Maybe. Maybe not.
“Again, why do you think that?”
“You’re the sheriff-you tell me.”
“What I think isn’t important. It’s what you think that matters.”
“I told you what I thought.”
“You believed him.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And you thought he’d do the same to you?”
“He said it, didn’t he?”
“So you were frightened, right?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
Getting impatient?
“When did you get arrested? For stealing the car, I mean.”
The change of subject threw Earl for a moment.
“End of June.”
Charlie nodded as if this made sense, as if he’d checked it out beforehand.
“What do you like to drink? When you’re not in prison, I mean.”
“What does that matter?”
“Beer, wine, liquor. I’m just curious.”
“Beer mainly.”
“Were you drinking that night?”
“Just a couple. Not enough to be drunk.”
“Before you got there? Maybe you were a little buzzed…”
Earl shook his head. “No, I had them while I was there.”
“How long did you stay at the table with the Timsons?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s an easy question. Were you there for five minutes? Ten? Half an hour?”
“I can’t remember.”
“But long enough for a couple beers.”
“Yeah.”
“Even though you were afraid.”
He finally saw what Charlie was getting at. Charlie waited patiently, his expression bland.
“Yeah,” Earl said. “They’re not the type of people you just walk away from.” “Oh,” Charlie said. He seemed to accept that, and he brought his fingers to his chin. “Okay… so let me make sure I understand. Otis told you-no, suggested-that they killed Missy, and you thought they’d do the same to you because you owed them a bunch of money. So far, so good?” Earl nodded warily. Charlie reminded him of that damn prosecutor who’d put him away.
“And you knew what they were talking about, right? With Missy, I mean. You knew she’d died, right?”
“Everyone knew.”
“Did you read about it in the papers?”
“Yeah.”
Charlie opened his palms. “So, why didn’t you tell the police about it?”
“Yeah, right,” he sneered. “Like you guys would have believed me.”
“But we should believe you now.”
“He said it. I was there. He said he killed Missy.”
“Will you testify to that?”
“Depends on the deal I get.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s change gears for a second. You got caught stealing a car, right?”
Earl nodded again.
“And Otis was responsible-you say-for you getting caught.” “Yeah. They were supposed to meet me out by the old Falls Mill, but they never showed. I ended up taking the fall.”
Charlie nodded. He remembered that from the trial.
“Did you still owe him money?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
Earl shifted in his seat. “A couple thousand.”
“Isn’t that what you owed before?”
“About the same.”
“Were you still afraid they’d kill you? Even after six months?”
“It was all I could think about.”
“And you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them, right?”
“I told you that already.”
Charlie leaned forward. “Then why,” he asked, “didn’t you try to use this information to lighten your sentence? Or put Otis away? And why, in all this time here when you were complaining that Otis set you up, did you never mention that he’d killed Missy Ryan?”
Earl sniffed again and glanced toward the wall.
“No one would have believed me,” he finally answered.
I wonder why.
***
In the car, Charlie ran through the information again.
Sims was telling the truth about hearing what he’d heard. But Sims was a known alcoholic and was boozing that night.
He’d heard the words, but had he heard the tone?
Was Otis joking? Or serious?
Or lying?
And what had the Timsons talked about with Earl for the next thirty minutes? Earl hadn’t really cleared any of that up. It was obvious he didn’t even remember the conversation until Charlie brought it up, and his account pretty much fell apart after that. He’d believed they would kill him, but he’d stayed for a few beers afterward. He’d been terrified for months, but not enough to scrounge up the money he owed, even though he stole cars and could have gotten the money. He’d said nothing when he’d been arrested. He blamed Otis for setting him up and blabbed to people in the prison about it, but he didn’t mention the fact that Otis had confessed to killing someone. He’d lost an eye and still had said nothing. The reward had meant nothing to him.
A boozing alcoholic, providing information to get off free. A convict with a grudge, suddenly remembering critical information, but with serious holes and flaws in the story.
Any defense lawyer worth his salt would have a field day with both Sims Addison and Earl Getlin. And Thurman Jones was good. Real good. Charlie hadn’t stopped frowning since he’d been in the car.
He didn’t like it.
Not at all.
But the fact was that Otis had indeed said “the same thing is gonna happen to you that happened to Missy Ryan.” Two people had heard him, and that counted for something. Enough to hold him, maybe. At least for the time being. But was it enough for a case?
And, most important, did any of it actually prove that Otis did it?
Chapter 23
I couldn’t escape that image of Missy Ryan, her eyes focused on nothing, and because of that, I became someone I’d never known before. Six weeks after her death, I parked the car about half a mile away from my final destination, in the parking lot of a gas station. I made the rest of the way on foot.
It was late, a little past nine, and it was a Thursday. The September sun had set only half an hour earlier, and I knew enough to keep out of sight. I was wearing black and kept to the side of the road, going so far as to cower behind some bushes when I saw headlights closing in on me.
Despite my belt, I had to keep grabbing for my trousers, which kept slipping over my hips. I had begun doing that so frequently, I had stopped noticing, but on that evening, with branches and twigs pulling at them, I realized how much weight I had lost. Since the accident, I’d lost my appetite; even the idea of eating seemed to repulse me.
My hair, too, had begun to fall out. Not in clumps, but in strands, as if decaying slowly but steadily, like termites ravaging a home. There would be strands on my pillow when I woke, and when I brushed my hair, I would have to use my fingers to clear the bristles before I finished or the brush would slide without catching. I would flush the hair down the toilet, watching it swirl downward, and once it was gone, I would flush again for no other reason than to postpone the reality of my life.
