Todd Strasser - Blood on my hands

“Is Slade here?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes slide away and his face grows sadder. Something’s wrong and I feel myself fill with dread even before he answers: “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” I repeat. I can tell by the way he says it that he doesn’t mean gone to the store. He means gone. My mind screens the possibilities. “Not deployed? He said he’d been-”

Mr. Lamont shakes his head. “Just gone. Cleaned out his bank account and left a note saying good-bye and not to bother looking for him.”

This makes no sense. Where would he go? I feel my heart begin to disintegrate. “That’s all it said?” I ask, thinking, Nothing about me?

“It said to tell you he was sorry.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, Callie. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

I’m back in the car and driving down the thruway. Mom’s going to have a fit when I don’t bring the car back. The police are going to go ballistic when they figure out I’ve left the county, but I don’t care. I have to find him.

Saturday 8:37 P.M.

IT’S DARK AND the rain is coming down hard. My hair is soaked. As I walk across a parking lot, water drips down my neck and sends chills as it runs down my back. My feet are soaked and cold from stepping into puddles. The smell of fish and ocean is in my nose as I pull open a door. This is the twelfth bar I’ve gone into. The odor of stale beer is in the air. Yellowish light inside illuminates half a dozen grizzled men hunched over drinks. TVs on the walls at either end show a baseball game.

I peer through the gloomy shadows at the booths along the walls, expecting the same result as I got at the past eleven places. But there’s one person sitting in a booth by himself, wearing a baseball cap. It’s dark in here and I can’t be sure, but it could be him.

A moment later I’m standing beside the booth. On the table are an empty shot glass, a half-finished beer, and a laptop computer with a ragged piece of tape where my photo used to be. Feeling a presence nearby, he glances up casually, then does a major-league double take. He looks utterly astonished as I slide into the booth, across from him, then reach over the table and take his hand in mine.

“You… you remembered,” he says.

I nod. “That night you called, so excited.”

He lifts the baseball cap off his head, then replaces it, as if he needed to let the heat out. “They let you go?”

“Uh-huh. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

He looks surprised, than squeezes my hand. “Oh, yeah! I mean, yes, of course I’m happy about that, Cal. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Instead of answering, he changes the subject. “I heard they were trying to get you to claim it was self-defense.”

“I would have… for you. But they didn’t press charges.”

Slade’s eyes go blank. I thought he’d be happy to hear that, happy to see me, but now his forehead bunches. “You… didn’t agree to say it was self-defense?”

“I just told you I didn’t have to. Aren’t you happy? Slade, I don’t understand what’s going on. Why did you leave? I thought you said you were going to stay.”

He gazes at me with eyes that turn sad, then places his other hand over mine. Now both of mine are in both of his and he leans over the table and presses his forehead against my knuckles. It seems as if he’s just realized something. What is it he’s not telling me? I wonder. What is it that I still don’t know? But now that I’m with him, I don’t have to press. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. “So that’s the deal. It’s okay. I’m glad you came. Really, you don’t know how happy I am to see you.”

“You don’t sound happy,” I tell him.

He leans back in the booth, takes a deep breath, and lets it out, then finishes the beer in one gulp. “Come on, Shrimp, let’s get out of here.”

When word of a kegger began to circulate, Mia called up and asked me to go with her. I said I didn’t think I’d feel like it.

“You can’t hide forever,” she said.

“I’m not,” I said, although that wasn’t true. I’d been going to the library every day at lunch.

“So why haven’t I seen you in the cafeteria?” she said. “Listen, Callie, I want you to come to the kegger. I want people to see us together so they know I’m on your side.”

Slade and I spend the night in his motel room. I’m so happy to feel his arms around me, to feel his lips on my neck and face and mouth, to hear him tell me he loves me, to be able to tell him I love him and know he believes me, and finally, to fall asleep with my head on his shoulder.

Sunday 5:09 A.M.

BANGING ON THE door. “It’s the police! Open up!”

My eyes burst open. Beside me, Slade’s are already wide. Thin shafts of sunlight seep in around the curtains.

“Come on, open the door.” I recognize the voice. It’s Chief Jenkins.

“Don’t try to go out the bathroom window. We’ve got a man back there.”

Slade’s staring at me with a startled look. I slide my arms around his warm body and give him a hug, but he’s as frozen as a statue. “It’s okay,” I whisper to reassure him. “I knew this was going to happen. They tracked the ankle monitor, but at least I got to see you.”

“Ankle monitor?”

“Yeah, they made me wear it, but I cut it off in the bathroom last night. I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“Slade, Callie, we know you’re in there. Open up!”

Slade goes limp. “Oh, Shrimp.” He sounds so sad.

This isn’t the way I want it to be. I want him to squeeze me in his arms and tell me that he’ll love me forever. “It’s okay.” I kiss him on the lips. “Really, Slade, you can relax. Everything’s going to work out.”

“Slade! Callie!”

But it doesn’t seem as if Slade can respond. It’s like he’s in shock. Like he can’t believe this is really happening.

Louder, more insistent banging on the door. “Open up!”

“I’m coming,” I call, then give Slade one last kiss and whisper, “I love you. And no matter what happens, I’ll always love you.” As I get out of bed, I turn to the door and say, “Just give me one second.”

“Come on!” Chief Jenkins demands impatiently.

I pull on my clothes, then turn to Slade. He’s sitting up now, on the edge of the bed, his head hanging as he stares at the floor. “Listen,” I whisper, “it’s going to be okay. I swear.”

The banging on the door grows louder. “Come out now or we break it down!”

“Okay, I’m coming.” I go to the door and open it. The sun is just rising and some clouds overhead are pink. Chilly ocean air flows in and I have to shield my eyes from the brightness. Chief Jenkins and a police officer in uniform are standing there. The police chief stares at me, then past me at Slade, who’s still on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I know I wasn’t supposed to leave the county, but I had to. You can take me back now. It’s okay.” I even turn around with my hands behind me so that he can put on the cuffs.

But that’s not what happens. I feel him step past me, followed by the uniformed officer, as they go to the bed where Slade sits.

“Put on some clothes,” Chief Jenkins orders.

Slade reaches to the floor and starts to pull on his pants.

The police chief recites, “Slade Lamont, you are being arrested for the murder of Katherine Remington-Day. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”