by Liz Moore
—It’s got good pickup, says Mrs. Mahon. Just so you know.
—Thank you, I say again, and Mrs. Mahon waves a hand dismissively.
Then she follows me upstairs. She sits down on the sofa and takes a book out of her purse.
I go to the closet and reach toward the top shelf, toward the lockbox where I keep my weapon, a department-issued Glock with a five-inch handle. I’ve never had any desire for an alternate personal weapon before today. Today, I wish for something smaller, more compact, something I could easily carry undetected.
Instead, I’ll have to put on my duty belt and fit the bulky weapon into it. I have a jacket big enough to conceal the whole thing, but it still feels cumbersome.
* * *
—
Back in the living room, Mrs. Mahon looks up from her book.
—Mrs. Mahon, I say, don’t open the door for anyone.
—I never do, says Mrs. Mahon.
—Not even the police, I say.
Mrs. Mahon looks suddenly worried. What’s going on? she says.
—I’m trying to figure that out, I say.
* * *
—
I pull out of our driveway so quickly that the tires on Mrs. Mahon’s Kia squeal. It does, indeed, have good pickup. I have to remind myself that I’m not on duty, not in a cruiser. The last thing I need is to be pulled over. I slow to a more reasonable speed.
At this time of night, going slightly above the speed limit, it only takes me half an hour to get to Truman’s house in Mount Airy.
I park on his street, half a block from his house, and quietly get out of the car.
It’s eleven at night now. Most of the houses are dark. Truman’s is still light inside, though, and from the street I can see his bookshelves and the many volumes they contain. I don’t see Truman. I walk unseen to his porch.
Tiptoeing now, I ascend the stairs and look through a window. Both Truman and his mother are in the lit-up living room, Truman reading, his mother dozing in her armchair.
I look hard at him. He seems very interested in whatever he’s reading: I can’t get a look. He’s prone on the couch, barefoot, and with one foot he scratches the other.
He says something to his mother that I can’t make out. Maybe Go to bed, Ma. Wake up, time for bed.
Then his gaze shifts from his mother to the window. For a second, it seems like he’s looking right at me. I drop to the ground. I huddle there, my back against the wall of the house. But the front door doesn’t open, and finally my breathing slows down.
Eventually, I creep back down the steps, staying low. I head to Mrs. Mahon’s car. Get inside.
From this vantage point, I watch the house.
Five minutes go by. Ten. Then, at last, Truman rises from the sofa. In the window, he is silhouetted by the lamp behind him. He walks across the room. There is still, I notice, a slight hitch in his step.
That’s when the first glimmer of doubt settles into my stomach. And a question occurs to me that, perhaps, I should have been asking all along. Was the attack that sent Truman out on disability random, as he led everyone to believe?
Or was his assailant motivated by something else?
More questions occur to me, one after another.
Was he telling me the truth about visiting Dock? He went to find him twice, and each time reported back to me about his day. But I have no evidence, in fact, that either of these visits actually happened.
Was any of it true?
* * *
—
Abruptly, the lights in Truman’s house go off.
It’s then that a final thought occurs to me, sickly. One that I can’t push aside. It was Truman who first suggested to me that Simon might be the culprit. Standing on the other side of his house, in the backyard, he asked me to make that leap with him. And then he left me hanging out to dry when Mike DiPaolo told me I was crazy.
* * *
—
It’s getting cold now. I can see my breath. Every so often, I turn the car on, run the heat, and then shut it off again. I turn on the radio.
My goal: to stay awake until Truman Dawes leaves his house. And then to follow him, just as I followed Simon, at Truman’s urging.
At 7:30, I wake up with a jolt. I’m freezing, so cold that I can’t feel my fingers or toes. I rub my hands together quickly. I will my stiff joints to move. I turn the key in the ignition and let it run for a while, waiting for it to warm up.
Truman’s car, I am glad to see, is still in his driveway.
Slowly, the blood returns to my hands and feet, throbbing as it does. The car is warm enough to blast the heat now, and I do.
I check my phone. No messages, no calls.
I know I’m going to be hungry soon, and I also have to use the bathroom. I look at Truman’s house, calculating. There’s a Wawa only five minutes from here. If I go, there’s a chance I might lose him, but I might have a long day ahead of me, and I doubt I can hold it.
Impulsively, I pull out and head for the convenience store, still going just a little too fast.
* * *
—
When I get back to Truman’s street a little before eight—bladder relieved, water and coffee and breakfast and lunch obtained—his car is backing out of his driveway. I pull over, nervous that he’s going to drive right by me and see me in the car. But he drives in the opposite direction, and after a few beats, I pull out and follow him.
Mrs. Mahon’s Kia is a very forgettable white sedan, nothing that will look familiar to Truman. I wish again that I had some undercover training. Without it, I do my best to drive on instinct: following him a couple of car lengths behind, praying that I hit the same lights he does. Once, I run a red to keep up with him. A nearby driver honks incredulously, flips me off. Sorry, I mouth.
