Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

“Of course not.” But almost at once Wyatt had second thoughts about that-what had the police chief said? Escapees never get away, but they often die trying. So what was the right thing to do?

“No need to give that a second thought, either of you,” Sonny said. “I’m planning to turn myself in.”

“You are?” Greer said.

“After I take care of business.” Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. “This sure feels good, can’t tell you-first time outside those walls in seventeen years.”

“What kind of business?” Wyatt said.

“Funny question coming from you,” Sonny said. “You’re the one who unsettled me. I told you-I was content. Now I’m not. I intend to prove my innocence.”

“But how will this help?” Wyatt said. “Don’t you need a lawyer?”

“We’re long past the lawyer stage,” Sonny said.

“So what are you going to do?” Wyatt said. He was aware of his voice cracking, like a pubescent kid’s.

“What I should have done long ago,” Sonny said. More blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth; he felt there with his fingertips. Wyatt noticed again how strong and well shaped his hands were. And something else: they were completely unmarked, unscratched, unswollen. Hector and his boys must have jumped him, overwhelmed him; he hadn’t landed a single blow.

“What do you want us to do?” Greer said.

Sonny smiled at her, a once-nice smile now made ugly; with the blood and swelling, there was even something animal about it. “You, sweetheart?” he said. “I want nothing from you. And from Wyatt-I’d just like to borrow that sweet pony for a short time. The two Cs might come in handy as well.”

“Uh,” said Wyatt, “I spent twenty.”

“Yeah?” Sonny sounded surprised. “On what?”

“Gas.”

“A necessity,” Sonny said. He paused, as though waiting for something. Wyatt took out his wallet and handed over the $180. Sonny tucked it away in his waistband. Wyatt saw that his khaki inmate pants-now wrinkled and bloodstained-had no pockets. “You’ll get it back, I promise,” Sonny said. “With interest.”

“I don’t want it,” Wyatt said.

“We’ll call it a down payment on all the birthday presents you never got.” He approached the window again, took another sidelong glance. “What a beautiful day.” It was raining harder than ever now, the sky a solid roof of low, dark cloud. “Hear that sound? Rain on the roof? You forget there are sounds like that.”

The three of them stood silent in Greer’s father’s old bedroom, listening to the rain. Sonny dabbed with his sleeve at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe you want to take a shower or something,” Wyatt said.

“No water,” said Greer.

“How about some ice?” Wyatt said.

“No fridge.”

Sonny laughed, a strange sight with his teeth the way they were, hard to get used to. “I’m all right, kids.”

“I could go out for ice,” Wyatt said.

“I’ll do it,” said Greer.

“No,” Sonny said, his voice suddenly sharp. Then, softer, he went on, “I’m all right, really. We’ll just lie low here until dark, nice and quiet.”

“And then?” Greer said.

“Then I’ll hit the road in that borrowed pony.”

“Hit the road for where?” Wyatt said.

“Probably best if we stay away from the specifics.”

But there was one thing Wyatt absolutely had to know. “Are you going to see my mother?”

“No.”

“Is she the person you’re protecting?”

“No, for the millionth time.”

They gazed at each other, an uncomfortable second or two for Wyatt; he couldn’t help focusing on the swollen eye and bashed-in cheek.

Sonny put his hand to his heart. “I swear. Your mother had nothing to do with this. It’s just not in her. She’s a good person, through and through.”

“Then who is it?” Wyatt said. “Who are you protecting?”

“No one anymore,” Sonny said. “Took me a long time to learn, but it’s true what they say-you can’t protect people from themselves.” He put his hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, the first time they’d touched. Wyatt felt a tremor, very slight, pulsing inside Sonny. “I want to prove my innocence and that’s all.”

“How?” Wyatt said.

“Still got time to think about exact measures.” A little more blood leaked from his mouth.

“I’ll go get some ice,” Wyatt said.

Sonny paused for a moment, then nodded and said, “And maybe some paper towels.” Wyatt turned to go. “Don’t be too long.”

A remark that first struck Wyatt as almost parental, the kind of thing his mom might say: but as he drove away from the foreclosed house another possibility-that Sonny didn’t quite trust him-rose in his mind.

He found a convenience store about a mile down the cross street. There were no other customers. The clerk was watching a TV mounted above the scratch tickets. An onscreen reporter stood in front of the visitors’ entrance at Sweetwater State Penitentiary, the volume too low to be heard. Wyatt took a five-pound bag of ice from the freezer, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and went to the counter.

“Got any sandwiches?” Wyatt said.

“No more sandwiches,” the clerk said. “New policy. You could try the Lunch Box.” He pointed down the street.

Wyatt drove a few blocks farther, bought three turkey sandwiches and a six-pack of soda. The TV at the Lunch Box was tuned to a business show; numbers and symbols streamed across the top and bottom of the screen. Wyatt went back to Greer’s old house. No one was on the street or at any of the windows in the nearby houses, two of which also had bank-sale signs on the front lawns. Wyatt parked, walked to the front door, and knocked.

The door opened, whoever was doing the opening staying out of sight behind it. Wyatt went in. “That was quick,” Sonny said, closing the door. If anything, he now looked worse than before, a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

Wyatt handed over the bag of ice. “I’ve got sandwiches, too.”

“Great,” said Sonny.

They went into the kitchen. No appliances, but the sink was still in place. Sonny pounded the ice bag in the metal basin, wrapped a few chunks in paper towel, pressed them lightly against the bashed-in side of his face and his swollen eyelid.

“Ah,” he said. He leaned against the wall, closed his good eye, took a deep breath.

Wyatt snapped two sodas from the six-pack. “Greer upstairs?” he said.

Sonny’s good eye opened. “Actually, no,” he said. He pushed himself off the wall, stood straight. “She left.”

Wyatt, almost at the door, turned back. “Left?”

“She got a call,” Sonny said, “and two minutes later she was out the door.”

“A call from who?”

“Don’t know. But, uh…”

“What?” said Wyatt. “Tell me.”

Sonny exhaled a long, slow breath. “I peeked out through the window upstairs. Some guy came to pick her up.”

“What guy?”

“Didn’t get a good look at him,” Sonny said. “He stayed in the car.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Lexus, I think, something fancy like that. Haven’t kept up with cars all that well. But I caught the plate number, one of those vanity plates, easy to remember- VAN 1. I didn’t get the impression she was coming back.”

Wyatt set the two soda cans on the counter, very gently, as though they were fragile. He just stood there, feeling hollowed out inside. Either Greer had been outright lying to him or she’d been going back and forth in her own mind, playing fair with nobody. Was there a third possibility? None that he could see.

He felt Sonny’s hand on his shoulder. “There’ll be other girls, son. Maybe with a more honest approach, if you don’t mind my opinion.”