Wayward

by Gregory Ashe

  “I think we need to talk about—”

  “No. I told you no. Why don’t you listen to me? Nobody ever listens to me. I told Mama and Papa, I told them she was trouble, she wasn’t going to end up good. I told them she was just going to cause more and more trouble. That’s all she ever wanted, trouble. She just wanted to ruin everything good. And she did. So I guess she’s happy. Papa’s ran out of the house, and Mama can’t even get out of bed, and I’m—” The word trailed off into a squeak. Courtney’s whole body contracted, knees coming together as she squatted in the air, splayed fingers waving helplessly. She looked like a cartoon character who needed the bathroom desperately. “I hate her. I hate that b-word so much.”

  And then she shuffled to her car. None of the men moved to follow her. After a moment, the engine started, and she drove away.

  “Not exactly the grieving sister,” Dulac said.

  Hazard grunted. “What did Donna May ruin this time?”

  “Come on,” Somers said. “We can figure it out as we walk. I want to let Daniel know that, no matter how pissed he is, we want him down at the station. We’ll—” Somers’s phone rang, and he answered it.

  As he spoke, he gestured with one hand, and Hazard nodded and took the lead, heading to the next street, where Daniel lived. The flood of traffic had slowed to a steady current; most of the people here must have worked the same shift, and Wahredua wasn’t exactly a big town. You could get just about everywhere in fifteen minutes. Pretty soon everybody would be home with their families, enjoying dinner together, doing the little things that built a life together.

  Hazard looked at Somers.

  Almost everybody.

  Several of Somers’s exclamations and inhalations told Hazard that this was more than just a garden-variety report. When the call finished, Somers tucked his phone away and said, “This is all preliminary, but Dr. Boyer says cause of death was strangulation. The body’s pretty far gone, and the ligature marks aren’t great.”

  “So no chance of matching the instrument.”

  “Maybe. She found trace fibers around the ligature marks. She thinks it could be from whatever was used to strangle Donna May. Cotton-poly blend.”

  “That sounds like a piece of clothing,” Hazard said. “Not rope or a cord.”

  “Dude,” Dulac said. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “That might mean the murder wasn’t premeditated. In the heat of the moment, maybe during a fight that’s escalating, the killer grabs whatever’s at hand. A shirt. A jacket. A sweater.”

  “Bro. Bro. It’s, like, uncanny. We are so fucking good at this.”

  “I’d like to ask Daniel—”

  But as they came around the corner, the old clunker Ford whipped past them; the streetlight puddled on the glass and then slid away. In the front seat, Daniel was bent over the wheel.

  “Well,” Dulac said, “I don’t think he’s driving to the station for an interview.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MARCH 28

  THURSDAY

  6:31 PM

  SOMERS DROVE THEM BACK to the station; on the way, he called in a BOLO on Daniel Minor. Even if they couldn’t bring Daniel in yet, he wanted to know where the deputy was. While Somers gave the details to Ehlers, praying that she wouldn’t screw this up, he could hear Hazard talking softly into his phone. When Somers ended the call, he glanced over and was surprised to see Hazard trying to squeeze into the footwell. Some of that, he guessed, had to do with the way Dulac was rubbing Hazard’s shoulders and murmuring comforting words.

  “I told him I’d break his hands,” Hazard muttered, “but he won’t stop.”

  “Bro,” Dulac said. “It’s ok. You’re upset. Anger is a secondary emotion.”

  “It feels pretty fucking primary right now.”

  “What’s going on?” Somers said. “Was that your mom?”

  “Nothing,” Hazard said. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Yep,” Dulac said. “That was his mom.”

  “Be quiet,” Hazard said.

  “His dad’s getting transferred to hospice.”

  “God damn it.”

  “Ree,” Somers said. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not a big deal, John. He’s fine. It’s more an administrative decision than a healthcare one.”

  “Ree.”

  “He was already dying. He’s not doing it any different or any faster because the name of the building is different.”

  “Yeah, man,” Dulac said, still leaning over the seat to perform his improvised massage. “You keep your chin up.”

  “Chin up? I’m not a fucking English matchgirl.”

