “You must have thought . . .”

  “Of course we did.”

  “Anything further on that?”

  “Nothing substantial, no. Eldon and I were just talking about it, wondering how long this has to go on.”

  “Once it starts . . .” Lonnie got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. “Some of these families have grudges reaching back to the day the first caveman said ‘Hey look at me, I can walk upright!’ They don’t know any other way.”

  “You have to cut the head off,” Don Lee said, speaking for the first time. “You cut the head off, it dies.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I ’M GOING TO SKIP ahead here, past Monday and Tuesday, to the aftermath.

  The call from Memphis came on a bright morning, Wednesday. Unable to sleep, I’d been shuffling papers and creating unnecessary files since 3 a.m. I was looking out the window, watching Bill from the Gulf station teaching his kid to ride a bike down the middle of Cherry Street, when the phone rang. A spider had built a spectacular web in the corner of the window. The web and bright-colored joints of the spider’s legs caught morning sunlight like prisms.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Turner?”

  “You got him.”

  “Sam Hamill here.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “I assume you’re not calling just to say hello.”

  “Not hardly.” He held his hand over the receiver for a moment—to speak offstage, as it were. Then he was back. “Thing is, something strange has just happened up this way.”

  “It usually does.”

  “I’ve got a body.”

  I waited.

  “Two, actually. But only the one that matters. Man goes by the name of Jorge Aleché?”

  “When?”

  “Some time between noon and four yesterday, him and the bodyguard. Why do you ask?”

  “Curiosity. What is it exactly that I can do for you, Sam?”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d have been back in town, right?”

  “None at all. Been a little busy down this way, too.”

  “So I heard.” After a moment he added: “I spoke to Sheriff Bates. Sorry about the shooting. He said you got the one who did it, though.”

  “The one who pulled the trigger, anyway.”

  “Well, it looks like someone may have gone a little deeper in country, if you know what I mean. ’Bout as far in as you can go, matter of fact. You think that’s what happened, Turner?”

  “Possible.”

  “I tried calling the current sheriff, one J. T. Burke, and was told by . . . just a minute . . . Mabel? Do I have that right?”

  “Mabel. Right.”

  “Told me the sheriff was off on official business and would return my call as soon as possible. Little before that, I tried someone named Don Lee—”

  “Acting sheriff.”

  “What I was told. So there’s this Mabel person, secretary by the name of June, two or three sheriffs that I know of. You got one hell of a staff for a town that size.”

  “We take turns. Monday’s my day as crossing guard.”

  “Sure it is. Anyway, the wife said this Don Lee was under the weather—recently sustained some injuries, I understand?—and was resting, and unless it was really important she didn’t want to disturb him.”

  “Is there a message I can give Sheriff Burke for you, Sam?”

  “What it comes down to is, since no one else seems to be available, here I am talking to you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “In an official capacity.”

  “Hold on then, let me get my badge and gun.”

  What sounded suspiciously like a snort came over the line. “Never change, do you?”

  “All the time.”

  “Given the possibility of a connection between the series of attacks you’ve suffered and the shootings here—”

  “Not much gets past you boys, does it?”

  “—MPD believes it important to extend our investigation. I have instructions to request a full local investigation, and to hand off responsibility for that investigation to your office. I’m doing so with this call.”

  “But suh, we don’t know—”

  “Shut up, Turner. Just be glad the FBI’s not on its way down there.”

  He was right, of course.

  “Turner . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry for the way this went down. All of it.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “We’ll be expecting your reports, then. In due time. No particular hurry-up, we’ve got our hands full.”

  “Business as usual.”

  “God’s truth. And Turner . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “You do get up this way again, you should think about giving Tracy Caulding a call. For some twisted reason, the woman likes you.”

  “I know you find it hard to believe, Sam, but people do.”

  “Go figure. . . . One hell of a world, ain’t it?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  IT SURE AS HELL IS.

  I didn’t know exactly what it was that MPD expected us to investigate, but over the next several days I made gestures in that direction. J. T. had taken time off to head back up to Seattle— “thing or two I need to take care of.” She’d left right before it happened, so I was pretty much running things.

  I swung by Don Lee’s that afternoon to see if he might be up to coming in to help. Patty Ann answered the door and told me how sorry she was. She said Don Lee was sleeping. The yeasty, rich smell of baking came from inside.

  “He doing okay?” I asked.

  “Just fine.”

  “Heard he’d been feeling bad.”

  She looked at me a moment before saying, “It comes and goes. Kind of like Donald.” She ducked her eyes, then added: “I can get him up for you.”

  “No, no. He needs his rest. Have him call me?”

  “I’ll do that. Time for a piece of pie before you go? I was just about to take it out of the oven.”

  “Best be going, but thanks.”

  Her gaze held mine. Something was pushing from inside, something that wanted to be said (about what had happened? about Don?) but never made it to the surface.

  I stopped to help Sally Miller, whose car had stalled outside town, and pulled in at Lonnie’s just behind Himself. He wore the usual khakis, which he must buy by the dozen, and a blue shirt. He had a sport coat tossed over one shoulder, his book bag over the other. The bag, he’d liberated from June years ago when
she graduated high school, and now he took it everywhere. God knows what all’s in there.

  “Been on a jaunt, have we?”

  “Little business I had to take care of, couldn’t put it off any longer. How’re you holding up?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Figuring I’d grab some late lunch and head down to the office, see what I could do to help.”

  Shirley opened the door as we stepped onto the porch. She gave me a hug, then hugged Lonnie. Inside she had a plate of sandwiches already made, fresh coffee in one of those pots that look like small urns.

  “Call ahead and place an order?” I said.

  He shrugged. Shirley smiled, said she was praying for us, and excused herself.

  As he ate and I drank coffee, I told him about the call from Memphis.

  “Full local investigation my ass,” Lonnie said when I finished. Picking a divot of celery from between his teeth, he asked, “Those kids on the mountain doing okay?”

  “Isaiah’s back with them, cast and all. With everyone pitching in like they have, it’s beginning to look good up there.”

  He got up, unplugged the pot and brought it over, poured more coffee for both of us.

  “Is there anything you need, Turner? Anything I can do?”

  “Just time . . .”

  “Time, right. Worst enemy, best friend, all rolled into one. If there is anything—”

  “I will, Lonnie.”

  “Like to think I don’t need to say that.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Good.”

  “This business of yours that came up . . .”

  “Nothing much to it. Some old loose ends. It’s done.” He snagged another half sandwich, crusts cut off. This one was pimento cheese, which Shirley ground in an old hand-cranked processor heavy as an anvil. “We were worried about you, all alone up there at the cabin. Time like this, a man needs—”

  “I was where I needed to be, Lonnie. Doing what I needed to do.”

  “Right. Who else would know, huh?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Out in the living room, the TV was on and our current president, one of a cadre of archconservatives who had seized this country to wring its neck in the name of liberty, a man with a to-do list to whom everything was crystal clear, was speaking about “recent troubles in the old world.” Yet again I marveled at how we always manage to persuade ourselves that our actions are justified, righteous, for the good.