That night, as I was climbing through a hole in the fence, I cut my palm on a jagged nail. It hurt and it bled, but instead of turning around, I simply squeezed my hand into a fist and felt the blood seeping between my fingers, thick and sticky. I did not care about the pain that night, just as I do not care about the scar today.
I had to go. In the last week, I had gone to the site of Missy’s accident and had also visited Missy’s grave. At the grave, I remember, the headstone had been placed and there were still remnants of fresh earth, where the grass had yet to grow, almost like a small hole. It bothered me for a reason I couldn’t quite explain, and that was where I set the flowers. Then, not knowing what else to do, I sat down and simply stared at the granite. The cemetery was mostly empty; in the distance, I could see a few people here and there, tending to their own business. I turned away, not caring if they saw me.
In the moonlight, I opened my hand. The blood was black and shone like oil. I closed my eyes, remembering Missy, then moved forward again. It took half an hour to get there. Mosquitoes buzzed around my face. Toward the end of my trek, I had to cut across yards to stay off the road. The yards here are wide, the houses set far from the road, and it was easier going. My eyes were locked on my destination, and as I approached, I slowed down, careful not to make any sound. I could see light streaming from the windows. I saw a car parked in the driveway.
I knew where they’d lived; everyone did. This was a small town, after all. I had seen their house in the daytime, too; like the scene of the accident and Missy’s grave, I’d been there before, though I’d never been this close. My breathing slowed as I reached the side of the house. I could smell the scent of freshly mowed grass.
I stopped, my hand pressed against the brick. I listened for squeaky floorboards, a movement toward the door, shadows flickering over the porch. No one seemed to realize I was there.
I inched my way to the living room window, then crept onto the porch, where I wedged myself into a corner, my body hidden from those who might pass on the road by an ivy-covered trellis. In the distance, I heard a dog begin to bark, then pause, then finally bark again to see if anything would stir. Curiously, I peeked in.
I saw nothing.
But I was unable to turn away. This is how they lived, I thought. Missy and Miles sat on that couch, they set their cups on that end table. Those are their pictures on the wall. Those are their books. As I looked around, I noticed that the television was on, the sounds of conversation running together. The room was tidy, uncluttered, and for some reason, that made me feel better. It was then that I saw Jonah enter the living room. I held my breath as he approached the television, since he was nearing me as well, but he never looked my way. Instead he sat, crossing his legs, and stared at the program without moving, as if hypnotized.
I pressed a little closer against the glass to see him better. He had grown in the past two months, not much, but noticeable. Though it was late, he was still in jeans and his shirt, not in his pajamas. I heard him laugh, and my heart nearly burst in my chest.
That was when Miles came into the room. I pulled back into the shadows, but still I watched him. He stood there for a long moment, watching his son, saying nothing. His expression was void, unreadable… hypnotized. He held a manila file in his hands, and a moment later, I saw him glance at his watch. His hair on one side was puffed out, as if he’d been running his hands through it. I knew what would happen next, and I waited. He’d start talking to his son. He’d ask what Jonah was watching. Or, because it was a school night, he’d say something about Jonah having to go to bed or putting his pajamas on. He’d ask if he wanted a cup of milk or a snack.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Miles simply passed through the living room and vanished into a darkened hallway, almost as if he’d never been there at all. A minute later I crept away.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
Chapter 24
Miles made it home at the same time Charlie was pulling up at Hailey State Prison, and the first thing he did was head to his bedroom. Not to sleep. Instead, from the closet where he’d hidden it, he retrieved the manila file.
There, he spent the next few hours flipping and turning the pages, studying the information. There was nothing new, nothing he’d overlooked in the past, but still, he found it impossible to put down.
Now, he knew what to look for.
Sometime later, he heard the phone ring; he didn’t answer it. It rang again twenty minutes later, with the same result. At his usual time, Jonah got off the bus, and seeing his father’s car, he went home instead of to Mrs. Knowlson’s. He scrambled into the bedroom excitedly because he hadn’t expected to see his father until later and thought they could do something together before he went out with Mark. But he saw the file and knew immediately what that meant. Though they talked for a few moments, Jonah sensed his father’s need to be alone and didn’t bother asking for anything. He wandered back to the living room and turned on the television.
The afternoon sun began to sink; at dusk, Christmas lights throughout the neighborhood began twinkling. Jonah checked on his father, even spoke from the doorway, but Miles never looked up.
Jonah had a bowl of cereal for dinner.
Still, Miles scoured the file. He jotted questions and notes in the margins, beginning with Sims and Earl and the need to get them to testify. Then he turned to the pages that dealt with the investigation of Otis Timson, wishing he’d been there in the first place. More questions, more notes.Did they check every car on the property for damage-even the junked ones? Could he have borrowed one, and from where? Would someone at an auto parts shop remember if Otis ever bought an emergency kit? Where would they have disposed of the car if it had been damaged? Call other departments-see if any illegal chop shops had been closed down within the last couple of years. Interview, if possible. Cut a deal if they can recall something.
A little before eight o’clock, Jonah came back into the bedroom, dressed and ready to go to the movies with Mark. Miles had forgotten about the outing completely. Jonah kissed him good-bye and headed out; Miles went straight back to the file without asking when he’d be back.
He didn’t hear Sarah come in until she called his name from the living room.
“Hello?… Miles? Are you here?”
A moment later she appeared in the doorway, and Miles suddenly remembered that they were supposed to have a date.
“Didn’t you hear me knock?” she asked. “I was freezing out there, waiting for you to answer, and I finally just gave up. Did you forget that I was coming over?”
When he looked up, she saw the distracted, distant look in his eyes. His hair looked as if he’d been running his hand through it for hours. “Are you okay?” she asked.