  “Yeah, man. That’s right. Wear that armor. When you’re ready, you can take it off. We’re still going to love you.”

  Hazard finally managed to wriggle far enough away that Dulac had to drop his hands. With a quick look at Somers, Hazard said, “Make him stop.”

  “Gray, stop loving him. That’s my job.”

  “Can’t, dude.” Dulac dropped back into the seat. “He’s just this giant angry teddy bear I want to squeeze until his eyes pop out.”

  “Oh my God,” Hazard whispered. “Oh my God.”

  They dropped Dulac at the front doors to the station, and then Somers drove to the end of the lot where Hazard had parked the Odyssey. “I’ll meet you at home in a little bit.”

  Hazard raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh,” Somers said. “Right.” When Hazard reached for the door, though, Somers caught his arm. “Do you want me to take Evie? She can have a sleepover at the Hare and Tortoise with me?”

  “She’s already been at Noah and Rebeca’s tonight.”

  “It’s not a big deal. It’ll give you a break.”

  “I don’t need a break.” Hazard worked his arm free. “Besides, it’s too much stuff: her toys, her clothes, all the little things.”

  “It’ll take fifteen minutes to get her ready.”

  “If you want to take her, John, then take her. But I’m not going to tell you it would be really nice if you could get her out of the house. I want her there. And I’m not going to help you ease your fucking conscience by inconveniencing your daughter.”

  Somers let go of his sleeve. “Our daughter.”

  “Right.”

  “Our daughter, Ree.”

  He got out of the car. “Until when? Your dad decides to run for state senate?”

  Then he slammed the door.

  For a moment, very briefly, Somers clutched the wheel and envisioned stomping on the accelerator, the Mustang launching forward and smashing straight into the rear end of the minivan. He didn’t want Hazard to get hurt. He just wanted to fuck something up. Smash something beyond recognition.

  But they couldn’t afford a new car, let alone two, so he found a parking spot and sat behind the wheel, staring at a security light on the corner of the building. It fluttered like a dying moth. Somers counted the seconds of darkness. Once, he got to ten and wondered if the light had really gone out, would never come on again. But then it flickered back to life, and he had to get out of the car and go inside.

  Dulac was already busy with paperwork, and Somers joined him. They had a lot to do, things that were important—sometimes crucial—to the successful investigation and prosecution of a case. They were also dull as dirt.

  When Dulac got up for more coffee, he paused at Somers’s desk and let out a noise of disgust. “Dude, I told you, I already filled out those forms.”

  “What?” Somers stared at the papers, trying to bring the words into focus.

  “You’re fucking worthless right now. Get out of here.”

  “No, I’ll just—”

  “Please go. You’re mopey and you’re making me super sad, and honestly, I think I’m going to start bawling into my coffee if I see your face go all empty while you stare off into the distance and think of your tragic love with Emery.”

&n
bsp; “Christ, no. I’ll pull my shit together.”

  “John-Henry. Come on, man. You need to get out of here. Get some real sleep. Or get some food. Or jerk off. Maybe a few times, because you’re wound really tight right now. I’ll handle this.”

  “You need to get home too.”

  “Nah, man. Darnell’s still not talking to me.”

  “We’re in the same boat, then. Let’s leave this shit. Go get a drink or something.” Somers flushed. “I mean, you get a drink, I’ll get something to eat.”

  Dulac shook his head. “Get out of here, ok? I just want to do the work right now, keep my head clear.”

  Somers took his time. He finished some of the forms that weren’t duplicating Dulac’s work. He emptied his inbox. He rattled the penholder, trying to find one of the Bics he liked. He checked his coat pockets, found some lint, and started unraveling it, wondering if maybe he’d find an old movie stub or something.

  Dulac’s scream made him look up. The younger detective had his hands over his face.

  “Get. Out.”

  “What?”

  “Oh my ever-loving Christ. This is why Hazard is always talking about spanking your ass. Get the hell out of here, dude. Right now. You’re, like, the absolute worst sometimes.”