* * *
—
Truman follows Germantown Avenue southeast for several miles. All roads, I think, lead to Kensington. I know where we’re headed, and I’m not surprised, but a feeling of dread is growing inside me.
I don’t want to know the truth.
He makes no stops. He drives slowly, ambling, not rushing. It takes all of my willpower to do the same, to refrain from passing him. Truman used to make fun of me for being a speed demon, for driving recklessly, when we were in the car together.
When he gets to Allegheny, he turns left. So do I. He follows Allegheny east, and then parks abruptly just before Kensington Ave.
I pass him and park slightly ahead. I watch him in my rearview, now, and then my side mirrors, not turning around.
He gets out of his car.
He’s walking slowly, maybe because of his knee. He turns a corner onto Kensington.
Only when he’s out of sight do I jump out of Mrs. Mahon’s car and run in the direction of the Ave. I don’t want to lose sight of him.
I’m relieved to see the back of Truman when I turn the same corner he did, but now I’m too close on his heels. My jacket has a hood, and I pull it up over my head and lean against a wall for a minute, trying to put some distance between the two of us while not looking suspicious. I’m probably failing.
I glance at Truman sideways as he slowly recedes. A hundred feet away from me, he turns left and opens the door of a shop. Before going in, he glances to his right and left, and then disappears out of sight. And at last I realize where we are, where Truman is going.
The window display in Mr. Wright’s shop hasn’t changed in the slightest since we first went in. The little sign that says Supplies is still tipped over on its side. The same plastic dolls gaze at me, dead-eyed; the same dusty plates and bowls and cutlery are arranged the same way on the same rack. The display is so crowded that I can’t, in fact, see the inside of the store, and for this reason I’m now standing outside, at a loss for what to do.
If I follow him in, I mi
ght show my hand too early. He’ll have the chance to invent some excuse about why he’s in Kensington.
If I wait until he comes back out, I could risk missing important information, miss seeing some transaction that I should be aware of.
I make a deal with myself: I’ll wait ten minutes. If he’s not out again in ten minutes, I tell myself that I’ll go in.
I position myself thirty feet away from the front door, then check my phone for the time. I put it back in my pocket. Start counting.
* * *
—
Less than half the time I allotted myself goes by before Truman emerges. Now, he’s dragging something behind him.
It’s a large black suitcase on wheels.
From the way he’s maneuvering it, it looks like there’s something heavy inside it.
He walks south along the Ave and I begin again to follow him. This time, he turns left on Cambria, and he walks another few hundred feet before turning down an alley I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered before. There’s no foot traffic on these small streets, and I fear that Truman’s going to turn around at any moment and see me a hundred feet behind him. I try to walk as quietly as I can. I try to float, so that he doesn’t hear my footsteps.
When I get to the alley Truman turned down, I don’t see him. But I hear something: the banging of a door.
There are only six structures in front of me, and two of them are open shells with no roof. The other four look abandoned to me, but intact.
I get close to the side of one of them, ready to duck into an empty lot if anyone comes out. I listen for a while, trying to hear any other noises that might give Truman’s location away. But all I hear is my own breathing, my own blood as it rushes in my ears. Beyond that, traffic from the Avenue. The El shuttling by on its tracks.
* * *
—
I advance. I peer into the boarded-up windows of each house, one after another. I see nothing through the windows of the first two on my left. When I peer between two boards blocking a window in the third house, I catch a glimpse of movement, some shadowy figure crossing the room. I cup my hands around my eyes, trying to darken the outside world so I can see what’s happening better.
Everything inside is still.
Then I hear a voice. Truman’s voice, very quiet.
I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying, but I can see that he’s talking to someone on the ground. Truman bends down, and then I can’t see him anymore, or what he’s doing.
I think of Kacey. Of all that she endured for a decade on these streets. I think of Paula. Before I change my mind, I draw my weapon and pull open the unlocked door of the house.
I edge in through the doorframe sideways, trying to make myself a small target, as I have been taught.
My eyes, as usual, are slow to adjust inside the dark house. A figure—Truman—raises his head abruptly.
—Don’t move, I say, aiming my weapon at his chest. Don’t move. Put your hands up.
He complies. In silhouette, he raises his arms.
I look around wildly. There’s a second person in the room. In the dark, I can’t make out any identifying characteristics. She’s lying on the floor, in between Truman’s legs.
Truman’s suitcase is closed and lying on the floor beside him.
I keep my weapon pointed at him.
—Who’s on the ground? I say.
—Mickey, says Truman.
—Who is it? Is she hurt? I say.
—Tell me, I say.
But I can hear my voice getting weaker, losing its authority.
Truman speaks, at last. What the hell are you doing here, he says quietly.
—I’m just, I say, but I hesitate, and then find that I can’t finish.
—Put your weapon away, Mickey, says Truman.
With the Glock, I gesture to the suitcase. What’s in there? I say.
