Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Who by?” Wyatt said.

“Who did the shooting, you mean?”

“Yeah,” said Wyatt. “I know it doesn’t matter legally, but…”

“That’s right. But it kind of does matter, doesn’t it? My dad thought so. It turns out that the two shots that mattered came from Art Pingree’s gun. He and the other two got sent to jail, and so did the Dominguez brothers, for drug dealing, and later they were deported back to Mexico. I was put in foster care, but after Art Pingree got killed, Mom and Dad adopted me. Nothing’s so bad it can’t be made a little better-that’s what my mom says.” She was silent for a moment or two, then looked at Wyatt. “Don’t you need to take notes or something?”

“I’ll remember,” Wyatt said. Down in the car and screened by the windshield reflection of the bare treetops, Greer seemed to be sitting very still.

“Any questions?” Toni said.

“What do you know about the trial?” Wyatt said.

“Not much. The judge gave Art Pingree and one of the bad guys life sentences. The other bad guy-Doc-testified for the prosecution in return for less jail time. He got out last year.” Toni’s good eye lost some of its sparkle. “The creepy thing is he came back here.”

“Here?”

“To Millerville. He’s on parole, of course, and the police chief told us they watch him, but still. Even more creepy-I wouldn’t even know him if I saw him.”

“Where, uh, does he live?”

Toni shivered. “I have no idea,” she said. “The police chief will know. Maybe you should be talking to him about your project, but he wasn’t the chief back then.”

“That’s a thought,” Wyatt said. Loaded with problems, yes, but maybe the kind Greer could solve. He rose. “Thanks,” he said, “for the help.”

“No problem.” Toni rose, too. “Good luck with the project.” She held out her hand. He shook it. Her hand was small, but warm and surprisingly strong.

He got in the car. Greer didn’t say anything, or even look at him. They drove off. He was on the main street, almost back in the center of town, when she said, “Well, Mr. Bossman-are you going to share the story or not?”

He pulled over, parked in front of a convenience store. “What’s with you?” he said.

“With me? Nothing’s with me. Nothing’s ever with a third wheel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then figure it out,” she said. “I’m thirsty.” She flung the door open, got out, and entered the convenience store.

He sat there, tried to absorb everything that had come at him, not really succeeding. Maybe pen and paper would help, to get the facts listed in bullet points-and if he got the facts and lined them up right, he’d know whether Sonny Racine was innocent, at least in the sense of not being the shooter. Wyatt was reaching toward the glove box when Greer’s phone went off, that ringing Dobro sound. He spotted the phone, wedged between her seat and the console.

Wyatt dug out the phone, checked the screen. HONG KONG, it read, followed by a long number. He remembered Greer saying, Curiosity killed the cat, remembered as well what they’d been discussing at the time, namely the arson and her part in it, or not, and all that somehow added up to him clicking the talk button.

He didn’t say anything, just listened.

A man spoke. “Hey, baby,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

Wyatt said nothing.

“Greer?” said the man. “Can you hear me? It’s Van. Greer? Greer?”

Wyatt clicked off. The Dobro ringtone sounded again, almost immediately. Wyatt didn’t answer. After a minute or so the new-message icon popped up on the screen. Not long after that, Greer came out of the convenience store with an energy drink in her hand, and got in the car.

Wyatt handed her the phone. “I think there’s a message waiting.”

“You could have checked it. No secrets from you-the voice mail code’s seven four times.” Greer took the phone, glanced at the screen. “Nothing important,” she said, flipping the phone shut. “Where are we headed?”

“Not sure,” said Wyatt.

“No?” Greer sipped the energy drink. “I thought you were in command.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The masterly way you took over the Q and A of our pretty little friend back there,” Greer said. “That’s what I mean. Ever going to share your discoveries, or is it just between the two of you?”

All of a sudden, Wyatt was angry. It didn’t happen often. “All right, let’s share,” he said. “Who’s Van?”

Greer shrugged. “No clue.” She took another sip, slightly off-target, so that a few red drops of energy drink trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes shifted toward him. “What’s that look for?” she said.

“I’ll try again,” Wyatt said. “Who’s Van?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That won’t work.”

“Huh?”

“Because you’re caught in a lie, Greer. Van just called you from Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong? I don’t know anybody in Hong Kong. Must have been a wrong number.”

Wyatt’s voice rose. He was shouting now. “I answered your goddamn phone. Don’t you get it? He called you baby.”

She wiped the red trickle off her chin. “My mother’s husband’s a yeller, too,” she said, not raising her voice at all.

“What the fuck?”

“And nothing you do is going to make me change my story. I don’t know anyone in Hong Kong, don’t know anyone named Van. It was a wrong number, end of story.”

Wyatt got a grip on himself, forced his voice lower. But inside he was just as angry, or even more, now that it was bottled up. “You’re lying to my face,” he said. “He called you by name. What kind of wrong number is that?”

Greer’s eyes narrowed, almost closing completely. She came close to looking ugly. “Maybe that’ll teach you not to spy on me.”

“I wasn’t spying on you.”

“You answered my phone. That’s spying.”

“You just said you had no secrets. Who’s Van?”

She didn’t answer.

“If you’re not hiding anything,” Wyatt said, “why don’t we call that Hong Kong number right now?”

“Know what?” Greer said. “You’re just like all the rest. You do sincerity better-that’s the only difference. Especially in bed. Lucky you.”

“You’re making no sense.”

“Don’t worry your little head about it,” Greer said, opening the door. “You’re free as a bird.” She got out, closed the door-not with a slam, more like the opposite, slow and careful, and walked off down the street. After two blocks she turned a corner and vanished from sight. She’d left nothing behind but the can of energy drink, balanced on the dash.

Wyatt just sat there. Time passed. He cooled down. After a while, he considered driving around, trying to find her, but what was the point? She’d come back when she was ready. And then? Wyatt had no idea.

He finished the energy drink, cooled down a bit more. He began to notice things going on around him, like a thin old man in a tweed jacket and bowtie, coming out of the convenience store. He wasn’t one of those bent-over old men; he held himself erect, and moved briskly. The old man walked a few doors down and entered a brick building with a picture window in front. In gold paint on the window:

THE MILLERVILLE BEACON

Established 1849

Your Town, Your News

Wyatt got out of the car.

Wyatt entered the office of the Millerville Beacon. He’d never been in a newspaper office before, didn’t know what to expect. The Millerville Beacon had a counter in front, bearing a stack of fresh-looking newspapers, and four or five workstations in back, only one of which was occupied. The old man in the bowtie sat there, eating a sandwich, eyes on his computer screen.