  Somers left. But when he got to the Mustang, he stood at the end of the parking stall, keyring over one finger, spinning the keys and letting them smack into his palm with a jingle. The sun hadn’t set yet, but dusk brushed everything in broad, purple strokes. He could smell the metal of the keys, an odor like rust in counterpoint to the sweetness of the spring air. He could go back to the Hare and Tortoise. He could lie in bed. He could stare up at the empty shelves, knowing that all those goddamn stuffed animals were under his bed. He could go downstairs and talk to Mrs. Stead. A crazy little chuckle slipped out of him at the mental image: the two of them watching TV together, gabbing. Oh Christ, might as well go all out and have a tea party.

  He shook off the nightmare, opened the trunk, and began digging around. The night was warm enough, and he had car cleaning supplies. He could detail the hell out of the Mustang; that would take an hour. Then he could go get dinner at St. Taffy’s. He didn’t need a beer, not at all. But he could get a good burger, watch whatever was on the TV, just enjoy the yeasty smell, the thought of a Bud Lite floating past him.

  He could call a friend.

  Opening the trunk, Somers grabbed the plastic tote of cleaning supplies, but his mind raced ahead of him. It sounded like something from that old gameshow. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Only in Somers’s case, it was, Who Doesn’t Want to Shoot His Fucking Brains Out? He could call Drew Klein or Donny Lamar. He could call Rollie Spruce or Bert Bird. He could open up the phonebook, if phonebooks even still existed, run his finger down the page, and call whoever his finger landed on. That’s how it used to be, anyway. Right? He never had to feel lonely. He never had to feel shitty. He never had to feel like he’d crossed over to some other, nonsensical world. Through the looking glass. That kind of shit.

  Sure, a traitorous voice reminded him. Sure, you didn’t have to do any of that. You just had to lie. You just had to hide. You just had to pretend you weren’t who you really were.

  At that moment, it didn’t matter. Somers could taste the Bud Lite. Could taste the Jose Cuervo that would come after. If darkness had a smell, maybe it was like tonight, the same smell as a spring evening when everything was inches deep under twilight. He could slip into that darkness and not have to choose, not have to decide.

  As he shoved the tote of car detailing supplies back into the trunk, he heard a soft thunk. Plastic hitting plastic. He didn’t remember what else could be in there; curiosity got the better of him. He slid the tote aside, and in the weak trunk light he spotted a black rectangle. He dragged it forward. The external hard drive that Hazard had used to clone Sackeman’s computer.

  Somers weighed it in one hand, considering.

  The bite of tequila was on his tongue.

  But when he closed the trunk, he was cradling the hard drive against his chest, and he got in the Mustang and started it. He drove out of Wahredua, following the state highway. Purple bled out of the evening until the world was black, relieved of all that blackness only where the headlights slashed across Indiangrass, or where the moon slid between the trees and picked out a scrawny hare frozen on the back of a log. A glint of feral eyes, once. Old sections of oak closing around him like a puzzle fitting into place.

  He turned off the state highway and followed a gravel road to its end, where he parked outside a double-wide trailer. The porch light was on; from the porch, the sound of TV voices reached Somers, although the words were indistinct. He knocked, still juggling the external hard drive, and waited.

  The door opened, and Darnell Kirby stood there. He was a big man, taller even than Hazard, and he carried a lot of weight. As he so often did, he wore overalls and a flannel shirt, although tonight, he had abandoned the fleece-lined boots Somers was accustomed to seeing him wear. The first time Somers had met him, Darnell had been executing a kind of cyber-Wild West justice, punishing a man who had used an internet profile to rape college girls. Tonight, no sign remained of that man; behind his beard, Darnell was sallow, his eyes shadowed.

  “This is really unbelievable,” Darnell said, starting to close the door. “Even for him.”

  “Darnell, wait. Please. Gray didn’t send me. This is something else; I need your help.”

  “It’s not a good time, John-Henry. I’m sorry.”

  “No, wait. Please. I need this. It’s time sensitive, and I—honestly, I don’t know who else to ask. I don’t know who else I can trust.”’

  The door stopped moving, only halfway closed; Darnell leaned against it like he might fall over. Somers didn’t scent alcohol, but Darnell looked like he might keel over between one breath and the next.

