Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

Wyatt turned, stepped away. “What does that mean?”

Sonny sighed. “Take the arson, for example-that was her.”

“But you told me it wasn’t.”

“Probably a mistake, in retrospect. But I didn’t see myself as the bad-news messenger, not when we were just getting to know each other, you and me. Plus she pretty much begged me not to tell, one time in the visitors’ room. The truth is she might have been a little impulsive, but she was only trying to help her old man.”

“What about Freddie Helms?”

“Who’s he?”

“The firefighter who got his face practically burned off.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Sonny said.

There was a long silence. The ice in the paper-towel ice pack melted and water ran down Sonny’s face.

Wyatt had a sudden thought. “What if she tells Van you’re here?”

“She won’t do that,” Sonny said. He went to the sink, prepared another ice pack, held it to his head. “Do I smell turkey?” he said. He went to the counter, opened the bag. “Is one for me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Sonny took out a sandwich and unwrapped it. “Real food.” He picked it up. Wyatt wondered: how was he going to eat it with his teeth like that? But he managed, no problem. “How about you?” Sonny said between mouthfuls.

“I’m not hungry.”

Sonny cracked open a soda, drank it down in two swallows. “You okay with lending me the car? I’ll bring it back, promise.”

“Before you turn yourself in?”

“Exactly.”

“What if you get spotted?”

“A risk I’ll have to take,” Sonny said.

“I’ll drive,” Wyatt said. “I want to help.”

Sonny bowed his head. “Thank you.”

“Where are we going?”

“Millerville.”

“And then?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Sonny said. “Right now I’m going to grab a little shut-eye. You should, too.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Suit yourself.”

Sonny turned, went upstairs. Wyatt heard him moving down the hall toward Bert Torrance’s old bedroom.

A few minutes later, Wyatt realized that in fact he was very tired. He entered Greer’s old bedroom, gazed at the mattress on the floor, finally lay down on it. After a while he took out his cell phone and called her, without the slightest idea of what he would say. He got sent straight to voice mail, and left no message. Rain hammered on the roof.

Wyatt smelled Greer, opened his eyes. It was dark, and for a moment he had no idea where he was. Then it came back: Greer’s old bedroom, no Greer.

He got up, rubbed his eyes, looked out the window. Dim lights shone in the windows of a neighboring house or two; other than that, nothing but darkness and the rain falling steadily. He flicked a light switch and nothing happened.

Wyatt left the bedroom, moved carefully down the dark hall and into the kitchen, slightly lit by a streetlamp halfway down the block. The bag of ice, split down the middle, still lay in the sink, most of the ice melted. He dipped his cupped fingers in the bag, splashed cold water on his face. The rain slanted past the streetlamp in black streaks. Wyatt flipped open his phone, checked the time: 7:13. He was hungry. He opened the sandwich bag and found it empty.

Wyatt climbed the stairs, walked down the hall to Bert Torrance’s old bedroom. Light from the same streetlamp came through the window, somewhat brighter than downstairs. Sonny lay on the floor in the corner, curled in the fetal position, the undamaged side of his face showing. As Wyatt watched, Sonny shifted slightly and let out a sound very close to the whimper of a dog.

Wyatt, standing in the doorway, said, “It’s getting late.” Sonny showed no reaction; his chest rose and fell with his breathing.

Wyatt went closer, stood over him. A small pool of dried blood had formed on the floor, under the bad side of his face. He made the whimpering sound again. “Dad?” said Wyatt. The word came out all by itself, shocked him. Sonny slept on, chest rising and falling, a sleep so deep and intense it was almost palpable, a thickness in the air.

Wyatt bent, reached down, touched Sonny’s arm. And got his second shock: before he realized what was happening, Sonny had sat up and grabbed him by the wrist-a grip so hard it hurt-and was cocking his other hand into a fist, a wild look in his good eye. Then, at the last moment, recognition dawned in that eye, and he seemed to deflate, his grip on Wyatt’s wrist relaxing, his other hand opening, sinking to his side.

“Christ,” he said. “Sorry.” He gave himself a little shake. “Force of habit,” he said. “Bad, bad habit. I’m not used to…to…” He extended his hand. Wyatt took it and helped him up. He felt his father’s physical strength renewing as he came to his feet.

There was hardly any traffic on the Millerville highway. The rain still fell, perhaps no harder than before, but the wind had picked up, driving it sideways across their path, almost horizontal.

“You’re a hell of a driver,” Sonny said. He sat beside Wyatt, his hands folded in his lap, the bad side of his face showing.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it-a natural.”

Wyatt sped up a bit.

“But let’s not get crazy,” Sonny said.

Wyatt laughed, came off the pedal an eighth of an inch or so. Sonny laughed, too. Their laughter sounded-to Wyatt’s ears-much the same. It petered out together in a comfortable way.

“No craziness tonight,” Sonny said, his voice going quiet. Headlights appeared-in the distance, but coming fast. Sonny shrank down in his seat. The headlights came closer, with a reflector strip glowing up above: a truck. It flashed by, buffeting the Mustang and sending a wave of water across the windshield, but doing nothing to disturb Wyatt’s sense of complete control. “Hell of a driver,” Sonny said, sitting up.

A wild night outside; inside, a small zone of warmth and quiet. “When are you going to tell me what happened at thirty-two Cain Street?” Wyatt said.

“How’s never?”

Wyatt whipped around to stare at him.

“Just kidding,” Sonny said, touching Wyatt’s knee.

In the green light from the dashboard indicators, Wyatt saw that Sonny’s hand was damaged, the knuckles skinned and swollen and one fingernail snapped right off, the flesh beneath dark with congealed blood. Sonny must have put up a fight against Hector and his boys after all, although Wyatt didn’t remember seeing these wounds before, must not have looked closely enough.

Sonny removed his hand, sat back. “In all this research you’ve been doing-Wertz, the newspaper guy, all that-did the money come up?”

“What money?” A road sign flashed by, blurred by the rain.

MILLERVILLE -10 MILES.

“The drug money-whole point of the exercise. Turned out to be thirty grand, more or less. No time for a careful count, but I had it in my hand, outside that window. A small fortune, I realize now, or maybe no fortune at all, but at the time it was like striking it rich.” He gazed through the windshield, where the wipers could barely keep up with the rain. “So what’s your next question? Maybe what happened to the money?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said, thinking: Outside the window. Mr. Rentner had been right.

“My guess is it got used for a down payment,” Sonny said.

“On what?”

“A bar, but that’s not what bothers me.”

“What bothers you?”

“Nothing. Shouldn’t have said that. What would I have done in the same place? Who’s to judge?” He went silent. The dim glow of a midsize town rose in the distance.

“The same place as the person who got away, is that what you’re saying?” Wyatt said. “The one you protected?”

“Yeah.”