Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Things? What fuckin’ things?”

“An interview for the Beacon. I’m sure our readers would be interested in hearing your side.”

“My side of what?”

“Thirty-two Cain,” said Mr. Rentner. He wasn’t speaking fast, the way most people would be at a time like this, had slowed down, if anything. At the mention of the address the muscle in Doc’s face jumped again. “The events of that night,” Mr. Rentner pressed on, “and whether you see them differently looking back-how about we start there?”

“See them different?” Doc took a step closer to Mr. Rentner, was at about an arm’s-length distance now. “What’s that s’posta mean?”

“Is there anything you’re now free to add about your testimony?” said Mr. Rentner. “Some information left out at the trial? Was there anything personal between you and Sonny Racine, for example?”

“Get the hell out of my way,” Doc said.

“Our readers would also be interested in learning your plans for the future, and how it feels being free after a seventeen-year incarceration.”

“You don’t hear so good,” Doc said. “I got nothin’ to say.”

“In that case, just a quick picture will have to do.” Mr. Rentner raised his camera, pressed the button.

“God damn it,” Doc said, and knocked the camera loose with a backhand swipe. The camera fell to the pavement and Doc tried to kick it, but Wyatt scooped it up before he could. Doc moved toward Wyatt. “Give me that fuckin’ camera.”

Wyatt held on to the camera, backed away. Doc reached inside his jacket.

“Technically,” said Mr. Rentner, “you’re free on parole, which can be revoked at any time.”

Doc glared at him. His hand emerged empty from inside the jacket. “Watch your step, old man,” he said, then turned to Wyatt. “Do I know you, punk?”

Wyatt didn’t answer.

“I do now,” Doc said. “Better believe it.” He brushed past Mr. Rentner, climbed into the pickup, slinging the beer inside, and drove off, tires squealing.

Wyatt handed Mr. Rentner the camera. Mr. Rentner peered at the screen. “Not bad,” he said, and showed Wyatt the photo: a furious Doc launching that backhand swipe, the letters H-A-T-E clearly visible on his knuckles. “Excellent work on your part, Wyatt. One of the best no comments I’ve gotten in some time. In fact, what do you think of ‘No Comment’ as the headline, running the photo right beneath that, and the piece following?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said.

All at once, Mr. Rentner’s expression changed, no longer so exhilarated. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot to ask about the red shoe.”

They got into the van, returned to the Beacon office. Mr. Rentner’s good humor returned. He smiled and said, “What are your plans for the summer?”

“Not sure.”

“But they’ll include work.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I might have something-more or less an internship, but it’ll be paid, if not well. Interested?”

“Yeah,” he said, and thought: Wow. “Thanks.”

“Not well at all, but write down your phone number.”

Wyatt wrote his cell number on a scrap of paper. Mr. Rentner parked beside the Mustang. Greer wasn’t there.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Mr. Rentner. They shook hands. Mr. Rentner hurried into his office. Wyatt got into the Mustang, called Greer, went right to voice mail. He sat outside the Beacon office, wondering what to do. After a while, Mr. Rentner appeared in the window. He made a questioning gesture with his hand. Wyatt waved good-bye, started the car, and drove off.

He cruised around Millerville, first in the downtown area, where he saw few people out walking, none of them Greer, and then farther and farther into residential areas, where he saw only one walker, a postman on his route. Wyatt pulled over, tried Greer’s cell, again got sent to voice mail. He headed back downtown, and was driving slowly along the main drag when he spotted what he took to be the new bus station, the simplest kind of bus station, just a ticket booth and a space in front for a single bus to park.

Wyatt got out of the car and walked to the booth. BACK IN 10 MINUTES read a sign in the window. On the schedule taped up next to it Wyatt saw that a bus for Silver City-last one of the day-had left half an hour before. He got back in the car, formed an incomplete plan involving catching up to the bus at some stop down the road, seeing if Greer was on it, seeing what might happen next. At that moment, the black pickup went by, Doc at the wheel. Wyatt didn’t think twice, or even once, really. He followed Doc.

Doc turned left at the next corner, drove for a few blocks, and stopped outside a bar called Good Time Charlene’s. Wyatt parked a few spaces behind him, a landscaper’s truck in between. Doc didn’t get out of the pickup, just sat there. After a few minutes, a woman came out of Good Time Charlene’s. She walked past the pickup without a glance, went by Wyatt, too. When she’d first appeared, he’d thought she was in her midtwenties, but now he saw she could be twice that: a middle-aged woman with copper-red hair, lots of makeup, tight jeans, and a tight red sweater. She must have had a great body at one time, still did, in fact, maybe just a little overweight. In his rearview mirror, Wyatt watched her get into a small sedan. She drove away. Doc pulled out and followed her. Wyatt followed him.

A mile or so later, they were in a not-too-bad neighborhood, nicer than Wyatt’s in East Canton. The woman parked in the driveway of a well-kept bungalow that backed onto some woods. Doc kept going, turned a corner, stopped by a small park with a swing set, the swings shifting in the wind. Doc parked. Wyatt kept going. In the rearview mirror, he saw Doc get out of the pickup, glance up and down the street, then hurry into the woods, moving in the direction of the bungalow.

Wyatt stayed where he was for a minute or two, then made a U-turn and drove back past the bungalow. The woman was at a window, closing a curtain. There was a man in the room behind her, possibly Doc, but Wyatt couldn’t be sure. An electrician’s van was parked a few houses farther on. Wyatt pulled in behind it.

He turned, looked back. All the houses on the street had mailboxes out front, some plain black, some big and fancy, decorated with painted flags or ducks. The bungalow had the duck kind, and over the ducks two names in red letters: BOB AND CHARLENE WATERS.

Wyatt sat there. Half an hour later, he thought he heard a door close, possibly the slap-snick of a screen door, but no one appeared. A few minutes after that, Wyatt drove back around the corner to the small park. The black pickup was gone. He returned to the bungalow and stopped right outside.

What now? He could chase after the bus, assuming Greer was on it, or-

The bungalow door opened and the woman came out. She was still wearing tight jeans but she’d changed sweaters, now wore black. She saw Wyatt, gave him a close look. He got out of the car.

“Uh, ma’am?” he said.

“If you’re selling something, forget it,” the woman said.

“No,” Wyatt said. “I’m from the community college. We’re doing this project and maybe you can help.”

“Project?” she said. “What kind of project?”

He went a little closer, smelled her perfume, also couldn’t help noticing the way her breasts stretched her sweater taut. Her eyes were small and watchful.

These things were easier with Greer. He glanced at the mailbox. “You’re, uh, Charlene Waters?”

“That’s what it says.”

“This project,” Wyatt said, “it’s about a crime that happened-”

That was as far as Wyatt got before the black pickup came around the corner. It seemed about to drive on by, then swerved to a stop maybe twenty yards farther on. Doc hopped out, the red shoe in his hand.