  “Hey,” Somers said. “Are you all right?”

  Darnell shook his head and said, “No.”

  He led Somers into the living room, and he dropped into an easy chair while Somers perched on the edge of the sofa. The TV was tuned to C-SPAN. An old man with very white hair was reading out of a book. The guy looked like he might be a hundred, and it sounded like he was talking about colonial lumber exports, but he still had more get-up-and-go than Darnell. Darnell flipped off the TV, and then the only sound was his labored breathing, then a pop somewhere, like a portion of the trailer settling, and then the rustle of aluminum skin when the breeze licked the outside of the structure.

  “Darnell, I’m worried about you. I’d like to drive you in to see the doctor.”

  Darnell closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Yeah, I think so. Come on.”

  “He really didn’t—he really didn’t ask you to come over here?”

  Somers shook his head, then realized Darnell couldn’t see it. “No,” he said. “No, I came about the hard drive.”

  Darnell was silent for almost a minute. Somers watched him. He understood—thanks to Dulac’s oversharing, he understood maybe more than he would have liked—why Darnell and Dulac worked so well together. What he didn’t understand, not entirely, was why Darnell put up with all of Dulac’s nonsense.

  “Normally it doesn’t bother me,” Darnell said, big hands coming up so he could run his fingers through his beard. His eyes were still shut. “I know people think I’m a pushover. I know people look at us and figure I’m just putting up with Gray’s, you know, his silliness because he’s young and he’s pretty. They think I’m desperate. But most of that stuff, even the really crazy stuff, it just washes over me. I know Gray is a good man. He’s working out a lot of insecurities. I don’t mind waiting while he does.” His hands stilled, fell. “That sounds desperate, doesn’t it? Maybe I am.”

  “No,” Somers said. “I don’t think so. Emery doesn’t either.”

  “I heard you guys—” Darnell leaned forward a little, his eyes coming open like
they were on springs. “So I guess you and Gray are going to get together now, right?”

  Somers choked on his own spit. “What?” he asked when his airway was clear again. “Ree and I didn’t split up, despite what everyone’s saying. And I know Gray likes to make stupid jokes. He told me you guys got into a pretty big fight once because he kept talking about having threesomes. But he’s all talk.”

  “That’s true,” Darnell said. “We did have a fight about threesomes. I told Gray that was an absolute no. But that was months ago.”

  “Ok,” Somers said. “There you go.”

  “He’s in love with you.”

  The moment seemed to hold too long, Somers visualizing Darnell shoving the barrel of a shotgun into Dennis Tonda’s throat. Then the moment passed, and Somers laughed. “No. He spits game, he swaggers, he—”

  “John-Henry, he’s in love with you. Obsessed with you, actually. He came home Sunday after dinner, and he was drunk, he was raging about why you put up with Hazard. I’ve told him before that I don’t like how much he talks about your relationship. It escalated. It got ugly. We got to a kind of cease fire, and he went to the bedroom. I was out here. He’d picked up this virus on his laptop, so I worked on that for a while. Had to wipe the whole thing and then restore his files—thank God I made him install that backup program. And then I . . . saw some of the files. I was curious. And, if I’m honest, I was still angry.”

  “Darnell, maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “He has a whole folder of stuff on you. Newspaper articles. Pictures.”

  Somers was going to say something, but he couldn’t.

  “He’s got pictures of you from college, John-Henry. Maybe he got them from your Facebook. He’s got pictures of you from high school. He’s got your senior year football picture.”

  “I didn’t—” Somers had to work to get the words out. “Those aren’t on Facebook.”

  Darnell combed his beard again. “I’m not telling you because I’m trying to start trouble between the two of you. But I thought you should know. And I thought you should know that . . . that I can’t take this. I know I’m not in Gray’s league. I know I’m lucky he was even interested in me. But I’m not going to play second for my whole life while he fantasizes about being with you.” Heaving himself out of the seat, Darnell said, “So if he sent you over here, you can tell him that. I’m not going to do it. I think it’s best if we just move on separately.”