Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

“I’ll get hold of his mama somehow. We’ll take care of him.” Junebug glanced back at the huddled boy, still sobbing on the wooden porch. “God, if this ain’t a real sow’s nest. Shit.”

“What in hell’s going on, Junebug?” My voice, usually strong, direct, and a shade raspy, quavered. I’d kept it under steely control with Mark, but Mark was in the car, where he couldn’t hear me. Anger and fear and sadness rose up in me, hard and uncompromising. “Someone shot him. Someone shot Clevey. Why don’t you know what’s going on here? Why is this happening?” I suddenly remembered the blood-smeared wallpaper. “‘Two down.’ What the hell did that mean?”

“Can you drive?” Junebug asked, ignoring my question. “Or do you need me to drive you to the station?”

“Can’t you take our statements at home?” I pleaded. I suddenly wanted the warm comfort of my house, a cup of coffee with a jolt of brandy in it, and my armchair. I wanted to talk to my sister, not just because her boy needed her, but because I wanted to ask her why material from her pants was stuck on a nail outside the house where her ex-husband died.

Of course she couldn’t commit murder, I told myself. She’s your sister, for God’s sake. But at the same time I gave myself that scant reassurance, I realized I did indeed presume she could have killed

Trey. Otherwise, I would have left that tatter on the nail. Wouldn’t I?

The selfish part of me wanted to hand Mark over to Sister so I could be alone with my grief. Grief! my mind cried out. I had to be kidding myself. Mourning over a man who I wanted out of town yesterday. A man I felt was worthless. A man who had cruelly abandoned my sister and my nephew. A man who’d once been my best friend.

I sagged against the car. Life plays you some odd hands, doesn’t it? I wasn’t going to grieve over someone as rotten as Trey Slocum. Not when Mark needed me to be strong.

“Jordan, are you listening to me?” Junebug’s voice was steel authority and I raised my head, submissive for once. “This is a murder investigation. I’d surely appreciate it if you and Mark would come down to the station. I’ll get Scott squared away, get my people started on this case, and we’ll leave in a few minutes. Please, get in the car and wait.”

I nodded. “Mark said he would talk to you, but I don’t know if he’s gonna be able to help-”

“He will. ’Cause I’m gonna find the son of a bitch who’s killing my friends.” He turned and stomped back toward Scott, who’d pulled himself up to a sitting position. I saw the boy fix me with an expression of utter misery, as if a specter of death had brushed his heart in taking its leave.

People should be where they’re supposed to be in times of great crisis. It’s only considerate.

Phoning Sister made my throat dry. I imagined the conversation: Hi, Sister, got some news for you. Your ex-husband is dead. Yes, shot to death, how did you know? Hope you don’t mind, but I ignored your wishes and took your son over to visit Trey. Mark got there just in time to see his father die. It’ll probably warp him for life. Oh, that’s okay, no need to thank me. Perhaps you’d care to tell me which pants you wore this morning? I made myself dial the phone, my finger trembling.

“Sit-a-Spell Cafe, what can I do you for?” The hoarse voice of Suzie Tumpfer, one of the waitresses, blasted in my ear.

I asked to speak to Sister.

“Arlene ain’t been in this morning, Jordy.”

My throat felt coated with coarseness. I coughed. “Is Candace there?”

“Naw, she’s run over to the restaurant supply store in Bavary. You wanna leave a message for either one?”

“There’s-” What could I say? “Would you have them phone the police station if they get back in the next hour or so?”

“You’re at the police station?” Suzie’s voice softened. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, and so is Mark. But they need to come down to the station, all right? Please don’t forget, Suzie.”

“Naw, I won’t.” I didn’t think she would, since she’d be broadcasting it to the rest of the Sit-a-Spell staff in short order. I hung up the phone and went into the men’s room.

I washed my hands and my face. I returned to Junebug’s office. Mark hadn’t asked for his mother; he faced Junebug like he was a plague to be suffered. I did not mention that Sister wasn’t at the Sit-a-Spell. My heart stumbled again at thoughts I couldn’t permit myself to have. You cannot think this of her. You cannot think this of her… but you are. Admit that you’re wondering where she is and why she’s not at work.

Children have an uncommon bravery that we adults don’t always appreciate. Mark, although still shocked and savaged by what he’d witnessed, managed to answer Junebug’s questions completely. I wondered if it was because, once the initial shock was over, Trey was still a stranger to him. Or perhaps maybe because Mark was such an extraordinary young man.

Watching him holding up his head, keeping his voice steady, I suddenly came aware, with a surprising tightness in my heart, of how much I loved this boy. Before I returned to Mirabeau, I probably loved Mark in an abstract way; he was my sister’s child, so of course I loved him. You’re supposed to. But when you share a house, share the terrible responsibility and knowledge of a loved one losing her mind, share the struggle of barely getting by without fraying each other’s nerves, those abstractions turn into solids.

Mark bowed his head when Junebug asked if he’d seen his father before today, and for the first time since we got to the station, tears brimmed in his night-dark eyes. I swore to myself right then, right there, that nothing else was going to ever harm this boy, not while I drew breath.

“No, I hadn’t seen my father. I knew he was in town, but my mom didn’t want me near him. I asked Uncle Jordy to take me over to see him, if he would. I mean, if Dad was willing to see me.”

“And was your father willing?”

“Yes. I didn’t talk to him, but Uncle Jordy did. He asked us over to that house he-he was staying in.”

Junebug glanced at me with cop’s eyes. “But you yourself, Mark, you didn’t speak to your dad.”

Mark shook his head. “I thought I would when we got there. Talking on the phone seemed kind of funny. We never did that before.”

The questioning went on in the same vein. Another police officer stuck his head in the door to say that they’d found Nola and her uncle, Dwight Kinnard.

“You want her? She’s mighty upset right now.”

“I’m sure she is. Show her into the interrogation room and I’ll be there presently.” The officer nodded and withdrew.

A moment later I could hear Nola’s voice coming down the hall, shrill and ragged: “I can tell you stupid bastards who you need to go after! His goddamned whore of an ex-wife! She’s crazy! You gotta-” And the noise died as a door was slammed. Mark’s face might have been made of marble. I felt an itch on my thigh, right where a ribbon of batik rested.

“Can we please go home? Mark needs some rest.”

Junebug nodded. “Listen, Mark, could you wait in the dispatcher’s office for a minute? I know you want to get home, son, but I need to talk a second with your uncle Jordan. Is that okay, buddy?”

Mark stood. “Yeah.” He moved slowly, like a puppet on guided strings. I could not believe that he was so calm, not after the violent surge of emotion he’d shown. It made me uneasy. What was normal for Mark under these circumstances? The door clicked shut behind him.

“Jordy, where the hell is Arlene?” Junebug didn’t waste time on preliminaries.

My tongue dabbed at my dry lips. All I had to say was what I knew for sure, and even that wasn’t appealing. “I don’t know. Suzie at the caff said she hadn’t been in.”