Michael Koryta - Last Words

Jeremy was thirty-two, the oldest of them, and Brett was twenty-seven, and the cousins were all cut from the same cloth, with one notable exception: Evan’s violence involved only men. In the probable-cause affidavits, there were no females mentioned, let alone victimized. The Leonard brothers couldn’t claim the same. Jeremy had been charged with statutory rape, which was pleaded down to a misdemeanor, but three years after that, he’d been charged with sexual assault after he’d bound a girlfriend’s hands with duct tape in a “game” and then slapped her around and locked her out of the house, naked and in the rain.

Mark read that affidavit and felt his throat tighten and his breathing slow. The Leonards were the right kind of boys, that was for sure. If they’d been in a bar in Florida, he would have locked eyes with them, and he’d have known. He had teeth scars on his knuckles from men just like them.

Jeremy had gotten two years in prison for that one and was back out in a year with good-time credits. He and his brother had run into trouble together after that, had been arrested for robbing a pawnshop, which had led to Evan’s charge of trafficking in stolen goods. Jeremy had gotten another six months; Brett got probation.

The most recent charge against either of the Leonards was an open case with a trial date set for April. Brett was out of jail after his father had posted a $10,000 surety bond in a date-rape case. An underage girl who’d been drinking at a bar called the Lowland Lounge had gone to the hospital the morning after a night of drinks and dancing with Brett Leonard. She’d woken in her own home, naked and sore, with vaginal bleeding and one black eye. She didn’t remember how it had happened, but unlike so many other girls who woke in the same circumstances, she didn’t let shame or fear keep her from going to the hospital. A blood test had shown the presence of a narcotic called ketamine.

The gray-haired clerk interrupted Mark, saying, “You need some help?”

Mark blinked back into the present and shook his head. “No, thank you. I think I’ve got the gist.”

She frowned. “The gist is, those boys are bad news.”

“Seems that way.” Mark lowered his head again and flipped through the most recent case file until he came to an address of record for Brett Leonard, on Tower Ridge Road. Jeremy’s was the same, albeit from a year earlier. It seemed they didn’t drift far from each other. He wrote the address down, then went back and studied their booking photos. Jeremy was a bigger kid, six two and two hundred and fifteen pounds. Brett, the ketamine artist, was five inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter.

Mark’s fingers drifted to the bruise on his forehead that the muzzle of a shotgun had left a few days earlier. A bigger, stronger man had slammed the muzzle into him, but he remembered being more concerned with the bantam-size man in the black mask, the one whose hands had seemed nervous near the trigger. He also thought of the witnesses he’d accused of lying, of his version of events that seemed so real but had no support.

Ketamine.

Rarely did the police arrive on your doorstep bearing good news, but Ridley found such good fortune when he answered a thundering knock. He was hoping for the visitor he didn’t dare expect — Mark Novak — but when he saw that it was the sheriff, he was far from disappointed. Next to Novak, Blankenship was the best option.

“Lose somebody in Trapdoor again?” Ridley said, opening the door.

“Who’d you call after Novak left your property?”

Ridley cocked his head as if the question presented a difficulty.

“Who did I call? My goodness, how in the world am I supposed to remember that? It’s been days, Sheriff.”

“It’s easy enough for me to learn,” Blankenship said. His long face was pale.

“Then why don’t you go learn it instead of asking me?”

“He came up here at your request,” Blankenship said, “but he’s back for some other reason. What went wrong, Ridley?”

Ridley’s already slow breathing nearly stopped. Novak was back? This was spectacular news. Ridley had been pleased with what he’d seen of the man, but the surface world exerted a unique set of pressures, and most people crumbled under them. The surface world should have sent Novak running from this place, not brought him back to it.

“I didn’t call Novak after he left,” Ridley said. “As I remember it, you came for me. Needing help.”

“Who did you call, Ridley?”

Ridley sighed. “I’d love to help you. I really would. Best as I can remember, I called my dentist, and I called the bakery to order a pie. Maybe that’s why I need the dentist, right? Have to cut out the sweets.”

The sheriff didn’t match Ridley’s smile. The sheriff rarely did. Ridley could remember the way Blankenship had looked as chief deputy, his shoulders not yet stooped, his hair not yet gray. His eyes not yet haunted. He remembered in particular the way he looked when Diane Martin passed by. Blankenship always stood straighter then, sucked in what little gut he had, pulled his shoulders back. He’d been a comical presence, large and awkward and obvious.

“I’m doing some research into your boy,” Blankenship said. “I can’t quite figure how you found him or what he wants with you, but I will. That letter was a mistake. I’m not sure that you wrote it, of course — he probably handled the words for you — but you wanted him to wave it under my nose. That was a mistake.”

“You ever read about the rapture before that note?” Ridley asked.

“I’ve read the Good Book plenty of times.”

“Wrong book,” Ridley said. “Wrong rapture. I’m talking about what happens to the mind when it’s left alone in the dark. I’m guessing you probably never considered that. Or tested it.”

“Did Novak enter that cave of his own free will, Ridley?”

“I can’t speak to the will of another man. I wouldn’t trust anyone who claimed to be able to either.”

“Who did you call, Ridley?”

“Why my phone activities are of interest to you, I have no idea. On that day, not only was I the victim of a crime, but I came to your aid. If not for me, Sheriff, you might have lost another one in Trapdoor. That would have hurt you, I think. Am I wrong?”

Blankenship was staring at the ropes in front of the dark and cold woodstove. He looked like he was about to say something, but Ridley beat him to the punch.

“Tell me,” he said, “did you ever discuss that situation with Pershing? I know there were some hostilities between you, or jealousies, however you prefer to phrase it, but I hope such petty things wouldn’t have kept you from an honest exchange.”

Blankenship’s pallor drained to match the old ashes in the stove. “You know why I’m still the sheriff?” he said.

“A poorly educated electorate, I’ve always assumed.”

“You,” Blankenship said. “You’re it, Ridley. You’ll step the wrong way someday, I believe in that because I believe in God, and when you do? I’ll be here.”

“Have a fine afternoon, Sheriff. Next time you need my help, and you always seem to, you’ll know where to find me.”

Ridley closed the door and stood on the other side of it, his palm pressed to the wood — his hand was trembling faintly, and he hated that — until Blankenship had returned to his car and driven away. When he was out of sight, Ridley went for his own keys and hurried to his truck. He wasn’t supposed to visit her unannounced, but he needed her now, and she understood emergencies.

Novak had returned, and Ridley needed to get his mind right before he saw him. He’d long ago given up the hope that he could achieve that alone, unguided in the dark.