Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

“Remember me, Greer?” said the chief.

Greer nodded.

“No more playing with matches, I hope?” the chief said.

She looked him in the eye. “I never played with matches, so there’s nothing to give up.”

At that moment, Wyatt realized-or decided-that he loved her.

“Maybe we can discuss that further one day,” the chief said. “For now, we’re going to search this house.”

“Don’t you see the sign?” Greer said. “It’s empty. And what about a warrant?”

“Not necessary in a hot-pursuit situation,” the chief said.

“Hot pursuit?” Greer said. “I confess. The house belongs to the bank now but we spent one night in it anyway. Guilty as charged.”

“You trying to be funny?” the chief said.

“About what? Wyatt? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.” His heart was pounding. He noticed for the first time a blue vein in the almost translucent skin at Greer’s temple: it was pounding, too.

The cops pushed past Greer and entered the house. Wyatt, Greer, the chief, and a uniformed cop waited in the doorway, out of the rain. Wyatt heard doors opening and closing, heavy footsteps on a staircase and down in the basement, nightsticks tapping on walls. One by one the cops came back, shaking their heads. They got in the cruisers and took off, lights flashing but sirens off. Only the chief and his driver stayed behind.

The chief turned to Wyatt. “You spent the night here?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Then went out for coffee?”

He nodded again.

“When was the last time you saw Sonny Racine?”

“Yesterday.”

“Where?”

“Where? In the visitors’ room at the prison, of course. Has something happened to him?”

“You wrote ‘family friend’ on the visitor form,” the chief said. “Elaborate.”

So that was it. “It’s not a lie,” Wyatt said. “I just didn’t know what to put.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it turns out he’s my biological father-I’d never met him in my life before I came here.”

The chief nodded. “Not as uncommon a situation as you might think-lots of the inmates are that way, like animals,” he said. “Any reason why you decided to look him up at this point?”

Greer spoke first. “Why shouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you be curious?”

The chief looked at her. “Maybe,” he said. “At that age. Which is kind of what I’m getting at here. At your age it’s easy to make mistakes that change your whole life. Wouldn’t want to see that happen. You follow?”

“No,” Greer said. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“First, I was talking to young Wyatt here,” the chief said. “Second, I believe you. If I didn’t, the two of you’d be in a cell right now.”

“Why?” Wyatt said.

“Because,” the chief said, “Sonny Racine’s on the loose.”

“Oh my God,” Greer said.

“On the loose?” Wyatt said. “He escaped?”

“Not from the prison,” said the chief. “That’s never happened yet. But they were taking him to the hospital and he broke out of the van. Called for help and when they stopped and opened up he just sprang. Apparently wasn’t cuffed-totally against procedure-on account of his injuries and long peaceable record.”

“What injuries?” Wyatt said.

“He took a beating of some sort-don’t have the details as yet. But the point I’m making-if he tries to contact you, get in touch with us right away. You’ll be doing him a favor. Escapees never get away, but they often die trying, if you see what I mean.” His eyes went to Greer, back to Wyatt. “I’ll take that for a yes,” he said. “Aiding and abetting are felonies, probably so obvious it’s a waste of breath to mention.” He turned and walked away, the driver following. They got in the cruiser and rode off, the chief glancing back just before they turned a corner.

The wind picked up, whipped a curtain of rain into the house. Greer closed the door. They stepped into each other’s arms. Wyatt had a bad, bad feeling inside, and her embrace didn’t take it away.

“This is horrible,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Why would he do it, after all these years?”

“Haven’t got a clue,” Greer said. “Let’s find out.”

“Find out? How?”

She took him by the hand, led him up the stairs. The cops had left their damp footprints on the bare treads. “There used to be a nice soft carpet,” Greer said. “I loved sitting on these stairs when I was a kid, seeing the tops of people’s heads. Lots of parties in those days.”

At the top they turned right, walked down a hall. The wall had light rectangular patches at picture-hanging level. They entered a room at the end of the hall.

“My dad’s bedroom,” Greer said. “Mom and Dad’s, in ancient times; then he moved to the couch, then she moved out and he moved back.” The closet door was open; she walked toward it. “I used to search the house from top to bottom before my birthday,” she said, “trying to find the presents.” She went into the closet, a completely empty cedar closet with a bare rail for hanging clothes and three brass hooks on the back wall. “I never did find my dad’s hidey-hole-he ended up telling me where it was after they put him away, on account of some papers he needed.” Greer reached for the top right-hand hook. “Some papers he needed burned, actually.”

Greer twisted the hook. Wyatt heard a faint click. A portion of the wall swung open. This was a cleverly concealed door, its edges hidden in the grooves between the cedar planks, the hinges on the inside, and also padded so tapping wouldn’t produce a hollow sound. On the other side of the cleverly concealed door was a space big enough for a man to stand in. The man standing in it was Sonny Racine.

All at once, the room, a normal-size bedroom, seemed too small, hardly big enough to hold the three of them. Wyatt had never experienced this sensation before, people overwhelming their physical space, obliterating it. Wyatt could feel danger, like a toxic contaminant escaping from the walls. He backed away from Sonny. What was Sonny doing here? That thought was quickly pushed aside by the sight of Sonny’s messed-up face. Both times Wyatt had seen him-the only times he’d seen him in his life-Sonny had looked good, but he didn’t look good now.

“What happened to you?” Wyatt said.

Sonny smiled. One of his two front teeth was gone; the other was chipped in half. “Not as bad as it looks,” he said.

But it looked bad. Sonny’s left eye was swollen almost shut and his left cheek, under the eye, seemed hollower than the right one, as though the bone around the eye had caved in; Wyatt had seen that happen to a kid who’d been hit by a pitch. His upper lip was swollen, too, and there was lots of blood on his khaki inmate shirt, now torn and missing buttons.

He stepped out of the closet, wincing slightly.

“Were you in a fight?” Wyatt said.

“Hector and his boys went a little overboard,” Sonny said.

“Oh my God,” Greer said. “That guy with the Jesus tattoo?”

“He’s actually quite religious,” Sonny said. “Just one of those misunderstandings.”

“About what?” Greer said.

“Nothing. The wrong look, the wrong word, the wrong stance-inmate stuff. What would be nothing in the outside world, is I guess how to put it.” He looked around the empty room, went toward the edge of the window, shot a quick sidelong glance outside. “Cops gone?”

“Yes,” Greer said.

“Good job,” Sonny said. “Both of you.”

Wyatt hadn’t done any job at all, hadn’t known Sonny was in the house. But Greer had. He turned to her.

She seemed to know what he was thinking. “He came to the window maybe two minutes after you left. I hid him as soon as I heard the sirens. What did you want me to do? Turn him in?”