Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

“Why?” Wyatt said.

“I trust my dad.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Trusting your parents? Isn’t that central?”

Maybe, Wyatt thought: but not so easy, since they came in twos.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you,” Greer said. “You always hold something back, don’t you?”

Did he?

“See-there you go again,” Greer said. “But nobody’s perfect, including me. The point I was making is I trust my dad and he thinks Sonny is innocent.”

“You told me that already,” Wyatt said. “Based on what?”

“Can you imagine how hard this has been for my dad, being locked up? But Sonny looks out for him and they got to know each other. My dad’s a real smart judge of character-he says Sonny’s the only good man in the whole goddamn place.”

That didn’t strike Wyatt as a lot to go on.

Maybe Greer was reading his mind, because she went on, “But the main thing is, I know you.”

“So?”

“So you’re just like him and you could never do what they say he did or anything close.”

“I’m not like him at all.”

She laughed, a quiet laugh, quickly shut off.

“And if I am, then doesn’t that mean he holds things back, too?”

“You can be a complete jerk sometimes, you know that?” she said.

They moved apart.

“And why now,” Wyatt said, “does he all of a sudden confess the truth?”

“What could be more obvious? You’re his son.”

During the night-under a blanket now, which Greer must have found somewhere while he slept-they came together again, and in the morning woke up side by side. A little later, the room full of light-had to be midmorning, at least-she said, “Know what I’ve never had?”

The words peace of mind occurred to him at once; a strange, disturbing thought Wyatt kept to himself. “No,” he said.

“Breakfast in bed.”

“That’s what you want?”

“Real, real bad.”

He mussed her hair. “Okay.” A siren sounded, faint and far away.

“There’s a doughnut place half a mile down the street. Chocolate glazed, please, and coffee.”

A few minutes after that, he was dressed and in the Mustang. A fat raindrop splatted on the windshield, then a few more. Wyatt crossed a busy street-busy for Silver City-then passed a gas station with a sign on the pumps reading NO GAS, and came to Dippin’ Donuts. By that time it was raining hard. He ran inside, bought doughnuts and coffee, headed back to Greer’s old house, the windshield wipers going their fastest. Was there some way they could live together in East Canton? He’d have to juggle school and a part-time job, and she’d have to find work, too. But doing what? Wyatt was trying to imagine some future life for them as he recrossed the busy street. A police cruiser was going by. The cop at the wheel glanced over at him, then squealed around in a hard U-turn, siren on, lights flashing.

Me? Wyatt thought. He checked the speedometer. Wasn’t speeding, had done nothing wrong: he kept going. The cruiser zoomed right up behind him; in the rearview mirror Wyatt saw the cop making angry pull-over gestures. Wyatt pulled over.

The cop got out of the cruiser, came to Wyatt’s door with his gun drawn. Gun drawn? What was going on? Were you supposed to have your lights on when it rained? Wyatt reached for the switch.

“Hands up high,” the cop yelled, rain dripping down off the brim of his hat, and the gun pointed through the glass right at Wyatt’s head.

Wyatt raised his hands.

The cop took a quick glance into the backseat, then threw open Wyatt’s door. “Get out real slow.”

Wyatt started getting out.

“Hands! Get ’em up or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Wyatt raised his hands as high as he could, stepped out of the car. The cop grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him against the car.

“Any weapons on you?”

“No. What’s this-”

“Shut your goddamn mouth.”

Wyatt shut his mouth. Rain soaked his head, ran down his face.

“Spread your legs.”

Wyatt spread his legs. He felt the cop’s hands patting him down, starting from his armpits, working to his ankles.

“Don’t move a goddamn muscle.”

Wyatt didn’t move a muscle. He heard the ripping sound of a Velcro seal opening, and then the cop was talking on his radio. Moments after that, sirens started wailing and more cruisers came barreling up the street from both directions. Cops jumped out, some of them dressed SWAT-style in body armor and armed with rifles or shotguns. One reached into the ignition, grabbed the keys, and moved to the trunk.

“Anybody in there-move and you’re dead,” he said.

Two of the SWAT guys took their stances, long guns aimed at the trunk. The cop with the keys opened the trunk and stepped back. From the corner of his eye, Wyatt could glimpse them peering in. But he knew there was nothing to see except the spare, his bat, his cleats, maybe some old towels.

Someone behind him said, “Turn around.”

Wyatt turned. A bunch of cops stood in front of him, guns still drawn but pointed down. In the middle, unarmed and wearing the only green uniform in all the blue, was Taneeka, the CO from the visitors’ room at Sweetwater State Penitentiary.

“This him?” said a cop with gold braid on his hat.

Taneeka nodded.

“Wyatt Lathem?” said the cop.

“Yes,” Wyatt said.

“You can lower your hands.”

Wyatt lowered his hands. The rain let up a bit and things got quieter. Wyatt heard water running in drains under the street.

“Where were you headed?” the cop said.

“To my friend’s place,” Wyatt said. He gestured toward the car. Guns came up right away. “I was bringing breakfast.”

The cop with the gold braid made a pointing motion with his chin. Another cop reached into the car, brought out the Dippin’ Donuts bag, handed it over. The cop with the gold braid looked inside.

“Where’s your friend’s place?” the cop said.

“Just down the street,” Wyatt said. “What’s this about? I don’t understand.”

“How about we go pay a call on him?” said the cop.

“Who?”

“This friend.”

“It’s a she,” Wyatt said. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

“Take a guess.”

“I don’t have any idea.”

The cop gave him a long look. “You a good liar, son?”

“I’m not lying about anything,” Wyatt said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” the cop said. “Then how about we pay a call on your friend?”

“Cuff him, chief?” said one of the SWAT guys.

The cop with the gold braid shook his head. At that moment the Dippin’ Donuts bag, soggy with rain, came apart. The coffee cups splatted on the pavement, and coffee and doughnuts got washed away down the gutter.

Wyatt ended up riding in the back of the lead cruiser, one of the cops driving the Mustang. “Here,” he said, when they came to the brick house with the foreclosure sign.

They approached the front door, two SWAT guys first, then Wyatt and the chief, followed by the rest of the cops.

“This friend got a name?” the chief said.

“Greer,” Wyatt said. “Greer Torrance.”

“Come again?” said the chief.

Wyatt repeated the name. “She hasn’t done anything, either. You’re making a mistake.” Then he realized that breaking into the foreclosed house was probably a crime. But the kind of crime that brought out the SWAT team? He didn’t know.

One of the SWAT guys kicked at the door with his boot. “Open up.”

The door opened at once, and there was Greer, fully dressed. She took everything in fast, her eyes widening. “Wyatt? What’s wrong?”