John Hart - Down River

The hard questions came in due course, and they came from Grantham. The rage in him had died to a colorless implacability, and he was pure professional by the time the locals gave him the nod to talk to us. I watched him approach, and knew what was coming. He’d separate us and hammer for weak spots. Zebulon Faith was dead. So was his son. I had a history with each of them and had been the first on scene with both bodies. He doubted Dolf’s confession, and was ready to tear into me with a saw. But he’d be cagey. I knew something about cops and cop questions, so he’d try to be subtle. I was sure of it.

But he surprised me.

He walked straight up to me and spoke before he stopped. “I want to see what’s in your trunk,” he said.

Jamie twitched and Grantham saw it. “Why?” I asked.

“You’ve been sitting on it for six hours. In the sun. Unmoving. Your brother has looked at it nine times in the past hour. I’d like to see what’s inside.”

I studied the detective. He’d put on a bold air, but it was all bluff. I’d watched him, too. In six hours he’d made at least a dozen calls. If he could have secured a search warrant for the trunk, he’d have it in hand right now.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

“That’s really the word, isn’t it? Ask. As in permission.” His features compressed, and I continued. “You need permission or probable cause. If you had cause, you’d have a warrant. I won’t give you permission.”

I remained calm as his composure slipped. I watched him fight for the kind of control he normally took for granted. Robin hovered at a distance. I risked a glance and saw a warning in her eyes. Grantham stepped closer, and when he spoke, the words came in a low, dangerous voice. “People are lying to me, Mr. Chase. You. Mr. Shepherd. Others, undoubtedly. I don’t like it and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

I stood and looked down on the detective. “Do you have questions for me?”

“You know that I do.”

“Then ask them.”

He straightened, and fought to regain his composure. It did not take long. He separated us and started with Jamie. He led him across the clearing, and I watched, guessing that Jamie was made of sterner stuff than Grantham anticipated. It took a while. Jamie looked scared, but in control of himself. He’d tell it just like it happened, only no gun. The detective was pale and grim when he came back for me. His questions came fast and hard. He scoured for weak spots in the story. Why were we here? How did we find this place? What happened? What did we touch?

“You didn’t touch the body?”

“Just the paper in his hand. The newspaper next to him.”

“Did you touch the handgun?”

“No.”

“Did Mr. Faith tell you to come inside?”

“The door was open. The screen door was cracked. I nudged it, saw him with the gun against his head.”

“There was a fire. You thought Faith set it. Why did you think that?”

I told him.

“And you were angry?”

“I was upset. Yes.”

“Did you come here to harm Mr. Faith?”

“I came to ask a few questions.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No.”

He continued, firing questions with speed, backtracking, probing for inconsistencies. Jamie paced thirty feet away and gnawed at his fingernails. I sat on the warm metal of my car’s trunk. I looked occasionally at narrow blue sky, and I told the truth about almost everything. Grantham’s frustration grew, but no law barred us from coming here as we did, and we crossed no line when Faith pulled the trigger. None, at least, that Grantham could find. So I took what he had to give. I answered his questions and I covered my ass. I thought I saw the end, but I was wrong.

He saved the best for last.

“You quit your job three weeks ago.”

It was not a question. He stared so hard at my face, that I could almost feel the touch of his eyes. He waited for me to speak, but I had no response. I knew where he would go.

“You worked at McClellan’s Gym on Front Street in Brooklyn. N.Y.P.D. checked it out. I talked to the manager myself. He says you were dependable, good with the young fighters. Everybody liked you. But three weeks ago you dropped off the radar. Right about the time that Danny Faith called you. In fact, nobody saw much of you after that. Not your neighbors. Not your landlord. I know that Dolf Shepherd is lying to me. I assumed that was to protect your father. Now, I’m not so sure.” He paused, refused to blink. “Maybe he’s protecting you.”

“Is that a question?”

“Where were you three weeks ago?”

“I was in New York.”

His chin dipped. “You sure about that?”

I stared at him, knowing what was already in motion. They’d pull my credit card records, A.T.M. records, check for traffic citations. Anything that could put me in North Carolina three weeks ago.

“You’re wasting your time,” I said.

“We’ll see.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

“Then we’re done.”

I turned and walked away, half-expecting to feel his hand on my shoulder. Jamie looked shot. I put a hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

We went back to my car. Grantham had moved from the trunk to the hood. One of his fingers brushed the word carved into the paint. Killer, it said, and Grantham smiled when he saw me looking at him. He rubbed his fingers together, then turned back to the trailer and the blood-stained floor.

Robin approached, expressionless, as I opened the car door. “You going back to town?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll follow you.”

I closed the door, and Jamie got in next to me. The engine turned over and I drove us out of there. “Any trouble?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I kept waiting for them to search the car.”

“He couldn’t. Not without permission or probable cause.”

“But what if he had?”

I smiled tightly. “No law against having a gun in the trunk.”

“Still… small miracles, man.”

I looked at him. He was clearly upset. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Jamie.”

He flexed, but his voice was weak. “Guns, baby.”

He fooled nobody.

We drove for ten minutes, both of us dealing with the morning in our own way. When he spoke, he didn’t sound any better. “That was scary stuff,” he said.

“What part?”

“All of it.”

He was pale, glassy-eyed, and I knew that he was reliving another human being’s last second in this world. Violence and hate. Hopelessness and red mist. He needed something.

“Hey, Jamie,” I said. “About the fire and all. What happened in the field…” I held out until he looked at me, waited for the eyes to focus. “I’m sorry I had to kick your ass like that. That was probably the scariest part, huh?”

It took him a moment, then the tension bled out of his face, and I thought he might actually smile. “Fuck you,” he said, and punched me on the arm so hard it hurt.

The rest of the drive was gravy.

Almost.

Robin hit the lights seconds after we crossed the city limits. I wasn’t surprised. Her turf. Made sense. I pulled into a convenience store parking lot and killed the engine. It was going to get ugly and I didn’t blame her. We met on the tarmac by the front of her car. She was a small package of hard lines and displeasure. She kept her hands down until she was close enough, then she slapped me, hard.

I rolled with it, and she did it again. I could have dodged the second one, but did not. Her face was full of fierce anger and the hint of tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but was too keyed up. She walked away and stopped, her body leaning away from me. When she turned, the emotion was back under armored glass. I saw hints of it, dark swirls, but her voice was immaculate. “I thought we’d settled this. You and me. A team. I made the choice. We talked about that.” She came closer and I saw where anger faded to hurt. “What were you thinking, Adam?”