—I’ll show you, says Truman. I’ll open it and show you.
The woman at his feet hasn’t moved an inch.
Truman crouches next to the suitcase. He says, I’m just going to take out my phone, all right?
Slowly, he reaches into his breast pocket and removes it. He shines the phone’s flashlight toward the suitcase, and unzips it. He flips open the lid.
I can’t, at first, see what’s inside. I take two steps forward, peering into it. What I see are sweatshirts, gloves, hats, woolen socks. Hand warmers and foot warmers, the chemical kind that last for eight or ten hours. Energy bars. Chocolate bars. Bottles of water. And, zipped into the netting on the underside of the suitcase’s lid: a dozen or so doses of Narcan nasal spray.
—I don’t understand, I say.
In my peripheral vision, the figure on the ground moves slightly. I swing back, aim my weapon in her direction briefly before turning it once more on Truman.
—He’s still conscious, says Truman. But we shouldn’t wait much longer.
—What do you mean, I say, he?
Truman shines his phone toward the figure. And suddenly I see my mistake.
—Who is that? I say.
—Name’s Carter, I think, says Truman. That’s the name he gave me, anyway.
Slowly, with a dawning sense of shame, I walk toward the person on the floor. It’s not a woman at all. It’s a boy, a young boy, sixteen or so, the same age Kacey was the first time I ever saw her in this state. He’s skinny, African-American, dressed vaguely like a punk, eyeliner on his eyes, trying hard to look older than he is. The childish slightness of his frame betrays him.
He’s gone completely still again.
—Oh no, I say.
Truman says nothing.
—Oh no, I say again.
—Do you want to dose him, or should I? says Truman flatly, gesturing down toward the Narcan in his suitcase.
Later, on the street, we wait together for the ambulance to arrive.
The victim, Carter, is revived, sitting on the ground, crying, dismayed. I don’t need an ambulance, he’s wailing, ineffectively. I gotta go. His sleeves come down over his fingers; he holds them there. I try to place a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs it off.
—Sit still, says Truman sharply, and the boy listens, finally resigned.
Truman is off to the side, not looking at me.
Several times, I try to speak, to consider how best to apologize. For today. For what happened at Duke’s. In general. But no words come to mind.
—What are you doing here? I say, finally.
Truman looks at me for a long time before responding. As if deciding whether I deserve an explanation.
At last, he speaks. For a while, he says, he’s been volunteering with Mr. Wright. Every day he can get to Kensington, he stops into Mr. Wright’s store and picks up a suitcase that Mr. Wright has filled with supplies, and then he roams around the neighborhood, doing what he can to help. Giving people food and supplies. Administering Narcan when necessary. It’s something Mr. Wright’s been doing, he says, for a decade, ever since his sons died. But now Mr. Wright is getting older, less mobile, and someone has to fill his shoes.
—That’s really nice of you, I say, uselessly. Weakly. But my heart is sinking. Apologize, I think. Apologize, Mickey.
But a new thought is occurring to me, distracting me.
—The attack, I say with something like sadness. The man who attacked you.
—What about it?
—It wasn’t random, I say. Was it.
He looks down the block.
—People don’t like me poking around here, he says.
—You knew him?
—I’d pulled him off his girlfriend a day or two before. Found him beating the shit out of her. Pulled him off.
—Why didn’t you say anything to me? I ask.
He looks at me impatiently. How was I supposed to explain what I w
as doing in some abando off duty? he says. To you or anyone?
I have no good answer.
I look away.
—Well? says Truman finally.
—Well what?
—Your turn, he says. His mouth is a line. There is no warmth in his voice.
—I was following you, I say.
I feel helpless and resigned. I have no capacity at the moment to tell him anything but the truth. My eyes are focused on the cracks in the pavement, on the little weeds and pebbles that have made their way into each crevice.
—Why, says Truman quietly.
I exhale. I say, They said you were the one.
—Who?
—Kacey’s friends.
Truman nods.
—And you believed them, he says.
—I didn’t, I say.
Truman laughs, but his voice is hard. Ah, he says. And yet here we are.
I say nothing. I look down at the ground a while longer.
—It was an unhappy coincidence, I begin, but Truman interrupts me.
—Why do you talk like that, says Truman. Mickey. Why do you talk like that?
An interesting question, actually. I think for a bit. Ms. Powell used to tell us that people would judge us based on our grammar. It’s not fair, she said, but it’s true. Your grammar and your accent. Ask yourself, how do you want to be perceived by the world? said Ms. Powell.
—I had a teacher, I begin, and Truman says, Ms. Powell. Ms. Powell. I know.
—Mickey, he says, you’re thirty-three years old.
—And? I say.
He doesn’t reply.
—And? I say again, raising my head. Only then do I see that Truman isn’t beside me anymore. I look to my right and see only the back of him, a lifted heel as he disappears around a corner at the end of the block.
I realize, suddenly, how long it’s been since I’ve checked my phone. When I do, I see I have three missed calls.
