John Hart - Down River

“I was trying to protect you, Robin. I didn’t know how it would go down and I didn’t want you involved.”

“Don’t,” she said.

“Anything could have happened.”

“Do not insult me, Adam. And do not think for a minute that Grantham is an idiot, either. No one believes you were out there for a friendly chat.” She lowered her hands. “They’ll take a hard look. If they find anything to incriminate you, then God himself won’t be able to help you.”

“He torched the farm,” I said. “He attacked Grace, tried to kill me.”

“Did he kill his own son?” The words came, cold. “There are other elements in play. Things we don’t understand.”

I refused to back down. “I’ll take what I can get.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“He deserved it!” I yelled, stunned by the force of my reaction. “That bastard deserved to die for what he did. That he did it himself makes the justice that much more perfect.”

“Damn it!” She paced, turned back, and I saw black mist where the armored glass had buckled. “What gives you the right to claim anger like you’re the only one that’s ever been hurt? What’s so special about you, Adam? You’ve lived your whole life this way, like the rules don’t apply to you. You cherish the anger like it makes you special. Well, let me tell you something-”

“Robin-”

She raised a fist between us. Her face was drawn tight.

“Everybody suffers.”

That was it. She left in disgust, left me with nothing but the anger she held in such contempt. Jamie looked a question at me when I got back in the car. I felt heat on my face, the hard twist in my stomach. “Nothing,” I said, and took him home. We sat in the car for a long minute. He was in no hurry to get out.

“We okay?” he asked. “You and me?”

“I was wrong. You tell me.”

He did not look at me. Color, I saw, had returned to his face. When he turned, he held up a fist, kept it there until I tapped my knuckles on his. “Solid,” he said, and got out of the car.

When I got to Dolf’s house, I found it empty. Grace was gone. No note. I took a shower, sluiced off dirt, sweat, and the smell of fire. When I got out, I pulled on clean jeans and a T-shirt. There were a million things to do, but not one that was in my power. I pulled two beers out of the refrigerator and took the phone onto the porch. The first beer disappeared in about a minute. Then I called my father’s house. Miriam answered.

“He’s not here,” she said when I asked for my father.

“Where is he?”

“Out with Grace.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking for dogs.” Her voice was bleak. “It’s what he does when he feels helpless.”

“And Grace is with him?”

“She’s good with a gun. You know that.”

“Tell him that I’d like to see him when he gets back.” Silence. “Miriam?” I asked.

“I’ll tell him.”

The day moved around me. I watched the light stretch long and the low places fill. Two hours. Five beers.

Nothing to do.

Mind on overdrive.

I heard the truck before I saw it. Grace was driving. They were both in high color, not smiling exactly, but refreshed, as if they’d managed to dodge the worst parts for a few hours. They climbed onto the porch and the sight of me killed the light in them. Reality check.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Nope.” He sat next to me.

“Do you want dinner?” Grace asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“How about you?”

My father shook his head. “Janice is cooking.” He raised his palms. I would not be invited.

Grace looked at me. “I need to go to the store. Take your car?”

“You lost your license,” my father said.

“I won’t get caught.”

I looked at my father, who shrugged. I gave her the keys. As soon as the car engine started, my father turned. His question cut. “Did you kill Zebulon Faith?”

“Robin called you.”

“She thought I should know. Did you kill him?”

“No,” I said. “He did it himself, just like I told the cops.”

The old man rocked in the chair. “He’s the one that burned my vines?”

“Yes,” I said.

“All right.”

“Just like that?” I asked.

“I never liked him anyway.”

“Grantham thinks Dolf’s confession is bullshit.”

“It is.”

“He thinks that Dolf is protecting someone. Maybe you.”

My father faced me. He spoke slowly. “Grantham’s a cop. Thinking up paranoid, bullshit theories is what he does.”

I rose from the chair and leaned against the rail. I wanted to see his face. “Does he have a reason to?”

“To what?”

“Protect you.”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

My father was rough-and-tumble, salt of the earth, but he was also the most honest man I’d ever known. If he lied to me now, I’d know it. “Do you have any reason to want Danny Faith dead?”

The moment drew out. “That’s an absurd question, son.”

He was angry and offended-I knew how it felt-so I let the question go. I’d said it before. My father was no killer. I had to believe that. If not, then I was no better than him. I sat back down, but the tension grew. The question still hung between us. My father made a disgusted sound and went inside for five long minutes. When he finally came out, he had two more beers. He handed one to me. He spoke as if the question had never happened. “They’re going to bury Danny tomorrow,” he said.

“Who made the arrangements?” I asked.

“Some aunt from Charlotte. The service is at noon. Graveside.”

“Did you know that he was in love with Grace?” I asked.

“I think we should go.”

“Did you know?” I repeated, louder.

My father stood and walked to the rail. He showed me his back. “She’s too good for him. She was always too good for him.” He turned, lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not interested in her, are you?”

“Not like that,” I said.

He nodded. “She has precious little in this world. Losing Dolf will kill her.”

“She’s tough.”

“She’s coming apart.”

He was right, but neither one of us knew what to do about it, so we watched the shadows pool and waited for the sun to detonate behind the trees. It occurred to me that he had not answered my second question, either.

When the phone rang, I answered. “He’s here,” I said, and handed it to my father. “Miriam.”

He took the phone and listened. His mouth firmed into an uncompromising line. “Thanks,” he said. “No. Nothing you can do for me.” More listening. “Jesus, Miriam. Like what? There’s nothing you can do for me. Nothing anyone can do. Yes. Okay. Goodbye.”

He handed me the phone, drained his beer. “Parks called,” he said.

I waited.

“They indicted Dolf today.”

Dinner was painful. I fought for words that meant something while Grace tried to pretend that the indictment didn’t cut the world out from under her. We ate in silence because we could not discuss the next step, the rule twenty-four hearing. Arguments would be made and it would be decided. Life or death. Literally. The night pressed down and we could not get drunk enough, forgetful enough. I told her to not give up hope, and she walked outside for most of an hour. When we went to bed, a blackness hung over the house, and hope, I knew, had abandoned us.

I lay in the guest room and put my hand on the wall. Grace was awake. I thought that Dolf probably was, too. My father. Robin. I wondered, just then, if anybody slept. How anyone possibly could. Sleep did eventually come, but it was a restless one. I woke at two o’clock and again at four. I remembered no dreams, but woke each time to churning thoughts and a sense of mounting dread. At five o’clock, I rose, head pounding, no chance of sleep. I dressed and slipped outside. It was dark, but I knew the paths and fields. I walked until the sun came up. I looked for answers, and failing that, I scrounged for hope. If something did not break soon, I would be forced onto another path. I would have to find some way to convince Dolf to recant his confession. I would need to meet with the lawyers. We’d have to start planning some kind of defense.